THE DOGS of ROME

by Conor Fitzgerald

  Blume turned to Principe. “If the wife didn’t take the bag, then the killer probably did.”

  “If he’s stupid enough to keep it, it will be strong evidence against him,” said Principe.

  “Why would you empty out and remove a backpack?” asked Blume.

  “To put stuff in?”

  “Right. Which means the killer did not work out what he needed beforehand. He was not properly prepared. More evidence of amateurish behavior. Real amateur, not feigned.”

  Blume sat down on the floor beside the leaflets. He slid open the filing cabinet, leafed through at random, pulled out a file folder marked G-L. It contained another folder marked Galles. The first document inside was headed Plaid Werdd Cymru, which meant nothing to him, and contained a list of names and telephone numbers in the UK. The next document folder was marked Die Grünen/Verdi Austria and contained more names.

  Under L he found a brochure on lemons. Other files mentioned bird-ringing, bike lanes—after a while he stopped opening the folders to see the contents. C-Camorra/Crimine looked promising, but the papers were political leaflets, a printout of a conference speech by the head of the Green Party, Pecoraro Scanio: no names or numbers. A folder marked Cani was noticeably thicker, and contained some disturbing photographs of bloodied dogs. He turned them over to see if the photographer’s name was on the flipside, but found only a few dates. One of the ugliest images had “web campaign?” scrawled on the back. Blume laid that one aside. Nothing was filed under H. He opened the top drawer: ACP countries, Attivisti (more names), Alleanza Nazionale, Ambiente, Animali.

  He needed to get the head of the forensic team to give him a list of objects removed from the scene.

  “Alè?” Paoloni often romanized his name.

  “What?”

  “The wife wasn’t carrying a bag when she left. The officer was certain of that.”

  “OK.”

  “Also, the coroners are here.”

  Blume left the study. The head of the forensics team who had let him in earlier had vanished, leaving his deputy, a personable overweight youth, in charge.

  “Hey,” said Blume. He had worked at least seven times before with this guy and liked him.

  The man turned around and Blume immediately forgot his name.

  “Did you find a wallet?”

  “No.”

  “A cell phone?”

  “No.”

  “Are you looking for a cell phone?” asked the young man, who, maybe, was called Fabio.

  “Not so much me as my boss . . . It doesn’t matter. Still, it’s a bit unusual. No cell phone at all?”

  “I can check,” said the young man. “But I don’t think so.”

  Flavio, not Fabio.

  “Thanks,” said Blume. “Maybe we’ll have a secondary scene, too. Clemente probably had an office somewhere.”

  No way was the guy called Flavio. Flavios were always thin. Francesco was a better bet.

  “OK, Commissioner Blume. You just let us know.”

  “Thanks, Flahvrwb.”

  Blume began another tour of the house. He opened the door to a child’s bedroom, which he found depressingly neat.

  Principe came in, then stood in the middle of the room. “Doesn’t look like our killer even came in here,” he said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you can see. Nothing in here has been touched. He made a mess of the other rooms.”

  “Yes. I was just thinking about that,” said Blume. “The door to this room was closed, too, wasn’t it?”

  Principe thought for a bit, then said, “Can’t say I remember.”

  “I noticed it,” said Blume. “I’ll need to check with the people first on the scene to see if it was closed when they got here. Then we can check the photos.”

  “Supposing it was closed, so what?”

  “The killer seems to have looked into every room in the house, and every door is open, except this one. It doesn’t make sense to think he didn’t come in here.”

  “OK,” said Principe. “Then he closed the door on his way out.”

  “Also, he left this room neat. Didn’t mess it up like the others. To me that looks like a choice. It looks like the sight of a child’s room brought out something in him. Mercy, respect, whatever.”

  “There is such a thing as overinterpretation,” said Principe. “I need to talk to the coroner team. I’ll send Paoloni in here; you can run your idea by him.”

