A Florentine Death

by Michele Giuttari

  The reason for the upheaval was the newspapers, who were lumping the latest murders together, blaming the police for their inefficiency, and lambasting a city government that was giving free rein to criminals, racketeers and murderers and failing to protect honest citizens.

  They were particularly angry with Ferrara. They had believed him when he had told them that the antique dealer arrested for receiving stolen goods was probably also the killer, and had considered the case of the murder in the Via Santo Spirito closed, something about which the public could rest easy.

  Now Ferrara's version of that case seemed almost like a fabrication to distract public opinion from what was really happening in the city. Many journalists connected the Lupi murder with the Bianchi slaying. Some even went back as far as the murder in Greve, but most concentrated on the deaths of Bianchi and Lupi. Both killings had taken place right in the centre of the city, in areas frequented by tourists, the second occurring little more than a month after the first.

  The Commissioner had lost his usual composure and was going from office to office, looking for answers that nobody could give him. The press room was packed, and the clerk, bombarded with questions, was finding it hard to fend off the journalists. The superintendents were issuing orders to their subordinates just to keep them busy and have them seen to be busy. There was a constant coming and going of patrol cars.

  Ferrara immediately summoned Rizzo, Sergi, Violante, Venturi and Ascalchi to an extraordinary meeting which would take all morning, having first left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed by anyone. Not even the Commissioner.

  'Have Leone call me as soon as he's finished the autopsy' he said to Inspector Venturi. 'I want to know the results immediately without waiting for the report. Same with forensics.'

  'Right away, chief,' Venturi said, picking up the phone. 'Gentlemen,' Ferrara said without waiting for him to finish,

  'we need results. And soon. As you've seen, the press are up in arms. I want every available man working on this case, round the clock. Is that clear?'

  'Very clear,' everyone nodded. Except Rizzo.

  'What about the Monster?' he asked.

  'Continue all current operations, but give yesterday's murder priority. Now let's see what theories we can come up with. The facts are well known. Anyone not clear on them should read the papers.'

  They nodded again.

  'Does anyone have any ideas?'

  Gianni Ascalchi cleared his throat. 'In my opinion, this was clearly a sex crime.'

  'If that's the case,' Rizzo said, 'we need to know if Bianchi was involved in some kind of erotic game that went too far, or if it was something else, I don't know, a vendetta, blackmail . . .'

  'Venturi, make a note to check if any large sums of money have gone in or out of Bianchi's bank account lately. In any case, the man's private life will have to be turned inside out. What else?'

  'The black magic aspect,' Serpico suggested.

  'Right. We need to look into that. The two things could be connected, of course.'

  'The MO is very similar to that in the Micali case,' Rizzo said. 'Both men were gay'

  'Precisely. And that would open up a very disturbing possibility. The newspapers are already doing everything they can to link the three murders. If they really are connected, then what we're looking at is a serial killer.'

  Those two words had been in the air since the beginning of the meeting. They were already present by implication in some of the newspaper reports. Silence fell. It was as if the Monster of Florence case, with all its complications, were hanging before them in the heavy air like a rock. There, too, they had started out with the idea of a serial killer, and years later they were still working on it!

  The phenomenon of the serial killer had been practically unknown in the annals of the Italian police almost until the end of the eighties, but since then it seemed to have spread like an oil stain. Everyone was talking about it, thrillers were written about it, the media had jumped on the bandwagon, and meanwhile the police were trudging along trying desperately to keep up with the help of experts from the FBI, who were much more familiar with the subject.

  What they all knew was that a serial killer was a lone wolf, which made him one of the most difficult kinds of criminal to track down.

  If they really were dealing with a serial killer, the prospects were bleak.

  'Lupi's murder doesn't fit,' Chief Inspector Violante protested. 'He was a married man with a son.'

  'Don't forget the nature of his wounds, Inspector. Even though I myself, wrongly perhaps, thought the case was closed when we arrested Salustri, officially it isn't closed at all. I think you'd do well to look into it again, starting with Alfredo Lupi's private life. Especially as . . .'

  Ferrara considered the moment had come to tell his men about the anonymous letters he had received. They might not constitute much of a lead, but with the death of Francesco Bianchi from wounds not so dissimilar from those on the other two dead men, they could no longer be disregarded.

  His men reacted as he had expected, including some veiled reproaches for his having kept them in the dark about the threats, but he preferred not to tell them the real reasons he had kept silent until now.

  'But there isn't a third letter,' Ascalchi said, 'even though there does seem to be a third crime.'

  'Maybe the killer thought the crumbled cigar was enough. That's a message, too. To tell the truth I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe it's just speculation, and might lead us astray, so let's not give it any more weight than we should. Let's just keep it in mind, that's all.'

  'Lupi wasn't a homosexual,' Violante insisted, annoyed perhaps at having to deal with that case again.

  'The second letter in particular seems like a challenge to the police,' Rizzo said. 'That's typical of serial killers. They always think they're cleverer and more intelligent than we are.'

