THE DOGS of ROME

by Conor Fitzgerald

  “I need to get in there to sit down,” said Blume.

  “Fine. I’ll walk you in. He’s also shutting down the Clemente case.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  “He can. Well, no, he can’t. But he’s the one who gets to make all the announcements of the decisions made by the big boys. Get this—on radio two days ago he was saying ‘absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.’ He is very pleased with the phrase. I’m pretty sure someone made him learn it off by heart. D’Amico, probably. The Holy Ghost’s theory is that Alleva probably wore gloves when he killed Clemente.”

  “But there is evidence. Fingerprints, fibers, DNA traces all over the place.”

  “But they are not necessarily those of the killer.”

  “That’s twisted logic.” Blume could not think straight now. He made it to the door. The church seemed to be exhaling bad breath, but at least it was cool. There were plenty of empty pews to choose from. A short woman whose jet black hair showed white roots appeared in front of him, blocking his way.

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  Blume glanced at her, but continued walking. As he passed, he said, “What for?”

  “Your injuries.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to sit down.”

  He walked past her and threw himself into the back pew.

  Principe said something to the woman with the dyed hair, then sat down beside him.

  “You feeling OK?” he asked Blume, his voice dropping to a whisper as someone a few rows ahead turned around to look at them.

  “Not really.” Blume lowered his voice, too. “Look, I sent in a sample of hair to the labs. Did you hear anything about that?”

  Principe nodded. “Yes, the head of the lab, Cantore—know him?”

  “Not really. I’ve met him, but I can’t say I know him.”

  “Well, Cantore wanted to know what your idea of a joke was.”

  “I know, I know. There was no chain of evidence, no consent given, no crime scene to justify lifting the sample—I just needed further confirmation that Manuela Innocenzi was in Clemente’s apartment.”

  “So why did you send him the hair of a dog?”

  Blume closed his eyes. He could see the funny side of it. There was definitely a funny side. But he didn’t feel like laughing. Maybe when the funeral was over.

  “They got saliva from the victim’s eye,” Principe continued. “The killer spat into it. The saliva contained a high quantity of cortisol, which indicates that the person was excited or anxious at the time of killing.”

  “That’s useful information?”

  “Cantore told me about the cortisol. I only mention it because it fits in with your idea that this was not a professional killing.”

  “Jesus,” said Blume forgetting to keep his voice down. “We all know that. It was a knife attack. Can’t we move on a bit?”

  “No,” said Principe. “That’s just it: we can’t.”

  “You’re going to tell me I’ve been taken off the case,” said Blume.

  “What are you talking about? Of course you’re off the case. You are supposed to be in a hospital bed. A kid was killed, two policemen injured.”

  “I know,” said Blume. “I was one of the two. But you don’t need me for the next step. I need you to issue an arrest warrant on a guy called Angelo Pernazzo. He’s the one we want. For the Clemente murder.”

  “Who?”

  “Angelo Pernazzo. Just get his fingerprints. That’ll do it. I had a label . . .”

  “Arrest on what charge?”

  “Make something up. That’s your job.” But Principe was already shaking his head. “What—you mean you won’t?”

  “I can’t,” said Principe. He took off his shiny glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “They issued a writ of certiorari. The case, or the remnants of it, is being transferred to a different office.”

  The nervous woman with the black hair appeared at the end of the pew and gave him a half wave. Blume glared at her until she moved out of his scope of vision.

  Principe had produced a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket pocket and was riffling through them. “The prosecutor general has taken me off the case. I am to write up everything on the Clemente case, then give it to them, and they’ll incorporate it into a general file regarding possible corruption and abuse of office.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on. This writ is the maneuver they always use when they want to stop us from investigating politicians. You ask me, I think Clemente’s widow pulled strings to have it shut down.”

  “She’s that powerful?”

  “Her family’s been in politics for two generations. She’s got uncles, cousins in practically every party.”

  “Doesn’t she want to know who killed her husband?”

  “I think she’s happy to think it was Alleva. She lived apart from her husband most of the year, is a good-looking woman, has ministerial prospects, and would no doubt prefer their private life not to be the object of police investigation and press speculation.”

  “What about Angelo Pernazzo?”

  “Weren’t you listening? I no longer have jurisdictional competence. And even if I did, it would be hard for me to give instructions based on your hunches.”

  “It’s more than a hunch.”

  Principe sighed. “Supposing I could do something, what would it be?”

  “Get his fingerprints. That’s all it will take.”

  “I can’t order it. But maybe I can make representation to the prosecutor general. I’m taking it your suspect has no alibi.”

  Blume hesitated.

  “Alec, you’re not going to tell me to risk having a run-in with the prosecutor general by betting on a feeling you have against someone who does have an alibi?”

  “He has an alibi, only I don’t like it,” said Blume.

  “I don’t like a lot of people, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real, unfortunately.”

  “It’s a computer alibi,” said Blume and explained about Pernazzo’s online poker, while Principe’s impatience made him rock back and forth in the pew as he listened.

