A Florentine Death

by Michele Giuttari

  He tried to get through to the abbey on his mobile phone, to inform them that he had been delayed, but there was no signal. He cursed again. He was just about to clamber over the trunk when he heard voices and the noise of hooves coming closer. A group of monks appeared from around the bend on the other side of the trunk, leading four oxen.

  As they approached, he was struck by the monks' healthy, sturdy appearance and impressive builds.

  'So sorry, it seems we've blocked your path,' the one at the front said brightly, not sounding at all sorry. 'Don't worry, it'll only take a minute.'

  Ferrara thought he was joking, but the team moved with an efficiency and a precision that would have made the engineers who'd worked on his Mercedes green with envy. The trunk was secured to the oxen with thick ropes, and what with the animals pulling and the men pushing, it started to move. Ferrara would learn subsequently that one of the main activities of the monastery was the maintenance and care of the surrounding forest and that many of the monks were expert lumberjacks.

  'There, it's done!' the one who had spoken before said, wiping the sweat off his forehead. Are you on your way to the abbey?'

  It was a rhetorical question: there was nothing else in that area.

  'Yes, the prior's waiting for me and I'm late,' Ferrara said, quickly getting back behind the wheel.

  'Don't worry. Time has a different rhythm here. I'm sure Brother Anselmo will have found something to do while he's waiting. The road is plain sailing from here on' - there was pride in his voice - 'and with a big car like this it won't take you more than five minutes.'

  Exactly five minutes later, he parked in a space in front of the main gate, between a small van and an old red Ciao moped with a broken rear light.

  4

  Lorenzo Ricciardi had found the perfect refuge in his former school. Not only was it isolated, but he knew that it received laymen who for whatever reason had decided to exchange -either temporarily or permanently - both the comforts and the stresses of modern society for a life of humble work and prayer. Among the guests were former bank managers, professionals, industrialists. In addition, Lorenzo knew many of the monks, and if Brother Anselmo was still there, he could hardly refuse to take him in for a short time.

  At San Benedetto in Bosco, he would be able to stay safe for as long as it took to let the dust settle. Then he would strike again. Because that was his mission, and, although he'd had to change his plan slightly because of the two girls, he would still see it through to the end. One by one, those responsible for what he had become - what he hated — would fall. The first of them, and perhaps the most despicable, he had saved for last: Chief Superintendent Michele Ferrara, who had made him an orphan and condemned him to a terrible fate.

  Ferrara had had to stand by powerless while the others died, had known the bitter taste of one defeat after another, and had been forced to suffer the agony of waiting, aware that a killer was after him. Finally, he, Lorenzo Ricciardi, would torture him. Torture was the most refined form of humiliation there was, as he had learned at San Gimignano. He'd read about that fascinating exhibition in an article by Mike Ross, whose name he had subsequently adopted.

  If they didn't yet know his identity and were still searching for a fair-haired American, as he was sure they were, he would be able to go back to his villa, where he had prepared the Judas Cradle for the superintendent. He savoured in advance the pleasure he would feel, seeing Ferrara suspended over that sharp point, begging for mercy - a mercy that had not been shown to Lorenzo as a child. Before Ferrara died, Lorenzo wanted him to suffer as much as he himself had suffered. He wanted him to know how it felt to offer his own defenceless body to the obscene, pitiless violence of torturers.

  He had arrived four days earlier, and as he had predicted, Brother Anselmo had been pleased to receive him. He had travelled the long stretch of road from Florence by moped, stopping often, sleeping in makeshift shelters along the way, buying the newspapers every day to find out how much they knew about him. By the time he arrived at the abbey, he was convinced that the newspaper article about an imminent arrest was pure invention, something planted by the police. That was just as well: he couldn't risk the monks recognising him as a wanted man.

  He had to take into account the fact that the woman in Bologna must have given a description of him to the police. But the search had probably been confined to Bologna and the surrounding area, and besides, they still didn't know his true identity. Obviously they were not looking for him in Florence: those four days spent working in the fields, praying and watching the TV news with the others had left him absolutely certain about that. Now he was ready to leave the monastery.

