The Rome Prophecy ts-2

by Jon Tracy

  No, not a couple, just a man.

  A tramp sleeping off too much booze, or perhaps he’s just sheltering from the wind and the abuse on the street.

  Tom plays his light over the hobo.

  At first his mind tricks him.

  He thinks he can see all of the guy’s outline.

  But he can’t.

  He can only see a leg – and part of the man’s right side and arm.

  The rest of him is buried.

  He’s dead.

  Tom puts the torch down.

  It rolls off a rock and blackness hides everything.

  He feels around for the Maglite.

  Re-positions it.

  The beam illuminates the corpse.

  He steps closer to the body.

  Carefully he pulls away several boulders and stacks them so they don’t roll down into the river and lose any evidence that might be attached to them.

  He still can’t see the entire corpse, but he sure can smell it.

  His own body momentarily blocks the light and his hands touch something.

  Something soft and broken.

  The skull has been caved in.

  He fingers a crawling moist mass inside the shattered cavity and jerks his hand away.

  Something is still slithering over his fingers.

  Maggots and crustaceans that have been feeding on the brain.

  He furiously rubs his hands on his jacket and feels them turning sticky and dry.

  It takes almost a full minute for him to catch his breath and calm down.

  He reaches for the torch and plays the light across the exposed cadaver.

  It’s bloated. Swollen. Pumped up.

  Tom feels his stomach flip. He turns away and vomits.

  He spits his mouth clean and tries to suck in fresh air.

  He can’t help but feel ashamed at his revulsion. His thoughts should be of sympathy and respect for the stranger who died in this barren place.

  The ex-priest leans over the body, joins his hands and briefly prays. ‘O Lord, let perpetual light shine upon this poor soul and may he rest in peace. Amen.’ He crosses himself and looks around.

  He knows he should step away now and phone Valentina. He certainly shouldn’t touch the corpse or disturb the scene any more than he already has done.

  But he can’t do that.

  The curiosity is too great.

  He has to see.

  He turns the body over.

  Even in the darkness, it’s obvious what’s happened.

  There’s a gaping hole in the man’s abdomen.

  He’s been stabbed to death.

  37

  The next hour is a blur.

  Time speeds up to a frightening pace. Tom feels like he’s caught in one of those trick photographs, the only static image in the centre of a blur of dashing bodies and streaky car lights.

  After Valentina briefly inspects the mutilated body, she calls Federico. He informs Central Control and actions her request for a support unit.

  A taxi is called to take Louisa Verdetti home.

  The entire scene is cleared of civilians and secured.

  The automatic machinery of a homicide investigation clicks into gear.

  An officer is posted to control access and keep a log of anyone who comes and goes.

  A police doctor arrives to pronounce death.

  The duty pathologist turns out.

  A crime-scene photographer starts snapping away.

  Forensics set up arc lamps and strategic walkways to access the corpse, and ensure the crime scene isn’t compromised or contaminated any more than it already has been.

  Officers begin working the street, taking statements from nightclub stragglers and local residents, who’ve already started to gather around the taped-off area.

  Tom sits with Valentina in her Fiat.

  He’s still dazed. ‘Is this going to be awkward for you?’

  She manages the outline of a smile. ‘Very.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He reaches out a hand and squeezes hers. ‘What will you tell your bosses about us and how I came to discover the body?’

  She shrugs. ‘Everything. Or maybe nothing.’ She turns to him. ‘I won’t lie to them, Tom. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of and I’m not going to deny we’re having a relationship.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying that. Without you, we would never have found this body. You’ve done nothing to be sorry for. Far from it.’

  She knows he’s right, though. Explaining how a foreign civilian came to be at the centre of a criminal investigation and found a mutilated corpse won’t be easy.

  Valentina looks through the windscreen and sees Federico. The collar of his long wool coat is up, Elvis style, and he’s blowing balloons of cool breath up into a blood-orange dawn sky.

  She gets out of her car and walks over to meet him.

  ‘Buongiorno, Capitano.’ He rubs his hands together for warmth. ‘Working with you really isn’t conducive to getting any beauty sleep.’

  She ignores the small talk and walks towards the body. ‘We’ve got a dead male, pre-mortem injuries to the head and stomach, lots of post-mortem injuries as well, due to the fact that rocks were stacked on him. He’s somewhere in his twenties or thirties – given his state, it’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Decomposed?’

  ‘Not completely, but I think he’s been in and out of the water. I guess the body was left when the tide went out, and of course it got covered later when it came in.’

  ‘That would follow.’ Federico starts to duck under the tape. ‘How was it discovered?’

  Valentina hesitates. ‘A man walking by the river found him.’

  ‘Vagrant? Down-and-out? You get a lot of them around here. They shelter from the wind and use the Tiber as a toilet.’

  She still holds back. ‘No. He’s respectable. A foreigner. American.’ Impulsively she starts to take the plunge. ‘He’s sitting in my car.’

  ‘Great.’ Federico senses an early trip home. ‘You’ve already interviewed him then, taken a statement?’

  ‘No. And it’s best if I don’t. You should do it, or have someone do it for you.’

