“Can you talk about this in front of your son?” Balistreri asked.
“No problem. Fabio’s an adult and we have no secrets between us.”
“All right. Let’s talk about Ornella Corona.”
Ajello shook his head; Fabio stopped playing with the device and looked at Balistreri for the first time with all the scorn his teenage eyes could muster. It was clear that Balistreri was far from his idea of a success: a nobody of a civil servant, unshaven and badly dressed.
“We live in a ridiculous country,” Ajello said. “We allow young men to go around raping and killing.”
“I’d like to know when you last saw Ornella Corona,” Balistreri said flatly. Enough with the bullshit.
Ajello stopped smiling and examined the fresh manicure of his long sunburned hands as if he had spotted a small defect.
“How is this question relevant to your investigation?” he asked.
“We’re attempting to determine Ornella Corona’s movements on the night she was murdered. We know for certain that she was sunbathing at the beach resort until sunset. She left alone, and we presume she went directly home. We found a plate with the remains of a salad and a glass with a few drops of wine left in it. Then, toward midnight, before she was murdered—”
Ajello held up a hand to stop him. “Fabio,” he said to his son, “could you pop into the pro shop and check whether the new golf bags are in?”
The young man stood and walked away.
“Please, do carry on,” Ajello said, all politeness once his son was out of earshot.
“Before she was killed, she had what appears to have been consensual sex,” Balistreri said.
“And you want to know if she had sex with me? I still don’t see the relevance.”
“If you were there, you might have seen or heard something.”
“Or I might have killed her.”
“That depends on your alibi.”
“At the time I was in my car on my way to Bella Blu. I got there about midnight, I think.”
“That’s not much of an alibi, unless you went there straight from home, although as you know a spouse’s testimony counts for little.”
“I didn’t go there from my house,” Ajello said calmly. “I went there from Ostia, where I’d been with Ornella Corona.”
Corvu and Balistreri exchanged glances. Ajello hastened to add, “Naturally, Ornella was alive when I left around eleven thirty.”
“And did you see anyone around the villa on your way out?” Corvu asked.
“Absolutely not,” Ajello replied quickly.
“Please think carefully,” Balistreri insisted.
A small shadow crossed the lawyer’s face. “I saw no one. But I drive a convertible and I had the hood down, and I did hear a voice—someone speaking loudly into a cell phone. In Romanian, I think.”
“Would you recognize the voice of Marius Hagi?” Balistreri asked nonchalantly.
There was a lengthy pause. Ajello took his time lighting a cigarette. He gave Balistreri a sideways glance.
“I know that name,” he said, “but I can’t place it”
“He’s the husband of Alina Hagi, Anna Rossi’s best friend,” Corvu said.
Balistreri thought that Ajello could have been a very good poker player, but not a world-class champion like Angelo Dioguardi. Something showed on his face. Fear? Anger? Guilt? It was difficult to say.
“Anna Rossi,” he said with a smile, recovering his composure. “My God, how many years has it been? Alina Hagi I certainly remember, but not this husband of hers, Mario.”
“Marius,” Corvu corrected him.
“Marius Hagi. Yes, I must have met him once or twice. But I haven’t seen him since then. Once I got my degree, I didn’t hang out with the San Valente parish crowd. I was working for—”
“Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno,” Corvu said.
“How did you know that?” Ajello asked.
“The count told us himself. We went to ask him about this Marius Hagi and your name came up.”
Ajello nodded to acknowledge the coincidence, but he seemed to have decided to feign ignorance.
“Valerio Bona also mentioned you,” Corvu added.
“Valerio Bona! My expert helmsman.”
“Valerio Bona was working at San Valente with Father Paul for Cardinal Alessandrini.”
Ajello absorbed this information in silence. He seemed neither surprised nor disturbed.
Balistreri decided it was time to get to the point. “There was a major crime back then, do you remember?”
Ajello met his gaze. “Elisa Sordi, poor thing,” he said.