  Again, a heavy silence fell over Ferrara's office.

  Leone called just before midday. The results of the autopsy confirmed some of the theories on which they were already working, but also added some details that might subsequently prove decisive.

  The death had been caused by asphyxia. The dead man had previously consumed both drugs and alcohol. The knife wounds, of which there were no less than thirty-five, had not been fatal, not even the two deep wounds in the back. The victim had been stabbed in the back first, then tortured and finally strangled to death. The crime had occurred between nine o'clock and midnight on Wednesday 2 February 2000: four days before the body was discovered.

  'Finally,' Leone said, 'I found traces of sperm in the anus, as well as residues of Vaseline.'

  Immediately afterwards a call came from forensics. All the fingerprints found in the apartment were the victim's, apart from those on one of the two crystal glasses and on the rim of the toilet bowl. They did not match any prints in police records. Even the blood in the wash basin had turned out to be the victim's, which confirmed that the killer had washed the knife after use.

  Ferrara passed on what he had learned from these two calls, distributed tasks, and declared the meeting closed.

  In the days that followed, the image of Francesco Bianchi came into clearer focus.

  He was indeed gay, and a man of some social standing. He lived in Siena, but often spent weekends in Florence, as confirmed by his sister and a nephew who lived with him.

  According to these two, Francesco Bianchi had left Siena on Sunday 30 January to spend a few days, perhaps even a week, in Florence, taking advantage of a short period of leave in order to make some progress with his research on an art history project. They had added that relations between them had soured recently, due to some problems connected with their inheritance, and they had both thought that he had used his research merely as a pretext to get away from home and ponder his next move.

  That was why they hadn't tried to reach him by phone and hadn't been surprised that he had made no attempt to contact them. They knew nothing ab
out his friends and acquaintances in Florence, not even if he had any.

  And yet instinct told Ferrara that Florence was the place to look. Of course, it couldn't be ruled out that he may have brought a friend with him from Siena, and he had asked the police there to make all the inquiries they could. But he was just covering himself: it was more than likely that the professor had tried to keep up his image in his own city and had chosen Florence as the place where he could give free rein to his true sexual leanings, as the purchase of the apartment -and the gossip - suggested.

  Ferrara had passed the case on to Serpico, authorising him to make whatever inquiries he had to make - and even mount raids if he had to - in Florence's gay circles. Homosexual encounters took place mainly in the Parco delle Cascine, the railway station of Santa Maria Novella, and - for some time now — a porno cinema in the south of the city.

  For days on end, the Squadra Mobile offices were filled with rent boys, most of them foreigners. Foreigners were the most in demand because they didn't ask for much money.

  They were unemployed young men of no fixed abode, almost all of them illegal, driven by poverty to satisfy their benefactors' desires, and sometimes their perversions, in return for a lunch, an item of clothing, the chance to call their families at home from the phone in their client's house, or even just the opportunity to take a shower.

  None of them recognised, or admitted to recognising, Francesco Bianchi from the photo they were shown.

  Ferrara had also asked the phone company for a printout of calls made to and from the victim's Florence apartment, and had put a tap on the home telephone of his sister in Siena.

  But nothing useful had emerged.

  In the end, the only clue they had found that was of any use was the traces of sperm in the victim's anus. Thanks to laboratory analysis by the forensics team, they now had the killer's DNA. But it was an abstraction. Who did it correspond to in reality? They didn't yet have a single suspect.

  By the end of the week they seemed to have reached a dead end. Meanwhile, the press were becoming more strident with every day that passed. And Ferrara was starting to think they were right.

  *

  A similar fear was being expressed at that moment on an upper floor of Police Headquarters, where Prosecutor Gallo and Commissioner Lepri were meeting to evaluate the situation.

  'I don't get the impression Ferrara knows what he's doing this time around,' Gallo was saying.

  'Some investigations take time, you know that,' was Lepri's bland attempt at defence, immediately contradicted by adding, 'but time is precisely what we don't have. Two murders in a month right in the middle of the town, without a single clue, a single suspect, and nothing to give the press ..."

  'Maybe I've been too patient. Ferrara has excellent credentials, and a distinguished career behind him, but he's not himself any more. This obsession with black magic and high-level conspiracies will be the ruin of him.'

  'Believe me, I've asked him to exercise a bit more caution and not let things get out of hand. It's easy to get bogged down in all this meaningless nonsense. Most of the time it turns out to be just smoke without fire. And in the meantime we're wasting time.'

  'And the real murderers are still free.'

  'Then there's . . .' the Commissioner fell silent, letting his gaze wander over the magnificent fresco on the ceiling of his sumptuous office: one of the privileges a State with an incomparable artistic heritage bestows on its most prestigious servants.

  'Yes?' Gallo prompted him.

  'Remember that TV broadcast he did? I wouldn't like him to think he can display himself to the public as some kind of hero who's better than the rest of us.'

  He was referring to a popular talk show which had devoted an edition to the Monster of Florence the previous summer.

