A sardonic smile appeared on Maione’s face.
“No, Dotto’, it’s just that the commissario is never happy unless he has you here. He only trusts you. When that other doctor comes, the little young one, I don’t know, somehow the commissario just doesn’t seem satisfied. The way you handle corpses, no one else comes close. And so we ask for you special; why, aren’t you happy to see us?”
Modo turned to look at Ricciardi, waving the sheet of paper with the phoned-in formal request in a mock-threatening gesture.
“I can’t wait for the morning that your request sheet shows up on my desk. The one that’s going to say: two police detectives found torn to pieces by a Fascist enforcement squad. Ah, if only! The day that happens, even I’ll enroll in the party, I will!”
Ricciardi’s expression hadn’t altered, but he was clearly amused.
“Have you ever thought about getting into vaudeville, the two of you? A nice little act at the Salone Margherita, the doctor and the brigadier, oom-pah-pah . . . Listen, shall we get this examination underway, so we can all get out of the rain? Based on an initial assessment, in any case, I don’t see any signs of violence on this corpse.”
Modo shot him an offended look.
“Oh, right, now you’re the one who decides when there are signs of violence and when there aren’t. Look, you’ve brought me all the way out here, my long underwear is wet right up to the knees; we might as well do this examination right. Where is the corpse? Ah, here it is. A little boy. Very young, couldn’t be more than seven, eight years old. Ah, what a shame.”
The doctor started moving around the child, carefully lifting the clothing, tenderly touching the hands and legs. Ricciardi noticed from a distance that the dog had gotten to its feet and now had both ears cocked, as if waiting to be called; all the same, it seemed to sense how delicately Modo was working and, remaining vigilant, didn’t move from where it stood.
The doctor examined the position of the corpse, crouched down to palpate the feet, inspected the face. He took notes on the back of the memo requesting his attendance. As he worked, Maione held the umbrella over him, doing his best to anticipate the doctor’s rapid movements.
When he was done, Modo went over to Ricciardi, drying his hands on his handkerchief.
“Now then: the corpse is stiff and cold. If you ask me he died yesterday evening or in the middle of the night. You’re quite right, there are no marks of violence on the body, at least nothing that could have proved fatal: old bruises, a few abrasions here and there, but nothing that was concurrent with death. He’s sitting up because he’s leaning against the wall, otherwise he would have fallen over. In my opinion, he’s seven years old, but he could be a little older; these street kids get very little to eat and develop rickets, so they can be a couple of sizes smaller than what’s normal for their actual age. He may even be ten or twelve years old. That’s something you’re going to have to find out.”
Ricciardi asked:
“About the time of death, are you certain?”
Modo shrugged.
“You can never be certain, when it’s cold and raining. The corneas are already opaque, glazed over, and I’m pretty sure I’m seeing black at the edges of the pupils. You can see hypostasis, that is, red blotches from the settling of blood due to gravity, along the right side of the neck, on the pavilion of the right ear, under the thighs, and on the legs, like socks. You see? If I press on the flesh with my fingers, it doesn’t turn white. The corpse stayed in this position for a long time.”
“And the cause of death? Agreed, no violence. So what killed him?”
Modo fell silent for a moment as he looked at the boy.
“I couldn’t say. It looks to me like a simple case of cardiac arrest. I told you, they’re weak, undernourished; every cold turns into pneumonia. They have no medicine, no one takes care of them. This is the third one I’ve seen this month. They found one of them at the train station whose ribs stuck out so much that you could examine his skeleton without even opening him up. Another one, a girl, was so hungry that she fell into the street at Sant’Eframo and a car ran over her like she was a bag of rags. It’s heartbreaking, I know. But it’s just one of the effects of poverty in this city that’s still waiting for the rising sun of the future.”
Maione listened, shaking his head.
“I feel tremendously sad for these poor creatures, Dotto’. Used to be every family would take in one of them. They called them the children of the Madonna. And they were even treated better than the other kids; people said they brought luck. But now, with the poverty you see these days, who can afford to have an extra mouth to feed?”
Modo never missed an opportunity to slip into his favorite topic of conversation.
“But doesn’t everyone say that we now live in a perfect country? Read the newspapers, Brigadie’, and all you’ll read about are parties, receptions, inaugurations, ship-launchings, and military parades. Foreign princes and kings visiting our country, happy, cheering crowds. But you and I, and our friend Ricciardi, here, all know perfectly well that matters are quite different. That children like this nameless boy are allowed to starve to death on the side of the road.”
Ricciardi raised his hand to stop him.
“Have mercy, Bruno. I beg you, no politics this morning. I can’t take it. I spent most of my night shift filling out reports and I’m even more disgusted with our political system and bureaucracy than you are; but I think that, with this fixation you have on Mussolini and the Fascists, you’re going to get yourself in trouble sooner or later, and very serious trouble, too.”
Modo ran his hand through his thick white hair and put his hat back on his head.
“So? You think that at my age I could really be afraid to speak my mind? After what I did in the Great War, for my country? For my reply to you I’ll borrow a reply of theirs: me ne frego! I don’t give a damn!”
