Inspector Cataldo's Criminal Summer

by Luigi Guicciardi

  No voice from within. She waits a moment, then turns the handle, feeling it cold in her sweating hand and then sees the filmy marks made by her fingers, sees them evaporate immediately when she lets go. Nothing, not even a rustle. Then, with a strange sense of embarrassment, she opens the door wide – and she sees him.

  He sits slumped forward on the chair, his head lying on the desk. The blood – my God! so much of it! – dirtied everything before it clotted and it has even dripped onto the floor. There is a hole in his right temple, she can see it clearly from where she stands, and as she looks she discovers in an instant a new impotence – an incapacity to feel compassion for something that both attracts and horrifies her and she wonders what his face must look like now, pressed as it is against the desktop.

  As she swallows, suppressing her nausea, she becomes aware, surprised, at how lucid she is. Her eyes are wide open, taking in all the details in this room with the light on, in this absurd quietness. The pistol is there, on the desk, just to the right of his head. Instinct moves her closer, to get a better look, she has the strength for that, and it looks like his gun… but it is too hot in here with the black, folded silhouette of the body that now seems to bloat in the silence, filling all the available space with its presence. She wants to leave now – she has seen enough and she believes she is actually moving, swaying uncertainly towards the threshold. But she continues to look. The pistol is there, shiny, just inches from his head. And his squashed face, which she cannot see. She wonders what it must look like, she cannot help but wonder. But not now.

  The police car arrives without sirens blaring, and when Miriam opens the door there are two of them. ‘Inspector Cataldo,’ says the first one, in civilian clothes and holding out his badge: a tall man, clean-shaven, more or less her own age. The other is his deputy, Muliere: evidently older, with a deep voice and a thick moustache that contrasts with his rather feminine surname. Then the others start arriving: first a doctor, then two policemen in civilian clothes – Cataldo has never seen them before. Then a photographer, a ballistics expert and a fingerprint technician. They are all whispering busily around the corpse.

  Muliere stands to the right of the desk and frowns as he looks at the body, then he leans slightly forward, smells the skin on Zoboli’s arm and looks at Cataldo, who nods. The Inspector stands on the other side of the desk, hands on hips, as he too studies the dead man, screwing his eyes up, his jaw stiff, as though hoping – through the intensity of his gaze – to penetrate the mystery of this death, heedless of the quiet buzzing behind him. The study is full of people now, but no one gets in anyone else’s way, no toes are stepped upon. Everyone moves confidently and discreetly, demonstrating professionalism and respect in the presence of death. And their hands – swift, efficient, slipped into rubber gloves as thin as condoms – hands that pick up the pistol, touching it with only the tips of fingers, placing it delicately in a plastic bag, as soon as the photos and the measurements are complete. Other hands are busy working under the desk, with magnifying glass and tweezers, searching for something, perhaps strands of hair. The fingerprint technician too, with his brushes, moves silently from the handle to the lock, from the desktop to the floor, spreading a veil of silver-grey dust over the surfaces. The same as always, thinks Cataldo… here we go again.

  ‘Here’s the shell.’

  The ballistics expert lifts his head up slowly and looks at Cataldo with his short-sighted eyes. He is evidently satisfied and he is a trifle clumsy in his movements as he stands up, but then he talks calmly and precisely.

  ‘Calibre 7.65 bullet. Automatic pistol.’ He nods towards the plastic bag on the desk. ‘That one.’ But he picks up on a silent reproof in the eyes of the other man, and adds immediately, ‘Of course, we’ll have to run a ballistics test, but if you want my opinion right now…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Cataldo, thanking him with a gesture. ‘That’ll do for the moment.’

  Because it is Speedy Gonzales he is interested in now: with his white linen suit, his bald patch illuminated by the sun. Dr Arletti is his name and he is already at work, grumbling now and then to himself, with all the methodical impassivity of someone who has grown old denying himself emotions like compassion and embarrassment. Not that he is the best of the medical examiners, but he is certainly the quickest in coming up with a diagnosis. And this doesn’t seem to be a difficult case.

  The first thing he does is to study Zoboli’s face close up, indifferently, looking for traces of gunpowder, and now he is studying the bullet hole in the temple and the ragged wound at the back of the head. After this, with a grunt, he moves the dead man’s arm, bending the fingers and pushing the head to one side to check for rigor mortis. Then he returns to examine the arms and hands, opening them to study the palms. Then he straightens up, rubbing his own hands with an immaculate handkerchief, and gets ready to speak, aware of the fact that everyone is waiting.

  ‘Entry through the right temple. Straight line of fire. Exit through the left occipital region, at the base of the skull. You’ve found the shell, right? Good. The bullet went straight through the skull and he died instantly. Time of death…’ and he coughs now, mechanically, ‘… well, I’d say twelve hours ago, perhaps even a bit more. But we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem.’

  A few people nod, no one speaks. Except for Cataldo, when Arletti has put his instruments back in their black case.

  ‘I’d like the post-mortem by this evening. Is that possible?’

