The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara)

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘Well, at least we know what time he returned home,’ Rizzo said. ‘It would certainly be useful to check the CCTV cameras along the route. And we shouldn’t neglect the speed cameras on the road leading to the villa. It would also be worth checking out any speeding fines that have been issued.’

  Florence had become one of the Italian cities with the highest levels of surveillance. There were CCTV cameras everywhere – not that that had helped to bring down the crime rate.

  ‘It’s an idea,’ Ferrara said, ‘though I think it’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Still, we have to try everything.’ He had opened a file on the desk in front of him, a file that was still quite thin at the moment. But soon this mere handful of papers would be joined by duty reports, witness statements, interviews, photographic dossiers, and so on, until it was bursting at the seams.

  Having listened to his team members, Ferrara looked at them all in turn and took the floor.

  He recapped the results of their investigations so far.

  Then he showed them a computer-generated image of a female face. It was the face of the woman who had been driving the A-Class Mercedes. The forensics expert had worked for almost two hours to put together an electronic portrait. Not the classic identikit, but almost a photograph.

  They all looked at it carefully, but none of them recognised the face. It could have been anybody.

  ‘Do you believe the witness’s statement, chief?’ Rizzo asked, knowing that Ferrara had a sixth sense about these things.

  ‘He seemed genuine to me,’ Ferrara replied with a sigh. ‘Whether it helps us at all is another matter.’

  ‘So now we’ve got a woman to look for?’ Rizzo asked. ‘It’d be the first time a woman has been wanted in connection with such a horrible crime here in Florence.’

  ‘Yes, the first time,’ Ferrara agreed. ‘I realise it’s hard to believe, but we can’t dismiss anything out of hand. I want a copy of this portrait distributed to all the patrol cars in the area, and I want it up on the noticeboard here in Headquarters, in every station, and in the offices of the railway, traffic and airport police.’

  Nobody objected. After a few moments, Ferrara drew everyone’s attention to the necessity of keeping an eye open for the presence of any A-Class Mercedes cars on the road between Florence and Borgo San Lorenzo, the stretch where the witness had seen the car.

  None of the people living in the area had seen or heard anything useful. They had been asked the customary questions, but to no avail. Nobody had seen anyone suspicious, or noticed anything strange. Even if they had, not everyone was prepared to cooperate with the police, either through fear, or to avoid getting involved.

  Enrico Costanza’s few friends had all stated that, as far as they were concerned, no one had any motive to hate him. In accordance with the maxim that repeatedly cropped up in such investigations, nobody liked to speak ill of the dead. They all stressed the victim’s good points and omitted to mention the dark ones. Even if they were aware of them, most preferred not to reveal them. This was an attitude especially common in the circles in which Senator Costanza had moved.

  Ferrara was perfectly well aware that among Freemasons, solidarity was paramount, even when one of them had died. And these friends of Costanza’s were all Masons, and all fairly well known. They would continue interviewing them, but it was unlikely they would discover anything.

  Nobody in Narcotics had heard Costanza spoken of as being involved with drugs. The same was true of his butler Luis Rodriguez, an immigrant who had been working quite legally in Florence for almost five years.

  Nothing had emerged from an examination of old recordings from the CCTV camera that protected Costanza’s villa.

  No technical clues had come from Forensics, but they would soon get the results of the ballistics tests, which were still in progress.

  What was the motive? Should they think of the double murder as the work of a killer who had acted purely out of hatred for the victim? Or could there possibly be a connection to the Leonardo Berghoff affair and the Black Rose?

  At this point, Ferrara finally made up his mind to tell his men about the contents of Leonardo Berghoff’s letter, while emphasising that the information was private and confidential.

  ‘For now, this information does not leave this room. I’ll inform the Prosecutor’s Department at a later date. The important thing at the moment is to dig a bit deeper and, if we find out anything, that’s when we send them a report.’

  To all intents and purposes, they were feeling their way in the dark. So far, they hadn’t found a damn thing. But now they had to decide on priorities. The first thing was to carry out another search of Costanza’s villa to try and find the case that had been used to withdraw his money from the Savings Bank.

  ‘I want you to take charge of that, Francesco,’ Ferrara said to Rizzo. ‘Use our colleagues from the SCO. Then you’ll have to reconstruct Costanza’s movements in the days before he was killed. We also need to find out whether he met anyone, perhaps a guest, at the Hotel Villa Medici on Saturday night.’

  ‘I’ll ask the Deputy Prosecutor to authorise a new search warrant straight away,’ Rizzo replied. ‘Then I’ll deal with the victim’s last days and go to the hotel.’

