“So today, what procedure have you come to carry out, chief?”
“Today? Let's just say I'm taking a walk; this is a big property and I might take it even up to those huge meadows ...”
“Wait until I put out the other bags so that the trash collectors take them all away.”
“I’m not in a hurry.”
The Rocca property had, of course, a large garden, although in reality, for its size, it looked more like a huge park. By dint of walking up and down, the chief noted how his interlocutor, who appeared to be only a rough and imscrutable gardener, began to gain confidence and to open up always little more, even managing to smile at moments.
Whenever he happened to pass in front of one of the facades of the villa, Germano promptly pulled out his notebook from his pocket. After forty minutes of healthy walking the chief had managed, through simple drawings, to sketch all four facades, especially those two which had not been the focus of the police photos and surveys when they had investigated the suicide.
At this point, the two had stopped in the middle of the large garden, looking around a bit. Their listening to the silence was disturbed by the chief’s sudden curiosity.
“What is that?”
Germano asked the question to the gardener while pointing to a kind of ruin, two hundred meters away from them and partially covered by trees.
“Ah, that is an old toolshed, chief.”
“Let’s go in that direction, a little shade will do us good.”
During that short walk, the gardener completed the previous sentence, adding now how it was nothing but a ruin fallen into disuse, which should have been knocked down some time ago, that is one year before. That’s when the owners decided to build another one near the villa, much more spacious and comfortable.
Once they arrived near it, the chief could see how that old structure, made of tuff of about ten square meters, probably would have fallen down shortly by itself, without the need for a bulldozer to tear it down.
On the small door there was a chain with a lock, which, however, didn’t prevent the two from entering because it was only wedged between one chain-link and another.
The gardener kept talking nonstop, often alone even though he didn’t notice it. Not even the fact that many of the questions that he asked the chief received no response could make him stop his monologue.
Once inside Germano, had started to look around. There was nothing, just a few nails hanging on the walls. Everything had apparently been moved to the new, more comfortable building.
A small window, the only one in the shed, with five centimeter size grates like in prisons, allowed Germano to see his face; experiencing a slight shock the chief headed to the exit, until his attention was caught by another small detail.
In one corner, more precisely the one that was covered when the door opened, something very much resembling bread crumbs was deposited, no larger than half a centimeter each.
The gardener convinced himself that it was finally time to shut up when he saw the inspector begin moving in a strange way. Not knowing what to add or ask, he let him go on.
He still didn’t say a word even when he observed Germano removing a piece of tuff from the wall and throw it out of that window. He realized that the time had come to ask him something only after having seen him again leaning by the window, looking out it with his eyes directed towards the stream below. The chief was giving the impression that he knew the stream well, too well.
Chapter 6
When he returned to the police station Germano already found all his officers in the office, each with various folders and paperwork in their hands.
He went behind his desk before starting the meeting, but the ringing phone did not allow him to do so.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, I wish to talk to a certain police chief who is in charge of an investigation of a grave here at the Verano cemetery.”
“That’s me, go ahead.”
“Well, my name is Talese and I’m the one that deals with burial arrangements. A little while ago one of your men came into our office asking about the body of Ferdinando Rocca, however at that time I wasn’t present.”
“Go on.”
“I thought it was a good idea to call you, chief, seeing that there had been left word to call the police as soon as possible ...”
“Don’t worry, you did well, go ahead.”
“Actually with regard to the burial of Ferdinando Rocca there was nothing problematic or unusual, it was after that ...”
“What?”
“A few weeks ago a fellow showed up saying that he was responsible for taking care of the burial of the wife of this Rocca, who had died a few days before. He asked if it was possible to bury her next to her husband.”
“And what did you say?”
“Well, the Rocca Chapel is approved for ten bodies and unfortunately it’s currently full, so I told him that there were some enquiries to do regarding it, but I swear to you, chief, I didn’t ask for a penny to speed up the process!”
“Don’t worry, we're not investigating about that, what happened next?”
“Nothing, usually to accomplish everything takes ten days, at least that's what I told him, but then I never saw him again.”
“Can you answer a question for me, Talese?”
“Sure chief.”
“How come you remember this guy so well? I mean ... there must be dozens, if not hundreds, of people entering your office every day ...”
“He was in a strange hurry; he was too focused on the timing of the business rather than on the details.”
“In what way was it strange?”
“In this place, chief, you never meet people who are in a hurry, the dead don’t run away ...”
Germano repeated the call word for word to his colleagues after hanging up.
Piazza was the first to speak.
“Do we know who this guy was, chief?”
“The employee didn’t tell me. But from what I understood it could have been anyone, a relative or even an employee of the funeral home.”