Ricciardi shook his head.
“You don’t understand. Or perhaps I should say you pretend you don’t understand. Men like you do a great deal of good for their people. You’re the best doctor I know, and not only because you know what you’re doing and you’re good at it, but also and especially because you feel pity. I was watching you, before, as you were examining this poor corpse; you showed respect for it, as if it were still alive. Do you think it would be the best thing for them, for us, if people like you, who are few and far between, were yanked out of circulation because of a phrase or even a single word uttered in the wrong place at the wrong time? Don’t you think it’s better to try to change things day by day?”
Maione added, from under the umbrella:
“The commissario has a point, Dotto’. In any case, I have to do my duty as a spy, and in five minutes I’m going to turn you over to the proper authorities, so that they can send you off to internal exile in a hot, dry place, and I’m doing you a favor, at that.”
Modo burst out laughing, and waved to the two morgue attendants who had accompanied him.
“It’s no use, and more the fool I for even trying in the first place: you can’t have a serious conversation with a couple of cops. It’s as if I were trying to talk to a pair of oxen, except that they’d at least pretend to listen to me, without making idiotic jokes. Okay, okay, I’m heading back to the hospital; at least the dead don’t have a bunch of smart retorts. And I’m going to send this poor child to the graveyard, so that he might rest in peace, even if I can’t.”
The rain had turned to a faint drizzle, indistinguishable from fog. The two attendants lifted the corpse, laboriously straightening the stiffened limbs. Ricciardi saw them start toward the wagon, which was drawn by an old black horse glistening with raindrops. The child’s head lolled to one side and a rivulet ran down his neck. An involuntary mechanism of memory recalled to Ricciardi’s mind the image of a lamb that he used to play with as a child, after it had been sacrificed by the farmer
for Easter dinner: the same head lolling to one side, the same tender neck. Two defenseless little animals. Two victims.
In the spectral atmosphere of death and fog, the dog howled once, briefly. Ricciardi felt a shiver run down his back.
Impulsively, he called out to Modo, who was walking away with the undertakers.
“Bruno, listen to me, I need you to do me a favor: Don’t send him to the cemetery. Have them take him to the hospital, perform an autopsy on him. I want to know exactly what he died of.”
Modo looked at him in surprise.
“What do you mean, what he died of? I told you, cardiac arrest. These children have practically no immune system to speak of; he could have died of anything. Why do you want to subject him to further torture? Besides, you can’t imagine how much work I have to do at the hospital! With this weather, two out of five doctors are sick, and people come streaming in with bronchitis, pneumonia, and bruises from falls and accidents.”
Ricciardi laid his hand on the doctor’s arm.
“Please, Bruno. I never ask you for anything. Do this for me: as a personal favor.”
Modo grumbled:
“That’s not true, that you never ask me for anything. To be exact, you’re an unbelievable pain in the ass. But fine, fine. I’ll do you this favor. But remember, you owe me one.”
Ricciardi grimaced in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of a smile.
“Fine, I owe you a favor. When the warrant for your arrest finally lands on my desk I’ll take the long way around the city when I come for you, that way you’ll have time for one last visit to the bordello where you take your pleasures.”
The doctor burst out laughing.
“You know that the whores in this city couldn’t live without me, eh? Guagliu’, hold up there, there’s a change in destination. Take the child to the hospital for me. He’s a client of mine, now.”
Once the cart had set off, Maione stepped closer to Ricciardi.
“Commissa’, I don’t get what you’re doing here. Hasn’t that poor child suffered enough already? Is it really worth it to inflict more cruelty on him now that he’s dead, if there weren’t any marks on the body?”
Ricciardi said nothing; he stood watching the dog, which had never once taken its eyes off them and had stayed where it was, even after the cart with the corpse had departed. He shrugged his shoulders.
“What can I tell you, Maione. It just seemed wrong to put him in the ground without even knowing what killed him. Come on, let’s head back to headquarters, so that we can finally draw this night shift to a close.”
IV
In a break with his routine, the deputy chief of police Angelo Garzo was already in his office at 8:15. This had thrown special patrolman Ponte, who had been promoted to serve as the official’s personal assistant, into a panic.
Was it really a promotion after all? Ponte had serious doubts about the benefits of the new post. Sure, they’d tacked on a few lire to his salary, which didn’t hurt when it came to making ends meet; and he no longer had to go out on patrol, which eliminated the discomfort and inconvenience of braving the elements, with all the aches and pains that inevitably resulted, especially on damp days like the ones they’d been having lately. And finally his new position had won him a certain grudging respect from his colleagues, who, well aware that the main reason for Ponte’s promotion was his willingness to rat out his fellow officers, steered clear of him.
In exchange, Ponte had to put up with his superior officer’s moods, the most unpredictable elements in all creation. Moments of groundless euphoria came on the heels of bouts of depression, during which poor Ponte had to guess what Garzo wanted from the expression on his face. Arrogant benevolence, which might prevail for example after some words of praise from the police chief, would quickly give way to furious dissatisfaction, and at those times it was best for Ponte to make himself scarce, because Garzo invariably took it out on him with memorable tongue-lashings.