  Federico senses her awkwardness. ‘Why?’

  She stops walking. ‘Look, I hope this can stay between us. I know the man. He’s staying with me at the moment.’

  He looks confused. ‘Staying with you?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a friend. Someone I’ve known for a long time.’

  ‘Known as in sexually known?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ she snaps.

  ‘Well, actually it is.’ He points to the body. ‘It seems I’m investigating a murder, and it turns out the corpse was found by the lover of the officer in charge.’

  Valentina has no real response.

  ‘Can we discuss this later?’ She rubs her arms. ‘It’s cold, I’m tired and I need you to examine the scene and interview a key witness. Okay?’

  Federico thinks about pressing for more information, but decides to leave it. She’s his boss. Admittedly a very strange one, but nevertheless, still his boss. ‘ Bene.’ He straddles the wall and crabs down the banking.

  It’s an area he knows well.

  Most people born in the city do. He waits for Valentina to catch him up and sign them through the log point. He points to the nearby bridge. ‘This isn’t just a crime scene,’ he says. ‘You’re standing at the very birthplace of Rome. This is the focal point of the greatest legend in all our history.’

  38

  By the time Tom has been interviewed and he and Valentina return to her apartment, it’s already gone six a.m.

  Going to bed seems pointless.

  Valentina showers and changes for work.

  Tom cooks scrambled eggs and brews coffee.

  An old paint-splattered radio on the windowsill plays Europop into the brown ears of a dead plant.

  The winter sun slowly warms up a spot at the breakfast bar where they b
oth wearily settle and eat, hunched opposite each other.

  Valentina is famished. ‘Mmm, good egg!’ she manages between her second and third forkful.

  Tom laughs. ‘Me or the scrambled?’

  ‘ Scusi? ’

  ‘It’s a joke. There’s an American – or maybe British – expression, in which you call someone a good egg if they’re a really nice person.’

  ‘Sorry. I think I may have left my sense of humour down by the Tiber.’ She reaches across and touches his hand, ‘Then you too are a good egg.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  Tom suspects she left more than just humour down there. A cop friend once told him that every murder scene stole a piece of his spirit.

  He briefly takes her free hand and squeezes it. ‘You okay?’

  She smiles at him, ‘It’s a long time since anyone asked. I’m fine. You?’

  He nods. ‘Did I hear someone say that the place that poor guy’s body was found is the exact spot where Romulus and Remus were supposedly found by the she-wolf?’

  ‘That’s what Federico said.’ She places her fork on her clean plate and gives him a satisfied look. ‘ Very good egg.’ She grows thoughtful. ‘Why? What are you thinking?’

  ‘That island – Isola Tiberina – what was so special about it? I mean, I know the bridge is very old, and there’s the legend of Romulus and Remus on the banks, but what about the island itself?’

  He rises from his seat, still chewing. ‘Mind if I use your laptop?’

  ‘At this time? Shouldn’t you be off to bed, try to get some sleep?’

  Tom laughs at the idea. ‘I’m so wound up, I may never sleep again.’

  He flips up the screen of her Vaio, clicks it off standby and Googles Tiber Island.

  While he’s searching, Valentina clatters away in the small kitchen area, collecting dishes and running a bowl of hot soapy water to leave them in. With any luck, Tom will wash and dry them later.

  ‘Okay. This is interesting, come and see.’

  She pads over and can’t resist wiping soap bubbles off her hands across the back of his broad neck.

  ‘Hey!’

  She rubs them off, kisses the wet patch and drapes her arms over his shoulders.

  ‘It’s the only island in the Tiber River,’ says Tom, reading from the on-screen text. ‘Linked – as we know – by the Fabricio Bridge, which joins it to the Field of Mars, and also by the Ponte Cestio.’ He jabs the monitor. ‘Now look here, another legend.’

  ‘Don’t get so excited; there is a legend in every corner of Rome.’

  ‘You may be right. This one concerns one of the last Etruscan kings. He was overthrown and his body dumped in the Tiber, a final act normally reserved only for lowlife sinners. Folklore has it that Tiber Island was created from a mound of silt and driftwood that formed over the body of the tyrant king.’

  ‘Nice.’ Valentina can’t resist a sick pun. ‘At least even after death he had his own form of king-dam.’

  Tom might have laughed had he not been reading on. ‘Listen. For centuries the island was a dumping ground for the worst of criminals and the contagiously ill. Then when Rome was hit by a plague, some sibyl – which I think is a Latin adaptation of the Greek word sibylla , meaning prophetess – recommended that a temple was built there to Asclepius in order to stop the diseases spreading.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Asclepius, Greek god of medicine and healing.’

  Valentina is impressed. ‘You knew that?’

  ‘I did. You remember the other night you said sex was the panacea for all ills?’

  She blushes a little.

  ‘Well, Panacea was Asclepius’s daughter. While her name is used – and abused – much more in modern life, it was her father who dominated Roman and Greek times. The Rod of Asclepius is still a powerful astrological symbol and is the thirteenth sign of the sidereal Zodiac.’

  ‘What’s so special about it?’

  ‘It’s a staff entwined with a serpent.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she exclaims with high melodrama, ‘not more snakes and devils.’

