A Few Drops of Blood

by Jan Merete Weiss

  “They remind him of her,” Natalia said. “What’s the harm in it? It’s so romantic.”

  “Romance,” he’d answered, “the ultimate delusion.”

  Gino’s other complaint was about her vocation. He did not want her doing such dangerous work. He wanted her instead to travel with him as he toured. As soon as they were married, she knew the objections and pressure would escalate.

  Natalia’s other complaint about Gino was that he was so practical, never exhibiting much in the way of impulsive behavior or romantic sentiments. That he treated her well—better than any of her previous boyfriends—was not in dispute. But the spark just wasn’t there. Pino, on the other hand … Plus, he was a Carabinieri himself and could hardly object to her choice of professions. Though he presented other problems.

  Where was the balance? Natalia wondered. Did anyone ever find it?

  Outside the bank, a gypsy picked clothes out of the dumpster and laid them on the ground. A young woman wobbled by on her motorcycle, heavily weighed down with a knapsack and the two children she was delivering to school. Natalia wondered if she was happy. But maybe happy didn’t have anything to do with it.

  A young man pushed past Natalia and ran. He caught up to a girl in a black halter top, matching jeans and high heels. “Lara! I told you I was at work! I was working!”

  “You take me for an idiot? Like your other whores?”

  “Lara! That’s no way to talk. Come on, sweetheart.” His fedora was pushed back on his head. He put his arms around her, and she shoved him away. Natalia could see the mascara streaked where she’d been crying.

  Angelina was waiting for her outside the building, as they had arranged.

  “I’m sorry,” Natalia said, as Stefano Grappi opened the door. “We didn’t call before we came. Is this a convenient time?”

  It took him a second to adjust to their uniforms. “No, it’s fine,” he said and led them into the living room. It was as pristine as it had been during Natalia’s last visit except for boxes piled in a corner.

  “I’m organizing Vincente’s collection. A couple of museums have expressed an interest. Frankly, I’m glad for the interruption. Please, sit down.”

  Natalia and Angelina sat side by side on a yellow-and-white striped silk chaise lounge. Natalia identified its carved frame as Victorian. She didn’t remember it from the last visit.

  She removed her hat. “We need to ask you a few more questions. They’re quite personal. Are you okay with that?”

  Stefano nodded.

  They had agreed ahead of time that Natalia would take the lead in the questioning.

  “Did you and Vincente ever engage in sexual games of a violent nature?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Vincente … liked it—rough. Me, not so much. At the beginning, he dragged me to a few clubs. Finally, I refused to go anymore. I like to look at erotic art in a gallery, I told him. Simulations, even a performance piece, but the actual thing I could do without. For some reason, Vincente was fascinated with mutilation, too. I told him I thought it was self-hatred in disguise. He said it got him off. I’m pretty conservative that way. It frustrated Vincente at times.”

  “What did he do about it?”

  “Put up with it, mostly. Now and then he went out alone. Sometimes he came back with injuries.”

  “What kind of injuries?”

  “Cuts mostly. Not that serious. He did need stitches once.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Did he tell you who had done it to him?”

  “I didn’t want to know. We had an arrangement. It worked. Sort of. God—” Stefano teared up. “Sorry.”

  “No. Take your time.”

  “I’m okay. Go ahead.”

  “Can you tell us the name of some of these clubs where Vincente used to go?”

  “Sure. Give me a minute.” He went into another room.

  Natalia and Angelina made eye contact but didn’t speak. Angelina looked down to write something in her notebook; Natalia surveyed the room. A tidy man, Stefano—everything orderly. A mural of giant yellow blossoms adorned a wall. Beneath it a pitcher of wild flowers artfully arranged and color coordinated, the leaves stripped from the stems, not crammed in as Natalia would have done. A man who liked order and wore slippers inside to keep his floors pristine. Was he, like Director Garducci, made angry if things didn’t go neatly? From the window, a view of rooftops and the cathedral across the street. Peaceful.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It took me a minute.” He handed Natalia a sheet of linen stationery listing the clubs.