  Ferrara had taken part along with a psychiatrist, a well known criminologist, a university researcher with an interest in the occult - because they were already talking at the time about the new line that Ferrara was pursuing - and to add a touch of colour, a very pretty young actress who had played a policewoman in a successful TV movie. Although Ferrara didn't usually like the limelight, he had thought it a worthwhile exercise that would make it clear to anyone who had ears to hear that the circle was closing in. But it had resulted in his becoming a popular celebrity for a while - something his superiors had not greatly appreciated.

  'If he wanted to be an idol he should have become an actor,' Gallo said. 'The Prosecutor's Department has more serious things to think about. Ferrara will have to adapt. And soon.'

  'What do you intend to do?'

  'Nothing for the moment. But if he doesn't bring me results soon, I'll have to intervene.'

  The Commissioner reflected. 'I'll talk to him,' he said.

  'Go ahead, if you think it'll do any good. But I warn you that if things don't change I may have to oppose his promotion - or worse.'

  'Isn't that excessive? Chief Superintendent Ferrara is still a servant of the State like us . . .'

  'That's why he needs to toe the line.'

  'What do you mean?'

  All he ever thinks about is the Monster of Florence, even after all these years. He almost never comes to the Prosecutor's Department, and when he does show his face, he shuts himself up in an office with a colleague of mine who's following the case. The only time I've seen him lately was over that Salustri business, and he made me go with him all the way to the border on a journey that turned out to be pointless. The deputy prosecutors come to me and complain they don't have anyone to turn to any more in Police Headquarters!'

  'All right. I'll see if I can figure out a way to get him back on board.'

  'Do it, but let's be clear about one thing: either Ferrara goes back to being the head of the Squadra Mobile, all the Squadra Mobile, or I could see myself being forced to write directly to the Head of Police asking for him to be demoted.'

  On Sunday, Chief Inspector Violante came into the office.

  He only had a few months to go before he retired, and he couldn't wait. He had spent his whole life in the police force and it had left him feeling bitter and unfulfilled. His sons, teenagers in the eighties, had got rich on the easy money circulating in certain circles in those days, and had never made any bones about the fact that they were ashamed their father had never risen further than being a mere cog in the machinery of State.

  But he himself had never felt ashamed, and even though he was glad that he'd soon be able to rest at last, he still wanted to see his work through to the end. He knew what many of his colleagues thought of him, but he didn't care.

  He had decided to take advantage of the relative calm of Sunday to go back over the file on the Lupi case, checking through all the reports and witness statements.

  That was how he came across a report by the officer on duty at the switchboard on 24 January that threw new light on the case.

  An anonymous phone call had come in that day. There are always a lot of them after a murder, most of them from cranks. But they always have to be checked out, especially where there are no other clues, if only to be able to say later that nothing has been neglected.

  The anonymous caller had mentioned the name Antonio Gori, had described him as a 'friend' of the murdered man, and had asked the police to investigate their relationship.

  The call had not been recorded, because the switchboard was not yet equipped with a tape recorder, but the officer had nevertheless prepared a detailed report in which he had emphasised how insistent the anonymous caller had been that the relationship was a homosexual one - after Violante had persisted in denying that Lupi was gay in front of everyone.

  Violante felt stupid for having dismissed the report instead of passing it on to Ferrara. The call might indeed have been a crank call, but then again it might not have been.

  His one excuse was that the call had come in right in the middle of the operation that had led to the arrest of Antonio Salustri. At the time, they had been sure that the murder was c
onnected with the antiques racket, and there had been little doubt in their minds that Salustri was the killer.

  But it was no excuse really: he had been a fool.

  A fool, but an honest one, who would never dream of hiding his mistakes. Even when a man was close to retirement, he was still responsible for his own actions and had to account for them. Even a policeman. Especially a policeman, he told himself. How else could he presume to put handcuffs on other men's wrists?

  'Congratulations, Violante,' Ferrara said on the morning of Monday 14 February. 'Excellent work!'

  He was genuinely pleased. Full of admiration, too. This short-sighted, nondescript little man, who all too often seemed like a shirker, was actually one of those pillars on whom the whole apparatus of the State rests, even if nobody knew, or wanted to know about him.

  'Before we summon this Gori, check him out as much as you can.'

  'I've already put Inspector Venturi onto it, chief.' Ferrara looked at him again with respect, regretting the fact that he would soon be leaving them.

  Over the next two days Inspector Venturi discovered that Alfredo Lupi and Antonio Gori had indeed been seeing each other regularly for some time.

  Ferrara decided it was time to question him. It had to be done immediately, before Gori had had time to think of an alibi. The judge wouldn't authorise a phone tap on the basis of an anonymous call, especially one that hadn't even been recorded. It wasn't enough to go on. So he asked Gori to come in that evening, Wednesday 16th.

  'Good evening, Chief Superintendent!'

  Antonio Gori was short, well shaven, neatly dressed, scented, but not effeminate.

  'Good evening. Please take a seat.'