by Joseph Kanon
“Still looking for the proof?” Cavallini said, hanging up.
“This is him? How did you know the name?”
“The boy told us,” he said, almost amused.
“What’s ferita puntura — bullet wound?”
“No, ferita da pallottola. Puntura is puncture. It’s very close.”
But not the same. Not reported. I held the folder for a few seconds, taking this in. You don’t report someone you know. And he hadn’t. Unless he had lied to Giulia.
“A bullet would have to be reported to the police, you know,” Cavallini said. “Even now. It’s the law.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Usually it’s a question of the medical license. Then, under the Germans, who knows?”
“So he would have reported it to his friends in the SS. But if he told the SS, why falsify the police report? It came to the same thing in those days, didn’t it?”
Cavallini nodded stiffly, not sure whether to be offended. “If it was a bullet,” he said.
“It had to be. How else would he know Moretti was a partisan? What does the son say?”
“This is important?”
“If he knew it was a bullet wound and knew Gianni didn’t report it, he’d think Gianni was helping.” Plant any doubt, some confused opening Moretti’s son might use. “Why would he think Gianni betrayed him?”
“He didn’t. Until you and Rosa suggested it,” Cavallini said calmly, not even raising his voice, no louder than a door closing. I felt blood draining from my face.
Cavallini sighed. “Signor Miller, how you worry. What if? What if? Why not a simple answer? A man betrays, his victim is avenged. It has happened a million times before. What do you want to prove? That the boy is innocent?”
I looked up. The inescapable other question-then who is guilty? I dropped the folder on the desk and walked over to the window. Below in the Rio San Lorenzo a freight boat passed, loaded with bottles. Maybe a boat just like young Moretti’s. Someone who knew the lagoon, even in fog.
“I just don’t understand why he didn’t report the bullet wound.”
“It’s a detail, yes.”
“I mean, it would be terrible if we were wrong.”
“Yes,” Cavallini said, “and for Moretti’s son. He murdered a man for this. Imagine, if it was a mistake.”
I turned, my stomach churning again, but there was no sense of accusation in his voice, no sense that it even mattered. Moretti’s son had murdered Gianni. The rest was details.
“Don’t worry, Signor Miller,” he said, confident. “We will learn everything, now that we have him.” He flipped open the folder on his desk, as if having it there were proof, something tangible.
“Is that him?” I said, nodding at the photo on top.
“Yes. The usual bad picture. So dark.” He shook his head. “Our police photographer. But we can’t let him go. His wife is-”
He handed me the photograph. Wild eyes and uncombed hair, the scowl of a mug shot, guilty just being there. But something more. Exactly the same eyes, the shape of the nose. I imagined the hair brushed over, the face clean and smiling-the same boy in a V-necked tennis sweater, his arm over Paolo’s shoulder. The son, then. So Moretti was someone Gianni knew. But what did it mean? Someone you knew, you wouldn’t turn over. Not in a moral question, anyway. But someone had. I started to speak, then caught the sound in my throat. Would it make it worse for Moretti, another connection for Cavallini to use against him? I looked up to see the inspector watching me.
“He’s just a kid,” I said, my voice suddenly distraught. I stared again at the picture, everyone’s solution to the crime.
“Yes. But not a child. A man.” Making a legal distinction. “You know, it’s often like this in police work. People like to help catch and then-” He made a snapping noise with his hands. “They realize there’s also the punishment. That’s more difficult for them. The cold feet, you say, yes?” he said, still genial, sticking his chin out so that for a half second he looked like Paolo’s hero in Rome. Not a joke in the end, either. He took back the picture. “He’s young, yes. But think of the crime. Think how Gianni would feel. Grateful, I think, for your help.”
Before I could answer, Cavallini’s door, only half shut, swung open and his secretary came in, arms held out, being pushed by Rosa, who was screaming in Italian. “Ah,” Rosa said, spying Cavallini, moving the secretary aside and wagging her finger theatrically.