  ‘Alright.’ And he closes his bag with a click, without objecting. ‘But have him taken to the mortuary as soon as you can.’

  Cataldo says thank you, then opens the door for him. In the living room he sees the widow, Miriam, he remembers, sitting, staring at the people who are leaving. For a moment their eyes meet, just the time it takes to close the door, time enough for him to carry away an image in his mind. A slender, elegant woman of about forty: a grey silk blouse worn with a black skirt, high-heeled shoes with ankle straps, dark hair in a page-boy cut. Probably a strong, independent woman. But she has been crying. The unmistakable signs are there – the red eyes, the swollen face.

  He turns to look at the room, his shoulders against the door. Everything is normal, or so it seems. Zoboli obviously fell forward after he was shot, but not very far because the chair is a bit low, the desk is high and his arms supported him. Right. Just as it is right that there is all that blood, despite the small blackened hole, blackened with coagulated blood, at his temple. There is a big dark stain on the rug behind the chair, and blood on the tiles, a lot of it. And it is on the chair too, on one edge of the desk and even at some distance from the corpse – drops of thickened, dark blood. Perhaps he is imagining the sweet smell of it, a smell he knows well and for a moment he wants to open the window, but then he thinks of the temperature, which should be kept constant, and the flies. There is one already there, on the wall, and it seems motionless, but on closer inspection it is rubbing its legs before flying off to come to rest elsewhere, buzzing in satisfaction. ‘The flies have a great time of it with the shit, the heat and the blood.’ The voice shakes him – Muliere is standing there in front of the window.

  ‘Petronio’s on his way, Inspector…’

  And the tone of voice suggests, good luck to you.

  ‘So what’s the situation, exactly, Inspector?’ The Investigating Magistrate coughs his question, a nervous cough that has become a habit. ‘Why have I only received a superficial breakdown of the facts?’

  As if by contagion, Cataldo clears his throat too.

  ‘There’s very little to say, for now. We were informed this morning, about nine thirty. His wife phoned.’ Instinctively he gestures towards her, as though she were actually there with them. ‘I mean, the widow…’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Looks like it…’

  ‘I only ask because I bumped into Arletti just now out front and he’s sure, even before doing the post-mortem. Especially because of the edge of
the halo, something you can see with the naked eye… you know what I mean?’

  Of course he knows. Grazed and bruised edge it says in the manual: a shot fired at point-blank range, the gunpowder penetrates the skin and leaves this kind of halo all around the entry hole of the bullet…

  ‘That’s it. He’s sure. For him it’s one hundred percent a suicide.’

  But Cataldo says nothing. He looks at Petronio, a very tall man with a child’s face, greying hair, glasses like a top-of-the-class student, who in the meantime stares, perhaps taken aback by Cataldo’s reticence.

  ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a bit early to say. Of course, it’s possible. It’s just that…’

  ‘Just that?…’

  ‘No note. No letter… nothing.’ He stares back. ‘Usually they do something like that.’

  ‘But that’s no proof.’

  ‘I know.’ But neither is the edge of the halo, he thinks, but he does not say it. Because it is possible to point a gun at another man’s temple and to produce the same result. As long as the dead man trusted you, did not expect it…

  ‘Was the Beretta his?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ve just started. Just like you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But I think so. I’ll bet it’s his and I bet it’s registered.’

  He is not hoping it is true. Neither of them hope that. Petronio nods, then asks: ‘And what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s up to forensics now. Lab tests,’ he sighs. ‘The usual thing… it’s not up to me.’

  And since Petronio says nothing:

  ‘The fingerprints on the pistol, the paraffin nitrate test on the corpse, the microscope analysis on the bullet and the barrel… all I can do is talk to the widow.’

  ‘I saw her out there…’

  ‘To get an idea of a possible motive. For now.’

  He walks outside with him, out of respect. He shakes his hand. In the garden outside the house two undertakers from the Council are waiting with a green zippered body bag, just like in the movies.

  ‘Signora Zoboli…’

  Who knows what type of life pulses behind those questioning eyes. He always wonders that… every time. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  She seems surprised and looks at him without saying anything. She runs a hand over her mouth. Then she moves to one side, letting Cataldo pass between herself and the table in the living room, her eyes fixed on his back.

  ‘My heartfelt condolences… and I wouldn’t trouble you if it weren’t important. Believe me.’ He speaks softly, sympathetically, with that smile, the sad one he has used on too many occasions. ‘But I have to ask one or two questions. To try to understand. It’s my job.’

  She closes her eyes for a moment. Then she makes a slow gesture in the air with her hand.

  ‘Please. After all, as you’ve said – it’s your job.’

  ‘Thank you. So, first off… what did your husband do?’

  ‘He was doing some research at the university…’

  ‘So… a lot of hope or expectation, very little salary. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he live on… if I may?’

  ‘Supply jobs now and then at school… here and there… wherever. And then he was independently wealthy… he got by.’

  ‘I understand. And he’d never thought of a change?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To this situation. To look for a permanent job.’

