By My Hand

by Maurizio de Giovanni

“How many people live in this building?”

  “There are three families, Commissa’. The Garofalos, the ones . . . well, where I’m taking you now, the Marras, a childless couple who are out at this time of day because they both work, and the accountant Finelli on the top floor, a widower with five children who all go to their grandmother’s, not far from here, when he’s at the bank where he works.”

  Maione puffed as he heaved his 265 pounds up the stairs:

  “So in other words, at this time of day there’s no one else in the building but the Garofalos, is that it? And they don’t have any children?”

  “A little girl, Brigadie’. Her name is Benedetta and she’s at school with her aunt, who’s a nun. The aunt comes to get her every morning. That’s lucky: if not, then she, too . . .”

  He stopped on the last step, just before the third-floor landing, without turning the corner, his eyes fixed on the large window overlooking the courtyard.

  “You’ll have to forgive me: I just can’t do it. I just can’t see all that blood again.”

  Ricciardi and Maione walked past him. In the half light, they were able to make out two doors, one closed and the other one left ajar, from which there came a shaft of a white light. They could glimpse a section of wall, flowered wallpaper, half a hanging mirror, a console table with a vase, and a framed photograph. They stopped, then Maione, according to a well-established routine, turned away, facing the stairs. The first encounter with the crime scene was always and exclusively the commissario’s prerogative.

  Ricciardi took a step forward, opening the door to the apartment a crack more. The light came from inside, the chilly December afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows in the other rooms. At first he saw nothing; then he realized that what he had at first taken for a decorative floral pattern on the wallpaper was actually an array of blood spatters. He leaned forward, taking care as to where he put his feet. On the floor there was a broad dark stain, in the middle of which was the head of a woman whose body lay behind the door.

  The commissario understood immediately that all the blood he saw, the blood that had terrified the doorman and spattered and stained the carpet and the wallpaper, had sprayed from the woman’s throat when it had been sliced open by a single blow from a razor-sharp blade. He observed the expression on her face, the half-closed eyes, the wide-open mouth. In the puddle of blood, the print of the toe of a heavy boot: someone had come in, but they hadn’t ventured any further, probably the zampognaro or even the doorman himself.

  He took a step forward, being careful not to step on the pool of blood, and half-closed the door behind him. He looked around: from the front hall, spacious and elegantly furnished, he could see a sitting room with two armchairs and a low table. He again looked at the corpse, then followed the trajectory of its dull gaze.

  In the opposite corner, some six feet from the woman’s dead body, standing in the dying light of the day, the same woman was smiling in his direction, eyes downcast as she welcomed him to her home with the pleasure of a perfect hostess. She was murmuring: Hat and gloves? Her hand was slightly extended, as if to take her visitor’s articles of outerwear and show him in properly, with grace and pleasure. Hat and gloves?

  Under the smile, from the gaping wound in the throat, sliced open from one ear to the other, blood pumped out in small black waves, dripping unremittingly onto the flowered dress, muddying the woman’s chest horribly. Hat and gloves? she kept saying. Ricciardi heaved a sigh.

  He spotted a few black drops far from the corpse, on the floor; they didn’t match up with the direction of the spatters that had hit the wall. Someone had walked away, probably unconcerned about the fact that the weapon used to cut the woman’s throat was still dripping with her blood. He started following the tracks, passing through the sitting room and ending up in the bedroom.

  The sight that greeted him there was overwhelming. The bed was drenched with blood, a horrifying amount of it: the sheets had turned black, the liquid had oozed onto the bedside rug, the light-colored wood headboard was spattered. At the foot of the bed, two long streaks. The murderer had cleaned the blade before leaving the scene.

  At the center of the bed, and of the broad patch of his own blood, lay a man’s corpse. His head was just starting to go bald and he had a drooping salt-and-pepper mustache. He might have been forty years old. The mouth gaped open as if trying to take in one last gulp of air; the hands were clenched in fists at his sides. Ricciardi understood, from the quantity of blood and the absence of visible wounds, that the man had been covered up as he lay dying and that he’d gone on bleeding for a good long while.