  Paoloni arrived and stood in the middle of the room. Blume repeated what he had said to Principe.

  “So he decided not to mess up a child’s room,” concluded Blume.

  “Oh, you mean he was being thoughtful?” said Paoloni coming out of a long yawn. “I would have missed that. Are you saying he has his good points, likes children?”

  “Yes. I think it could be important for profiling,” said Blume. “He didn’t mess up the child’s room, but he left the father dead in the middle of the house. That’s . . .”

  “Not normal?”

  “I suppose,” said Blume. “There’s something going on there. Maybe he suffered as a child, something along those lines.”

  “You’re not beginning to feel sorry for him?”

  “God, no,” said Blume. “I’m always pleased when I find out an assassin had a lousy childhood. It means they got what they deserve, even if they had to pay in advance.”

  From the corridor outside, Blume heard Principe discussing the removal with the men from the coroner’s team.

  Blume looked at a row of Disney DVDs between two bookends made to look like trees with happy faces. They stood lined up beside a DVD player, beside which was a small black tele vision set. Aladdin, Aristogatti, La Bella Addormentata, La Bella e la Bestia, Biancaneve, all in alphabetical order.

  The only books were maps of the sky at night, atlases, an English picture dictionary. They looked unopened. He bent down and looked underneath the bed, where, as if in hiding from the organizing agency that ran the rest of the house, lay a crumpled Batman suit and cape.

  5

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 10:30 P.M.

  AT HALF PAST ten in the evening, after repeating his alibi for the umpteenth time, Leonardo Ulmo told Inspector Paoloni that he could no longer take it. Paoloni nodded as if he understood, said he would see what he could do.

  But they kept him there.

  Leonardo said all he had done all day was deliver boxes of groceries in the Monteverde neighborhood. Blume nodded appreciatively and wrote this down. Leonardo became more specific about his day. Blume asked about his delivery to the apartments at No 7 Via Generale Regola.

  Leonardo explained he had had two deliveries to make at this address.

  Two boxes of groceries to Block C, Apartments six and ten on the third and fifth floors. Also two packs of Nepi mineral water for Apartment six.

  Block C had no elevator. Most of the deliveries he made were to apartment buildings with no elevators.

  “Yeah? How’s that?” asked Blume.

  “The people who live in buildings without one often have their groceries delivered. That way they don’t have to carry them up the stairs. I do.”

  Blume peered at him from over the tips of his fingers. “OK,” he said finally. “That makes sense. Go on.”

  “So I’m bringing up the boxes on the . . .”

  Blume held up a hand. “What’s with this getting right into the middle of things? First of all, who sent you?”

  “My manager at the supermarket,” Leonardo explained.

  “Described by my colleague as a sweaty bastard who wears a striped shirt and white belt?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Did you deliver anything before Via Regola?”

  “Yes. To Via Regnoli, Carini, Quattro Venti.”

  “And after?”

  “Piazza Cucchi.”

  “You can give me the exact address?”

  Leonardo could. Blume wrote it down, then said, “Are you thirsty?”
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br />   “I’m dying of thirst,” said Leonardo.

  “Be right back,” said Blume and left the interrogation room. He got the number from the address Leonardo had given him and called. A woman answered, and was quickly able to confirm her groceries had been delivered at precisely eleven o’clock that morning. It was during the news, she said, just before her favorite comedy DJs came on Radio 2.

  It was not a total alibi, but it was close. Blume went up to the ground floor, bought two bottles of water, drinking his own on the way back, cursing himself for being fooled yet again into paying a euro for stuff that ran free from the taps. He stuck the empty bottle into his pocket. He would use it for refills.

  He handed the other bottle to Leonardo, who drank it in a single draught.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. So, after the delivery to Piazza Cucchi, you went back to the supermarket?”

  “Yes. My arrival time is logged, so you can check that.”

  “OK. Let’s go back. What time did you get to Via Regola?”

