In the other armchair, a gun casually resting on his right thigh, sat Annibale Canessa.
‘Please, your honour, have a seat. Make yourself at home.’
He was struck by the former Carabiniere’s wry humour. Nevertheless, he sat down.
‘You’re out of your mind, out there—’
‘Yes, good point: and it’s probably better for them to stay out there. If everyone behaves, no one gets hurt. I don’t intend to cause any harm or suffering, but you need to work with me.’
Savelli nodded. After the initial shock, his mind was firing on all cylinders. If he’d come all the way here, Canessa wasn’t planning on shooting anyone, but he wasn’t intending to turn himself in either, or he wouldn’t have the gun. What was he after?
‘How did you get here?’
Canessa offered him a half smile. ‘The same way I’ll be leaving, but it’s better if you don’t know. For everyone’s sake.’ ‘What do you want?’
‘To tell you a story.’
‘If you’re here to give me your version of your situation, there are approp—’
Canessa interrupted him by raising his hand. ‘Listen, there is no time to follow protocol,’ he emphasised the word. ‘We need to be swift. All I’m asking is one favour: listen to me.’
Savelli found his irony again. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You do. If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, I’ll leave, but the consequences will be distressing for everyone.’
Savelli realised from the man’s expression that he had to hear him out.
‘Go on, I’m listening.’
Canessa pointed to a laptop on the table between the armchairs.
‘In there you’ll find a DVD that explains the reasons behind Petri’s murder, and everything that followed.’ Canessa paused. ‘But first you need to hear how I got to it.’
‘Keep talking.’ Savelli had always known that Canessa wasn’t mad, but he was now realising that maybe what he had was actually important. They’d all underestimated him. Canessa had captured his attention.
‘Four days ago, I stepped into a church in Milan, the Madonna of Fatima in Vigentino. It was 7 a.m., and first Mass was starting. I stayed for its entirety. There weren’t many of us, all women except for me and an elderly man. It can’t have lasted longer than twenty, twenty-five minutes. During the service, I got the impression that the priest – in his seventies, but full of an energy that made him look younger – was staring at me. Just an impression at first. I was, shall we say, incognito. But I soon realised he was actually looking at me, almost as if he’d expected me to be there. So when Mass ended and the others left, I stayed behind. Ten minutes later, the priest walked out of the sacristy and came to sit next to me.’
‘You must be Colonel Canessa.’
‘Yes.’
‘I was expecting you.’ The priest paused. ‘Giuseppe told me that if anything went wrong, sooner or later, you’d show up. If anyone can make it here, it’s Colonel Canessa. He was right, may he rest in peace.’
Canessa listened in silence. The priest stood up. ‘Please, come with me.’ Annibale followed him into the sacristy. It wasn’t what he expected, and it looked instead like a cross between kitchen and office. It was a wide room, full of furniture.
‘Oh, by the way, I’m Don Filippo.’
They shook hands.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please, Father.’
They sat at the table and sipped coffee made by the priest. Annibale complimented him.
‘I know, I know, it’s a bit like that song, the one by De André about the camorrista…’
‘Don Raffaé.’
The priest stood up again, went to a cupboard and took out a shoe box. He placed it on the table. ‘That’s the one. He sings that the recipe for the coffee made by the inmate was given to him by his mammà. That’s my case too. But enough small talk. I imagine you must have questions. I mean, if you’re here you already know the answer to one of them. Yes, Giuseppe,’ he still called him by his first name, ‘found faith. It happened in odd circumstances, as often with the paths that lead to the Lord. He was working in the prison library and one day they took him to the storage room and asked him to sort the old books, keeping any that might interest the prison’s “contemporary audience”, if you’ll allow me the term, and those that could be repaired. Out with the rest. In that pile of books, Giuseppe found a small one, the one he started carrying around, wrapped in newspaper. It’s called A Little Goodness.’
Another pause, before the priest continued. ‘I’d never heard of it either. I wouldn’t call it one of our major means of conversion. Even if I handed it to one of the oldest, most passionate of our faithful, they’d be quite baffled. But to Giuseppe, that book was the illumination on the road to Damascus. All he needed were the few words in the preface. So one day, he ends up here, with his trail of blood and desire to convert. He didn’t want to repent, but I told him he must. He had to repent before God; he had no other choice. So he did, and I welcomed him in. But there was another step: he had to tell the truth, give in to human justice, render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar. It took him a little longer to come round to that.’
Don Filippo fought to hold back his tears.
