A Florentine Death

by Michele Giuttari

  Then morning would come and, in the clear light of day,

  the fresh air and the smell of the flowers and the reassuring songs of the birds would lift her spirits, and her fears would vanish. But she was still curious to know what was beyond that padlocked door on the first floor landing.

  One day, she had tried again to ask Nenita, even though she knew it would be pointless. But at least she could pretend that she'd had some kind of conversation with someone in that big, deserted house.

  'Nenita, listen. Do you ever go upstairs? To the first floor.' She had pointed to the ceiling to make thing clearer.

  They were in the kitchen of Mike's apartment and Nenita was making coffee.

  'First floor? No, I can't. Mr Ross not want.'

  On one of the walls in the kitchen Valentina had noticed a rack on which hung what she supposed were duplicate keys for the whole house, and for a second she had been tempted to grab the key to the first floor when Nenita's back was turned. But her courage had failed her.

  Sunday had been the saddest day. That week spent alone had made her realise how much she missed Mike: she had hardly thought about Cinzia. She still did not know what she really felt for this man who seemed so self-assured and at the same time so shy and elusive, but she had decided there was only one way to find out: make love with him again.

  So when, on Monday evening, Mike phoned from the airport to say that he was on his way back and that the next day he would finally keep his promise and take her to San Gimignano to celebrate, Valentina fell asleep happy, full of plans for seduction.

  11

  On the morning of Thursday 9 March, Chief Superintendent Ferrara found a document on his desk full of detailed requests from the Prosecutor's Department regarding the investigation.

  Deputy Prosecutor Giulietti wasn't wasting any time. She seemed determined to make clear who was in charge from now on. The document asked for:

  • an examination of the knife found at the latest crime scene, with the purpose of obtaining fingerprints from the blade or the handle. The exact dimensions and characteristics of the knife should be established, and inquiries should be made as to whether it is on general sale or is only available in certain specialised shops;

  • a full investigation of the victim's friends and acquaintances, obtaining information from such persons as are in a position to provide it, and from a close examination of the papers and address books found thus far in the course of the inquiries;

  • an investigation of the victim's movements on the day preceding the crime, especially in the hours prior to his death, by interviewing such persons living with the victim or living in the neighbourhood of the victim as are in a position to report circumstances that may help with a reconstruction of the crime.

  The list went on and on for another two pages in the same pedantic tone, and concluded by stating that Deputy Prosecutor Giulietti had appointed her own expert who would ascertain the nature of the substance found on the knife and, in the case of the substance being identified as human blood, as seemed likely, would also ascertain whether or not it belonged to the victim.

  Ferrara called in Rizzo and made him read the document.

  'But all this is exactly what we're doing! What does it mean - she doesn't trust us?'

  ‘I’m the one she doesn't trust, not you. Read the last sentence! Anyway, that's her business. She's following Gallo's orders. Forget about it. How's our investigation going?'

  'We're interviewing some of the people whose names appear in the diaries. Do you want to sit in?'

  'No, I'll leave it to you. I'm going to Greve. Don Sergio has disappeared, and I want to know what's going on.'

  'Disappeared? What do you mean?'

  'He's not in the parish any more. Ascalchi found out about it yesterday, but that's all he was able to discover.'

  'So it could be him! Shouldn't we alert the transport police, the airports, the borders —'

  'Wait, let's hold our horses. It's curious, though, isn't it? By the way, Rizzo

  'Yes?'

  'We're definitely dealing with a single killer, and he wants me dead. I have proof.'

  And he told Rizzo about the discovery he had made the previous night.

  *

  'Hello, father.' 'Hello, my son.'

  'Could I ask you a few questions?'

  'If you're not trying to sell me something, or tell me what to watch on TV, I'm all yours. The Lord gave us ears to listen.'

  'Can you tell me where I can find Don Sergio Rotondi?'

  Father Francesco gave a sad, doleful smile.

  He finished arranging flowers in front of a little crucifix and invited Ferrara to follow him into the sacristy.