  “I found receipts for the clubs and this art place—CAM, it’s called. The director is—was—a friend of Vincente’s. He came to a couple of our dinner parties. I don’t think there was anything between them, though I’m not sure. Anyway, he knows all about the gay scene in Naples and psycho-sexual art. His gallery is at the heart of it.”

  Natalia folded the list and put it in her bag. “Are you aware the other murder victim, Carlo Bagnatti, left his worldly possessions to Vincente?”

  “The gossip columnist?”

  “Yes, the tabloid reporter.”

  “No.”

  “So you’re unaware that you are the named second beneficiary in the event of Vincente Lattaruzzo’s demise?”

  “I’m at a total loss. Why would Bagnatti have me in his will? I’ve never even met the man.”

  “Yes, it is curious. Well, I’m sure his executor will be in touch. Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry if we upset you.”

  “No. It’s all right. My doctor said I shouldn’t repress it, so this is good. I’m trying to cope with it, you know? There are good days and bad.”

  Back on the street, Natalia paused at the car and looked back at Stefano Grappi’s building.

  “What do you think?” Angelina said.

  “I don’t know what to think. He’s either innocent, or he’s a good actor.”

  Natalia drove them to Casoria and the gallery that Stefano had indicated did cutting edge performance pieces involving homoerotic themes. The CAM Gallery stood tucked in between a couple of factories on a nondescript block at the edge of the financial district. Trucks occupied most of the street, but they found enough space to park right by the ornate front emblazoned with street art done in competing styles.

  “What do you have to be to get in here,” Angelina said, “a muscle builder?” as she tugged on a thick iron bar camouflaged amongst the scrawl of graffiti. Entering, they stepped into one large room with high ceilings—an enormous white cube. The walls appeared empty of art, other than for something hanging on the far side of the room. While Natalia answered her phone, Angelina went ahead to look. A few moments later, Natalia followed, gazing at the single art piece as she crossed the empty, open space.

  It was a reverse mirror, its frame made of crushed bottle caps. As Natalia approached, her reflection receded into it until she darkened and disappeared.

  “Infinity,” someone said.

  They hadn’t heard him come up. Shorter than Natalia, the skinny man wore a ubiquitous black t-shirt and tight fitting black pants and, on his face, round tortoise-shell glasses.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it? It’s Paolo Vertucci. He’s going to be big. I’m Domenico Bertolli,” he said, maintaining eye contact.

  “Captain Natalia Monte. My associate, Angelina Cavatelli. We’re here about Vincente Lattaruzzo … and this man.” She held up a morgue photo of Carlo Bagnatti. “Do you recognize him?”

  “Afraid not, no. How may I be of use?”

  “You had a show,” Angelina said and looked up from her notes. “Back in November, wasn’t it? ‘Homo Sapiens’?”

  “Two performance pieces and the rest … photographic studies.”

  “There was some protest,” she said. “A couple of officers from the municipal vice squad put in an appearance.”

  Domenico Bertolli looked miffed. “Yes, well, so far Italy is not a police state, try
as it might. Where are we going with this? I’m quite busy today.”

  Angelina held up a hand. “There were images in the show involving genital mutilation. Any chance we can see them?”

  “Sold out, I’m afraid. They’re in the hands of private individuals. So, no, it would not be convenient.”

  “Convenience isn’t really of consequence,” Natalia said. “We’ll need the names of the owners then and the photographer. According to the press coverage, he was anonymous.”

  “And still is. The artist prefers to remain unknown.”

  “Surely not to you.”

  “Au contraire. I am equally in the dark.”

  “How were arrangements made?”

  “Through a third party. Look, I’m sure the exhibition isn’t relevant to your investigation. So what’s this about?”

  “That’s not your call,” Angelina said.

  Natalia said, “No artist named, no provenance. How did that affect pricing?”

  Domenico shrugged. “Fifty-thousand euros a print.”

  “My, my. And no one batted an eyelash?” Natalia remarked. “Were you and Vincente Lattaruzzo lovers?”

