When Signora Julia Marin phoned me to blackmail me with the fine manners that she had in her voice, I was at the station soon afterward.
My dear, it never occurred to you that I was on the same train as you, looking out at the same landscape, waiting to get to the same stop as you. I didn’t even need to force you to come with me, you were looking for death in a vague promise.
Maybe while you were coming with me and waiting for me to get rid of the security guards, you sat there like a good little girl, and you cleaned off the nasty leaves from your last few breaths before dying.
You told me that you knew. Ah, what a painful stab in the heart, what an affront! You told me that he talked to you about me. And about the other women. You didn’t care a bit, while the two of you were together you were just the two of you, you were sure of it, because you alone let him give birth, in the midst of all the pus of infected placenta, to his true, beautiful soul. You laughed: even you have a beautiful soul, too bad no one will help you find it.
You told me that while you were making love, he looked you in the face and looked at you moaning, caressing your neck and your mouth. That’s exactly what you said.
He spoke to you of love.
In the perfect, diffuse lighting that he insisted on to keep from insulting your age.
Before I put you to sleep with the same sedatives I used on the security guards you also told me that they were going to catch me, that you’d mailed the blind woman the recording of the concert. But it was too late and I completed my project.
It was neither a relief nor a pity to me when I killed you. He was already dead, it didn’t change a thing.
60.
Martusciello had noticed that certain days, after starting out almost nicely, gradually gained confidence with the hours, boasting the benefit of a good start and really never stopping.
This was that kind of day.
After bidding farewell to Luigi D’Amore, he suddenly felt the urge to invite everyone involved in the Vialdi case to come into the police station for a chat. He knew in advance that this probably wouldn’t add any information to what he already knew, but the mechanisms of understanding that worked for him demanded a sort of cataloguing in person. The results of the depositions weren’t really all that important after all.
“I come from the era of paper, pen, and wasted time. And that’s that,” he said to himself.
All he asked Maria Datri about was her daughter, how school was going for her, how she was growing up, and her friendship with Nini. The woman displayed astonishment at these questions that ranged so far afield of what she was expecting, but she also felt relief at the shift. The captain had given her back what she had once had, he had taken away a painful slice of her life. There still remained others, substantial and meaningful, but concerning them she’d continue to remain as silent as she had over the previous years and years.
Rosina Mastriani emphatically expressed her gratitude to the police force as a whole, though she then specified that she felt gratitude to Liguori in particular, for having bought a car from her that she could no longer afford, for finding her a job that she described as “finally difficult,” and for helping her to patch things up with her children. She talked about forgiveness worse than any priest.
Mara Scacchi answered apathetically, eyes half closed. She had replaced her amorous despondency with a chemically induced slough, and perhaps they both coexisted when Vialdi was still alive. Martusciello considered that at least the woman had no need of a dealer; she could do her dope shopping right there at home. She regained a little vigor only when she started to complain about the press which had already tried her and found her guilty, then she slipped back into her indifference, eyes open wide, staring into nothingness. Before leaving, her voice took on a prophetic tone and announced an impending confession. Martusciello attributed her mysticism to pills.
While the captain was questioning Marialuigia Moreno the phone call from Funicella Corta arrived. Sconciglio wished to inform the Captain, through Funicella Corta, that the lawyer was a whore and had completely slipped his leash.
Martusciello said only:
“So you’re back from Marseilles, the number you’re calling from is your regular number once again.”
He resumed at an intentional distance his dialogue with Gatta Mignon. The woman was surprisingly lucid, and once again was successful at shifting the line of questioning as if she were running the interview. She reprised the same arguments as in previous sessions, in the exact same words. Martusciello didn’t like the echo and summoned Carità.
“Take the Signora downstairs, she has some statements to make about the violation of the judicial seals of the apartment of Gennaro Mangiavento, stage name Jerry Vialdi.” Before they moved off, the captain explained to both of them with an abundance of details how deeply irritating, on the verge of causing him to vomit, he found the manipulative and instrumental use of people’s artistic talents; the degree to which the ill concealed claims of superiority on the part of the learned intelligence and the jaded esthetics of those who felt they possessed God-given truths denied to the majority occupied completely different parts of the body’s landscape as far as he was concerned. Moreover he cordially detested those who triggered in him pathetic surges of indignation unsuited to a man of his age and everything that he had seen and lived through.
Once the two had moved away he called back the confidential informant and brusquely instructed him on the fact that he had no intention of allowing himself to be used as a funnel for other people’s overflow, even if the other people in question brought him, with FOB delivery at the police station, those responsible for the murders of Jerry Vialdi, Gioacchino Rizzo, and Julia Marin. And therefore, Signor Sconciglio and Funicella Corta, if they had any useful information about the case, should kindly do him the favor of using the classic channels of testimony and deposition. He concluded by emphasizing that the burglary at Casa Occhiuzzi had only helped him to dry up the last bit of patience that remained to him. As a result, the entire trade in information and tips had been shut down temporarily, due to a period of family mourning.
