The rip

by Andy Ben

  Then I walk back to superintendent Brezzi.

  «Ok, Mario, if you are done we can go back to the station.»

  «Yes, everything is fine here. Officers have been instructed and in a few minutes the body will be removed. We can go...» Then he corrects himself: «One last thing: we did not find documents on her either.»

  «It is a curious detail. This could mean one of two things: either she was not wearing them at all, but nowadays it is quite an unusual possibility, or whoever killed her took good care in hiding her identity.»

  While that oddity keeps humming in my ears, we walk together towards the car that escorted the ambulance to the park. It is now full morning and traffic is increasing, fed by the Milanese going to work.

  We get into the police car. For Mario and me the working day is not over yet and, on the contrary, a long tour the force is probably what awaits us in the near future.

  3

  I walk at fast pace along the corridor paved in cold marble then, when I reach my destination in front of the heavy inlaid wooden door which separates me from my interlocutor, I stop and hesitate before I knock.

  My mind goes back to yesterday and to the pact I made with Carlo Scala after a heated yet cordial argument.

  These thoughts bring other memories to my mind, older ones, when I was a young girl and Scala was the name the Literature teacher called two surnames after mine while calling over the roll, and the one I used to call out in a whisper during math tests, subject Carlo has never been good at.

  A few years later, the intimacy our relationship reached made me whisper his name in a very different way.

  Carlo...

  He would kiss and lap my breasts, then keep on kissing while moving down from my neck to my most intimate parts.

  Carlo...

  When he would get to the groins I would let my excitement take over and I would throw my thighs wide open, or put my legs around his neck. He would start licking, playing with my clitoris and helping himself with his fingers, taking me quickly to the verge of an orgasm. Then he would stop, torturing me over and over again this way, until I would beg him to let me come.

  Carlo...

  Then he would get back up so that I could look him into the eyes and he would penetrate me softly until I would explode in pure pleasure.

  Carlo...

  At that point, I would repay him back with the same coin.

  He would let me overwhelm him and I would get on top of him. I would kiss him. Kissed and bit those lips and that tongue that had made me come just a moment ago.

  Carlo...

  I would fondle his big naked chest and then move down kissing his neck, his chest, his belly, and then...

  Carlo...

  I would voraciously suck the tool Mother Nature provided him with just to make me come. While I had him in my mouth, I would often think of the total control I had over him in those moments. The power to give pleasure to my man above all limits and at the same time to have his virility at my disposal, since I could take it away with a rapid and instantaneous movement. This power intoxicated and exited me.

  Carlo...

  Before he could come in my mouth I would let go of him, but in a moment, I would be on top of him. Then it would take me just a few expert movements that made me feel like a whore, to let us come together.

  Carlo...

  Time and our careers have drawn us apart but, although I think he is one of the worst vultures in his job, I am still very fond of him. We have very different points of view, but he is a man that can be trusted.

  I am not sorry at all that I reached an agreement of close collaboration with him, although I know that - when and whether I will give him a chance - he will betray me for his work and his newspaper. Nonetheless someone who can investigate with means and sources different from ours can be quite useful.

  Unfortunately my colleagues and, above all, my superiors very often do not agree with me and if I ever need to explain this agreement, I do not know what I could come up with.

  This is why my thoughts are wandering around while I am standing still in front of this door and I am yet not convinced about knocking on it.

  At last, I knock.

  «Please, do come in.»

  I get into the office of the severe man that is sitting at the desk with Chief Rossi.

  «Good morning, Sirs.»

  «Montorsi, don’t stand on ceremony. I called for you because I have decided to assign you to the case of the girl found dead in the park. I spoke with Chief Rossi, who deems you a commendable and trustworthy person, and taking into consideration that you started the investigation, we agreed that you are well prepared to follow this case.»

  «Thank you, Sir.»

  «Hold your thank you, I am not done yet.»

  The sentence, harshly uttered, stops the newborn burst of enthusiasm that the compliment had generated in me.

  «Basically, you have carte blanche but, taking into consideration your precedents and your - let’s say - “not very orthodox” methods to conduct an investigation, let me give you some advice and a very strict order: first of all, you will relate everything and - mind it - I said everything, even something you deem insignificant, in a daily report to me or Chief Rossi.»

  «Of course, Sir.»

  «Secondly... well, I heard people speaking about you often and quite well in the Central Offices, yet I never liked ambitious people... too ambitious... category to which you seem to belong.»

  While I think about something I could reply to that, the Public Prosecutor silences me with a firm voice.

  «Do not interrupt me! ...Since you are so intensely looking forward to get on with your career, consider this investigation as a test in the field... obviously, with all the consequences this implies.»

  The magistrate looks sternly at me, almost sneering, thinking he caught me unawares.

  «I think, there is nothing else to be added.»

  «Thank you for your trust in me, I will not disappoint you...»

  The Public Prosecutor tries to interrupt me, but I resolutely want the last word.