  She’d switched gears. Angelina cast her a furtive glance. Bertolli seemed surprised, too.

  “Is that pertinent?” he snapped, irritation turning to hostility.

  “What do you think?” Asshole. Natalia almost said it out loud. “Did you have relations with him?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Which?”

  “I don’t keep track of every dalliance.”

  “Any rough play?”

  “None of your business. However, generally I prefer my anatomy whole, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Was Vincente Lattaruzzo in any of the photographs?” she said.

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You must have some record, if only a set of contact prints or Polaroids.”

  Domenico ushered them into his office just off the gallery and reached into his lower desk drawer. Out came an oversize catalogue.

  “I want it back.”

  Angelina snatched it up. “We’ll be in touch.”

  They marched back across the gallery in step like soldiers, their footfalls sounding in the hollow space.

  “Creep,” Angelina said as they walked out to the car. “You think he was involved?”

  “No, though you can’t rule him out automatically. Damn. The list of suspects is supposed to be narrowing. Instead it’s growing. You want to drive?”

  “Sure.” Angelina came around to the driver’s side. “I may need some navigational assistance.”

  “No problem.” Natalia slid into the passenger’s seat.

  “I’ve never understood modern art.” Angelina said. They snapped their seatbelts in place, and Angelina started the engine. “Am I missing something?”

  “Don’t judge by that. You should have had my favorite professor. Cesa loved art—the more modern, the better. Before her, I wouldn’t look at anything past the Impressionists. She really opened my eyes. You should have seen the woman: combat boots, frothy blouses, wild hair. One of just a handful of female professors at the university. Her ‘Sexuality in Art’ lectures had a waiting list every term.”

  Natalia hadn’t thought of Cesa in a long while. She had been pushed out by the cabal of male professors who ran the department.

  “My Giuletta took some painting courses in college,” Angelina said. “She’s always trying to drag me to galleries. I said to her: ‘What’s wrong with my liking just Caravaggio?’ ”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah. But I should try to be more open-minded, no? Broaden my horizons? Plus, maybe it would help the relationship.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Nah. Couples are work, right?”

  “I’m not sure I remember,” Natalia said, as Angelina eased the car out of their parking spot. “Listen, get in touch with Vincente Lattaruzzo’s literary agent and get a copy of his manuscript. And run a history on CAM and Mr. Creepy Domenico Bertolli.”

  “My pleasure,” Angelina said. “Why is it you never hear about lesbians mutilating one another to get off?”

  “Superior gender.”

  “Precisely, Captain Monte.”

  Natalia pushed the air conditioning button up a notch. “A promiscuous young man, Vincente.”

  “Stefano may have been in denial,” Angelina said, “and jealous of Garducci. Then again, Garducci sacrificed his straight life and his marriage only to find he had committed himself to Vincente Lattaruzzo, a man still involved with his domestic partner and maybe others, like Domenico Bertolli at the gallery and the gossip columnist who shared his last moments, Bagnatti.”

  “You’re saying maybe one of his paramours got jealous, trapped Vincente in bondage sex-play with another and took his vengeance.”

  Natalia exhaled, lips pursed, thinking.

  “Any or all of his lovers may have felt betrayed and angered by the late Vincente Lattaruzzo. We don’t even know all his partners.”

  “He seems like the type to have had a lot of anonymous encounters,” Angelina said. “Hard to trace.”

  They drove through the town center, past a large building with an enormous gate. Two policemen in blue jackets and teal trousers stood guard on either side of a pole that bore a huge heraldic flag.

  “Casoria City Hall,” Natalia announced. “Turn here. It’s a shortcut to the highway.”

  Angelina braked sharply, and the car veered into a narrow cobbled street that seemed to have no reason for its existence other than to show off the blue flowering vines that covered the backs of ancient houses. Two old men at a tiny café touched their caps as the car rolled past.

  “Probably can’t see well enough to make us as female Carabinieri,” Angelina giggled. “Their hearts wouldn’t have stood the shock.”

