City of Devils
Page 34
Lombroso nodded. ‘Indeed. I believe Reiner identifies it as a disease of the brain. He discusses the condition in relation to sexual proclivities. Here, of course, it has led to criminality without a sexual motive. The cunning and ingenuity displayed by our killer is typical of the morally insane but it is combined in this case with the savagery of the primitive or atavistic offender. He will appear to the outside world as a perfectly normal person but this hides an inner turmoil that is manifesting itself in these crimes.’
‘Then how are we ever to catch him?’ Ottolenghi said in despair.
Lombroso went over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘His hatred will get the better of him before long. I am sure of it.’
Tullio stood suddenly. ‘I have an idea. It’s not exactly scientific policing, but it could work.’
‘Go on,’ Lombroso said.
‘Based on this new criminal type of yours it seems that we can conclude that this man loves or hates you to the level of obsession, Professor. Is that right?’ Tullio asked.
Lombroso sighed. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Then his obsession will drive him. He will want to show you his work either by murdering in your presence if he loves you or—’
‘Making you his last victim,’ Ottolenghi said.
‘Finito,’ Lombroso murmured quietly. ‘Hence the question mark.’
‘So if we were to put you in harm’s way, Professor, then . . .’ Tullio said.
James frowned. ‘Isn’t that a rather risky strategy?’
‘Sometimes one has to take risks in the name of discovery, Murray,’ Lombroso said, thoughtfully. ‘This is scientific policing, Tullio, but based on criminal anthropology, not mere investigatory techniques!’
‘I cannot guarantee your safety, Professor,’ Tullio warned.
Lombroso smiled. ‘Of course I am hoping that he will be caught before that happens. I will merely be the bait, the fly to catch the spider, as it were.’
And so after some discussion a plan was hatched. Wherever the professor went, one of the others would follow. Sooner or later, or so it was hoped, the criminal would reveal himself and the case could be solved. James was happy enough to assist but he could not help thinking that Lombroso’s faith in his own theories might be somewhat misplaced. He decided that he would continue on his own path as well. Hopefully he might then be in a position to identify the killer before Lombroso put his own life in danger. Then, perhaps, the gates of Hell could be firmly and finally closed.
25
We believe that those individuals least responsible for their behaviour are most to be feared.
Lombroso, 1896 p 336
It was the final day of the symposium. They had gathered to hear a talk by Borelli on the use of criminal anthropology in criminal courts. Lombroso was then to close the proceedings with a short speech in reply. James could see Madame Tarnovsky dressed in black but still somehow managing to shine out like a precious stone in a sea of grey. Horton was there too, sitting with Gemelli and his two cronies. He looked smug, somehow, as if he knew something that the rest of the party did not. He waved a greeting but the look on his face was insincere. He was a strange man. James wondered again where he had disappeared to on the night of DeClichy’s murder. Was he really in one of the local brothels? And what was it that he had been so worried about James finding out about his past?
On the other side of the room sat Father Vincenzo. James was surprised to see him. He did not think that this was a subject about which the priest had much interest. He looked engaged enough however, as he looked around him like a hawk seeking it out its next victim. James remembered the curious warnings he had uttered to Lombroso. Perhaps his fear for the consequences of the professor’s work was genuine but still something told James that Father ‘Hell’ was a man to be wary of. His allegiance was to the Church and to himself and that made him a man who could not be trusted.
Tullio was also present, keeping a watchful eye on the professor. He beckoned James over. ‘I’ve asked Giardinello to find records of violent assaults for the last six months. I haven’t been able to check them yet but you’re welcome to take a look yourself.’
James nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘I’ve left them at my office. Just ask and Giardinello will show them to you,’ Tullio said.
James thanked him and went to find a seat. Part of him wanted to go to Tullio’s office immediately but he forced himself to stay. He was still a student and Lombroso might not take kindly to his absence. The atmosphere was more subdued than at the previous talks but the level of interest was high as Borelli rose to his feet to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have come here today to discuss the application of criminal anthropology to criminal proceedings. It is my view that we should be wary of its use as, although it has much to commend it, mistakes are still all too easy to make.’
‘Why don’t you ask Lombroso about mistakes? He’s becoming somewhat of an expert!’ called out Horton in his American drawl. There was some muted laughter. Everyone knew of the events at the police station and it would take some time for Lombroso to live them down amongst his peers.
Borelli gave a mock bow in Horton’s direction. ‘Thank you, Dr Horton, for your comments, which are as helpful as ever.’ More laughter followed and Borelli lifted his hands to quell the disturbance.
‘If mistakes are made when testimony is given then the results can be catastrophic for all those concerned. Such errors can result in miscarriages of justice and the consequences that can follow on from them are truly tragic. Our work is still in its infancy and we should beware of intellectual arrogance and complacency that can infect us like a disease if we are not careful.’
James looked round at people’s faces. He could see that they were not convinced.
Borelli continued, undeterred by an undercurrent of hostile muttering in the audience. ‘When we give evidence in a trial we must always ask ourselves this question: are we sure of our ground? And if we are not, we should say so, loud and clear for all to hear. We should never present guesswork as fact, for to do so can bring about some terrible changes to innocent lives.’
