Balistreri was extremely thankful he hadn’t brought Giulia Piccolo with him. No one could have managed to hold her back from tearing Hagi apart. Hatred filled the room as if it were a layer of poisonous gas. Morandi held his head between his hands, incredulous, while the public prosecutor was no longer even taking notes, his face parchment white. The prison officers appeared ready to jump on Hagi and take him apart right there in the room.
“Why did you kill Nadia? What did she have to do with anything?”
“Nadia could have been Alina’s identical twin. I wanted revenge on my wife, symbolically at least. She ruined my life by dying like that.”
A well-rehearsed reply, far-fetched. Don’t reply.
“Your wife ruined your life because she’d discovered you were a murderer, and she died running away from you. Whose fault was that, Mr. Hagi?”
“A wife must never betray her husband. She must remain with him come what may. It was the atmosphere at San Valente parish that turned her against me, her uncle the cardinal and the joke that is the Catholic religion.”
“You took a big risk killing Nadia after Camarà had seen you together in the private lounge and she’d taken the lighter from there—the same one I just used to light your cigarette. Why not kill someone else?”
Hagi hesitated. “She was the spitting image of Alina. I wasn’t going to find anyone who looked so much like her. Anyway, it was easy enough to cut up that fucking nigger.”
“What about Selina Belhrouz and Ornella Corona? What did your vendetta have to do with them?”
Hagi coughed for a long time, spitting blood into his handkerchief.
“You didn’t like the V and the I?”
He was avoiding certain topics. Balistreri decided to try another tactic.
“We have five letters, Mr. Hagi, beginning in 1982: O, R, E, V, and I. Can you explain what those mean?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Hagi said. “You have to take my wife, Alina, into account.”
“What’s her letter?”
“Her initial, A.”
“O, A, R, E, V, I. What does it mean?”
Hagi stared at him with malevolent eyes. “I see nothing that I say surprises you, Balistreri. I’d like to give you something new to think about.”
Balistreri understood beforehand what Hagi was about to say. In that brief moment he was certain he was facing not a simple serial killer but a merciless plot, and that they had no idea where it began and where it would end.
“You’re going to like the next letter, Balistreri.”
. . . .
Fiorella Romani, twenty-three, granddaughter of Gina Giansanti, the former concierge at Via della Camilluccia, newly graduated and recently employed by a bank, had left her home in the suburbs at seven thirty that morning, the same as every day, to take the Metro to the office. Except that she never got there. At six that evening, seeing that she wasn’t home, her mother Franca called her cell phone repeatedly, but it was switched off. After calling all her daughter’s friends, she decided to report her missing.
“Too many hours have gone by,” Mastroianni said at the start of the meeting later in Balistreri’s office. “Hagi probably kidnapped her at seven thirty, as soon as she left home, and killed her right away. Then he buried her in the woods or dumped her in the river or down a well. Then he went to Casilino 900 to kill Pasquali.”
Balistreri listened in silence, smoking and leafing through Mastroianni’s report on the search of Hagi’s house. They had found the Invisible Man’s disguises—wigs, sunglasses, hats.
“I’ve got Corvu’s list, too,” Mastroianni said. He handed over the list of alibis that Corvu had checked on Balistreri’s request.
It was the check on the alibis he’d asked for.
In order to avoid any trouble they hadn’t directly questioned the count, or his son, let alone Cardinal Alessandrini, on the murders of the previous year. Corvu had confined himself to checking the official record.
In the Nairobi newspapers were photographs of the opening of the new hospital wing, which had taken place on December 25 in the presence of Manfredi, Count Tommaso, Manfredi’s colleagues, and the local authorities. Corvu had even checked that the only direct flight from Europe that could have taken Manfredi to Nairobi in the early morning left Zurich at midnight and that the last flight from Rome to Zurich on the evening of December 24 left at six, before Nadia was kidnapped. There was no sign of Manfredi in Rome either on the passenger lists or in passport control. So while Nadia was being killed, Manfredi was in Nairobi. On the other hand, for the murders of Samantha, Selina, and Ornella, neither the count nor Manfredi had a secure alibi.