  ‘No. Firstly because he liked it, he lived for his research. And then because he was preparing a paper for a national conference and this… how shall I put it? This would have given him a lot of credit. It would have helped him in the next concorso. At least that’s what he said…’

  ‘Alright. So you don’t know of any economic worries – business or anything like that – that were weighing on his mind?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘And lately, think carefully about this, your husband’s behaviour, his actions… had anything made you suspect that he was worried, I mean… that something might happen to him?’

  ‘No.’ But she lowers her eyes. Trying to remember something? In any case, Cataldo gives her time. ‘No, I told you. There’s been nothing strange.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone,’ he starts again, ‘who might hold a grudge against him?’

  ‘No one, as far as I know.’

  ‘Is it possible, I’m sorry to suggest this, that he shot himself in a moment of depression?’

  The question comes at a moment when she has pulled out a handkerchief to dry her eyes, but she shakes her head suddenly and almost shouts, ‘No! Not that!’ Then she presses the handkerchief against her mouth and starts crying.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was full of life, he loved life… and then the strength to keep going comes when you know that there’s someone who wants you. And I was there for him, he knew that.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s not enough,’ says Cataldo, looking at her almost kindly. ‘If you’re up against something evil, an enemy…’

  ‘He would have defended himself against an enemy. He would never have run away… he didn’t want to run away from anything. Do that once, and you do it for ever, he used to say… it means running away from life.’ She swallows, gets her breath back. ‘It takes courage. Grit your teeth, summon all the strength in your soul…’

  ‘Are those his words?’ asks Cataldo, thinking the phrase has a good ring to it.

  ‘Yes. He said that once.’

  And now he has to ask her another question, before their conversation shifts elsewhere: ‘Why did you say just now that he would have defended himself?’

  She is motionless now. Her eyes fixed straight ahead. There is a strange tranquillity in her. Then her mouth moves into a grimace. It is as though she is about to sob, but nothing comes. Her voice is dull when she says:

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The pistol, the one on the desk.’

  ‘Was it his?’

  ‘Yes. He took it from the drawer, where it’s always been kept. I’m sure about that.’

  ‘So he was frightened by something. Or he wanted to defend himself… but from who?’

  ‘From a newspaper article,’ she suddenly whispers, as though trying to grasp at some detail in a thick fog or in a dream. Cataldo looks at her in puzzlement before she continues:

  ‘It was in the mailbox, a photocopy, yesterday morning. It must have been put there during the night.’

  ‘And can you remember anything about it? The headline, the date?’

  ‘No, just the newspaper. It was the Resto del Carlino, from years ago. I could tell by the graphics.’ And she adds, by way of explanation, ‘We’ve been buying it regularly, for many years…’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  She nods.

  ‘It’s not much to go on.’ And after a second, ‘You really can’t remember anything else?’

  ‘No. Because he grabbed it out of my hand straight away.’

  ‘Ah, really?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t want me to read it. He took it and ran off, without saying a word.’

  ‘Not even later on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And it was after that he took the pistol?’

  ‘Later on I realized the pistol wasn’t there any more.’ The clarification that follows is minimal, but important, ‘That was yesterday afternoon. But I don’t know when he took it from the drawer… but yes, it could have been yesterday.’

  ‘After reading that article. So the two things could be related. The article, the pistol…’ and then, lowering his voice, ‘… and the suicide.’

  He lifts his head, looks into her eyes.

  ‘Could he have been haunted by some remorse, some guilt? Something stronger than him, from a long time ago?’ he suggests quietly, almost as though to himself.

  ‘No. He was
a happy man.’

  ‘We can’t know that,’ says Cataldo, delicately. ‘We cannot judge the happiness or the unhappiness of other people.’ And death is the ultimate solitary experience, he continues in his own thoughts. Because we are always alone in death.

  She coughs now, and she lifts the handkerchief to her mouth. ‘Perhaps that’s true,’ she says, when she can speak.

  Of course it is true. He has seen it so often in his work, in his own life. It is true even for those we think we know as well as we know ourselves. No one can ever know what really happens in the final instant of a life. That is why it is not right to judge, but it is right to think. God’s heart is bigger than man’s heart. And not even a bullet in the head sets us free from ourselves and from the horror. From the infinite hypocrisies and deceits of the world.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eighteen years ago

  It is getting even warmer as he leaves the house. Up in the cloudless sky a light aircraft is buzzing around, like a happy fly. But Cataldo is dissatisfied, as he always is when he is just getting started on something new. On the steps he looks up, but there is too much glare, he cannot see any sign of the plane. Then he looks down again and sees the two men from the mortuary in the garden. They are putting the dead man in the green bag; they close the zip and put it in the van. And as they drive out through the gate, he thinks about the fact that he has seen dead men before, but still now, just like the first time, he feels his heart shrink.

  There is a fat man standing in the road doing nothing apart from looking at Cataldo. Hands behind his back, belly out, lifting his weight up on tiptoes, then letting it all fall back onto his heels before beginning again. Where has he seen this one before?

  ‘Inspector?’

  He had waited until Cataldo came closer to call out to him. What a strange voice – gargling undertones of catarrh.