By My Hand

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Maione wondered how much and which things in particular Bambinella knew about his son’s murder. He’d never given it any thought before.

  “Yes, Bambine’. I want to track him down. And if you don’t want to help me, thanks all the same, I’ll find him on my own, you know I can.”

  Bambinella looked out the window. Curled up on the sill was a pigeon, head tucked under its wing, doing its best to find shelter from the chilly December wind.

  “It’ll be dead by tonight, poor little creature. And no one can do a thing about it.”

  She turned back to look at Maione, with a smile.

  “We’re friends, Brigadie’. Friends help each other, without asking and without limits. Don’t worry, I’ll find out where this Biagio Candela is and I’ll let you know. Come back tonight and we’ll talk. About both things.”

  Maione gulped down the terrible ersatz coffee, nodded goodbye, and set off, head down, to face the rest of his Sunday.

  XXIII

  Ricciardi had put in a call to the hospital, inviting Dr. Modo to lunch at Gambrinus at one. He’d taken a seat at his usual table, in the indoor dining room that overlooked Via Chiaia, and he’d ordered an espresso to kill time while he waited.

  Gambrinus was the only place in town that Ricciardi liked to spend time in; the comings and goings of customers went on all day long, with variations in the clientele depending on the moment and time of day, offering an interesting cross-section of humanity. The stucco decorations and Art Nouveau frescoes, the diffuse lights, the discreet waiters. The stale scent of an ancient capital, now mothballed.

  The red velvet chairs were comfortable, the music that came from the concert grand piano at the center of the room was excellent, and the sfogliatella pastries were outstanding: for the commissario this was more than sufficient grounds for appointing the historic café his office away from the office, and his personal lunchroom.

  He’d been coming here for years, and not one of the waiters, who were accustomed to seeing him sitting off to the side, at his usual corner table, had ever ventured to greet him with any special familiarity. What Ricciardi appreciated more than any other quality was the gift of discretion, so hard to find these days and virtually extinct in that city.

  Through the window he saw a steady river of people coming and going, loaded down with bags and parcels, gloves and hats, their noses and cheeks pink from the cold. Mute laughter, chatter that failed to reach him through the thick plate glass. It was like a film at the movie house, but in color, though those hues were dulled by the pale winter sun.

  At the corner of Via Toledo, on the sidewalk, there was an old woman bundled up in blankets, her hand outstretched, begging for pennies. Every so often a passerby would drop a coin, and the woman would rapidly snatch the money away, hiding it under her tattered covers.

  Standing just inches away from her, a little boy was playing a crank organ, wearing a half smile. The reason it was a half smile was that the rest of his face, as well as the leg and arm on that side of his body, was a shapeless mass of bloody flesh. Ricciardi, who had seen the image of that child every day for the past week, remembered the accident: a car had taken the curve at high speed late at night; the little beggar boy must have been trying to chase down one last munificent passerby and had instead intercepted the speeding vehicle driven by a short-sighted motorist. These things happen, Ricciardi thought to himself.

  The child with the crooked half smile was calling: Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Signo’. A couple of pennies for a song on the crank organ! To the eyes of Ricciardi’s soul, he seemed to be trying to attract customers for the old woman, since he didn’t need them for himself anymore. He wished it could be the other way around, and that the little boy were still playing his crank organ with fingers deformed by chilblains. Without thinking, the commissario ran his hand over his wound, which was still healing.

  “It hurts, doesn’t it? That’s too bad. That’ll teach you to do what you’re told and finish your convalescence next time, instead of hurrying out to bust the chops of honest citizens,” said Dr. Modo, letting himself drop down into the red velvet chair next to Ricciardi’s. The doctor doffed his hat and gloves, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.

  “No, it doesn’t hurt; it just itches a little, maybe. You know, I’ve got a really first-rate doctor, and then I was in no condition to listen at the time, so I just took the best and skipped the worst: listening to him talk, I mean.”

  “But that’s what you like most about me, my brilliant conversation!”

  Ricciardi grimaced in pain.

  “I like it so much that I can’t do without it even on a Sunday, as you can see for yourself.”

  As he was doing his best to catch the waiter’s eye, Modo said:

  “In fact I found the phone call from your lackey deeply offensive. First, because you groundlessly presumed that, even though it was Sunday, you were bound to catch me at the hospital; second, because you were right.”

  “As you see, Bruno, I’m the last man in town who could serve as a model of sophisticated amusement and the proper way to spend one’s free time. But you know how important the first few days after a murder are in terms of gathering the necessary evidence.”

  Modo laughed heartily.

  “A fine excuse, to avoid admitting that one has no idea what to do with himself on a Sunday. Now, I’m not complaining: I get to eat a delicious lunch for free, which seems fair and fitting for a poor underpaid doctor. Whereas you, who I’ve heard tell are fabulously wealthy and notoriously stingy, are going to have to foot the bill.”

  Ricciardi laughed in turn.