Balistreri was surprised. “Did you know her?”
Ajello shook his head. “Only by sight. I never went to Via della Camilluccia. But Valerio introduced me to her once and we went for a coffee together.”
Balistreri saw that Fabio was coming back. He looked directly at Ajello. “Do you remember where you were the day Elisa Sordi died?”
“Well, if it had been any other day I wouldn’t remember, but it was the World Cup final in Spain. I’m sure you watched it, too.”
It was difficult to say if there was any irony in the question.
“Anyway, I’d been alone on the boat all afternoon, and at seven thirty I was in the sailing club with friends watching the game. And later, naturally, I was out near the Colosseum celebrating.”
Ajello looked at him with amusement. “You must have celebrated yourself that evening, Balistreri, or maybe not.”
This time the message was much clearer.
Afternoon
It was lunchtime. Summer storms always break out when the temperature is high. Thunder and lightning accompanied them back to the office, while hundreds of tourists in T-shirts and shorts sought refuge in the bars and Metro stations.
It began to rain heavily as Corvu parked the car. It was the first downpour since the beginning of July. Balistreri decided to take advantage of it for a restorative walk through the city center’s now deserted streets. He sent Corvu up to the office and walked toward the Tiber in the pouring rain.
R.E.V.I. Was it a red herring or the key to something? Only the first letters of their names could directly link Samantha, Nadia, Selina and Ornella. But the Invisible Man wants us to find another link. He wants to enjoy our fear.
He felt the drops of rain trickling down his back through his open shirt collar. Absorbed in his thoughts, he suddenly found himself on the riverbank. Linda Nardi lived on the other side.
When did Alina die?
It was a ridiculous question. Linda Nardi could easily have found out when Marius Hagi’s wife had died. What did it matter?
He and Angelo Dioguardi had spent the evening of July 11, 1982 watching Italy’s World Cup victory. That same day, Elisa Sordi had been beaten, slashed, burned with cigarettes, and killed.
Balistreri’s mind had resisted seeing the similarities from the moment that San Valente came back on the scene. But there were similarities: a young girl beaten and tortured, albeit not raped, then suffocated and thrown into the Tiber, but with no trace of a letter on her.
Was there one? Are you sure, Balistreri? Do you remember how distracted you were?
He leaned on the railing. The river’s gray surface was running slowly, stippled by the rain. Elisa’s body had been in the water for days. The effect of the water and the rats had been catastrophic. He remembered the autopsy photos with a grimace. Bruises, burns, bite marks, but nothing scoring her skin.
Really only one bite mark, and even that was uncertain. The medical examiner had noted a semicircular scar on what remained of her left breast. Possible cause: bite, cut, scratch. A cut.
He was soaking wet, alone, disturbed, exhausted. His eyes were burning, and he was ready to drop. He looked over toward St. Peter’s and Linda Nardi’s apartment and then, with an ugly premonition, turned his away from the Tiber.
. . . .
When he returned to the office, without having eaten,
it was already three.
Corvu and Piccolo made no comment about the state he was in. His clothes were drenched, his stubble was thick, his shoes caked in mud. If they didn’t know him, the policemen guarding the entrance would have rudely sent him packing, taking him for a homeless person.
“Big news,” Piccolo said.
“Two pieces of big new,” Corvu chimed in.
“Mastroianni’s back in Romania. With the help of a friend, I got permission for him to see the secret archives opened up after Ceausescu’s death. The two victims that Mircea and Greg were accused of murdering were retired employees of the ministry of the interior. They were secret police with serious résumés. Among other things, they were responsible for the disappearance of Marius Hagi’s brother.”
A man who never forgives. Alina must have found out as well.
“Excellent information,” Balistreri said. “Not directly linked to the current investigation, however.”
“The second piece of information is, though.” Piccolo was beaming. So she had nailed Colajacono, or at least the memory of him.
