Ferrara was kept constantly up to date. Right now, the enlarged photos of the wanted man were spread out on his desk, ready to be broadcast.
He wasn't sure, though, that this was the right moment to do it.
He had managed, miraculously, to keep the press in the dark about everything, and he didn't think it would be sensible to alert Lorenzo Ricciardi again. What had seemed a good idea when he hadn't yet known the killer's identity, a way of forcing him out into the open - and the thought still nagged at him that it might have been the wrong move - might well be counterproductive now.
But he didn't want to be wrong again, and for once in his life he really didn't know what to do.
The other thing that bothered him was that Ricciardi might have gone abroad. It was common sense, after all. If he knew he'd been found out, why on earth would he stay in Italy waiting to be caught?
The day after the raid on the villa, word had gone out for a watch to be kept at airports, ports and border posts, but for someone with Lorenzo Ricciardi's intelligence and means, evading it would be child's play. That was if he hadn't already got out immediately after killing Cinzia - which was quite likely, as they'd lost all trace of him since then.
Almost everyone at Headquarters thought Ricciardi had left the country. Ferrara seemed to be the only one who still refused to accept it. This passport, which he kept turning over in his hands as if to ward off bad luck, was the only evidence he had - not very strong, admittedly - to support his stubborn belief that Ricciardi was still in the country.
In the past few days, he had taken out his frustration on Rizzo and Anna Giulietti in particular, bombarding the first with instructions on the investigation, and the second with requests for search warrants, bank checks, phone taps, even letters to police forces abroad. But both were increasingly sceptical, and his nerves were ever more on edge.
A week had gone by, seven days of constant effort, which Ferrara had directed doggedly. Officers armed with Ricciardi's photograph had checked railway stations, bus stations, taxi ranks, large stores, newsstands, pharmacies, tobacconists' shops and bars, both in Bologna and in Florence. They had discovered that no weapons permit had been issued in Lorenzo Ricciardi's name. The ownership of the villa had been traced back to a Swiss holding company, but they hadn't been able to get any information from them about their client: apparently no one in the company had ever met him personally. All the arrangements, they were told, had been made through a bank in the Bahamas, and it would be even more difficult to obtain anything useful from that source.
A trace had been put on Ricciardi's mobile phone, but he hadn't used it again. Nor had he had any dealings since 16 March with the bank which had issued the credit card he had used to pay the agency that had supplied Nenita. Nenita herself knew less about her employer than they did. Which wasn't much.
The most useful items found in the house related to the six years Lorenzo Ricciardi had spent in the United States, where he had graduated in philosophy and had then done a master's in journalism. He had apparently been an excellent student. Part of the course had involved research into the FBI's procedures and methods for identifying and capturing serial killers, a fashionable subject at the time. Through his teachers, he had been able to spend a little time at the FBI Academy in Quantico. That was obviously when the photograph above his desk had been taken. In it, his hair was chestnut brown rather than blond, a detail that didn't escape Ferrara. He had done well on the course and his teachers had praised him as a lively and attentive pupil, who had made a notable contribution through his research.
All this, combined with his extensive library, proved beyond doubt that Lorenzo Ricciardi knew his subject well -well enough to play games with the police. He had devised each murder in such a way as to give credence to the theory that a serial killer was at work, and lead the police along lines of inquiry that had nothing to do with his real motives.
But what those motives were remained a complete mystery.
'This was in Ricciardi's VCR,' Rizzo said as he came in, waving a video cassette. Gianni Fuschi of Forensics was with him.
Ferrara shot a questioning look at Fuschi. 'I've just finished examining it,' Fuschi said. 'You should have a look at it, it's interesting.' 'Put it on,' Ferrara said to Rizzo.
To the left of the desk, on a low cabinet next to the window, there was a TV set and a VCR. Rizzo inserted the tape and started it. It was the programme about the Monster of Florence which had featured Ferrara.
'I've got the idea,' Ferrara said, irritably. 'So what?'
'Wait,' Fuschi said.
