Persona Non Grata

by Timothy Williams

  “A young woman like you—you look tired and fed up.”

  “I need help, Commissario.”

  “Something to eat?”

  “I need cooperation.”

  Trotti ordered at the bar and then held a chair for her and they sat down at a window-side table. Outside the yellow buses rumbled past the Policlinico.

  “Tell me about Signor Vardin.”

  She had set the file down on the table. “Commissario, I don’t like complaining like this.”

  “I will tell Pisanelli to stop acting like a phallocrat.”

  Ciuffi leaned forward and placed her elbows on the edge of the table. She propped her clenched fists beneath her chin. A gesture that reminded him of Pioppi when she was little.

  The waiter brought two cups of coffee. On a small plate there were a couple of croissants.

  Trotti handed her a croissant.

  “Thanks.” Ciuffi gave him a brief smile and, for an instant, she allowed her fingers to touch the back of Trotti’s hand.

  23: Plasma

  PROVINCIA PADANA, 11TH September 1972:

  “As technical director of AVIS, it has never been my intention to harm the organization of which I am proud to be a member. However, my first responsibility is to the people of this city and this province and, in the last resort, it is their welfare that I must protect.”

  So speaks Giuglielmo Azzali. The professor—born 49 years ago in Livorno—appears troubled, upset that his action has caused so much anger within the city’s medical community. But he regrets nothing. “My being dismissed is a political action. It is not by getting rid of me that the problem is going to go away. I have faith in the officers of the Ministry of Justice and I know they will do their utmost to cast light on this affair. I feel no bitterness towards the AVIS administration in Rome. They no doubt believe they are doing the right thing in giving me the sack. However, I can assure them that I am not a troublemaker. My only concern is the good name of AVIS in this city.”

  The AVIS scandal exploded last week when the Rome paper La Voce del Secolo announced that the Pubblico Ministero was looking into serious allegations of malpractice within the AVIS organization of our city. What were these accusations? Who made them?

  Professor Azzali gives a brief smile. “Monday before last, I found myself in the anteroom to the operating theater at the San Matteo Policlinico. I noticed four phials of blood sent from AVIS. One of the phials seemed strangely clouded. There seemed to be a lack of plasma. I asked the anaesthetist whether he had requested pure blood—plasma and red corpuscles—or merely red corpuscles in a physiological solution. He replied that he had asked for blood. We then analyzed the four phials and observed that the protein content was extremely low, which could only mean one thing—absence of plasma. There was no label on the phials. When I discovered that in all the operating theaters and throughout the hospital this so-called blood was being freely administered, I immediately gave the order to withhold the distribution of the phials.”

  And the AVISini?

  “I am sorry for what has happened. But I am sure the AVISini will understand my action. I have nothing but admiration for the blood donors who over the years have unstintingly given their blood in good faith. It is thanks to the AVISini—and to all the donors throughout Italy—that AVIS has been able to build up such a dynamic network. In this city, we have one of the most advanced transfusion centers. There are about three thousand donors on our lists and we can produce about thirty thousand phials a year. I am proud to be a member of AVIS. I have nothing but respect for the national AVIS organization.”

  Dottor Azzali wishes to be reasonable, “It is not rare for doctors to ask for low-protein blood; in certain instances, it can be administered safely and effectively. However, the fact remains that, while many of the doctors at San Matteo have been asking for normal blood, they have been receiving watered-down plasma.”

  Dottor Azzali is too discreet to mention that whereas a phial of blood costs the Policlinico five thousand lire, a phial of non-plasma blood costs only two thousand lire. It follows logically then that if someone at AVIS has been selling non-plasma as blood, he has been making a profit of three thousand lire per phial.

  Dottor Azzali is adamant. He knows nothing about any malpractice. In informing the Public Minister, he says he was merely carrying out his duty as technical director of the local AVIS.

  A couple of questions remain unanswered.

  How long has this malpractice been going on? Dottor Azzali has been the technical director of this city’s blood bank for more than three years. Why is it only now that a suspicion of malpractice has come to the notice of Dottor Azzali?

  24: Files

  “WELL?”

  Ciuffi said, “It’s all there.”

  “If we’re going to see Vardin, I haven’t got time to read the entire dossier.”

  She leaned across the table and flicked through the pages. There was a lot of computer typescript as well as the occasional newspaper cutting, one or two smudged photocopies. “I should like to remind you that I put this together all alone, Commissario.”

  “Well done.”

  “I was up until two o’clock.”

  “Where does Vardin come into this AVIS business?”

  “Read the file, Commissario.”

  “I haven’t got the time.” He clicked his tongue. “Not if we’re going to see Vardin now.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, advertising a local coffee—Mocka Sir’s. “Tell me what happened.”

  She held her breath as she ran through the pages. With her head held down, her hair fell forward and partially hid her face. She had put the empty cup of coffee to one side and she reminded him of a thoughtful, hardworking pupil, upset at not having met with the teacher’s approval.

  “Forgive me, Brigadiere.” Trotti smiled as she raised her head and he was touched by the youthful innocence of her face. “I am being ungrateful.” He squeezed her forearm.