There was some fidgeting. Perhaps, thought James, some of them were discomfited by the prospect that they could ever be anything less than certain.
Borelli went on for some time. Trained in the law as well as medicine, he knew his subject well. He gave various examples of where evidence had been wrong and how it had ruined the lives of those involved. It was a moving speech and a fitting end to the proceedings. Finally he came to an end and after the plentiful applause had died down, Lombroso got to his feet to reply and bring the symposium to a close.
‘Fellow scientists,’ he began. There was applause at this, for that was exactly how his audience wished others to see them.
‘I thank Professor Borelli for his timely and interesting speech. However, although I agree that we should be careful not to be intellectually arrogant, I would still like to remind us all of how useful our work can be in the maintaining of an orderly and just society.’
Lombroso looked around him at his audience. He had a way of looking which made each person feel as if he was addressing them directly.
‘Knowing one’s enemy is paramount in any battle and the war against crime which blights so many lives is no exception. If we can point at a man and say he is a criminal then we can rid society of this blight upon it. Some are unfortunate enough to be born to crime and our work means that we know who these people are. Because of this they can be removed from our society. But there must be a trial. They have to be given an opportunity to state their case. We are there at such occasions to ensure that justice is done and that the guilty are not able to confuse or lie to a jury. Our evidence is scientific and should not be doubted.’
Lombroso looked over to his old friend. ‘Unlike Borelli here, I believe that errors are unlikely. I believe in science. I apply scientific methods in my work and this brings me certainty. Without ce
rtainty then we have only emotion and that is of little use in such matters. I am confident that I can use my science and know when a man is a murderer.’
The attention of the crowd was palpable. Everyone knew of the events that had cast a shadow over the symposium and there had been all kinds of speculation as to the possible outcome.
Lombroso went on, ‘You all have heard about the tragedies of the past weeks. I can assure you as a scientist that the killer will be found. He will give himself away by his own characteristics – what he looks like, his background, his personality – all of these will bring him to justice and when he is found I will examine him and I will be able to say with complete scientific certainty that he is the one and that he must be punished.’
The audience rose as one and cheered and clapped and stamped their feet. Here he was again, Lombroso the showman. He was playing to his audience and they loved it. James looked round at their jubilant faces and wondered how many of them really believed in the certainty of criminal anthropology. Even Horton was on his feet, although James thought that his cheers were nearer to jeers. Only Father Vincenzo was silent. He shook his head slowly then turned and left the room. Presumably he felt that God and the Devil were more likely to be both their salvation and reason for crime and that science had little to do with anything. Perhaps, thought James, Lombroso, with his words of defiance, was merely tempting fate.
Eventually the audience drifted away to their respective hotels to ready themselves to leave. James wondered if the killer was one of their number.
Ottolenghi had been deep in conversation with Madame Tarnovsky but he came over once she made to leave. James waved at her but she did not see him. He was sorry not to have said goodbye. The last few days had been so hectic that he had not had the opportunity to attend much of the symposium.
‘So it is all over for another year or so,’ he said with a note of regret.
Ottolenghi nodded. ‘Yes, but we still have this evening to look forward to.’
‘This evening?’
‘The professor asked me to tell you. He has decided to hold one of his salons. Most people are not leaving Turin until tomorrow so he thought it would be pleasant for a select few to meet for one more time – as a kind of tribute to DeClichy. Oh, and there’s something else.’
‘What?’ James asked, intrigued.
‘The professor did say that there is to be a mystery guest, brought by Horton, apparently.’
‘Interesting,’ James said. ‘Who on earth could it be?’
‘Perhaps he’s going to reveal the identity of the killer?’ Ottolenghi suggested.
James thought that it was just the kind of dramatic stunt the professor might attempt to pull off. ‘Sounds as if it could be an eventful evening.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ Ottolenghi pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Good. I think there is just time to go home and change. I’ll see you later.’
‘What about the professor?’ James asked.
Ottolenghi looked over to Lombroso and James followed his gaze. Tullio was sitting not far from him, discreetly pretending to read a pamphlet. As Lombroso moved towards the entrance, Tullio followed at some distance behind like a guardian angel.
‘I think he’ll be safe enough,’ Ottolenghi said.
As he walked to Tullio’s office, James thought over the events since his arrival in Turin. There he had been, a young man on the threshold of something bright, new and honest – a future, a vocation. Then the first murder had happened and everything had changed. Each new death was more savage than the last and a solution still eluded them. The biggest conundrum of all was the murder of DeClichy. How did that fit in? He was no criminal. There was no mark on him, which had to be significant, and his disembowelment did not correspond to the other methods of dispatch and mutilation. And why was Rosa Bruno killed? She was a prostitute so she fitted the class of criminal but again the method was different and its execution less precise than the other murders. Was her death connected to something she knew? She had wanted to tell them something and they still had not worked out what. Could it be in relation to Oskar Reiner and his interviews at the brothel? It would be worth talking to Reiner directly about that. Hopefully an opportunity would present itself at the salon that evening.