Corvu had also noted Cardinal Alessandrini’s movements in the Vatican for official events during the afternoon and evening of December 24, but it wasn’t possible to check if he had been temporarily absent. On the day of Samantha Rossi’s death he was in Madrid, but it wasn’t known when he had come back. And on the evening of Ornella Corona’s death he was at home alone.
Ajello, Paul, and Valerio had been questioned. They had seemed more worried and surprised than angered. Paul and Valerio were together in San Valente on the evening of December 24 for the orphans’ Christmas Eve dinner; from at least eight o’clock onward their movements could be traced. Ajello was certainly at the opening of an ENT nightclub in Milan the night Samantha was killed, and there were many witnesses. There was a ridiculous coincidence in that, for different reasons, all three found themselves in Ostia on the night of Ornella Corona’s death. Ajello had had sex with her, Paul had taken the orphans to the seaside and had slept over there with them, and Valerio had been out on a boat on his own and no one knew what time he’d returned. As for the case of Elisa Sordi, there was no one who could confirm Ajello’s alibi after so many years. One result was clear: Hagi alone never had an alibi. And he was the one charged with having committed all the crimes.
Balistreri was exhausted. Around him he saw looks on his colleagues’ faces that ranged from commiseration to contempt to derision.
Late in the day, he received a phone call from the chief of police.
“Balistreri, this is a disaster from start to finish, beginning with the victims and their loved ones all the way up to the media circus and the political consequences.”
“Sir, if I may, we’re dealing with something highly complex that was planned down to the last detail.”
“So you don’t think Marius Hagi could have done all this on his own?”
“I don’t know. And this might be just the start.”
“The start?” Floris shouted. “Five young women have been brutally murdered, the first twenty-four years ago, then Camarà, Colajacono, Tatò, Coppola, Pasquali—you were nearly killed yourself—and now Fiorella Romani. The start of what? World War III?”
There was no way Balistreri could reassure him. The fact that Pasquali already had his pistol in his hand while the plainclothes officer knocked at the trailer door was a real concern.
“I have to talk to Hagi again,” Balistreri said.
“He has a plan. If we want to try to save Fiorella Romani we have to play along with him.”
“What good will it do to play along with him?” Floris asked.
“Either Fiorella Romani is already dead or she will be soon. If Hagi’s got her hidden away somewhere and we don’t find her, she’ll die of starvation. On the other hand, maybe he wants us to find her. Maybe Hagi’s playing a game with us.”
“What are you talking about?” the chief of police asked, exasperated.
“It’s too complicated,” Balistreri concluded.
Floris sighed, exhausted. He’d been a well-respected man, but now he was flailing. He was chained that was sinking into on quicksand.
Evening
It was already dark when Balistreri returned to Regina Coeli for the third time. The image of Angelo with Linda was tormenting him. He brushed it aside angrily and tried to concentrate on Hagi and Fiorella Romani. But that image took him ba
ck to his worst nightmare, back to Africa in the summer of 1970.
Corvu called from Kiev to ask how things were going. Balistreri told him Hagi had confessed to everything, including the killing of Elisa Sordi and the letter O. Then he told him about Fiorella Romani’s disappearance.
“I’m coming back tomorrow. I can’t stay away any longer.”
“Okay, Corvu. In that case I’m going to ask the chief of police to transfer you to the beautiful and peaceful mountains of Sardinia immediately. You can count goats there. That should calm you down.” And he snapped his cell phone shut.
Balistreri entered the room with the public prosecutor and Morandi, who felt it was his duty to mutter some more words that Balistreri ignored completely.
Hagi appeared to have rested for the last few hours. The corrections officers who were watching him said he had eaten a little and had slept. Medical reports confirmed he had late-stage lung cancer. The doctors said he had little time to live.
“You’re tired, Balistreri. You’ve got terrible bags under your eyes. If you keep going like this you’ll die of a heart attack before I die of cancer,” Hagi said cheerfully.