  She looked down at her arm. Then she raised one eyebrow.

  “You’re not meeting enough appreciative men.” He gave her arm another squeeze. “I’m afraid we are all phallocrats.”

  “I don’t think you are a phallocrat, Commissario.” The eyes had softened. “I think you are a good man—with a good heart.”

  Surprised, Trotti found himself smiling. “I am an old man—and I am getting too old for this job. Too old and too irritable. It is time I took a well-deserved retirement. It is time I went back to the hills, where I belong.”

  “By yourself, Commissario?”

  “I’ve had enough of this city.”

  “You could never go back to the hills. You need people too much.”

  “People?” A brief laugh and a shrug.

  “I think you’d be very lonely. You need people—and you like them.”

  The image of the small, maltreated form beneath the incubator.

  “Who knows? Perhaps I could adopt a child.” Trotti finished the cup of cold coffee and brushed at the grains of sugar that had fallen from the croissant on to his jacket. He made an effort to concentrate, and he tapped the dossier. “All I really need to know is how Vardin fits in.”

  Ciuffi nodded and the softness in her eyes disappeared. She took one of the sheets. “Listen,” she said, and she began to read. She spoke in a flat monotone. “ ‘The behavior of the accused is particularly disturbing if we consider the scale of his actions, the period of time, the nature of the fraud and the danger to human life. Patients at San Matteo were receiving little more than fresh water when what they needed was life-giving blood.’ This was the summing up of the public prosecutor.”

  “Against Azzali?”

  Ciuffi shook her head. “Against Galandra.”

  “Who the hell’s Galandra?”

  “Azzali was the technical director and it was he who brought the affair into the open. And, once he did, there were several arrests, including Conti, the priest, who was the nominal director of AVIS. But in the end, most of the
accusations centered on Galandra and his wife.”

  “What did they do?”

  “The problem was finding out who was responsible for what. Watered-down blood was being sent to the hospital. Apparently, in one year, the demand for saline solution at the transfusion center had gone up ten-fold. Although nobody really believed that Azzali was guilty, it was far from clear why he had authorized the delivery of adulterated blood to the hospital.”

  “And?”

  “In the end, Azzali’s defense was able to show that he was not responsible for the deliveries. He was merely responsible for the running of the center, the collection of blood. It was Galandra, the accountant, and his wife—she was a secretary—who must have added the saline solution.”

  “They would have been seen.”

  Ciuffi nodded. “That’s just it. And there’s where Vardin came in. He was a witness.”

  “What to?”

  A shriek of laughter and one of the girls at the pinball table said, “Tilt.” The other girl glanced briefly at Trotti and Ciuffi before looking through her handbag. She produced a couple of coins and inserted them into the slot of the blinking machine.

  Ciuffi frowned disapprovingly. Turning back to the file, she riffled through the pages, her tongue sticking from the corner of her lips in concentration. “Ah,” she said, and again she read from the pages like a dutiful schoolgirl. “ ‘The fraud was carried out in the following way. Blood was put through the centrifugal spinner, which separated the plasma from the hematin. Azzali gave permission for the hematin to be diluted with forty-five centiliters of saline solution, on the understanding that this liquid was used within four hours. On each phial, there should have been a label with the following legend: “Hematin for immediate use.” Instead of diluting the hematin with forty-five centiliters, Signor Galandra and his collaborators added an equal amount of salt water. The labels were removed from the bottles and as the mixture was not much different in appearance from normal blood, doctors at San Matteo couldn’t have been expected to distinguish between the phials of normal blood and those of diluted hematin.’ ” She smiled with satisfaction.

  “And Vardin?”

  “Precisely,” she replied.

  “What do you mean, precisely?”

  “The fraud was on a large scale. And spinning the blood and then adding saline solution to the hematin—it was something that took time. And since nobody really questioned Azzali’s probity, the unanswered question was when did all this manipulation take place. And that’s when Vardin came forward.”

  “He was the janitor at the transfusion center?”

  “Before AVIS moved out to the university campus on via Mantova.” She nodded. “The trouble was that Galandra and his wife were blackmailing various people. And throughout the trial they made threats of damning revelations. At one point Galandra accused Azzali of having killed a patient by making a mistake in a blood analysis. Galandra and his wife were unscrupulous—and people were scared of them.” She flicked through the pages. “That’s why Vardin’s testimony came as a surprise.”

  “What testimony?”

  “The presiding judge asked him if he had ever seen Galandra or his wife return to the transfusion center in the evening.” She read from the dossier: “ ‘Yes, I saw them repeatedly when they went to the plasma laboratory. They’d come at nine and leave around midnight. It was my job to keep the place clean and I’d always find empty phials everywhere. Phials marked, “Physiological solution.” ’ ”

  “He should have reported it earlier.”

  “When the judge asked him why he hadn’t reported anything he replied that he took his orders not from Azzali but from Galandra. He then went on to say that he and his wife had received threats.”

  “Threats?”

  She nodded. “But he said that AVIS had been a good employer. And that he was not afraid of doing his duty. He then added that he was a competent hunter, he knew how to manipulate firearms and, if necessary, he would know how to protect himself.”