  ‘Perfect! We also need to reconstruct the last movements of the butler, Luis Rodriguez. That could be very useful.’ Ferrara turned to Venturi. ‘I’d like you to question Costanza’s driver again. We especially need to know about his last few visits to the bank.’

  ‘OK, chief.’

  ‘Teresa, I want you to continue examining the documents we took from the villa, and keep in touch with the external expert about the video.’

  Teresa nodded.

  ‘I’ll contact Criminalpol in Rome to find out whether there have been any similar murders in Italy,’ Ferrara went on. ‘And I’ll ask Interpol about the foreign contacts. I’ll also ask the Prosecutor’s Department for permission to acquire the records of mobile phone traffic in Fiesole on the night of the crime and during the previous forty-eight hours. We’ve already asked for Costanza’s records and we’re expecting them shortly. Now let’s get to work. I’m going to Costanza’s funeral later. By the way, Francesco, are any of our officers already in place there?’

  ‘Yes. Forensics too.’

  ‘Good.’

  The meeting was at an end. Everybody stood up and walked out.

  ‘Francesco, wait a minute.’

  Rizzo retraced his steps. ‘Yes, chief.’

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I always call you by your name, and yet, after all these years and even though we’re good friends, you still call me chief.’

  Rizzo stared at him, wondering where Ferrara was going with this.

  ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Why don’t you drop all this “chief” business?’

  ‘I’d feel uncomfortable, chief.’

  ‘Enough of all this “chief”. Call me Michele. That’s an order.’

  Rizzo laughed. ‘All right, but in private, not in front of the others.’

  ‘OK. Whatever suits you.’

  37

  Alone again, Ferrara settled down to read last night’s reports.

  He was particularly struck by the fire in the lift. A carabiniere had suffered the effects of smoke inhalation and the residents had had to seek refuge on their balconies.

  It wasn’t the first occurrence. There had been several similar cases, with a couple of months between them. In the end, thanks to a neighbour’s testimony, they had identified the probable perpetrator of at least one of the fires: a thirty-something doctor who specialised in psychiatry. From their inquiries, it had emerged that he had been treated several times for neurological problems, hence the gaps in his activities. The investigation had had to be abandoned for lack of proof. His parents had even provided him with a watertight alibi: th
ey swore that he had been at home with them on the night of the fire.

  Could this one be the same person?

  He leafed through his files and took out the FBI study he had consulted back then to learn more about the personality of a pyromaniac.

  The American experts called such people serial arsonists, and they had sketched a profile: a young male between twenty and thirty, single, introverted but excitable, with few friends and a low IQ. Upper-middle class, often living near where he started the fires. Psychologically, he suffered from sexual and obsessive-compulsive disorders, which drove him to repeat acts he recognised as dangerous to other people, which he simply could not do without. In time, these acts could lead to more serious crimes. In fact, according to the Americans, many serial killers had pyromaniac pasts, just as others began their criminal careers by torturing and killing animals: dogs, cats, birds, and so on.

  He read the FBI report a second time, then summoned Superintendent Ascalchi. He assigned him the latest case of arson, advising him to keep in close contact with the Carabinieri, who were officially in charge of the investigation.

  ‘See whether that crazy doctor is free and check any alibi he may have. Hopefully, unlike the other times, his parents won’t insist he was at home.’ He handed him the folder, into which he had put a copy of the FBI study.

  ‘OK,’ Ascalchi replied. ‘I’ll arrest him at home and give him the third degree.’

  ‘I urge you to use caution and tact, Ascalchi. We’ve got enough problems already.’

  ‘Don’t worry, chief.’

  As Ascalchi was leaving the room, the telephone rang.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Ferrara?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is the guardhouse. Officer Pizzimenti speaking.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘There’s someone asking for you. A priest.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Father Torre.’

  ‘Bring him up to my office.’

  A few minutes later, Father Giulio Torre was sitting in front of his desk. Ferrara had met him several months earlier during the investigation into the murders committed by Leonardo Berghoff. It had been his old friend, the bookseller Massimo Verga, who had introduced him as an expert on the occult, especially Satanism. Father Torre had given Ferrara some useful pointers about the rituals in the deconsecrated chapel where Madalena’s charred body had been found.

  Ferrara had called him the night before to arrange a meeting.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Father.’

  ‘It’s always a pleasure, Chief Superintendent. In fact, we ought to meet up for dinner again one of these days.’ Father Torre remembered the excellent Florentine steak he had enjoyed while discussing esotericism with Ferrara. It had been an interesting evening. ‘This time it’ll be my treat. But tell me, were you hoping for my opinion on something else?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Ferrara replied.

