And the rumour about a hundred thousand men being checked? Was there any truth in it?
“Yes, more or less. On the list of names we imposed a catalogue of sex-related offences and on that again a catalogue of convictions for violence. We also checked out hundreds of licence plates of people coming into the city from motorway exits on certain dates.”
Adding all that to the number of people already kept under observation over the past ten years, how many people must have been checked all together?
“Thousands. There was a period when we were literally submerged under anonymous letters. Wherever there was a shadow of genuine doubt or suspicion, we did a house search. This was always done with the greatest delicacy and care so as not to damage the reputation of an innocent man. In very, very few cases did the news leak out despite all our precautions. Our net was spread very wide in a way that only the use of a computer could render possible.”
The famous, or infamous, Beretta 22 is still missing.
“For the moment it’s still missing. We did a census of all twenty-two calibre pistols sold before 1968 in Florence, Tuscany and elsewhere. We began with the Beretta factory and the thousands of pistols supplied to the retailers. Then we checked the customers but, of course, that only took us so far because—as you can imagine—after that, anything can happen. Guns change hands, they’re stolen, and so on. A dozen people could have owned that Beretta for all we know, and still we had to check the obvious which in itself took months.”
And still the Beretta 22 is missing?
“And we’re still looking.”
THE OTHER VICTIMS
The Monster may have slain innocent young couples but the list of his victims doesn’t end there. Many more lives have been destroyed by his hand, though he has always “intervened” in the end and secured their release from prison where they were held, accused of his crimes.
FLAVIO VARGIUS. Sardinian, builder, married with three children. In the ’60s he was the lover of the murdered Belinda Muscas, first victim of the Beretta 22. It was Belinda’s husband, Sergio Muscas, who accused Flavio of the murder of his wife and her new lover, but Flavio had an alibi and Sergio was arrested and convicted of the murder. Throughout his trial, he continued to accuse Vargius, but he was given 14 years and also convicted of calumny. When the enquiry was reopened in 1982 because of the Beretta connection with the Monster’s crimes, Sergio Muscas again accused Flavio, who was arrested for the ’68 murder and suspected of the Monster’s killings to date. He proved a tough nut to crack when interrogated in prison and had to be released after the killing of the two German boys in their camper in Galluzzo. Flavio was later arrested in France for traffic in drugs.
SILVANO VARGIUS. Builder, brother to Flavio, married, one child, the last in the line of suspects. Brought into the limelight in 1985 when he was accused of murdering his wife Margherita in Sardinia in 1960 and passing her death off as suicide. In 1986 he was suspected of the ’68 murder at Signa since he, even before his brother, had been the lover of Belinda Muscas; following on this he was suspected of being the Monster, though the accusation was never formalized. He was acquitted in 1988 of the murder of his wife and vanished on his release from prison. In 1989 Instructing Judge Romola acquitted him of the informal charges relating to the double homicides.
SERGIO MUSCAS. Widower, one child, at the centre of the 1968 Muscas/Lo Russo murder enquiry. Never actually accused of being the Monster since he was in prison when the crimes started, but returned to centre stage when the Beretta 22 connection reopened the ’68 case in 1982. He continued to accuse his wife’s lovers, particularly the Vargius brothers, and then made the same allegations against his own brother, Fabio. At the time of his conviction for the murder of his wife, Belinda, and her lover he was also convicted of calumny.
FABIO MUSCAS. Became involved in the Monster enquiry through his brother Sergio who, after having accused his wife’s lovers, particularly Flavio Vargius, changed his story and accused his brother Fabio. Fabio was arrested in January 1984 on a warrant issued by Instructing Judge Romola. The proof against Fabio? A note written in his hand to his brother Sergio: keep accusing Vargius to protect the family. Then a scalpel which he claimed he used for cutting cork, and certain sexual habits. The nightmare ended for him in 1984 when, on July 29th, Patrizia Renzetti and Carlo Salvini were murdered in Vicchio. Fabio Muscas was freed on October 2nd, 1984.
