She was unmoved by his words. Her eyes again dipped to the sheet, now quite bloody, and she said nothing more.
The Scientific Police van arrived. From it climbed the officer Sachs remembered from the scene where they rescued Ali Maziq from the aqueduct reservoir room.
We're going to step the grid...
They got to work but after an hour of diligent searching, there seemed precious little to show. The footprints had been obliterated near the victim, though some were recovered near where the car had been parked, behind the line of trees. A few Libyan dinars and a Post-it were recovered from under the body. No phone or prepaid card or wallet. One witness came forward, an NGO worker from a charity based in London that helped in refugee camps around the Mediterranean. He had not seen the actual killing but he had glimpsed the Composer's face as he paused over the body, after leaving the noose.
The worker couldn't add any details, but Rossi summoned his uniformed associate Giovanni, with whom he spoke for a moment. The officer went to his Flying Squad car and returned a moment later with a laptop. He loaded a program and Sachs saw it was SketchCop FACETTE, a good facial reconstruction software program. Though the FBI prefers actual artists, even now in this high-tech age, most law enforcement agencies found that people with suitable talent are hard to find, and so they used this or a similar program.
In ten minutes an image of the Composer was complete--if pretty generic, in Sachs's opinion--and was uploaded to the Questura, where officers in turn sent it to police throughout Italy. Sachs would receive a copy too.
The evidence was packed into plastic bags and delivered into Ercole Benelli's waiting, and gloved, hands. He filled out a chain-of-custody card then looked around him, studying the scene. After a moment he said that he would place the evidence in the trunk of the Megane. He wandered off in that direction.
Rossi received a call and, taking it, walked away from the scene, gesturing Bubbico after him.
Sachs was looking over the camp. What a sprawling, chaotic place it was. Many blue tents but also improvised shelters. Stacks of firewood, laundry lines from which flags of faded cloth dangled, hundreds of empty cardboard cartons, discarded water bottles and empty food tins. People sitting on rugs, on wooden cartons, on dirt. Mostly cross-legged. Some were squatting. Everyone seemed thin, and more than a few appeared to be ill. Many of the lighter-complexioned were badly sunburned.
So many people. Thousands of them. A flood.
No, a landslide.
The Burial Hour...
A voice startled her. "Ah, it appears that you too, Detective Sachs, suffer from a disability."
She turned and found herself face-to-face with Dante Spiro.
"Your disability is being hard of hearing."
She blinked at these words.
He slipped a cheroot into his mouth. Being outside, he lit it and inhaled deeply, then put the gold lighter away. "You were ordered to limit your work to crime laboratory assistance. And acting as an Arabic-language interpreter. You are not doing the former and you are not doing the latter. You are here in the thick of an investigation." He looked at her gloved hands and the rubber bands on her feet.
Dante Spiro will not be happy. But I will deal with him later.
Later is now, I'm afraid, Rhyme.
He approached. But, never one to shrink from a fight, Sachs walked up to him, stood just feet away. She was inches taller.
Another person approached. Ercole Benelli.
"And you! Forestry Officer!" The words were contemptuous. "She is not under my command but you are. Letting this woman onto the scene, out in public--exactly what I told you should not happen--is completely unacceptable!" As if the words didn't have enough edge in a foreign language, he switched to Italian. The young officer's face turned red and he lowered his eyes to the ground.
"Procuratore," he began.
"Silenzio!"
They were interrupted by a voice that called urgently from behind the yellow tape. "Procuratore Spiro!"
He turned, noted that the man addressing him was a reporter, one of several at the police tape line. Since the crime had occurred outside the chain-link fence, the reporters could get closer to the action than if it had happened inside. "Niente domande!" He gestured with his hand abruptly.
As if he hadn't spoken, the reporter, a young man in a dusty, rumpled suit coat and tight jeans, moved closer and lobbed questions to him.
At which Spiro stopped, completely still, and turned to the reporter. He asked something in Italian, apparently seeking clarification.