“Don’t worry about me. I’d like to talk about Fiorella Romani. Is she alive?”
Hagi appeared to consider the question carefully. “I think so. Naturally that depends on how strong she is.”
The public prosecutor couldn’t contain himself. “You should be thankful that in this civilized country, where no one can torture you like Ceausescu’s hired killers tortured your brother. I only wish I were allowed to torture you.”
Hagi looked at the public prosecutor pityingly. “You wouldn’t have it in you to harm a hair on my head. You people are as spineless now as you were during the fall of the Roman Empire. The people you call barbarians are going to rape your women, steal your houses, and take over your country, while you sit and watch.”
Morandi felt moved to intervene. “Mr. Hagi, I’m begging you to save Fiorella Romani’s life. The court will take it into consideration.”
Hagi laughed. “I’ll die before I go before a judge. But I’m willing to save Fiorella Romani’s life on certain conditions.”
Balistreri bent toward Hagi. “What do you want in exchange?”
“The truth, Balistreri. It would be simple if you weren’t so incompetent.”
The public prosecutor and Morandi looked at him, disconcerted.
But Balistreri was ready for him; he knew what truth he meant.
The one I haven’t found. The one I gave up finding all these years. The one I thought to atone for by giving up on life.
“He wants me to speak to Fiorella Romani’s grandmother and reopen the investigation into Elisa Sordi’s murder. In the meantime, Fiorella could be dead,” Balistreri said. He might as well have been speaking Chinese for all the comprehension displayed by the public prosecutor and Morandi.
“We’ll do our best to keep her alive a little longer. But be a little quicker this time, Balistreri. Fiorella won’t live another twenty-four years.”
The public prosecutor cut in. “I don’t understand. You confessed to killing Elisa Sordi, Mr. Hagi. Are you retracting that statement?”
Hagi looked at them with scorn.
“I never said I killed her, just that I threw her body in the Tiber. You’re as incompetent as Balistreri here, this street sweeper in paradise. I want the truth—only the truth can save Fiorella Romani.”
The chief of police and the public prosecutor agreed to reopen the investigation immediately and contact eighty-four-year-old Gina Giansanti. Her daughter, Franca, Fiorella’s mother, told them that Gina was ill and had been living in Puglia for more than twenty years in a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of Lecce, her birthplace. A military airplane would be provided to transport Balistreri and Fiorella’s mother there the following morning.
. . . .
It was almost midnight when Balistreri left Regina Coeli. He had smoked at least thirty cigarettes and drunk a dozen cups of espresso. He was physically and psychologically destroyed. Keeping himself from reacting to Marius Hagi had been extremely tough. His nerves were in shreds, his thoughts roiling.
He’s kissing her right now on her terrace, where I hesitated. Next he’ll take her to bed.
. . . .
He took the walk home from Regina Coeli through Trastevere, where the chaos was greater because it was Friday night. There were cars everywhere tooting horns, music at top volume, ice cream, kids with bottles of beer walking in and out of the traffic. And yet he didn’t hear a thing—he was walking down a tunnel that had only one possible exit.
And if he carves up another girl? This had been Linda Nardi’s question the first time they had gone out to dinner on December 30, 2005. It was time to know where that idea had come from.
Don’t confuse the investigation with your anger. Stop here, Michele, while you still have time.
But his footsteps led him toward her apartment. When he got to the main door it was a little after midnight. He looked up and saw a faint light in the windows. He still had the key she’d given him. Breathing heavily, he walked up the staircase.
Linda Nardi’s door was the only one on that floor. The lock was gleaming, evidently new. He rang the bell. He heard steps coming to the door. He was tempted to run away but remained nailed to the spot in front of the door like a man condemned to death facing a firing squad.
“Who is it?” Linda asked from inside.
“It’s me.”
There was a brief silence, then Linda opened the door but left it chained.
She looked not surprised, but sad. “What do you want, Michele?”
“We have to talk. Right now.”