ELIO SASSETTI. Married, three children, chauffeur. A confessed Peeping Tom. It was this habit which got him into trouble. On the night between the 6th and 7th June, 1981, when Gino Fani and Caterina Di Paola were murdered near Scandicci, Sassetti was out spying on couples with a friend and his car, a Ford Taurus, was seen parked near the scene of the crime. He must have seen something because the next day he was spreading the news of the murder by the Monster long before the bodies had been found. He was arrested for false witness and then accused of the murders. He remained in prison throughout the summer. He was released on October 22nd when the Monster struck again, killing Silvio Benci and Sara Contini.
The Marshal finished reading and sat with the newspaper on his chest for a while, musing. Then he glanced again at Simonetti’s account of their doings of yesterday.
He must be used to it, reading about himself all the time. Odd how the article didn’t really relate to the experience, but then, that was journalism. They had to make a bit of a story. Anyway, the Marshal wasn’t used to it at all and it was an odd sensation, though not, if he had to be perfectly honest with himself, an altogether unpleasant one.
Five
“Good morning, Marshal. How are you?” Dr. Biondini looked up from his checklist as the Marshal came out of his station and appeared at the back of the truck.
“Oh, I can’t complain … I couldn’t have a quick word with you, could I?”
“Of course, just give me a minute. This is the last.”
The painting, padded and wrapped, was loaded into the back and closed in.
“These are the Florentine landscapes going up to the Fort—you’re going to come to the opening, I hope?”
“I’ll be there—at least, I should be … Things are a bit difficult at the moment.”
“Ah! The Monster hunt! How’s it going? All right, you can leave and I’ll follow you! Thank you.” The van’s engine started up. “Are you on your way somewhere?”
“To Police Headquarters.” The carabiniere at the wheel of the Marshal’s car started his engine, too, but the Marshal signalled to him that he wasn’t ready to leave yet and he turned it off again. The exhaust fumes sat low in the still muggy air and the Marshal, reaching automatically for his dark glasses, pushed them back in his pocket with a glance at the uniformly grey sky. Unpleasant though this weather was, it gave some relief to his eyes which wept copiously in strong sunlight. He explained as best he could about the circumstances in which his young friend Marco had inherited the Franchi painting. Biondini looked a bit surprised.
“Who did the attribution?”
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t Landini himself have done it, being such an expert?”
“Not his period. I suppose the auctioneers could have had someone out from London—it has been authenticated?”
“I couldn’t say. All Marco told me was that it was supposed to be by Antonio Franchi—wait … I’m sure he said that the letter he received from the auction house actually named the painter. I’m afraid I can’t remember now whether the painting’s signed or not. He might have told me, but …”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. But the provenance? If this young man inherited it from Landini, where did Landini get it? That at least must be on record. Landini was no fool.”
“No, he wasn’t. But the painting, you see, was in the family. A portrait supposedly of one of the dei Gherardini ancestors. You don’t look convinced.”
“Well, to be honest, Marshal, I’m not—you don’t mind if we walk towards my car? I must be there for the unloading.”
“Yes
, of course. I shouldn’t be delaying you …”
They walked together under the stone archway beneath the great iron lantern. Coming out the other side, Biondini took the beige raincoat that had been thrown over one shoulder and put it on.
“It seems to be getting colder. One doesn’t know what on earth to wear in this wretched weather, but I’m determined not to get soaked to the skin again as I did yesterday—or was it the day before?”
“The day before … I did, too. Can you tell me why you’re not too convinced about this painting? You don’t think, even without seeing it, that it’s an Antonio Franchi?”
Biondini laughed. “I’m no genius, and no clairvoyant, either! You have such a high opinion of my talents that it’s always cheering to talk to you!”
Had he made a fool of himself again? “I only meant, well, that you are an expert—it’s your job, isn’t it—so you could have some reason …”
“Yes, I do, and as a matter of fact I know Franchi’s work particularly well. I’ve written one or two papers on him, but that doesn’t mean I can identify a painting of his without so much as seeing a photograph of it—is there a photograph available?”
“I don’t know, I could ask.”
