Two separate bodies, both dumped in the same place, both bagged in the same way. He has no doubts about what he's involved in.
Something he's never experienced before.
Not once in his long and distinguished career as a forensic pathologist has the professore pitted his wits against the deadliest creature known to man and mortuary.
A serial killer.
His three assistants work slavishly on preparing and laying out all the severed limbs. Alongside them is Isabella Lombardelli, an investigator from RaCIS – the Raggruppamento Carabinieri Investigazioni Scientifiche, the specialist scientific unit – acting as a liaison officer between the labs, the mortuary and the murder incident room.
Montesano stands back and takes satisfaction in seeing everything in full swing. A well-oiled scientific machine. One that will miss nothing.
Soon it will get interesting.
Soon he will clean all the bones with good old domestic washing powder and look closely at how they were cut and brutalised, what was used to sever limb from limb. But even now, the corpses are telling him stories.
Both victims are male – one somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. The other is at least double that age, most likely in his late sixties, early seventies.
The older body is in a greater state of decomposition, many months more advanced than the other.
And there are clear commonalities between the murders. Bones on both bodies have been sawn. Not carelessly chopped or bluntly bludgeoned. In his experience, it's unusual for a body to be dismembered. Most murderers he's come across simply dump and run, wisely choosing not to spend much time with their prey after death for fear it will increase their chances of getting caught. When dismemberment does occur, there's generally a pattern to it. Cuts are almost always made in the same places – the neck, armpits and tops of the legs. Five classic chop points.
Gang killings see the hands being severed too. Very often there are also more cuts at the back of the knees and elbows to reduce the victim's limbs to a size that can be easily wrapped, shifted and disposed of without attracting too much attention. Eleven cuts, in all. Sometimes thirteen or fifteen, if they go for the mid-arms and thighs, but that's much more unusual.
Here, however, with these bodies from the lagoon, there's something else going on.
Something strange.
In the first victim – the older man – all his fingers and toes have been separately severed: twenty cuts.
Then the torso has been sliced between many of the ribs, making at least another six.
In addition to this there is the gangland-style dismemberment of hands and feet. Another eleven cuts.
Montesano hasn't yet counted all the individual incisions, but he's guessing that in total there are dozens.
More than fifty separate dismemberments.
The second victim – the younger one – isn't as bad. It still has gangland overtones.
Eleven cuts – hands as well as torso.
But then the ribcage has been opened – sawn down the centre of the sternum. And it has unusual incisions across the mid-arms and thighs. The killer seems to have been more controlled, less frenzied. More evolved.
Or something else.
Montesano wonders if the murderer was trying to do something with the first victim and couldn't manage it. Perhaps his fantasy didn't play out in the flesh.
Or something else.
What?
The professore takes off his wire-framed glasses, peels back his blue latex gloves and steps outside the chilled room. He needs daylight. Fresh air. Time and space to process the worrying thought that's just jolted his brain.
He sits on a stone wall in the sun-dappled hospital courtyard and feels the warmth of the day strengthen his fridge-chilled bones and clear his mind.
Gradually the answer comes to him.
The killer was trying to cut his victim into hundreds of pieces.
Six hundred and sixty-six, to be precise.
But he couldn't.
Only a surgeon, a butcher – or perhaps himself – could have managed such a thing.
And then Montesano thinks of something that sends a shiver through him as surely as if he'd walked back into the cooler.
Something's missing.
Something he's sure the dive teams and his lab assistants won't find a trace of. Something decomposition may have masked, but not removed completely.
The victims' livers.
He knows they're not there. Blood pounds in his temples.
Why?
Why would anyone do such a thing?
CAPITOLO XXVI
666 BC
The Temple, Atmanta They have travelled from all down the Tyrrhenian coast, from either side of the Po River, from Spina, Mantua, Felsina and Atria. The only place they have not come from is Rome.
The richest and most powerful men in Etruria file into Atmanta's vast new temple, but no one from Rome is among them.