But this was by far the worst period he could remember. This is how matters stood: a month earlier, word had come down by telegraphic dispatch from the Ministry of the Interior announcing the Duce’s decision to deliver the address to the nation from Naples. Prime Minister Mussolini, accompanied of course by the highest-ranking government officials, would be visiting the city on the third and fourth of November. Local government officials would be expected to provide the maximum cooperation, and the spotlight would be focused first and foremost on the local police and judiciary, of course.
Ponte had been the first to read that dispatch, handed to him by the telegraph operator at police headquarters so that he could take it directly to the chief of police; but since he knew very well that Garzo would skin him alive if he failed to tell him about a matter of such importance before he informed anyone else, Ponte had run headlong to his office.
He wouldn’t soon forget his commanding officer’s reaction. First Garzo had turned pale, then violet, and then white again, with a few lingering blotches of red on his neck and his forehead. He’d leapt to his feet and the sheet of paper had fallen from his trembling fingers. He’d stared down at it, muttering something incomprehensible, and then he’d dropped back into his chair, waving weakly for Ponte to take the document to the chief.
From that moment on, Garzo had becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day. He locked himself in his office for hours on end, checking and rechecking police reports and depositions from months earlier, terrorized by the possibility of an inspection; or else he’d burst into the sentry post, shrieking in falsetto that the sheer slovenlinesss of the room was unbelievable. And now he was actually showing up at police headquarters shortly after sunrise, when all poor Ponte wanted was to sip a cup of ersatz coffee and smoke his morning cigar in peace. Ponte glanced at the calendar: eight more days of this would really be more than he could bear.
Garzo glanced at the calendar for the fourth time in half an hour, and decided that he simply couldn’t take eight more days of this tension. Il Duce. Il Duce in person, the Great Condottiere, the Chief of the Italian Nation, the Man of Destiny to whom the Italian people looked with boundless faith would be here, perhaps in his office, standing right in front of him. He might even smile at him, reach out to shake his hand. For the thousandth time since he first read the telegram from the ministry, he felt faint. The Duce’s safety was the responsibility of the army and the secret police; that, at least, wasn’t his concern. But the chief of police had stated it in no uncertain terms: the cleanliness and appearance of police headquarters and of the city in general were Garzo’s personal responsibility.
In short, it was up to him, and him alone, to ensure that the Duce, the interior minister, and all the functionaries who would be coming down from Rome found Naples to be the perfect Fascist city, free of crime and anything unsightly. And he was determined to make sure that that was exactly the kind of city they would find.
Once again, for what must have been the thousandth time, he opened his pocket mirror and checked his mustache—grown recently at his wife’s suggestion—to make sure that not a single hair was out of place. His wife, a woman who was as energetic as she was despotic, had been uncompromising in her view that when it came to a man’s career, his physical appearance was an important calling card. And she knew whereof she spoke: her uncle was retired on a prefect’s pension, after scaling all the summits of a ministry career.
Garzo knew that he wasn’t a particularly astute investigator; he’d always felt a certain disgust for the criminal mentality, and he hated having to dirty his hands by interacting with thugs and hooligans. But he compensated for this with his considerable talent for personal relations, adhering to the tried and tested principle of being firm with the weak and weak with the strong: kissing up and kicking down. This approach had allowed him to free himself of actual duties and take on a series of executive positions, in which he had employed his God-given skills
as an organizer. He knew how to see problems coming and prevent them, isolating the causes and carefully removing them.
And what, he mused, could the problems be now? What could possibly come between him and the Duce’s praise, the minister’s compliments, the chief of police’s grateful embrace? His thoughts turned immediately to Ricciardi, and to his usual sardonic expression.
It was a fine time for the Duce’s visit. There were no investigations under way, no unsolved cases, no unrest. For once, everything was running smoothly. So why did he feel so uneasy?
Ricciardi was a good detective, no doubt about that. He’d solved complex cases, some of which had been real stumpers; Garzo had once remarked to his wife that if you asked him, Ricciardi owed his successes to the simple fact that deep down he was a criminal himself, so he thought like the people he arrested. This assessment aside—and even Garzo wasn’t entirely sure of it—the fact remained that Ricciardi was untamable, elusive, enigmatic. He lived with his aged tata, his childhood nanny. He had no bad habits, no friends, no woman in his life. A man without vices, he thought, cannot possess great virtues. And then, those eyes of his: those unsettling green eyes, clear as glass, that never blinked; those eyes that challenged you without challenging you directly, that put you face-to-face with the worst part of yourself, the part you’d rather not know about, the part you didn’t know was there. Garzo shuddered.
Recently, moreover, there had been the widow Vezzi. That was another complication. The deputy chief of police couldn’t understand why a woman who was so beautiful, wealthy, and well liked, and with friends in such high places (he’d even heard that she was close to the Duce’s daughter), should make no secret of the crush she had on a character like Ricciardi.
Day of the Dead Page 2