  “Must have been half past ten.”

  “Must have been or was?”

  “Was, must have been. I don’t know. A bit later. Ten forty, OK?”

  Blume drew three circles around ten forty on his pad.

  “I parked the Iveco alongside a row of cars, opened the back doors, took out the porter’s trolley and two boxes and the water.”

  “A porter’s trolley?”

  “For carrying the boxes and the mineral water.”

  “You pull the boxes all the way up the stairs using this metal trolley thing, bouncing from step to step all the way to the top? Wouldn’t it be quicker just carrying them yourself?”

  “Maybe, until my back caves in.”

  “OK.”

  “So I got to the apartment block, pulled in the trolley with two boxes and two packs of mineral water.”

  “Who let you in?”

  “I don’t know. The front door was open, anyway.”

  But Blume had not reached the front door yet in his mind’s eye. He was still standing on the street outside the apartment lot. “The front gate to the courtyard was open?”

  “Yes,” said Leonardo.

  “Was the porter on duty?”

  Leonardo thought about it for a moment. “No. I don’t think he was. No. It was very quiet. Hot. A lot of shutters closed because they’re all on holiday.”

  “So you get to Apartment Block C. And the front door is already open. Why is that?”

  “It’s got a faulty lock. It doesn’t always snap shut.”

  “So in you go.”

  “No. First I buzz on the squawk box to announce I’m on my way.”

  “Which intercom?”

  “Both. Top apartment, which is number ten and the one on the third floor, which is number six. I pressed both buttons together.”

  “Who answered?”

  “I don’t know. When I heard the intercom being picked up, I just yelled ‘groceries.’ I was already half in the door by then.”

  “How come you remember the numbers of the apartments?”

  “I’ve been doing the job for eighteen months. These guys are regulars.”

  “Do they always get deliveries on Fridays?”

  “One of them does. The other is more irregular. I suppose I remember them also because they’re both men. Most of the deliveries are to women.”

  Blume placed his fists on the table and leaned in closer. “Can you remember the names on the door? Relax, close your eyes, think about it calmly.”

  “I’m not calm.”

  “No reason not to be, Leonardo. You’re being really helpful. Ten more minutes here is all, I promise.”

  Leonardo closed his eyes. “The upstairs buzzer has one name only. It’s German or English. The downstairs one has two names. On the top is Romano, or Romagna, Romagnolo or something. The other name . . . No. Begins with an L: Or is it a C? That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Something happened to the guy on the third floor?”

  Blume ignored the question and looked at his pad. “You’re in Block C, at the bottom of the stairs. What then?”

  “I went straight to the top floor first.”

  “You carried all the boxes up to the top floor?”

  “No. Way I do it, I drop off the box of groceries and the mineral water for the apartment on the third floor landing on my way up to the top. I get to the last floor, deliver the other box. Then, on my way down again, I ring, guy opens the door, I push it in, he gives me a tip.”

  “The apartment on the third floor. Is it always a man who answers?”

  “Usually. Sometimes a house cleaner.”

  “How do you know she’s a house cleaner?”

  “Old. Older than him. Also, you can tell.”

  Blume picked up his pen again, and said, “OK, what about the man? What’s he like?”

  “Sometimes he chats, sometimes he pretends I don’t exist. I prefer it when he pretends I don’t exist, because then he usually tips. When he chats, he doesn’t tip.”

  “And today, how did he behave today?”

  “I never saw him today.”

  “You never saw him?”

  “Not today. I got to Apartment ten at the top, rang the doorbell, this skinny German guy who lives there answers, all dressed up in sportswear, like you.”

  Blume looked down at his hairy legs. “Then the guy downstairs, can you tell me what we said his name was?”

  “We didn’t,” said Leonardo.

  “Right, we didn’t. Well, the name is Arturo Clemente.”

