Blue Bear_or the Impossibility of Anonymity

by Joseph Grady

  “Well, I’d actually never really been big into sports before coming to Italy. To be honest, I was just interested in a place where I could speak English for a while and feel like a normal person. If you’re going to argue about something, it’s probably better to argue about something totally inconsequential, like the Broncos, right?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Or at least most of the time inconsequential.” Every once in a while, Lucy would open up about her personal life to someone she hardly knew, and say things she would never say to her best friends. Cristiano had one of those calm attentive demeanors. When he looked at you, you were convinced he was listening, and usually he’d wait a few seconds before responding, inviting you to say more. Cristiano remained silent and attentive, so Lucy kept talking. “Do you follow American football much? Remember Super Bowl XLVIII?”

  “No and no.”

  “The Broncos lost to the Seahawks, forty-three to eight. That was a bad night. That was a really bad night. I was too embarrassed to show my face here for another month. And then this summer,” she shook her head, “the Rockies had one of their worst seasons ever. And this is the Rockies we’re talking about, so it was bad. Anyways, I haven’t been back here since July. I know. It’s weird, but it’s like…” she put her hands out in front of her, to grasp hold of an invisible concept suspended in mid air.

  Cristiano put his hand on his chin and stared right at the invisible object in her hands, like he could see it.

  “It’s like…” Lucy explained, “all of the sudden… you’re alone, you’re in a foreign country, you’ve got no one to talk to, and then the most important relationships in your life become these random casual acquaintances in a bar, who are sometimes there and sometimes not. And the only thing I ever had in common with any of these people was a language, and a vague appreciation of football and baseball. And then, it got to the point that, like, the Broncos’ success became the measure of my own self worth in front of everybody else, y’know? Is this making any sense?”

  “You’re much more European than you realize.”

  Before she moved to Italy, she would have taken that as a compliment. Now she glared back at Cristiano, having received an insult.

  “No, really. You’ve been talking to me about sports for how long? And you’ve only used one set of statistics: Broncos, eight, Seahawks, forty-three. Everything else you said was in emotional and existential terms. If that’s not the textbook definition of a fanatical Italian soccer fan, I don’t know what is.”

  Lucy took a drink and resolved to be more guarded around Cristiano. “I mean… the point is I got better. That was a weird time, yeah, but I grew out of it.”

  This was true. The change worked in her just after Brian’s arrival at Palazzo Mortimer is a testament to how much normalcy he reintroduced — or introduced — into her life. Of course, I had always been there, but an invisible animal can only provide so much emotional support to a human being. They all want human interaction. For a while the only place she found it was the pub, but now every time she saw a Seattle Seahawks logo her fist began to curl.

  “Lucy, I wanted to talk to you about the case.” Cristiano moved out of his soothing listening mood and became a negotiator.

  “You didn’t just want to see me?”

  “Have you been talking to any other reporters?”

  “Nope. I’ve been very faithful to you, Cristiano. Anyways, it seems like nobody knows who I am yet. Or at least nobody’s approached me, and I haven’t seen anything published on me, yet. I think that’s a good thing, right? You haven’t published anything, either. It’d be nice to keep things that way, if we can.”

  “For now, we can.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, the problem with you is that nobody knows what to do with you. You’re obviously innocent. The documents that you gave me prove that. So, as far as anyone knows, you’re not interesting.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Well, kind of. It’s great for you, but not for everyone.”

  “Who are we talking about? Who needs me to be interesting?”

  “Nobody needs you in particular to be interesting, but we do need someone to be interesting. We need a suspect or someone involved. The police need a case, and I need — ” Cristiano abruptly cut himself off and left the end of his sentence hanging in the air.

  Lucy’s eyes looked at the ceiling, then focused in on Cristiano. “You need a story,” she finished his thought.

  “Nobody’s made any progress on anything after Speziale was fired. It felt great doing it, but it really threw off the investigation. We really should have waited to do that. Nobody at the station knows why he was fired, so they’re all spreading rumors about you, and, in the meantime, nobody has touched the Galli case since last week. It’s now a file that gets passed around from desk to desk. Everybody’s worried about what’ll happen to their own jobs if they get involved, so they all pass the buck.”

  “What rumors are they spreading about me?”

  “Everything. They say you’ve got high up connections with the U.S. Embassy, or that you were having an affair with Speziale and the chief found out, or that you found out some dirt on the chief and used it as blackmail, or even — and I’m not making this up — quite a few people at the station are even going around saying that you’re someone who can read minds and who talks to an invisible friend. Anything you can imagine, they’re saying it.

  “So you’ve been looking into things?”

  “As much as possible, yes. But I’m a journalist, not a detective. I can only look into things to a certain extent. I can’t get warrants and subpoenas. I need to work with people. But I’m not the only independent looking into things.”

  “Who else is on this? That Corriere guy you were telling me about?”

