All the same, as Palma climbed into his car and headed back to his police station, he knew all these things, and he had stated them loudly and clearly to the police chief himself, as he advised Palma to give up the case. The police chief liked Palma, and maybe it was because he caught a glimpse of himself in him, the same youthful enthusiasm, the same stubborn determination that had driven him early in his career. He knew that he wouldn’t survive a failure in this atmosphere, and so he was offering an honorable way out. But Palma was convinced he could still pull it off. His team was competent and talented, and what’s more, they wanted to prove to the world that they still knew how to do their job, and do it well.
In the battle he was fighting, Palma had found an unexpected ally, Laura Piras. Well known for her absolute intransigence and rigor and for her unwillingness to brook incompetence, the female magistrate had instead treated the Pizzofalcone team with great indulgence, right from the very outset. Her opinion, fortunately, was regarded very highly, largely because she was tireless and thoroughly prepared, and because nearly all the important cases that came through that office sooner or later wound up on her desk.
In other words, the police chief and Piras for the defense, and all the rest of the city’s police force for the prosecution. He was slightly outnumbered, Palma told himself. And now the press and the television news were piling on against him, too. The police spokeswoman might be fighting like a lioness, but how long could the wall of silence erected to protect the confidential nature of the investigations hold out against a story that so unsettled public opinion?
Palma shivered from the cold and from his uneasiness. They needed to come up with something, and they needed to do it fast. Anything at all. He had confidence in his team and in himself, but he had no trust in his luck. He hoped with all his heart that, for once, his luck would change and he’d be blessed with a windfall of some kind. He didn’t want to lose his team. He didn’t want to lose the Bastards of Pizzofalcone.
Most of all, he didn’t want to lose Ottavia.
He pressed his lips together and stepped on the accelerator.
XXXIX
Palma made his entrance into the squad room just after Lojacono and Alex had returned.
The commissario seemed upset. He didn’t bother to say hello, he just started talking right away.
“So here’s the way things stand: they already have a team ready to replace us on the Varricchio case. The excuse is that in this fucking city the television news and the press are talking about nothing else, and the police force can’t afford to be made to look like fools. I acted like a madman, I said that we’re working hard and working well, that a great many people are involved and that we have to be given at least the time we need to interview them. In response they started raising their voices and saying things that I don’t even want to repeat here.”
If someone like Palma, usually so decorous, had begun using curse words, he must be churning with adrenaline, thought Ottavia.
Lojacono spoke for them all.
“So how did it end?”
“I just outshouted them. I told them that I expected them to give me a written document detailing exactly what missteps we had committed and how they would have done better in the same situation. Luckily, Piras was there, and she backed me up. She’s monitoring the investigation as the magistrate responsible, and she reiterated her full faith and confidence in the work we’re doing. They had to eat crow, and believe me, they didn’t like it, but they had to put up with it, for now.”
Everyone heaved a sigh of relief.
To the surprise of his colleagues, Pisanelli let himself go in a burst of exultation.
“Well done! I can just see them there, sitting in the front row, all the rival officers: they’re just itching to get their hands on our territory, which is centrally located and therefore entails regular interactions with the prefect and his lady wife, the mayor and his lady wife, and the police chief and his lady wife.”
“Exactly. What’s more, the officials who rejected the lot of you are eager to prove that they were right and that I, the police chief, and Piras were all dead wrong. But let’s not waste any more time on this piffle. Romano, Aragona: where are we with the molested girl?”
Romano broke in brusquely.
“Case closed, chief. Just as we’d imagined, it was pure fantasy; the girl was just looking to be the center of attention. We’re certain about it now, believe me. And I can guarantee you that no criminal complaint will be filed.”
Palma shot a contented glance at him and at Aragona.
“Excellent, once things have settled down, you can tell me the details. Starting today, the whole team is working full-time on the Varricchio case. Lojacono, Di Nardo, any news?”
Alex, leafing through her notebook, brought her colleagues up to date on the state of progress, including the visit they’d paid to the university that morning.
When Alex was done, Ottavia weighed in: “I have something, too. The medical examiner’s report has come in: they were very fast, clearly they’re getting plenty of pressure, just like we are. If you like, I can read it to you all.”
“We’re all ears,” said Palma.
“All right, then: as far as the young man is concerned, ‘the body presents, in the vicinity of the occipital region and the adjacent left parietal region, multiple stellate lacerations and contusions due to successive blows inflicted with a blunt object possessing a projecting edge, traces of which can be found, in negative relief, at a number of separate points on the scalp surface—’”
“Meaning someone smashed him over the head repeatedly,” said Aragona under his breath.
Ottavia went on, her eyes glued to the computer: “ . . . upon the removal of the pericranial soft tissues, evidence was found of a left occipital-parietal fracture, with multiple fracture lines, two of which are full-thickness lines.”
“What are full-thickness lines?” Alex asked.
Romano replied brusquely.
“It means that the blows shattered his skull. Through and through.”