  It was then that he saw him.

  5

  The porter took Ferrara straight to see the prior, who was in the scriptorium, supervising the copyists who were carefully restoring the colours of the miniatures in the manuscripts from the monastery library.

  Brother Anselmo, a slight old man with austere features, greeted him politely but somewhat curtly. He thanked Ferrara for having given him the opportunity to receive a rare visit from the archbishop, then handed him over to another monk who would take him to see Sergio Rotondi.

  Ferrara followed his guide into the cloister and then along a narrow corridor leading to a staircase.

  All the buildings, like the perimeter walls, were built out of small, irregular hewn stones, light in colour, a building material typical of the Fiorenzuola area. The architecture was simple, and Ferrara fell under the spell of its austere beauty, its clean lines, its total lack of decoration.

  On the first floor they walked along more long corridors lined with large dormitories and tiny cells, all kept very tidy and equipped with just the bare necessities. At last they came to a small wooden door with a little barred window. The monk took out a huge bunch of keys. Ferrara remembered the rituals attendant on his visit to the prison where Antonio Salustri was confined, only they seemed somewhat more human here.

  Once through the door, they entered yet another corridor, this one narrower than the others, with similar doors along it, all of them with barred windows. Then they turned a corner, and Ferrara was taken aback.

  They were in an empty space, some nine or ten square feet, ending in a wall that was completely blank except for a barred window through which a weak light filtered. Not far from the wall stood a rough wooden chair. Before leaving him, his guide asked him to sit down. As he sat, he glanced briefly through the barred window. He understood the true meaning of Monsignor Federici's words - The situation he is in now can't be equalled even in your toughest prisons — and realised the enormity of the spectacle he'd been given the somewhat dubious privilege of witnessing.

  The cell was very small; just large enough to contain a wooden chest with a cross nailed to its lid, which the recluse used as a bed and which was destined - as Monsignor Federici had intimated - to become his coffin, plus an old wicker armchair, the instruments of penitence and the Bible.

  Walled up alive. Sergio Rotondi had chosen the most extreme form of voluntary reclusion.

  Ferrara had never before been in a situation like this and hoped he would never be in one again. He really didn't know how to react. He had a lump in his throat which made it difficult for him to speak.

  He hadn't seen anyone in the cell, and assumed that Don Sergio was huddled against the wall beneath the barred window in order not to be seen.

  Are you there?' he asked at last.

  'Yes,' a hoarse, tremulous, but clearly audible voice replied. Are you Father Sergio Rotondi?'

  'I'm Sergio Rotondi.' 'Do you know who I am?' 'Yes.'

  'Do you know why I'm here?' 'Yes.'

  'Are you prepared to cooperate?' 'I've been asked to do so, and I will.' 'Did you know Lorenzo Ricciardi?'

  'We were pupils here, when it was still a boarding school. Before the scandal

  'But you were older than he was. Did you know each other?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you kn
ow why we're looking for him?'

  No answer.

  'Do you know?'

  'I can imagine.'

  'Lorenzo Ricciardi is a killer.'

  No answer.

  'He's killed at least six people. He's a vicious killer.' 'Oh, no, no . . .' It wasn't a denial, but a lament. 'Do you think he's capable of something like that, father ... or brother, I'm not sure what to call you.' 'Call me Sergio. That's my name.' 'Do you think he's capable of it, Sergio?' 'Yes.' 'Why?'

  Sergio did not answer at once. He could be heard breathing heavily. 'I've been asked to talk ..." he said, almost pensively. 'I should have done it before, a long time ago . . . but it was difficult . . . too difficult for me ... I don't know why I . . . Oh, my God, why did I let all this happen?'

  'What exactly?'