  The commissario glimpsed the image of the man on the bed, sitting beside his corpse and bleeding from a countless array of knife wounds. He was reminded of a painting of Saint Sebastian that hung in one of the classrooms of the high school he’d attended; he remembered how often, during the boring sermons he’d been forced to sit through, he’d counted the arrows piercing the martyr’s body, twenty-three to be exact. Judging by the sight of him, Ricciardi felt pretty sure that the man on the bed had rung up a higher total than the Christian martyr.

  He was saying over and over: I don’t owe a thing, not a thing. Grim-faced, eyebrows knit, teeth clenched, glaring furiously: I don’t owe a thing, not a thing. Ricciardi met the dead man’s glare, then turned his back on all that blood and returned to the front door to let Maione in.

  As always, so as not to run the risk of inadvertently moving some important piece of evidence, they held off on performing an in-depth examination of the crime scene until the medical examiner arrived. Leaving an irritated Cesarano at the front door of the apartment, the commissario and the brigadier went downstairs to interview the doorman and the zampognari. They’d tried to persuade the three of them to come back upstairs, but without success: nobody was willing to face that scene of mayhem a second time.

  Ferro was having a hard time smoking, his hand was shaking so badly. Ricciardi said to him:

  “Well, you were right: the man’s dead, too. What were the victims’ names?”

  “Garofalo was their surname, Commissa’. Captain Emanuele Garofalo, and the signora was Costanza. I don’t know what her maiden name was.”

  “Captain, you said; was he in the military?”

  “Yes . . . uh, no, not exactly. He worked at the harbor, a member of one of those voluntary militias, those new Fascist institutions. He wasn’t really a captain; he must have told me a hundred times but I never understood, something else, um, maybe it was a centurion. In the end he gave up and he just said to me, ‘Beniami’, let’s do this: why don’t you call me captain, which is the corresponding rank in the army, and we won’t have to discuss it again.’”

  Maione commented:

  “In fact, our friend here isn’t entirely wrong, Commissa’. They create a new one of these militias every few months, and you can’t make heads or tails of it. Anyway, if he worked at the harbor it must have been the port milita, the one that’s in charge of cargo and fishing.”

  “That’s right, Brigadie’, in charge of fishing, too,” Ferro broke in, “and in fact we’d often have fishermen showing up here with gifts for him, but he’d always turn them away; he said that they were trying to buy his silence with a basket of fish, but that he couldn’t let himself be corrupted in any way. He was a model of honesty, a real straight shooter. And now just look what’s become of him.”

  Ricciardi brought the conversation back to the main topic:

  “You didn’t leave the building, all morning long?”

  “No, Commissa’. Well, that is, I did go over to the trattoria across the way, just for a bit, no more than half an hour, and I kept my eye on the front door the whole time. You feel how cold it is out here, and the wind that’s blowing, no? At a certain point a man has a right to get warmed up a little.”

  With a shudder Maione remembered the man’s breath, ree
king with the foul stench of cheap wine.

  “Half an hour, eh? And you never took your eye off the front door the whole time. And the whole time, you never saw anyone go in?”

  “No, certainly not, Brigadie’. The last one to leave the building was the accountant Finelli, then the captain came home, and he always goes out again in the afternoon, but that was it. I keep a sharp lookout, you know: a fly couldn’t get inside without me knowing.”

  Maione shook his head.

  “With the exception of two zampognari, complete with musical instruments, whom you neglected to mention. As invisible as a couple of big shiny bluebottle flies, I’d say. You didn’t see them when they went in?”

  Ferro opened and shut his mouth a couple of times. Then he admitted:

  “No, Brigadie’, I didn’t see them. They managed to get by me. They must have gone in just as I was getting my money out to pay and I looked away for a moment.”

