A Florentine Death

by Michele Giuttari

  The whole floor covered a huge space, made even larger by the ravages of the fire. Her cautious steps made a sinister echo, forcing her to stop every now and again, her heart in her throat. Then an unnatural silence would fall again over everything, and she would resume her careful walk.

  At last she came to a door. The only door still intact. It was closed.

  After a few seconds, which seemed to last an eternity, she pushed down the handle and went in.

  A new, thicker darkness greeted her. Again she searched for a light switch, sure that this time it would work. Mike used this room.

  The light came on, dazzling her with its suddenness.

  Valentina looked around her.

  It was a boy's bedroom, with sporting trophies, school-books, and posters and pennants on the walls. There was a bed, quite intact, against the wall on the left, and on the right a large desk with a computer, neat piles of books, and bundles of files. Beside the desk, a metal shelving unit, also full of books, and on the wall above the desk, a large poster that didn't seem to belong. It showed the insignia of the

  FBI and, beneath it, the words FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia. Next to it was a framed photograph that showed a group of young men in T-shirts and caps with FBI on them. One of them was Mike, but his hair was different, longer and darker, chestnut brown perhaps. Did he dye his hair?

  At the far end of the room, an armchair and a reading lamp stood beside a large French window covered with two planks of wood nailed on in the shape of an X. All the cracks were sealed with brown packing tape. To Valentina, the window seemed like an ugly blemish in a room that in every other way was pleasant and clean, and meticulously tidy.

  She approached the metal shelves and looked at the books. The first two titles she saw were Killers on the Loose: Unsolved Cases of Serial Murder by Antonio Mendoza, and Still at Large: A Casebook of 20th Century Serial Killers Who Eluded Justice by Michael Newton.

  The others were all in the same vein: To Die of Horror: A Hundred Years of Serial Killers and Crimes Told as a Novel by Enzo Catania, I Have Lived in the Monster: Inside the Minds of the World's Most Notorious Serial Killers by Robert K. Ressler and Tom Shachtman, Serial Killer: Methods of Identification and Investigative Procedures by Silvio Ciappi, The Killers Among Us: An Examination of Serial Murder and Its Investigation by Steven A. Egger . . .

  Valentina was puzzled. Hadn't he told her he wasn't interested in the subject and that he had no intention of writing a book about the Monster of Florence? If she remembered rightly, he had dismissed her suggestion out of hand. So why . . .?

  She sat down at the desk.

  The books here were similar to the ones on the shelves. She turned her attention to the files. As she pulled them towards her, something slipped to the floor, but she didn't take any notice of it. She was hypnotised by the letter heading on the first document in the pile:

  The other documents were also from the FBI, some stamped in blue ink with the word CLASSIFIED.

  Valentina was bewildered. Who was Mike Ross? Was the journalism a cover, and was he really an FBI agent? What was he looking for in Italy?

  13

  On 15 March, the day after his lunch with Anna Giulietti, Ferrara received an envelope from the Prosecutor's Department. Inside was the experts' report on the weapon used to kill Giovanni Biagini, preceded by Anna Giulietti's question: Do the experts find that the weapon found at the crime scene is the same as that used to murder and/or torture Stefano Micali on 1 October 1999, Alfredo Lupi on 31 December 1999 and Francesco Bianchi on 2 February 2000, or rather, do they find it to be compatible with the characteristics (shape, size, depth) of the wounds found on the bodies of the aforementioned Micali, Lupi and Bianchi?

  Ferrara could not help noticing that in formulating the question - linking the four murders, even Micali's, which was supposed to have been solved - Anna Giulietti seemed to have come over to his way of thinking. Pleasantly surprised, he quickly skimmed to the end of the report. The experts, having also studied the pathologist's reports which described in detail the configuration of the wounds, as well as the photos of the corpses enlarged as much as possible on their computers, came to the conclusion that it can reasonably be stated, even though it is not possible to establish scientifically that this was the same weapon, that despite the differences between the various cases, the knife used to murder Giovanni Biagini is perfectly compatible with the wounds inflicted on the bodies of Micali, Bianchi and Lupi.

  Translated into less bureaucratic language, it was a more than satisfactory result. Anna Giulietti must have thought the same, since she'd taken the trouble to send it straight to him.

  Almost simultaneously, a report on the fingerprints came in from the Forensics department in Rome. The prints found on the knife used to kill Biagini had proved to be identical to those found on the wash basin and the glass in Francesco Bianchi's apartment.

  Ferrara sat back in his armchair and took a deep drag on the cigar he had just lit. The pieces of the mosaic were falling into place. True, the prints didn't match any found in the national records, but if they got hold of a suspect there was now an infallible way of proving that he was the culprit.

  He thought about getting hold of Don Sergio's prints, and smiled. The moment would come, sooner or later. From Rizzo's discreet inquiries with the airline companies and the border police, it had emerged that nobody by the name of Sergio Rotondi had left Italy in the last two months. It was possible, of course, that he had used a false name to get away, or hadn't been logged because he fell into a category of travellers who weren't checked, but Ferrara didn't think so. After all, the killer had a mission to complete.