  'Everything,' he sighed. 'I thought it was enough to take the burden of guilt on myself, but it's not enough, it could never be enough. We all had to pay'

  Ferrara clearly heard sobs from the other side of the cell and waited for Rotondi to regain his composure.

  'It was 1985,' Sergio Rotondi began. 'A cursed year, the year the devil entered the monastery. We had a new Latin teacher, a Trappist monk named Brother Attanasio. He was nearly forty and incredibly handsome. He was a sodomite and lost no time in passing on his foul vice. Many of us fell victim to his charms. He was irresistible: the way he talked, the way he understood us, supported us, guided us. In other words, he had us in his power, and he took advantage of it . . .

  'There were five of us, but that wasn't enough for him. He was insatiable. Towards the end of the year he set his sights on Lorenzo. He was only a child, nine, maybe ten. It was horrible. But we didn't realise it at the time.

  'Lorenzo was a shy, introverted boy. He despised us, maybe even hated us. He hated everything about this place. We thought it was only fair to punish him . . . make him the same as us . . . Why, why? What came over us? I keep thinking about it, keep trying to understand how our love for Brother Attanasio and the passion and recklessness of youth could have made us stoop so low

  'What happened exactly?'

  'One night, we raped him. All five of us, in turn . . .'

  Suddenly, the light stone walls seemed to lose the serenity Ferrara had been struck by not so long before. It wasn't the first story of this kind he'd ever heard, but hearing it told by a monk and knowing that it had taken place right here made it all the more sickening.

  And then?'

  'When Brother Attanasio found out, he was furious, but he lost no time in making Lorenzo his favourite. He had relations with the boy for many years, right up until the time Lorenzo left, I think. Soon after that, Brother Anselmo discovered what had been going on. No one knows how, but many of us thought he'd had a letter from Lorenzo, maybe an anonymous one. Anyway, he closed the school down. We'd already left by this time.'

  'Stefano Micali was one of you, wasn't he?'

  'Yes. And the others were Alfredo Lupi, Francesco Bianchi and Giovanni Biagini.'

  Of course, Ferrara thought, bitterly. How easy it would have been to find a connection between the victims, if only they'd thought of going as far back as their childhood. But that almost never happens, unless there are particular reasons to do so. A person is generally considered within a network of adult relations - work relations, contractual ties, friendships at the time the crime is committed. These are the things detectives examine in their attempts to reconstruct a man's life.

  'Did you suspect him when Stefano Micali was killed?'

  'No, only later, when Alfredo died. That was when I got scared. Then I received an anonymous letter that made me almost certain it was Lorenzo taking his revenge . . . But I wasn't sure and I couldn't say anything. Think of the scandal, the repercussions for the Church ..."

  'So you let the others be executed.'

  It was less an accusation than a statement of fact, and Sergio Rotondi knew it.

  That withdrawal from the world, that apparently courageous gesture, had in fact been an act of the most contemptible cowardice, which had condemned his companions to death.

  Ferrara abandoned him to his fate. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to have a burden like that on your conscience.

  *

  He was surprised that the monk who had brought him wasn't there waiting for him. He soon discovered why.

  He and some of the other monks had gathered halfway down the long corridor, outside the open door of one of the cells. From the other end of the corridor, Brother Anselmo and two other monks came running.

  Ferrara reached the small group almost at the same time as Brother Anselmo. The monks stood aside, silently and deferentially. It was clear from the expressions on their pale, frightened faces that something terrible had happened. Without hesitation, Ferrara followed the prior into the cell.

  An elderly monk lay on his back on the bed, horribly mutilated.

  Now that he knew what to look for, Ferrara immediately picked out the V etched into the skin of the disfigured face.

  'Who is he?' he asked, already knowing the answer.

  'His name was Brother Attanasio,' the prior said in a broken voice.

  'Who found him?'

  'I did.' A shy young monk came forward. 'We were supposed to meet in the courtyard. When he didn't appear, I came and knocked at his door. He didn't answer, but I knew he was inside, he'd told me. I knocked again, and finally I opened the door and —'

  'Stay here, all of you.' Ferrara ordered. 'Don't move! Brother Anselmo, is there a telephone I can use?'