“I’d like to see it if there is. The thing is that I was responsible for almost all the Franchi attributions where attributions were necessary—leaving aside, obviously, the larger works done for various churches and convents where the paintings had never been removed and there were clear records. That’s why I’m a bit sceptical of a dei Gherardini portrait that nobody knows about. Franchi himself, you see, kept such careful records.”
“Marco said that—but he also said Franchi copied his own stuff.”
“Indeed he did, but he kept careful records of those, too. There are one or two paintings missing—missing in the sense of nobody knows who owns them now or whether they’ve been destroyed—but not a Gherardini portrait. It’s a bureaucratic question, you see, rather than a question of attribution. My best advice to your young friend is to enjoy the painting if he likes it, and if it really has been in the family for generations then it has a special value for him whether it’s by Franchi or not, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose so …”
“Here’s my car, such as it is. I ought to have been a Landini myself. Then I’d be driving a huge fancy car instead of this little Fiat. We’ll never get rich working for the state, Marshal.”
The Marshal could only sigh in agreement, his own little car being of the same model, though perhaps not so old as this one. Biondini was searching for his keys.
“Why is he worried, anyway? Ah, here they are …”
“Worried?”
“Landini’s son. Why should he have been worried enough to come to you in the first place?”
Hadn’t the Marshal asked himself that, known that there was something Marco wasn’t telling him?
“He … He’d never heard of such a painting being in the family and thought, well … If it turned out to be a forgery, his mother’s name …”
“A forgery? Why should he think that? It could just be a mistaken attribution. What brought forgery to mind?”
But the more Biondini put his own doubts into words, the more the Marshal tried to deny them. “He was checking through his father’s diaries, wondering about the painting. There was a phone number of a man who claims he’s a restorer …”
“I should think Landini knew a number of restorers, must have done … Who was it? I should know him, if only by name.”
“Benozzetti.”
“Benozzetti? No. A strange name, isn’t it? No, there’s no restorer in Florence by that name—not one on Landini’s level. Can I give you a lift somewhere? Where did you say you were going? Ah, Police Headquarters. Then I can’t, can I? I’ve no permit to go through the centre … There, it is starting to rain and just look at my windscreen … I’m sure I had a wash leather, but there are so many books and papers in this car and I never get a minute …”
“It’s there, there on the floor to your left. The thing is that Marco really could do with selling this picture. He needs the money to set up an architect’s studio and to get married.”
“Money? Didn’t he inherit a fortune from his father?”
“No. No, he didn’t. A small studio and this picture, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m afraid if he does sell, it won’t bring him much. The state can’t afford to buy anything these days and to find a private buyer here won’t be easy. It would be illegal to export it so he’d better not try anything of that sort.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t intend to—and what you might not consider much, in terms of big art sales, might be an amount that makes all the difference to him.”
“No doubt. Well, let him try. If the painting’s his to sell, and you say you’ve checked on that, then let him sell. The attribution isn’t his problem, he’s just selling a painting. The auctioneers know how to look after themselves and their important clients. Any doubts they might have will be evident to the initiated from the way it’s presented in their catalogue. Let him sell and good luck to him. Remember, I’d be interested to see a photograph.”
“I will. I’ll ask about it. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”
“Don’t worry—and tell young Landini not to worry. He’ll find that there’s no such thing as a forgery in this world!”
“Now what the devil did he mean by that?” muttered the Marshal to himself as he made his way back under the arch to his waiting car.
“Now, what exactly do we mean by that? The word ‘Monster’ itself would seem to suggest something exceptional, but we must remember that whilst here in Italy such cases are extremely rare, the phenomenon of the serial killer is today a widespread one, and in America alone a great many criminals of this type have been captured and studied whilst a great many more are still at large and active. We are talking here about men who kill, not for money or revenge but for ‘recreational’ or sexual motives which are personal to the killer and unconnected to the victim.
“By this time we are quite sure that our ‘Monster’ falls into the category of the sexually perverted—not all of whom become killers, or are even violent, but who may have that tendency.”
The Marshal was trying to force himself to concentrate, and, as usual, was more fascinated by Simonetti himself than by anything he was saying.
“I wouldn’t say he was good-looking,” he protested to himself. This was because Simonetti’s picture had been in the paper alongside that article about the investigation and Teresa had said how good-looking he was.
