Sachs added, "This is very likely a case of an innocent American student in jail for a crime he didn't commit."
Ercole muttered, "Ah, we had a case like that a few years ago. In Perugia. It did not go well for anybody."
Rhyme nodded to the file. "And the evidence may very well prove Soames is guilty. In which case we will have done the prosecution and the government a service. At no charge."
Sachs: "Please. Just translation. What's the harm in that?"
With a resigned look on his face, Ercole pulled the papers forward and, with a glance around, as if Spiro were hiding in the shadows nearby, began to read.
Rhyme said, "Make a chart, a mini chart."
Sachs dug into her computer bag and pulled out a yellow legal pad. She uncapped a fine-point marker and looked toward Ercole. "You dictate and I'll write."
"I am still an accessory to a crime," he whispered.
Rhyme only smiled.
Garry Soames Investigation--Sexual Assault
--Location of attack. --Via Carlo Cattaneo, 18, top floor apartment (of Natalia Garelli) and roof (party Victim attended).
--Via Carlo Cattaneo, 20, roof (site of attack).
--Examination of Victim. Frieda S. --She had experienced minor vaginal bleeding from forceful penetration.
--Garry's DNA on her neck and cheek. Sweat or saliva, not semen.
--Within Victim's vagina: --Cyclomethicone, polydimethylsiloxane (PDMS), silicone, dimethicone copolyol, and tocopheryl acetate (vitamin E acetate). Silicone-based lubricant. Probably from Comfort-Sure condoms. No match with condoms in Garry's apartment or on person when arrested.
--Unidentified DNA from single source in vagina (sweat or saliva, not semen--from attacker applying condom to penis, most likely). No match in Europol, Interpol or CODIS (U.S.), Italian databases. Samples taken from 14 of 29 men present at party reveal no match. Presently scheduling additional tests. Samples will be taken from Victim's prior sexual partners.
--In Victim's blood, traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid, similar to Rohypnol, a date-rape drug.
--No condom discovered. --Thorough search of neighborhood, trash containers and sewers, five-block radius.
--Location of Implicating Evidence: Garry's apartment, bedroom. --Jacket worn to party. --Contains small traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
--Victim's hair. Head hair, not pubic.
--Victim's DNA, saliva.
--Additional items of clothing: shirts, underwear, socks. --Contain small traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
--Two wineglasses on ledge, near the scene of the rape. --Garry's DNA on both glasses.
--Frieda's DNA on one. Residue contained traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
--Crime Scene: Roof of Via Carlo Cattaneo, 20 (Next door to Garelli's). --Pebbles on roof disturbed, where Victim was assaulted.
--Hair of Victim.
--Saliva of Victim.
--No other evidence found.
--Roof deck of Natalia Garelli's flat (the smoking station). --Five wineglasses. --No trace of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
--Eight prints, no hits on any national or international databases.
--No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
--Two butts of marijuana cigarettes, burned down to 8mm stubs. --No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
--Seven small plates, traces of food, sweets. --Thirteen prints; two match hostess of party; no hits on any national or international databases.
--No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
--Wine bottle on deck table near party. --Pinot Nero.
--No trace of gamma hydroxybutyric acid in remaining wine.
--Six fingerprints--hostess of party and two female guests, Natalia's boyfriend, Dev Nath.
--No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
--27 cigarette butts in ashtray and on deck. --Four prints matched hostess of party and her boyfriend.
--16 other prints at smoking station. One positive, individual arrested on drug charge six months ago, Puglia. Said individual had left party before the assault. --No other hits in any national or international databases.
--No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
When she had finished writing, they looked the pad over. Rhyme reflected: Solid work. He would have liked to have samples of the trace from the deck or roof area where the smoking station was located, and from the site of the attack itself. But this was good for starters.
Sachs glanced at the remaining pages of notes in Italian Ercole was staring at, the official report. "Go on," she insisted kindly. "Please. I want to hear the accounts."