Pesna and Kavie walk away from the gathering crowd, away from the preening dignitaries and ceremonial musicians playing double pipes and multi-stringed zithers.
'Damnation!' Pesna is so angry he can't stand still. 'These cursed Romans are trouble personified. Their absence is more disruptive than their presence could ever have been. Their silence more insulting than their high and vestal opinions. I wish now I'd had the foresight not to have invited them.'
Kavie gestures to the temple. 'We should go inside. Have you told anyone the Romans were invited and that they refused to come?'
Pesna catches his drift. 'No. The only people who know of the invitations are you and the messenger.'
'The boy will say nothing. I'll see to that.' In the curte, behind the temple, Larcia makes final adjustments to the twisted black conical hat she has sewn for her son. He already wears new robes: a beautifully rounded black mantle with a fringed hem over a longer black tunic. He is barefoot, and has paced out and memorised every step he will take during the ceremony.
His mother is excited. 'Teucer, I hear the flutes and the pipes.' She kisses him and, her voice breaking with sadness because he cannot see the pride in her eyes, she tells him, 'I love you, my son. I'm so proud of you.'
Larcia's kiss is still wet on his cheek as Tetia hugs him and wishes him well. 'Here, here it is.' She guides his right hand to a wooden post driven into the thick turf. It is his starting point. From here on, he will be on his own. One slip, one slight mistake, one degree of miscalculation and the service will be reduced to a farce.
Venthi's voice reaches him from the edge of the temple. He sounds nervous. An anxious father who'd rather his son wasn't about to endure this ordeal. 'They are ready. They are waiting for you.'
Music plays. Melancholy strings. Long flute notes.
Four hooded acolytes take up their positions – two in front and two behind their netsvis. They will help sacrifice sheep on new libation altars outside the temple, built so blood pours straight into the soil and is drunk by the deities of the earth.
Teucer feels the beat of the music. Uses it to set his own rhythm. Stride and pace will be crucial.
Ten steps forward. He turns right.
Fifty steps along the side of the temple. Right again to the foot of the vast steps.
Six steps to ascend.
The acolytes fan out.
Teucer is centre stage.
The crowds and nobles fall silent.
He can feel their eyes on him.
Hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He can sense the six huge pillars around him, gathered like gigantic gods.
He turns and faces the populace. Feels the sun on his skin. Warm. Energising. Confidence-building.
Teucer stretches his arms wide. 'In the name of the holy trinity – in honour of Uni, Tinia and Menrva – I humbly declare that I, the netsvis of Atmanta, am servant to all divinities. Today, in the presence of the noblest of mortal guests from all corners of Etruria, we dedicate this temple to you glorious gods who so divinely shape our futures i
n this life and in the afterlife that awaits the worthy among us. Almighty deities who preside over the universe and sit in judgement on us, in humility and with solemn reverence we bow before you and offer this house to you as evidence of our love and our devotion. ' Teucer puts two fingers from each hand on his eyes. 'My sight you have taken in order that I might see more clearly. I praise your wisdom in this act, and I beseech you now to guide my feet and my hands as I lead our people and our guests into your house and dedicate its rooms and gifts to you.'
Teucer's robes swirl as he turns. He strides confidently between the pillars and through two giant doors.
One step over the threshold he reaches out his right hand and unhesitatingly grabs the new lituus that Tetia has made and left resting against the wall in that precise spot.
Pesna and the nobles are the first to follow him in. They file the full length of a long table of freshly hewn cypress running down the centre of the main room. Barely an inch of wood is visible. Bloodless gifts of every nature fill the surface. Sculptures in bronze and gold. Vases, urns, bowls, pottery of every shape and size.
Teucer lifts his staff in two hands. Sweeps it slowly and majestically right and left. 'These precious gifts, uniquely made in honour of each unique deity are tokens of our love, loyalty and the lives we dedicate to you. I bless them in your names and pass them now to you so that you may remember them and us, your servants, now and for ever…'
Pesna's eyes flit along the line of noblemen. They are clearly impressed. As is he. The netsvis is spellbinding. His blindness gives him an unexpected and unforgettable aura. No one in the room has given so much as a passing thought to the missing Romans.
