“I don’t . . . I don’t understand...”
“Did you become a father or not?”
Fabio Giacchetti lit up.
“Yes. A boy.”
“Congratulations. Tell me something: How old do you think the woman was?”
Fabio Giacchetti smiled.
“About thirty, Inspector. Tall, dark, and very attractive. Clearly upset, but very attractive.”
“Where did she get out?”
“At the corner of Via Serpotta and Via Guttuso.”
“So you’ve learned the names of all the streets in Vigàta after only three months?”
Fabio Giacchetti blushed.
“No . . . it’s just that . . . when the lady got out . . . I looked at the names of the streets.”
“Why?”
Fabio Giacchetti blazed red.
“Well, you know . . . instinctively...”
Instinctively indeed! Fabio Giacchetti had looked for the street names because the woman appealed to him and he would have liked to meet her again. A devoted husband, happy father, and potential adulterer.
“Listen, Mr. Giacchetti, you’ve just told me that at first you had thought it might be a hit-and-run incident, and then, after talking to the woman, you both agreed that it was some sort of dangerous, stupid prank. And now you’re here, talking to me. Why? Did you change your mind again?”
Fabio Giacchetti hesitated.
“Well, it’s not that I . . . but, there is something...”
“Something that doesn’t make sense to you?”
“Well, you see, when I was at the hospital, waiting for Elena to give birth, I thought again about what had happened . . . Not for any particular reason, but just to distract myself . . . When the car that had aimed at the woman stopped, I instinctively slowed down . . . and at that moment, it looked to me as if the man at the wheel leaned out the window on the passenger’s side and said something to the woman in the ditch . . . Whereas, logically speaking, he should have driven away in a hurry . . . He was taking a huge risk . . . I could read his license plate number, for example...”
“Did you?”
“Yes, but then I forgot it. It began with CE. Perhaps, if I ever saw the car again . . . And then I had the impression, but I don’t know whether...”
“Tell me.”
“I had the impression the woman talked to me about what had just happened only because I had witnessed it and started talking about it myself. I don’t know if I’ve made myself clear.”
“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. The woman had no desire to go over the incident.”
“Precisely, Inspector.”
“One last question. You got the impression that the man at the wheel had said something to the woman . . . Could you better explain why you had this impression?”
“Because I saw the man’s head poke out of the passengerside window.”
“Couldn’t he perhaps have stopped only to see what sort of condition the woman was in?”
“I would rule that out. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he said something to her. You see, he made a gesture with his hand, as if to emphasize what he was saying.”
“What kind of gesture?”
“I didn’t get a good look; but I did see his hand outside the window, that much I know.”
“But the woman didn’t tell you he had said anything to her.”
“No.”
He repeated to Fazio, who turned up late that morning, the story Giacchetti had told him.
“Chief, what can we do about it if some drunk behind the wheel gets his jollies scaring a lady by pretending to run her over?”
“So you’re of the opinion that it was a bad joke? Mind you, that’s also the interpretation the beautiful stranger tried to convince the banker of.”
“You don’t agree?”
“Let me speculate a little. Couldn’t it have been attempted murder?”
Fazio looked doubtful.
“In the presence of witnesses, Chief? Giacchetti was right behind him.”
“Excuse me, Fazio, but if he’d killed her, what could Giacchetti have done?”
“Well, for starters, he could have taken down the license plate number.”
“And what if it was a stolen car?”
Fazio didn’t answer.
“No, this whole thing stinks to me,” Montalbano continued.
“But why?”
“Because he didn’t kill her, Fazio. Because he only wanted to scare her. And not as a joke. He stopped, said something to the woman, and then left. And the woman did everything possible to downplay the matter.”
“Listen, Chief, if it’s the way you say it is, couldn’t the person in the car have been, I dunno, a jilted lover or suitor?”
“Maybe. And that’s what worries me. He might try again and seriously injure or kill her.”
“You want me to look into it?”
“Yes, but don’t waste too much time on it. The whole thing might turn out to be nothing.”
“Where did this lady ask to be dropped off?”
“At the corner of Via Serpotta and Via Guttuso.”
Fazio winced.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like Guttuso?”
“I don’t like that neighborhood, Chief. That’s where the rich people live.”
“Don’t you like rich people? What is this, anyway? You used to accuse me of being an angry Communist, and now you—”
“Communism’s got nothing to do with it, Chief. The fact is that rich people are always a pain in the ass. They’re hard to deal with; you say one word too many and they clam up.”
“Ah, Chief, the Signorina Zita’s onna line an’ wants a talk to yiz poissonally in poisson.”
“And who’s this Zita?”
“You kiddin’ me, Chief?”
“No, Cat, I’m not. I don’t feel like talking to her.”
“You sure, Chief?”
“I’m sure.”
“Want me to tell ’er yer not onna premisses?”
“Tell her whatever the hell you want.”
Shortly before the inspector decided it was time to go eat, Mimì Augello came in. He looked fairly well rested. But he was gloomy.
“How are you feeling, Mimì?”
“I’ve still got a bit of fever, but I feel well enough to be up. I wanted to know what you intend to do.”
“About what?”
“Salvo, don’t pretend you don’t understand. I’m referring to the body in the bag. Let’s make things perfectly clear; that way there won’t be any misunderstandings or mistakes. Are you going to handle the case, or am I?”
