“So, I’m curious to know, did you get it?” asked Fazio.
“By the twelfth they hadn’t decided yet. They decided on the fourteenth.”
“In your favor?” Fazio asked again.
“Yes.”
How could you go wrong?
“And did you tell Spitaleri?”
“Yes, the following day. We called him ourselves at his hotel in Bangkok.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“The secretary and me. Anyways, to conclude, if you wanna know what happened at Pizzo after I left, you’ll have to call Mr. Speciale in Germany.”
“Don’t you know? He’s dead.”
“What? D’he have a heart attack?”
“No, he fell down the stairs at his home.”
“Well, you can always ask Ralf.”
“Ralf ’s dead, too. I just found out half an hour ago.”
Dipasquale balked.
“Wha . . . aat?”
“He got on the train with his stepfather but never got to Cologne. He must have fallen off.”
“So that house in Pizzo is cursed!” the foreman said, disturbed.
You’re telling me! Montalbano thought to himself.
The inspector grabbed the printout with the photo on his desk and handed it to him. Dipasquale took it, looked at the photograph, and his face turned flaming red.
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. She’s one of the twin girls who lived in the last house on the dirt road at Pizzo, before the one we built.”
So that was why the missing-persons report was made in Fiacca. At the time, Montereale fell within its jurisdiction.
“This is the girl that was killed?” asked Dipasquale, still holding the printout in his hand.
“Yes.”
“I am positive that . . .”
“Speak.”
“You remember what I told you last time? This is the girl Ralf chased around naked and that Spitaleri saved.”
Suddenly Dipasquale realized he’d made a mistake.Talking without thinking, he’d dragged Spitaleri into it. He tried to set things right.
“Or maybe not. In fact, there’s no ‘maybe’ about it. I got it wrong.This is the twin sister, I’m sure of it.”
“Did you see the twins often?”
“Often, no. Now and then. There was no way to get to Pizzo without driving by their house.”
“How come Miccichè said he’d never seen her before?”
“Inspector, the masons would come to the worksite at seven o’clock in the morning, when I’m sure the girls were still asleep. An’ they got off work at five-thirty, when the girls were still down on the beach. But me, I would go back and forth, to and from the worksite.”
“How about Spitaleri?”
“He came less often.”
“Thanks, you can go,” Montalbano concluded.
“What do you make of Dipasquale’s alibi?” Fazio asked after the foreman had left.
“It could be true or it could be false. It rests entirely on a phone call from Spitaleri that we don’t know was ever really made.”
“We could ask the secretary.”
“Are you kidding? The secretary will do and say exactly what Spitaleri tells her to do and say. Otherwise she’ll find herself one hundred percent sacked. And with the shortage of work these days, don’t imagine she’s gonna put her job in jeopardy.”
“I get the feeling we’re not making any progress.”
“I’ve got the same feeling. Tomorrow we’ll hear what Adriana has to say.”
“Would you explain to me why you want to talk to Filiberto?”
“But I don’t want to talk to him. I just wanted to see what Dipasquale’s reaction would be. Whether he had any suspicions about us being the two who paid Filiberto a visit the other night.”
“It looks to me like we haven’t entered their minds.”
“Sooner or later they’ll come to that conclusion.”
“And what will they do then?”
“In my opinion, they won’t show their hand. Spitaleri will go complain to his little friends who protect him, and they’ll do something.”
“Like what?”
“Fazio, we’ll wait for them to come and bust our heads, and then we’ll start crying.”
“Okay,” Fazio began, “I’m gonna g—”
A boom as loud as a cannon blast interrupted him. It was the door slamming against the wall. Catarella was standing there with one arm raised and his fist closed, holding an envelope in his other hand.
“Sorry ’bout the noise, Chief. Somebuddy just now brought a litter.”
“Give it to me and get out of here before I shoot you.”
It was a big envelope, and in it were two pages faxed from Germany and addressed to Callara’s agency.
“Stay and listen, Fazio. This contains the news of Ralf ’s death. Callara sent it over to me.”
Montalbano began reading aloud.
Dear Sir,
Three months ago, while reading a newspaper, I happened to notice a news item, of which I am herewith sending you a copy with accompanying translation.
I immediately felt, perhaps by maternal instinct, that those wretched remains must belong to my poor Ralf, for whom I have been waiting all these long years.
I asked that a comparison be made between the unknown man’s DNA and my son’s. It was not at all easy to obtain consent for such a test; I had to insist for a long time.
Finally, a few days ago, the result was sent to me.
The data correspond perfectly. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, those remains belong to my late son, Ralf.
Since no trace of clothing was found, the police maintain that Ralf got up in the night to go to the bathroom during his train journey home from Italy, accidentally opened the outside door, and fell out.