  'You're not a relative of his, are you?' he asked, as they walked across the church. 'I have the feeling I've seen you somewhere before.'

  Tm not even an acquaintance of his. But we did meet once.'

  'Oh, yes? When was that?'

  'Last year. In October. October 1st.'

  They had reached the sacristy.

  'The day poor Stefanino was killed,' the old priest murmured.

  'Precisely'

  'You're from the police, aren't you? I thought so.'

  Tm the head of the Squadra Mobile, father. My name is Michele Ferrara.'

  Don Francesco sat down with considerable effort, smiling bitterly. 'My bones,' he explained. 'Now I know why your face was familiar. I've seen you in the newspapers, right? Maybe also on TV?'

  'It's possible.'

  'And you want to know about Don Sergio. Everyone wants to know. His relatives, the parishioners. There was even some fellow from Rome here yesterday, pretending it was a casual visit. . .'

  'I have to find him. It's important, father. Other men have died since Stefano Micali. Three of them, all gay men like him.'

  'And like Don Sergio, do you mean?' 'That I don't know. Is he?'

  'He never confided in me, but I believe he does have those inclinations, and that they cause him great pain. But I don't see how knowing that is of any help to you. He had nothing to do with Stefanino's death. He was with me when the poor boy was killed.'

  'Can you confirm that?'

  'Why shouldn't I? I'm old, my memory isn't what it used to be, I sometimes fall asleep without realising it. But I'm not in my dotage yet and if I say Don Sergio was with me that day, then he was with me.'

  'It was just after lunch, wasn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  And you were doing the accounts.'

  'Well, to tell the truth, he was doing them.'

  A boring job.'

  'Extremely!'

  'On a full stomach, it could make you feel drowsy

  Father Francesco reflected. 'I know what you're trying to make me say. But no, it's not possible. Don Sergio liked Stefanino a lot, they grew up together, they were like brothers.'

  'Careful, father, next you'll be telling me they were in love.'

  'No, no, not in the way you think, God forgive you!' Father Francesco crossed himself.

  'But wouldn't it be better if I found him? If he talked to me, told me what happened?'

  The old man sighed. 'I suppose so.'

  'So why won't you tell me where he is?'

  'Because I don't know.'

  'That's not possible!' Ferrara said, raising his voice despite himself. 'It isn't possible. A priest can't just vanish. A man can lose his relatives, his friends, yes, but yours is a much bigger family' He couldn't help adding, a touch contentiously, And a much better organised one.'

  'It is a "family", as you say, but a family that doesn't need to involve a poor provincial priest like me in its decisions.' There was genuine humility in Father Francesco's voice.

  Ferrara felt as if he had been caught off guard. Suddenly, he was in a different dimension, one that went far beyond that of two flesh and blood human beings talking to each other. 'What do you mean?'

  'The Church has its mysteries, my son, and its rules. Those rules aren't necessarily the same as t
hose that ordinary mortals live by. Sometimes it's necessary to ignore normal rules for the sake of a higher good. If we're told to accept something we don't understand, we simply obey'

  The implications of these words threw a new and disturbing light on the whole case, making it, if possible, even more intangible than it had been so far. For a moment, Ferrara felt dizzy, as if he were about to be sucked into a vortex.

  'I don't think I quite understand,' he said.

  'Perhaps because you're following the wrong path. Or perhaps because I haven't really said anything important or shocking.'

  'You've certainly told me something ..."

  'Really? I don't remember.' Father Francesco smiled wearily, and closed his eyes. 'You should know. The Lord gave us ears to listen, remember?'

  Meanwhile, at Headquarters, the interviews were proceeding at a frantic pace and a true picture of the victim was starting to emerge.

  Among those questioned by Rizzo and Sergi was a casual acquaintance of Biagini's, a distinctly camp individual named Pietro. He and Biagini had met by chance at a bookstall in Santa Maria Novella station while he was looking at the covers of photography magazines. It had turned out that they were both keen on photography and Pietro had given Biagini some advice on which magazines to buy. They had subsequently met a few more times. According to Pietro, Biagini often went to the Cascine, whereas he himself only went there sometimes on Sundays.

