by Marco Vichi
As soon as the light in the stairwell went out, he dashed down the stairs, stopping only when he heard Levi’s door open. Flattening himself against the wall, he felt as if he was playing cops and robbers. The light remained off, and a few minutes later he heard Levi’s door delicately closing. Bordelli continued on down the stairs, and when he reached the ground floor, he looked for a secondary exit. Spotting a door behind the stairwell, he tried this and found it open. It led into a sort of empty warehouse. He crossed this, lighting his way with matches, then opened another door and found himself in the entrance hall of another block of flats on the Via del Sole. And so he went out into the street without Levi seeing him and, pleased with himself, headed towards his car. He had succeeded in playing a little joke on the White Dove, and he had even seen a woman he liked very much.
The sky was still blanketed with grey clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance, but it still wasn’t raining. Bordelli gripped the Beetle’s steering wheel tight, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Even were the world to end, he wouldn’t light it until after he got to the station. He felt sort of excited. If the White Dove was mixed up in this business, he knew exactly where to find the man with the black spot on his neck.
Big headlines leapt out from the newspaper kiosks: THE MONSTER KILLS AGAIN. The words tormented him, as though shouted in his face.
By the time he parked in the courtyard of Via Zara, it was already past ten o’clock. The moment he entered his office he lit the bloody cigarette and collapsed in his chair. Although running into Levi had opened a little crack in the investigation of Casimiro’s murder, Bordelli still felt the same sense of powerlessness weighing down on him in the case of the little girls.
On his desk he found Forensics’ report on Sara Bini. Inhaling the smoke deeply, he read it from beginning to end, but in vain: nothing of any importance had been found on the child’s clothes or around her lifeless body.
He picked up the telephone and dialled the inside line.
‘Mugnai, find Piras for me at once.’ He always asked Mugnai because the man always knew how to find everyone.
‘He was just now on his way out, Inspector. I’ll send him up.’
‘Tell him to be quick about it.’
While waiting, Bordelli rang Diotivede in the lab to ask about Sara Bini.
‘All I can tell you is that it’s the same killer, but you already knew that,’ said the pathologist.
‘So you didn’t find anything that might be of use to me?’
‘It’s possible the murderer wears gloves when he kills, since there wasn’t the slightest trace of scratching on either of the little girls’ necks. But he could also have very short fingernails.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No, unfortunately.’
‘Could it be a woman?’
‘I doubt it. Normally it’s men who commit this kind of murder.’
‘Are you sure we can’t determine from the bite who it was? We could start researching the local dentists’ records, for example.’
‘It would be pointless, as I said. The flesh is very soft in that part of the body, and the tooth marks are not very clear.’
‘Bloody hell. I’m at wits’ end, Doctor. I don’t know which way to turn.’
‘You’ve got to get busy, Inspector. I don’t want to see any more of these little girls on my table,’ said the doctor, hanging up.
The inspector remained immobile, watching a fly collide with the windowpane. He identified with it. When Piras walked in, Bordelli gave him a surly look.
‘Any news on Fantini and Manfredini?’ he asked.
‘Manfredini went out early this morning in his car. Gennari followed him, but he didn’t do anything unusual.’
‘Who’s watching their residences?’
‘Rinaldi has just now gone to Manfredini’s, and Moretti will be at Fantini’s till eleven.’
‘And after eleven?’
‘I’ll be taking over, Inspector.’
‘You?’
‘What difference does it make whether it’s me or someone else?’
‘I get it, Piras, it’s because of the girl.’
‘What girl?’
‘Go on, Piras, it’s getting late.’
The youth glanced at his watch, assumed a serious expression, and left in a rush.
Bordelli remained seated, thinking, leaning back in his chair. He gazed out the window as he smoked. He thought again of Levi. The fact that the White Dove was interested in Baron von Hauser’s villa gave him food for thought. He was convinced that Levi was hiding the truth from him, and he was determined to discover it. Casimiro’s death might well be connected to this affair. Or it might not. What a mess.
He picked up the telephone and rang Archives on the internal line.
‘Hello, Porcinai, do you know where I might find some photos of Nazis?’
‘Let me think … Try talking to Professor Vannetti; he’s in the literature department at the university. He’s the top Italian expert on the Third Reich.’
‘Thanks.’
He hung up and rested his chin in his hands. Vannetti, literature department. He had to find the time to go there.
An annoying drizzle started to fall. It tinkled against the windowpanes and then dripped like drool. It was rather cold outside. The spring really couldn’t make up its mind to arrive.
The telephone rang and Bordelli answered distractedly.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector, this is Ennio.’
‘Ciao, Botta, I’m told your trip to Greece went rather well.’
‘Not too badly, Inspector, I’ll tell you more about it when I see you. And I hear you’ve got a pretty tough nut to crack.’