  For a moment they sat in silence. Trotti looked at the young woman and she looked at him. Trotti repeated, “He knew how to protect himself.”

  “That’s what he said—but that was nearly ten years ago.”

  “And you think that the knifing in Piazza Castello was Galandra’s revenge?”

  “Why not? He was released from jail three months ago. After serving the full term. In Verona.”

  “And he had made threats at the time of the trial?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated; her voice changed. “Commissario Trotti …”

  “Well?”

  She shook her head.

  “What is it, Signorina?”

  “No.” She was staring down at her hands. “It’s got nothing to do with Galandra—or with the case.”

  He smiled. “Tell me.”

  “It’s about your retirement.”

  “My retirement?”

  “Yes.” She raised her eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Serious about retiring? But of course. In just over a couple of years I’ll be sixty.”

  “Serious about adopting a child?” Again she lowered her eyes. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” Ciuffi repeated.

  “I would love to adopt.” He paused. “But I doubt if it is really possible.”

  “You’d really adopt a child?”

  “I have a grown daughter—but I have always dreamt of having a son. But I don’t suppose it’s possible. I’m old—and now I live by myself.”

  “But you are a man,” Ciuffi said. Her young face gradually turned a deep scarlet. “You don’t need to adopt. Men aren’t like women, there’s no age limit to parenthood for you. If you really want a child, you can easily have one of your own.”

  25: Monotony

  TROTTI WAS OUT of breath by the time they reached the third floor.

  With the morning light coming through the window, the small room was less depressing. A room that looked lived in, with a heavy chest-of-drawers, a wooden table. The bedsheets had been removed and Trotti sat down on the bulky folding settee. Everything was clean and neat.

  The thin traces of splashed blood across the stone floor had been scrubbed and now there was just the slightest discoloration. A light, warm breeze came through the window and rustled at Frate Indovino’s calendar on the wall.

  Ciuffi took a chair and placed her elbows on the table.

  Trotti smiled. “Where’s your husband, signora?”

  “He has gone fishing.”

  “A strange time to go fishing.”

  “What else has he got to do? He sits in the house and he gets miserable.” She shrugged. “Would you care for a drink?” Signora Vardin used the polite form, addressing Trotti and Ciuffi as “they”—would they care for a drink? In her mouth, the expression sounded servile—a lifetime of humility, of limited expectations.

  “We have just had a late breakfast.” Trotti brushed at imaginary grains of sugar on his lapels. “I would like to talk to your niece, signora.”

  “To my niece? To Bettina?”

  “I think that she might be able to help us.”

  “You have already talked to her.”

  Trotti shook his head.

  “Not you, Commissario—but the other policeman. The nice young man.” She touched her forehead. “He is losing his hair.”

  “I would like to speak to her personally.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  A slight sigh. “She is in Piemonte … at Ovada.”

  “Your husband told me that she was staying with you for a week. That her parents had gone to the funeral of Zio Moisè.”

  “Bettina said she wanted to go home.” A resigned shrug. “And so we took her to the station.” A plain, dull face, used to the monotony of hard work. “She is a good girl—but the doctor told me that it would be better for everyone if she went home.” She sighed again. “The doctor has given me these pills. For my nerves, you see, becaus
e I worry about Laura. Laura is her father’s favorite and even though she is going to get better, I can’t help worrying.” A hand to her forehead. “And I feel so tired. I love Bettina, but it is better for her to be out of the way.” She raised a hand. “And the way that the newspaper is talking about us—Bettina said that she had to go home.”

  Trotti gave her a smile. “I understand.”

  “You are a good man, Commissario.”

  Trotti turned his head away, looked at the table. Then he stood up, moved towards the sideboard and picked up a red cardboard box. On the packet, there was the printed sketch of a dog’s head; between its jaws, a dead duck. “Your husband has a gun, signora?”

  “A gun?” She shook her head. “My husband is a good man, he has never harmed anybody.”

  “He keeps a gun in the house?” Trotti raised the empty box of cartridges. “A thirty-two caliber.”

  For a moment the eyes looked at him without understanding. Then she nodded.

  “Can you show it to me?”

  “Why? There is nothing illegal. He has a permit.”

  “Of course, signora,” Ciuffi said, giving a reassuring smile. “It is only normal that your husband should want to protect his family.”

  She turned back to face Trotti. “My husband uses his gun for hunting—and now that he is unemployed … He hasn’t been out with it more than twice in the last two years.”

  “Then what is this packet doing here?”

  She tapped the ample slope of her chest. “With my heart troubles, he can ill afford small pleasures. We are not rich.”

  “Your husband has received strange letters lately, signora?”

  The woman said nothing.

  Ciuffi’s voice was gentle. “Signor Vardin should have told us if he was receiving threats.”

  In silence Signora Vardin wrung her large, pale hands.

  “It is our job to protect you,” Trotti said.

  “I know nothing about threats.”

  “In your opinion, who attacked your daughter, signora?”

  “Laura is getting better. Soon she will be out of the hospital.” The face tried to smile, while the eyes went from Ciuffi to Trotti, looking for understanding. “And that nice doctor told me that there will be nothing to pay.”