The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  federzoni (cold): It does. Franco, continue.

  franco: Thank you. Let’s make this short. All the info is in here. And here (he takes the other paper) is the draft of a note claiming responsibility for the attack. All ready to use. You can change what you like. (Federzoni takes the paper, reads it, nods.)

  federzoni: That seems good to me.

  petri: The full service.

  (Federzoni stands up.)

  franco: Another thing.

  (Petri moves his hand under the table. Franco notices but doesn’t move. He smiles.)

  franco: You’re suspicious, comrade Pino. But you can leave the gun alone. I just wanted to inform you that they’ve found the via Salis hideout. They’re watching it. You need to vacate it.

  federzoni (surprised): Are you sure? I guess you are. Okay. Stay here ten minutes, then leave. I suggest one of you take the back exit, and the other go that way (he points to the door he and Petri used). You have to go past the toilets to get there. Whichever one of you goes that way, just pop inside, and pretend you were there from the start. Are we clear?

  franco: We’re clear.

  (There are no handshakes. Federzoni heads to the back exit and leaves the frame. Petri follows, walking backwards, pretending he’s holding a gun. Sound of a door closing. One minute goes by in silence. Luca stands up and takes off his balaclava. It’s Federico Astroni, clearly recognisable even after all this time.)

  astroni: Finally. I couldn’t stand this any longer. Why did you drag me here?

  franco (also removes his balaclava. It’s Giannino Salemme, several kilos thinner and with a lot more hair): Why? Because you and I are accomplices, we’re on the same diving board – I jump, you jump. I’ve done all the dirty work so far. I even went as far as contacting these idiots, waiting for them to trust me, to consider me one of their own. I wrote the note. You wanted to stay at home, comfy and warm. But no, sir. You’re in this with me.

  astroni: You pretend to be a leftist, but I never pretended. I actually believe it’s possible to change the system and I believe in a more just society. I was a part of the movement and I supported some of its demands.

  salemme (cackles): Good, now you’ve gone all the way, from the cultural revolution to armed conflict.

  astroni (sits down, puts his head in his hands): What have we done?

  salemme (stands up, pours himself a glass of wine, then another for Astroni): We tried covering our lives, our interests, our arses.

  astroni (suddenly furious): You did! You and your corrupt career. You take bribes and meddle with trials. Eventually Lazzarini would have found out since he was following a fraud case that would have led him to you and your trafficking.

  salemme (drinks, then looks at the wine still in the glass): Great stuff! These terrorists have good taste. But, my dear incorruptible colleague, you always seem to forget the part that involves you: you’re here with me today because you also want Lazzarini out of the picture. He stole the woman of your dreams. You hate him with all your being, even more than I do.

  astroni (stands up and knocks the chair over): Don’t you dare…

  salemme: You’re a hypocrite. You actually hate him, envy him, and it’s eating you up. For me it’s just business. Nothing personal, as the Godfather would say.

  astroni (his voice breaking): What have we done (does not sound like a question).

  salemme: What we always do, what everyone has always done. We have conspired to remove a dangerous rival. For love and money, the most trivial and the most common reasons. (Looks at his watch.) Time to go. I’ll go through the back, so I can use the toilet. I need to piss.

  (They go their separate ways. All that’s left in frame is the cellar, the table, the bottle, the glasses. After a few seconds, the recording ends.)

  5

  The Third Millennium

  1

  Antonio savelli shut the laptop, his face ashen, and leaned back in the armchair. He closed his eyes. The fire had almost died out, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t even try stoking it, one of his favourite activities.

  Canessa stood up and added some more wood. The Beretta was dangling from his finger, and he twirled it like a gunslinger. Savelli was hypnotised by the movement, and he pondered what he had just seen, the horror of that video. He felt drained, and he didn’t know what to say, or above all, what to do. Something inside him had broken – his trust in people, his love for the law, his self-confidence. He knew, in that moment, that he would never be the same. And yet, he was still fighting, with every fibre of his being, against the import of that recording, against all the evidence: his right-hand man, his star pupil was nothing more than a miserable accomplice to murder. A petty man who had condemned a friend to death in order to take his wife – in his mind, one of the worst justifications for a criminal act. An act, he noted, that had not achieved its intent.

  ‘This is meaningless. It could’ve been set up by anyone. We can’t determine its origin, we don’t know how or by whom it was recorded.’ He was talking to himself more than to Canessa, without realising – or intentionally ignoring – that Petri had explicitly stated that he’d set up the camera.

  Annibale, meanwhile, was playing with the poker as he put more wood on the embers. He sat down calmly. The fire crackled, the flames rose. It was cold, even though the storm had passed. The rain still pattered on the windows, but it was nowhere near as violent as earlier. It had all blown over.

  ‘I know. It’s not easy to believe. Not even after multiple viewings. It took me some time too. But the DVD hasn’t been tampered with, and we have the VHS, the original source of Petri’s recording. Plus, there’s the priest’s testimony and the original claim, which was typed on a machine from the courts. A detail that was never revealed, but has since been proven.’