  'Come with me,' Brother Anselmo said, suddenly filled with an energy Ferrara would never have suspected.

  It was risky Lorenzo Ricciardi was armed, and they were all potential targets, but Ferrara had no choice. He absolutely had to call his men. He cursed his own lack of discipline: he'd left his damned pistol in the glove compartment of his car just when he really needed it!

  They reached the prior's study without incident, and Ferrara dialled Rizzo's number.

  'Lorenzo Ricciardi is at San Benedetto in Bosco,' he said, and gave him the location. 'I need a lot of men here. I need the Forest Rangers to be informed. I need helicopters to fly over the area with lights. I need the road leading here blocked at the point where it meets the main road. And I need all this NOW!'

  If the killer had already escaped, it wouldn't be easy to catch him. The Casentine forest is enormous, and there was no way they could surround the whole of it. But he wouldn't find it easy to get out of it either, and they had the advantage of transport and the Forest Rangers, who knew the area.

  It was also possible that he was still in the monastery, that he'd seen and recognised Ferrara, and was lying in wait somewhere. That was the possibility Ferrara had to concentrate on for now. An armed man could easily hold a whole monastery of defenceless monks at bay.

  First of all he had to try and get to his own pistol.

  He left Brother Anselmo and headed cautiously for the porter's lodge, running in the areas where he was most exposed to any possible fire.

  By the time he got there, an eternity seemed to have passed.

  The sun was setting.

  'Have you seen Lorenzo Ricciardi?' he asked the porter.

  'He went out about ten or fifteen minutes after you arrived, and hasn't come back.'

  Ferrara was relieved. The monks were safe.

  But the killer was outside, maybe waiting to kill him as soon as he set foot outside the gate. On the other hand, if Ricciardi was running and he didn't move now, he'd be giving him even more of a head start than he already had.

  He had to risk it.

  He ran out to his car in a zigzagging motion, and when he reached it crouched by the door. Nothing happened.

  Cautiously, he took out his keys and opened the door. He groped for the glove compartment on the dashboard and took out his pistol.

  6

  After killing Brother Attanasio, Lorenzo Ricciardi had washed off the blood and gone to his cell to pick
up his few belongings, including the clothes he had replaced with a habit during his stay in the abbey. Then he had calmly walked out, undisturbed.

  He still couldn't believe his good luck. He had recognised his tormentor immediately he had seen him, even though the old man hadn't recognised him, now that he was grown up and his head was shaved. It seemed impossible - he was sure they must have dismissed Brother Attanasio from the monastery after the anonymous letter he'd sent informing on him. He'd assumed he would have a lot of trouble finding him, but as he was the last but one on the list, he hadn't been too worried about it.

  When he had killed Cinzia, he had marked her with an A', thinking he might actually give up on Brother Attanasio and keep the V for Don Sergio instead. Discovering that he was still in the abbey made it possible for him to get back to his original plan, at least to an extent. Lorenzo Ricciardi had not hesitated to attribute this unexpected turn of events to divine intervention. He was back on the right path, and the next step had been clearly signposted. All he could do was bow to the will of God.

  Now he obviously couldn't go back to the villa. His escape was tantamount to a confession, but he couldn't stay here waiting for the monastery to be overrun by police. The die was cast: he was playing a game against time now, and he would see it through. Greve in Chianti first, to execute Father Sergio, then Ferrara. He wasn't sure which of them to give the last letter to. He might end up with one corpse too many, he thought with a sardonic smile.

  After that, they could arrest him, kill him, it didn't matter. Once his task had been accomplished, his life would be meaningless now that he had lost Valentina.

  He had tried to start the moped, but it refused to respond. After trying several times, he had thrown the vehicle to the ground and set off on foot. He knew the forest and the short cuts from his childhood, and it wouldn't be difficult for him to get back on the road long before the police got here.