Ercole translated in a whisper. "The reporter is asking the prosecutor's response to a rumor that he is being praised in Rome for his foresight in asking two renowned American forensic detectives to come to Italy to help solve the crime."
Spiro replied, according to Ercole, that he was unaware of such rumors.
The young officer continued. It seemed that Spiro had put aside his ego and was considering what was best for the citizens of Italy, in protecting them from this psychotic killer. "Other, lesser, prosecutors would have been too territorial to bring such investigators here from overseas but not Spiro. He knew it was important to use Americans to get into the mind of a killer from their own country."
Spiro answered several more questions.
Ercole said, "They ask was it true that he himself deduced that the killer would strike here and nearly made it in time to catch the Composer. He answers that yes, that is true."
Spiro then made what seemed to be a brief statement, which the reporters scribbled down.
He strode to Amelia Sachs and, shocking her, put his arm around her shoulder and gazed at the cameras. "You will smile," he whispered harshly to her.
She did.
Ercole stepped forward too but Spiro whispered a harsh, "Scappa!"
The young officer backed away.
When the reporter had turned, to jockey through the crowd for pictures of the body, Spiro regarded Sachs and said, "You have a temporary--and limited--reprieve. And your appearing at scenes? I would not object to that. Though you will not talk to the press." He started away.
"Wait!" she snapped.
Spiro paused and turned, his face reflecting an expression that said he was not used to people addressing him in this tone.
Sachs said, "What you said? About disability? That was beneath you."
Their eyes locked, and neither moved a muscle for long seconds. Then it seemed he might, only might, have given her a minuscule nod of concession, before continuing on to Massimo Rossi.
He nearly crashed the Mercedes.
So upset was Stefan, about the disaster at the camp, that his eyes had filled with tears and he'd nearly missed a turn as he fled into the hills above Capodichino.
He parked, climbed from the car and sagged to the cool earth. In his mind, he was picturing the blood pouring out of the man's neck, making a shape like a bell in the sandy ground outside the camp. The man who would now never be the downbeat for his new composition.
The man who was now forever silent.
Alas, my love....
I'm sorry, Euterpe...I'm sorry...
Oh, don't ever turn your back on your muse. Never nevernevernever...
Never disappoint.
That Stefan hadn't wanted the man to die this way made no difference. Stefan's composition was ruined, his waltz--so perfect--was ruined.
He dried his eyes and glanced back at the camp.
Which was when the sight stunned him. If it had been a sound, it would have been a dynamite explosion.
No!
Impossible.
This couldn't be...
Stefan pushed his way down the hill--still remaining under cover of the pine and magnolias--and paused, his cheek against the bark of a gnarly tree.
Was it true?
Yes, yes, it was! His eyes closed again and he sagged to his knees. He was devastated.
For below him, at the very spot where the man had died, where his blood had spilled out so
fast, so relentlessly, stood Artemis.
The red-haired policewoman from the factory in Brooklyn. Stefan knew that some people from New York had come to Italy to help in the investigation against Il Compositore. But he'd never thought it would be the same woman who had so cleverly tracked down the plant and burst through the fence, like the goddess from Olympus that she was, the huntress winging her way to her prey.
No, no, no...
All that mattered in Stefan's life was arriving at Harmony. He would not allow anything or anyone to deflect him from that state of grace, where the music of the spheres hummed in perfection. And yet here she was, Artemis, intent on stopping him and driving his life to discord.
He lay curled on the ground, knowing he should be moving, but shivering in despair. Nearby, an insect clicked, an owl hoo-ahed, a large animal broke a branch and swished some dry grass.
But the sounds brought him no comfort.
Artemis... In Italy.
Get back to your house, he told himself. Before she starts looking here. Because she will. She's lethal, she's keen and she's hungry for the hunt.
She's a goddess. She'll sense where I am!
He rose and stumbled back to the car. He started the engine, wiped the last of his tears and pulled back onto the road.
What would he do?
An idea occurred. What was the one thing that a huntress might not expect?
Obvious: that she would become another hunter's prey.
