Not being able to communicate with Balistreri, and wanting to follow procedure, Corvu informed Pasquali.
“Let’s go in with two men. No sirens—we don’t want to give anyone time to get away,” Pasquali said.
“But, sir, it could be dangerous with just two men,” Corvu protested.
“We’re going to make the arrest. You park a car at each exit, discreetly. Let’s meet downstairs in five minutes,” Pasquali said.
Corvu put on his bulletproof vest and his holster containing his Beretta. He got ahold of two plainclothes officers. It was the standard format for a simple arrest. But there was no telling that this would be a standard arrest. He tried the cell phones of Balistreri and Piccolo again. No answer. He left both of them a text message: Call me ASAP.
Pasquali did three things at great speed. He put on his bulletproof vest, readied his Beretta, and turned to the crucifix.
“Lord, forgive me for what I am about to do.”
. . . .
Corvu and Pasquali sat behind the two plainclothes officers in the car.
“Good,” said Pasquali. “The telephone company’s circled an area containing a total of six broken-down trailers. We’ll go in quietly, as if it were a normal patrol. They’re used to seeing the police these days. After we’ve gone in, no one can leave without being searched and having their ID checked.”
Corvu said, “With all due respect, sir, I think it would be better to search in groups.”
“No. We’d only find the cell phone in a dumpster. I want to catch someone holding that phone in his hands.”
“It could be dangerous,” Corvu protested.
“That’s precisely why we’re here. And I want one thing clear. We’ve already lost three able policemen and Captain Balistreri only survived by some miracle. If you see even a hint that someone’s going for a gun, open fire immediately. Don’t wait for them to fire first.”
The two plainclothes officers were clearly intimidated by Pasquali’s authority. They looked at Corvu.
“But, sir, that’s not proper procedure.”
Pasquali gave him a withering look. “Deputy Corvu, I will not allow another criminal to shoot at a policeman. I take full responsibility. There certainly won’t be any shortage of political support if you shoot an armed Roma in self-defense.”
His face strained, Corvu leaned his head back, stifling his thoughts. “All right. How are we to proceed?”
“We’ll start with the trailer closest to the entrance to the camp. One of you will knock. If they open up, we go in, check IDs, and continue to search until the Belhrouz woman’s phone turns up.”
“And if no one opens the door?”
“We go in and search anyway.”
Corvu didn’t like this at all, and he knew Balistreri would have been furious.
. . . .
Vasile confirmed that the man who had called on December 23 spoke excellent Italian. “Did he have an accent?” Piccolo asked.
“I don’t know. He sounded Italian to me.”
“What else do you remember about the call?”
He repeated what he’d said in his statement.
“What was his voice like?”
“Raspy. He coughed a lot.”
Balistreri and Piccolo exchanged glances. Perhaps this wouldn’t be enough for the prosecutor’s office. All they had was circumstantial evidence. Many people have a cough. Many people have friends with motocross bikes. The deaths in Romania weren’t attributable to him. His wife Alina was running away from him when she had her accident on the moped, but so what? And he didn’t have any alibi? Neither did millions of people.
Piccolo tightened her lips in rage. “But we know it was him.”
Balistreri got up, troubled. Something wasn’t right. He’d never liked coincidences, and here there really were a great many—too many.
I must tell Pasquali how Colajacono died. And as soon as I can.
. . . .
They entered the camp under a blazing sun that had dried the mud left from the previous day’s storm. There were a good many people around, mainly women, old men, and children jumping off a heap of old mattresses for fun. The garbage gave off a dreadful smell in the sun and mingled with the smell of urine from the port-o-potties. Groups of children swarmed happily around the policemen. Corvu shivered—this was sheer folly. Their holsters were open below their jackets and visible to the expert eye. He saw Pasquali, disorented and sweating in his impeccable gray pinstripe suit, and looking around.
He made a last attempt to call Balistreri. Nothing. They were still in Regina Coeli.
They knocked on a trailer door. A toothless old woman holding a child in her arms opened the door; she could as well have been the mother as the grandmother.
They went in. The heat was suffocating, as was the smell. Water was boiling on the small camp stove. There was no one there besides the old woman and the child.
“You search the trailer, Corvu. I don’t see any danger here. I’m going next door,” Pasquali said.
Before Corvu could protest, Pasquali was out the door.
Corvu imagined that he wanted to make the arrest himself because he wanted to be the star of the show. He indicated to the two plainclothes men to go with Pasquali.
“Do you have a cell phone in here?” he asked the old woman as he looked around. It was a stupid question, but he had to ask.
The woman didn’t understand Italian. The child began to cry while the pungent smell of its feces spread through the caravan along with the stink of rubbish.
Corvu had a feeling he was going to vomit and went to a window to get some air. From where he was he saw one of the policemen knocking at the door of trailer twenty-seven. Pasquali and the other policeman were a yard behind him. A moment later the door opened. It was another old woman. Three small children ran out between the legs of Pasquali and the two policemen.