  One difficulty still remained: how to penetrate the enclosed world of the Church. It all depended on Anna Giulietti . . .

  That afternoon, when Cinzia Roberti got back from university, she switched on the TV, and went into the kitchenette to boil water for tea.

  She took the teabags and some biscotti from the sideboard, all the while listening distractedly to the news in English on

  CNN. She forced herself to do this regularly in an attempt to try and improve her English, and she was starting to get results.

  As she was putting a teabag in the boiling water, she heard the name Mike Ross. Or thought she did.

  It was like the man was stalking her! She went closer to the TV set in the living room. An elderly man with thin dark hair, wearing thick glasses with heavy black frames, was talking about the run-up to the Oscar nominations, which were soon to be announced.

  She waited for the young journalist - she refused to utter his name - to appear on the screen.

  The camera pulled back to reveal another, younger man next to the elderly man, clearly interviewing him. But he wasn't Valentina's friend either.

  Cinzia didn't understand the question, but she caught the opening of it clearly enough: 'Okay, Mike, so . . .'

  She must have misheard the name from the kitchen: this was obviously another Mike.

  The camera zoomed in again on the older man as he started speaking.

  Cinzia stood up and was about to go back to the kitchen when a caption appeared below the man's face: Mike Ross of the New York Times reporting from Hollywood.

  Cinzia froze in horror.

  So who was . . .?

  'Fuck!' she exclaimed. 'The bastard!' She ran into the bedroom, grabbed her mobile phone and stabbed at the 1, the speed-dial for Valentina's number.

  She heard it ringing.

  Ferrara picked up the receiver.

  'Did you get my message?' It was Anna Giulietti.

  'Yes, thanks. It tallies with the forensics results from Rome - I'll send you a copy' 'Which results are they?' 'On the fingerprints.'

  'Fine, I'm curious to see them. Everything seems to be backing up your theory, doesn't it?' 'It looks that way'

  'Congratulations. And there's something else. I've made an appointment for you to see Monsignor Federici at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning at the Curia. Do yo
u know where it is?'

  'Of course.'

  'Then do go. Federici is the cardinal's private secretary. From what I hear, he could be useful to you.'

  The answers to all Valentina's questions about the mysterious Mike Ross lay at her feet.

  After she had looked through the files, she sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. She felt dazed. When she opened them again, she caught sight of the object that had fallen from the table.

  It was a small book, its cover completely black except for a gold cross. It looked like a little Bible, but opening it at random she discovered that it was a notebook, its pages filled with tiny, meticulous handwriting. On the page she was looking down at, her own name appeared three times.

  Starting from that page, Valentina began reading the diary of Mike Ross, whoever he was. Goose pimples broke out on her skin.

  The diary was full of the man's constant, obsessive declarations of love for her. What shook her most was the way he saw her, the way he talked about her: sometimes as a Madonna, sometimes as a bimbo, but mostly as the mother he had never known. Over and over again, the roles became confused, and in his imagination, as set down on the page, he addressed her as 'Mother' and told her terrible stories of childhood abuse. There were pages of violent emotion flung down on the page without punctuation, and others of strange, hallucinatory clarity.

  Unable to stop, terrified and fascinated despite herself, Valentina broke off her reading, went back to the first page of the diary, and started from the beginning.

  The notebook began with these words:

  October 1st 1999

  In your name, Father, I have killed.

  It was easy. Liberating.

  Far more so than a Confession.

  Now at last I am born!

  I will go all the way . . .

  The ringing of the mobile phone echoed in the room like the thunder of the apocalypse, sending her heart into her mouth and a shudder through her body. 'Don't answer it.'

  The voice was calm, ice-cold, even though his eyes were brimming with tears. Valentina turned slowly, emotionlessly, like an automaton. She was beyond fear now.

  'You shouldn't have, you shouldn't have . . .' he said, weeping. 'I loved you, I loved you more than anyone in the world.'

  He was standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long he had been watching her.

  Valentina had never seen a gun, and didn't know what that metal tube was, screwed onto the barrel and pointing straight at her heart.

  14

  Ferrara went down to the press room, as if he had just happened to wander in that direction. The only person there was Ahmed Farah, a reporter for La Nazione. He was of Egyptian descent, young but very good. Anything new, Superintendent?'

  'No, nothing,' he replied. Then, as if having second thoughts, he said, 'Actually, no, come with me.'

  In the corridor he put an arm around his shoulder and whispered, conspiratorially, 'Can you keep a secret?'

  'Of course. It's my job.'

  'Right. This is just between you and me. We've nearly got him. We have his fingerprints, we have his DNA profile from the sperm found in Francesco Bianchi's body . . .' He paused. And we have a key witness.'

  'Who?'

  'I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that. I trust you, of course, but I have to protect him . . .' 'I understand.'

  Anyway, it won't be long now. Just wait and you'll have the scoop of your life.'

  'Thanks, Superintendent. So you know his identity?' Ferrara stopped, and pretended to think about it. 'You'll

  be the first to know, but only if you can keep this secret for now'

  Ahmed replied with a broad, knowing smile.

  'Remember, we haven't had this conversation,' Ferrara said, and went back to his office.