He felt better now.
61.
Martusciello had decided that he could consider his work day concluded, but that first he would toss onto Malanò’s back the results of hours and hours spent questioning witnesses and climbing stairs.
“It’s a paltry urge, a pastime for idiots. But I don’t care, I just want to have a little fun,” he told himself while waiting to be connected with his colleague. At last, he heard the voice he’d been waiting for. “I only wanted to have an idle chat with you, Malanò.” He took his time explaining to him how many logical problems there were with the version of a serial murderer. Accompanied by the moans of boredom he could hear coming over the line, he organized the thoughts that he normally laid out in solitude. Reporting to him on the latest conversations he’d had with the informant and with Counselor Luigi D’Amore, he explained his suppositions: a singer attains success in part through murky connections; probably the cost of the favors received corresponded to a price in money laundering, various services, or perhaps just an array of useful contacts for illegal betting rings. At a certain point, this singer, having even received a certain education through the words and music of Gatta Mignon, starts creating problems. Martusciello said he was pretty sure that Vialdi’s lawyer, Luigi D’Amore, would in the fullness of time confess as to the motive. He was a clever young operator, perfectly capable of evaluating costs and benefits. The death of the night watchman, the murder of Julia Marin, and the treasure hunt in the apartment of Martusciello’s colleague all spoke eloquently of the consequences: something went wrong and, after all, the serial killer suit could have been stitched up a little more neatly. He wasn’t going to rule out the possibility that private interests in Vialdi’s chaotic life might have coincided with certain company interests.
“Y
ou like the manger scene, Malanò?”
“It’s a lovely manger scene, too bad you’re moving the shepherds yourself, without evidence, on the basis of theories that wouldn’t stand up to a good hard spit. It’s too late, Martusciello, go play by yourself.”
“I was hoping I could make you happy, that’s all. Kids who play cops and serial killers annoy the hell out of me. You’re right, you can have more fun playing on your own.”
The captain felt a certain sense of gratification in both feet and head, which were also linked by ties that surely existed but couldn’t be proved.
Certainly, Malanò had a point, and he’d shaved some corners, in all likelihood the lawyer would stop delivering harangues in the police station, and all the uncertainties would remain uncertain.
Almost certainly they’d never find a guilty party for the murders, in keeping with a grim statistic on unsolved mortal tumults. He smiled. Perhaps he’d spoken to Malanò just to get in the last word. And that was enough to give Martusciello a dignified urge to go home.
He stood up, locked his desk drawer with the documents on illegal gambling, pulled the ancient shutters closed, and put on his jacket. That day of hours and hours had come to an end.
He was already heading for the door when Blanca and Liguori came through it.
The detective told Martusciello to hurry over to Blanca’s office, there was something important they wanted him to hear.
The captain took off his jacket and followed the two of them.
They told him to sit at the sergeant’s desk; she offered no advance explanation of the recording. The captain concentrated and listened, but didn’t catch anything significant.
At that point, Liguori offered a chronicle of the final events, then isolated into a series of repetitions the minute that had so disconcerted Blanca, in an obsessive reprise of the phrases: He’s waiting for you, do you want me to talk to him? Gigi, be a good boy, you know that after the concert I always want to be alone.
Martusciello continued not to understand.
“Did you think that Gigi might be Luigi D’Amore? That isn’t him. I talked to him this morning, my recollection is fresh. This voice talking to Vialdi’s voice doesn’t belong to the lawyer. I’ve never heard it before.”
Blanca was upset.
“It isn’t possible that I’m the only one who recognizes that voice!”
Carità appeared before the three of them and said nothing in response to Liguori’s comments concerning his irritating and intrusive timing.
The officer looked upset and vaguely absent, the hand that was clutching a sheet of paper was trembling slightly. He laid it down on Blanca’s desk.
“It’s not my fault, Captain,” he murmured. “I hadn’t understood a thing. There’s no time.”
Liguori and Martusciello rushed out into the street.
Carità read the contents of the sheet to Blanca, and heaved a lengthy sigh before the last sentence: At least my suicide should be successful.
“Well, I had understood, but it didn’t serve any purpose.”
62.
The terrace that had once belonged to Vialdi presented a scenario of destruction. The powerful gusting winds were tearing the last leaves off the branches, ripping them apart and bringing them together, tumbling in low whirlwinds with the remains of the other, already-fallen leaves. The sea was kicking up combative waves that crashed over the rocks and the narrow beach, invading the streets. As it pulled back to gather strength for each new assault, the water left patches of foam on the asphalt that remained alive, dissolving.
Marialuigia Moreno was standing on the furthest part of the terrace, the surface that jutted out past the railing. She was wearing a light white man’s shirt, which hung on her small and ill-formed body like a dress.