  “No, no. That guy moved onto other things a while ago. The only other person I know who’s working on this case is sitting right here with me.” He put his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and stared across at her eyes in silence.

  Lucy sat back in her chair, played with her coaster, and looked up at the ceiling, avoiding a strong urge to squirm.

  “Oh, come on,” Cristiano gave an encouraging smile. “You don’t have to look so defeated. You’ve certainly had some moments of brilliance, but let’s be real. You’re still an amateur.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck and tried to smile, “What do you know about what I’ve been up to?”

  “Well, nothing really. But based on how you just reacted to my accusation, I now know for certain that you have indeed been up to something. God, you’re really an amateur!”

  She sighed, put her forehead square on the table and wrapped her arms around the top of her head.

  Cristiano spoke loudly at the braids on top of her head. “Lucy Fox, are you in there? Is this Lucy? Is this the same Lucy Fox that I met last week? What happened to that girl in the interrogation room? Where’s the girl who outsmarted Luca Speziale himself and who convinced a professional journalist to blackmail the police? God, you were brilliant last week. Come on. Pull yourself together.”

  There were a few deep breaths from Lucy’s spot on the table, and then a muffled response, “Can we start over? Can we just go back to Piazza Navona and pretend this conversation never happened?”

  Cristiano laughed.

  Lucy sat back up with a huge frown and begging eyes, “What do you know about what I’ve been up to?”

  “Not very much, really.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Not very much.

  “What do you know, and how do you know it?”

  “Okay, this is all I know. I’ve only met you twice, so it’s not a ton, but it’s something.” He sat up straight and put his finger down at a different spot on the table every time he made a point. “One. The first time I saw you, you had just been let out of prison. My colleagues — the ones you didn’t want to meet today — have very good zoom lenses and very high-resol
ution cameras. You were wearing just a white dry fit t-shirt and close fitting orange running shorts. You had nothing on your person except one square shaped object in the front pocket of your shorts — an object with the exact dimensions of a U.S. passport — and one set of keys zipped into the back pocket. Then you got picked up by a limo — a limo that you weren’t expecting — and taken back to Palazzo Mortimer. That’s strange.”

  “You were stalking me?”

  “Not like that… but… well… yes. Whatever, it’s my job to stalk people.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Second, when you went to open the door to Palazzo Mortimer you had keys for a Fiat rental car in your hand, keys that you didn’t have when you got into the limo. Third. You were also wearing a jacket when you got out of the limo. When we zoomed in on those pictures, we saw you had a ticket stub for a one-way flight from Zürich to Denver sticking out of your jacket pocket — a ticket made out in someone else’s name. Fourth. By that point, you also had something shaped like a U.S. Passport in both the left and right front pockets of your running shorts. I’m going to venture a guess and say that it was somebody else who wanted you to get on that flight, because I don’t think you could afford that kind of expensive ticket and fake passport. It was probably the same person who provided the limo services from prison and did all the legal work to bust you out. But I don’t know. Maybe you’re rich. Your family certainly is. At any rate, you live like you’re not. It’s strange, but we don’t need to get into that. Anyways, fifth. The next day, you didn’t take the rental car to Switzerland and you didn’t get on that flight, which means you have a strong reason to stay. You’re invested in something here. Maybe even this case. Am I right so far?”

  “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Today I called you to ask for a meeting. You agreed immediately, but when you saw the photographers in the piazza, you insisted that we come here instead. That was probably a good idea. When you arrived, though, you blew it. You walked in with blond hair and glasses, and you pretended not to notice me. You went to the bathroom, then sat down a few minutes later across from me with black hair, and… if I remember correctly… the last time we met, you didn’t have blond eyebrows or blue eyes. This can mean three things. One, you’re just a very weird girl. Two, you’re in some kind of witness protection program. Or three, you’re up to something fishy. Let’s say it’s number one… well… Okay, it’s true. You are actually pretty weird for an American girl of your age, but you’re not that weird. Let’s say it’s number two. If it is a witness protection program, it’s a pretty bad one, which means it’s probably number three — you’re up to something, and I have a feeling it’s related to the case. Am I right?”

  “So, really, you don’t know anything?”

  “I know something’s weird. And I pay close attention to details. Anyways, whatever you’ve been up to, I don’t need to know about it. I’m just interested in the fact that you are up to something, and I care about your willingness to continue to be up to something.”

  “And we’ve come full circle. You,” her pointer finger came off of her glass, “need a story.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Here’s the thing.” He lowered the volume of his voice. “Most people spend, maybe, one to three years covering homicides before moving on to something else. I’ve been doing it for five. It’s not great, but it pays the bills. I need a few more good stories before I can get a promotion, and I feel like this could be one of them. The time between October and Christmas seems to be the slow season for murders in Rome, so it gives me the opportunity and free time to do some investigative journalism. Lucy, I know you’re interested in this case, and probably for a good reason. I’m asking for your help.”

  “But I thought… I thought…” Lucy’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. The chic journalist and intellectual had suddenly become human and needy.

