by Grace Brophy
Sbarretti spoke first, “Commissario Cenni, we meet again and again under disastrous circumstances. One of your own, too!” he said, nodding with distaste toward Russo’s body. “I apologize for the circus,” he said, looking around at the large group of police and bystanders who now attended the scene, “but it couldn’t be helped. The caretaker was the first person on the scene. He found the three of them just a few feet from the Casati vault and called us immediately. We had a police car in the vicinity and when my officers saw who was down and learned who was involved, they called me. One of Russo’s junior officers, a sergeant, was also on the scene. She got here just after the caretaker called us. She notified your people in Assisi, and four of them came trooping up, with Batori in tow. A medical doctor would have been more helpful,” he added.
“And now I see that someone’s tipped off the press,” he said, looking over toward the caretaker. “If I’m not mistaken that’s a reporter from Telegiornale Umbria.” He pointed to a tall, darkhaired man holding a camera and talking avidly to the caretaker. “I’d better nip that in the bud right now. And you’ll want to talk to the caretaker yourself. He’s the most reliable witness we have to what happened here.” He hesitated for a second. “There’s Russo’s officer, of course, but she’s probably not reliable. One of Il Lupino’s babes is what I’ve been told by some of my men; he had them standing in line,” he added with a sly grin. “She’s back at the hospital with the Croatian.”
Carabiniere vaffanculo! Cenni said to himself. And aloud to Sbarretti, “D’accordo, you mean Sergeant Antolini.”
Sbarretti was a filthy-minded chauvinist, Cenni concluded, but he had his uses. He overheard snatches of what Sbarretti was saying to the reporter—national security, best not to offend, Prime Minister, clearance, and again, national security. National security was the most powerful equivocation used by the PM since 9/11 to restrict freedom of the press, but reflecting on the potential for scandal to the Perugia Questura, Cenni was not unhappy to have Sbarretti do his dirty work.
The caretaker, an elderly man well beyond official retirement age, peered up at Cenni, open-faced, anxiously waiting for the commissario to initiate the conversation. Cenni recognized the fusion of apprehension and ebullience that often overtakes witnesses to murder. He imagined that for a caretaker in a provincial cemetery there was little to relieve the daily tedium of a life spent shooing children off the gravestones of their ancestors.
“I’m sorry but I don’t know your name,” Cenni said with a smile. The smile was all that was needed.
“Vittorio Scapaccino, commissario. I know you, from the American’s funeral. I knew the other commissario too.” He nodded toward Russo. “He used to bring his women into the cemetery in the evenings, when he thought no one was here. Ghoul!” he added, spitting in the direction of the body to show his contempt. “The straniera, the flower lady. I knew her, too. Very beautiful, but she never smiled. Didn’t say hello if she could help it.”
Cenni interrupted. “And the other one, you knew her?”
“The dark one? The young countess? I saw her a few times in the cemetery but I didn’t know who she was, not until now,” he added conscientiously. “She’s one of the women he brought here. Not at all like her mother, that one; she never smiled neither, anyways not at people like me.”
Cenni interrupted again, aware that the only disinterested witness he had to the events of that evening had difficulty staying on subject. He didn’t mind when a witness rambled— ramblings often yielded more than direct questions—but he was determined to get to the hospital.
“Marshal Sbarretti tells me that you telephoned the police, that it was you who found the body. When? How? Just those few questions and we can get you home to your dinner.”
“No problem at all about my dinner, commissario. I already rang my Marinella,” he replied, holding up the ubiquitous cell phone. “I told her to hold dinner.”
“What time did you find the body, Signor Scapaccino?” Cenni asked.
Looking somewhat abashed, Scapaccino replied at once, “A little past seven, commissario, two, three minutes at most.”
“You’re very exact. I don’t see a wristwatch.”
