Kill the Father

by Sandrone Dazieri

  “And you think the Maugeris’ son might be suffering from that?”

  “Maybe. I’d have to talk to the father about it.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

  Dante let himself slump back in his chair. “Whatever you say. This is all I can tell you. Who do I invoice?”

  “At least take a look at the initial reconstruction put together by my colleagues. There’s a complete transcript of the interviews.”

  “I’ve already read it. Maybe the father’s lying, maybe he isn’t.” He shrugged.

  Colomba looked straight into his eyes. Dante discovered that when Colomba’s green eyes hardened, it took an effort to stare at them. “Try again,” she told him.

  “What’ll happen if I don’t find anything?”

  “I hope that my colleagues have better luck,” she replied.

  “But not you. You’ll just throw in the towel. And maybe that’s what you really want, isn’t it? Just to get out of it entirely,” Dante said.

  “I’m not the one throwing in the towel right now.”

  Dante gave her a hard look, as if the air around him had suddenly turned chilly. Colomba felt herself shiver. “I can’t obtain anything else from photographs,” he said in irritation. “To find out more, I’d have to take a walk around the scene of the crime.”

  “No problem,” Colomba replied.

  “Yes, there is a problem.” Dante looked around. “I haven’t left this apartment in two months. I hope you’re a patient person, because it’s going to take a while.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  “And you’re not worried, either,” Dante pointed out with a smile.

  “About what?”

  “You see, if the father is innocent, then someone’s staged a murder to frame him and then be able to have their way with the child by making it look like an impulse murder. But they were unsuccessful, and you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Because the killer’s hand was too firm. It took him a couple of chops to take the head off, but he only hit the neck. There’s not so much as a scratch on the woman’s face. The murderer’s hand never trembled.” Dante smiled, and Colomba felt a shiver go up her back. “Whoever it was, he’s used to killing.”

  5

  Dante let Colomba and Alberti precede him out of the building, leaving him alone; then he prepared himself spiritually for the descent. His claustrophobia wasn’t constant. When he was in a state of grace, he could force himself to face such difficult challenges as going into a supermarket for short periods, as long as there were very few people in the place and the store had lots of plate-glass windows. If he was tired or emotionally drained, it was practically impossible for him to leave his home.

  His first psychiatrist had recommended that he rate his symptoms on a numerical scale, from one to ten. At one, he could do almost anything, but when he dropped to ten, he needed to be sedated because he completely lost control.

  Right now, Dante was at level seven, at the verge of code red. He blamed it on the unusual day, but also the fact that he cared so much about making a good impression on the sad-seeming policewoman. And so it took all the willpower he possessed to face the six flights of stairs. Six stories without windows, with sharp corners and low ceilings, with other tenants who could appear without warning and fill up the already limited space, consuming his oxygen.

  He knew there was no real danger on the stairs, any more than there was in an enclosed building or a dark closet, but the rational part of his mind couldn’t conquer the frightened animal that was shivering inside him. Sometimes he’d break out in a cold sweat just at the sound of the winch hoisting the elevator car up the shaft on the other side of the wall: he could imagine himself inside, pounding on the walls.

  He’d chosen to wear a raincoat and a pair of hiking boots that were suitable for muddy ground, and he’d put in his earbuds and set his iPhone to play a symphony of ocean waves. He set his respiration to their rhythm, then started his descent, banging the door behind him.

  The first two floors went off without a hitch. He descended quickly, one hand on the railing, the sound of the ocean filling his ears and his mind. When he got to the third floor down, he made the mistake of looking up. He saw the underside of the stairs above his head, so close that it appeared to be crushing him. For a good solid minute, he stood frozen on the step; then he turned his head and looked up the stairwell, where a skylight let in a sliver of sky. He kept descending, face upturned, hand on the railing. At the fifth floor down he bumped into somebody and felt his heart leap into his mouth. He took a quick look: it was a woman, one of his neighbors, and her lips were moving as she said something to him. His immediate impulse was to return home and lock the door behind him. Once again, it was the thought of Colomba that drove him to keep going. He smiled tight-lipped at his neighbor and continued down the stairs. There was only one floor left to go when his cell phone rang, cutting off the music. He answered the phone, one hand gripping the railing.

  “How is it going, Signor Torre?” asked Colomba.

  “Everything’s fine, I’m almost there. How long has it been?” he inquired, doing his best to maintain a normal tone of voice.

  “Forty minutes.”

  To Dante it had seemed like five minutes at the most. Or five years. “Be there soon,” he said and hung up.

  One more floor. Just one more. He took a deep breath as if he were about to dive underwater and then went down the last flight of stairs. He went through the front door almost without realizing it.

  He was outside. He leapt for joy on the sidewalk, filling his lungs with fresh air.

  Colomba leaned against the hood of the squad car, watching him with her arms crossed. “Was it hard?”

  “A little. But being outside is so intoxicating . . .” Dante said, dancing around a little more. He looked like he was spring-loaded.

  “Have you ever thought of seeing a therapist?” Colomba asked.

  “Have you?” Dante retorted.

  Colomba didn’t answer, but her green eyes turned darker and greener still. She opened the rear door of the squad car for him. “Take a seat,” she said icily.