Chapter 34
Later that evening, ten o'clock, the Composer team reconvened at the Questura.
All except Dante Spiro, the man who kept his own hours...and his own counsel.
Rhyme kept glancing impatiently into the lab, at Beatrice, who was silently plodding away in her analysis of the evidence. Her fingers were stubby, her hands small. Yet even from here Rhyme could see a deftness about her movements.
Rhyme was also aware of Thom, who'd glanced pointedly at his watch twice in the past few minutes. Yes, yes, I get it.
But Rhyme was in no mood to leave, certainly in no mood to sleep. He was exhilarated, as always when on a thorny case. Tired from the travel, yes, but sleep would remain evasive, he knew, even back in the luxurious hotel.
Sachs said, "But the killing: Intentional? Or because the snatch--the kidnapping--went bad? Somebody showed up. Or the victim saw him and fought back. After he was dead he left the noose as a concession to his plan."
"Or," Ercole offered, "his psychosis took over and he is becoming more homicidal. He doesn't want to take the time to make more compositions."
Beatrice Renza walked into the room, carrying a yellow pad with her notes. "Here, finally, is the things I have. For the board." She nodded to an easel. "And I have included the report from the notes by one of the present officers."
Ercole handed her the marker, conceding the handwriting issue without a fight.
She said, "Fammi la traduzione."
He nodded and he both spoke and spelled some of entries for her in English, correcting her errors as she wrote.
Capodichino Reception Center
--Victim: --Malek Dadi, 26.
--Tunisian national, lived in Libya, economic not political refugee.
--Causa di morte: loss of blood due to lacerated jugular vein and carotid artery (see medical officer's report).
--No murder weapon recovered.
--Crime scene trampled, largely destroyed.
--Individual spotted observing the camp within past day or two, fitting the Composer's description. No further information.
--Traces of amobarbital (anti-panic drug) found in soil beside victim, in suspect's footprint.
--Miniature noose, made from musical instrument string, no manufacturer determined. Probably cello. 32cm in length.
--Tire tread: Michelin 205/55R16 91H, same as at other scenes.
--Footprints: Converse Cons, Size 45, same as at other scenes.
--Witnesses report suspect drove large black or navy-blue vehicle.
--Post-it note, yellow. --Unable to determine source.
--Address written in blue ink (unable to determine source of ink): Filippo Argelati, 20-32, Milan.
--No readable fingerprints.
--Located under victim but unclear whether he or Composer or someone else was source.
--Camp officials presently searching for other witnesses.
--See FACETTE facial composite rendering.
The Composer's composite picture revealed a round, bald white man, depicted both with a hat and without. He resembled ten thousand other round white men. Rhyme had worked very few cases in which an artist's rendering provided leads that resulted in an arrest.
Looking at the chart, Rossi mused, "That Post-it note, Milan...What could it be? Was it Malek Dadi's? Or does the Composer have a connection there? He might have flown in there, established a base, and then drove to Naples for his mischief."
"Is it nearby?" Rhyme asked.
"No. Seven hundred kilometers."
Sachs said, "We have to follow up."
"Someone from the Milan police," Ercole suggested. "You must know officers there, Ispettore."
"Of course I do. But one who can understand the nature of the case quickly? What to look for? I think it would be better for someone here to go. Daniela and Giacomo have other caseloads. Ercole, with respect, you are new to this game. I wonder if--"
Sachs said, "I'll go."
"That is what I was going to suggest."
Rhyme said, "But what about Spiro?"
"Oh, I didn't tell you, Rhyme," Sachs offered. "I'm on the A list. Some reporter was talking about him getting praised for the insight of flying us here from America." She lowered her voice. "He came close to smiling."
"Dante Spiro smiling?" Rossi laughed. "As often as a pope's death."
Sachs said, "I'll find somebody in the consulate there to translate for me." She looked at Ercole. "You can stay here and take care of other matters."
Other matters...
He understood, as Rhyme did, that she was talking about the Garry Soames case. There was still the student's apartment to search. Ercole looked worried for a moment, concerned that she might mention this mission in front of Rossi, but of course she did not.