Ferrara had no great interest in watching the tape. The broadcast hadn't left him with a very pleasant memory. Fuschi stopped the tape during the file footage, freezing the image of Ferrara shooting at the building where the bosses of the Calabrian Mafia were meeting.
'Congratulations,' Fuschi said. 'I didn't know you were such a good shot. You don't even like carrying a pistol. Not a big fan of firearms, our Chief Superintendent, is he, Rizzo?'
'To be honest, he's a bit undisciplined in that area,' Rizzo said, straight-faced. 'He's supposed to have a pistol on him at all times, and he doesn't. We hardly ever see him at the rifle range. If we do it's only because he has to talk to someone —'
'Have you come here to take the piss out of me, or do you have something important to tell me?' Ferrara exploded. It wasn't so much the jokes that bothered him as that footage. It had been the host's idea to show it, and it had come as an unwelcome surprise. Seeing it again now was intensely annoying.
'Yes, I do have something to tell you,' Fuschi replied, somewhat surprised by what seemed to him an excessive reaction on his friend's part.
'Well, what are you waiting for?'
'First the label,' Fuschi said, taking the tape out of the VCR and handing it to Ferrara. There was one word on the label: FERRARA.
'I see,' he said. 'Ferrara, not The Monster of Florence or something similar, which is what you'd expect given all the other material about serial killers found in the villa
'Precisely. Secondly, the tape itself. It was originally a brand new tape, but it's been watched repeatedly, I'd even say obsessively. And the parts of the tape that are the most worn are not the discussion about the Monster, not even the bits with that actress - I must admit, I'd have spent more time watching her. No, the part he watched most is the file footage of that shootout, especially the close-ups of your face.'
'It's as if the killer wanted to memorise you,' Rizzo said. 'Especially how you are when you're in action.'
'That's possible, considering I'm one of his targets,' Ferrara said, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about that night when he had lain awake wondering why the killer had chosen him. 'In your opinion,' he said, apparently going off at a tangent, 'could that shootout have been avoided?'
'How?' Rizzo said. 'It was the only way to force them out of the back of the building, where your men were waiting.' 'But we lost one of them.'
'Yes, the man who died. But come on, chief! If we had to feel guilty every time someone died . . . And what about our people? How many of them do we lose in a year?'
'I'll leave you to your philosophising,' Gianni Fuschi said, standing up. 'Especially as my contribution hasn't been much use. You don't seem to care much about this Ricciardi. Do you want to understand who you're dealing with, or not?' He walked out.
'Right, what have we learned about him?' Ferrara asked after a while, almost to himself. He and Rizzo were alone in the office.
'To begin with,' Rizzo said, 'he's done his homework, but he's obviously not a professional killer.'
'No, he's self-taught. He's clever - very clever - and he's arrogant, but he's an amateur. A professional killer wouldn't have bought a car as conspicuous as a Porsche, especially not in his own name. And he certainly wouldn't have been so stupid as to get a parking ticket! No, he's obviously not working for anyone. And he's not part of a gang. He wouldn't last five minutes.'
'He's someone
who's got it in for homosexuals and for you, chief. Frankly, I don't understand the connection.'
But there had to be a connection, Ferrara thought, his nerves on edge again.
Anyway,' Rizzo said to distract him, almost as if he had read his mind, 'I don't think there's any reason to worry. It's obvious the man's in South America or Australia or somewhere by now. Just get used to it.'
'No. I can't drop this. I'll go to Switzerland, the United States, the Bahamas if necessary, but I have to find this Ricciardi. Him or his assets: if we can get our hands on them, we can stop him moving around. Poor Anna Giulietti! She'll scream if I ask for any more letters abroad!'
'Honestly, chief, if that's the path you're planning to go down, I think you should give up now'
'I can't do that. Don't forget I'm supposed to be the last victim. He could be waiting for me outside my building. He could shoot me any time he wanted.'