James stopped in the Piazza San Carlo for a moment, looking in admiration at the elegant buildings, at the cafés beneath the porticoes where so much of Italy’s history, both political and cultural, had been forged. How had Ottolenghi described it during their tour – the city’s drawing room? That conversation had taken place only a few days ago and yet somehow it seemed as if months had passed. He had come to learn about criminal anthropology and, he hoped, about himself. Instead he had been plunged into an alien world of intrigue, murder and mutilation and was feeling increasingly disillusioned. Could Lombroso’s criminal types really be of any practical application in a criminal investigation? Ottolenghi seemed to think so and he was an ardent supporter of scientific policing. But still, he had been Lombroso’s assistant for a while now and perhaps loyalty had clouded his judgment.
James sighed dejectedly as he crossed the square and reached Tullio’s office which was in a smaller, less grandiose piazza. He had expected some difficulty in getting access to the papers but fortunately Giardinello was in the front office when he arrived and took him directly to them.
Tullio’s office was in the basement, in a dark and musty corner. Giardinello opened the door and ushered him in. James looked around in astonishment. He had expected a dingy, windowless cell. Instead the room was large with a high window that, whilst narrow, ran right round three sides and let in a reasonable amount of light. There was a rug on the floor and pictures on the walls and in the corner was a sizeable bookcase. A large, leather-topped old desk stood in the centre. He sat behind it and picked up a photograph in an elaborate gilt frame. Tullio was standing looking proudly down at a young woman who was balancing a baby on her knee. At her side was a small boy with a mischievous grin. Tullio had never mentioned his family once, presumably wanting to keep his personal life separate from his work. James thought to himself how little he really knew about the people he had encountered in Turin over the past weeks. A tiny niggle started at the back of his mind. Ratti’s last words before he lapsed into unconsciousness – ‘do not trust him . . .’
He looked again at the photograph and imagined a similar picture of him and Sofia with their own children and felt a pang of jealousy. But no . . . it was no good dreaming of things that could never happen. He had to be realistic.
Putting the photograph firmly down, James turned to the matter at hand and began to look through the papers. It was a rather sorry catalogue, mostly gang-related attacks, or so it seemed. There was nothing to suggest any connection with the horrible mutilations that they had encountered.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes. He looked up at the window. It was almost dark. He would have to go soon if he wanted to get to the salon on time. He sighed and turned back to the pile of reports. He picked up the next piece of paper and then casually glanced down at what was underneath. Then he looked again. There was a paragraph of writing but at the bottom was a drawing of a torso with a mark carved into the upper left shoulder. The mark was in the shape of an inverted cross.
26
Madmen with pellagra, epilepsy and alcoholism often manifest homicidal and suicidal tendencies at the faintest provocation.
Lombroso, 1889 p 276
The salon was in full swing when James arrived, although the atmosphere was more subdued than last time. Ottolenghi came over immediately, wearing his usual amiable expression.
‘Buonasera, James. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’
‘I was looking at those papers that Tullio found for me.’
Ottolenghi looked surprised. ‘I didn’t realise you were following that up. I assume you didn’t find anything.’
James paused. Then, ‘No,’ he replied, ‘nothing.’ He heard those words again – ‘Do not
trust him . . .’
Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘Well, it’s hardly surprising. As if a killer would need practice. A man like that is of a particular type, as the professor has described. He is born to kill. Scientific policing is all very well, but it needs theoretical input to produce results. I’m beginning to see that now.’
James didn’t agree with Ottolenghi but there was no point in arguing about it now. It merely stiffened his resolve to investigate in his own way. He looked around the room. ‘Where’s Horton?’ he asked.
‘No doubt he’s hoping to make an entrance with his mystery companion.’
James grinned. Ottolenghi was right. Horton had a similar quality to Lombroso in that he enjoyed a certain amount of theatricality. He looked round at his fellow guests and their interaction – which was worthy of an anthropological study of its own. As ever, Lombroso was the centre of attention. He was holding forth on his latest ideas about Pilgrim and his likely characteristics, particularly in relation to his latest ‘discovery’, the schizoid criminal.
James was not sure of the wisdom of providing such a picture. Lombroso had, after all, been wrong before. Despite this he spoke with such authority and confidence that his ideas sounded compelling even though they didn’t necessarily bear close examination. Those that surrounded Lombroso seemed to be agreeing with every word he uttered. The only exception was Borelli, who was at least asking him some questions. Even this gave the impression of a kind of comedic double act except, of course, that jokes were few and far between. Everything Borelli asked was met with an ‘I’m glad you asked me that’ or ‘Ah yes, an excellent question, thank you,’ as if it had all been set up in advance. Had it not been for Borelli’s somewhat exasperated expression he might even have thought that it had.
James looked over towards the door and saw Sofia approaching. She smiled at him discreetly. She was carrying a platter of stuzzichini just like those he had tasted at the Caffè Norman. There were tiny ham rolls, mini toasts decorated with glistening olives and delicate crustless sandwiches. As she caught his eye she gave him a barely perceptible wink. James smiled and looked around to see if anyone had noticed but they were all too involved with their own conversations. He wondered idly what would have happened if he had gone over to her, thrown the platter aside and taken her in his arms. Nothing good, he imagined.