The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  Rossi said, "Beatrice has analyzed the evidence recovered last night at the bus stop. Could you write this onto one of those easels there? Along with your notes and mine. And tape up the crime scene photographs as well. This is how we keep track of the progress of investigations, and make connections between clues and people. Graphical analysis. Very important."

  "Yes, Inspector."

  He took the sheets of paper from Rossi and began to transcribe the information. Blushing, he noted that Rossi, whom one would have taken to be an old-time investigator, had printed out his notes via computer.

  "I have heard nothing from the Americans," Rossi said. "You?"

  "No. But when I contacted them, they promised to get back to us as soon as possible with full details and evidence reports. The woman I spoke with, a detective who ran the case for the New York Police Department, was quite relieved we had found the man. They were very upset he escaped their jurisdiction."

  "Did she have any thoughts as to why he came here?"

  "No, sir."

  Rossi said, in a musing tone, "I read the other day that the Americans are worried about their exports. The economy, jobs, you understand. But exporting serial killers? They should stick with pop musicians, soft drinks and computer-generated Hollywood movies."

  Ercole didn't know whether to laugh or not. He smiled. Rossi did, as well, and read texts. The young officer moved slowly in front of the easel as he transcribed the notes and pinned up photos. A gangly man, he was far more comfortable in the woods and on rock faces than in restaurants, shops and living rooms (hence, his favorite "perch" in the city: the table and chair outside his pigeon coop on the apartment building's roof). His parts--arms, legs, elbows, knees, all of which hummed like a tuned machine out of doors--grew awkward and rebellious in places like this.

  He now backed up to examine the chart and bumped into Silvio De Carlo, Rossi's assistant, who had stepped unseen into the room to hand a file to Rossi. The handsome, perfectly assembled young officer didn't glare but--this was worse--offered a patient smile as if Ercole were a child who had accidentally left a blackberry gelato stain on someone's laundered sleeve.

  De Carlo, he was sure, would resent this awkward interloper, taking some shine away from his role as Rossi's favored protege.

  "The Postal Police are monitoring YouVid?" Ercole asked Rossi after De Carlo had walked, smoothly and with supreme self-confidence, from the room.

  "Yes, yes. But it's a chore. Thousands of videos uploaded every hour. People would rather watch such time-wasting things than read or converse."

  Someone else entered the room. Ercole was pleased to see it was the woman Flying Squad officer from last night: Daniela Canton, the stunning blonde. Such a beautiful face, he thought again, elfin. Her eye shadow was that appealing cerulean tint he remembered from last night, a color you didn't see much in fashion nowadays. It told him that she would be the sort to go her own way, make her own style. He noted too that this was the extent of her makeup. No lipstick or mascara. Her blue blouse fit tightly over her voluptuous figure. The slacks were taut too.

  "Inspector." She looked up, with a friendly expression, at Ercole. Apparently the brash offering of his hands last night had not put her off.

  "Officer Canton. What have you learned?" Rossi asked.

  "Though the case had the earmark of a Camorra snatch, it seems unlikely they were involved. Not according to my contacts."

  Her contacts? Ercole wondered. Daniela was a member of the Flying Squad. One would think Camorra cases were handled by those higher up.

  Rossi said, "I appreciate your looking. But it didn't seem likely our gamers were involved."

  Gamers...

  The word was a slang reference to the gang, whose name was a blend of Capo, as in "head," and morra, a street game played in old Naples.

  She added, "But I cannot say for certain. You know how they operate. So quiet, so secretive."

  "Of course."

  The Camorra was composed of a number of individual cells, with one group not necessarily knowing what the others were up to.

  Then she said, "But for what it's worth, sir, there are rumors of some particularly troublesome 'Ndrangheta gang member who's come to the Naples area recently. Nothing specific but I thought you should know."

  This caught Rossi's attention.

  Italy was known for several organized crime operations: the Mafia in Sicily, the Camorra in and around Naples, the Sacra Corona Unita in Puglia, the southeast of Italy. But perhaps the most dangerous, and the one with the broadest reach--including such places as Scotland and New York--was the 'Ndrangheta, based in Calabria, a region south of Naples.

  "Curious for one of them to come here." The group was a rival to the Camorra.