Corvu saw with surprise that there was a motocross bike parked behind the trailer. And he didn’t notice the old man in a hat and dark glasses coming up behind the men and Pasquali. Then he heard the sound of a cough.
He swore in Sardinian and, turning sharply around, bumped into the old woman, knocking her to the ground along with the child, whose feces spattered across the floor. He lost a few seconds apologizing and helping her get up again, then he burst outside with the Beretta in his hand, shouting, ready to shoot.
Pasquali turned but did not raise the pistol in his hand quickly enough. He only managed to see Marius Hagi’s malicious grin below the dark glasses as he squeezed the trigger. He had no time to ask God to forgive his sins before the bullet passed through his head. Hagi threw the pistol far away and raised his arms above his head in the sign of surrender. The plainclothes men pointed their weapons at him, trembling with fear and rage.
“Stop! Don’t shoot!” Corvu shouted to the plainclothes men as he ran toward them, keeping his Beretta aimed at Hagi. Hagi looked at him with a mocking smile.
“Call an ambulance and block all the exits,” Corvu shouted desperately.
“No accomplices. I acted alone,” Hagi said. He was completely unruffled.
Corvu didn’t dare look at Pasquali. He ordered the other policeman to handcuff Hagi, who offered no resistance. A huge crowd had gathered around them and many patrolmen were running toward them, weapons in hand.
Hagi watched the scene with seeming amusement. He smiled at Corvu. “Where’s your boss, chief street sweeper in paradise?”
Afternoon
Balistreri refused to participate in the press conference arranged for the early afternoon. He watched it on the television in his office along with Corvu, Piccolo, and Mastroianni. First the minister of the interior spoke a few words of praise for the police and Captain Antonio Pasquali’s heroic sacrifice to rid the Italian people of this source of evil. He promised that within a few days the government would take drastic measures to control all immigrants, using a decree with the force of law so as to avoid bureaucratic delays in Parliame
nt’s red tape.
To a question from a French journalist about possible protests from the UN, the Vatican, and humanitarian organizations, he replied with scant diplomacy: “We do not expect protests from anyone, and they will not be welcome.”
He then handed the floor to the chief of police for a reconstruction of events. Floris was visibly shaken, but he maintained his composure. He gave a succinct precis of the deaths of the four young women, which were linked by the four incisions in their bodies. He spoke about the Invisible Man and, by way of illustration, the mountain of indirect evidence that converged on Marius Hagi on whom, incidentally, Selina Belhrouz’s cell phone had been discovered. He recalled that four Romanians linked to Hagi had been killed in an exchange of fire in which three heroic policemen had lost their lives and the head of the special team, Michele Balistreri, had been gravely wounded.
He ended by saying he was certain that Marius Hagi’s arrest had delivered the city from a nightmare and added that, together with the minister of the interior, he had summoned the mayor of Rome for urgent talks. He used the word summoned, as if calling for a servant.
Then all hell broke loose, the journalists unleashing a barrage of questions at the top of their voices, but there were no further statements.
Corvu was overcome. Television’s merciless footage had shown his face drained of color as Pasquali’s body was taken away from Casilino 900 and Hagi was loaded into the police van that would take him to jail. Balistreri had tried everything to get him to go home, but without success. He had explained in every way that he was not at fault; it was only Pasquali’s rashness and desire to play a leading role that had led to this outcome.
“Corvu, you can’t be in the room for Hagi’s questioning. You’re in shock. You’ve filed your report. Take a few days off and go see Natalya in Ukraine.”
Corvu shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said firmly.
But Balistreri had made up his mind. “I bought you a ticket. You’re leaving tonight. Natalya’s expecting you. In two hours, my brother, Alberto, is going to come by and give you a ride to the airport.”
I have to protect you right now, Graziano, because this isn’t over. Indeed, it’s only just begun.
Corvu raised his head. He looked shaken. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered, getting up. Then the ever duty-conscious Corvu said, “I checked the list of alibis you asked for and gave it to Mastroianni. If it still matters.”
Piccolo and Mastroianni hugged Corvu. Balistreri put a congenial arm around his shoulders and walked him to the exit. He was trembling.
Out on the sidewalk, something occurred to Balistreri. He turned to Corvu and asked, “How much time did Pasquali have from the time he saw Hagi to when he tried to shoot?”
“Less than a second.”
Less than a second. He already had his gun drawn.
. . . .
In the hot afternoon, Balistreri went to Regina Coeli for the second time that day. This time, he didn’t bring Piccolo.
Attorney Massimo Morandi was waiting for Balistreri outside the interrogation room. “I’m sorry about Pasquali.”
Balistreri looked at him.
You’re only sorry about your own reputation, you son of a bitch.
“What happened was unfortunate, but it does clearly confirm what I told you last time.”
“That I should have stayed in Dubai?”
“You now have the perpetrator. My client will confess to everything.”
“Really? Will he tell me why he faked an argument in order to kill poor Camarà?”
Morandi turned pale despite his tanning-booth complexion.
“Be satisfied with what is obviously the truth,” Morandi said icily.
