Blue Bear_or the Impossibility of Anonymity

by Joseph Grady

  It didn’t matter. Luca had already gotten all the information he thought he needed. He had understood only two words of Lucy’s quick English: no and lawyer.

  “We are a long ways from the United States,” said Luca. “That will be all, Ms. Fox.”

  Luca turned away and made a phone call to someone more important than him. Lucy sat, watched, and worried. Luca returned with handcuffs. He planted his pricy leather shoes at shoulder length, and gave her an evil smirk. The two officers behind her gripped her upper arms and lifted her straight out of her chair. Cold bands stretched tight around her slender wrists. Her pulse struggled to get by the metal – a pulse now beating hard and fast.

  Talking up at her 1.68 meters, from his 1.48 meters in height — enjoying every syllable — Luca solemnly pronounced, “Lucy Fox, La dichiaro sotto arresto per l’omicidio di Eugenio Galli il quinto giorno di Ottobre di 2015. Lei ha il diritto di rimanere in silenzio. Qualsiasi cosa dirà potrà e sarà usata contro di Lei in tribunale.”63

  It had been a while since Lucy had been arrested. I thought that part of her life was behind us. Neither of us were used to it any more. And she’d never been arrested for anything this serious. Murder. Her face contorted. Tears flowed. Her breathing became quick and irregular. But she did exercise her right to maintain some sort of silence – mostly because of the shock. All sorts of cops started moving around the terrace, performing all sorts of jobs associated with a murder arrest. I stood there in the middle. Helpless. Unable to do anything.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I MOBILI SPEZIALI

  Probably the most enjoyable part of working for the Roman homicide unit was making arrests. Luca always fixed in his mind the images of the looks that murderers got on their faces when caught, so he could spend the next months relishing in that memory. Men usually became stoic. Women, dramatic. Clearly, Lucy was guilty. That much was obvious from the evidence against her. Her tears made the experience all the sweeter, especially knowing that her tears were all fake. Or rather, they weren’t fake. For sure, she was going through some intense emotions: shock, anger, surprise, guilt, regret, etc. But she was certainly not crying because of a false accusation. She was crying because she’d been caught. And why are murderers always so surprised when they do get caught? The poor souls don’t realize how clever detectives like Luca Speziale are.

  In any case, Detective Speziale in some way even admired her for putting on such a good show. She was at least smart enough to redirect her real emotions of guilt and surprise in order to give the appearance of innocence. Working in the international homicide unit, Luca hardly ever got the chance to arrest Americans. And he’d never gotten to arrest a beautiful young American woman. People from other places could learn something from this one. He was looking forward to the interrogation. She’s putting on the right face now — but does she have the energy to keep up that show in the interrogation room? Definitely not. I’m going to break you.

  “Portala via, la piccola assassina schifosa!”64

  Luca turned on his heal and headed over to the other side of the terrace. Were it not for the two cops gripping her arms, she wouldn’t have been able to stand at all. Luca’s thoughts were clear and decisive. Lucy’s were not. The shock of an arrest — a murder arrest — was too much. Too many details. Too many distractions. She would try to think, but the massive hole in her stomach cried out for attention. Why the hell did they care about her North Face rain jacket? She would try to ask herself, but the derision on Luca’s face was too much. That big mouthed sneer kept jumping up in her mind, and she’d have to start crying all the more. What did they care about 1.68 meters? Hearing the words arresto and omicidio was too much. Those words lurched in the pit of her stomach and tied her insides to knots. Arresto. Omicidio. Murderer. Piccola assassina schifosa. The cops held her arms too tightly to allow her to wipe off her tears. She tried rubbing her cheeks on her shoulders, but only ended up wiping snot all over her already sweaty dry-fit t-shirt.

  Luca looked out over the city, stroking his beard. He jotted down notes, pondering how to proceed. This would be an important moment for his career, to say the least. Was it worth dropping hints — “dropping hints” i.e. “selling hints” — to friends in the media? His sneer became a smirk as the officers dragged her towards the stairs. She could hardly walk straight. Perfect. She’ll break. In the end she’ll break.