He yelled back, but she cut him off, flinging her hands now. There must have been some physical resistance in the outer office, because her cardigan, usually wrapped tight, seemed a little disheveled, and her hair was spilling out of its tidy bun.
“Oh, you too!” she said, seeing me, switching to English. “What a pair. What a pair. How can you be part of this? Give me that.” She reached over for the beige file. Cavallini put his hand on it. “It’s property of the Allies. Not yours,” she said.
“And now evidence in a murder case.”
“ Basta. What evidence?” She turned to me. “You see how they use everything? We investigate Maglione, not some poor boy. And now they use that, because he’s Communist. Anything to discredit the Communists. Where is he? I demand to see him.”
“He’s being questioned. He has a lawyer.”
“Ha. Picked by the Questura. Wonderful.”
“Let him pick another, then.”
“Don’t worry, he will. My god, what a fool you are. Always the same. The father was a hero. The boy was a hero. While you were-what? Keeping order for the Germans. And now you want to destroy him? Take everything he says and twist it-no, worse, everything I say. It was to help get Maglione. Why? Because he has to know.” She pointed her thumb at me. “So I help, and now you want to use that? Against an innocent boy? Shame. But then, when were you ever ashamed?”
“Innocent boy,” Cavallini said scornfully.
“Yes, innocent, of course innocent.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do.”
“Ah. And that’s his defense. No wonder you came. How did you know he was here, by the way?”
“Oh, you think maybe someone here told me? Good, start the search. A Communist in the Questura. Yes, that must be it. You’d better look everywhere. Under the desks. Do it to your own-see how they like it.” She turned to me. “You see what they’re trying to do? You think this boy killed Maglione?”
“No, he agrees with you,” Cavallini said, mischievous. “He’s been trying to convince me the boy is innocent.”
Rosa stopped, thrown by this.
“But he hasn’t,” Cavallini said, with a small smile for me.
“Be careful what you say here,” Rosa said to me. “It’s not justice here. Politics. Nothing changes.” She looked at Cavallini. “When can I see him?”
“Make a request,” Cavallini said. “While he’s being questioned, his lawyer only.”
“One hair,” Rosa said to him. “If you touch one hair.” She turned to me. “And you-you know what Maglione was. They’re the same. And now you work with them.”
“Is that the purpose of your visit?” Cavallini said, mock-formal. “To criticize the police?”
Rosa raised her head. “No, to warn you.”
“Oh, to warn me.”
“I know you, what a coward you can be. You want to make the Communists look bad? Go ahead. But not with this boy. You know me too. You think I survived that house to let you have Moretti’s son? I warn you, I will fight you with everything.”
“Except your own evidence. That fights for me.”
“Evidence can change.”
“But not the truth,” Cavallini said, pompous, actually raising a finger, the whole conversation a series of gestures, a visible squaring off.
“Truth? You’re a fine one-”
“ Che cosa succede qui?” a policeman said. He had stopped at the door, the secretary trailing behind.
“ Niente, niente,” Cavallini said, then to Rosa, “This be
havior is for the streets, not the Questura. You want to see the prisoner, make a request.”
“The prisoner? He’s formally charged?”
“He’s answering questions,” Cavallini said, not answering hers.
“So. Then wait for his lawyer. Already sent for, already sent for,” she said, anticipating him.
“Tell him to hurry,” Cavallini said, smiling again. “We are expecting a confession any minute.”
“Bah,” Rosa said, flinging her hand.
There was a noise in the outer office-more people, including the man I’d met earlier, Cavallini’s boss. When I looked at Cavallini, I caught a flicker of anxiety, a worry perhaps that he’d be blamed for the commotion.
“Come on, Rosa,” I said, taking her arm.
To my relief, she nodded and moved with me to the door, then turned one last time to face Cavallini. “Remember,” she said, “not one hair.”