All is going to plan.
Pesna knows the men of money and power will be even more enamoured with him when he feasts them and delivers the speech he has planned.
Everything is perfect.
Now his eyes trail along the table to the central position where the solid silver Gates of Destiny take pride of place, ready for the blessing.
Only they are not there.
His breathing stops.
They are gone.
CAPITOLO XXVII
By the time the consecration ceremony has finished, the sun has started to slip down the western slope of the temple's new terracotta roof.
Pesna stands in the cool shade of an overhang, accepting praise from the nobles filing out and trying not to look distracted by the theft of his most prized possession.
'A memorable service…'
'A genuine privilege and honour to be here…'
'Such a gifted young netsvis…'
The compliments trip lightly off their tongues. But all he can think of are the Gates of Destiny.
Who could have taken them?
Kavie is talking to some Perusians. Perhaps him?
Larth is waiting impatiently with his chariot. Him?
Caele is flirting with Hercha, toying with a curl of her hair. Him? Her? Both of them?
The sculptress Tetia is deep in discussion with Larthuza the Healer. Her? Him?
And then there is the netsvis. The crippled priest who today put on the service of a lifetime. A performance so perfect you could even doubt that he was blind. Him?
Kavie appears at Pesna's side and motions to Larth and the waiting chariot. 'We should make haste. It would serve us well to go ahead of our guests and be at the mine to greet them.'
The magistrate looks nervous. 'Are the gifts ready?'
'They are. There is choice enough for everyone. Even the greediest will find their avarice sated.'
Pesna glances again at Teucer. 'Have the netsvis searched. Thoroughly! Strip him naked.'
Kavie looks confused. 'Why?'
'The Gates of Destiny are gone.'
'What?'
'Gone! I personally placed them on the table of gifts for his blessing.'
Kavie looks around. He sees nothing suspicious. 'When did they go missing?'
'Only moments before the ceremony started. The temple was empty – fully guarded outside – and only I was afforded access. He must have hidden them during the service, and now he no doubt intends to steal away and sell them somewhere to build a new life with that damned sculptress.'
'I will have Larth's men do it now. I'll get the temple searched, too, in case they're hidden in there somewhere.' By the time Larth returns from instructing his men to deal with Teucer, Pesna and Kavie are already inside the chariot.
'Make haste!' shouts the magistrate. 'It will be discourteous if we are not there before the parties of nobles.'
The driver obediently whips the stallions and dust kicks up as Larth leaps aboard.
'Cut across the decumanus,' he commands. 'It is a less comfortable ride, but far quicker.'
The route quickly becomes rutted. It amuses Larth to think of his noble employer behind him, being jolted till his teeth rattle.
It isn't long before Kavie shouts an objection. 'Be careful! We are weathering a storm back here.'
Larth's throaty laugh is lost beneath the thunder of hooves.
Then it happens.
The front right horse loses its footing.
The driver pulls hard on the reins.
The other three beasts lose their line.
A wheel cracks on a rock.
Larth tumbles from the board. Crashes headlong into a bank of scree and boulders.
A cloud of dust billows in ominous silence for several seconds.
Pesna slowly emerges from the wreckage, unhurt but furious.
He stares at Larth and the driver, both of whom are picking themselves off the ground, bloodied and bruised. 'Idiots! Blundering idiots!' He kicks the driver in the kidneys, then turns on Larth. 'Look! Look! The spokes are completely broken. It's useless!' He pushes the sole of a sandal against the shattered wheel. 'How am I to reach the mine with my carriage in pieces?'
Kavie bends and helps Larth to his feet. 'Let me see into your eye, Larth. Keep still, it has half a roadway in there.'