  “Neither fabulously wealthy—at least I don’t think I am, and in any case I don’t particularly care either way—nor stingy. But the exquisite pleasure of having lunch with you is just one more indication of how accident-prone I really am. Come on, let’s order; it’s getting late and I have another appointment on this long working Sunday.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ricciardi saw the dog position itself comfortably not far from the beggar woman, out on the street. It sat down by the wall, where it was sheltered from the wind and able to keep an eye on the front door of the café. Its white coat with dark brown spots seemed shinier than before.

  “Yes, I had him washed,” said Modo, following the commissario’s gaze. “After all, if I’m taking him into my home, then I can hardly afford the embarrassment of catching something infectious, can I? I’m still a doctor, after all.”

  “I’d never have thought it. So you’ve adopted him after all. You’ve become a dog owner.”

  Modo laughed.

  “You don’t know him. He’s not the kind of dog a person can say he owns; he decides who he wants to live with. It’s a temporary partnership that we have. There’s no leash on him, and none on me. You don’t know it, my solitary friend, but that’s how all great loves are: no ball and no chain.”

  By the time they were done with their meal, the crowds on the street were starting to thin, in part because a hard, ice-cold rain had begun to fall. The old beggar woman had gotten to her feet with some difficulty and gone to seek shelter in an entryway. Ricciardi saw the image of the boy, with his horrendous smile, still perfectly dry as he went on asking for a couple of pennies for a song that he would never play again.

  “So Bruno, tell me, what did you learn from the autopsy of Signore and Signora Garofalo? Did you find out anything new?”

  Modo stretched, reclining against the backrest and extending his legs under the table.

  “Ah, so now it’s time to sing for my supper, I knew this was coming. All right then, the signore and the signora kept themselves in good shape. They were well nourished, in good general states of health, no serious illnesses. The signora had three gold teeth, while he was missing a couple; but he’d lost them long ago, nothing worth mentioning. The man’s joints were starting to harden—i
f he’d been allowed to live another four or five years, then he might have started to complain about his hips or his knees. But overall I’d have to say that they were both in good health.”

  Ricciardi was waiting for more.

  “Well, to tell the truth, when I saw them, they didn’t really look all that healthy. What can you tell me about the way they died?”

  “You’re right,” Modo agreed, “by that time they were no longer all that healthy. They died that same morning. I did a few tests on the tissues and the organs, and I’d have to guess they were killed a few hours before they were found, maybe at eight, nine o’clock. The signora died of blood loss. It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds: a severed carotid artery is always fatal. I can confirm that my initial impression from my first quick exam was correct: it was a single sharp blow from right to left. There are two possible scenarios: either the blade was very sharp indeed, or someone held her head still while they cut her throat.”

  Ricciardi listened attentively.

  “So you found no signs of struggle on the body? I don’t know: bruises, even small ones, ruptured blood vessels, lesions . . .”

  “No, absolutely not. Those are the first things I look for, as you know. No signs at all. She wasn’t expecting it.”

  “Was the killer right-handed or left-handed?”

  Modo shrugged his shoulders.

  “Impossible to say. You’d have to know whether her throat was slashed from the front, as I think it was, or from behind. The cut goes from left to right, from the victim’s point of view. But there are no signs of a struggle. The woman put up no resistance.”

  In his mind’s eye Ricciardi saw Signora Garofalo as she asked, smiling and oozing blood from her terrible wound: Hat and gloves? graciously and courteously. From the front, I’d have to say, he thought. From the front.

  “What about the husband, Bruno? You find out anything there? How can you explain the number of stab wounds?”

  “That’s something you’re going to have to ask the killer, or rather I should say the killers, because to my mind—and I told you this when we first talked—there was more than one hand at work here. The fatal blow was the first one, straight to the heart. That blow alone would have killed him. While he was dying, and it couldn’t have been more than a matter of a few seconds, he was stabbed at least five more times, between the ribs and the abdomen. I can tell you that for certain, because the wounds went on bleeding, though not for long, which means that the heart hadn’t yet stopped. The other twenty-six . . . that’s right, twenty-six . . . stab wounds were inflicted on an already-dead body.”

  Ricciardi committed the information to memory, remembering Garofalo sitting in a pool of his own blood, stating in no uncertain terms that he owed nobody anything.

  “And you confirm that in your judgment there was more than one killer.”

  The Gambrinus pianist charged into the afternoon with a heartrending tango. A couple stood up from their table and began to dance.

  “That’s right, and I’ll tell you why: the first wound is a clean, deep cut, inflicted with great power. The murderer first set the tip of the knife as if carefully taking aim, and then slowly drove it down, sure as can be, until it penetrated the heart. That’s not an easy thing to do, you know; it takes a determination that you can imagine for yourself, but it also requires a truly strong hand, because there would have been none of the momentum you get when you pull back and bring the knife down hard from above. The other wounds are all much shallower, and they were all delivered from right to left.”

  Lost in thought, Ricciardi watched the dancing couple twirl and pirouette. The woman, under her breath, sang along raptly:

  . . . terra di sogni e di chimere

  se una chitarra suona

  cantano mille capinere

  hanno la chioma bruna

  hanno la febbre in cor

  chi va a cercar fortuna

  vi troverà l’amor . . .