Ottavia got to the conclusion: “Cerebral hemorrhage and locuses of multiple cerebral lacerocontusion in the left posterior and cerebellar occipital and parietal cerebral region. Area of lacerocontusion also concerning the right frontal lobe, due to recoil.”
There was a detectable surge of horror in the room. To some extent, the impersonal technical language only made what had happened to the young man even more atrocious.
“The killer came up behind him,” Aragona said coldly. “One blow, then another and another, as he took it out on him. Driven by blind rage, and a lot of it, in any case.”
Lojacono, impenetrable as always, nodded as if he were repeating a Buddhist precept.
“That’s right. And rage multiplies the force of the blows.”
“Now listen to what they write about the sister,” Ottavia resumed, and heaved a deep sigh. “Hemorrhagic infarct of the deeper facial tissues, fracture of the nasal septum, and a circular fracture line at the right zygomatic arch. Infarct of the suprahyoid and infrahyoid muscles, with fracture of the lesser horn of the hyoid bone. Presence of foamy hematic material in the trachea and in the greater bronchi. Examination of the osseous segments of the cervical spine showed a fracture of the left superior facet of the axis vertebra. Array of signs pointing to violent mechanical asphyxiation, with hemorrhagic infiltration of the neck organs.”
By the time she got to the last few words, Ottavia Calabrese’s voice had started to falter. The woman had instinctively raised her hand to her throat.
Alex’s eyes were open wide.
“So you’re saying that first he smashed her face in, and then he strangled her? Is that it?”
“Not necessarily,” Lojacono replied. “Maybe he just put a hand on her face to make her shut up, then he strangled her. In any case, he did it with enormous violence.”<
br />
Romano nodded.
“Sure, that makes more sense. It doesn’t say anything about lacerocontusions, so he didn’t beat her. He didn’t want her to scream.”
Pisanelli spoke in a low voice, as if he were in church.
“It’s different from the young man. With him, it was rage, here it’s desperation.”
Aragona turned to Ottavia.
“Okay, but did he screw her? I mean to say, you know, did he rape her?”
Setting aside the rather abrupt, direct manner, which was certainly less than elegant, that was the question that everyone else had on their lips.
Ottavia scrolled through the document with her mouse and resumed from the point where she had stopped.
“‘Overall indications of violent mechanical asphyxiation in the context of manipulation of the neck. Vascular constriction, sympathetic inhibition, and cardiocirculatory arrest. The search for elements of objective correlation to sexual violence yielded no results: perineal, vaginal, and buccal swabs; absence of any lesions, either cutaneous or of the mucosal, that can be morphologically ascribed to other parties. No signs of previous sexual relations.’”
The silence that followed was heavy as a blanket, and every bit as suffocating. Alex and Lojacono saw Grazia’s beautiful body stretched out on the bed before their eyes again; the others imagined it.
Aragona murmured: “No. He didn’t screw her. Maybe she put up some resistance. Then her brother arrived, and—”
Lojacono stopped him.
“No. Her brother was seated, he was writing, he even had his pen in his hand. It doesn’t add up.”
Alex was shaking her head.
“The rage. The extreme violence. Biagio sitting peacefully at the desk. Grazia with no signs of rape. It could have been . . . ”
Pisanelli continued her sentence as if it had been his own thought.
“ . . . anyone. Her boyfriend, come to ask her for an explanation of the photographs . . . ”
Romano: “ . . . her father, who wanted to take his daughter back home . . . ”
Aragona: “ . . . Cava, the guy from the modeling agency, who couldn’t come to terms with the idea that she no longer wanted to pose for him . . . ”
Ottavia: “ . . . one of the young men: Biagio’s colleague or the two young men from the apartment next door.”
Palma ran his hand over his face.
“Please, let’s proceed in an orderly manner and without any preconceptions, or we’re just going to get ourselves confused. Any news from the forensic squad?”
Ottavia was already on the phone. After a brief exchange, she hung up.
“They’re almost done. We’ll have the report this afternoon.”
“All right,” said Lojacono. “There’s time to talk to Vinnie and his friend, Mandurino, and we can just hope we catch them at home. But we also need to figure out the thing about the money, the thirty-seven hundred euros that Grazia asked Cava to pay her for the photo shoot. It’s too strange of a figure not to have some meaning.”
Pisanelli threw both arms wide: “I’ve reached out to my banker friends, and neither of the two victims had a checking or savings account in the neighborhood. And, as you know, the registry for these things has been centralized, so we can rule out the idea that either of them had any relations with these banks, which are the most prominent ones. I don’t think it makes any sense for someone to go and deposit a rather modest sum, all things considered, outside of the normal banking insitutions, or to use a front or false identity. And since it seems clear to me that murder for purposes of robbery can be ruled out entirely, if the money isn’t in the apartment, then it means that they went out and spent it.”
“Sure, but how?” asked Palma. “But for now, let’s not waste time on conjectures. Lojacono, Alex: you swing by and talk to the Varricchios’ neighbors. Romano and Aragona: after lunch, head over to the laboratory of the forensic squad and get them to give you the report, which will save us time. If you have to, wait there. Take advantage of the opportunity to ask for a list of the things that they inventoried in the apartment, maybe the money was there, hidden under a floor tile. Then we can all check back later.”