  «... for sure, I will certainly not disappoint you. Have a good day,»

  The emphasis I put in that “for sure” almost makes me laugh while I turn satisfied on my heels and I leave the magistrate’s office; the echo of the words “the youngest chief inspector in history” keeps resounding in my thoughts.

  4

  It’s dark.

  It’s cold.

  What is this feeling of emptiness in my chest?

  My breath is heavy, difficult.

  Darkness surrounds me, tangible, dense, humid, endless.

  Anxiety is growing.

  Breathing is more and more difficult.

  I feel my heartbeats accelerate.

  I try moving, taking a few steps, penetrating this seemingly endless darkness.

  My limbs react slowly to my attempts to move them, as if they did not belong to me, did not belong to my body, but had been attached to it by some unknown mechanism.

  My arms feel heavy, by legs even heavier.

  I take a step, then another, then yet another with a superhuman effort.

  My breath gets heavier at each step.

  My heart is beating crazily.

  I am scared.

  Fear crawls slowly underneath my skin, inside my flesh, causing me pain like wounds caused by many little knifes cutting into me.

  Little by little, fear turns into terror.

  Help me, where am I?

  Let me out of here!

  I open my mouth to scream, but I hear no sound. My screams are suffocated by the darkness that is now inside of me.

  A light in the distance.

  I try moving towards that last hope.

  It is my only hope; a dim opaque light that I must reach.

  My legs are getting heavier and heavier.

  With an enormous effort, I raise my arms to touch the light, but is still far away.

  I take a false s
tep: there is nothing here.

  O my God! Help me!

  I miss the ground from below my feet.

  I am falling down.

  I try clinging to something; something hiding in the dark, something that is not there, that it does not exist.

  I am slipping in an abyss that I cannot even see.

  Help me, someone help me. Save me!

  Darkness turns from being dense and humid, to being just dark, inconsistent.

  Help! Help!

  I succeed in clinging to something.

  I’m safe.

  No, I cannot hold my grip.

  That something is slimy, it slips from my hands,

  I try clinging to it with all my strength, but I keep slipping lower and lower.

  My body, heavier and heavier, drags me down towards the abyss of a bottomless pit, towards this emptiness.

  I loose my grip.

  Help, I’m falling down! Heeeeelp! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

  Ahhhhh!

  My scream is deafening

  My breath is short, irregular.

  My image, my pale face, with wide open eyes and my mouth open in an expression of terror, reflects in a big mirror hanging in front of me.

  I am sitting on the bed, in and unknown room.

  I am soaked.

  The mirror reflects the image of a naked body by my side, the body of a supine woman.

  I calm down. My breath is going back to normal.

  I observe the body with the face hiding in the pillow and long black hair that fall nicely over her back, almost to her bottom.

  It is indeed a nice butt.

  With a sneer, I feel satisfied by myself.

  I must have been quite good if with all the mess I made last might the girl is still sleeping: last night I must have exhausted her.

  With a smile still imprinted on my lips, I get out of bed and start moving around.

  I don’t now how or why, but I walk, like in a trance, towards a bathroom I had no idea was there.

  I find the enamel white washbasin.

  I look around.

  I am in a mid-sized bathroom, perfectly white and with light blue tiles covering the floor and a part of the walls, giving the illusion of water all around.

  On the left, a shower box with glass, or maybe crystal, walls and a sliding door; by its side the toilet and bidet with a chromium-plated steel towel rack.

  I turn right and go back to the washbasin, decorated with an elegant mixer tap and a mirror built-in the cabinet with two pure white panels.

  I turn the mixer completely on the right and I lift it up so that the water can start running.

  I get a handful of icy-cold water and slap it over my face, once, twice, three times.

  I keep staring at the bottom of the washbasin where the plug is open enough to let the water flow in the drain.

  Water should...

  Water should...

  Why the hell is water stained this way?

  I raise my eyes and find myself reflected in the mirror.

  The spotlights that lighten up the bathroom are on, but I don’t know why. Maybe when I entered the room I put them on without thinking, but now I cannot recall doing it, and I don’t know where I am.

  My face is soaked but it is not sweat.

  I am dirty, filthy in blood.

  I look at my chest, legs, arms.

  I am all covered in blood.

  I scream again, suffocating by the terror I am feeling and that got over me as soon as I noticed, as soon as I realized the dreadful image that is in front of me.

  It’s me.

  I calm down.

  The scream did not leave my throat, but it stopped midway.

  My breath gets back to normal.

  This blood is not mine.

  Now, with difficulty, within the mist, the darkness that surrounded me until a moment ago, memories start getting clearer.

  I killed again.

  I close my eyes just for a few seconds and, when I open them up again, the sun that is finally dispelling the clouds starts shining over the hundreds of cars lined up in traffic in front of me.

  5

  Damn it! This damned queue is endless

  Nervously, with my left hand, I reach for the switch on the door that will allow me to lower the window. In the meantime, with my left hand I rummage in the pocket of my pants looking for the lighter, a simple red plastic lighter that keeps on getting lost like a needle in a haystack each time I put it away in my pocket.