Not that he was worried about the possibility. In fact, he would have preferred a direct confrontation to this waiting game, this blind, meaningless activity, these endless questions without answers. But instinct told him it wouldn't happen like that. He'd only mentioned it to provoke Rizzo.
It worked. 'What do you want me to do, chief?' Rizzo asked.
'Keep going, don't let up. Concentrate on the banks. Try to find out if he has any other accounts here in Italy. I have the feeling
'Yes?'
Ferrara hesitated. 'Damn it, I still don't think he's gone abroad. I think he's hiding somewhere, not far from here. I know the most obvious thing to do would be to leave the country, but I don't believe it. And besides . . .' He hesitated again.
'Besides?' Rizzo insisted.
Ferrara said nothing for a while, chewing distractedly on a cigar he couldn't make up his mind to light.
'The two girls,' he said at last. 'I can't figure out where they fit in. They're the one false note. Everything else was done perfectly, apart from that stupid thing with the Porsche. Why kill four gay men, leaving himself enough time between the murders to carefully prepare the next one, and then suddenly kill two women, one after the other, and even let himself be seen by a woman living in the building where he was going to leave the bodies? Why did he mutilate one and not the other? Why, for that matter, did he have one of them living in his house? She wasn't his prisoner, she was his guest, the maid confirmed that. Don't you think something must have gone wrong?'
'But Cinzia Roberti had a letter carved on her face, you identified it yourself. Which proves she was part of the plan. Maybe Valentina Preti saw something connecting him to the murder and he had to get rid of her.'
'So why did he kill her first?'
'Maybe he knew that, as soon as he killed Cinzia, Valentina Preti would know it was him.'
'That may be true,' Ferrara admitted. 'But you know what? I don't buy it.'
After Rizzo had left, the switchboard put through a phonecall from the Curia.
'Hello, Chief Superintendent,' Monsignor Federici's polite voice greeted him. 'Am I disturbing you?'
'Not at all. How can I help you?'
Actually, I was supposed to be helping you, remember? Or don't you need my help any more? Don't ask me how I heard, but I gather you've found your culprit, is that right? So poor Don Sergio had nothing to do with it, as I supposed 'You're right. It was the wrong line of inquiry, but —' 'You don't have to apologise, Superintendent. You were only doing your duty: that's what you were going to say, isn't it? And you did it well, as usual. However, I think you wanted to see Father Sergio anyway, didn't you? Are you still interested?' There was a touch of irritation in the monsignor's voice.
'I don't know,' Ferrara replied, unwilling to be distracted from matters in hand. 'Not now, perhaps later.'
'That is a pity. To help you decide, I think you should know that His Eminence was very amenable to your request and has obtained a dispensation for you to see Don Sergio, who is a recluse in the abbey of San Benedetto in Bosco. Don Sergio has been informed. At the cardinal's insistence, he has consented to break his vow of silence and speak to you.'
'Thank His Eminence. I won't forget.'
'That's all right. As Eve already said, it's a great pleasure for us to be able to pay our debt to you.'
That was the end of the conversation and it left Ferrara feeling distinctly uneasy. Why had Monsignor Federici bothered to phone him, knowing there was no longer any point? In doing so, he had let him in on a secret over which the Church, by his own admission, would have preferred to draw a veil. Why? Just to let him know that the Curia had taken his request seriously? That seemed a trivial reason in comparison with the amount he had been prepared to reveal. But there was something else. He was sure the monsignor was holding something back, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.
Grouchily, he dismissed these thoughts, and returned to the case that was causing him so much heartache.
In the years that followed, Chief Superintendent Ferrara's thoughts often went back to the second extraordinary coincidence in this complex case. It convinced him that chance, which had already come to his rescue once in the shape of Massimo Verga and Rita Senesi, was sometimes one of a policeman's best allies.
He had just put down the phone when it rang again.
'Signor Mazzorelli for you,' the officer at the switchboard announced.
'I've no idea who that is,' he replied, irritably. All he needed was another call from some pest wasting his time. 'Can't you put him through to one of the inspectors?'