‘I don’t want to hear about it.’
‘They also told me about Casimiro … Poor bloke.’
‘This is a shitty period, Ennio.’
‘I realise it’s not the best time for this, Inspector, but I wanted to tell you that we can do another dinner at your place whenever you like.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘But this time I’ll pay, just as I promised.’
‘Let me catch this bastard, Botta, and then we can arrange a nice dinner.’
‘See you soon, Inspector. If you need me, you know where to find me. Break a leg!’
‘Thanks …‘Bye, Botta, I hope I’ll be coming by soon to bother you.’
Late that morning, Bordelli went to the home of Emanuela Bini, Sara’s mother, to ask her a few questions. He had phoned her the night before and agreed to come by her place the following day around midday. She lived in Via Masaccio, in a lovely apartment on the third floor.
The woman saw him into her living room and sat down in front of him. She was about forty years old and quite beautiful. She had reacted differently from Valentina’s mother. She’d hardened; her eyes were like glass marbles.
‘Signora Bini, please forgive me if I ask you some unpleasant questions … It’s just that I’m trying to pick up a trail, and I can’t afford to—’
‘Ask me anything you like,’ she interrupted him. Bordelli thanked her with a nod.
‘Are you married?’ he asked.
‘Yes … but not to Sara’s father.’
‘Have you maintained good relations with the girl’s father?’
‘I have no idea where he is,’ the woman said, shrugging her shoulders.
‘Does he know he has a daughter?’
‘Yes, we broke up when Sara was two months old.’
‘And was that the last you ever saw of him?’
‘I haven’t heard from him since, and I’ve never sought him out.’
‘Why not?’ the inspector asked, with the unpleasant feeling that he should mind his own business. The woman made an expression of disgust.
‘I wished I had never even met him … What happened between us was just one big mistake.’
‘Does your husband know what happened?’ asked Bordelli. The woman shot him a resentful glance.
‘It was only a question.’
‘My husband knows everything; I have never hidden anything from him.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you …’
‘And he’s been a perfect gentleman about it. He loved Sara as if she was his own daughter,’ she continued, a little upset.
‘I don’t doubt it for a minute … Where is he now?’
‘At the office, as usual. He’s working even harder than before, to avoid thinking,’ the woman said, eyes blinking nervously.
‘You must forgive me, Signora Bini, but in my position I can’t afford to neglect a single detail,’ Bordelli said, trying to calm her down.
The woman heaved a long sigh and nodded.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to know?’ she said wearily, pressing her temples with her fingers. Bordelli felt uneasy in the presence of this devastated woman, but he had no choice but to carry on.
‘Do you have any enemies that you know of?’ he asked.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m simply looking for clues that might put me on the right track.’
‘I have no enemies, not that I know of,’ said the woman.
Bordelli wondered whether the killer was merely a madman who murdered at random, or whether he chose his victims according to a specific criterion. Knowing this would already be a big step forward.
‘Did the girl go often to the Parco delle Cascine with her grandmother?’ he asked.
‘Usually it was I who took her there.’
‘Every day?’
‘Fairly often, but I had a doctor’s appointment that day.’
‘Had you noticed anything unusual in recent days? Say, a person following you, or any strange behaviour in your daughter?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know the mother of Valentina Panerai, the little girl who was killed in the Parco del Ventaglio?’
‘No.’
Bordelli stood up from his chair, smiling with resignation.
‘Thank you, Signora Bini. That’ll be all for the time being.’
‘Please come back whenever you like,’ she said with empty eyes. She saw the inspector to the door.
‘We will catch him,’ said Bordelli, squeezing her hand tight.
‘For Sara it’s too late,’ the woman murmured.
Descending the stairs, Bordelli lit a cigarette. Emanuela Bini’s empty gaze remained etched in his mind. He felt quite discouraged. Nothing had emerged in the murder of the little girls that might open the slightest crack in the case. He got into his car and rolled down the window so he could blow the smoke out. It was still raining, and every so often he felt a drop land on his face. He was desperately searching his brain for something that might help him take one small step forward in these murder cases. He couldn’t bear the feeling of immobility any longer. He felt a painful restlessness in the calves of his legs, like someone condemned to remain seated for eternity. He couldn’t make a single move, nothing that might give at least the feeling of moving in a specific direction. He couldn’t stand it. He tossed the cigarette butt out of the window and opened the glove compartment, looking for a sweet he recalled having seen there some time before. He found a Rossana,14 unwrapped it with the help of his lips, and crushed it between his teeth.
While he was stopped at an intersection, he thought of Dr Fabiani, the psychoanalyst he’d met a few years back during a nasty murder case. It had been a while since he’d heard from him. Perhaps the doctor would be willing to talk to him about the two little girls. Not that Bordelli expected much, but it was better than sitting on his bum, going round in circles and smoking.
