“The most important detail is the earpiece of the glasses, and then maybe the metal buttons, if they’re not too small, and then of course the little chain and the cover of the locket we found with the corpse.”
Selvini had the pensive look of someone who no longer knew which way to turn.
“It might be better to shoot those exhibits again from different angles.”
“If you really think so, I’ll have them brought to you at once.”
“It’ll take a few days.”
“You couldn’t do it tomorrow?”
“The week is about to end, and we’re behind on last month’s work: reports to turn in, photos to catalog. A lot of stuff, really.”
“Please, Selvini, I beg you. I’m asking as a personal favor. The case is about to be shelved, if I don’t come up with any new, decisive elements in the next few days . . .”
“All right, Inspector, I’ll do what I can.”
Stefania returned to her office and checked her e-mail box to see if the photos she’d requested were there. They were much crisper on-screen than in their printed versions. She felt excited and even a little anxious, like someone waiting for news who jumps up every time the phone rings or there’s a knock at the door. She felt ready to spring into action.
She turned her attention back to Uncle Heinrich.
“Lucchesi! Piras! Isn’t there anyone here?”
Lucchesi appeared in the doorway, already in civvies and looking like someone about to go home.
“Are we already done for today?”
“Inspector, it’s past six, and I’ve been on call since yesterday morning.”
“All right, then, when you pass the switchboard, tell them to call this number and put the call through to me.”
While she waited she did a quick calculation: the colonel, being a relatively high-ranking officer during the war, must have been at least forty years old.
Now he would be around ninety and more, she thought dejectedly. But in the final analysis she had an advantage: she had nothing to lose.
“Inspector Valenti?”
“Yes, Signor Montalti, good evening, I’m sorry to bother you again. Do you mind if I keep you on the phone for a few minutes? It involves something very important.”
“More doubts about Villa Regina?”
“No, this time I’m asking you for help: I’m trying identify by any means available a person about whom we’ve opened an investigation.”
That wasn’t exactly the case, but it was a perfectly fine way to break the ice just the same.
“I’m glad to help, provided I can.”
His tone was one of great surprise, despite the customary politeness.
“The last time, you mentioned something to me about your uncle Heinrich and how he fled from Italy during the war in the company of his attendant, and how the escape probably came to a tragic end for the young soldier.”
“That’s right.”
“I have reason to believe that a soldier who appears in a photo in my possession from just before the end of the war was in fact your uncle’s attendant. What I’m asking of you, in essence, is simply to confirm this identification, as long as your uncle or father . . .”
The words hadn’t come out quite right, but Montalti came to her aid rather naturally.
“Inspector, my uncle Heinrich has been dead for more than twenty years, and my father died shortly after him. Only my aunt is still alive, though she is very old. I don’t know if we can be of any help to you.”
The man was hesitating. After a few moments of silence, he resumed speaking.
“So you have news of this soldier? At the moment I can’t remember his name. He was little more than a lad at the time of the escape, and my uncle had grown as fond of him as of a son. I know that when the war was over he tried to get in touch with the young man’s parents, to see if they had any news of him, but I don’t think they did. It distressed him terribly.”
“It’s not good news, unfortunately. If our suspicions are correct, we may have found his remains in a mountain area that was probably the same one where the events you told me about took place.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If you give me an e-mail address I can send you a copy of this photograph, for an initial, informal identification.”
“Of course.”
They exchanged e-mail addresses.
“May I call you again in a couple of days?” asked Stefania.
“Absolutely, Inspector. Until then.”
She sat there at her desk, thinking. Now all she could do was wait.
She put the green folder into a drawer, turned off the light, and went out.
“Come on, it won’t be long now till school’s out. Then you can sleep as late as you like.”
That way, maybe I, too, can get some sleep, thought Stefania.
Camilla answered with a sort of grunt. She was in crisis, as always happened as the end of the school year approached. Martina was also in crisis, because she had to pass two exams before the end of the month. Afternoons they would spend in Camilla’s room studying: Camilla on one side, Martina behind her. Ron would oversee the situation, purring on the bed. Nutella jars were disappearing faster and faster.
That morning the alarm hadn’t gone off, perhaps because Stefania had forgotten to set her cell phone. They flew down the stairs and then headed off to school, through the eight A.M. chaos of the city.
When she got to headquarters, half an hour late, she collapsed in front of a cappuccino. The fresh brioches, as usual, were already gone. She sat there fingering the customary sticky pastry with a fake cherry on top.
“Hey, princess, what’s the matter, didn’t you sleep last night?”
It was Giulio, dressed to the nines, close shaven and well scented, with briefcase in hand and newspaper under his arm. Upon seeing him, Stefania felt only hatred. She’d barely had time to grab the first pair of slacks and the first blouse within reach and put them on. The colors probably clashed, and she wasn’t sure whether she’d brushed her hair properly.