XL
Brother Leonardo leaned over the table, pointing at the fried potatoes on Pisanelli’s plate.
“You aren’t going to eat those? All right then, give them here.”
The deputy captain was always amazed at the wolfish voraciousness of his diminutive friend’s appetite: he was the only human being he knew who was capable of chewing with both sides of the mouth to eat faster. From time to time, from the other tables in the Trattoria del Gobbo, someone would look over to watch the funny figure of that monk who had to put a cushion on his chair to reach the tabletop, while his feet, sockless in his sandals, dangled inches off the floor.
“So, do they feed you at the parish church?” Pisanelli ribbed him. “Or is it that the bigger monks don’t leave you anything to eat?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Leonardo said, as he swallowed, “I’m the parish priest. In fact, one of these days I’m going to decide to be the only one eating, while all the other monks have to stand around me, serenading me with a Gregorian chant. You can’t even begin to imagine how monks singing stimulates my appetite. But believe me, it’s not a matter of hunger: I just don’t like seeing waste. Do you know that with all the food the rest of you leave on your plates, you could feed all of equatorial Africa for many, many years?”
“Certainly. Remind me of it this evening, that way I’ll pay to send dinner to a village in Kenya. You know that I don’t eat as much as I used to.”
Leonardo furrowed his brow. He looked like one of those ceramic figurines they set out in yards and gardens.
“Are you all right, Giorgio? Are you feeling well? When are you going to realize that you need to see a doctor? I really don’t understand why you’re so stubborn about it—”
Pisanelli raised his hand.
“Hold on there. Remember your promise: We aren’t going to talk about that. My health remains parked outside like a car on the street. Otherwise, no more lunches. And seeing that it’s my treat, I’d like you at least to keep your end of the bargain.”
Leonardo wouldn’t let go of it: “You don’t seem to realize the crime you’re committing against God by displaying such flagrant disregard for your own life and health.”
Pisanelli cut a piece of meatball and popped it in his mouth.
“Mmm . . . meatballs in ragú almost make me think you might have a point: maybe there really is a providential God. Otherwise, there would be no such thing as meatballs, or they would have been separated from the ragú in the primordial chaos. And that truly would have been a shame.”
Leonardo broke out laughing, in spite of himself.
“You’re the most likable blasphemous miscreant that it’s been my pleasure to know, Giorgio Pisanelli of the Pizzofalcone police precinct. And to return to an earlier point, it’s only normal that it should be your treat. Vow of poverty, as you know. So tell me, what good things have you been up to lately?”
“No good things to speak of, that I can say with certainty. We’re dealing with the double homicide of those two young Calabrians, you must have heard about it.”
“How could I avoid it? It’s the talk of the town, poor creatures. Have you found out anything?”
“No, unfortunately, nothing yet. We’re groping in the dark. But we’re all working together. And the two colleagues assigned directly to the case, Lojacono and Di Nardo, are fine investigators. I’m confident we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Leonardo shot him a sidelong glance.
“Okay, but what about you? What exactly are you working on now?”
“I’m gathering information, as usual. And I’m still on the trail of the depressives, if that’s what you’re trying to find out. We’ve talked
about that lots of times before.”
“And lots of times before I’ve told you that you keep taking on things that are none of your business. It’s admirable that you should try to help those who no longer want to live, but this idea of the mysterious suicider is just absurd. Sheer folly.”
The deputy captain looked out the window, where the scattered passersby were looking for an open shop where they could escape the icy wind.
“Not bad. It would make a good title for a novel. The Mysterious Suicider. Have you ever thought of becoming a writer, Leona’? If you ask me, you could enjoy a successful career.”
“Sure, sure, you can be the funny guy, but in the meantime your colleagues take you for a madman.”
“Maybe so. It may be an obsession, but it helps me to make it through the day. It gives me a reason to get up in the morning, to go to work, and to look forward to the next day. It anchors me to the here and now and keeps me from ending it all, from trying to escape.”
Leonardo stopped chewing and stared at his friend. Yes, Giorgio, you still have the will to live, even if you refuse to get treatment for your disease. The Lord can rest easy, you still haven’t made up your mind to consign yourself to the Devil.
“And have you made any progress on your fixa . . . on your mission? You’d told me about that woman, Agnese. Do you know that she’s one of my parishioners? That is, she would be, if she ever came to church, but if you ask me she’s someone who’s given up, who no longer has any wish to live.”
Pisanelli turned his eyes back to the monk.
“No, Leonardo. That’s not right. She has suffered a trauma, in fact, a series of traumas. She lost her child, her husband left her, her mother died. She has no job, she has no friends . . . ”
“And that tells you nothing? For a woman who’s still relatively young, not to have any social life is a sign that she has lost any interest in the world. She doesn’t even have the comfort of faith and—”
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