  “I’m sitting in front. And I don’t give a damn if there’s some regulation against it. I’m not putting on a seat belt, and I’m keeping the car window open, even if it’s raining. Okay?”

  “Don’t you own a car of your own?” Colomba asked. “You might feel more comfortable.”

  “I only use it in the summer. It doesn’t have a top.”

  It was a long drive. Going fast had a disastrous effect on Dante’s nerves, and Alberti was forced to pull over a dozen times or so to let his passenger get out. Each time, Dante did a few push-ups and jumped in place, then got back in, promising that would be the last time, but punctually, after a few minutes, he would turn pale and feverish again.

  Still, they did finally manage to reach the stables. With the operational base dismantled, the lines of vehicles jamming the roads were gone and a couple of horses were trotting around the track. In that new and surreal quiet, Alberti managed to requisition one of the Defenders made available to the investigators, and they drove on to the scene of the crime.

  Energized by the drive, Dante insisted on walking the Via Sacra on his own. Alberti stayed behind to keep an eye on the vehicle, and Colomba followed Dante, trailing a few dozen yards behind. Dante seemed fascinated by everything he saw, brimming over with energy. He poked at leaves and rocks and often left the trail to look downhill. During the hike, Colomba called Rovere to brief him. “I warned you it wouldn’t be easy,” he said.

  “But you didn’t tell me he was a complete nutcase. You should see the place where he lives.”

  “Is what he told you just as nutty?”

  Colomba didn’t answer. She hadn’t entirely made up her mind. “Any news on the boy?”

  “Nothing. Relatives and friends have been contacted, without results. But the first laboratory findings are r
einforcing De Angelis’s idea. The blood in the car trunk is the boy’s, and the pruning hook definitely comes from Maugeri’s home. He’d bought it himself last month, to prune a tree in the yard, but he said he’s never used it.”

  “The only thing missing is a confession.”

  “There’s no confession, but he’s still being held.”

  “I’d only be surprised if he wasn’t. Sir, we’re wasting time. Everything points to Maugeri. You’re going to have to find some other way of getting rid of . . .” Colomba stopped before uttering the name Santini. You never know who might be listening to you, legally or otherwise. “. . . you know who.”

  “What does Torre have to say?”

  “He already thinks there’s a plot.”

  “You see?”

  Dante had gone all the way to the overlook. He peered down for a moment and then rocked on his heels; if he hadn’t grabbed the railing, he would have pitched over headfirst.

  Colomba hung up in a hurry and galloped over to him. “Are you feeling dizzy?”

  Dante smiled and stayed hunched over, beneath the railing. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I just had a hunch.”

  “I’ll be fine in a minute.” He breathed deeply for a few seconds before getting back up on his feet. “I didn’t think it was so high, it caught me by surprise. What does your boss say?”

  “That the husband bought the weapon.”

  “Were his fingerprints on it?”

  “No.”

  Dante grasped the railing and stood up. “Well, then, our murderer could have taken it from the family’s home.”

  “A little daring, don’t you think?”

  Dante shrugged. “I told you.” He looked shyly over the edge of the bluff. “He doesn’t scare easy. Where were the shoes?”

  Colomba pointed to the location. Now there was a numbered card on the bush.

  Dante looked without letting go of the railing. “Very theatrical.” Then he turned sharply around and continued along the trail. “Let’s get going while there’s still light.”

  Colomba followed him, doing her best to keep up. Dante leapt lightly from rock to rock. “Why would a cold-blooded, clear-minded murderer decide to take it out on the Maugeris?” she shouted after him.

  “Ah, that’s something I don’t know yet.”

  Dante came to a halt when he reached the police barriers surrounding the site where the body was found. Two squad cars controlled the points of access, and an officer flicked away a cigarette as he headed over toward them. Colomba pulled out her police ID while Dante, impatient, headed out into the clearing.

  The officer saluted her, and Colomba remembered running into him a few years ago. “Who’s he, Voldemort?” he asked her, pointing at Dante: he was walking in circles among the boulders, careful not to step on the marks left by the technicians, flapping the tails of his black leather raincoat.

  “A consultant,” she replied vaguely.

  “Well, that’s good. I was afraid he was a cop.”

  Colomba caught up with Dante, who was climbing a tree. “Reliving your childhood?” she asked. She immediately bit her tongue. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t think twice. I had my happy moments when I was a boy. When he thought I deserved it, the Father would give me hot food, for instance.”

  “The Father?”

  “That’s what he wanted me to call him. And since you all never figured out who he was . . .” He hauled himself up with both arms, then hunkered down on a branch about six feet off the ground. He looked like a large black crow in wait of prey.

  “Do you see anything interesting from up there?” asked Colomba.

  “A miniature Stonehenge. I couldn’t think of a better location for a ritual murder.”

  “Or to stage a fake one,” said Colomba.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth. What do you think, did the murderer hang up the shoes before or after killing the mother?”

  “Before seems unlikely,” Colomba replied. “The mother would have realized that something wasn’t right.”