Ercole apparently hoped he'd be let off the hook by simply translating the forensics. Reciting the witnesses' and suspect's statements seemed perhaps, in the young officer's mind, to move his crime into a different category, misdemeanor to felony.
Reading, he said, "Natalia Garelli, twenty-one, attends the University of Naples. She hosted a party in her flat for fellow students and friends. The victim, Frieda S., arrived at ten p.m. Alone. She remembered drinking and talking with some people--mostly Natalia or her boyfriend--but was a bit shy. She too is a student, just arrived from Holland. She vaguely recalls around eleven or midnight the defendant approaching her and talking. They both had glasses of wine at the table where they were sitting--this is downstairs--and Garry kept refilling her glass. Then they embraced and...limonarono...I do not know."
"Made out?" Sachs suggested.
"Si. Made out." He read more. "It was crowded so they went to the roof. Then Frieda has no memory until four in the morning, waking on the roof of the adjacent building and realizing she'd been assaulted. She was still quite drugged but managed to get to the wall separating the two rooftops. She climbed over, fell and was calling for help. Natalia, the hostess, heard her cries and got her downstairs into the apartment. Natalia's boyfriend, Dev, called the police.
"Investigators checked the door to the roof of the adjoining building but it was locked and did not appear to have been opened recently. Natalia told police that she suspected Serbian roommates living downstairs in that building--they'd been crude and drank a lot--but the police verified they were out of town. And dismissed anyone else in that building as suspects.
"A few witnesses on the roof--at the table for smoking, the smoking station--saw Garry and Frieda together briefly, walking to an alcove on the roof, where there was a bench, but that is out of sight of the smoking station. Between about one a.m. and two, only they were upstairs. At two a.m. Garry walked down the stairs to the apartment proper and left. Several witnesses reported that he seemed distressed. No one noticed that Frieda was missing. People assumed she'd left earlier. The next day there was an anonymous call--a woman, calling from a pay phone at a tabaccaio near Naples University. After she heard about the attack, she wanted to call the police and report that she believed she'd seen Garry mixing something into Frieda's drink."
"And no idea of her identity at all?" Rhyme asked.
"No." Ercole continued, "The call allowed the inspector to get a warrant to search his flat. That led to the discovery of traces of the date-rape drug on the jacket he'd worn the night of the party and the other articles of clothing."
Sachs asked, "Garry's story?"
"He admits that he and Frieda were drinking wine downstairs. And, again, making out. They went upstairs for more privacy. There were people at the smoking station, so they went around the corner to a deserted area and sat down and did more making out. But she grew tired and bored and less interested. About one thirty, he was tired too and he went downstairs and left the party. She was on the bench on the roof, drowsing, when he did."
"Tired too," Sachs suggested, "because he took a sip of her wine, which was spiked. His DNA was on her glass."
"Suggesting he didn't know about the roofie!" Ercole said, enthusiastic for just a moment, lost in the case. Then he went back to being guilty and nervous.
>
Rhyme said, "One problem with the government's case: The DNA found in Frieda's vagina. It wasn't Garry's." He looked at Ercole uncertainly. He wondered if the graphic aspects of the crime would trouble a young officer who'd never worked an assault before, much less a rape.
The Italian officer glanced at Rhyme and caught his concern. "Capitano Rhyme, last month I ran an undercover operation to arrest men passing off inferior bull semen as that from prize animals. I surreptitiously videoed the collection process. I am someone who has made bull porn, so such matters are not bothering to me, if that's your question."
Rhyme nodded in amused concession. He observed that one line in the report was crossed out--bold strokes and a written note beside it. "What's that?"
"The words translate: 'Inappropriate and irrelevant, reprimand the interviewer.'"
"What's crossed out?" Sachs asked.
It took a moment to discern the words beneath the thick marker. "It is a note from one of the Flying Squad officers interviewing party attendees. The officer wrote that the victim was considered by some at the party to be quite the flirt."
"Ah. That offended the inspector," Sachs said. "Or Spiro. As it should have."
Blaming women for their own sexual assault was unforgivable...and a lapse that seemed to transcend national barriers.