‘He started coming every morning. He stayed to one side, didn’t want to be recognised. All of our regulars saw him, but he never showed his face full-on. And in any case, who would remember him among our elderly visitors? Afterwards he’d stay behind with me, like you just did, to have a coffee and talk, for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. We talked a lot, and he started confessing his sins. He told me his story. He was embarking on his path. I obviously can’t tell you what he told me during confession. He was baptised and he attended his first Holy Communion, but not his Confirmation. He was going to do that at the end of June. Then one morning, he shows up with this box and asks me to keep it for him. The book is probably also in there, if it wasn’t on him when he died. He told me it was a sort of insurance. Not for me, but for the truth, Father. Please take this, as you take my words during confession and with the same sacrament. Don’t hand it over to anyone, no matter what happens to me. No one – not the police, not the magistrates. No one, apart from Colonel Annibale Canessa. This is a photo of him, he’s younger in the picture, but you’ll recognise him. I did, immediately, despite your disguise – but don’t worry, I’m very good.’ Don Filippo smiled at him. ‘I was frightened. And I was right to be. Three days later, he was killed. That’s all there is to it, really. The box is yours. Would you like to pray with me for Giuseppe? He did some horrific things and he was a cruel man, but he acknowledged his actions before God. And it’s never too late to embrace Him.’
‘I’m not good at praying, Father. I never remember the words.’
‘I’ll think of the words. You can join me in silence.’
Antonio Savelli was enraptured by the story. Outside, the storm had calmed, but the humidity of a house used to the heat and suddenly plunged back into cold weather was starting to creep over them.
‘Can I place some more wood on the fire?’ he asked. Canessa nodded. Savelli came back to the armchair.
‘So where’s the box? What was inside?’ Savelli asked.
‘The box is safe. The book was inside. It was written by another priest, Don Giulio Cantù and printed in 1907. It’s old and very well thumbed. Stuffed with iconography. It’s mostly prayers, but at its core, it’s a rewriting of Scripture, with moral stories, sermons and explanations. The priest was right: it’s not a modern tool. But it was enough to convert Petri.’
‘Did he want to confess?’
Canessa smiled. ‘Mostly, he wanted to ask forgiveness. I found out he’d been taking flowers and candles to the tombs of his victims. You can confirm with their families.’
‘Really?’ Savelli grew
more surprised with every detail. ‘I still don’t get what his conversion has to do with his death, though.’
Canessa, his hand still on the gun, drew something out of a bag propped against the chair: papers. He handed them to Savelli.
‘This is a transcription of Don Filippo’s deposition, and his witness report on the contents of the box, which I opened in his presence. Besides the book, the box contained Petri’s last will and confession, which he typed up and printed out, and also recorded on DVD and VHS. The VHS is the original. Petri had it converted to DVD format, and the written version is a summary.’
Savelli felt his phone buzz in his jacket. Canessa heard it too. He touched his gun and said calmly, ‘Answer it.’
Savelli complied. ‘Yes? Yes, everything’s fine, thanks. I’m about to head up to bed. I should be able to take the boat out tomorrow. Thank you.’ He hung up.
‘Now what?’
Canessa turned to the laptop, opened it and typed something. ‘Don’t you want to know what’s in Petri’s will and confession? Aren’t you curious? All you have to do is press ENTER.’
Savelli remained immobile for some time. He had always been an honest man, honest to the core. And discovering the truth had always been a moral imperative for him. At that moment, however, he was afraid of discovering this particular truth. Rather than setting him free, it threatened to put him in shackles.
Urged on by his conscience, however, he dismissed the thought and angrily pressed ENTER.
1979
September
(with a third-millennium introduction by Petri)
(A storage room can be seen, or a cabinet, framed by the computer webcam. There’s a chair and to the left, what looks like a photocopier. Behind the chair, some wooden shelving is stacked with office paper stock, toilet and kitchen rolls; the tip of a broom handle can be seen. A man appears in front of the camera: Petri. He sits.)
My name is Giuseppe Petri. I was known as ‘Pino’ when I was working as a criminal. I was born in Turin, on the 6th of January 1946. My family is from Pescocostanzo in the Abruzzo. They migrated north to work in the factories like many others. I have a younger sister. My parents’ two salaries meant I was able to go to school. I liked literature, but I always thought that instead of going to university, as the son of working people, I should focus on work. So I signed up for accounting, got my diploma, and was employed as accountant in a Fiat factory. From my privileged position, I saw the conditions of the manual labourers and I was drawn first to the Italian Communist Party, then to the extra-parliamentary left. In short: I journeyed all the way to terrorism. I was one of the hit squad coordinators; I planned the attacks and took part in them. I discovered I was good at two things in life: planning and shooting. I’m a killer. I murdered nine people, though I’ve only been sentenced for eight. The other victim was pinned on someone else, and that is who is being talked about in the video that follows. The recording was made on the 12th of September 1979, in the cellar of Bottega Rossa, a famous Primaticcio eatery at the time. The clientele was mostly left wing, though not exclusively. It was a hybrid zone, where you brushed up against all sorts of anti-statists, from the killers to the armchair theorists.
That was where we planned the murder I carried out, but which was not attributed to me. I haven’t hurt anyone by not speaking up earlier since the people it was pinned on have died, including the innocent man involved. It wouldn’t have made any difference. I want to make that clear. But I wouldn’t have spoken, either way. The people involved in the murder, however, weren’t just the actual killers. And I have now come to realise that everyone must take their share of responsibility. The video you’ll see is a secret recording: the people in it didn’t know I was making it. I was famous for my extreme caution. But this affair has proven me right. I needed to know who I was dealing with.