  'If you don't go to the Cascine very much, how do you know that Biagini went there often?' Sergi asked.

  'He told me, didn't he? He said if I ever needed him and he wasn't at home I could find him there. One time I went there and he was there. That was when I realised!'

  'That he was gay, you mean?'

  'Yes.'

  'Like you?' Rizzo asked.

  'Look -I know that to people like you . . . But there's nothing wrong with it, okay? I'm gay and I'm not ashamed of it. On the contrary. I'm proud, right? I lead a regular life, I have a job, I've never hurt a fly'

  My God, Serpico thought. At least one person who says it loud and clear, without beating about the bush.

  'Did you have intimate relations with Giovanni Biagini?' Rizzo asked.

  'No way! He really wasn't my type. I liked talking to him, that's all, especially about photography'

  'Do you know of any particular friend of Giovanni's? Someone he saw often, someone he had a regular relationship with?'

  'Oh, God, I really don't know . . . Actually, there was one time I saw him with a particular person.'

  'Go on.'

  'Giovanni took me to the apartment of a friend of his, near Campo di Marte, you know? There was no one there. He told me his friend lent him the apartment sometimes to bring people there.'

  'For sex, I assume,' Sergi said.

  'Yeah. Anyway, it was clear why he took me there, right?' 'So what happened?'

  After we'd been there a while this young guy arrives. Quite good-looking. Giovanni asked me if I minded. I told him I really didn't give a damn, but I didn't want to join in, if that's what he was planning. I don't really go for that kind of thing, you know? I stayed in the kitchenette all the time Giovanni and this young guy were in the bedroom.'

  'Who was he? Did he tell you?'

  After the young guy had gone - of course I didn't ask any questions - but after he'd gone, Giovanni told me he worked in a hotel in the centre of town. He told me he'd lent this guy money recently, interest free. But the guy hadn't paid him back, even though Giovanni kept asking for his money. He seemed really angry that he hadn't been repaid, you know? I think he felt as if he'd been used.'

  Meanwhile, Inspector Fabrizi had been questioning another of the dead man's friends. His name was Francesco and, apart from adding a few more details about Giovanni's homosexual activities, had provided information that would help them track down the young man Pietro had mentioned.

  'One day, just a few weeks ago, Biagini told me he'd been friendly with this young guy for a while, and he'd lent him a lot of money but couldn't get it back. The young guy's name is Aldo, and he works in the Hotel Dino. Giovanni was really pissed off ... I mean, really angry with him, because Aldo kept asking him for more money and Giovanni refused to lend him anymore, obviously - he'd already lent him something like thirty million lire, Inspector! He even threatened to inform on him and lose him his job if he didn't give the money back within two weeks at the outside. He couldn't stand it anymore. I was there when he said that. It was unpleasant, I tell you

  Fabrizi immediately reported the results of the interview to Rizzo and Sergi. Comparing the two statements, the three of them felt reasonably satisfied. They had identified a possible culprit with a good motive for killing Biagini. It wasn't so easy for a hotel worker to find thirty million lire, and if Biagini had informed on him, not only might he have lost his job, his whole future might have been jeopardised.

  'It shouldn't be difficult to track him down,' Sergi said.

  'See if you can find out any more about him,' Rizzo said. 'Then we'll talk again. I'm waiting for the chief

  Sergi was right: it wasn't difficult. The man's name was Aldo Puleo, he was thirty-two, and he came from a little village in the province of Bari which didn't even appear on road maps. He wasn't married and had been working in the hotel as a waiter for about five years. Sergi also discovered that he was a gambler, and was often seen at a gambling den in the Poggio Imperiale area.

  When he reported back, he found Ferrara in a very bad mood. Rizzo was trying to cheer him up, telling him what good results they had obtained. Sergi did the same, but realised immediately that it was useless.

  Having listened to Sergi, Ferrara reluctantly called the Prosecutor's Department and asked for a warrant to search Aldo Puleo's home.