  The lobby was empty when they walked her through. They had backed up a squad car just a few feet from the main door, that is, just a few feet from where Eugenio lay dead the day before. Two strong men gripped her limp arms while a third moved the cuffs from behind her back to the front. Through her tears she could see that the group of smokers that always congregates at the side entrance to the hospital across the street had stopped to look at her. They all stared shamelessly. The poor girl getting arrested in handcuffs and everything. Wonder what she did? Among them stood a large clown in a yellow suit with red polka dots. He dropped his grocery bags and put his hands on his head in shock.

  And the sight of Brian made her weep all the more.

  “Brian!” she yelled, gasping and then choking on her own saliva. And then even louder, “Do something! Help!”

  The last thing Lucy saw before being shoved into the back seat was the clown with two empty helpless hands aloft in the air, full of confusion and hesitation.

  The ride to the police station, or wherever it is they take you in Italy after getting arrested for murder, was quicker than she expected. She had managed to calm herself down just slightly. The two officers up front, talking about their weekend plans, and the sharp turns in the middle seat without a seatbelt helped to bring her back to reality. They parked in a garage and and waited for the door to close before pulling her out. They brought her to a concrete room with no windows, a heavy steel door, drains on the floor, a few hoses with shower heads on them, and five very large female police officers wearing blue plastic gloves that extended past their elbows.

  The biggest and ugliest of them came forward holding the shower head in a threatening way and told Lucy, “Allora, ragazza, tutto ciò che hai addosso ormai appartiene alla Repubblica di Italia. O lo togli tu, o lo togliamo noi. Scegli tu.”65

  Lucy’s dry fit t-shirt was full of thirteen miles of sweat. Another officer held it at a distance from her nose and said, “Oh, ma che puzzo! Dovrebbe essere difficile la vita di una piccola assassina americana.”66

  The rest of the officers laughed, and even Lucy smiled.

  Lucy exited that room half an hour later feeling more invaded than she’d felt in a long time, but also — at least physically — much cleaner than she’d felt in a long time. The Republic of Italy had taken all her clothes from her, but in return, it had generously allowed her to borrow a pair of thick white socks, a white t-shirt, white underwear, and a khaki prison jumpsuit that was five sizes too big. The officers had first tried to force her into a jumpsuit that was far too small for her, but then gave up, and folded her up in a large. There must have been too many prisoners the same size as Lucy. She had to hold onto the elastic strap on her pants whenever she walked anywhere. The ladies told her she would have to throw some elbows to get to the front of the group on the next laundry day. At least the rubber slip-on sandals fit surprisingly well. Despite their best efforts, the officers were unable to find anything on Lucy’s person. They even let her keep her leather headband. Somewhere between the shampooing and the rinsing, and four hair dryers going at once, Lucy stopped crying. Despite their threatening appearance, and their invasive work, the ladies were normal people. They didn’t talk to Lucy except to give her instructions, and they made quite a few jokes among themselves that Lucy either didn’t understand or didn’t think were funny. Their light hearted mood at such a moment caught her off guard. For them, shampooing murder suspects was just another day at the office — the same job as a hair stylist, but with the tact of a pet groomer. The rest of the world went on as normal, even if Lucy was in crisis.

  I trac
ked her down, just as they were pulling her out of the washroom. They left her in a room with three walls of solid concrete, and one wall of thick metal bars. Her cuffs came off, and we again heard that iconic clink of prison bars as they rolled shut. They made the same sound in Italy as they did back in America. She sat on the small bed attached to the wall, and I sat on the floor across from her, next to the all in one prison toilet/sink. She was exhausted. Too tired for any more emotions. But at least she was back in control of herself.

  “Lucy,” I said, “you used to be good at being here.”

  “I used to deserve to be here.” She spoke with complete indifference, looking at the blank wall above my head.

  “That’s true.”