Now, if someone is watching this, and I sincerely hope it is you, Colonel Canessa, it means I’m dead. I have never been afraid of dying, but I have been afraid of not finishing what I’ve started. I will be entirely free in a couple of months, but it couldn’t wait; the Lord showed me the way. I have never been a snitch, as I said: this is the truth. It’s time it was told in full. Because what the Lord said is true: the truth shall set you free. And if I don’t tell the truth, I will never be truly free. That is a fact. Don Filippo told me that it wasn’t enough to tell the Lord, through him. I have to tell everyone. It is an uncomfortable, difficult, dangerous truth. I needed an honest man. I hope you understand.
And I chose you, Colonel. I’ve always admired you. You were as fierce as we were, but your sense of what was right was something we couldn’t aspire to, no matter how hard we tried. Because you were on the right side of history, I know this now. Knowing what actually happened, you won’t just keep it to yourself, you won’t let it get buried. Not everyone is equal before the law: I shouted it back then and I still say it now. I have never feared the judges or man’s courts. At the time, it was because I despised them and considered them slaves to power, but now I realise it’s because there is no value to the justice of men. Or rather, its value is relative. I do understand that there must be rules, and someone to enforce them. I used to believe that the people were that enforcer, and that they administered this justice through me.
I was wrong, but so were you, Colonel Canessa. You served other laws, other judges.
There is only one Judge, and to Him I relinquish my spirit.
(The screen goes black before the frame changes. Petri has edited his confession before another clip. The image is clear, though visibly aged: a recording made with what was cutting edge technology at the time, but is obsolete in the third millennium. In the frame, we see what is clearly the cellar of a café or restaurant. The camera is on a shelf somewhere. In the middle of the cellar is a table, with a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling above it. There are some glasses and a bottle of wine on the table. On the walls, we see shelves of wine bottles, beer kegs, soft drinks, food. From an entrance out of frame, on the opposite side from the camera, two men walk in. Giuseppe ‘Pino’ Petri and Adelmo Federzoni. They look around, and then Petri sits on one of the chairs and pours himself some wine.)
federzoni: You might wait.
petri (arrogant): For who, the two snitches we’re meeting? Why do we have to meet them anyway? And why do we have to wear balaclavas? I like looking people in the eye.
federzoni: Do they pay you by the question? They’re not snitches. They’re supporters, and we have many, even in unlikely places. You know that. And you know how crucial they are for the affirmation of our struggle.
petri: I don’t like it. Why do we have to meet them?
(Federzoni shakes his head and hands him a balaclava.)
federzoni: Pino, Pino. You’re too suspicious. It’s a trait that helps you to stay alive, but too much of a good thing can be bad. We have to meet them because we’ve decided to eliminate an investigating judge, someone who might turn out to be important. He’s a potential ruthless inquisitor, someone who isn’t on the front line against terrorism but is still a servant of the economic powers. And they have a name and the information we need.
(Federzoni sits down and pours himself some wine.)
petri (sarcastic): I thought we were supposed to wait for our ‘guests’?
fe derzoni (chuckles): I don’t think they’re drinkers. But remember, they’re comrades. They contribute to the cause, just in another way.
petri: Cheers. (Looks at his watch.) One minute to go.
(Sounds of muffled knocking.)
federzoni (stands up, puts on his balaclava and heads to the right, not where he came in with Petri): Put yours on.
(Petri does so. Sound of a door opening, indistinguishable voices, then Federzoni reappears with two men, also wearing balaclavas. They have on the same outfit, trousers and polo shirts
in different shades of blue.)
federzoni: Franco and Luca. This is Pino.
(No handshakes. The other men sit on one side of the table; Federzoni sits next to Petri.)
federzoni: Okay, let’s talk.
franco: We have an interesting name for the brief you gave us. (He holds a file in his gloved hands. He places it on the table.)
petri: Aren’t you hot with those on?
franco: No, and you can never be too safe.
petri: Oh, I know. I’m actually fighting on the front line, unlike you.
franco (wry): What is this, a political discussion or a planning meeting?
federzoni: Pino, please, calm down. Don’t waste time. Go on, Franco.
(Franco takes out some papers.)
franco: This is all the information about the target, Rodolfo Lazzarini, investigating judge specialising in financial cases. He’s not all that well known, but he’s very well liked and is making a name for himself. He’ll be an important judge and is already in the service of the multinational-funded imperialist state. We’ve highlighted two cases in which he sided with the owners rather than the workers.
federzoni: Sorry, what’s his name?
franco: Rodolfo Lazzarini. It’s all in here, address, family, routine. Whereas here…
petri (interrupting): Comrade, does your friend never speak? Why is he here? (He turns to Luca.)
franco: Only one of us needs to explain. We conducted the research (sarcastic tone) together, but I’m the only speaker. He’s here to prove his involvement. Is that okay with you?
petri (shrugging theatrically): It’s not, but that’s how it has to be (he turns to Federzoni), right comrade?
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 34