Liguori moved off to summon help though without much hope of success: the gates enclosing the courtyards below would keep would-be rescuers from getting close enough and time was already running out.
Gatta Mignon’s eyes were fixed on the patterns the sea foam made on the street below, she didn’t turn around when the captain began to speak to her in the voice he used with his daughter.
“Stay in this misbegotten life.”
“I came back to this misbegotten life, the wrong life. You know that, right, Captain? Seven lives as Gatta Mignon and seven deaths.” Martusciello moved toward her with concealed motions, but Marialuigia Moreno saw him all the same.
“Don’t you move, or I’ll jump too early. The handsome detective may have gone to summon reinforcements, I like this American concert: I’ll be able to throw myself into thin air in the presence of spectators.”
“You could change. Maybe seven lives are too few.” Passersby in the street began to gather, looking up at the terrace, sheltered from the sea that refused to rest its crashing waves.
“Not seven deaths. The first was when I saw him. The second was when he turned me into a child to be crucified, while I amused myself pounding nails into the wood all on my own. The third was when I helped him to steal from those who never forgive. The fourth was when I asked permission to kill someone who, in fact, hadn’t forgiven. The fifth was when I hadn’t known how to keep his death for myself. The sixth was when I set the table for death in the spread legs of Julia, someone who had the right to be looked in the face and talked to about love. The seventh was when I better understood what I already knew: the asphyxiating pain, which grabs you by the throat and chokes you with every breath, would never go away. I tried to hide, to come up with some remedy, to shuffle the cards, but the last con game failed to work out: I couldn’t seem to fool myself. The eighth death will be the best.” Reinforcements arrived with the noise of screeching tires, slamming doors, voices. The sea went on pounding.
Marialuigia Moreno turned toward Martusciello:
“A final performance for a nonpaying audience.”
Her rapid plunge halted when she hit the iron bars, the metal pierced her short neck. Death, unlike love, had insisted on meeting her face to face.
Martusciello didn’t stop to look at the corpse, instead he looked past the grey sheet metal that went on wobbling, on past the barrier, and looked at Nisida.
63.
The world of written and verbal communications went wild. Liguori regained a number of years of his fictional youth that he’d lost during the summer. Martusciello asked his daughter to forgive him and she failed to understand why; feet and head elicited other days with their anarchy. Malanò distributed invitations to the press conference, headlined: The Vialdi Case and the Suicide of the Serial Killer. Carità stopped attending acting and diction courses. Rosina Mastriani suddenly felt lucky. Mara Scacchi kept gobbling down tablets. When Maria Datri heard about Marialuigia Moreno, she felt ashamed of her own petty gratification, but still went on luxuriating in it. Funicella Corta went back to Marseilles. The lawyer became a regular visitor to the Pozzuoli police station, first as a conscientious contributor to the investigations, and then when subpoenaed by the investigators.
Blanca withdrew for days into the apartment that now, thanks to Nini and Sergio, had been restored to order: she had only one voice to decipher.
Gatta Mignon had organized in her apartment a considerable quantity of notes, documents, invoices, gambling receipts, and statements.
She hadn’t absolved herself, she hadn’t forgiven.
The turnover of the holding companies behind the gambling ring reported back to an Asian main office, Jerry Vialdi was assigned to help the regional subsidiary with special bets; the Singing Maestro, available also for other services, bet huge sums on guaranteed outcomes, and then returned the take, neatly laundered with the illegal assistance of his lawyer. One time, he failed to give back.
Gatta Mignon had had to request permission to kill the singer. That permission had been gladly given, the subsidiary needed someone to hold responsible for
the shortfall. They made a special request, however: could whoever did the job please distract the interest of the investigators with special effects worthy of a serial killer.
Marialuigia Moreno had said yes one last time.
The lawyer served Jerry Vialdi and his creditors, on alternating days. On the days when he was busily tending to the interests of his business rivals, he informed them of three (3) problems to solve:
the stadium night watchman might decide to open his mouth to speak at any moment, just as he had opened it to drink; it would be a problem to leave him free to say just who had plied him with bottles;
the lady from Verona no longer cared about going on living, therefore threats wouldn’t be enough to shut her up;
what was needed was a nice thorough inspection of the sergeant’s apartment. The recording had to disappear.
Blanca had asked Liguori to record everything that Marialuigia Moreno had written.
Early every morning, she sat down at her computer, put on her headphones with Neodymium speakers and soldered the sound to her ears.
The first time that she listened to the whole recording from start to finish she lingered, as she had on the other occasions, over the last few instants.
Liguori finished with a whisper of a voice, devoid of the tone of someone reading.
“There’s darkness and then there’s darkness.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrizia Rinaldi lives and works in Naples, where she was born in 1960. She is the author of numerous works of crime fiction published in Italy. Three, Imperfect Number is her first work to appear in English.
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