“Storm signals, I see. Better steer clear. Any news?”
“No.”
“All right, then, I’m going upstairs to talk to your boss.”
“Best of luck,” said Stefania, smiling.
She returned to her office, sat down, and turned on the computer. The icon announcing “new messages” was flashing. She opened her e-mail with a mix of trepidation and impatience. There were two messages from Montalti, sent around eight o’clock that morning.
Dear Inspector Valenti, yesterday evening after dinner, my cousins and aunt and I examined the photo you sent to me. Unfortunately none of them had ever seen my uncle’s attendant in person. They did have this photo of the young man, however, together with other fellow soldiers, which I’m sending you here. He’s the one holding the bridle of Uncle Heinrich’s horse. To us there seems to be a strong resemblance, but you can judge for yourself. The boy’s name is or was Karl Dressler, and he was from Leipzig. My cousin has kept some letters my uncle wrote to the boy’s family between 1950 and 1962. All were returned to sender, opened by the censors and stamped “unknown.” Years later my uncle said he’d also contacted some Leipzig city government officials but always got the same answer: “Person unknown at the indicated address.” That’s all we know, but you can imagine how difficult it was, at that time, to reach someone on the other side of the Iron Curtain, in a city half destroyed by Allied bombs. My uncle did not have the good fortune to see the Wall come down. And he never did succeed in getting any information about his soldier, despite the fact that he had stipulated in his will that his officer’s sword should go to Karl.
We are ready to honor his last wishes, and if what you told me yesterday turns out, unfortunately, to be true, we would like to undertake the procedures necessary for the repatriati
on of Karl Dressler’s mortal remains.
I ask you please to keep us informed of any further developments in this matter.
P.M.
The second e-mail contained the photo mentioned in the prior message.
Four soldiers posing and, behind them, a magnificent, dark stallion. Holding the bridle was a blond young man, tall and slender, with glasses. A gentle face. Stefania filed the photo in her computer and then opened the other photo, the one prepared by Selvini.
Montalti was right. The resemblance was striking. In the photo taken at Villa Regina the soldier was thinner and more gaunt faced. The smile was more melancholic, but there was no question that it was the same person.
Stefania stared at the two images.
Karl Dressler.
K.D.
Is that really you, young man?
She shook off these thoughts and called Selvini.
“I’m about to e-mail you another photograph.”
“Another?”
Stefania ignored Selvini’s tone of resignation.
“I think it may involve the same soldier portrayed in the photo from the other day. The one whom the nurse is touching on the shoulder with her hand.”
“Yes, I figured that, but today we . . .”
“Did you get the exhibits I sent you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Well, now it’s your turn. You have all the pieces of the puzzle. But be advised: I’ll be in my office all morning and afternoon. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
“Yes, but Inspector—”
“Oh, I forgot something. If the chief inspector should happen to call . . . Naturally I’ve already reassured him that your lab is doing everything in its power to give us an answer as quickly as possible, perhaps by the end of today, but you know what Carboni’s like. He’s taken a great interest in this case, as has Arisi.”
“Okay, I get the point, Inspector, that’s quite enough. I’ll get right to work.”
She’d lied shamelessly, but bluffing, given the situation, had become a necessity. Time was pressing. And then, all things considered, it was true that Carboni and Arisi were interested in the case, just not in the same way as Stefania and, above all, not for the same reasons.
She spent the rest of the morning on documents and reports. Noon arrived, then one o’clock.
At that hour the forensics staff must surely be on their lunch break.
She took a short break herself and dropped in at the Noseda bookshop, near Porta Torre, just to have a look at the used-book shelves at the back. There was a very good bookseller who worked there, always available and polite. Stefania loved chatting with the girl.
The afternoon passed quickly. At half past three she had to pass by the clerk of the court’s office to pick up some files.
At four o’clock, still no news.
Impatient, she picked up the phone. Busy. She tried again. Still busy. She took the time to smoke a cigarette before trying again.
Just as she was sticking her hands in her purse to look for the lighter, the phone rang.
Stefania spent all of Saturday morning working on her report for Carboni. At eleven she rang him but got no answer. She went to see him directly in his office, after having carefully formulated a strategy.
“Come in, Valenti. So we’ve solved the case. Congratulations. Please leave me the report. I’ll read it right away and on Monday we’ll send it on to Dr. Arisi the moment he gets back to his office.”
Carboni was acting exactly like someone who had just removed a great weight from his shoulders.
“So his name was Karl Dressler. Excellent. Identified from some photographs of the period, and from the object specimens found with his remains. Flawless work, Valenti. That’s the power of the new technologies. In my day, all we had was a magnifying glass and our intuition.”
“Actually, sir, the identification concerns only the person portrayed at the villa when it was being used as a hospital. But we’re quite certain that the seated soldier with his leg in a cast is the same person as in the other photograph, for which we have the testimony of firsthand witnesses.”
