14
Michele Ferrara entered the Curia of Florence at ten in the morning on Thursday 16 March. Monsignor Federici had been very pleasant on the phone and had intimated that he had orders from above to cooperate in every possible way.
But when at last he was in the presence of the prelate, Ferrara realised that the interview wouldn't exactly be plain sailing. The monsignor was friendly enough, but it immediately became clear that he was a consummate diplomat, capable of talking a lot without saying anything - capable, too, if need be, of concealing anything he considered it would not be in the best interests of the Holy Mother Church to reveal.
Hoping these interests would coincide with his own, Ferrara sat down in the armchair which Monsignor Federici offered him.
'I'm honoured to make your acquaintance, Chief Superintendent,' the prelate began. 'The Church owes you a great deal, and will always be grateful to you for recovering the Velazquez painting.'
'Thank you, Monsignor.'
'I've been asked by His Eminence the Cardinal to answer your questions about one of the priests in our diocese.'
'Father Sergio Rotondi, yes.'
'Precisely. I'm sure you won't mind telling me why you are searching for him?'
'Because he's vanished. And people don't just vanish into thin air.'
'If this is any comfort to you, he hasn't vanished as far as we're concerned. He's alive and, as far as we know, well.' 'Does that mean I can talk to him?'
The prelate hesitated, then let out a deep sigh. 'No,' he said at last. 'Or at the very least, it won't be easy' 'May I ask why?'
'Of course you may. As I said, we are indebted to you and we would like to pay our debt. However . . . I'm not sure I can answer your question directly. Perhaps you'll allow me to ask you something first.'
'Please.'
'It's an obvious question, but could you tell me why it's so important to you to speak to Don Sergio?'
'Because he's a major witness to a serious crime. Perhaps you recall . . .'
'The murder of Stefano Micali, of course. Last October, wasn't it? Poor boy. And poor Don Sergio, I know he was very upset. But surely he's already been questioned by the police, hasn't he? And I also recall that Father Francesco provided him with an alibi. So why do you still need him?'
'Because whoever killed Stefano Micali has killed again, and he hasn't finished yet. I'm sure you know that. It's been in all the newspapers.'
'"Florence trembles and Ferrara does nothing".' Monsignor Federici smiled. 'I shouldn't worry about bad press if I were you. But didn't I read in the newspapers today that you have a key witness and are very close to arresting the killer? Or is that an invention? The journalist claims you already know the killer's identity. Is that why you're here? Is it Don Sergio you're after?'
'I'm sorry, Monsignor, but that's the kind of information I can't reveal in the course of an investigation,' Ferrara said: he preferred not to officially endorse a lie, but at the same time didn't deny it.
'In that case I can assure you we aren't hiding Don Sergio Rotondi here. That's what you think, isn't it?' There was something ambiguous about his smile now.
Ferrara wondered if he ought to prevaricate or tell the truth. 'I don't just think it. I know it. Or rather, I know that you know where he is, and that's all I need.'
'Of course.' The prelate thought for a moment. 'I suppose you do realise the gravity of your . . . accusation? No, let's not call it that. You haven't shown me any evidence. If you told me officially that Don Sergio Rotondi was wanted for murder, I would tell you where he is. But so far you haven't done that, and I have the impression you won't. That means we're dealing with hypotheses, suppositions, conjectures, the only result of which would be to bring the good name of the Church into disrepute. Not only because, according to your theory, one of our priests is a killer, but also, and above all, because the killer - in your theory - has been shielded by another priest, a parish priest of proven faith and exemplary honesty'
'Father Francesco is an old man. He told me he often nods off, and he hasn't ruled out the possibility that it might have happened that day as he was going over the accounts with Father Sergio . . .'
At last something had hit home. Monsignor Federici frowned and put the fingers of both his hands together. 'I see,' he said at last, in a grave voice. 'Congratulations, Chief Superintendent. Are you a chess player?'
'No.'
'A pity, you'd be a worthy opponent. You've just checked me. But I don't think you're right. I know Father Rotondi. In fact, I know him quite well. It fell to me to interview him
'So you also suspected —'
'Oh, no, it wasn't about that. It was about something else entirely. Let's say, a spiritual matter. Please don't ask me to go into detail. But I assure you I was able to probe his soul - and his mind, too. There are many things he may be, but a killer he isn't. Don Sergio is a shy, humble man, Superintendent, a man tormented by leanings similar to those of the murder victim, leanings he has always struggled to suppress.'
'It wouldn't be the first case of a homosexual killing by those like him because he's ashamed to be that way'
'I refuse to believe it. But even if it were true, he's no longer in a position to hurt anyone. If he is the killer, there won't be any more deaths, I can assure you, and the Church can be kept out of this unpleasant business. Divine justice will deal with him when the time comes.'
'How can you be so sure? That won't do, not as far as earthly justice is concerned.'
'What did I say? You're a good chess player. Now it's up to me to make the next move . . .'He sighed, as if surrendering. 'But I beg you, in so far as it's humanly possible, to keep to yourself what I'm about to tell you. Not that it's a secret, but the Church would prefer it not to be talked about openly, that's all.