“Good-looking?”
“Of course he is. Look at those fine dark eyes. He’s a very handsome man. Trust you not to notice. And so elegant, too—of course, it’s a very flattering outfit, that white lace cravat thing against the black silk, don’t you think?”
“Boh.”
He had fingered the plain little black tie of his uniform and gone back to his office in a bad temper.
“He will tend, if captured, to collaborate, one might say excessively, with the authorities, often undergoing religious conversion whilst in prison—but beware—if released into the community he will, immediately on being left to his own devices, fall into his former behaviour pattern and start to kill again. A great scandal was caused in Spain when a serial killer, released for good conduct, killed again immediately. The father of his young victim collected two million signatures to convince judges to give more severe penalties for this type of crime. We find the same thing happening in Switzerland where a life sentence can mean a maximum of fifteen years. The prisoner can then be released. And even before that, good behaviour can mean that the prisoner is allowed out every so often. Now, your sexual pervert is in most cases a model prisoner who gives his gaolers no problems at all, so he is the first to obtain permits and early release; apparently all efforts of psychiatrists to warn of the dangers involved have fallen on deaf ears and had no effect whatever on the tr
aditional system obtaining within prisons.”
Besides which, it’s all very well having fine eyes but what about the way he looked at people, which was really intolerable. That sneering expression, sneering now at the psychiatrists who’d spent God knows how long preparing that pile of stuff on the table in front of him.
“I’m not going to ask you to read the whole of this profile prepared for us by the FBI in Quantico, Virginia. It would take up too much of your time—time which I have every intention of taking up for more practical purposes than ploughing your way through psycho jargon!”
“Cue for laughter,” whispered Ferrini beside him as the men facing them across the table dutifully chuckled, and the Marshal’s eyes bulged even more than usual. He was aware of Bacci’s attempt at joining in the responses to his left and felt, without turning to look at him, that the young man was still very tense. It might be as well to say a word to him when he got the chance because if he didn’t ease up he might start to really get on Simonetti’s nerves, causing him to ask for a replacement. Bacci would never get over that. Really, Bacci never got over anything. Too much responsibility too young, that was probably why … Now he’d lost track, but really, with the best will in the world … It wasn’t the way he was used to working and you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. All this theoretical stuff instead of getting out there and looking the people concerned in the face, looking at their houses, their clothes, smelling their world, watching their expressions as they lied to you … Fine dark eyes, indeed …
“So, apart from what will by now be obvious to you, that we’re looking for a man who will have previous convictions for violent and sexually perverted behaviour, we are also seeking someone reasonably expert in the use of firearms and of a single-edged knife. Please bear in mind that whilst we couldn’t in the early stages necessarily exclude a surgeon, nor were we necessarily looking for one. In a city full of artisans like Florence, a great many people work with knives of this sort: people dealing with animal skins, or, further along the line, the hundreds of people in Florence producing belts, bags, shoes, fur coats and so on. In the early stages we left no stone unturned in this respect, which cost us an enormous amount of time and trouble. Our psychiatric profile also offers us some clues or suggestions which we’ve tried to bear in mind throughout our investigation where relevant. It is probable, though not certain, that our suspect is someone likely to be cruel to any creature younger, weaker, more vulnerable than himself. This behaviour might take the form of cruelty to animals or ill treatment of women and/or children. He may also be the victim of uncontrollable rages and fits of jealousy and obsessed by violent, probably sexually oriented, fantasies. His behaviour may be menacing to others and it may be very difficult for him to calm down after a fit of violent rage. Sometimes this dysfunctional rage is camouflaged by a mask of normalcy, but it is nonetheless there. We should also be looking at neurological symptoms such as migraine headaches, extra-powerful sensitivity to sound or light, a chronic inability to remember numbers or letters or to confuse them, headaches that seem to move along one side of the head, impaired speech after severe headaches or disturbing bright lights that seem to originate from behind the eyelids. These are all the problems which might be the result or symptoms of cardiovascular problems that affect the neurological system and could, over the long term, affect the person’s behaviour.
The Monster of Florence Page 9