  "It is, yes, sir."

  "Can you follow up on that too?"

  Daniela said, "I'll try." She turned to Ercole and seemed suddenly to remember him, eyeing his gray Forestry Corps uniform. "Yes, from last night."

  "Ercole." So her smile a moment ago was not one of recognition.

  "Daniela."

  He didn't dare offer his hand again. Just a cool-guy nod. A nod worthy of Silvio De Carlo.

  Silence for a moment.

  Ercole blurted, "You would like a water?"

  And as if she didn't know what mineral water might be, he gestured toward the inspector's San Pellegrino, which stood open on the edge of the table.

  And struck it, sending the liter bottle cartwheeling to the floor. Being carbonated, it evacuated most of the contents in seconds.

  "Oh, no, oh, I'm so sorry..."

  Rossi gave a chuckle. Daniela tilted a perplexed look toward Ercole, who crouched and began mopping furiously with paper towels he pulled from a roll in the corner of the room.

  "I..." the blushing man stammered. "What have I done? I'm sorry, Inspector. Did I get any on you, Officer Canton?"

  Daniela said, "It's no harm."

  Ercole continued to mop.

  Daniela left the situation room.

  As Ercole's eyes followed her, from his kneeling position on the floor, he noted someone else appear in the doorway. It was Dante Spiro, the prosecutor.

  The man was looking past Ercole, as if the young officer were not even present. He greeted Rossi and examined the board. He absently slipped into his side pocket the leather book Ercole recognized from last night. He put away a pen too. He'd been jotting something in the volume.

  Today Spiro wore black slacks and a tight brown jacket with a yellow pocket square, a white shirt. No tie. He set a briefcase on a desk in the corner, which apparently he had commandeered as his own, and Ercole guessed he would be a frequent visitor. The man's office--Procura della Repubblica Presso il Tribunale di Napoli--was on the Via Costantino Grimaldi, across the street from the criminal courts. It was not far from the Questura here, a ten-minute drive.

  "Prosecutor Spiro," he said, still mopping.

  A glance at Ercole, then a frown, wondering, clearly, who he was.

  "Anything more, Massimo?" Spiro asked Rossi.

  "Beatrice's run the evidence. Ercole has written it up, along with his and my notes." A nod at the paper on the easel.

  "Who?"

  Rossi gestured toward Ercole, who was dropping a soaked paper towel into the trash bin.

  "The Forestry officer from last night."

  "Oh." It was clear that Spiro had mistaken him for a janitor.

  "Sir, I am pleased to see you again." Ercole smiled but lost the grin when Spiro ignored him once more.

  "What of the phone card?" Spiro asked.

  "Postal said they should have information within the hour. And they are still monitoring the websites for video uploads. There has been nothing yet. And Ercole anticipates we should hear more from the Americans soon."

  "Does he now?" Spiro asked wryly. He took a cheroot from his pocket and slipped the end into his mouth. He did not light the stick. He gazed at the board.

  Abduction, Bus Stop, Via del Frasso, Near Commune of
D'Abruzzo

  --Victim: --Unknown. Libyan or with Libyan connections? Likely North African. Refugee? Approximate age: 30-40. Light weight. Bearded. Dark hair.

  --Perpetrator: --Witness didn't see clearly, but possibly American, white male, early to mid-30s. Beard, long bushy hair. (Information from New York City Police Department.)

  --Dark clothing, dark cap.

  --Known as the Composer. (Information from New York City Police Department.)

  --Checking flight manifests for travel to Rome, Naples. Elsewhere? Negative so far.

  --Vehicle: --Dark sedan. Make and model unknown, but wheelbase consistent with large vehicle: American, German?

  --Tire tread mark Michelin 205/55R16 91H.

  --Physical Evidence: --Trace of human blood (AB positive), in sample of propylene glycol, triethanolamine, nitrosamines, sodium lauryl sulfate.

  --DNA results, negative for matches in: --United Kingdom: National DNA Database (NDNAD).

  --United States: Combined DNA Index System (CODIS).

  --Interpol: DNA Gateway.

  --Prum Treaty Database.

  --Italian National Database.