“How do we find this guy, chief?”
Germano passed over Gianni Piazza’s question. He had a feeling that in any case, sooner or later, this guy would show up again during the investigation; therefore, he preferred to put a question to inspector Di Girolamo.
“Excuse me, Giulio, you're still analyzing the evidence provided by the maid, the gardener and the butler?”
“Yes.”
“Forget about the gardener for now, I met him this morning at the villa and I spoke directly with him; rather, tell me what the cleaning lady said ...”
“Sure ... here it is ... she said that when Laura Rocca jumped from the third floor she was busy cleaning the dining room window on the ground floor.”
As soon as Di Girolamo finished the sentence, Germano withdrew from his pocket his notebook where he had drawn the four facades of the villa a few hours earlier. Then he opened the file on the woman’s suicide and took out two photos taken of the immediate area, so as to complete the outline of the house.
“The lady lied.”
After this statement, all those present began to look at the chief with a mixture of curiosity and dismay.
“Look at this ... the only side which has a large window is the one just below the balcony from which the lady jumped, she must have seen it ...”
“Excuse me, Vincent.”
“What is it, Angelo.”
“Maybe at that time she was only doing something that she couldn’t tell the Police, so she invented a little story.”
“Yes ... it’s possible that she was slacking off or stealing something, and that she was ashamed to tell us ... it may well be, but I want her followed up. Piazza, you take care of it.”
“Ok chief.”
At that point Germano turned his gaze on Fiorini and Pennino. The two said that the only thing they had not told the others yet concerned the discovery of who had dealt with the bur
ial of Laura Rocca.
“And who was it?”
“Her brother, a certain Andrea Grassetti.”
“Follow him up, too.”
Germano looked around like he was a bit lost before resuming the discussion.
“Today I discovered, maybe, the place from where the plastic bottle containing the message was thrown ... I think it happened in an old ruined building on the Rocca estate; when I entered it, I thought it resembled more a prison that a tool shed ...”
“Who was it, chief?”
“That remains to be discovered. The only thing we know about the handwriting of that message, from what little could be read, is that it seemed to be that of a man.”
“The butler or the gardener?”
“And who knows that, my dear Piazza? Try sending a copy of their statements for a calligraphic analysis. I hope that their signatures are enough to complete a comparison with the message, even if ...”
Germano ended that speech by slightly lowering his eyes and lighting a cigarette; he felt like there was certainly something, or maybe more than one thing, which was still preventing the squaring of this circle. The real problem, however, was the fact that he hadn’t the slightest idea of where to look for that something.
The chief dedicated the next morning to searching for as much information as possible about the late Ferdinando Rocca. He started calling and sending out requests for cooperation to all police stations in the areas where there were properties registered in Rocca’s name.
The most complicated research undoubtedly involved Argentina. It was there, in fact, that the deceased had purchased one of his villas five years earlier, but both at the procedural level as well as that of connections, Germano would not find it easy to operate in that South American country.
Because of time zone problems the chief had to wait until after 12:00 pm before he could contact the Argentine authorities. After having been telephonically bounced around various offices, he was able to make contact with a certain inspector Garcia, of the department of Buenos Aires.
“Hello.”
“Hello Garcia, I'm calling from Italy, I don’t know if ...”
“Yes Germano, everything has already been explained to me.”
“But you speak excellent Italian ...”
“Oh ... my mother was born there and lived for several years in a small town near Verona before moving to Argentina so ...”
“Good, good, as your colleagues have probably already told you I'm doing an investigation ... nothing special, we are still at the preliminary stages ... the person we are investigating is called, or rather he was called, Ferdinando Rocca. We understand that he also bought some property over there by you ...”
“Chief, was it done under his name?”
“A villa in Mar del Plata, yes, but I'm not sure whether there may be others, perhaps under the name of his wife Laura Grassetti or that of a shell company.”
“I see...”
“Maybe during the day I will e-mail you the company registration certificates of the Italian companies associated with them, in case they ever have, or have had, anything to do with Argentina.”
“We will certainly check, chief, but what exactly were these Roccas up to?”
“Well ... from their tax return it looks like they were living off their investments, some nice investments ...”
“Do you believe them, Germano?”
“As they say ... until proven otherwise ...”
“I get it, I'll let you know as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Garcia.”
Before he left for lunch Germano preferred to go visit his friend Angelo Parisi, hoping that at least he had some good news.
“Hello Angelo, sorry to bother you.”
“Come on in Vincent....”
The chief didn’t want to sit down, and he leaned against one of the many shelves that were present in the inspector’s office.
“Do you have any news, Vincent?”
“Actually, I was hoping that you had some ...”