Outside on the fondamenta she stopped for a second to look across the canal to San Lorenzo. I gave her a cigarette, a peace offering, surprised to find my hand shaking, still rattled.
“I didn’t know-” I started, but she cut me off with a wave.
“They’re going to charge him.”
“No, they’re not. They can’t prove anything. He didn’t do it.” Trying it out, wanting to believe it myself.
“You’re so sure?” she said, looking up at me but not waiting for an answer. “Anyway, when did they need proof, this bunch?”
As we neared the bridge, Claudia ran toward us from the calle side of the building, glancing nervously at the police guards in front. She was clutching her open coat, as if she’d left too quickly to button it.
“Thank god. You’re all right?” she said, touching my arm.
“Yes, fine. What-?”
“Cavallini called, looking for you. He said they arrested somebody.” She looked again at the Questura.
“It’s okay, calm down. They didn’t arrest me,” I said, trying to make a joke of it and signal her at the same time. “Meet Rosa.”
The introductions were offhand, not much more than an appraising glance, each of them too distracted to be interested in the other.
“But who-?”
“A boy. His father was in the house with the partisans.”
“But how can they think-?”
“He’s got a motive,” I said quickly, looking at her. “And he can’t explain himself.”
“A motive?”
“Yes, we did that for him,” Rosa said grimly. “He never even thought about Maglione until I talked to him. So now it’s our fault.”
“But he didn’t do it,” I said.
“Yes, and who’s in there?” Rosa said, jerking her thumb toward the building.
“What are you going to do?” Claudia said quietly.
“We’re going to find out who did do it,” I said to Rosa, ignoring Claudia’s stare. But who? A phantom, a better story.
“No, I’m finished with this business. Look how it is already. They don’t want anyone else. He’s perfect for them. So now the lawyers will have to save him, not the file clerk,” she said, pointing to herself.
“Help me.”
“Do what?”
“Find out what happened. None of it makes sense. Gianni faked a medical report. Why? Risked his license for Moretti, maybe saved his life. Does that sound like Gianni to you?”
“Anything’s possible.” She dropped some ashes and rubbed them with her shoe.
“Tell me about Moretti. Was he a Communist?”
“A patriot.”
“And a friend of Gianni’s brother.” She looked at me, not surprised to hear it but surprised I knew. “I saw an old picture. But he was a Communist?”
She shrugged. “Many came from good families. With them, a matter of conviction.”
“Was he involved-when Paolo was killed?”
She pulled on the cigarette, saying nothing.
“Rosa.”
“Don’t ask me this.”
“For chrissake, why not? It was during the war. What does it matter now?”
“It would matter to the son. He’s already heard enough. Let it go. It’s the past.”
“Why? It would make him a hero, wouldn’t it?”
“A hero. Do you know what that meant, in that kind of war? It’s not the army. Everything is permitted. It’s good to lie. To kill. And then it’s over and it’s the opposite.”
“Yes,” Claudia said unexpectedly. Rosa looked at her, not sure how to respond, then back at me.
“I’m not going to tell his son.”
“All right. Tell me.”
She dropped the cigarette and took a few steps toward the canal, wrapping her sweater tighter. “Paolo was a fool, but he was careful. Maybe people were careful for him. So, to get him, they had to trick him. Moretti knew him-an old friend, as you say.”
“He set him up?”
“You want to know the details? What’s the difference? He betrayed him, he helped to kill him. Paolo trusted him, so it started with him.”
“Then why would Gianni help him?”
“He didn’t know. Who was going to tell him, Moretti?”
“But-”
“That’s right. He kills his old friend and then lies to the brother to save himself. Not the way a hero acts. I told you, it was that kind of war. Anything was right.”
“Who else killed him? Who was also in the house-besides Moretti.”
“Also in the house? Just one,” she said, looking straight at me.
I held her eyes for a second, then dropped my gaze to the pavement, thinking. “So there’s no other connection. And Moretti leaves the hospital and nothing happens. Gianni helps him.”
“A wonderful man.”