Sachs said, "So what's the scenario, if he's innocent?"
Rhyme said, "Some man, Mr. X, has his eye on Frieda. He gets close and spikes her drink but it's crowded and dark, so the witness thinks it's Garry. Before X can move in and get Frieda to a bedroom or a deserted part of the flat, she and Garry go upstairs. X follows and watches them. Frieda starts to go under and Garry gets bored and leaves. When the roof is deserted, Mr. X carries Frieda to the roof of the building next door and rapes her."
Ercole asked, "Ah, but the drug residue on Garry's jacket in his apartment? How is that explained?"
Rhyme responded, "One way: being close to the man who did drug her. But remember, read the chart, Ercole, there was drug residue on other clothing too."
"Yes, what are the implications of that?"
"We don't know yet. It could be that Garry is guilty and frequently carries around date-rape drugs. Or that he is innocent and someone broke in to implicate him, scattering drugs on other items of his clothing, not remembering or knowing what he wore to the party."
Rhyme stared at the translated document. "And something I don't like. 'No Other Evidence Found.' There is always evidence. Ercole, do you know the name 'Locard'?"
"I don't believe I do."
"A French criminalist. He lived a long time ago. He came up with a principle that is still valid. He felt that at every crime scene there is a transfer of evidence from the perpetrator to the victim or to the scene. And from that evidence it is possible, even if very difficult, to determine the perp's identity or location. He was speaking of trace evidence, of course."
Ercole, some sixth sense kicking in, it seemed, said quickly, "Allora, I am happy to have helped you. Now I must go. I will see if Beatrice has made some discoveries, as she probably has. Moving us closer to the Composer. Our important case." He looked to Sachs for help. None was forthcoming.
Rhyme said, "We need another search of Natalia's apartment, Ercole. Particularly the smoking station. I'll bet that's where Mr. X was waiting to keep an eye on Frieda. The roof next door too. And we need to examine Garry's apartment--to see if the drug residue was planted to incriminate Garry...Two simple searches. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. Oh, tops."
Both he and Sachs were staring intently at Ercole Benelli, who had taken to reassembling the file, as if by closing it he'd put this matter to rest forever. Finally, he could avoid them no longer and he looked up. "Quello che chiedete e impossibile. Do you understand? Impossibile!"
Chapter 29
The party where the rape had occurred had been held in an apartment in the Vomero neighborhood of Naples.
The area was atop a high hill that could be reached via funicular or a drive up steep, winding streets. From the crest, you had an Olympus-like view--of the bay, Vesuvius in the distance, and the infinite patchwork of colors and textures and shapes that was Naples.
This was, Sachs's chauffeur, Ercole Benelli, had told her, considered the nicest part of the city. The Vomero was dotted with Art Nouveau architecture and modern-style offices and residences, while mom-and-pop stores and vintage-clothing shops were found next to the chicest designer retail locations that Italy had to offer...and Italy, of course, had chic down cold.
As they'd begun the drive, after a persuasive argument by Rhyme, Ercole had been sullen. His "impossibile" eventually became "forse"--perhaps--and then what must have been the Italian equivalent of a grudging, "Oh, all right." Eventually his easy spirits had returned and as they careened through Neapolitan traffic, Ercole seemed resigned to the risk of being pummeled by Spiro, and he turned tour guide, pelting Sachs with sound bites of the history of the city, present and distant past.
GPS finally got them to Natalia's apartment, a classic Mediterranean-style structure on a small residential street, Via Carlo Cattaneo. They parked and Ercole led the way. Some children stared at them, enthralled, their attention seized by his uniform and the NYPD gold shield on her hip. Some boys tried to catch a glimpse under their jackets, hoping, she guessed, to spot a weapon. Others were more cautious.
Sachs was startled as a teenager sped past them at a run.