  Canessa was talking very casually, his voice low and without anger, as if he didn’t really care whether Savelli understood and accepted what he was telling him or not. As if, for him, the whole affair was over and done with.

  Savelli was about to say something, but thought better of it and kept quiet. After a few minutes, he spoke.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do I want? Actually, it’s what do you want. I have handed you clear evidence of a conspiracy that has been going on for the past forty years. Salemme, while we’re at it, was also the one who sentenced my brother to jail for no reason. Or rather, no legal reason, but with a clear motive: to stop Petri from talking to me back then. Who knows, maybe we could have avoided all these deaths.’

  Savelli shook his head, still resisting. ‘This is all conjecture, and the evidence has been obtained in a fraudulent manner. It could have been manipulated. We need to verify, to guarantee…’

  Annibale interrupted him.

  ‘C’mon, you’ve sent people to prison for much less, and without any regard for constitutional protection.’

  Canessa sat studying Savelli. He had expected his reluctance. He trusted in his honesty and integrity as chief of the judiciary branch in Milan, but he also knew of his ties to Federico Astroni and could sense his turmoil. Savelli was held back by his friendship with a colleague and fear of the repercussions on Milan’s courts and the magistrature in general. What Calandra had told Canessa about the conflict between the political and judicial factions now hit him. The Secret Service magistrate was a real devil, and he’d been right about this scandal, maybe even knew something about it. But it didn’t make any difference. The evidence, the hard facts were there. And Canessa fully understood why Savelli might find it difficult to accept.

  ‘You asked me what I want. I’ll tell you. You see, I’ve never seen myself the way people have portrayed me – as a hero. I fought a dirty war – any civil war is the same. You’re well aware of the methods we used back then on both sides. I�
�ve done many things I’m not proud of. But they were things that had to be done. That’s it. The difference for me was never between right and wrong, moral or immoral – the lines are too blurry – but between nothingness and reality, things that are and things that aren’t. Between things you shouldn’t do, and things that must be done.’

  Savelli was watching him, curious. ‘That’s a strange way of looking at the law.’

  ‘No. It’s the only way. Reality has always dictated my choices. It still does. There’s a fact, a piece of evidence. At this moment in time, the fact is that this story has come to an end. Now, I’m offering you the chance to bring it to a full close using your criterion, meaning: according to the rule of law.’

  ‘I seem to understand that you do not share that criterion, in which case…’

  Canessa leaned over the table, took the DVD out of the laptop and put it in its case. He slipped the laptop into his bag, and pulled out a brown envelope. He placed the DVD in the envelope and put it on the table. He looked at Savelli.

  ‘Everything is in here, including the VHS. Every piece of evidence. There are copies, of course, but the originals are in here.’

  He picked up his bag and threw it over his shoulder.

  ‘You still haven’t told me how you came in, and how you’ll be leaving.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And you trust me with all this? I could destroy the evidence,’

  Savelli said, looking at the envelope and then at the fireplace, where the flames burned fiercely. ‘Your copies might not be enough. Or I could rule that the evidence is insufficient, an option I’m seriously considering.’

  Canessa gave him a wry smile.

  ‘You could, true. But can you afford to?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This story needs an ending, your honour, in one way or another. And if you can’t end it, I will. You think you know me. You think, once a Carabiniere, always a Carabiniere, and therefore a servant of the law. It’s true, I do still feel like a Carabiniere, but don’t judge me according to your way of thinking. I have already shown you what I’m capable of, but I’d prefer a legitimate conclusion, in legal terms, and that, as I’ve already explained, is why I came to you.’ He pulled a photo and some folded papers out of his jacket and placed them next to the envelope. ‘It’s better for you to do what has to be done. No preferential treatment, no discounts, no mercy, even if a friend is involved, a colleague. I want the total package, the one reserved for the people you hate or the powerful politicians you investigate. Handcuffs, media circus, prison. Much better than letting me have the final word, I can assure you.’

  Savelli looked at the photo and the papers.

  ‘Who’s that? What does he have to do with all this?’

  Canessa brought a hand to his side.

  ‘Read the papers I’ve just given you. It makes for informative reading. You’ll understand why it’s better for me not to have the final word on the Lazzarini-Petri case.’

  Savelli started reading. Two lines later, he looked up to say something, but Canessa had vanished. He ran to the window and opened it. The garden was empty, the dock abandoned. The storm had passed, the rain had stopped. There was a gentle wind, and a patch of clear sky appearing between the clouds to the east. The lake had calmed down, too. In spite of the cold night air, Savelli stood outside under the portico for at least half an hour, watching the lake.

  Shortly after Savelli’s return to his living room, a dark shape emerged from the water on the opposite shore of Lake Maggiore.

  Stealthily, Canessa moved towards the shore, switched off his mini-sub and pulled it on land, carrying it quickly to the boot of the SsangYong SUV that Rossi had procured for the operation. He removed his wetsuit, dried off with a hair-dryer from the car and put on a dark tracksuit. After a long drink from a thermos of tea, he finally grabbed his satellite phone and called Repetto.