  ‘It’s not what you think. Not Satanic. Asclepius was a brilliant physician, so brilliant that he reputedly brought people back from the dead. You’ll find his symbol is still used in America by the Medical Association, the Academy of Psychiatry and Law and the US Air Force Medical Corps.’ Tom suddenly thinks of more organisations, ‘In fact, the British Royal Army Medical Corps also use it, as do the Canadian Medical Association and even the World Health Organisation.’

  ‘Okay, I surrender under the weight of all those mighty medical bodies. But what’s your point? What’s the significance of the serpent and the staff in relation to our case?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can give you a perfect answer. But consider this: Asclepius left the legacy of a powerful cult that has influenced the most important medical minds in the world. The serpent and the staff are symbolic references to the oxymoronic fact that medicine is built on using drugs that in small doses heal but in big doses kill. In short,’ adds Tom, ‘in the modern world, doctors play god. They’re the ones with the everyday powers of life and death.’

  39

  Louisa Verdetti arrives at work exhausted.

  She hasn’t slept.

  The first thing she does is head to Valducci’s office and tell him everything about her overnight adventure with the Carabinieri.

  The administrator says little as she explains about the body and possible links to the patient on their ward. ‘I’m sorry. I should have called you and informed you of the police request for me to accompany them.’

  ‘You should. You exposed both yourself and the hospital.’ He swivels in his black office chair and looks out of the window as he talks. ‘Are they likely to interview you formally?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’

  He turns to face her. ‘It’s not an offence to help the police, but I do want to be kept in the picture. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She starts to raise herself from her seat.

  ‘Before you go, I want to compare notes on our increasingly famous patient.’

  ‘ Scusi? ’

  ‘Diagnostics. You keep telling me she’s DID and I keep thinking schizophrenia, so let’s try to settle the matter so that when your police friends start asking, we’re on the same page.’

  What he’s saying makes sense, although she’d really rather not do it right now.

  Valducci senses her discomfort. ‘Louisa, if your diagnosis won’t hold water when analysed by a friend and colleague, then what hope have you in the stormy sea of external critique?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I had such a bad night and I have a migraine.’

  ‘Then a contextual review of the symptoms of both schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder will clear the fog for you. What diagnostic tools have you used so far?’

  She’s annoyed that she’s being asked. ‘DES, DDIS, SDQ-20. We’ve been through the whole tick list on amnesia, depersonalisation and derealisation before making a final diagnosis.’

  ‘Good, then you’re well prepared. I want you to list unique symptoms that are not indicative of schizophrenia. Let’s start. Symptom one…’

  She grinds her brain into first gear. ‘Identity confusion. Suzanna consistently has identity problems. These are obviously manifested in the form of her alters.’

  ‘Obviously,’ he answers sarcastically. ‘Schizophrenics also have a lack of a sense of identity and can’t see their role in society. So no uniqueness there. Point unproven. Next.’

  ‘Schneiderian symptoms and delusions. Again these are evidenced in the presentation of multiple personalities and even include bodily changes from alter to alter.’

  ‘Hmm, I’m not so sure they do. Any physical changes could be psychosomatically caused. Besides, schizophrenics are notoriously delusional – our wards are full of people who think they are being chased b
y aliens or are on the run from the government or the mafia.’

  ‘I suspect some of them might well be.’

  Valducci almost laughs. ‘Point unproven. Next.’

  ‘Comorbid diagnoses.’

  He stares at her. ‘You know your patient to be clinically depressed?’

  ‘No. I’m clutching at straws, but I strongly suspect it. It’s likely she-’

  ‘Not good enough. Besides, even if full depressive or manic syndrome coexisted with your dissociative syndrome, it still wouldn’t be unique. Schizophrenics have more than their share of mood episodes. Point unproven. Next.’

  Louisa feels totally stressed. ‘Okay. We can do this all day. I throw up a DID symptom and you knock it down by matching it to schizophrenia, but that doesn’t resolve anything. Suzanna doesn’t have many of the things schizophrenics have.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Catatonic behaviour.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Other psychotic symptoms.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well – her thinking isn’t characterised by incoherence.’

  ‘Good.’

  Louisa dries up.

  She’s out of ideas and her head is pounding. She rubs the back of her neck and hopes to massage a brilliant thought or remark out of her dulled brain.

  ‘More, come on!’

  The best she can manage is a confession she really hoped not to make. ‘I recorded my last session with her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was mainly for diagnostic purposes, though I hoped it would present a platform to therapy. Let me send it round to you. Please watch it and tell me what you think.’

  He looks like a hog that’s found a truffle. ‘I’d be delighted to!’

  She stands and makes for the door. ‘I’ll be surprised if – once you’ve watched it – you don’t believe she’s a genuine DID case.’

  He smiles wryly. ‘I won’t be.’

  Louisa reaches the door and turns. ‘Thanks for your understanding about last night. I’m grateful. And I really will make sure you’re kept in the picture from now on.’

  Valducci doesn’t reply.

  He knows that if he gives her enough rope, she’ll hang herself.

  And with a little luck, the Carabinieri might just help her do it.