  “I go back down the stairs with the trolley, and when I reach the landing outside Apartment six, the box and the water six-packs are gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Gone. I figure he must have opened the door, pulled them in by himself, and closed the door so as not to give me a tip. Stingy bastard.”

  “You didn’t ring the bell to check?”

  “What’s to check? Only reason would be to ask for my tip, but I’ve got some dignity.”

  “Did he ever do that before?”

  “Not tip? Yes, like I told you. But I don’t remember him ever pulling the groceries in off the landing.”

  “How did he know they were there?”

  “How the hell do I know? He opened his door, saw them. I just know they were gone. I rang the intercom downstairs, remember?”

  Blume tapped the pen against his front teeth. It was a metal pen, and clacked as it hit the enamel.

  “What then?”

  “Nothing. I left.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, twenty to eleven, a quarter to.”

  Blume asked, “Could anyone have come into the building without you hearing?”

  “Sure they could.”

  “So did anyone?”

  Leonardo closed his eyes again. Then he opened them again. “I can’t remember.”

  “Just think of the sounds you heard,” said Blume. It was almost a gentle invitation.

  “Wait. Someone was playing piano.” Leonardo grinned, pleased with himself.

  “Fast? Slow? Good playing? Maybe it was a CD?”

  “Slow—but fast bits, too. It wasn’t a CD. The person went back and played the same piece a few times.”

  “Just piano music?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you hum the tune for me?”

  “No.”

  “Try.”

  “I can’t. It was classical music.”

  “OK. Any other sounds?”

  “It’s was kind of a quiet, sleepy afternoon. I can’t remember any more sounds. Apart from the cicadas. Wait, there was another sound, like someone hitting woodwork.” He hit the table with the base of his palm. “Sort of like that. Three, four times.”

  “From where?”

  “From below, when I was sliding the box into the apartment upstairs.”

  “OK, Leonardo. That’s good.”

  6

&n
bsp; FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 11 P.M.

  INVESTIGATING MAGISTRATE Filippo Principe was waiting when Blume came out.

  Principe nodded at the door to the interrogation room. “No defense lawyer present, so his statements are legally worthless.”

  “I know that,” said Blume. “But he’s not our man.”

  “Is he likely to cause trouble about this interrogation?”

  “No. He’s a nice guy.”

  Blume went up to the ground floor where he found Zambotto leaning against the jamb of a door halfway down the corridor, staring at a vending machine like it was a TV screen. He called, and Zambotto came lumbering down the corridor, unhappy to be wanted.

  “What?”

  “I want you to prepare it as a voluntary witness statement. Did you ask the supermarket manager about pilfering?”

  Zambotto looked at him without a hint of comprehension. Blume motioned him to follow him back downstairs. “Paoloni and I discovered some of the items in the grocery box were missing. I just thought we should ask the manager if the delivery people ever lift out items from the boxes—you know, pilfer.”

  “What items?” asked Zambotto.

  “Peanut butter.”

  “What is peanut butter?”

  “American food,” said Blume.

  Zambotto stuck out a wide flat tongue in disgust.

  “We found a list in the box of groceries,” said Blume. “There were two things missing. Peanut butter and Nutella.”

  “Uh,” said Zambotto.

  “I’m not saying it’s important. It’s just a fact. But if the killer took them, then it’s relevant. If he didn’t, then it’s not.”

  “All deliverymen steal stuff,” said Zambotto as if quoting a well known proverb. “But the supermarket’s never going to admit that.”

  “Depends how you ask, I suppose,” said Blume. “Did you ask?”

  “No.”

  Blume nodded. “No reason you should have. Did you get the supermarket manager’s home number?”

  “I got his cell phone number. I have it here,” Zambotto unbuttoned his orange and brown jacket, fished out a notebook from his inside pocket.

  “His name is Truffa.”

  “Truffa, you say?” Blume pulled out his cell phone, pressed the numbers as Zambotto called them out. He dismissed Zambotto with a nod of the head. Zambotto went into the interrogation room.