“Oh, that’s easy, commissario. I heard the seven bells of San Ruffino. I always stop to say a prayer,” he said and blessed himself. “As soon as the bells stopped ringing, I heard the scream. Horrible it was, like the squeal of a pig having its throat cut! I slaughter a pig every year for Pasqua. Forty years now, and I still hate the sound,” he said with a shiver. “I thought it was two male boars fighting. It’s been a very hard winter, and the cinghiale are foraging closer and closer to the town. Ate a quarter of our shrubs this year. The direttore says—”
Cenni cut him short, again, wondering how he could gracefully get the hell out of there. He glanced at his watch; 7:40 already. Where was Piero? Or Elena? He looked over to Sbarretti for relief, but he was still talking to the reporter. He sighed deeply.
“Where were you when you heard the scream?”
“In the rear, next to the little church there.” He pointed to the cemetery chapel, still visible in the diminished light. “They’re renovating it, and the workmen left bricks and other materials lying along the path, in the public area. The direttore asked me to move the materials to a safer place before I left for the evening. I was almost finished. Just one more load, I said to myself and I can go home, so I ignored the scream and kept working. And then I heard a woman’s voice.”
Cenni nodded encouragingly, to keep him going.
“I found them over there,” he said, nodding toward the crime scene. “The young countess, she was sitting on the ground soaked in blood. It was everywhere, on her clothes, shoes, even in her hair!” He paused, and looked over at the forensic police who were now photographing the body. Avoiding Cenni’s eyes, he swallowed hard. “The commissario’s head was in her lap, lolling, twisted like, and then I saw what she was doing. She had a knife in her right hand and she was sawing away at his neck like you would at a chicken bone. And talking to him! I didn’t know what to do,” he said in a whisper. Even in the low light, Cenni could see the dark flush of shame.
“Where was the flower lady?” Cenni cut in, almost afraid to ask.
“A foot or so away. She was sitting on the ground, the same as the young countess. I could see blood running down the side of her face. And then, just like that, another woman comes out from behind the vault. A ghost, I thought.” He giggled nervously. “It was a police officer. I watched as she walked over to the young countess. She knelt down to speak to her, so I couldn’t hear what she said, but she must have asked her for the knife.”
“Did she give her the knife!” Cenni asked, hurrying him along.”
“Gave it to her all right; the blade right across the palm. Then the young countess she just ups and walks away, soaked in blood, as though nothing had happened.” He shuddered.
It was right then that Cenni lost control. He stormed over to Sbaretti, who had just walked away from the reporter. “We need to talk, Sbarretti! What happened to Sergeant Antolini?”
“Sorry, Cenni. I thought you knew. Didn’t any of your people tell you? There’re enough of them here. While she was disarming the countess, she cut her hand. She’s back in Assisi, at the hospital, having it looked at. Can’t be too serious, though, as she was the one who telephoned your people to get them up here.”
“Artemisia Casati is not a countess, Sbarretti. You should know that even if the rest of these jokers don’t. And where is her highness? I assumed one of your officers took charge of her. Or don’t the carabinieri arrest murderers anymore?”
Sbarretti turned a dark red. “Listen Cenni, you’re the wonder boy here. The carabinieri are not involved in this fiasco and we’re not getting involved. Your witness—he pointed to the caretaker—said she up and left after handing over the knife to your sergeant. I assume she went home. You want her arrested, do it yourself. One of your officers wants to talk to you,” he
said sharply, ending the exchange by turning on his heels and walking away.
Cenni turned to find Piero standing at his elbow gasping for air.
“Che cosa?” Cenni said.
“Hospital with Genine . . .” Piero responded in a stammered half-sentence.
“Catch your breath! Then tell me where you’ve been, you and Elena. The carabinieri seem to be in charge here.”
Piero took two deep breaths and continued. “Elena’s on her way to Perugia, with Genine, to see a specialist. That Casati bitch almost sliced her hand in two. It’s a deep cut, Alex, and the doctors in Assisi were worried about permanent nerve damage.”
“I heard. You can tell me about it in a minute.” He pointed to the chaotic crime scene with contempt. “Where were you when all this was going on?”
“Sorry Alex. Our cell phones were down during the storm; I didn’t get any of Genine’s messages or yours until shortly before seven. Neither did Elena. We got here a few minutes after the carabinieri arrived.” He lowered his voice. “Too late. She was gone. She actually stole Genine’s Vespa. Jesus, but I hate that bitch!”