That house in Sicily has brought us nothing but misfortune. It led to the death of both my son, Ralf, and my husband, Angelo, who after his trip to Sicily, and certainly after Ralf’s disappearance, was no longer the same man.
For this reason, I would like to sell the house.
Sometime in the next few days I will fax you copies of all the documents related to the house’s construction: the blueprints, the permit, the Land Registry plan, and the contracts with Spitaleri Enterprises.You will need these for the amnesty request as well as for the future sale.
Gudrun Walser
The translation of the news item went as follows:
REMAINS OF UNIDENTIFIED MAN FOUND
The day before yesterday, following a fire that broke out in the dense brush on a railway embankment some twenty kilometers outside of Köln, the remains of a human body were discovered in a half-buried recess in the ground by firemen who had rushed to the scene to control the flames. The man’s identity could not be established, however, as no clothing or documents were found in the vicinity.
The autopsy revealed beyond a doubt that the remains belonged to a young man, and that the death dated from at least five years ago.
“This fall from the train doesn’t convince me,” said Fazio.
“Me neither. The police say Ralf got up to go to the john. What, is he gonna do it naked? What if he runs into someone in the corridor?”
“So what do you think?”
“Bah. It’s all guesswork, as you know. We’ll never have any proof or confirmation. Maybe Ralf spotted a pretty girl on the train and decided to strip down naked and try to kiss her, the way Dipasquale said he used to do. And maybe he ran into her husband, father, or boyfriend, who threw his ass out of the train window.”
“That sounds like a bit of a stretch to me.”
“There’s another possible explanation. Suicide.”
“For what reason?”
“Let’s make an argument based on the fact that, on the afternoon of October the twelfth, Angelo Speciale and his stepson remained in Pizzo alone, as Dipasquale says. Say Angelo goes out onto the terrace to enjoy the sunset, while Ralf goes for a walk in the di
rection of the Morreale house. Don’t forget that Dipasquale told us that Ralf had tried to grab Rina once. He happens to run into her, and this time he doesn’t want to let her get away. He threatens the girl with a knife and forces her to go with him into the underground apartment. And that’s where the tragedy occurs. Ralf wraps up the girl’s body, puts it in the trunk, takes her clothes, hides them in the house, and then goes out on the terrace to keep Angelo company. The stepfather, however, finds the girl’s clothes, maybe on their last day there. Maybe they were even stained with her blood when he was killing her.”
“But hadn’t he made her take her clothes off ?”
“We don’t know. It’s possible he only stripped her afterwards. There was no need for her to be completely naked for him to do what he wanted to do.”
“So how does it end?”
“It ends as follows: During the train ride back to Germany, Angelo forces Ralf to confess to the murder. And, after confessing, the kid kills himself by jumping off the train. But I can give you a variant, if you like.”
“What?”
“Angelo himself throws him off the train, killing the monster.”
“Pretty far-fetched, Chief!”
“Whatever the case, don’t forget that Signora Gudrun wrote that when her husband got back to Cologne, he said he never wanted to leave again. Something must therefore have happened to him.”
“You’re damn right something happened to him. The poor guy woke up the next morning in his sleeper car and his stepson was gone!”
“In short, you don’t see Speciale as a murderer?”
“No way.”
“But, you know, in Greek tragedy—”
“We’re in Vigàta, Chief, not Greece.”
“Tell me the truth: Do you like the story or don’t you?”
“It seems okay for TV.”
12
It had been a long day, made longer by the August heat.The inspector felt a little tired. But he had no lack of appetite.
When he opened the oven, he was disappointed not to find anything. But when he opened the refrigerator, he saw a sort of salad of calamari, celery, and tomatoes that still needed to be dressed with olive oil and lemon. Adelina had wisely prepared him a dish to be eaten cold.
A mild, newborn breeze was circulating out on the veranda. It was too feeble to move the dense mass of heat that was still holding out as night fell, but it was better than nothing.
He took off his clothes, put on a bathing suit, ran down to the water, and dived in. He went for a long swim, taking broad, slow strokes. Returning to shore, he went into the house, set the little table on the veranda, and began to eat. When he had finished, he still felt hungry, so he prepared a plate of green olives, cured black passuluna olives, and caciocavallo cheese that called for—indeed demanded—good wine.
The light breeze on the veranda had matured from infancy to adolescence and was making itself felt.
He decided to seize a favorable moment when his thoughts weren’t logjammed from the heat, and tried to think rationally about the investigation he had on his hands. He cleared the little table of dishes, cutlery, and glasses, and replaced these with a few sheets of paper.
Since he didn’t like to take notes, he decided to write himself a letter, as he sometimes did.