  “I used to want to be here.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Either way,” I continued, “it’s time for you to get back into that frame of mind. You used to love these little chats with police and social workers. Or, well, you didn’t love it, but you clearly used to get something out of playing the game, and playing it well.”

  “I stopped playing that game a long time ago.”

  “In your life, and in this bear’s life that wasn’t that long ago. You’ve still got it in you.”

  “I don’t want to play games any more. What do you think we’re doing in Italy in the first place?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look where you are. Look at what you’re wearing,” I said. She kept on staring at the wall. “It doesn’t matter if you want to play or not. You’re in the game. You can play it well, or you can lose. You decide.”

  “Alright.” She stood up and walked the length of the cell, back and forth for a good five minutes. Her pacing looked much less confident than she might have preferred, having to hold up the elastic strap on her extra large prison pants. In the end though, she was not trying to look confident to me or anyone else, but only herself. She finally stopped by the bars, turned around, looked at me, and said, “I’ll play.”

  I got up and put on my best rapper voice and recited by heart the first two lines of Eminem’s Lose Yourself.

  She didn’t skip a beat, and still remembered all the words by heart. She put one hand in the air — leaving the other on her pants — and used her best white-girl-rapper voice, shuffling around the room with a gangster walk and perfectly delivering every line of a song she hadn’t thought of since middle school. I knew that if I laughed, or even smiled, I would have broken her concentration, so I had to get out of there. This was supposed to be serious. Very serious. It’s amazing the power that music can exert on some people. She looked ridiculous. She’ll never make a convincing rapper.

  But one hour before that moment, she had been right in the middle of an acute emotional breakdown, barely able to put two words together through all the sobbing. Ten minutes beforehand, her zombie gaze had been completely incapable of even the simplest emotions. But after just the introductory verses of a rather innocuous suburban rap song, if you looked in her eyes, you would have believed her capable of murder.

  I snuffled around the facility until I ran across an unmistakable stench of Armani cologne. I followed it into a room with all sorts of electronic equipment in front of a thick window with a view into another room, which was furnished with just a table, two chairs, and a lamp. Luca stood above the equipment, staring through the window, systematically cracking one knuckle at a time.

  Luca and I watched two officers drag Lucy into the room and plop her down into a plastic seat. At the same time, a grey haired man, wearing an even more expensive suit than Luca’s, entered the room on our side of the glass and stood next to Luca. Among the various electronic devices on the panel in front of us, one was an old fashioned tape recorder. When the grey haired man began to speak, my claw accidentally slipped onto a red record button, and a tape began rolling.

  “Luca, ti rendi conto quanto potrebbe essere importante questa interrogazione per tutti noi e per te?”67

  “Sì, capo.”68

  “Ripassiamo i fatti. Uno, lei ha commesso un omicidio. Due, è una americana giovane, addirittura più bella di quell’altra che hanno beccato a Perugia qualche anno fa. Sul serio. Guardala lì. Bella, no? Tre, se puoi provare, come sospetto io, che c’è anche in gioco l’adulterio o qualcosa del genere, sarà il caso più importante della tua vita. Le media amano ’ste cose. Capito? ”69

  “Sì, capito.”70

  “Scriveremo dei libri su quest’interrogazione e faremo un sacco di soldi con gli intervisti. Tu verrai promosso ed io andrò in pensione in una villa in campagna.”71

  “Ti ho mai deluso, capo? Sono proprio all’altezza del lavoro.”72

  “Sicuro che non vuoi un traduttore?”73

  “Capo, non c’è nessuno nel dipartimento che può parlare l’inglese così bene come me.”74

  “No, ma non dico nel dipartimento. Ci sono dei professionali traduttori di madre lingua che potrebbero venire a dare ’na mano proprio stasera. Dimmi tu.”75

  “Proprio non ce n’è bisogno.76

  “Va bene.”77

  The older man took a seat in front of the window and a microphone, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. Luca struggled to fix a wire to his ear. I went into the interrogation room to explain an idea to Lucy.