  “So, forgive me, but what makes you conclude that there was another hand? If the direction was the same . . .”

  Modo shook his head.

  “Eh, no, caro, let me finish. I was just talking about the first group of stab wounds. Then there’s another dozen or so that were inflicted in the opposite direction, from left to right, not as deep but more closely grouped together. A different arm, a whole other kind of strength. So I’d have to conclude a different hand.”

  The doctor was certain of his analysis, and Ricciardi knew very well how conscientious he was. The picture was starting to take shape.

  “And so what’s your conclusive impression?”

  Modo knitted his fingers together behind his head. He followed Ricciardi’s gaze and saw that he was watching the dancers. The woman went on singing:

  . . . e nell’oscurità

  ognuno vuol godere

  son baci di passion

  l’amor non sa tacere

  e questa è la canzon

  di mille capinere . . .

  “My conclusive impression, as you say, my dear lord of the shadows, also known as Ricciardi of the Handsome Smile, is that the murderers started off with one idea and then let themselves get swept away by their passions, just like the warbling chickadees in the song sung by the lovely signorina, who by the way is a high-ticket whore, if you ask me. They wanted to see justice done, to take the law into their own hands and perform a formal execution, and then they went overboard and turned it into an orgy of blood, either each with his own knife or else passing the weapon around. You don’t murder someone like this during a robbery or because of an argument that spun out of control. You and my beloved Brigadier Maione, who’s now enjoying a pleasant Sunday meal with his family and a bowl of ragú—at least he’s enjoying himself, lucky man—are going to have to find some powerful motive for this hatred. Because it took a lot of hate to commit this murder. Not for the woman; she was no more than an obstacle.”

  Through Ricciardi’s mind passed first the statuette of the Madonna, tipped over against the figurine of the ass, and then the shattered fragments of the Saint Joseph. In the rain out on the street, almost deserted by now, the child stared into the middle distance with his bloody half smile, asking for a couple of coins to play a song on his crank organ.

  Some ten feet away, the dog lay curled up, his coat ruffled lightly by the wind, one ear hanging and the other perked up, waiting for the doctor.

  In the café, the tango came to an end with one last chord and a wobbly dip.

  “Have I earned myself an espresso to top it off?” Modo said.

  Outside, night had already fallen.

  XXIV

  Maione had waited for night to fall, engaged the whole time in a terrible struggle to conceal his emotional state from his family.

  The news that Franco Massa had given him had demolished with a single fell blow the wall of the room in which, in his soul, he’d tried to lock away his perennial grief over his son’s death. A wall he’d built day by day, brick by brick.

  He realized only now how important it had been to know that the man guilty of the murder had been punished in accordance with the law in order to find an equilibrium, a state of resignation. Maione was a simple man, and he knew that he was: every action needed to be met by a reaction. Arresting the man that he believed guilty of the murder certainly did nothing to bring Luca back to life, but it had at least fulfilled his duty as a policeman.

  He still had a vague memory of the days spent at the trial. At first he hadn’t wanted to go at all, then Lucia had asked him to, because she couldn’t bring herself to attend; she didn’t want it thought that Luca’s family had abandoned his memory. They had been days of confusion, altered states of mind, time passed in sleepless nights and blurred thoughts.

  He remembered the courtroom in Castel Capuano, the smell of wood and dust, the chill in the room, the eyel
ess gazes of the busts and statues of the great lawyers of the past. He remembered the stentorian voice of the prosecuting attorney, who was demanding a conviction and a sentence that would set an example, and the pale, bloodless face of the man who he then believed had been Luca’s murderer.

  He vaguely recalled the mother, a woman who seemed much older than she was, and who wept incessantly, while someone comforted her.

  Just as vaguely, he remembered the face of a boy who couldn’t have been any older than Luca, arm in arm with his mother. Pale, light-skinned, fair-haired. He remembered thinking, and then saying to Ricciardi, who was at his side the whole time, that he couldn’t imagine a man murdering a boy who so closely resembled his own brother. Ricciardi had replied that that’s how it always was, after all.

  That face, just barely emerging from the mists of the memories that he’d tried to erase, that face was the face of Luca’s killer. Now he knew it. If only he’d known it then.

  Playing with his children, listening to the radio, eating his Sunday meals, Maione had had that obsessive thought burrowing into his brain the whole time. Just have to get used to it, he told himself. Until I can start building that wall again. In the meantime, it’s getting dark: time to come up with some excuse for Lucia and go see Bambinella.

  He found Bambinella with her customary black kimono dotted with red flowers, tied closed at the waist with a silk sash, her long raven locks gathered in a ponytail with a large horn comb holding the hair together, and a black slip underneath, the lace trim peeking out from under her décolletage. On her chest and face, the dark shadow of mutinous hair and whiskers.

  She was wrapping the corpse of the pigeon that had been struggling to withstand the cold just that morning in a newspaper parcel. Hot tears streaked her face, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief into which she noisily blew her nose from time to time.