“Well ... nothing yet, the only thing I was able to find was a phone call made from the Rocca home on the evening when Ferdinando died; it was dialed direct to Argentina, right around midnight.”
“How long did it last?”
“Twenty-seven seconds.”
“The calls were all dialed direct, right? I mean, they never went through a switchboard?”
“Actually no, unless one uses a prepaid card.”
“Do we already know who was being called?”
“No ... I am preparing documentation to request the cooperation of the Argentine authorities, but it will take time.”
“Just to let you know ... ten minutes ago I was on the phone with an inspector from Buenos Aires ...”
“Excellent, at least we’ll have steady contact with someone there.”
“What time did you say the phone call was made?”
“Shortly after midnight.”
“When the body of poor Rocca was still warm ...”
“He had been dead an hour, at the most two, at least that’s what’s specified in the death certificate ... what are you thinking about, Vincent?”
“Nothing, Angelo, I'm hungry, I think it's time to put something in my stomach.”
Germano left the office of his colleague without having resolved anything; in fact, if anything, the proportion of his doubts and uncertainties had only increased.
At this point, the only explanation of everything could only be something at the edge of the improbable, of the intangible and which would have been almost impossible to prove.
For the first time since this unusual investigation had begun, Germano felt the desire to abandon it, to have it slip away as though nothing had happened, to peacefully resume his routine.
The first person to feel this was his wife during that interminable lunch, she understood it perhaps even before the chief himself; Arianna had wanted to ask him a few questions, but in end she thought better of it, preferring to wait for her husband to tell her about it when the time was right.
His friend Angelo Parisi had the same feeling when the chief returned to the office that afternoon.
The inspector began to talk to him, trying to add some details, even forcing things in certain moments in order to keep the conversation going, but Germano didn’t do anything other than sitting there motionless at his desk.
“You think it's all useless, right Vincent?”
“It’s never useless, but maybe it's all a bit out of the ordinary, yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The entire problem is this, at this point to make a bit of progress we need a body.”
“Which one of the two?”
“Of the three you mean ...”
“What ...”
“Listen ... I have a feeling that the person who wrote the note is now dead, only that we don’t know either his name or where to look.”
“Exactly ...”
More than a minute passed before the conversation resumed.
“Regarding this, Angelo ... did we find out anything about the cleaning lady and that ... the woman’s brother?”
“You're referring to Andrea Grassetti?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Well, we know where the cleaning lady is. After losing her job at the villa following the death of the Roccas, she returned to her hometown, a village near Orvieto, in Umbria; we have already notified our colleagues in the area and by this evening, or at least by tomorrow morning, we should be able to question her. As far as the woman’s brother on the other hand ...”
“What?”
“He’s untraceable; his last residence is said to be around Parma, but our colleagues in the area tell us that in the neighborhood where he lived, no one seems to remember him.”
“A ghost?”
“So it would appear, or maybe that’s what he would have us believe.”
“I got it. So do this then, try to find him thro
ugh his telephone numbers or any e-mail addresses he uses. Having a chat with him won’t do us any harm.”
“OK, Vincent.”
With these last words the conversation ended. After exchanging a few glances, the two said goodbye and returned to their solitude and their thoughts.
Germano continued to reflect in silence for a few long moments, during which he thought about anything he could do to be able to find the third and final missing body.
He could dig around the villa or even go over every hollow space, partition or bearing wall of the building with a fine-toothed comb. The feeling that he had, however, besides the fact that it would be difficult to find a prosecutor willing to authorize such a thing without a shred of evidence, was that such a gesture would have unnecessarily brought things out in the open, causing him to throw away the only card he had, which was time. That is, that one’s adversary relaxes when he doesn’t know he’s being hunted.
Chapter 7
The next morning Vincent Germano went to the office early, hoping that by having another look at the particulars of the investigation, he would have figured out a little more.
No sooner had he sat down at his desk than he heard someone knock on the door.
Inspector Parisi had gotten to the office even before the chief himself, intending to analyze some phone records extremely carefully.
“Hi Vincent.”
“Hi Angelo, you too bright and early huh ...”
“You know it.”
“What have you got there?”
“Nothing, I was having a look at some phone printouts of that Andrea Grassetti, the brother of the woman who committed suicide ...”
“Find anything interesting?”
“Interesting not much, but something unusual, yes.”
“Explain yourself better.”
“The night that his brother-in-law, Ferdinando Rocca, went on to his just reward, Grassetti received a call a few minutes after midnight from the switchboard at the morgue, the one in Rome.”
“The morgue huh ...”
“Yep, exactly, the conversation lasted a couple of minutes.”
Never More Than Twice Page 4