Death in Tuscany

by Michele Giuttari

  An illegal immigrant without a family: he refused to believe that her parents hadn't come forward simply because they were afraid of being deported. Besides, a young immigrant doesn't have the time or the inclination or the money to buy drugs. It was much more likely that she was a victim of the international traffic in human beings, which was reaching staggering proportions: the number of children who disappeared each year throughout the world and ended up in the clutches of unscrupulous traffickers was horrifying.

  'From Eastern Europe ..." he said, looking at the photo again.

  'That's what I thought.' 'Anything else?' Violante hesitated. 'Well?'

  'Nothing I can put my finger on. Just an impression . . . But, all things considered, it doesn't matter, believe me.'

  'What do you mean, "all things considered"?'

  'You know what I mean. An illegal immigrant. . .' Violante replied with the air of resigned indifference people use to talk about subjects they'd prefer to sweep under the carpet.

  Yes, he knew what Violante meant.

  An unidentified illegal immigrant who'd died of a drug overdose was like a rubbish bag ready to be collected and placed in the appropriate pile: on one side those who matter and are talked about in the press and on TV, and on the other all the rest, whose records no one will ever consult. In other words, this was a case to be concluded without any fuss and without causing the Commissioner any needless worry — because, as everyone knew, he had plenty of other things on his plate.

  That was the explanation for Violante's resigned attitude.

  'No,' Ferrara replied, calmly, without jumping down his throat again. 'This time I don't know. Tell me your impressions and let me draw my own conclusions, okay?'

  'Okay, chief, but the thing is . . . well ... I don't really know. It's the hospital. There's something strange going on there.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It's as if . . . as if once they found out no one was coming forward, they just dropped her. I mean, as if they didn't really take care of her. And now that she's dead, she's become a nuisance, and they're in a hurry to have done with her . . . like they wanted to get rid of her as quickly as possible, you know what I mean?'

  'Yes, I think I'm starting to . . .'

  'Since she died, they've hurried everything up. Yesterday my colleague on duty at the hospital even phoned to ask me if I could finish my report as soon as possible. As if we had nothing else to do, as if I'm bone idle.'

  'Did he tell you why?'

  'He says the consultant asked him. But it seems as if even the Prosecutor's Department wants to close the case as soon as possible.'

  Why, for God's sake? And why was the consultant in such a hurry?

  'Do you think maybe they could have saved her but made a mistake?'

  'Who knows? I'm not a medical expert. But I think something strange is going on. Maybe it's just because it's August, everyone wants to get off on holiday, they're overworked, they need the beds, the case was hopeless

  'Especially if she was an illegal immigrant,' Ferrara said, and realised he was getting angry again. 'If there's the slightest suspicion of malpractice we're not going to let them get away with it, okay? Do you have the medical records?'

  'No - I didn't think . . .'

  'What?'

  'I didn't think there was any point . . . and besides, we'd need a special warrant from the deputy prosecutor who's dealing with the investigation.'

  'Which deputy prosecutor is that?'

  'Anna Giulietti.'

  Excellent, Ferrara thought. He'd developed a good professional relationship with her during the recent Ricciardi case, and they had come out of it firm friends. He'd have to have a chat with her as soon as he could.

  'Put in a request for the warrant immediately, Violante.'

  All right, chief.'

  'We haven't finished with this case yet. I want you to carry on. How many men do you have on it?' 'What?'

  Ferrara repeated the question, more loudly.

  'Not many, chief. We're short-staffed.' Violante's tone was one of complaint, but there was a gleam of life in his eyes.

  'Fanti!' Ferrara called. Before the sergeant had even come in, he asked, 'Is Sergi on holiday, too?'

  'No, chief,' Fanti replied from the other room.

  'I want him to work with Violante, as of now. And put as many men at their disposal as you can, okay?'

  'Of course, chief,' Fanti replied as soon as he appeared, before vanishing again.

  'Here,' Ferrara said, handing Violante the report. 'It needs changing.'