  “Pretty spot, isn’t it?” Natalia said.

  “Reminds me of Sicily.” Angelina shifted and sped up.

  “Miss it?” Natalia glanced over.

  “It will be better for the two of us here,” Angelina said. “Palermo is a fishbowl, yet so much remains hidden and will always be so.”

  “Don’t think it’s any different here,” Natalia said. She thumbed through the catalogue.

  “What are you seeing?” Angelina said.

  “Penises and hedge clippers. Penises and razor blades. A crucified scrotum, pinned to plywood.” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, my.”

  “What?” Angelina said.

  Natalia held it up.

  Angelina, driving, shook her head. “I can’t look. Tell me.”

  “Two naked men, masked, cavorting astride a marble horse. I think the one in front may be Vincente. He’s lying flat on the back of this huge stone horse, and he’s got a gag in his mouth that’s being used as a bit by the one behind, who appears to be buggering him.”

  Angelina reached over and drew the hand and catalogue closer to quickly glance. “Wow.”

  “It’s not exactly the look of the victims in the contessa’s garden, but it may well have inspired the killers.”

  “Killers? Plural. It’s official?”

  “It’s been pretty certain from the start if you think about it.”

  Back at the station, they hung up their hats and uniform jackets and examined the catalogue more closely. Most images were black and white, the tones muted, figures shadowed. Others were focused and vividly clear. One showed a crumbling wall and a niche with a skull and bones. Taken in the city’s underground? Possibly. The police had become more rigorous about controlling access to the vast subterranean structures below Naples. Since the Greeks it had remained a repository of myth and bones. Modern artifacts accumulated, too, from the war years when the city was bombed, and the populace took shelter in the vast underground caverns and tunnels and the ossuaries beneath churches. Self-appointed urban archeologists snuck in regularly to search for personal ar
ticles left behind during the war, like old Zenith radios, love letters, a Doro tricycle ridden through the dank caverns by someone’s child as war raged above.

  Natalia remembered Marshal Cervino’s story of a German couple arrested the previous summer at Fiumicino Airport. At the bottom of their luggage, wrapped in a Gucci scarf, the customs men had discovered a cache of fascist memorabilia and a child’s skull.

  “Incredible,” Natalia said, looking at the catalogue.

  “What?” Angelina leaned over to see. It was a photographic study of someone with a clerical collar—and little else—being masturbated, while a naked devil used a cross on him as a dildo. She gasped. “It’s titled ‘Sacrilege.’ ”

  “Appropriately enough.”

  Natalia was surprised the exhibit hadn’t gotten anyone arrested or stirred more controversy in the press. But could these images have gotten people killed? Were they meant as social commentary? A stab at church clergy? No wonder Domenico had been so defensive.

  “I wonder how the tabloids missed this,” Angelina said, coming again to the photograph of Vincente being sodomized on a marble horse.

  Natalia slipped the catalogue into her desk and locked it. “Don’t even whisper that in here. Walls have ears in Naples.”

  Chapter 10

  They convened in Dr. Agari’s oddly pleasant and warm office at the morgue, its air filled with the rich fragrance of coffee and chemicals. The decor colors were all warm: rust and beige, interspersed with scarlet curtains and cadmium blue cushions. Natalia and Angelina settled themselves on a comfortable couch. Angelina hated mortuaries but found the pathologist’s office pleasant, she explained, in contrast to the gurneys and grim steel desks and fluorescent lights of the coroner’s office in Palermo.

  Dr. Agari looked lovely in a violet silk blouse and white skirt. Also exhausted and stressed.

  “What’s wrong?” Natalia said.

  “Nothing. I just had to reattach a head. Not my favorite thing.”

  Angelina grimaced. “They catch the perpetrator?”

  “No, no. This was from a horrendous traffic accident,” said Dr. Agari. “Also, modern embalming and body preparation is so demanding. Not like the old days. They’d remove the entrails, bathe the body in lemon water, fill the body cavity with straw and were done. They didn’t have to reattach many heads.”