Dear Montalbano,
I find myself forced to point out that, either from the onset of a senile second childhood or because of the intense heat of the last few days, your thoughts have lost all their luster and become extremely opaque and slow-moving.You had a chance to see this for yourself during your dialogue with Dr. Pasquano, who easily got the better of you in that exchange.
Pasquano presented two hypotheses concerning the fact that the killer took away the girl’s clothes: one, it was an irrational act; and two, the killer took them because he’s a fetishist. Both hypotheses are plausible.
But there is a third possibility. It occurred to you as you were talking to Fazio, and that is that the killer took the clothes because they were stained with blood. Stained with the blood that had spouted from the girl’s throat as he was killing her.
But things may well have gone differently.You need to take a step back.
Neither when you discovered the body yourself, nor when you had Callara discover it officially, did you see the giant bloodstain near the French door, and you didn’t see it for the simple reason that it wasn’t visible to the naked eye.The Forensics team only noticed it because they used luminol.
If the killer had left the big stain exactly the way it had formed on the floor, some traces of dried blood would have remained on the tiles, even six years later. Whereas, in fact, nothing was found.
What does this mean?
It means that the man, after killing the girl, wrapping her up, and sticking her in the trunk, used her clothes to wipe up, however superficially, the pool of blood. He dampened her clothes with a little water, since the faucets were in working order, then he put them in a plastic bag that he’d found there or brought along with him.
Now the question is:Why didn’t he get rid of the clothes by simply throwing the bag on top of the corpse?
And the answer is: Because in order to do this, he would have had to reopen the trunk.
And this was impossible for him, because it would have meant having a reality he had already begun to repress thrown back in his face. Pasquano is right: He hid the body not to keep us from seeing it, but to keep himself from seeing it.
There’s still another important question. It’s already been asked, but it’s worth repeating:Was it necessary to kill the girl? And, if so, why?
As for the “why,” Pasquano hinted at the possibility of blackmail, or a fit of temporary insanity from the rage at finding himself suddenly impotent.
My answer is: Yes, it was necessary. But for only one, completely different, reason.
The following: The girl knew her aggressor well.
The killer must have forced the girl to enter the underground apartment with him, and once she was down there, her fate was sealed. For if the man had left her alive, she would surely have accused him of rape or attempted rape.Thus, when the killer brought her underground, he already knew that, in addition to raping her, he would also have to murder her. On this point, there could be no more doubt. Premeditated murder.
Then comes the mother of all questions:Who is the killer? One must proceed by elimination.
It definitely could not be Spitaleri. Even though you can’t stand the guy, and even though you’ll try to screw him on some other charge, there is one incontrovertible fact: On the afternoon of the twelfth, Spitaleri was not in Pizzo, but on a flight for Bangkok. And bear in mind that for Spitaleri, a girl Rina’s age was already too mature for his tastes.
Miccichè has an alibi: He spent the afternoon at Montelusa Hospital.You can have this verified, if you like, but it would be a waste of time.
Dipasquale says he has an alibi. He left Pizzo around five in the afternoon and went to Spitaleri’s office to receive his boss’s phone call. At nine P.M., he spoke with Miccichè. But he didn’t tell us what he did after going to Spitaleri’s office. He said he and his boss had agreed he would call between six and eight o’clock. Let’s say for the sake of argument that the phone call comes in at six-thirty. Dipasquale leaves the office and happens to run into Rina. He knows her, asks her if she wants a ride back to Pizzo.The girl accepts and . . . That leaves Dipasquale plenty of time to call Miccichè by nine.
Ralf. He stayed behind in Pizzo with his stepfather after Dipasquale left. He knows Rina, has already tried to assault her.What if things actually did happen the way you told Fazio? The mystery of his death remains, and could be linked in some way to his guilt. But accusing Ralf would be, for all intents and purposes, an act of faith. He’s dead, his stepfather is dead. Neither of the two could tell us what happened.
In conclusion: Dipasquale should be the number-one suspect. But you’re not convinced.
A big hug and take care.
Yours,
Salvo
He was taking off his bathing suit, getting ready to go to bed when, all of a sudden, he felt like talking to Livia. He dialed the number of her cell phone. It rang a long time, but nobody picked up.
How was that possible? Was Massimiliano’s boat so big that Livia couldn’t hear her cell phone ring? Or was she too engaged, too busy doing other things to answer the phone?
He was about to hang up in anger when he heard Livia’s voice.
“Hello? Who is it?”
What did she mean, “Who is it?” Couldn’t she read the caller’s number on the display or whatever the hell it was called?
“It’s Salvo.”
“Oh, it’s you.”
Not disappointed. Indifferent.
“What were you doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“Where?”
“On the deck. I fell asleep without realizing it. It’s all so peaceful, so beautiful . . .”
IM10 August Heat (2008) Page 12