  'How?'

  'For cause of death, cross out "overdose". For the moment, assume it's homicide caused by persons unknown through the administration of narcotic substances, either of bad quality or in an excessive dose.'

  'Okay, chief, I'll get on it straightaway'

  Violante left the room with a new spring in his step.

  2

  And what about you? When are you going on holiday?'

  Already been,' Superintendent Ascalchi replied. He had come in immediately after Violante had gone out.

  And indeed he had a handsome tan. Well, a tan at least, Ferrara corrected himself. Short, stocky, with a slightly crooked nose and an asymmetrical chin, he could hardly be described as handsome.

  He had been on holiday in July, and Ferrara hadn't even noticed - that was how much he valued him! But maybe it wasn't his fault. He tended to rely on those of his men who were of proven experience, whereas Ascalchi, who had only been in Florence for just over a year, wasn't yet at ease here, however well he concealed it beneath his tough Roman exterior. He ought to use him more. Well, whether he liked it or not, now was his opportunity.

  At dawn last Sunday a girl was found dying in the hills not far from here. She'd been drugged. She died yesterday afternoon.'

  'Yes, Violante told me. An overdose, wasn't it?' Apparently'

  'Maybe the drug was cut with some other crap, chief.

  Unfortunately it's easy to get ripped off where dope's concerned. People who do drugs always run that risk.'

  'Those who "do drugs", yes, but it's possible this poor girl was only thirteen. Do you think a girl of thirteen is the kind of person who "does drugs"?'

  Gianni Ascalchi looked at him uncertainly, not sure what he was getting at. All he said was, 'Don't know.'

  The telephone rang.

  'Dr Francesco Leone,' Fanti announced. 'Put him on.'

  Leone came on the line. 'Hello, Chief Superintendent. I hear you've been looking for me.'

  'If it's you they've asked to do the autopsy on the girl who died at the Ospedale Nuovo, then I have.'

  'You mean the junkie?'

  Even to Leone, that was all the poor girl was. One less thing for society to worry about, now that she was dead.

  'I mean the child,' Ferrara replied, making clear the difference in their viewpoints.

  Leone ignored Ferrara's argumentative tone: they had known each other and respected each other for too many years to start splitting hairs. 'You've caught me red-handed, my dear Ferrara. I'm just on my way to the Ospedale Nuovo now to do the autopsy.'

  'So soon? It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet

  'Don't worry, she's not in suspended animation. Her heart failed and they couldn't revive her. She's no longer among us, we're sure of that. It was the deputy prosecutor who told me to hurry things up. It's August, Ferrara . . .'

  Or maybe there was someone who was 'in a hurry to have done with her, to get rid of her as quickly as possible', Ferrara thought: wasn't that what Violante had said?

  'May I ask,' Leone continued, 'why this case should be of such interest to the head of the Squadra Mobile? From what I gather, it's a simple overdose, which isn't exactly uncommon these days - or am I mistaken?'

  'No, I don't think you're mistaken. The fact is, my men haven't managed to identify the girl yet, we don't even know how old she was, and I was wondering if . . .'

  Leone laughed heartily. 'You've come to t
he wrong address, my dear Ferrara. I'm good, I admit - one of the best in the field. But unless the poor girl swallowed her identity card, without chewing it, I don't think I can help you. Names and dates of birth aren't written in the DNA.'

  Why did everyone have to make jokes all the time? What was so funny about a life that had barely begun and had already ended in the morgue? Maybe it was the only way they could live with the most unbearable aspects of their respective professions, but Ferrara wasn't like that. Years spent fighting crime in its various forms had made him feel like an explorer of an underground world which increasingly disturbed the apparently tranquil surface of daily life; a world in which he, like everyone, could easily become trapped.

  He remembered the words the then-Commissioner, Angelo Duranti, had used in welcoming him to Florence as the newly appointed head of the Squadra Mobile. They all used to call Duranti 'Mephisto', because of his gloomy character, but many now missed him. 'Be careful, Chief Superintendent. In this city, if you stick your finger in shit, you're likely to pull out shovelfuls of the stuff!'