  --Nitrogen compounds--ammonia, urea and uric acid--hydrogen, oxygen, phosphates, sulfates, carbon dioxide. As well as: C8H7N (indole), 4-Methyl-2,3-benzopyrrole (skatole), and sulfhydryl (thiol), suspended with paper fibers. Desiccated. Old.

  --Decomposing bits of polymer cis-1,4-polyisoprene, thermoset (vulcanized). Translucent. Quite old.

  --Bartonella elizabethae bacteria.

  --Thirty-two hairs--animal. Dog shedding? Awaiting Scientific Police analysis as to what type of animal.

  --Lead.

  --Shavings of Fe (iron), rust on one side (see photo).

  --Limestone.

  --Phone card, purchased at Arrozo Tabaccaio, Naples. No CCTV, cash sale. --Awaiting analysis from Postal Police.

  --Fingerprints: --No match in Eurodac, Interpol, Europol or Italy; IAFIS (America); Ident1 (UK).

  --Footprints: --Victim apparently in Nike running shoes, size 42.

  --Perpetrator apparently in Converse Cons, size 45.

  --Blood, other fluid: See above.

  --Cash, EU11 and 30 dinars (Libyan).

  --Miniature hangman's noose, made out of a musical instrument string--probably cello. About 36 centimeters long. (Similar to noose in New York kidnapping, according to NYPD.)

  --Witness Account: --Witness on bicycle was approaching the bus stop, where the victim was standing. He noted that the dark vehicle was parked nearby, about ten meters away at the side of the road. Behind bushes. Suspect was possibly waiting for the victim, or drove up and hid after victim arrived. Suddenly he assaulted victim. A struggle ensued. No observed provocation. Witness then departed to find police assistance. (Information on witness on file; see Inspector Rossi.)

  --Canvass: No one, other than the bicyclist, saw the incident or a vehicle.

  --CCTV: None for 10km radius.

  --Reports of missing persons: None.

  --No apparent Camorra or other organized crime connection.

  --Possible 'Ndrangheta operative in area, but no connection to the kidnapping verified.

  --No known motive.

  --Americans will supply analysis from crime scene in New York City.

  --Postal Police are monitoring YouVid, prepared to trace, if suspect uploads video of the victim.

  "Beatrice has done her typically solid job," Spiro said.

  "Yes. She's good."

  The prosecutor seemed to sway slightly as he stared at the writing. "What is that word?"

  "Bacteria, sir."

  "I can hardly make it out. Write more carefully." Then he scanned the photographs. Spiro mused, "So we have this American psycho who has come here on vacation to prey outside his usual hunting grounds. What patterns can we see?"

  "Patterns?" Ercole said, smiling. He mopped a bit more water and rose.

  The lean man, with the most intense black eyes that Ercole had ever seen, turned slowly. "I'm sorry?" Though Spiro was shorter, Ercole felt he was looking up into the prosecutor's eyes.

  "Well, sir, I am not sure about that."

  "'Not sure, not sure.' Tell me what you mean." His voice boomed. "I'm quite curious. You're not sure about something? What might you not be sure about?"

  Ercole was no longer smiling. Blushing, he swallowed. "Well, sir, with respect, how can there be any patterns? He's picking his victims at random."

  "Explain."

  "Well, it's obvious. He finds a victim in New York City, a businessman apparently, according to the Europol report. Then he flees to Italy and selects, it seems, a foreigner of limited means at a rural bus stop." He gave a laugh. "I see no pattern there."

  "'See no pattern, see no pattern.'" Spiro tasted the words as if trying a suspect wine. He paced slowly, studying the chart.

  Ercole gulped once more and looked to Rossi, who tossed an amused glance toward both men.

  "What do you do with the fact, Forestry Officer--"

  "Benelli."

  "--that the kidnapper's car was parked by the desolate roadside and the kidnapper was waiting in the bushes? Does that not suggest design?"

  "It's not clear when the kidnapper arrived. It might have been before or after the victim did. I would suggest, at best, there's a design to kidnap a victim, but not necessarily this victim. So, pattern? I'm not sure I see one."

  Spiro glanced at his watch, a large gold model. Ercole could not detect the brand. He said to Rossi, "I have a meeting upstairs, with another inspector. Let me know about any videos. Oh, and Forestry Officer?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Your name is Ercole, right?"