He saw the vertical line furrowing her brow. She could have said no, never. Or not now, we can speak tomorrow. But that would not have been Linda Nardi.
She can leave you outside of her life, but not outside of her door.
When she took off the chain and opened the door, Angelo Dioguardi was standing in the middle of the small, softly lit living. His hair was more ruffled than usual, his eyes tired, the lines deep on his face.
“He has to leave,” Balistreri said to Linda.
Angelo didn’t wait for her reply and stepped toward toward the door. As they brushed past one another, Balistreri felt him hesitate a moment and halt as if he had something to say, a last attempt to clarify things. But it was only an exchange of silences and then Angelo left, pulling the door behind him.
Linda stared at him, arms folded. She wasn’t angry. “I’m listening, Michele.”
She was so beautiful. He had never seen her more attractive. Her blouse was buttoned almost to the neck and held the breasts he’d imagined so often but only now wanted to fondle and kiss. Her trousers, as usual, were baggy but were more intriguing precisely because of that, and he wanted to put his hands inside them, where perhaps a few minutes earlier Angelo’s hands had been.
The desire he had repressed during the months they had spent together suddenly erupted with a violent force, making him almost reel. He felt his knees buckle. He should have taken her in his arms instead. He should have told her he did not understand her, but he trusted her. He should have promised her he would do everything for her, anything at all, even without understanding. He should have. But he didn’t want to, not anymore. Linda Nardi was now only flesh and blood, a woman he desired, a woman who had sent him packing and thrown herself into the arms of his best friend.
Surprising himself, he said in a harsh voice “Who told you about the letter carved on Samantha Rossi?”
Her eyes were sad. Linda felt sorry for him, and he couldn’t stand it. “You told me yourself, Michele, the way you reacted that night in the restaurant.”
His desire added to his frustration and his frustration added to his anger, which was flowing through his veins with an effect so strong it might have been heroin.
“Bullshit! You knew. Someone told you.”
“I had my suspicion
s, but your reaction that night made me certain,” she said calmly.
“I don’t believe you. About anything.” He stopped himself before he cut all ties between them forever. He recognized the uncontrolled anger that the young Michele Balistreri had felt when things didn’t go the way he wanted—the anger he’d tried to bury at the bottom of the Mediterranean in the summer of 1970.
She knew what he was going to say. “Angelo doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“If someone lies about something, she’s capable of lying about everything. Did you play nurse with me to be sure I’d get better and continue looking for the Invisible Man? Did you want the scoop when I found him?” His voice was growing louder and more threatening.
“Michele, get out of your prison cell now or you’ll never get out of it.”
“I should have fucked you like an ordinary whore. So much for all your bullshit about Saint Agnes.”
She was looking at him with a different light in her eyes. She was looking at him with regret. She was saying good-bye.
“Yes, you should have. Maybe then you’d understand.”
The words themselves, her calm tone, her eyes shining in the semidarkness. He found himself as he had been thirty-six years earlier, in a place where there would never be enough remorse to find repentance.
His slap sent Linda reeling against the wall. He held her wrists together with one arm and grabbed her hair with the other, forcing her to look at him. He kissed her violently. He forced his tongue into her mouth. She didn’t cry out or offer any resistance. She was lifeless, defenseless.
It was her passivity that was the last straw, the absence of any attempt to defend herself. He ripped off her blouse and bra and flung her on the sofa. Linda confined herself to covering her breasts, crossing her arms while he took off her sneakers and pants. Then he leaped on top of her, breathing heavily from desire and fury.
“Have you already had sex tonight?”
She turned her face away and he tore off her underwear. He would have done it; he was ready. But he had to stand up to unzip his pants, and when he did, their bodies separated in the dim light. In the silence broken only by his own heavy breathing, Balistreri saw the slim figure of a seminaked woman with her clothes torn, her breasts shielded by her arms, naked from the waist down. She could have been Elisa, Samantha, Nadia, Ornella, Alina, or Saint Agnes. She could have been another woman, too, one he’d never forgotten since that last night of August in 1970.
The Deliverance of Evil Page 46