'I'm sure you've heard of closed orders. Monks and nuns who take a vow of silence and spend their days in prayer and work, far from the eyes of the world, with just a brief pause during the day to exchange a few words and pray together.
'But perhaps you've never heard of the most extreme form of closed order. Voluntary reclusion. It's a legacy of the Middle Ages. Some people consider it a barbaric custom, which is why it's largely fallen into disuse. But it hasn't completely disappeared. Anyone who chooses this path is confined to a cell, and only leaves that cell when he is dead. It isn't unusual for him to be walled up alive, the only opening being a small window through which to pass food prepared by his brothers in the monastery. In the cell he has only the bare essentials, and he sleeps in a wooden box which will eventually be his coffin.
'There are still some individuals, inspired by a deep desire to expiate something or to be closer to the Lord, who ask for reclusion, and in very particular circumstances the Church accedes to their wishes. The last example known to the public is that of Sister Nazarena, an American woman whose real name was Julia Crotta. She lived as a recluse for forty years, and was much admired by Pope Paul VI.
'That is the path, Chief Superintendent, which Don Sergio has chosen. The situation he is in now can't be equalled even in your toughest prisons. I think it best if we leave him in peace to serve out his sentence, however long that may be.'
Ferrara was stunned. He felt an intolerable burden, a sense of inadequacy, the unpleasant sensation that he had put his eye to a keyhole and seen something he should not have seen. In comparison with this, the usual burdens of everyday life, including the burdens he carried inside him, seemed trivial. They were all forgivable, like forgetting to buy flowers for his wife on International Women's Day.
He stood up, ready to end the interview then and there, but reserving the right to come back when he had definite proof of the priest's guilt. When that happened, not even the respect he felt for the Church would stop him from doing his duty. For the moment, Monsignor Federici was right: he could not lift the veil on this secret when the only evidence he had was circumstantial.
'Believe me, Chief Superintendent,' the old prelate said, als
o standing up. 'What you are thinking is very, very unlikely. Father Sergio is merely a poor, frightened man.'
Ferrara stopped. 'Frightened of what?'
'His sins? The world? Who knows?'
'Or the killer? Maybe he's a split personality, and is trying to escape his other self by shutting himself up in a cell. Or maybe he knows who the killer is, but can't say anything. Doesn't it seem to you a curious coincidence that he disappeared just when someone's going around killing people like him?'
He had said all this off the top of his head, without thinking, as if from a sudden flash of inspiration. Or perhaps it was just the instinct he'd developed after so many years in the profession.
Monsignor Federici hesitated again. There was a long silence.
'Checkmate, Chief Superintendent Ferrara,' he sighed at last. 'I'll try to obtain a dispensation for you, so that you can talk to Father Sergio. I can't promise anything, but I'll certainly try'
16 March was Valentina's father's birthday and she always phoned to wish him many happy returns. Surprised that she hadn't heard from her during the morning, her mother had called her early in the afternoon and, not getting a reply, had tried both Cinzia's mobile phone and the apartment, without success.
She tried again half an hour later, then half an hour after that. She was starting to get worried. Finally, she made up her mind and called the hospital where Doctor Roberti worked. She apologised for disturbing him at work, and told him that she'd preferred to call him rather than passing on her worries, which were surely unfounded, to his wife. Cinzia's father reassured her and promised he'd go to the girls' apartment as soon as he was free, if he hadn't managed to get hold of them in the meantime. He gave instructions to the switchboard to keep ringing all the numbers and to put his daughter or her friend through to him as soon as they'd reached either.
A quarter of an hour later, after finishing with a patient, he called the switchboard.
'There's no answer, doctor. Either on the mobile or the home number.'
'Have you tried Valentina's mobile as well?'
'Yes, doctor.'
He frowned and looked at his watch. 5.45 p.m.
'Apologise to the other patients for me, but I'll have to reschedule my appointments,' he said, standing and taking off his white coat.
'Do you think —?'
'No, I don't think anything's happened. But it's best if I go and see.'
He got into his car and set off, cursing the traffic as he drove. He reached his daughter's building at 6.20. It took him three more interminable minutes to find a place to park, and in the end he left the car double parked with all its lights on. It wasn't right, but he had no choice. He saw Valentina's old Panda parked there, and for some reason he felt relieved.
He took the lift. By the time he reached the door of the apartment, he felt a vague sense of dizziness. The lock showed clear signs of having been forced. He opened the door and went in.
'Cinzia!' he called.
Silence.
The bedroom door was ajar and he could see that the light was on. He ran to the door and flung it open.
Doctor Roberti was a surgeon, used to seeing dead bodies. But the sight that greeted him now was more than he could bear.
Alessandro Polito, head of Bologna's Squadra Mobile, reached the crime scene soon after seven. There were already various police cars outside the building with their blue lights flashing, as well as two ambulances. TV crews and newspaper reporters were crowding around the main entrance. The forensics team had just arrived, too. He ran up the stairs.
A man who must have been the father of one of the two girls sat on the sofa, looking crushed and ashen, in a state of shock, and Silvia, one of his policewomen, was holding out a glass of whisky and trying to persuade him to take a sip.