  “You thought?”

  “I don’t know… I thought… remember last time we met?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You told me you help people because that’s your business. You stalk people ’cause that’s your business. You’re a journalist and you need to write. You’re — I quote — ‘not interested in charitable work.’”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay, so then why should I be interested in charitable work?”

  “I’m not asking you for a handout. It’s true, I’m here for business. That’s obvious. You’re nice, and I’m very happy to be sitting across from you. But I wouldn’t be having a beer with you just because you’re nice. This is business. But, look, Lucy, business doesn’t exclude a certain kind of friendship. In fact, it demands it. Just because the motives of an encounter are not specifically for friendship, this doesn’t exclude the possibility of that value emerging anyways. Haven’t you read any Aristotle?”

  “Go on.”

  “Forget it. No, I mean, the point is, true friendship can exist on many plains — even a friendship of utility. It’s not the same as marriage or a friendship of people who freely choose each other out of spontaneous affection, but it’s not something to be ignored. Even business relationships are true relationships. I’m telling you — yes, as one businessman talking to one student — that I could use your help. I’m laying my situation out in front of you,” he put his hands on the table palms up, “making myself vulnerable to you, so that I can ask for your help.”

  She leaned in and considered his palms. “How would I be able to help you?”

  “Can I tell you what I think of the murderer?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think he’s someone who has access to the servants’ quarters on top of the building. I think he probably lives there.”

  “Or she.”

  “Sure. He or she.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, let me ask you, who has access to the roof?”

  “The principessa is the only one who controls the keys. She told us it’s just us residents who have keys, and nobody on staff… and I get the feeling the porter probably has keys… and well… now there’s this other guy from down the block who uses the kitchen.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Well, the principessa has keys too, but she’s been out of Italy for a while now.”

  “Alright, so eight people.”

  “Right.”

  “Here’s what I think. It only makes sense if the murderer is a resident in your quarters. You’ve seen the surveillance video, right?”

  “How did you get access to that?”

  “You’ve just got to pay that guy in the porter’s office.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Swing by my office some time. But there’s not much to see. Eugenio walks in at 14:40, and walks out at 15:10. At 15:30 you leave. Then at 15:50, somebody else rushes out of the front lobby covered in your rain pants and jacket with the hood up. At 16:05 Eugenio walks into the lobby, soaking wet, but is confronted by the rain gear person, running in after him. They exchange words, Eugenio gets killed, and the murderer escapes out the door, filling the lobby with exhaust from his vehicle, which was parked right outside the door. At 16:11 the porter finds the body, the cops are there by 16:16.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “That day it was threatening to rain at 15:50, when the murderer first left the building, but it didn’t start raining on the Janiculum until 16:03. So here’s what I think. The murderer needs to go out and find Eugenio. But just before he leaves, he sees —”

  “Or she sees,” interrupted Lucy.

  “This person sees that it’s about to rain, so at the last minute, as he’s running down to find Eugenio, he grabs… I mean, this person grabs your rain jacket and rain pants, which were hung up on a hook, just by the open room door. And this person also realizes it would be a good disguise, so he puts them on before leaving the building. Think about it. It must have been someone who lives there or has regular access. Why w
ould someone who doesn’t normally have access run upstairs and break in, just to grab your rain gear before leaving?”

  “I don’t know. That’s weird.”

  “Exactly. Unless they were already at the Palazzo when they left to find Eugenio.”

  “We found the jacket.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, it was in a dumpster on Via dei Corridori.”

  “Are you serious? Those are some of the worst smelling dumpsters in Rome.” He scrunched his nose at her.

  “Yeah.”

  “How on earth did you think to look there?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. Cristiano didn’t press further.

  “Okay, so the killer takes your jacket, drives out to look for Eugenio, comes back to the palazzo, finds Eugenio running into the Palazzo, confronts him in the lobby, kills him, runs away to Via dei Corridori, takes off your rain gear, and then comes back to the palazzo again like nothing ever happened. Does that match the description of anyone’s movements that day? Anyone besides you and Brian?”

  Lucy looked at the ceiling and went through the list of her roommates. “If that’s all we know, then it could have been any of them.”

  “But you see why I think it was at least one of them?”

  “Right. But you don’t think that it was somebody trying to set me up?” asked Lucy.

  “Stealing a random jacket as a disguise probably had the added benefit of framing somebody else, but I don’t know if that was the primary intention or not. It was about to rain, and your jacket was on a hook by your door. I think it was an opportunity crime. Anyways, the intention of stealing the rain jacket is not what’s important. The important thing is the fact that it was stolen, and the fact that it was easily stolen. Am I right?”

  Lucy stopped to think about Natasha and Eugenio’s South African connections.

  “Am I right?” Cristiano asked again.

  “I suppose,” she narrowed her eyes and rubbed her chin.

  “Well, if you’re interested, I’d like to do some investigative journalism and find out which one of the residents it was. Are you in?”