“After today’s meeting with Pasquali I asked Rudi if he could think of anything strange that Hagi did or said on the morning of December 29. That’s when I went to the Torre Spaccata police station and spoke to Colajacono. Rudi remembered that Hagi was ending a phone call in the billiard room when he went in to bring him coffee. He only heard the last thing he said, but I think it’s enough.”
Piccolo paused.
Balistreri said, “All right, Piccolo, spit it out. What did Hagi say?”
“He said, ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re just street sweepers in paradise.’”
. . . .
Balistreri shut himself in his office to think about Marius Hagi. What was he doing on his last day of freedom? The next day, Pasquali was going to have him arrested even if he had to fabricate additional proof beyond the evidence that was already taking shape. On an empty stomach, Balistreri drank two beers and a double whiskey and smoked four cigarettes.
He turned the air-conditioning up to maximum and closed the blinds against the sweltering afternoon. Finally, he switched on the reading lamp and took it over to the sofa along with three folders. The first contained all the interrogations of the three Roma youths who had brutally attacked Samantha and killed her. The second contained those of Vasile, Nadia’s presumed rapist and murderer. It took over two hours to read through them all.
Then he grabbed a magnifying glass and opened the third folder, containing Elisa Sordi’s autopsy report. After twenty-four years, he still remembered it. The photograph was number 43. Semicircular scab of recent scarring to left breast, broken sharply by the loss of a part of the breast. Possible causes: bite from the superior dental arch of a human being, cut or gouge from branches or piece of metal in the river.
Truly an amateur investigation: a real collection of doubts, superficialities and absurdities. A textbook example of what errors not to make.
There was no need for the magnifying glass to discount the idea that the cut or gouge mark was accidental. The line of the curve cut into what remained of the breast was continuous and regular, a quarter circle. Superior dental arch? It could match the central and lateral incisors and the canines. He used the magnifying glass to see it better. It was no line of an ellipse, it was definitely a circle. A piece of the letter O. Certainly, no pathologist would have sworn it was a cut. The letter O cut into the flesh.
But now we know many things we didn’t in 1982. Four young women murdered: R.E.V.I. And perhaps an O. Perhaps the same hand for all of them—the Invisible Man’s.
He worked until the evening, fighting off sleep and hunger. He called in Corvu and Piccolo. They read Elisa Sordi’s file together three times. It was a job he should have done all those years ago. All the details, all the alibis. But now there were new names to add: Hagi, Ajello. And new facts.
Finally Corvu wrote on a sheet of paper: Check alibis of the following people for all the crimes.
Pasquali and Floris would have been appalled to see some of the names, and would have easily ruled out a number of them. But Balistreri had no intention of asking their permission.
Evening
At the end of the day, Corvu offered to give him a lift home.
“You’re tired, sir, and it’s late. Tomorrow’s going to be a tough day between questioning the Roma and arresting Hagi.”
“Take it easy, Corvu. I still need to walk on my own for a while and clear my head.”
Rather than head toward home, he set off again toward the banks of the Tiber, which were crowded with noisy young people. He had no idea where he was going, not consciously. The heat and humidity were suffocating. He walked wearily, smoking one cigarette after another.
It was his thoughts that spurred his steps on over the bridge, where he should not have gone, and as far as the street where Linda Nardi lived. It was fate that decided it for him. A few seconds more or less would have changed everything. But destiny led him to turn the corner at the precise moment when Linda Nardi was opening the front door to the apartment building, accompanied by Angelo Dioguardi whose arm was draped around her shoulders.
. . . .
He decided to try sleeping in his office with its air-conditioning on, when he returned there at midnight. There were few policemen around and no one on his floor. The flower in the glass still on Margherita’s desk was now completely dead, and he knew with certainty the flower had always been destined to wither.
Taking off his jacket and shoes he made himself comfortable, switching off all the lights and turning the air-conditioning on high. He poured a whiskey and lit a cigarette. Then he went into the bathroom and threw all his medicines into the toilet. First the gastro-protectors, then the antidepressants.