  Even if she agreed, on principle, she usually would find some way to contradict me. So I was a little nervous when Lucy accepted my suggestion, nodding her head with enthusiasm. Maybe even too much enthusiasm. Luca strutted into the room, slammed his pad of paper on the table, sat down, and looked her straight in the eyes. Lucy stared back. Hard. Unflinching. She sat up, leaned forward, put her elbows on the table, and folded her hands in front of her chin. In a completely calm voice, she quietly and clearly said, “I’ve got something to say before we begin.”

  Her new behavior caught him off guard. He touched his earpiece and looked at the mirror. “Sure. That would be fine.”

  Luca glanced at his notes, and started to rehearse to himself all the responses he had already prepared to her requests for a lawyer. You’re not in America. This is an interrogation, not a courtroom. Etc. Etc.

  But she didn’t demand a lawyer or a phone call or anything.

  “I just wanted to try and be nice to you,” said Lucy, staring him down, as his eyes flickered up and down between his notes and the mirror. “And I’d like to at least give you a warning.”

  Luca dropped his pen and looked up.

  “You can either let me go right now, or you can lose your job.” She crossed her arms and leaned back. “That’s all I have to say. If you’d like, you have my permission to ask questions.”

  Luca fumbled through his notes, completely unsure where to begin. Her introduction was not in any of the scenarios he had prepared. The ideal plan was to walk in, raise his voice, shine a light in her eyes, get her to cry at the right moment and spill the beans, and be home by dinner. In any case, the first punch had been thrown, and Luca wasn’t the one who had thrown it.

  Police interrogations are not as interesting in real life as they are on TV. In fact, they are actually designed to be lengthy, boring and repetitive, precisely to wear out the suspect and catch her in a contradiction. Luca asked hundreds and hundreds of straightforward one-word answer questions, scrupulously analyzing every detail of her responses. He went directly for what he thought was her weak point, the alibi. Luckily enough for Lucy, she had a true alibi. She told him everything, exactly as it had happened, leaving out only the thirty second encounter with Eugenio in the park. Luca pressed her on every detail, and every detail of every detail. Again and again and again and again.

  Hours later, he abruptly switched to the jacket. Where was it? When had she last seen it? When had she bought it? Where was the receipt? Had she ever lent it to anyone? What size was it? Where did she hide it after the murder? Why did she throw it away after the murder? Did her accomplice hide it for her? She had never before spent so much time talking about one article of clothing.

  F
inally he asked, “Alright, we have been talking now for some time. It would be beneficial for both of us if you would stop playing at being a stupid innocent girl. Why did you dress yourself in the jacket and the pants when you killed Eugenio?”

  “You’re saying the girl who killed Eugenio was wearing the green jacket and the rain pants?”

  “Yes. Why did you wear them when you were killing Eugenio?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

  “No, Lucy. Why don’t you just tell me what you did yesterday afternoon?”

  “Are you saying you want to talk about the park and the coffee bar again? I think we’ve both heard that story enough already. We can talk about it again, though, if you really want to waste more time.”

  “No, why don’t you tell me why you killed Eugenio Galli, not at the park, not at the coffee bar, but in the lobby of Palazzo Mortimer?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me why you think I killed him and then maybe I could help you understand why you’ve mistaken me for the murderer?”

  Luca didn’t take her up on the offer. They switched to talking about “the weapon.” At no point did he ever tell Lucy what it was, though. He did, however, ask her hundreds of questions about where she got it, how long she had owned it, whether or not she knew how to use it. Did she know how to load it? Did she know how to shoot?

  Lucy racked her memory. Had she ever touched a gun in Italy? Her clearest memories of such things were all from America, where it is not outside the ordinary. Luca, of course, wanted to know all about her history of firearm usage. For her, it involved the usual weekends growing up in the the great American West, that is, going off to isolated ranches with friends in Colorado or Wyoming, getting tipsy and picking off beer cans and chipmunks from four wheelers. For Luca, such lethal behavior sounded tantamount to proof that she was a trained killer. For Lucy, such lethal behavior sounded like the natural consequence of two margaritas.