  'I'll remember, boss,' Ahmed said, clicking his heels and miming a military salute.

  It was a risky thing to do. If the killer thought the police were on to him, he might go to ground, making it all the harder to catch him. But if that happened, Ferrara would at least have the consolation of knowing he'd saved a couple of lives, and that was much more important than catching the man. And of course he'd continue with the investigation, because the lull wouldn't be permanent. The killer had sworn to complete his mission, and he wouldn't let go of that: that was something Ferrara was sure of.

  The other possibility was that the killer might decide to complete the rest of his plan more quickly, and if he did that he would be more likely to make a mistake. It was this eventuality that Ferrara was banking on in feeding that false information to Farah.

  It was the right moment to do it.

  Both public and police had become more vigilant since the latest murder. There was an atmosphere of suspicion in the city, which made it harder for the killer to operate. Fear had spread through the gay community in particular, and according to reports from the Cascine, casual encounters had become less common there. By forcing him out into the open, Ferrara was putting the killer at a clear disadvantage.

  After the third unanswered phone call in fifteen minutes, Cinzia had sent a text message.

  Why no answer? Must talk to you. That man not Mike Ross. Be careful.

  The man with the ice-cold eyes wrapped Valentina's lifeless body in a blanket.

  The mobile had rung several times. Now a text message had come through. The man read it with a grimace of resignation.

  He looked in Valentina's handbag for the keys to the Panda, and hoisted the body onto his back. He went downstairs and out to the car. The boot of the Porsche was too small, and he certainly couldn't drive around with that large bundle on the seat next to his. Nor did he want blood seeping through the blanket and leaving marks on the leather interior of the Porsche. The girl's car was much more suitable.

  Once he'd put the body in the boot of the Panda, he went back inside the house. He took a long shower, changed, and burned the clothes he'd just taken off. Then he poured himself half a glass of whisky and sipped it while listening to the tragic notes of Liszt's Dante Sonata. Finally, he put on a pair of driving gloves and left the house.

  The sun was disappearing below the horizon as he drove the Panda out through the gate of the villa and headed for the autostrada.

  Signora Adele Spizzichino, who lived in the same building as Cinzia Roberti, got home late that night. As she took the front door key from her handbag, she was joined by a tall, fair-haired young man who, curiously enough, was wearing sunglasses even at such a late hour. But he had a distinguished air, a captivating smile and a small bunch of roses and tulips in one hand.

  As she opened the door, she saw that the man was reading the names beside the entry phone.

  'Do you want to come in?' she asked politely. The idea that he might be harbouring any evil intention was the furthest thing from her mind.

  'Thank you, that's very kind of you,' he said with a slight English accent, which confirmed her good impression of him.

  Nimbly, the young man started up the stairs while Adele Spizzichino, who lived on an upper floor, took the lift. Lucky girl! she thought, envying the woman who was expecting such a handsome young man, although she had no idea who that might be.

  Halfway up the flight of stairs, the man heard the lift coming up and did an about-turn. He went back to the ground floor and continued down to the basement. The door was not locked. He moved along the damp corridor in the dark until he found a niche, where he settled to wait patiently, his long knife within easy reach in case of emergency.

  Cinzia Roberti was fast asleep. By the time she went to bed, she had been exhausted, anxious, and dizzy with too much smoke and alcohol. She had spent all afternoon calling and texting Valentina, to no avail. She felt powerless. She couldn't phone Vale's parents in San Vigilio because they didn't even know their daughter had moved to Florence and she'd only alarm them. She couldn't go and look for her friend in Florence because she'd never told her where she lived, only that she had a beautiful apartment in a big villa with a view over th
e city. Not enough to go on.

  So all she had left was her mobile phone, something she often overused, but which had turned out to be completely useless just when she needed it the most.

  At dinnertime, she had opened a bottle of whisky and rolled a big joint, hoping to forget her worries at least temporarily. Later she had almost groped her way to the bedroom, had torn off her clothes and thrown herself naked on the bed, weeping.

  She fell into a tortured but deep sleep. So deep was it that the click of the lock in the middle of the night did not wake her.

  Nor did she notice the blade being thrust between her shoulder blades and the first vertebra on the left, abruptly stopping her heartbeat.

  She passed directly from sleep to death.

  The man closed the blinds carefully and turned on the light. The girl lay motionless, blood gushing from the knife wound: she was dead.

  He turned her over.

  He looked at her for a long time, wondering what his Valentina could possibly have seen in this thin, angular body, with its tiny, obscenely childish breasts.

  The more he looked at her, the more disgusted he felt, and the more intensely he felt that total, unstoppable hatred of homosexuality which overcame him more and more these days. Men only, up until now. But this evil bitch who had stolen the love of his life from him was just the same: a filthy lesbian.

  His hatred soon turned to blind rage and he began stabbing the body, as he had with the others.

  This one wasn't part of the plan, but the plan had changed.

  It was about three in the morning. Too early, or too late, for anyone to notice the man taking a heavy bundle out of the Panda parked outside the building where Cinzia Roberti lived, and carrying it inside. Nor did anyone see the same man come back out nearly an hour later and set off on foot towards the station.