'He asked for you, chief. He's the new director of the prison.'
'Okay, put him on.' He resigned himself to hearing about some request or complaint from a prisoner.
'Hello, Chief Superintendent. This is a great honour for me to speak to you. I've only recently been transferred here, but I hope we'll have many opportunities to work together.'
'Go on,' Ferrara said, in no mood for polite conversation.
If Mazzorelli was taken aback by this not very cordial welcome, he didn't let on. 'One of the prisoners has asked to see you. I thought I'd let you know personally, as it gives me an opportunity to get to know you. Naturally the interview will have to be authorised by the Prosecutor's Department, but as far as I'm concerned you can come when you like.'
'What's the prisoner's name?'
Antonio Salustri. He says he has some information about a man called Ricciardi.'
The irritation, the boredom, even the accumulated tiredness of the last few days vanished as if by magic. Ferrara felt a rush of adrenaline which made him spring to his feet. He looked at his watch, calculating how long it would take to get authorisation from the Prosecutor's Department, which must already be in the know: the director wouldn't have phoned him without putting the request through first. He picked up his cigar case and lighter from the desk, and opened the top drawer, where he kept his pistol and holster.
'I can be there in an hour. Is that okay with you?'
He could almost see the satisfied smile on the warden's face.
2
It may have been modern once, but it wasn't any more. Built in open country near Scandicci, the new prison of Florence was a mass of grey reinforced concrete broken up by long horizontal bands of Tuscan clay. The main buildings, two semi-circular blocks a short distance from each other, were longer the higher they went, like football terraces. They resembled two parentheses within which the lives of those who had shirked the responsibilities of respectable existence were enclosed. The prison had been built at the beginning of the eighties to replace the old Murature prison in the centre of the city. There was a tall iron fence on the outside, then a perimeter wall with classic sentry boxes manned by armed guards. On seeing them, anyone travelling along the Livorno-Pisa-Florence autostrada would immediately guess the purpose of the buildings.
His driver stopped the car at the main gate, and Ferrara showed his identity card. The officer at the gate authorised the car to enter the inner courtyard. Here, the driver opened the boot to allow the
officer to inspect it. Then Ferrara and the driver both had to hand over their papers and their pistols, and Ferrara had to show the document from the Prosecutor's Department authorising him to enter the prison for an interview with the prisoner named Antonio Salustri.
Impatient as he was, Ferrara was not unduly bothered by this long drawn-out ritual. He knew there were strict rules about these things, and the prison staff had to keep to them, even when the visitor was the head of the Squadra Mobile. He hoped this was how they usually did things and they weren't just putting on a show of efficiency for his benefit.
'One moment, Superintendent,' the guard said. 'I'll just tell the boss.'
'That's fine, thanks.'
After a few minutes, another officer appeared in the guardhouse. 'Chief Superintendent Ferrara?' 'Yes.'
'If you'd like to follow me. The warden is waiting for you in his office.'
Ferrara told the driver to stay where he was until he came back, and followed the officer into the two-storey building straight ahead. The warden's office was on the first floor. The warden was a middle-aged man with a crooked nose, half hidden by a huge semi-circular desk taking up almost the whole of one wall. Ferrara wondered what effect that symbolic barrier had on the prisoners summoned to the office.
'Pleased to meet you in person, Chief Superintendent.'
'The pleasure is all mine. I don't come here often, unlike some of my colleagues. Only on occasions like this, or when the Prosecutor asks me to interrogate a prisoner.'
'Well, I'm very glad to welcome you anyway. May I offer you a coffee? In the meantime I'll have the prisoner brought to the interview room. It'll take about ten minutes.'
'Yes, I'd love a coffee.'
The warden ordered the coffee over the phone. Within a very short time, a silver tray was brought in, with the coffee in china cups: a far cry from the paper cups he was used to at Headquarters. He wondered if this luxury was a tribute to his rank or something to do with the fact that the warden was new. Whatever, the coffee was excellent and he drank it with relish.
A Florentine Death Page 26