  "It is."

  At last, he recognizes me. And he is going to concede my observation about patterns. Ercole felt victorious.

  "From mythology."

  His name was the Italian version of "Hercules," the Roman god.

  "My father enjoyed ancient lore and--"

  "You are familiar with the twelve labors that Hercules was required to complete?"

  "Yes, yes!" Ercole laughed. "As an act of penance, in the service of King Eurystheus."

  "You're falling behind in yours."

  "My..."

  "Your labors."

  Silence.

  Looking away from the man's fierce eyes, Ercole said, "I'm sorry, sir?"

  Spiro pointed. "You missed some water there. You wouldn't want it to seep under the tile, now, would you? The gods would not be pleased."

  Ercole glanced down. Tight-lipped for a moment, and furious that he could not control the reddening of his face. "I will get right to it, sir."

  As Spiro left, Ercole dropped to his knees. He happened to glance up and see just outside the doorway Rossi's protege Silvio De Carlo, looking in. The handsome officer would have witnessed the entire dressing-down--and the order to complete mopping, the implication being that Ercole was not even a competent janitor, let alone investigator. His face a blank mask, De Carlo moved on.

  Ercole said to Rossi, "What have I done, Inspector? I was merely stating what seemed logical from the facts. I could see no pattern. A crime in New York, a crime in the hills of Campania."

  "Ah, you committed the crime of blinders."

  "Blinders. What is that?"

  "It's a subtle psychological condition that inexperienced investigators fall victim to. You had already--on the basis of very preliminary evidence--reached the conclusion that this was a random crime. But by embracing that theory you will be disinclined to expand your investigative horizons and consider that the Composer might have acted out of design to target these particular people and that we can discover a pattern to his acts that will help us apprehend him.

  "Is it possible to see a pattern at this point? Of course not. Does Prosecutor Spiro think it likely? Of course not. But there is no one I know with a mind that is more expansive than his. He will take in all the facts, making no judgment, long after others have drawn conclusions. Often, he is right and the
others are not."

  "Open mind."

  "Yes. Open mind. The most important asset an investigator can have. So, we will not vote on patterns or no patterns at this point."

  "I'll remember that, Inspector. Thank you."

  Ercole glanced down at the puddle on the tile floor once more. He'd used all the paper towels. He stepped outside and strode past De Carlo, who was texting on his mobile. My God, the man is completely in vogue, from hair coiffure to polished shoes. Ercole ignored his glance and continued down the hall to the men's room to fetch more towels.

  As he was returning, he noted Daniela Canton up the hall, finishing a conversation with her fellow officer, the blond, Giacomo Schiller. After he had walked away Ercole hid the paper towels behind his back and, after a hesitation, approached. "Excuse me. May I ask a question?"

  "Yes, of course, Officer..."

  "Call me Ercole, please."

  She nodded.

  He asked, "Prosecutor Spiro." A whisper. "Is he always so stern?"

  "No, no, no," she said.

  "Ah."

  "Usually he is far less polite than he was in there."

  Ercole lifted an eyebrow. "You heard him?"

  "We all did."

  Ercole closed his eyes momentarily. Oh, my. "And he can be worse? Is that true?"

  "Oh, yes. He's formidable. A smart man, there's no doubt. But he tolerates no errors--in fact or in judgment--by others. Be careful not to anger him." She lowered her voice. "Did you see that book in his pocket? The leather one."

  "Yes."

  "He's never without it. People say it's a notebook in which he writes down the names of people who have crossed him or are incompetent and will damage his future."

  Ercole recalled seeing the prosecutor on RAI television not long ago, smoothly fielding questions about his plans for a career in politics.

  "He wrote down something just now, as he was leaving!"

  She was uncomfortable. "Perhaps it was just a coincidence." Her beautiful blue eyes scanned his face. "In any event, be careful, Officer."

  "I will. Thank you. You are very kind and I--"

  "Ercole!" a voice shouted from up the hall.

  Gasping, he turned to see Inspector Massimo Rossi storming from the situation room. It was odd, and unnerving, to see the otherwise placid man so agitated.