  Maione and Ricciardi exchanged a glance: even if they hadn’t noticed the alcohol on his breath, it was obvious from his red nose and bloodshot eyes that good old Ferro liked to lift an elbow, whether or not it was cold out. Anyone who knew the doorman’s habits could simply have waited for their chance to slip past him.

  “All right. Let’s go have a chat with the two zampognari then. We’ll see what they have to say for themselves.”

  III

  The zampognari were clearly father and son. The resemblance was unmistakable: same eyes, same features, same movements.

  Ferro had let them into the small apartment where he lived, on the ground floor, right behind the doorman’s little booth, in the lobby of the apartment building; most of the room was occupied by a wooden table on which a manger scene was in the process of being assembled. The doorman apologized for the clutter.

  “Excuse the disorder, Commissa’; I still haven’t found the time to finish it. I want to put it at the entrance of the building for Christmas. That is, I wanted to put it out, but now I’m not sure it would be in good taste. Certainly, the accountant Finelli’s children would have loved it, and I even promised them that I would; they’ll be so disappointed. But with two people dead, and with the horrible way they died, it seems like a bad idea, don’t you agree, Brigadie’?”

  Maione shrugged his shoulders. Ricciardi focused on the two men waiting off to one side of the room, as if they were hoping to be swallowed up by the shadows. The son, sitting in a chair, was pale in the face, trembling; next to him his father, his face baked by the sun, had put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. An acrid odor wafted off the pair of them.

  They wore the distinctive clothing of their trade: pointed hats, sheepskin jackets, thigh-high lace-up boots. The young man held the zampogna in his arms, an animal-skin bag from which protruded three pipes of different lengths. The older man had set his own instrument down on the floor; it was a sort of double horn. The father’s calm air served as a counterpoint to the son’s terrified expression, almost as if they were playing an emotional duet as well.

  Ricciardi spoke to the man standing by his son.

  “Now then, what’s your name? And where do you come from?”

  To his surprise, it was the boy who replied, his voice shaky but confident.

  “Our name is Lupo, Commissa’. I’m Tullio, and my father is Arnaldo. We come from Baronissi, near Avellino. We play the novena. This is . . . was the third day, the Friday before Christmas Eve.”

  “Tell me what happened. What time did you get here?”

  “The times we play in the homes change, the ladies like to do things their way and they tell us to come in the mornings, the afternoons, or the evenings, whatever suits them. We make our rounds; we have four different homes to go to, but they’re not close and we really have to hustle. Signora Garofalo . . . poor lady, mamma mia . . . had asked us to come around lunchtime, so her husband would be there. The little girl was kind of afraid of us; children are strange, some of them clap their hands when we play and start singing along with us, others get frightened, clap their hands over their ears, and run off.”

  Ricciardi nodded, remembering the discomfort that he’d felt as a boy at the ear-splitting sound of the horn and the dull rumble of the zampogna, the bagpipe.

  “So the little girl wasn’t there, is that right?”

  “No, that’s why the signora asked us to come at one. And also because her husband was coming home from work, and he wanted to hear us play, too.”

  Maione listened carefully. He asked:

  “And when you got here, was the front door open downstairs? Did anyone see you come in?”

  The two men exchanged a quick glance, then shot a quizzical look in the doorman’s direction. Maione explained:

  “We already know that the doorman was . . . otherwise occupied. Don’t worry about getting him in trouble. Just answer the question, please. And tell the truth.”

  The father answered, in a deep, low voice that reverberated in the small bedroom.

  “There was no one there. No one saw us. We went upstairs to the landing. I knocked, I called out, and there was no answer. The door opened partway; my son looked in. And then we came downstairs, to summon the doorman. That’s all there is to tell.”

  “And you saw no one come up or go down? You heard no sounds in the apartment, or outside?”

  “Nothing. We heard nothing and we saw no one.”

  His tone had been conclusive, firm. Exact wording aside, the man had just said: We had nothing to do with this; we were here just to do our job. Ricciardi nodded.