  'Do it as soon as the warrant arrives,' he ordered. But then he exploded. 'There's no point, though! We shouldn't be looking for some hotel waiter, we should be looking for that damned priest, Don Sergio!'

  Serpico looked at him, stunned. He had never seen him in such a state.

  'But there's evidence pointing to Puleo,' Rizzo objected. 'You always say we should never leave any lead unexplored.'

  'You're right. I'm sorry, boys. You've done good work, really. This case is getting on my nerves. You carry on, I'm going home. I've had enough for today'

  That, too, wasn't like him.

  He didn't go home. At least, not immediately. He walked to the banks of the Arno by way of the Viale Matteotti, the Viale Gramsci and the Viale della Giovine Italia. It was the most neglected area of Florence, an area where you heard Tuscan spoken more often than English, German or Japanese.

  He puffed at his cigar, wondering how to climb the ecclesiastical hierarchy, who to turn to, how high he would have to go. From what the old priest had told him, it looked as if he might have to request an audience with the Pope himself!

  'Perdone, senor.'

  It was a family of tourists who had got lost. Spaniards, the new horde that had joined the more traditional ones.

  Ferrara showed them the way, and for some reason this banal gesture restored a little of his good mood.

  He walked along the Arno as far as the Ponte alle Grazie, and crossed to the halfway point of the bridge. There he stopped, and looked across at the less familiar side of the Ponte Vecchio, the upstream side along which Vasari's Corridor ran.

  Here, he thought, was the true heart of Florence. A bridge built in the fourteenth century, at the narrowest point of the river, on three solid arches which had defied the passage of centuries. Butchers and greengrocers had had their shops there until Grand Duke Ferdinando I had cleared them away and replaced them with goldsmiths' and silversmiths' shops. Then as now, it had been thought that the city was best represented by displays of wealth. Why shouldn't it flaunt itself like a prostitute and attract the foreigners who thronged onto the bridge to see the kiosks displaying increasingly standardised merchandise? Or the louts who swarmed everywhere and killed time while queuing to buy tickets by def
acing the facades of old palaces with stupid graffiti?

  'She looks like the Ponte Vecchio.' That was what the Florentines said of a woman wearing too much jewellery.

  When it was no longer blood that pulsed in its veins - like the blood in the meat sold by those expelled butchers - but gold and silver, the breath of the city became laboured.

  A sick city. That was how he saw it today.

  A city rotting beneath the weight of appearances.

  Could its Church also be rotten?

  In the days that followed, the investigation started to languish again, and the newspapers redoubled their criticism of the police. With no other basis than the fact that all the victims had been gay men, they had had no hesitation in declaring that the murders were related, and had seen the latest of them as an open challenge to the head of the Squadra Mobile.

  SERIAL KILLER HOLDS FERRARA AT BAY and THE SQUADRA MOBILE IS IMMOBILISED were the most merciful headlines. Others were bolder: FERRARA BEATEN AT HOME 4-0 and FLORENCE TREMBLES AND FERRARA DOES NOTHING.

  As Ferrara had feared, the search of Aldo Puleo's apartment had yielded nothing — except an exercise book corroborating the fact that he had owed money to Giovanni Biagini, with all the dates and amounts written down. In addition, Aldo Puleo had an alibi. He had been at work when the murder had taken place. His shift had been noted on the staff rota at the hotel, and the staff, including the manager, had all confirmed that he had been at the hotel for the whole shift and hadn't gone out once.

  On Tuesday the 14th Ferrara decided to invite Deputy Prosecutor Giulietti to lunch. She had been furious about the business of the Aldo Puleo search warrant, which had achieved nothing except the harassment of an honest citizen. Nor was she happy about the lack of results in the investigation as a whole, which suggested that her clear, precise instructions had not been followed to the letter.

  It wasn't Ferrara's intention, though, to attempt to justify himself, or ingratiate himself with the prosecutor in any way. He didn't really care how upset she was - he already had enough problems of his own. What he wanted from her was a favour.