—Upon palpation of the thorax, bony fragmentation of the frontal costal arch and of the sternum can be detected, compatible with thoracic collapse.
Taking into account the technical evidence that emerged from the inspection of the cadaver and the external circumstances surrounding the event in question, we can safely state that the decease occurred as a direct consequence of a very grave traumatic shock (cranial and encephalic trauma and thoracic trauma) with virtually immediate arrest of all vital functions in the aftermath of a fall from great height (more than 10 meters). The absence of any further traumatic lesion to the dermal organ, save for that caused by the fall, suggests a conclusion envisioning behavior of a self-destructive nature.
The period of decease, taking into account the thanatological phenomena set forth here, can be established at roughly 2–3 hours prior to this inspection of the cadaver.
Lojacono looked up from the document and his eyes met Piras’s: she was watching him attentively. All his years as a cop hadn’t worn away his ability to feel pity at the picture, in his mind’s eye, of that poor bloody bundle on the sidewalk of an unfamiliar city, on a cold morning many years ago. Behavior of a self-destructive nature, the report said.
Piras pointed to the other flimsy sheet of paper: the autopsy findings. He picked it up and started reading.
Autopsy Report:
Head: Following removal of the pericranial tissues, there was detected an intense subgaleal and subperiosteal haemorrhagic infiltration. Once the extraction of the periosteum was complete, numerous fracture rimae were identified, of various width, diversely parallel and curvilinear, in the right occipital and temporal regions.
Thorax: Following the extraction of the perithoracic tissues, there was identified a vast hemorrhagic infiltration into the muscular tissue as well as a flattening of the thoracic cage, especially marked on the right anterior arch. Upon the removal of the sternal plate, which showed extensive fracturing to the manubrium and sternal body, abundant hemothoraxes in the pleural cavity were detected.
Abdomen: Following opening of the abdomen, the omental apron appeared to be covered with hematic material. Upon inspection of the abdomen there was detected serum stratification in the area of the spleen area and wall, with lacerations of the splenic capsule. Careful inspection of the pelvic cavity allowed determination of the presence of a yellowish corpusculated serosal fluid, with opaque peritoneal serosa. Following the removal of the intestine, which showed no macroscopic alteration, the Fallopian tubes appeared ectatic, congested, and greyish in hue. Upon section, purulent material issued. The uterus, displaying augmented volume, with conserved shape, when cut displays an endometrium slightly accentuated on an irregular basis, with areas of mucosa regeneration. The uterine neck with a slightly dilated external uterine orifice and with areas of erosion of the mucosa.
Diagnosis of death: Polytrauma resulting from a fall from great height (cranial and thoracic fractures, hemothorax, and hemoperitoneum with extremely grave traumatic shock), in the subject in question, with a context of pelviperitonitis and bilateral sactosalpinx of recent date, with uterine mucosa in a phase of reepithelialization. This anatomopathological context, observed in relation to the pelvic organs, is extraneous to the traumatic context and can be ascribed with a criterion of elevated likelihood to infectious complications, which can be correlated to surgical procedures involving revision of the uterine cavity, in all probability in relation to a voluntary interruption of pregnancy.
He read it twice. Aside from the difficult-to-decipher technical terminology, he’d understood the basics: the girl had killed herself, and when she died she was suffering from an infection, the result of the abortion to which she’d subjected herself.
He looked at Piras. “We should contact the Carabinieri in”—he checked the incident report—“San Gerardo Valle Caudina.”
Piras smiled. “I was waiting for you to arrive to do it. That’s why I sent for you.”
CHAPTER 59
My baby girl. My beautiful baby girl.
For Orlando, coming home, climbing the stairs, and picking her up out of her crib has become a wonderful little ritual on those days when he’s able to get away at lunchtime.
Who’d have ever thought it?
He thinks back to the way he was up until a few years ago as he buries his nose in Stella’s tummy and blows raspberries there, making her chortle in delight. He was the kind of guy who lived his life for his own pleasure—or at least he thought it was pleasure. He hadn’t met Roberta yet; he didn’t feel any need for a wife or a home of his own, much less a child.
He liked women, fast cars, and sailboats. His friends were just like him, some of them worse—divorced men with children out of sight and out of mind, appointments on their calendars to spend a weekend with them every five weeks or so, a cost to write down on their personal spreadsheet and nothing more. Their sole concerns were to organize their holidays and to focus on their work and the steady climb to the top. Who gives a damn about the rest of it? he thought at the time. There’s still plenty of time for that.
Now, as he carries his wonderful baby girl around the room, perched on his shoulders as he gallops in circles and trumpets like an elephant, it’s impossible to understand why he was willing to waste all those years. Or perhaps, he thinks, perhaps it was precisely that very chase after the emptiest of vanities that kept him from understanding how important it might be to have some part of him that could live on. To become immortal, in a certain sense.
Stella emits her customary little shriek, an uncertain mix of fright and amusement. Her tiny hands grasp at his ears as he holds her wrists; he can feel her little fingernails scratching away. God, how he adores her. Every smallest detail of her, whether it reminds him of her mother or of himself. She’s his ticket to the future, the bridge built by his love into the years that are yet to come.