  At the end he said, “There’s nothing I can do with that. Can’t you see?”

  “Get the technicians to check out his alibi, then,” said Blume. “We’ve got his name and address, they can see if he was online from his home when he said he was.”

  “Telecom Italia needs a court order to release the names of customers . . . I could do it, bundle his IP with an investigation into file-sharing or something. It’s a lot of work.”

  “Not officially. Just let the computer crimes division know you and I are interested in this IP address. They’ll help. Tell you what, get in contact with a guy called Giacomo Rosati. He knows me. Explain the situation, then get him to call me directly if anything turns up.”

  Principe puffed out his cheeks and shook his head, but agreed. “Do you mind if we get back to the other case? Ferrucci’s murder. That’s where all the attention is focused now.”

  Blume tried to nod, but his whiplash collar would not allow it. From the front of the church, a group of six young policemen in dress uniform and white gloves stood up and began walking toward the exit.

  “The pallbearers,” said Principe. “It looks as if the coffin has arrived.”

  “We may as well stay here, then,” said Blume. “Where’s the family? I need to pay my respects after.”

  Paoloni nodded. “Down there. Second row from front. He had a sister.”

  Blume saw the back of the head of a young woman with long dark hair. Beside her sat a bald man who had hidden his face behind a hymn sheet. His shoulders were shaking.

  “And the mother?”

  “For some reason, she feels she has to greet everyone as they arrive. That was her at the entrance. The one with the dyed black hair,” said Principe.

  Blume closed his eyes. “I didn’t realize that
was her.”

  “You look like death,” said Principe. “Are you coming down to the front?”

  “No,” said Blume. “I’ll stay here.”

  Principe hesitated. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “I am sure I am not OK,” said Blume. “I never said I was OK. I feel like shit. Which is why I’ll stay here at the back. You go down front. Also, tell Paoloni to meet me here afterwards.”

  “Fine,” said Principe. As he walked down the aisle, the pallbearers arrived, bearing the coffin on their shoulders. All the cops in sunglasses who had been outside followed behind, veering off to fill the middle pews as the coffin continued its voyage down to the front. The last policeman to take his place was Gallone, who came down the aisle with a slow, reverent gait, his face a mask of sorrow, his eyes downcast. Before the altar, he made the sign of the cross, bowed his head, and genuflected, staying there on bended knee like Jesus falling for the third time, before rising and finally taking his place. A smaller knot of young people and, somewhere in the middle of them, Paoloni’s mother followed. Everyone seemed to be talking, and there was a great deal of movement around the sides of the church as groups formed, dissolved, and moved on, and people decided to move to places closer to or farther from the coffin. No one came to sit beside Blume.

  A scuffling and scurrying seemed to be coming from below his pew, and Blume watched in horror as a dog-like creature with Pernazzo’s face leapt casually onto the pew beside him, and sat there, cool as a fucking cucumber. Blume knew it was not real, but he still felt he should warn the people in front.

  He felt himself falling and grabbed on to the seat. The dog thing was gone, the church had become quieter, and the priest was speaking about the supreme sacrifice of Officer . . . Ferruzz—he corrected himself, Officer Ferrucci. Ferrucci, he repeated, to show he knew who he was talking about. Marco.

  Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. He shall be justified in everlasting memory, and shall not fear evil reports.

  Blume could smell the formaldehyde. He had caught a whiff as the coffin went by, but it had not registered. Now the smell was carried back to him on the steam of the incense the priest had released into the air. Beneath the harsh taste of camphor and cloves, he detected the sweet, familiar smell of death. It came in through his mouth and was swirling in his stomach.

  My soul is deprived of peace, I have forgotten what happiness is;

  I tell myself my future is lost, all that I hoped for from the Lord.

  Someone slid into his pew, but he found it too painful to turn his head to see who it was.

  The favors of the Lord are not exhausted, his mercies are not spent;

  They are renewed each morning, so great is his faithfulness.

  Blume felt himself tilt back into blackness again. No one would notice him at the back. He tried to breathe through his nose rather than his mouth, but heard himself let out a sudden rude snore, loud as a fart. People turned round to stare at him in disapproval. Pernazzo stood three rows ahead, laughing. Blume jerked himself awake, ready for action, but Pernazzo resolved himself into a sovrintendente from the Corviale district.

  Ferrucci’s sister, more girl than woman, tears streaming down her face, had just finished saying something about when she and her brother were little, and was now being accompanied back to her seat by her boyfriend or husband. Or was there another brother? She staggered back to her father, who still shook as if in silent mirth. The mother with the short black hair stroked her daughter’s face. The police in sunglasses sat immobile in their pews as a song, which was not religious, began to play from the speakers. What was it she had just told them about this music? The song Marco had tried to teach her to play on guitar, “Everybody Hurts.” True enough, thought Blume, but not everyone sings about it in such a whiny voice.

  Blume could see the priest sitting off to the side in his purple vestments, not liking the profane music. Blume didn’t like it either. For one thing, Ferrucci had been too young to be listening to the likes of REM. He suspected the sister had chosen it for herself. Her brother was beyond hurting now.