7
LUCIA OPENED the door, took one look at the two policemen, and stepped aside, not uttering a word.
“Where is she?”
“In the sitting room.”
For a moment Lucia stood silent and watched as they strode down the hall. Just before they reached the sitting room door, she called out, “Mi dispiace, Commissario. I didn’t give her Sophie’s letter, she took it from me. É vero.”
Cenni nodded. “We’ll talk later.”
Three people turned to stare at the two policemen who burst into the sitting room. The faces of two of the three registered an uneasy anxiety. Umberto Casati and Georgio Zangarelli were standing together by the fireplace with their drinks placed on the mantelpiece above them. From their somber expressions they appeared to have been in deep discussion. Artemisia Casati was sitting in a high-backed wing chair, unbloodied, wearing a white silk evening dress. Her thick short hair was wet and unruly, drying naturally into soft ringlets around her angular face, and except for a light smear of lip-gloss, her face was scrubbed clean, like that of a child just ready for bed. She looked surprisingly unghoulish for a woman who fewer than forty minutes earlier had slashed a man’s throat to shreds. She looked over at Cenni, smiled, and ever so subtly raised the hem of her dress to display a pair of very shapely ankles.
The bitch actually showered and is relaxing with a drink, was Piero’s outraged thought.
Umberto Casati rushed to speak first. “Dottor Cenni, thank heavens you’ve arrived. My daughter’s just told us how that beast—” Before he could say anything further, Zangarelli lightly touched his arm, stopping him in midsentence. “Umberto, let’s hear what the commissario has to say.”
Cenni ignored them both. He walked over to the wing chair and stood directly over Artemisia Casati. “Please stand, signorina,” he said, so softly that Piero, on the other side of the room, nearly missed it. What Piero didn’t miss was the look that Artemisia shot Zangarelli. Not a pleading look exactly, but more like a request for advice, was how he later described it to Elena.
With a slight nod, Zangarelli signaled yes and Artemisia stood immediately, almost as though she were a puppet, Piero thought as he watched the scene unfold from across the room.
“Artemisia Casati, you’re under arrest for the murder of Fulvio Russo,” Cenni enunciated slowly and with force, placing equal emphasis on each word. His voice carried into the hallway, and Lucia, who was hidden from view behind the sitting room door, gasped audibly, causing everyone in the room to turn that way.
Cenni added loudly, “Signorina Stampoli, please bring the signorina her coat.” He turned and addressed Umberto Casati. “You’ll want to put some of her things into a bag and bring them to the station house within the hour. We’ll be moving her to Perugia after I complete the paperwork.”
The tension was oppressive and Piero, who had a head cold, had trouble breathing. He felt as though the air were being sucked from the room. He looked first at the count, then at Zangarelli, and finally at Artemisia, waiting for one of them to speak. It was Zangarelli who broke the silence. “Where’s your warrant, Cenni?”
“I don’t need a warrant to hold her in protective custody. I’ll get the warrant tomorrow. I have eyewitnesses to what happened. One of them is a police officer.”
“She acted in self-defense. You can’t arrest someone who acted in self-defense.”
“L’onorevole!” Piero knew from the tone that no respect was intended. “Self-defense is yet to be proven. What’s not in dispute is that she assaulted a police officer, causing her serious bodily injury. Sergeant Antolini’s in Perugia right now, seeing a hand surgeon.” He looked at Artemisia. “She almost sliced my officer’s hand in two.”
This last accusation seemed to surprise Zangarelli, who turned to Artemisia. “Is it true what he says?”
Artemisia looked away from him and at her father, who’d heard the news about Sergeant Antolini’s injury without visible surprise. “The policewoman, she came out of nowhere, Papà. She asked me for the knife and I gave it to her. I think I handed it to her by the hilt, but I was completely distraught. Perhaps I didn’t,” she said, wrinkling her brow and closing her eyes tightly as though trying to recreate the scene. “I don’t think I did what he says, but I don’t remember. É vero, Papà,” she said desolately, and turned to Zangarelli. “Help me, Giorgio, I don’t want to go to jail!” she pleaded, reaching out for his hand. One lone tear rolled down her cheek.