He felt better now that he had a few answers. Angelo and Linda: two adult children, insensitive as only children can be and clever at hiding themselves as only adults can be. And traitors, like those other two thirty-six years ago.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Morning
HIS PRIVATE CELL PHONE rang at seven, while Pasquali was getting ready to go to Mass before heading to the office. That morning he had been less punctilious than usual. He had cut his chin and his part was crooked.
The familiar voice spoke. “Everything is set. We’ll end it this morning.”
Pasquali tried to sound confident. “I’ve arranged a meeting for him at ten o’clock, so he won’t get in the way.”
“Excellent. Take care of it yourself. No outside help.”
“The subject must be armed. And he has to react in a certain way when arrested.”
Pasquali had never thought of having to shoot at anyone, not even a serial killer. But if he shot at an armed serial killer it would be more than justified. He dared not look at the crucifix as he formulated the thought.
“You’ll be a national hero.” There was a mixture of irony and contempt in the voice.
“This thing has gotten way out of hand. We need to talk after it’s over.” It was a small act of rebellion, the most his fear would allow him to say.
“Of course. Our friend will be in suite twenty-seven. Be careful not to get your shoes dirty.”
A last jab at his compromised respectability. He did not dare take Communion that day.
. . . .
They arrived punctually at ten. He had chosen Piccolo to come with him so she’d definitely be under control, given she was prone to going over the top. They had brought the three Roma boys to Regina Coeli, the prison nearest to Trastevere.
They left their pistols and cell phones at the entrance and were accompanied to a room where the three Roma were waiting for them with an interpreter and a lawyer. They were between eighteen and twenty-one years of age, but they seemed much older than Balistreri remembered them.
Piccolo started at the beginning. When had they arrived in Italy? What were their casual jobs? Thefts. How had they met? The boys replied in monosyllables. They w
eren’t particularly interested. When the evening of the murder came up, Piccolo’s questions became more detailed. Which of them had been approached by the fourth man? His description? Medium height, black hair, long and straight, metal-rimmed glasses. Where was he while they were drinking his whiskey? In the bar, maybe. Maybe outside. Did he invite them to go outside? Yes. And the cocaine? Yes, it was his. Now, Samantha. Who suggested the idea? He did. Who hit her first? He did. Then they’d dragged her to the garbage dump. He had more cocaine and more whiskey. The story became much more muddled. Who had raped her first? Who had been last? And where was he duirng all this? There, somewhere around. They could hear him coughing as he smoked.
“Stop,” Balistreri said. Piccolo nodded. She’d picked up on it, too. He asked each of them again in turn, “Where was he while you were raping the girl?” One of the three was a little more specific. “He was nearby. We couldn’t see him, but we could hear him coughing.”
Piccolo checked their earlier statements. “You never mentioned the coughing before.”
The guy who had spoken shrugged and replied in Italian, “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
They were shown a recent photo of Hagi. They looked at it reluctantly. “No,” said the first. “Don’t know,” said the second. “Could be, maybe,” said the third.
Then they were shown a photograph of Hagi with long hair and glasses added to it by computer. “Yes, that’s him,” they all said.
“Which one of you was the last to speak to him?”
No one could remember. The man disappeared at a certain point, as if vanishing into thin air. They all confirmed the same story. Samantha was alive, she was moaning, when they left. This time Balistreri had no doubts: they were telling the truth. It was the Invisible Man who had finished her off.
. . . .
Every time a cell phone disappeared that was connected in any way with a crime, the phone company was informed and told to take note and notify the police immediately of the eventual reactivation of the SIM card. The news came to Corvu in the office at exactly ten o’clock, at the precise moment when Balistreri and Piccolo were entering Regina Coeli. Selina Belhrouz’s SIM card had been reactivated and the phone company was very precise in its information. The microchip had been pinned down to the very narrow area of Rome where Casilino 900 was located.
The Deliverance of Evil Page 44