A glare of light from the window strikes his eye and instinctively he looks outside, at the wall of the hotel across the street and the line of windows, some with the wooden shutters rolled down, one with the curtains drawn. Through another window, on the top floor, he glimpses a woman languidly cleaning a room.
Obviously, he thinks with some small portion of his brain, the woman swung the window open and the sunlight was reflected off the glass for an instant.
He picks up his baby girl and tells her, “Mamma mia, what a smell on you. We made a little poop, didn’t we? Now Papa will change your nappy, my wonderful little star, my Stellina.”
Less than fifty feet away, the old man carefully puts away his binoculars. He knows how risky the slightest mishandling can be, because at that time of day the sunlight can reflect off the lenses and attract attention. He pulled away from the opening in the curtain in the nick of time: he came that close to getting a glimpse of him.
For the first time, he betrays an emotion, biting his lip and slamming his fist down on the table. He made a stupid misstep. He’d never have made it this far if he’d started out doing things like that. What a fool. Just an instant, a single instant in the whole day when the sun beats down directly into the window, and that’s the instant when he picks up the binoculars to watch.
Ever so cautiously, after dabbing a tissue at his eye behind the lens of his glasses, he moves over to the curtain. He knows that the instant has passed and that the sun is no longer directly overhead, but still, the risk he ran has made him especially cautious. With two fingers, he gingerly parts the curtains and peers across the way.
In the nursery the father is leaning over the changing table, at the opposite corner of the room from her crib. The old man finished his floor plan of the room a couple of days ago. Thanks to an armoire with mirrored doors that the babysitter opened once or twice, he even knows that on the wall with the window there are only framed pictures or photographs, no furniture.
Now the father, his back to him, picks the baby up from the changing table. Two skinny little legs extend from the nappy, kicking away happily. The father
turns, showing his profile and revealing an expression of enchantment.
Unmistakably, the baby is laughing. She’s always laughing, the old man thinks. A happy, untroubled baby. Surrounded by love.
The father joins in his daughter’s laughter, then he acts out a dance, cheek to cheek with his baby girl. The old man imagines that the father is crooning aloud.
They dance together for a while, father and daughter, lost in an imaginary waltz, swaying to a tune that exists only in their intertwined imaginations.
The old man draws the curtains together, closing the narrow gap, and tosses the damp tissue into the wastepaper basket.
CHAPTER 60
The Carabinieri station at San Gerardo Valle Caudina was small but efficient. Piras announced her credentials and was immediately put through to Warrant Officer Giaquinto, the station commander.
Piras quickly apprised him of the urgency of obtaining as much information as possible about the De Falco family, informing him that she was unfortunately unable to provide either the addresses or names of the family members and how many there were. The only detail she possessed was the fact that the daughter, Eleonora, had committed suicide at the beginning of 1997, here in the city she was calling from.
The warrant officer explained that he hadn’t been stationed there long, and that he’d call back shortly. In fact, he returned the call five minutes later, asking Piras if he could put her through to Brigadier Mariani, who had been stationed there for over twenty years and practically knew everyone in town.
The brigadier had a deep rolling voice.
“Dottoressa, buon giorno. The warrant officer tells me that you need information about the De Falcos, the family of the girl Eleonora. A very unfortunate family.”
Piras took notes as she listened, then she put the call on speakerphone so that Lojacono could hear the information too.
“Yes, we know about the girl’s death. Who else is there in the immediate family?”
“Let me tell you that at first, no one in the town knew about the . . . the way the girl died. We knew that she was attending university in the city, and that she’d been involved in a serious accident. The father and the mother—she was an only child—went to get the body and held the funeral here. It was only later, with the transfer of the documents, which of necessity included the police reports, that we learned that the girl had killed herself, but since her parents were decent people who kept to themselves, no one ever mentioned it.”
“What do you mean they ‘were’ decent people? Are the parents dead?”
“The mother came down with a nasty disease, something to do with her lungs, a few years after the death of her daughter. Poor woman, she never recovered; she was little more than a ghost.”
Lojacono and Piras exchanged a glance. The man was a bit verbose, but his comments might prove useful, so Piras decided to encourage him.
“Did you know them personally, Brigadier?”
“Yes, of course I did. This isn’t a big town, though in the summer the emigrants come back and the population swells. The De Falcos are good people. He was an accountant for a company in Benevento but, after the daughter’s death, he took early retirement so he could look after his wife. In any case, they were well-off: a few properties here in town, a couple of commercial premises they rented out. They had plenty of money.”
Lojacono broke into the conversation. “Buon giorno, Brigadier, this is Inspector Lojacono. What were Eleonora’s parents’ names?”
“Buon giorno, Inspector. Felice is the father, and the mother, God rest her soul, was named Gemma.”
“When did the mother die?”
Mariani’s booming voice turned sad. “I think a month and a half ago. She was in bad shape, poor thing. He stayed with her till the very end.”
Lojacono leaned towards the speakerphone. “And the father, Felice, is he still in town?”