  “I see. So it was your son who saw the signora’s corpse, is that right?”

  The young man ran his hand over his eyes.

  “That’s right, Commissa’, it was me. And I’ll never forget it as long as I live, that poor woman lying in all that blood.”

  His father gripped his son’s shoulder and said:

  “You have to understand, he’d never seen blood before, only the blood of the lambs at Easter. And even that upsets him.”

  Maione looked hard at him.

  “What about you? Does blood not upset you particularly?”

  The waves roared in the wind, not far off.

  “I fought in the war, Brigadie’. I fought in the war, and I was at the front. And when I was a boy there were still bandits where I grew up. No, Brigadie’, blood doesn’t bother me. And it hasn’t bothered me in a long, long time.”

  Another crashing wave in the sea below resounded like the thunder of a distant cannon. Ricciardi thought to himself that blood still hadn’t stopped upsetting him, no matter how much of it he saw.

  “Give your particulars to the officer, including the address of wherever you’re staying here in Naples, and your address back in Baronissi. Don’t leave the city until we let you know it’s all right; make sure we can get in touch with you if we need to, in other words. For now, you’re free to go.”

  When they were alone again, Maione said to Ricciardi:

  “Commissa’, I think you were right to let them go. It’s true that no one saw them come in, they’re the only ones who saw the corpses, the door was open and not tampered with, which means that whoever killed the signora, she let them into the apartment herself. If it had been them, would they have killed the Garofalos and then gone to the tavern to summon the doorman, without taking any valuables, instead of simply running away? And the bootprint in the blood is proof that when the young fellow poked his head in, the woman was already dead.”

  “No, I don’t think they did it either, and in any case, we know their names and addresses; we can track them down when we want to. You know I don’t like throwing people in jail if I can possibly avoid it. Let’s wait and try to find out a little more about what happened. Have the doctor and the photographer arrived?”

  “Not yet, Commissa’. I had calls put in to both of them from headquarters before we headed o
ut, so they’ll be here any minute. And as usual I made a special request for Doctor Modo, and no one else.”

  Ricciardi agreed.

  “You did the right thing. I don’t trust anyone else; the others inevitably make a mess of things. Why don’t you ask that Ferro, the doorman, to come in here for a minute. There’s something I want to ask him.”

  The doorman seemed to have regained some degree of confidence, Ricciardi thought; his jacket was buttoned more neatly, his hat was on straight, and the man had even combed his hair.

  “Commissa’, here I am, at your service. I sent the rubberneckers home, with the help of your officer. They’re all fishermen. Nothing much ever happens around here; I don’t even know what it is they had hoped to see.”

  “I wanted to ask about the little girl, the Garofalos’ daughter. How old is she, and what are the hours of her school?”

  “Well then, Commissa’, the little girl is named Benedetta, like I told you before. She’s eight or nine and she goes to school with the nuns, on Riviera di Chiaia, not far away but not so nearby that she could go there on her own. Her aunt, Sister Veronica, comes to pick her up. That’s her mother’s sister; she teaches girls Benedetta’s age.”

  Ricciardi chose to focus on this.

  “What time did her aunt come to get her this morning?”

  “As always, quite early, around eight o’clock. I was here, I said hello to her—she’s a jolly nun—then she took the little girl and they left together. That one, Sister Veronica, she has a voice that’s very . . . very odd, piercing. She never stops talking. If you ask me, she stuns that poor child into obedience.”

  “It all checks out, then. At eight o’clock they were still alive, and at one o’clock, when the zampognari got here, they were dead. But did you see the captain leave for work?”

  Ferro avoided Ricciardi’s gaze.

  “I don’t remember, Commissa’. A couple of times I might have stepped away. A man has to use the facilities every so often, after all; then I watered the plants in the courtyard, I went to pick up some groceries . . . No, I don’t remember seeing him leave, or for that matter come home.”