“I see, however, that the specimens were identified as belonging to the person, and therefore there can no longer be any doubt.”
“To tell you the truth, I specified in the report that the identification of the human remains as Karl Dressler’s on the basis of the evidence we found is only a matter of probability. That is, it is highly probable that those remains do belong to Karl Dressler. The shape of the glasses is consistent, the type of uniform buttons is the same, and so is the kind of military fabric. Not to mention the circumstantial data: the time period and the poorly healed leg, formerly in a cast.”
Carboni looked annoyed.
“There seems to me to be plenty of evidence.”
“Yes, but it was you yourself who taught me that plenty of evidence doesn’t always amount to proof.”
“What other explanation could there be?”
“They might all just be coincidences, however suggestive. But I’m convinced there’s much more that needs to be explained in this matter.”
“Such as?”
“The light chain necklace found beside the remains, and the locket, look a lot like the same articles normally worn by Margherita Cappelletti. Why did Dressler have them? And the real problem is that we still have no idea who killed him and why. A probable identification is only a starting point, in my opinion.”
“But do you think this Margherita Cappelletti was in some way involved in the homicide?”
“That’s hard to say. I’m led to believe that Margherita is another victim in this unfortunate story. It’s a fact, however, that there was some kind of bond between the two. We don’t know the nature of that bond, but the indications are that it was strong.”
“But didn’t this Margherita Cappelletti die, like much of her family?”
“And what does that add to our investigation?”
“Nothing, that’s the point. Listen, Valenti, leave me the report. On Monday I’ll talk to Arisi about it, and he’ll give us his recommendations, which we’ll have to follow. That’s all for now. You can go.”
Whenever Carboni played tough, it meant he wasn’t sure of his own position. Stefania knew him well. She may even have succeeded in shaking one or two of his certainties. All she could do now was wait. It would have been pointless to insist just then.
She went into her office to check that everything was in its proper place, listlessly put her desk in order, and then sat there looking at the reconstruction of the map of the area around the Alpine cottage.
She decided to ring Giulio Allevi.
“Are you in your office?” she asked.
“For a little while yet.”
“Are you in front of your computer?”
“For a little while yet.”
“I’m sending you the report I just turned in to Carboni. He’ll be passing it on to Arisi on Monday.”
“A report? You mean there are some decisive new developments?”
“There are some new developments, yes, but not decisive ones, as I just tried to explain to Carboni about ten minutes ago.”
“And what’d he say?”
“He said he’ll let Arisi decide.”
“Very wise of him.”
“And you’ll take their side, I’d bet on it.”
“Give me time to read the report at least. Then I’ll call you back and tell you what I think. Okay?”
“I’m leaving now to go to the hairdresser’s and then to the lake with Camilla. We’re going on a little excursion today, and I’ll definitely be leaving my phone at home.”
“Then I’ll send you a message.”
“I don’t see any reason to keep the investigation still open, Inspector. We’ve managed t
o identify the subject with considerable certainty. The circumstances of the time period and the manner of death are perfectly in keeping with the climate of political and social disorder that characterized the end of the war. It all fits to a T. Everything is coherent and clear.”
After having stressed the word “disorder,” Arisi closed the folder decisively and then pushed it to one side of his desk.
“But, sir, we still don’t know who killed the young man. If it was a crime, it remains unpunished.”
“Do you have any idea how many crimes from that period have remained unpunished, Inspector? There was a genuine settling of accounts. Hundreds of deaths in the province of Como alone. Let me remind you that there was an amnesty. With great farsightedness, the legislator chose to put an end to that time of torment, thus paving the way for the nation to a future of pacification and reconstruction. How many people from that time are still alive now, more than fifty years later? Cui prodest? And now, Inspector, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
As she was descending the stairs, Stefania thought about the text message she’d just received from Giulio.
I read it. My compliments to the entire team. A superb job. But Arisi will close the case. Count on it. And you do the same. Let the matter end. Let the dead bury their dead. Giulio.
She went back into her office and laid the green folder down on her desk. She went and stood at the window and lit a cigarette.
It doesn’t end here, young man.
I won’t abandon you.
13
“Piras? Lucchesi?” The two appeared in the doorway almost simultaneously.
“Piras, I want you either to go up to Lanzo or to get in touch with Marshal Bordoli. I want to know everything there is to know about Maria Cappelletti. If she’s still alive, where she lives, and so on. Whatever you can find.”
Then, turning to Lucchesi:
“I want you instead to get in touch with the caretaker of Villa Regina, a certain Armando, ask him if Signora Durand is still in Italy, and send an official summons through the local Carabinieri station. But let it be understood that in view of the lady’s age and health, we could arrange a meeting at her home. After you’ve done this, go to the photo department and have Selvini give you back the envelope with the exhibits of our man K.D. Everything clear?”
Shadows on the Lake Page 17