  ‘So?’ the marshal immediately asked.

  ‘All said and done. Now it’s up to him.’

  ‘What if he does nothing?’

  ‘Then we’ll do what we know how to do best.’

  Canessa hung up, got in the car, and headed for Milan.

  Savelli made himself some toast, opened a beer, and went back to his armchair. It was past two in the morning. The silence was deafening; he couldn’t hear himself think. But even if he had been able to think, it wouldn’t have amounted to much. Canessa’s message was clear, as was his evidence. There was little to debate. Milan’s public prosecutor finished his toast and his beer, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, picked up his mobile phone and dialled.

  A sleepy voice replied.

  ‘Yes, it’s me. I apologise for the time, but I need you for a delicate matter. I’m at the lake, but I’m heading back to Milan. I’ll be at the office at three. See you there.’

  Savelli hung up. He’d started doing what Canessa wanted… It wasn’t only Canessa who demanded it, but logic and justice. Maybe the actual end would come before dawn. With all the pain it would entail.

  As Canessa said, however, it was something that had to be done.

  2

  Giannino Salemme was a heavy sleeper, with the audacity to call his ‘the sleep of the just’. Even on this occasion, he came to with great difficulty. The noise that had woken him came from a great distance. Or that’s what it sounded like, anyway.

  The lawyer sat up in bed like a robot, his senses still dormant. No, he wasn’t dreaming. Someone was knocking – or were they banging on the floor? Suddenly he was very much awake.

  The noise stopped. He smoothed his silk pyjamas – the comfiest outfit he owned – and took a sip of water from the glass on his bedside table. He looked at the time: 5 a.m. Almost daybreak. He was still pondering the origin of the noise when his bedroom door burst open and he found himself face to face with four people and four guns.

  ‘Police!’

  ‘Hands over your head!’

  ‘Quickly!’

  ‘Hands up!’

  Salemme looked at them in shock, still holding fast to his glass. They had on bulletproof vests and their badges hung round their necks. Maybe it was his glazed look or his early morning stubble, but the men gradually lowered their weapons. One went up to him and gently took the glass from his hand, setting it back down on the table. Then he invited him to stand up.

  ‘Come with us. You’re under arrest.’

  The police officer pulled out a set of handcuffs and glanced at one of his colleagues. The other officer shook his head. Despite orders, they were still dealing with an old man in shock, and he might have another shock soon. They didn’t want him collapsing on them.

  ‘Please get dressed.’

  Salemme took his time. He was tired, and then there was the brusque wake-up call, the drinks last night… He was trying to gather his wits, but it wasn’t easy with all those police staring at him. He was being arrested, most likely because of the Petri case. Maybe Claudio had been right. He should have stayed in the States and gone somewhere else from there. But maybe they didn’t have that much on him. Maybe he could still figure something out.

  He finished getting dressed and walked out into the corridor with the police. He’d started thinking like Giannino Salemme again: the man who had never been put in a corner. He was just about to say something to restore his reputation when he saw his son’s body on the ground by the kitchen door.

  Salemme suddenly felt weak, and had to lean against the wall. There were four bullet holes in Claudio’s loose white shirt, and a pool of blood was seeping from his body. The officer behind him reached out to support him, but Salemme pulled his arm away.

  ‘You bastards! You killed him,’ he said in a strangled voice.

  The police officers looked at him, some with pity, some with distaste.

 
; ‘He asked for it. He was the bastard.’

  A man stepped forward: Silvestrin, chief of Milan’s rapid response team. Salemme knew him. He’d once successfully defended a killer and let him go, ridiculing Silvestrin for the loss of all evidence against the man – a situation Salemme had orchestrated by bribing one of the clerks. Now he was savouring his revenge, Salemme thought bitterly.

  Silvestrin dragged him away from the wall and pushed him towards the corridor leading to Claudio’s personal entrance. ‘Look.’

  On the ground was a man with a hole in the middle of his forehead. Another was being moved onto a stretcher.

  ‘That man down there was serving the State, just doing his job. He had a family. What the fuck was your imbecile of a son doing with a gun? Where the hell did he think he could go? Piece of shit!’

  Salemme reverted to being the old man he was underneath it all. But Silvestrin wasn’t the least bit moved. He’d clocked his team’s compassionate attitude, and he turned to them next.

  ‘Don’t be fooled! This man is a criminal, a venomous snake. Cuff him now!’

  3

  ‘It’s hard to believe, but I’m glad this story has come to an end, one way or another.’

  Federico Astroni had slept a couple of hours – peacefully, considering the circumstances. Before bed the previous night, he’d read an interesting essay on Robespierre, thinking that there were some interesting parallels between himself and the main protagonist during the Reign of Terror. He’d then got up at 5 a.m. to work on the forthcoming trial and to wash and shave. Quite a figure, he thought of himself, just as someone rang the doorbell. One of the Carabinieri from his security detail? He looked out of the window to the spot were his ‘guardian angels’ always parked. The car was there and Astroni could see a couple of people looking at a sheet of paper. What were they up to?