She said, "The jet we flew here on is in England for the time being. Is there an aircraft of yours I can use?"
Rossi laughed. "We have none, I'm afraid. We fly Alitalia, like everyone else, except in very rare cases." He looked at Ercole. "The Forestry Corps has aircraft."
"For forest fires. Bombardier Four-Fifteen Super Scoopers. We have a Piaggio P One-Eighty. But none of those are nearby."
He said this in a tone that, to Rhyme, really meant they were not available to shuttle American detectives anywhere, even if one had been nearby.
"I will check with Alitalia," Ercole said.
"No," Rhyme replied. Then to Sachs, "No commercial flights. I want you to have your weapon with you."
Rossi said, "Yes, it would add considerable time and paperwork."
Irregularness...
Sachs asked, "Then what? An overnight drive?"
Rhyme said, "No. I have an idea. But I'll need to make a call." Then he looked Thom's way. "All right, all right. I'll do it from the hotel."
Besides, he was eager to continue his mission to acquire the acquired taste for grappa.
Saturday, September 25
V
Skulls and Bones
Chapter 35
At 8 a.m. Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were once again displaying passports to the U.S. Marine guards at the well-fortified entrance to the U.S. consulate and were shown inside, to the lobby.
Rhyme was rested and had only a slight hangover--grappa seemed to be kinder in this regard than single-malt whisky.
Five minutes later they were in the office of the consulate general himself, a handsome, well-built man in his mid-fifties. He wore a gray suit, a white shirt and a tie as rich and blue as the water sparkling outside. Henry Musgrave had the stud
ied manners and perceptive eyes of a lifer in the diplomatic corps. Unlike Charlotte McKenzie, he had no problem striding up to Rhyme and shaking hands.
"I've heard of you, of course, Mr. Rhyme. I get to New York and Washington. You make the news, even in the nation's capital. Some of your cases--that fellow, the Skin Collector, he was called. That was quite something."
"Yes. Well." Rhyme was never averse to praise but wasn't inclined to tell war stories at the moment; he was sure that the Composer was planning another attack--because the one at the reception center had failed or because he was indeed slipping further into madness.
Musgrave greeted Sachs and Thom with an enthusiastic grip. He sat down and his attention drifted to his computer screen. "Ah, it's confirmed." He read for a moment and looked up. "Just got a National Security briefing report. Not classified--it's going to the media now. You'll be interested. The CIA and the Austrian counterterrorism department, the BVT, stopped a terrorist plot in Vienna. They scored a half kilo of C4, a cell phone detonator and a map of a mall in a suburb. No actors yet but they're on it."
Rhyme recalled that there'd been a flurry of reports of suspected terrorist activity--both in Europe and in the United States. That was why the Police of State had fewer officers to help investigate the Composer case than they otherwise might.
Okay, got it. Happy news for all. Let's move on.
Musgrave turned from the screen. "So, a serial killer from America."
Rhyme glanced toward Sachs, a reminder that they didn't have time to correct the diplomat about the Composer's technical criminal profile.
The consulate general mused, "The Italians have had a few--the Monster of Florence. Then, Donato Bilancia. He killed about seventeen. There's a nurse currently suspected of killing nearly forty patients. And there were the Beasts of Satan. They were convicted of killing only three, though they're suspected of more. I imagine the Americans win the serial killer prize in terms of body count. At least if you believe cable TV."
Rhyme said in a clipped voice, "Colombia, China, Russia, Afghanistan and India beat the U.S. Now, as to our request? We're still good?"
"Yep. I just double-checked."
Last night, Rhyme had called Charlotte McKenzie, asking if she had access to a government jet to shepherd Sachs to Milan. She didn't but would check with the consulate general. Musgrave's assistant called Rhyme to report that an American businessman, in Naples for trade promotion meetings, had a private jet that was flying to Switzerland this morning. The plane could easily stop in Milan on the way. He'd meet them this morning to discuss the trip.
The Burial Hour Page 21