He glanced at his watch. Half past twelve. He stopped at a bar, looked up Fabiani’s number in the phone book, and rang him at once. The doctor must have been in the garden, as usual, tending his flowers, since he picked up only after many rings.
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Fabiani, this is Bordelli.’
‘Inspector … How nice to hear from you.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, I was just fertilising the azaleas. Why don’t you drop in on me one of these days?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to come by right now.’
‘All right, then, I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘See you soon.’
The inspector got back into his car and, at the intersection with Viale Don Minzoni, turned towards Le Cure. It had stopped raining and the sky was slowly clearing. The weather had been undecided for a good two weeks now. The pavements were full of little children just out of school, their mothers leading them by the hand. In Viale Volta the inspector passed the house he had lived in as a child, slowing down and turning round to look at the garden and the ground-floor windows. The shutters were open, and he saw some white curtains. Every time he passed it, he was tempted to stop and ask the current residents whether he could see those rooms again, but he always put it off.
Before Piazza Edison, he turned left on to Via di Barbacane, climbing up the steep old street for a distance and then pulling up in front of Fabiani’s little villa. The hedgerow of bay along the metal fencing had grown, and a cherry tree struggled to open its first blossoms.
Bordelli stood on tiptoe and peered into the garden. The psychoanalyst had heard the sound of the Volkswagen and was coming towards the gate. He was wearing his work smock, and the tip of a pair of gardening shears stuck out from one of the oversized sleeves like a crab’s claw. Seeing the inspector, he raised a hand and quickened his step. As he opened the gate, it seemed to Bordelli that old Fabiani’s eyes looked less sad than usual.
‘It’s been a long time, Inspector. How are you?’ the psychoanalyst said with a smile.
‘Not too bad, thanks. And yourself?’
‘I can’t complain.’
Bordelli entered the garden, and as they walked towards the house, he looked around. He felt good in this place, amidst all the greenery and earthenware pots with every imaginable sort of plant and flower sprouting from them.
‘Did you know I’ve reopened my practice, Inspector? But I’m treating only a couple of patients. I don’t feel up to any more than that.’
‘I’m glad to hear you’re working again.’
‘I was about to make tea, Inspector.’
They went into the house. Dr Fabiani put the kettle on the stove and got the teapot ready on the table. He opened a box of biscuits as well. Through the open window in the sitting room one could see the doctor’s pagoda, covered with the naked, sinuous branches of a white wisteria beginning to blossom.
‘I seem to have gathered that you wanted to ask me something, Inspector,’ said the psychoanalyst.
‘How could you tell?’ said Bordelli, grinning. Fabiani ran a hand through his snow-white hair.
‘Well, it wasn’t too hard,’ he said. The inspector picked up a biscuit and bit into it.
‘I wanted to ask you what you think about the two little girls who were killed,’ he said.
The old man nodded as if he’d been expecting this question, and he threw his hands up. His white hair stood out against the dark blue smock like a splash of water.
‘What can I say? The killer’s a psychopath. We psychoanalysts abhor that kind of patient … Sorry, I hear the water boiling.’
Fabiani went into the kitchen and returned with a steaming kettle. After pouring the water into the teapot, he sat back down with a sigh.
‘If we don’t catch him he’ll probably kill again,’ said Bordelli. Fabiani shook his head sadly. The inspector lit a cigarette and crumpled the empty packet.
‘I’m completely in the dark, Dr Fabiani, and I thought perhaps you could help me.’
Fabiani filled the teacups and moved the sugar bowl closer to the inspector.
‘Lemon or milk, Inspector?’
‘Neither, thanks.’
They sat there for a while without speaking, sipping their scalding-hot tea. The sun h
ad come out, making the wet grass in the garden sparkle. A bumblebee buzzed amidst the silence, in search of flowers … At that moment Bordelli felt a sort of tingling in his gut, and realised that spring had finally arrived.
‘Tell me more about those murders,’ Dr Fabiani suddenly said.
Bordelli set his cup down, still half full, on the table, and told him all the details of the killings, trying not to leave anything out. The psychoanalyst listened very attentively, and when the inspector had finished talking, he folded his hands around his legs.
‘Psychopaths are almost always people who themselves have experienced some great trauma, some tragic event that their minds are unable to accept. But how exactly they work out this trauma, and what factors lead these individuals to act in one way or another, is hard to understand.’
‘Could the killer be a woman?’
‘I doubt it. These sorts of crimes are almost always committed by men.’
‘How old do you think he might be?’
Fabiani raised his eyebrows, unsure.
‘One can never tell, but usually such individuals aren’t too young,’ he said.