“But it has to be him somehow.”
“Well, now there’s a life at stake. I have to help the lawyers. I leave the doctor to you.”
“Why fake the report?” I said, moving absentmindedly in a small circle. “Start with that.”
“You start. I have to go now.”
“Wait. What about the attending nurse? I just remembered. She signed the report too, so she must know something. Please. I need someone who can talk to her. In Italian.”
Rosa was quiet for a minute, shifting on her bad leg, physically wavering.
“I speak Italian,” Claudia said, breaking the silence.
Rosa looked at her, then nodded. “ Brava,” she said, starting to move away. “You talk for him.”
“Rosa-”
Claudia glared at me. “I’ll talk to the nurse,” she said, her words deliberate, like a hand on my arm. Let her go.
“Maybe we can get him out,” Rosa said, gesturing at the Questura. “Before they charge him.”
Without even looking at us, she headed for the corner, barely limping now, in a hurry.
“Why did you do that? She would have stayed if-”
“Yes,” Claudia said, “and then what? More detectives. You don’t want her help. Not now. The police have somebody, so why are you still looking? That’s what they’ll think, why is he doing this? And then they look at you.”
“But Rosa doesn’t-”
“You think she’s your friend, but nobody’s your friend now. The police, her, it’s the same. One slip, that’s what you told me. At least it’s over with Cavallini, this business. He doesn’t need a partner anymore.”
I nodded, reluctant. “No. I have to do it without him.”
“No, you have to stop. They have somebody. Now what reason can there be for you-”
But I was only half listening, thinking of Cavallini strutting behind his desk, chest puffed out.
“We can’t just walk away. We can’t let this boy-”
She reached up, touching my arm. “Yes, walk away, before it’s too late.”
I looked at her, surprised. “You don’t mean that,” I said quietly. “You can’t.”
She turned her head, letting her hand drop.
“Claudia, wha
t happened with Gianni, that was one thing. But this-they’ll hang him.”
“But they can’t prove he did it. We know they can’t prove it.”
“They may not have to. They might convict him anyway. They’ll try. They won’t want to admit they made a mistake. Not now. They just solved the case.”
She looked down at her foot, moving it, something to do while she took this in. “So now we have what we wanted,” she said finally, her voice distant. “A perfect alibi.” She looked at me. “Better than the party. Even better than that. Now someone else did it.” She walked away, toward the canal. “Until you show them he didn’t.”
“Claudia, he could die.”
I stopped, caught by the sound of some policemen coming out of the door behind us, their shoes clumping on the pavement, voices loud. Claudia didn’t turn, just kept staring down at the canal water, as if not moving would make her invisible. When we heard them cross the bridge to San Lorenzo, she spoke without raising her head. “So it gets worse,” she said. “Another one, unless we help him. And then what? Then who did it? And now you want me to help you. What, catch myself?”
“We’ll find them someone else.”
“Someone else,” she repeated.
“Who could have done it. Another possibility. Just so long as it’s not him. We need to make a story. Something so close to what really happened that they can believe it. Just make a little change. The way Gianni did, remember?” Walking along the fondamenta, making the truce.
“Ah. Now like Gianni,” she said, her voice tight.
I looked at her, then let it go. “But we have to know what really happened.”
She turned from the water. “We already know what really happened.”
“I mean at the safe house. It’s in Cavallini’s head now. It’s too late to use anything else. He thinks Moretti has a motive. But who else would?”
“And the nurse is going to tell you?”
“A piece, anyway. If I can talk to her.”
At the hospital, Claudia didn’t even bother to translate. On my own I might have managed some kind of conversation, helped by gestures, but Claudia and the duty nurse spoke in a rush that swept me aside, unable to pick up even the occasional word. It was easier just to lean against the glass front of the nurses’ station and watch them speak. I thought of Moretti, lying upstairs with his puncture wound. The nurse would have had to know. Now this one was writing something down, motioning with one hand, giving directions.