Mariani replied hesitantly, “Well, sure, I think he is. He’s not someone you see much of in town, to tell the truth, as he tends to mind his own business. He’s the kind of person that tends to keep to himself, so to speak.”
Piras interjected. “In any case, we need to speak to him. I wonder if you’d be good enough to bring him in to the station. And let us know when you have him.”
Lojacono broke in again. “One more thing, Brigadier. Are there any other relatives?”
“Um, you know, Inspector, in these small towns, more or less everybody’s related. My wife, who is from here, has a ridiculous number of uncles and aunts and cousins, for instance. I know for sure that the De Falcos have at least two groups of relatives, but I don’t think they see a lot of each other.”
“Is there anyone who was especially close to the girl? An old boyfriend, for instance, or some dear friend?”
Mariani said nothing for a moment, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. “I seem to remember that there was a young man, maybe a distant relation of some sort, who used to see her; but then he left too, went up north for work. Though I could certainly be mistaken, it’s been so many years.”
Piras cut the conversation short. “Maybe the girl’s father will remember that boy’s name. Brigadier, please call me the minute you get back to the barracks with De Falco. We’ll have a chance to talk and then, if necessary, we’ll come out to see you. All right?”
“Certainly, dottoressa, right away. I’ll call you later.”
CHAPTER 61
Roberta finishes dressing Stella and gets herself ready to go out. Luckily, it looks like the rain is subsiding for today. The baby’s only been out for some fresh air a couple of times in the past week, and the pediatrician insists on her getting outdoors as much as possible.
Perhaps this is the new frontier of medicine, thinks Roberta: the return to nature. She believes in it up to a point. Nature is fine if you’re in the foothills of the Alps or in Polynesia, but not in this city, where the air you breathe is made up of black exhaust fumes, and trucks are there loading and unloading all day long, making it impossible to push a stroller down the sidewalk.
But the pediatrician was very clear: the baby needs to be outdoors. In this phase of her development, spending too much time shut up indoors can make her more susceptible to viruses and germs.
Roberta suspects that the doctor thinks she’s too apprehensive. I’d like to see you, she wanted to tell her, if you’d had to fight for ten years, if this angel had flown down from heaven just when you were on the verge of giving up. She’s too precious to me, my little jewel.
She buttons the baby’s onesie right up to her neck and adjusts her knit cap. Stella looks up at her, recognizes her, and smiles. She reaches out her tiny hand, and Mamma pretends to eat it. Stella laughs happily; she likes this game. On the facing wall is the sketch of her imaginary daughter’s face, the sketch she did while she was pregnant. Roberta congratulates herself: she wanted her, she dreamed of her, and she finally had her. That face is exactly how Stella will look in a few months.
Roberta is very careful as she walks down the stairs, the baby in her arms. She uses them a thousand times a day, those stairs, going from the kitchen to the upper story, as she doesn’t place a lot of faith in the room monitor, even though she’s adjusted it so that she can even hear Stella breathing. She’s read terrible things, of babies dying in their sleep, inexplicable occurrences, babies suffocating in their bedclothes. She realizes that she won’t be able to spend her whole life with her eyes wide open, checking on the baby day and night, but deep in her heart there is a never-fading fear of losing her.
She thinks of Orlando, who makes fun of her for all her phobias; but deep down she knows that he shares many of them. He really is an outstanding father. When she first met him, that’s the first thing she thought: he’d make a great father. And yet he seemed anything but, with his devil-may-care attitude and his love of nice clothes and sports cars. He might have seemed superficial, but she knew how to look under the surface, and her reward was the wonderful family she now has.
&
nbsp; Having secured the baby in the stroller, she opens the door and emerges into the fresh air outside. Yes, the weather is acceptable, at least now, at the warmest time of the day. She’s put off the walk to give the pallid sun time to heat up the air somewhat, and now she has only a short while to get her grocery shopping done before the shops close for the midday break. She accelerates her step, imitating the sound of a roaring engine for the baby’s amusement. The little girl laughs and claps her hands.
Roberta emerges from the gate, looking around cautiously before crossing the street, but there’s no one around at that time of day.
No one but an old man sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper.
CHAPTER 62
Less than an hour later Piras’s telephone rang again. Brigadier Mariani sounded mortified.
“Dottoressa, I’m sorry. Signore De Falco is gone.”
Piras and Lojacono looked at each other.
“What do you mean he’s gone? He’s gone out?”
“No, he seems to have left town. Let me explain: the De Falcos live in Contrada Spicchio, a part of town a little way out of the center, in a terrace house built in the eighties. The house is all shut up, the blinds are down, it looks like no one’s been there for a while. I asked some of the neighbors and they agreed that no one had seen Signore De Falco for at least a couple of weeks, if not longer.”
Lojacono asked, “He didn’t say goodbye to anyone? He didn’t tell anyone where he’d be going?”
The brigadier replied, “No, and that’s the odd thing. He didn’t leave keys with anyone, or a forwarding address. He didn’t tell anyone anything. Very simply, one night he was there and the next morning he was gone. A woman who lives next door told me that she was worried about him so she went and knocked on his door but no one answered.”
The Crocodile (World Noir) Page 20