  A cool hand on his forehead, and a woman’s soft voice. “Hello, Commissioner,” said Kristin, quietly. “I thought at first you were ignoring me, but you’re not well, are you?”

  Blume turned too quickly and was rewarded with a searing pain in the side of his neck.

  “Easy, now,” said Kristin, as if to a large dog. “I’ve seen you black out twice. You should be in the hospital.”

  “I know,” said Blume. “But I had to be here.”

  “It’s almost over,” whispered Kristin. “Communion soon.”

  “That means we’re near the end?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a Catholic, then?”

  “Lutheran. And you?”

  “I have no idea. My parents forgot to tell me,” said Blume. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to pay my respects. It’s not the first time I have been to a police-man’s funeral, nor will it be the last. Also, I knew you’d be here.”

  “You knew that? I didn’t even know it myself until a few hours ago.”

  “I phoned the hospital. They put me on hold and after fifteen minutes told me you had gone. I figured this was where.”

  For a moment, Blume was not sure if Kristin was any more real than the creature he had seen sitting on the pew. At the front of the church, people were shuffling to and from the altar rail receiving communion. A lot of them were policemen.

  He reached out his hand and she touched it for a moment. “Are you here in some sort of official capacity?” he asked.

  “You seem to want to distinguish between official and genuine,” said Kristin. “I am here as a representative of the embassy, and I am here because I care. Official and genuine at once, same as some of the senior policemen at the front. I am also here for you. I think you are somebody who cares. I think you’d like to help me, keep in contact.”

  “Contact with you, yes. I didn’t agree to be a . . . what is it I am supposed to be?”

  “It’s not a formal thing. Make up your own name for it. Advisor, consultant, liaison officer, technical collaborator. Another ear on the ground for the embassy.”

  “I wouldn’t have to provide confidential information?”

  “Of course not. You wouldn’t get paid a cent, either. It’s a good citizenship thing. A friendship thing.”

  “Let me think about it,” said Blume.

  Applause broke out at the front of the church, and increased in intensity as the pallbearers made their way back up the aisle carrying out what they had carried in. The priest followed, swinging the censer, filling the air with Catholic novocaine. Blume and Kristin rose, and she applauded, too, while he stood there with his arm in a sling.

  Paoloni did not come to him as requested, so Blume had to leave Kristin and go in search of him. He made his way over to a knot of policemen with a hard look in their eyes as they sucked on their cigarettes and exchanged monosyllables. He knew that vengeful look. He detached Paoloni from the group.

  “I need you to do something.”

  “Is it to do with Ferrucci’s killer?”

  “No,” said Blume. “It’s to do with Clemente’s.”

  “Oh, right.” Paoloni shuffled his feet and looked back at the group of policemen. Paoloni was a different person from the penitent of a few hours ago. It was as if Paoloni had been infused with new purpose. It may have been the emotional effect of the funeral mass or—a thought occurred to Blume.

  “Have you had any tip-offs about Alleva?”

  “Have I had any tip-offs about Alleva? When could I have got a tip-off? When we were in church?”

  “You could have got one just now. When you were outside here with the others,” said Blume.

  “No, I have not had any tip-offs about Alleva. Is that what you wanted to ask me?”

  Blume was not sure how much longer he would last in the heat. He needed to lie down. “No, Beppe. I need you to deal
with some business I left unfinished.”

  He gave Paoloni Pernazzo’s address and told him to get there.

  “If you can’t arrest him for something, just stay close to him. I’ll get you the authorization you need.”

  “Can’t you get it now, send someone else?”

  “No, Beppe. I can’t get it right now, and why do you want me to send someone else—have you got better things to do? Also, aren’t you forgetting something? You, me, this morning’s conversation?”

  Paoloni glanced quickly behind him, then nodded. “I remember.” Then he looked at Blume in surprise. “Are you OK? What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re leaning sideways.”

  Blume realized he had placed his full weight on one leg. He tried to rebalance, but his knee buckled and he found himself overbalancing leftward, and he could not put out his arm to steady himself. He pivoted on his foot and pushed backward, and ended up falling on his ass, watched by mourners and policemen.

  Kristin, behind him, spoke in English, “You got some nice moves there, Alec. Teach them to me sometime, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  Kristin and Paoloni helped him back to his feet, but he felt like his head was full of helium and his chest full of lead.

  “We’re leaving here right now,” said Kristin. “You’re coming with me.”

  27

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 6 P.M.

  KRISTIN DROVE, AND Blume slept. He thought she would need directions to get to his house, but once he gave her the address she nodded and set off. She knew her way around the city.

  He awoke as they reached his street. Kristin found a parking place and said, “I’ll come up, make sure you don’t die before you get there.”

  Blume was going to protest that he felt fine, but then thought better of it. For starters, he did not feel fine. They rode the elevator in silence, and Blume wondered what his conversational approach should be once they got inside. He hoped his apartment was tidy.

  Blume sat on the sofa in his living room and decided they could talk about the funeral. Fifteen seconds later, he was asleep.