  He was still fond of Duranti, and visited him every now and then at his house in Liguria, where he was spending his retirement looking at the sea and the Palmaria Islands, Tino and Tonetto, growing fruit trees and writing his memoirs. He was still a great teacher, full of invaluable lessons, not only in how to apply the law, but also in how to negotiate the vagaries of police bureaucracy as well as, more importantly, those of the human heart.

  'I know that,' Ferrara said, after Leone's laughter had subsided. 'I wouldn't ask that much even of you. But we suspect she may have been a foreigner, an illegal immigrant, and you might be able to confirm that. Anyway, it's your fault, Doctor. You've got me used to surprises, so I'm expecting you to tell me something I can really use.'

  'If she ever had an operation, or had dental care, then it's just possible we could find out her nationality . . . But if you're so interested, why don't you honour us with your presence?' It was a provocative question: Leone knew how averse Ferrara had become to such things over the years.

  It had been ages since he had last attended an autopsy, a thankless task which he preferred to leave to others. Usually it fell to Rizzo, the most trusted of his men. For a moment, Ferrara looked at Ascalchi, who was sitting right there in front of him, but he dropped the idea: he had something else for Ascalchi to do.

  'You say you're on your way to the hospital now?'

  'The autopsy room at the hospital morgue, to be precise. Why do you ask?'

  ‘I’ll be there. In half an hour, is that okay?'

  Leone gave a long, incredulous whistle. 'I'll wait for you in intensive care, in the consultant's office. But please don't be late. I have a feeling this d'Incisa fellow isn't very patient. What's so special about this unknown foreigner anyway?'

  'She was young,' Ferrara commented laconically, bringing the conversation to a close.

  Almost a child, don't you think so?' he said to Ascalchi, who had been patiently following the conversation to get a better idea of the case.

  'At thirteen? What do you want me to say, chief? Some are still children, some hardly at all . . .'

  'To me they're all still children, whether they like it or not. What can anyone understand at that age? What fault is it of theirs?'

  'I blame the parents. They're the ones who should be thrown into prison.'

  Yes, the parents. Perhaps this girl's parents had sold her, or perhaps they were still looking for her in some Eastern European country.

  As you heard, the likeliest hypothesis at the moment, given that no one has come forward, is that she was an illegal immigrant. She may have fallen into the clutches of the Albanians or the Romanians or God knows who.'

  'Right, chief,' Ascalchi said. 'We can check out the pushers, but it's a jungle out there . . .'

  'So buy a machete. But not yet. For the moment you don't have to venture any further than Narcotics Division. True, you might come across a few savages there, but don't be deceived, they're good people. See if there any current investigations into cases of heroin overdose, and ask them how they see the situation in the city and the surrounding areas. Oh, and also try and find out the minimum age at which minors have access to drugs.' Thinking that Ascalchi hadn't quite understood, he added as he stood up, 'What age they start, is that clear?'

  'I did understand what you meant, chief,' Ascalchi protested, also standing.

  Narcotics was one of the divisions of the Squadra Mobile and occupied the last four rooms in the corridor on the first floor of Police Headquarters, the area furthest from prying eyes. Superintendent Ascalchi, who had never been there before, wondered if the choice of location had been deliberate. Certainly, the atmosphere was quite different from the rest of the Squad, and so were the officers, who were all very young and casually dressed. The men wore earrings, and the women had pierced navels, which they left proudly uncovered.

  'Do you know where Ciuffi is?' he asked the first person he saw: a tall, well-built guy he wouldn't have liked to meet on a dark night in a street on the outskirts of town. Not even in the centre of town, come to think of it.

  'Superintendent Ciuffi to you. Who the hell do you think you are?'

  'Superintendent Ascalchi,' he replied coldly. 'Ferrara sent me.'