  He told the priest some of the details of Enrico Costanza’s death. Then he asked the question which had him racking his brains. ‘Father Torre, what do you think is the significance of the victim’s eyes being removed?’

  The answer was not long in coming.

  ‘It was a punishment, and at the same time a message to those able to understand it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The priest explained that historically, the eye was a Masonic symbol meaning enlightenment, which was the means by which the Masons came to know the secrets of the group. He added that on the physical level it also symbolised the Sun, from which Life and Light derived, on the intermediate astral level the Word, and on the spiritual or divine level the Great Architect of the Universe.

  What a load of bullshit! Ferrara thought. Out loud, he said, ‘Go on, Father.’

  ‘Perhaps the killer was trying to tell us that Enrico Costanza was no longer a Mason, no longer among the enlightened.’

  To Ferrara, this interpretation seemed to confirm what he had already suspected: that Costanza had been killed by his brothers. Leonardo Berghoff had suggested as much in his letter.

  ‘Could that gesture have any other significance?’

  ‘Yes, of course, though not in this case, in my opinion.’

  ‘I’d still like to hear the alternatives,’ Ferrara insisted.

  Father Torre cited the Egyptian tradition, in which the eye had a less sinister meaning. It represented the eye of the Sun God, who was depicted in sculpture and painting as having the head of a falcon and the body of a man.

  ‘The Egyptians decorated their sarcophagi with a drawing of two eyes, because they believed that this would allow the deceased to remain in the world of the living…’

  Ferrara could have listened to him for a lot longer, but the investigations did not allow him that luxury. He promised Father Torre he would ring him to arrange their dinner.

  ‘This time I’ll take you to another restaurant with a really amazing wine list,’ he said, thinking of the 1995 Brunello di Montalcino he had drunk on his return from Germany.

  ‘I’ll expect your call,’ the priest replied. His cheeks and nose had turned red, almost as if he was already savouring one of those excellent wines. He shook Ferrara’s hand firmly and left the room.

  After a few moments Ferrara left too. He had an appointment, and he was late.

  His destination: the offices of the Tuscan Regional Forensics Centre.

  The ballistics results were ready.

  38

  ‘Do you fancy going for a wander round the centre of town?’

  Angelica was driving, and Guendalina was sitting beside her. They were just crossing the Ponte delle Cure. ‘We can leave the car in the car park near here, in the Piazza della Libertà, and continue on foot.’

  ‘Oh, yes, let’s. We can go for a little stroll and maybe have a pizza at one of those restaurants in the Piazza San Giovanni.’

  ‘No, not there, Guendi. They’re tourist traps. The pizzas will be frozen, and so will the starters. I see I need to teach you all about this city.’

  ‘Where shall we go, then?’

  ‘A really nice little place. We’ll stop there on the way home. I want you to try potato tortelli made with handmade pasta, and migliaccio for dessert.’ Angelica gave Guendalina’s leg a squeeze and winked at her.

  ‘What’s migliaccio?’

  ‘Oh, darling, you’ve still got so many of our local delicacies to discover. It’s a dessert made with chestnuts, sometimes known as castagnaccio.’

  They had reached the car park. Angelica got the admission coupon and started driving down the ramp.

  ‘The same gun was used in both murders, Michele. No doubt about it.’

  Ferrara was in the forensics lab, a veritable forest of computers, test tubes and optical and electronic microscopes, looking out onto the Piazza Indipendenza, where Gianni Fuschi was giving him the results of the ballistics tests.

  Fuschi ran a hand through his hair. He was wearing a white lab coat over a pair of brown linen trousers and an ivory polo shirt. Tall and elegant, he was a handsome man by any definition, who looked more like a university lecturer than a police forensics expert.

  ‘I’ve examined the casing and the nose with both the measuring microscope and that optical comparator.’

  The optical comparator was used to compare the imprints on ballistic exhibits by making it possible to view two separate objects in the same field. It consisted of two microscopes with identical lenses linked by an optical bridge containing a combination of prisms that channelled the two images into a single eyepiece.

  ‘Did you find anything else?’ Ferrara asked.

  ‘I checked the database, but it doesn’t look as if the gun was used in any other incidents.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘It had a silencer, Michele. The signs are unmistakable.’

  He explained that they had found semi-circular indents on the nose of the bullet casing, typical of a bullet impacting against one of the metal diap
hragms coaxial to the barrel.

  Ferrara nodded. He knew that such indents were caused by the elements of a silencer being imperfectly aligned with the axis of the barrel.