  “So you kill someone, and then you start doing a little exterior decorating? I mean, cold-hearted and everything, but that’s a little much.”

  “If it was your firm-handed killer, maybe it’s part of the fabrication. Or else the boy lost them on the trail and someone hung them up so their rightful owner could find them.”

  “What do the footprints tell you?”

  “Too much rain, too much mud, and too many people walking around. Even if the footprints of the murderer or the little boy walking away were ever there, it’s impossible to make them out now.”

  “So we don’t know which way he went when he left.”

  “If it was Maugeri, he went back to the place they had their picnic and started pretending to be looking for his wife and son.”

  “I thought we’d already eliminated him as a suspect, hadn’t we?”

  “You eliminated him. I didn’t. For now, all I have are question marks.”

  Dante thought it over for a few seconds. “I don’t think the murderer left by the route we took to get here. There are too many people on that trail, and he certainly didn’t want to run the risk of being seen.”

  “So he hung up the shoes and went back?”

  Dante shook his head. “Maybe. Which makes the act even more significant, but I don’t know why.” He looked around, then pointed to the trail, which continued on. He leapt lightly to the ground. “Let’s go,” and he headed off without waiting for an answer.

  Colomba went after him, still amazed at his energy. In his home, he hadn’t seemed capable of taking two steps without someone’s arm to lean on.

  They continued down the trail and ran into a pair of mushroom hunters with wicker baskets. Dante nodded to them as they passed. “Finding anything good?”

  “Nothing much,” one answered.

  “People looking for mushrooms always go out after it rains,” said Dante once the pair were far away. “Maybe someone crossed paths with the murderer.”

  “No one came in to report anything.”

  “Because he didn’t particularly stand out. And I doubt your colleagues took much trouble to collect eyewitness accounts.”

  “Not after Maugeri’s arrest,” Colomba admitted. “But by now everyone knows about the missing boy, his picture is everywhere. If a mushroom hunter had seen him walking with someone, we would have heard about it.”

  “I don’t think he was walking.” Dante pointed to a hiker a short distance below them. He was carrying a sleepy child who had his arms wrapped around his neck. “Can you see that kid’s face?”

  “No,” said Colomba.

  “A six-year-old is a little big to be carried in someone’s arms, but no one would really notice.”

  “That is, if this mysterious kidnapper really exists.”

  “Maybe the boy flew away on My Little Pony.” Dante speeded up, passing the trees and forcing Colomba to run to catch up with him, thinking as she did about Dante’s allusion to the popular Hasbro toy. Had his stunted childhood made him particularly tuned in to what fascinated children these days? She felt a stab of pain in her rebuilt tendon, which she’d already strained when she’d chased the man in the jacket a few hours earlier.

  They emerged onto a plaza at the center of which stood a small light blue chapel dedicated to the Madonna and surrounded by enormous boulders.

  “If your theory is correct, the kidnapper ought to have parked not very far from here,” said Colomba. “And if he left before dark, he might not have met anyone. Day hikers usually go home at sunset.”

  She realized that Dante wasn’t listening to her. He was staring at a metallic object hanging about halfway down the pole of a traffic sign. Colomba went over to take a closer look. It was a cylindrical metal whistle with a dull finish, tied to a frayed piece of hemp twine. She reached out to grab it, but Dante seized her by the wrist. His grip was icy and powerful, and it almost hurt.

  “Don’t
touch it,” he told her.

  Colomba shook free with a brusque movement. “Well, don’t you touch me either, if you don’t mind.” She realized that Dante was gray in the face. “What’s the matter?” she asked, suddenly worried.

  Dante finally answered after a number of failed attempts, his voice reduced to little more than a murmur. “When he took me . . . when the Father took me, I had something with me that I’d found in the field where I went to play. It was a Boy Scout whistle.” He shifted his gaze to her. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at an ancient, boundless terror. “That’s it,” he said, pointing.

  6

  Dante was sitting by the side of the road, his arms wrapped around his legs. He hadn’t said another word, he hadn’t moved.

  Colomba wasn’t comfortable leaving him alone in that condition, but she had to call Rovere and she didn’t want him to overhear. “How do you feel, Signor Torre?” she asked.

  Dante sat mute and motionless, gaze lost in the distance.

  “Signor Torre, I’m going to have to step away for just a few minutes. But I can’t do that unless you tell me you’re all right.” Still no reaction. “Dante . . .”

  Hearing the sound of his name, he came to. “I’m not going to die,” he replied tonelessly. “Do what you have to.”

  Colomba walked a short distance away and called Rovere again. “Dante isn’t doing well,” she told him. “Not that he was doing all that well before.”

  “What happened?”

  “He saw a whistle hanging from a signpost and started saying that it had been left by the man who kidnapped the Maugeris’ son, who is supposedly the same man who kidnapped him. Because Torre is convinced that his real kidnapper is still on the loose.”

  “And why would he have left the whistle?”

  From his tone, it seemed that Rovere was actually mulling the question over, and Colomba was amazed. “I have no idea, and if you ask me, neither does Torre. Listen, I’m going to take him back home.”

  “And do you intend to ignore what he told you?”

  “Help me understand. What are you telling me I ought to do instead?”