Ercole laughed. "Bene, bene...It's all right. In certain other neighborhoods in Naples, he would be going to warn his father or brother there is a cop present. Here, though, he is simply running. To a game or to a girl...or because he wants to be star runner someday. There is crime in Naples, yes. No doubt. Pickpocketing, purse snatching, auto theft. You must be careful in some places. The Camorra are in the suburbs of Secondigliano and Scampia and in the Spanish Quarters in the city. The African gangs closer to Pozzuoli. But here, no."
Natalia Garelli's building was in need of paint and plastering on the outside but through spotless glass it appeared the lobby was starkly elegant. Ercole hit the intercom button. A moment later a woman's voice clattered through the tinny speaker. The front door unlocked and they entered the lobby, dominated by an abstract painting, a swirl. A steel sculpture hung on another wall. An angel? Or a dove? Or purely fanciful? They took the elevator to the top floor, the fifth. There was a single apartment on this story.
Ercole lifted an eyebrow and kissed his fingertips, apparently meaning this was quite the posh place.
He rang the bell on a pale wooden frame and a moment later a very slim and very beautiful woman in her early twenties opened the door.
Ercole introduced himself and Sachs, and the woman nodded, smiling in a friendly way. "You are a policewoman from America, yes. Because Garry is American. Of course. Come in, please. Sono Natalia."
Hands were shaken.
From the girl's jewelry and clothes--leather pants, a silk blouse and enviable boots--Sachs deduced family money. The apartment too. Surely her parents had arranged for the place: student housing a lot better than most kids dwelled in. This place could have been the setting for a Prada fashion shoot. The walls were done in lavender stucco and hung with huge, boldly colored oil paintings, in two styles: abstract and nudes of both sexes. The couches and chairs were dark-green leather and brushed steel. A glass bar dominated one wall and a huge high-def TV the other. Silent music videos jerked across the screen.
"Lovely place."
"Thank you," she said. "My father works in design in Milan. Furniture and accessories. I am studying the subject here and will go into the profession too, when I graduate. Or fashion. Please, tell me, how is Garry?" Her English was perfect with a faint icing of accent.
She answered, "As well as can be expected."
Suitably ambiguous.
Ercole said, "We are looking into follow-up questions on the case. We will take little of your time."
Natalia said, "It was terrible, what happened! And
, I will tell you, it had to be someone not with our group. They are all simply the nicest people. Someone from the next building--there are Serbians living there." Her nose creased in distaste. "Some men, three or four of them. I have often thought they might be up to trouble. I told your colleagues about them."
Ercole said, deferentially, "The residents of that building--everyone--were interviewed and dismissed as suspects. The police found the men you are speaking of were out of town that night."
"Still. Someone from the school? It is impossible."
"But someone might have tagged along with a student. You know what I mean."
"I do, yes. I should have been more careful, I suppose." Her beautiful lips, dark purple, tightened.
"Do you know Frieda well?"
"Not well. Only for a few weeks, when classes began. My boyfriend and I met her in European Political History."
"Did you see her with anyone at the party you didn't recognize?"
"It was crowded. I saw her with Garry and some girlfriends of ours. But I didn't pay much attention."
"If you don't mind, tell us again what you remember about that evening," Sachs asked.
"My boyfriend and I went to dinner around eight and came back here to set out wine and some snacks and dolce. The people started arriving about ten for the party." She shrugged, touched her hair, patting it into place. Sachs, as a former fashion model, knew beauty and Natalia was one of the most stunning women she'd ever seen. That would help immeasurably in a career in the industry, even if she chose simply to design, not model. The way of the world.
Beauty rules.
"Garry was in one of the first groups to arrive. I do not know him so good. I spoke to him. I like to hang out with the Americans and English and Canadians to improve my language. More and more people arrived and about midnight I saw Frieda and Garry together. They were very close. You know, the way people are when they meet and are flirting. Touching, kissing, whispering close. I saw them go up to the roof, carrying their drinks. They were both drunk." She shook her head. "Sometime later I saw Garry downstairs. He was, how do you say, groggy. Stumbling. I remember thinking I hope he doesn't drive home. He was not looking good. He left before I could say anything.
The Burial Hour Page 18