  I finally find it and take it out of its narrow hideout; in the meanwhile, I have already lowered the window, fresh air from the air conditioning gives way to the wet and hot July’s air and to the pungent smell coming from the exhaust pipes.

  It stopped raining. The usual summer thunderstorm that lasts just fifteen minutes, yet it is long enough to create a traffic jam and an unbearable sultriness.

  I search the inside pocket of my grey jacket and reach the Marlboro Light pack; I open it and take a cigarette, which I quickly put into my mouth, I light it and then through the lighter and the pack on the empty seat next to me.

  I close my eyes. A deep puff, then another...

  The shrill of my cordless phone shakes me out of the torpor of my thoughts; I pick it up and answer: «Hello!

  «I am sorry to bother you, Sir, but there is someone here who insists in seeing you.»

  «I told you I don’t want to be disturbed.»

  «I know Sir but... it is Mrs. Renzi.»

  It was about time that the president’s wife got in touch with me.

  «All right. Let her in.»

  «Well, actually, she already...»

  The door of my office flings suddenly open and there she is, still with the handle on her hand, a beautiful and showy woman, well dressed in a smart suit, a designer one for sure, which shows up her nice figure: a generous yet not excessive breast and hips like a fashion model. The short skirt right above her knees let’s you guess two well-shaped legs covered by sheer stockings, which start off from a pair of black polished shoes with a very high heel.

  The makeup is light, just what is needed to underline her eyes and lips that right now are twisted in a little smile.

  In a blink of an eye I think that Ms Marchetti would have stopped the president’s wife at the door, while her replacement, hired just a few days ago, is not as efficient; yet Ms. Marchetti had other flaws, much more serious.

  «Do excuse me, Marco, if I turn up unexpectedly and without prior notice, but...»

  I interrupt her with a gesture of my hand; her eyebrows rise in a mute sign of understanding. I look at the watch: I did not realize it, but it’s 6PM already.

  «Miss, everything is fine... furthermore, it is getting late, you can go.»

  «Thank you, Sir. Good evening.»

  «Good evening. I shall see you tomorrow.»

  I put the cordless phone back on its base, then I look at the woman, the president’s wife, right in her eyes.

  «Good evening, Giovanna, what brings you here?»

  Giovanna decides, ironically, to keep up my game: «Good evening, Marco... You should tell me that. You called for me on some very important issue, according to what you said... come on, spit it out!»

  «Giovanna, it is a delicate issue...»

  I let the sentence drop like that and I wait, in silence, that my interlocutor fully grasps the meaning of my words, and adopts the right grave tone that is fit for the situation.

  The smile disappears from Giovanna’s face and I don’t have to wait much longer for her answer.

  «Is the situation really that bad?»

  I got the effect I was hoping for and now I have her full attention.

  «I would say so... quite an unusual situation. A couple of months ago, when Ms. Marchetti disappeared, I started analyzing the state of a couple of researches and... well, a few incongruences and documents jumped out... but it is better we don’t talk about it here, inside the office.»

  Like a little girl caug
ht with her hands in the cookie jar, a bewildered expression appears in her face, but it lasts just a minute. She is a confident woman and a skillful manager, I see a light twinkle in her brown eyes; that light comes from the idea that she can turn the situation in her favor, win once more and get all she wants. Giovanna does not know that it is that light that will put an end to her.

  With an oratory more skillful than an experienced politician, Giovanna tries to turn the conversation in her favor, opening a crack, trying to play her best cards in her own turf.

  «Marco, I do not clearly understand why you do not think it safe to speak about it here and now, but I will trust your instincts on this. Considering we cannot talk about it in public, what about... do you know the chalet Marcello and I have in the Bergamo region?»

  «Yes, I do know about it. Marcello brought me there a few times, when we had to discuss important matters with the Board.»

  «Well, it’s just a little over an hour drive from here... what o you think? We could address the issue calmly and privately there.»

  All is going as I expected. The spider has woven its web and it is now waiting for the insect to fall into it.

  «I think it is a good idea.»

  «Very well.»

  Give me five minutes to grab the documents and I meet you in the parking lot... Marcello?

  Getting her arrogance back, Giovanna answers my question with an ironic and pompous tone: «President Marcello Renzi is at a business meeting in Hannover.» Then, turning serious again she adds: «I think he will be back tomorrow evening, but you knew this already.»

  «I just wanted to make sure, and anyway I can inform him later... I’ll meet you downstairs.»

  After little over an hour we are in front of the Renzi’s mountain cabin. A little villa made of bricks and wood located in Val Brembana, between the villages of Zogno and San Pellegrino, with a private entry, a garden of about 200 square meters, about 20 people could confortable spend the night here. It is a typical building, well set in the surrounding environment, but which shows off an ostentation and opulence far away from Marcello Renzi’s habits and, on the contrary, perfectly in tune with the character of his maybe too young and beautiful wife Giovanna.