Larth brushes him away. 'It is nothing. Let me examine the chariot.' He steps across the boulders on to the rough track. One look at the damage is enough to tell him that the wheel cannot be fixed and will need changing. 'Take the horses, Magistrate.' He addresses the petrified driver. 'Unbridle them. The back two will be best. Get a move on or I'll do more than kick you!' He looks to Kavie and Pesna. 'I will send this old fool for a new wheel. When I have fixed it, I'll drive it back.'
Kavie turns to the magistrate. 'Larth is right. We are but moments from the mine by horseback. We should do as he says.'
Pesna's temper is still boiling. The broken carriage has merely compounded his fury about the missing silverware. He slaps Larth across his bleeding face. 'You brainless ox. All you had to do was steer four horses in a line. There are whores who could have done what I asked of you.' He sweeps his hand to hit Larth again, but the big man grabs it as if he were catching a fly.
Larth glares at him. An unblinking look of pure menace. He could kill him in a second, and wants to.
Kavie, fearing the worst, steps forward and puts himself between the two men. 'Larth, my friend, remember your position. Pull yourself together.'
Blood is trickling down Larth's face. He loosens his grip on Pesna's crushed hand. 'It is good advice, Kavie. I thank you.' He picks up the reins of the stallion and passes them to Pesna. 'Magistrate, I offer my apologies and beg your forgiveness. I pray the rest of your journey is untroubled.'
Pesna says nothing. He snatches the reins, mounts the horse and spins it into a dusty gallop towards the horizon.
Larth watches the sandy cloud swirl skyward and congratulates himself for his restraint. He will kill Pesna.
Not now.
Not yet.
But soon.
CHAPTER 32
Present Day Carabinieri HQ, Venice For Vito, Valentina and the rest of the murder squad there is no longer day and night.
There is only work. Their lives have been reduced to an endless round of bri
efings, meetings and fresh crime scenes.
A briefing has been scheduled in a room leading off the one that has recently become home from home for Carvalho's team. The centre of a long table is filled with steel pots of fresh coffee, old white cups and saucers, dull glass tumblers and clusters of bottled water that look like sky-scraper cities built by a kids' art class.
Major Vito Carvalho checks that everyone he needs is present. Sylvio Montesano and two of his assistants occupy the far end of the table. To their left are Rocco Baldoni and Valentina Morassi. Vito wishes she wasn't here. He's urged her to take time off, give herself space to grieve, but she's convinced the best therapy is to throw herself into her work. If he had time to take her to one side, he'd explain just how disastrous that philosophy can be.
The forensics specialists from RaCIS, Isabella Lombardelli and her assistant Gavino Greco, sit to the right of the Medical Examiner and are currently in deep conversation with him about something in a file spread out between them.
Other places are taken by team leaders, officers who head up the various shifts, and those who will oversee house-to-house enquiries or liaise with state prosecutors.
Finally, there is Tom Shaman. Vito had thought long and hard about how much to involve the American. Having him on board as an expert adviser was one thing; letting him into operational briefings was another. In the end he went with his instincts and the fact that in a murder enquiry, especially one involving a possible serial killer, you need every pair of hands and useful brain that you can get.
'Thank you all for coming. Let's get things under way.' He pauses to let the cross-table chatter die down. 'Lieutenant Baldoni will give us an updated overview. Rocco-'
The diminutive detective pushes back his chair and walks to a large white flipchart labelled VICTIMS. 'We now have three bodies.' He needs to stretch to turn the first page. 'Victim One – teenager Monica Vidic. Victim Two – a dismembered male believed to be in his sixties, still unidentified. Victim Three – a dismembered male, still unidentified, estimated to be in his twenties. The two unknowns were found in sacks in the laguna' – he avoids Valentina's eyes – 'close to where the body of our former colleague Antonio Pavarotti was found.' He gestures towards the ME. 'Professore Montesano will circulate a new report at the end of this meeting. For now, Professore, have you any comment on times of death?'
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