Balistreri resisted the temptation to lay his hands on him or else they would have relieved him of the investigation; this time he wanted to get to the truth. He congratulated himself on his self-control. He turned his back and went into the room, Morandi following.
The public prosecutor was already there. He muttered a few words to the lawyer and then turned to Balistreri.
“Mr. Morandi has already told me that his client will plead guilty to all the murders, including the murder of Camarà. He’ll give a full and detailed confession.”
Hagi was brought in wearing handcuffs. His black eyes rested calmly on those of Balistreri. He had grown thinner since he had last seen him seven months earlier and was coughing much more. But his eyes now burned even fiercer above the huge dark bags beneath. The resemblance to a demon was now complete.
After the preliminaries, the public prosecutor let Balistreri take over the questioning.
“Let’s start from the beginning, Mr. Hagi.”
“Fine. Let’s start with Samantha Rossi.”
Balistreri shook his head. “No, Mr. Hagi. The beginning was in 1982.”
Hagi nodded with a smile. “Elisa Sordi?” He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The words surprised everyone: the public prosecutor, Morandi, the corrections officers. Only Balistreri failed to react.
Hagi said with obvious contempt, “You did quite the job on that case, didn’t you, Captain Balistreri?”
“Please just answer the questions without making any extraneous comments, Mr. Hagi,” the public prosecutor said.
Morandi raised a hand. “Hold on just a minute. I need to confer with my client. I don’t know anything about the connection to the Elisa Sordi case.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hagi said placidly. “Your job is to ensure that these gentlemen don’t distort what I say. I want everything to be extremely clear, and we’ve got some people in this room who always seem to make a mess of things and have been doing so since 1982.”
“When did you meet Elisa Sordi?” Balistreri asked, ignoring Hagi’s remark.
“I don’t remember exactly—a little before the summer of 1982. I went to the residential complex on Via della Camilluccia, where Alina introduced me to a young man. Elisa was with that young man.”
“What was the man’s name?”
Hagi shrugged. “I don’t remember. I didn’t take much notice of him. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her, on the other hand.”
He’s trying to provoke you. Stay cool.
“Why did you go to Via della Camilluccia?” Balistreri asked.
“I’d gotten some work through Alina. I was hired to organize a trip to Auschwitz for a woman there.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“She was from northern Europe. Her husband was an Italian nobleman with a very long last name.”
“All right. We’ll come back to that. You met Elisa Sordi. And then?”
“What would you like to know exactly?”
Balistreri saw the public prosecutor and Morandi shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
“What happened next?”
Hagi stared at him brazenly. “Did you not get that there was an O on her left breast? You were young then, but surely you’ve figured it out by now, haven’t you?”
Morandi almost fell off his chair. The public prosecutor jumped to his feet and began pacing.
“Was that your first letter?” Balistreri asked impassively, as if they were talking about the weather.
“I took her body out into the middle of the river on a small boat. I was going to weigh it down with rocks. I figured even the rats would want a piece of her.”
The public prosecutor and the prison officers looked ready to go off. Balistreri gestured to them to calm down. Hagi’s game was clear: he wanted to drag everyone down to his level.
“And why did you hide such a work of art with so much care?” Balistreri asked.
“I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t left traces of organic material or fingerprints on the girl. So I let the river see to it.”
Balistreri came to the most complicated point. “Alina found out everything, didn’t she?”
Hagi had a coughing fit. Balistreri saw some blood on his handkerchief. Then the
coughing subsided.
“I’ve already told you I have no intention of talking about my wife. I would never have hurt her.”
“I find that hard to believe, Mr. Hagi. I know what you did to the two men who killed your brother in Romania.”
Hagi shrugged. “I couldn’t care less what you believe, Balistreri.”
“How many women did you kill in the twenty-four years between the murders of Elisa and Samantha?”
“None,” Hagi said. “And I have no reason to lie to you. Alina’s death changed my life.”
“Then why did you kill Samantha a year ago?”
“Because a year ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer.”
The public prosecutor looked at Balistreri, who motioned to him to hold on and continued.
“We can verify that later. You found out you were ill, so you fell back into your bad habits? I don’t believe that.”
Hagi wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “If you want more answers, take these cuffs off me. I want a cigarette.”
The public prosecutor looked at Balistreri, who nodded consent. A corrections officer removed the handcuffs. Balistreri offered Hagi a cigarette and lit it for him with the Bella Blu lighter. Then Hagi picked up his story again.
“Alina knew the truth. She was too smart for her own good. I beat her, because she was going to report me, and for a while she let it drop. Then Anna Rossi began to interfere. She saw Alina’s bruises, and she suggested that Alina leave me and go and stay with her. That terrible evening I tried to convince her to stay, but Alina ran away on the moped to go stay with that bitch.”
Another coughing fit, more blood on the handkerchief. Hagi’s face was contorted with rage and hatred.
“I never forget a friend, but I also never forget anyone who crosses me. It gave me real pleasure to have her daughter killed by those three Roma. But what really pleases me is the thought of how Anna Rossi is going to feel when you inform her that she was responsible for her daughter’s death.”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 45