Lucia and the count went off together to fetch Artemisia’s coat. “The fur one, Papà,” Artemisia called out as they mounted the stairs. Giorgio Zangarelli disappeared into the count’s study, presumably to use the telephone to call in favors, and Piero, still in the sitting room, was talking to the questore on his cell phone, explaining in hushed tones why Rome might be calling him shortly.
Cenni was alone in the vestibule with Artemisia.
Cenni said, “You killed Rita, didn’t you? Fulvio was just your lackey.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Artemisia replied, looking around to see if anyone else were listening.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Cenni snapped.
Artemisia smiled serenely. “Prove it!”
8
CENNI LEFT THE Assisi Hospital at nine o’clock with nothing left to do but wait for morning. Artemisia Casati was in restraints, on suicide watch, her strong aristocratic wrists tied with white linen straps to an iron bed, locked securely in the only quarters that the hospital staff deemed worthy of a countess, a private room with a view of La Rocca. Sergeant Antonio Martini was standing guard outside.
Sophie Orlic was asleep, filled with Demerol, her shapely head swathed in bandages. “A superficial wound,” the doctor told him, “She’ll recover quickly.” Cenni looked in on Sophie before leaving the hospital. Her right arm was flung above her head like a restless child, and like a child she had been crying in her sleep. Her cheeks were wet with tears when he tiptoed out of the tiny cubicle.
Fulvio Russo was also at rest, in a four-by-eight cold storage bin in the hospital’s basement, his mutilated body awaiting the medical examiner’s knife, his head still attached to his torso, but just barely. And Sergeant Antolini was spending the night with Elena’s family, her wound reasonably lashed together by the best (and only) hand surgeon in Perugia. She reassured the commissario repeatedly—he called three times in an hour—that she’d be fine, a little nerve damage perhaps, but nothing for him to worry about.
He spent the last few hours of that tangled day at the home of the questore explaining and re-explaining the events of the previous week. Three brutal deaths in seven days, two of them coming in the midst of an active police investigation, his investigation. He accepted Carlo’s dressing-down silently.
After vigorously debating for an hour how much of the night’s events they would report t
o the prime minister, how much to the press, and how much to the investigating judge, they arrived at an uneasy compromise. As close to the truth as possible, Cenni insisted, given Sbarretti’s quick eye and the number of local police and medical personnel who had been at the crime scene that night. “Not to mention seeing justice done,” he added and watched as Carlo winced.
“Not the full story, Alex, not your version anyway,” Carlo had immediately retorted. “Did you really have to take her out in handcuffs and then perp walk her all the way to Piazza Santa Chiara!”
“It’s not my rule, No cars on via San Francesco. The count is responsible for that one—protecting his peace and quiet is what I’m told.” He sounded childish even to his own ears.
“But straight across the Piazza, Alex! With a few thousand tourists in town for the weekend and nothing for them to do at night but hang out in the Piazza. Did you have to humiliate the woman? The count will never forgive you—or me.”
“You tell me how I could get her to the station without going through the Piazza. Stop feeling sorry for her, Carlo; she’s a pathological killer. She murdered her cousin and tonight she killed again, almost twice. Fulvio’s in cold storage with his head attached by a bloody thread, Sophie Orlic has twenty stitches in her skull, and Genine’s lucky to have her hand still attached— her right hand, too!” The questore noticed for the first time the manic gleam in his favorite commissario’s eyes. “If I had my way, the bitch would be sleeping in a cell tonight, in Perugia, and not in luxury in the Assisi hospital, on suicide watch of all things.” He laughed derisively. “Who got you to agree to that? The father? Zangarelli? Or did it take a call from the PM?”
“Never you mind! This whole story of yours, that the Casati woman murdered her cousin—where’s your proof, Alex? I’m not saying you’re wrong . . .”