  'I'm sorry, sir . . . Superintendent Ciuffi is in the last room on the left.'

  'Thanks. Don't put yourself to any trouble, I can find the way' He left the officer rooted to the spot, looking astonished and mortified.

  The head of the section was a friendly, talkative thirty-two-year-old Neapolitan. Ferrara had met him in a canteen during a summer seminar organised by the American police, where he had been doing a course on anti-Mafia strategies in Italy and Ciuffi was on a refresher course given by the DEA. After talking for fifteen minutes over a dish of cold chicken that tasted of plastic and overboiled potatoes - everyone was overdosing on ketchup and mustard to make it palatable - Ferrara had realised that this man was a first-class officer and decided that if ever he had his own squad he wanted him in it at all costs.

  Unlike his colleagues, Ciuffi dressed normally. Ascalchi had only seen him once before, when he had arrived at Florence Police Headquarters for the first time and Ferrara had introduced him to all his colleagues.

  'Plenty of work, eh?'

  'This isn't Rome or Naples, but we aren't lagging far behind, I can tell you. There are lots of drugs around, and it's hard to keep up. We do what we can, as you can see.' Ciuffi pointed at the walls, which were covered with posters and newspaper cuttings about the team's most recent operations: a proud record, which Ferrara had tolerated because it was an incentive to further improvement. 'But there aren't that many of us, so what can we do?'

  'How many exactly?'

  'Twenty in all, more men than women. Most of them prepared to go undercover among the dealers.'

  'I noticed. I was thinking I should raid the place.'

  Luigi Ciuffi smiled. 'Real characters, eh? And you didn't see all of them. The best ones we keep in mothballs.'

  Ascalchi didn't envy them. These were men who, when they went undercover, didn't come into the office and sometimes didn't even see their families for long periods. They were a select few, who ran the greatest risks and needed uncommon courage and a really cool head.

  'So Ferrara has sent you to help me out, has he?' Ciuffi joked.

  'Oh, no, not at all! Quite the opposite, you may be able to help us out

  Ciuffi sighed. 'Don't worry, I got the idea. Okay, shoot.' A young girl died of an overdose yesterday' 'The one in the Ospedale Nuovo?'

  Obviously, as head of Narcotics, he had read the initial report from the hospital. 'Yes.'

  'We don't know anything about her yet. What's your interest?'

  'We need to know if you're investigating any cases of heroin overdose where the stuff is either too pure or it's been cut with something harmful.'

  'Affirmative.'

  A lot of them?'

  'Yes, we've
had a sudden rash of them. Not that there weren't any before, of course there were. But they weren't so frequent and they were almost always relative overdoses. What we're getting now are a lot of absolute overdoses from heroin cut with starch, talcum powder, sometimes strychnine, the usual things, you know? There've been six cases in the last two months alone. Deputy Prosecutor Erminia Cosenza is in overall charge of the investigation.'

  'Hold on, I don't quite follow. What's all this about relative and absolute overdoses?'

  Luigi Ciuffi seemed pleased to have a chance to show off his expertise to a colleague. An absolute overdose is caused by the consumption of a dose, pure or cut, that's above general tolerance levels. A relative overdose is caused by the consumption of a dose higher than the particular tolerance level of a specific individual, and that can depend on a number of factors.'

  Ascalchi ignored his colleague's somewhat didactic tone. 'So in cases of absolute overdose the dose would be fatal for anyone, whereas in cases of relative overdose only for some and not for others?'

  'Precisely. And what we're getting in Florence at the moment is a lot of absolute overdoses.'

  'How do you explain that?'

  'The likeliest explanation is that there's a gang war going on for control of the territory' 'Between who?'

  As you know, the Albanians are trying to muscle in on various illegal activities in Florence - including drugs, of course. I don't mean soft drugs, hashish, marijuana, they've been in absolute control there for some time. I'm talking about heroin, cocaine, amphetamine, crack - the whole kit and caboodle.'