He entered the bedroom and saw a sight he could never have imagined seeing in his whole life.
The smaller of the girls lay in a pool of blood, with a gaping wound in her back. Next to her lay the other girl, who was taller and shapelier, her body strangely clean except where it was in contact with the small girl's. The expression on her face was composed, serene, almost angelic.
Above her left breast was a very noticeable bullet hole with no traces of blood around it, as if it had been carefully cleaned.
By contrast, Cinzia Roberti's body - one of his inspectors had told him her identity - was covered in blood, and it was clear that the parts still hidden because of the way she was lying must be terribly mutilated. But what made the scene uniquely horrifying was the position of the bodies, with Cinzia's hand inserted - up to, and even past, the wrist - in Valentina's vagina.
16
The TV news broadcasts that evening devoted a lot of space to the item, but Ferrara did not watch them.
He heard about the murders the following morning, from the radio. Everything about the case - the unusual circumstances, the youth and beauty of the victims, certain unpleasant details concealed by the police but partly revealed by the journalists in vague allusions that played on the morbid curiosity of the public - had aroused interest nationwide. Even in Florence, the series of murders that had shaken the city was relegated to second place.
When he got to his office, he read the newspaper reports. By mid-morning, he felt duty bound to call Polito.
'Nasty case,' he said.
'You can say that again. Never seen anything like it. Absolutely appalling. And the weirdest thing is that Valentina Preti wasn't killed in the apartment. There were no traces of her blood anywhere, but there were some in her car, which was parked outside the building. And her death took place at least eight hours earlier. It's almost as if the killer took her there just to . . .' - and he told Ferrara the details the press had merely hinted at. 'Can you imagine anything more bizarre and disgusting?'
'I don't envy you,' Ferrara said, feeling uncomfortable. 'You already have your hands full with those prostitute murders, this was all you needed. We're both going through it at the moment. What a profession we're in!'
'Well, if things go as I hope, we may be able to solve this one quickly. We've got a witness.'
'Lucky you. Did she see the murder?'
'No. But she lives in the building. Last night she let a stranger in through the front door. It was dark and she didn't see him very well, but we know that he's tall and fair-haired, has an English or American accent and wears sunglasses even at night. Young and handsome, according to the witness. He had a bunch of flowers in his hand, so she assumed he had a date and let him in without suspecting a thing. We interviewed everyone in the building last night, and no one admitted knowing him, let alone letting him in to their apartment. Of course, if he had something going with a married woman, she wouldn't have wanted to tell us straight out, especially if her husband was around. Anyway, we're working on a photofit.'
'That's good! Keep me informed, okay? If I can give you a hand, let me know.'
'Sure. Bye.'
In the middle of the afternoon, there was a phone call from Massimo Verga.
'Has something happened?' Ferrara asked. Massimo almost never phoned him at work.
'No, nothing. I just wanted to tell you something. You know that girl who was killed in Bologna?'
'Cinzia Roberti?'
'No, the other one, Valentina.'
'Right.'
'I've been thinking about it all day. I was sure I'd seen her before and then I remembered. I lent her an old book, the Necronomicon by Abdul Alhazred, and she never gave it back. Mind you, it wasn't valuable.'
'You knew her?' Ferrara asked, astonished.
'Not really. She came to the shop on October 1st last year. You remember, it was the day Stefano Micali was murdered. Probably just a coincidence, but that's why I decided to call you. Well, that's one reason. The other is that she told me she was studying arts, music and drama but was thinking of coming to live in Florence to do a course on popular theatre in the Renaissance. They must know something about her at the university, don't you thin
k?'
'Good idea. I'll pass it on to Polito, who's in charge of the case. He'll be grateful to you. Was she really pretty?'
'Very'
'And I guess you couldn't resist. Was she on her own? Did you flirt with her?'
'Yes, but it was a hopeless case, my friend. My days as a Latin lover are long over. It's a young man's world. She was alone when she came into the shop, but she'd been given a lift by a guy in a huge Porsche. A flashy dresser, this guy, and he still had sunglasses on even though it was seven o'clock in the evening. One of those tall, blond guys you see on fashion posters, you know? What can a poor old Sicilian do in a situation like that, however good-looking and —'
Ferrara had stopped listening. The description was practically identical to the one Polito had passed on to him.
'Wait, did you see him well? Can you give me a fuller description?'
'Oh God, I didn't really take much notice of him. I have to admit, I was more interested in the girl. Poor thing . . . But Rita sold him an expensive pen. She must have got a better look at him than I did.'
'Let me speak to her.'
'Is it important?'
'Let me speak to her, Massimo.'
He was shaking as he waited for Rita to come on the line.
'Hi, Superintendent, how are things?'
'Rita, do you remember the man who came into the shop on October 1st and bought a pen? He was with a pretty girl..."
'Valentina Preti, poor thing, I read about it. Tell me, Superintendent, I'm all ears.'
'What about him? Do you remember him?'
'Hard to forget him. Especially his eyes - hard, cold as ice.'
'What else? Can you describe him to me?'
A Florentine Death Page 24