“Sorry, but I really don’t understand. Who’s the head of this department, you or me?”
“If you put it that way, then it’s clear we have nothing to say to each other. The case is yours by rights.”
“Mimì, may I ask what’s got into you? Lately haven’t I let you operate with total autonomy? Haven’t I given you more and more space? What is your gripe?”
“That’s true. You used to stick your nose into everything and break everyone’s balls, whereas now you’re a little less meddlesome. In fact you often let me do the investigating.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Yes, but investigate what? Basically chickenshit. Supermarket burglaries, holdups at the post office...”
“And what about the murder of Dr. Calì?”
“Come on! We practically caught Mrs. Calì with the gun still warm in her hand! Some investigation, that! The present case is different. The body in the bag is one of those challenges that can make you feel like working again.”
“So?”
“I don’t want you to give me the case only to take it away from me later on. I want an explicit agreement, okay?”
“Mimì, I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”
“Goodbye, Salvo,” said Augello, turning his back and leaving the room.
What on earth was wrong with Mimì? He’d been in a
foul mood for over a month now. Nervous, often silent, always ready to take offense over the slightest remark. At certain moments you could tell he wasn’t all there, his mind far away. Clearly something was eating away at him. Was this what married life with Beba had come to? And yet in the early going he had seemed so happy, especially over the birth of his son. Surely Livia could tell him something about this. She and Beba had become very good friends and often talked over the phone.
He left the station and drove off towards Enzo’s trattoria. On the way, however, he realized that his talk with Mimì had killed his appetite. It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d had an argument, and on a few occasions things had even turned ugly. This time, however, he’d noticed a different tone in Mimì’s words. The real purpose of their discussion was not to determine who would handle the investigation. No, the real purpose was something else: Mimì had simply wanted to have it out with him. Just as he’d done with Ajena the day before. He was looking to let off steam. Looking for a pretext to spew out all the black bile he had building up inside him.
When he got home, Montalbano sat down on the veranda and made like a lizard in the sun.
That afternoon, before returning to the station, he phoned Catarella.
“Has Dr. Pasquano called for me?”
“Nossir, Chief.”
He hung up and dialed another number.
“Montalbano here. Is Dr. Pasquano there?”
“Well, he’s here, Inspector, as far as that goes. But I don’t know if he can come to the telephone. He’s working.”
“Try.”
While waiting, he reviewed the multiplication table for seven, which was the hardest for him.
“What a colossal pain in the ass you are, Inspector! What the hell do you want?” Pasquano began, with the gentle courtesy for which he was famous.
“Have you done the autopsy?”
“Which one? The little girl who had her throat slit? The drowned Moroccan? The peasant who was shot? The—”
“The man found chopped to pieces in a garbage bag.”
“Yes.”
“Could you—”
“No.”
“What if I came to see you in half an hour?”
“Make that an hour.”
When he arrived and asked for Pasquano, an assistant replied that the doctor was still busy and had given instructions to have the inspector wait for him in his office.
The first thing Montalbano noticed on Pasquano’s desk, between the papers and photographs of murder victims, was a cardboard pastry-shop tray full of giant cannoli and a bottle of Pantelleria raisin wine and a glass beside it. Pasquano had a notorious sweet tooth. The inspector bent down to smell the cannoli: fresh as could be. So he poured himself a bit of the sweet wine into the glass, grabbed a cannolo and started scarfing it down while contemplating the landscape through the open window.
The sun lit up the colors in the valley, making them stand out sharply against the blue sea in the distance. God, or whoever was acting in his stead, had assumed the guise of a naïf painter here. On the horizon, a flock of seagulls frolicked about, pretending to squabble among themselves in a parade of nosedives, veers, and pull-ups that looked exactly like an aerobatics show. He watched their maneuvers, spellbound.
Having finished the first cannolo, he took another.
“I see you’ve helped yourself,” said Pasquano, coming in and grabbing one himself.
They ate in religious silence, the corners of their mouths smeared with ricotta cream. Which, by the rules, must be removed with a slow, circular movement of the tongue.
4
“So, what can you tell me, Doctor?” the inspector asked after they had drunk a bit of sweet wine, passing the only available glass back and forth.
“About what? The international situation? My hemorrhoids?”
“About the body in the bag.”
“Oh, that? It was a long and aggravating process. First I had to complete the puzzle.”
“The puzzle?”
“I had to piece the body back together, my friend. It had been dismembered, remember?”
“I do,” Montalbano replied, grinning.
“You find that amusing?”
“No, I find the verb you use amusing.”
“Dismember? You don’t like the rhyme with ‘remember’ ? Try to remember the man you dismembered . . . ,” the doctor sang. “If you prefer, I could use some other verb, like dice, quarter, butcher...”
“Let’s just say ‘chopped up.’ Into how many pieces?”
“Quite a few. They didn’t spare any effort in their butchery. They used a hatchet and a large, very sharp cleaver. First they killed him, and then—”
“How?”
“A single gunshot at the base of the skull.”
“When?”
“Let’s say two months ago, maximum. Then, as I was saying, they burned off his fingertips. After which they got down to work. With saintly patience they cut off all his fingers and toes and both ears, then smashed up his face to where it was unrecognizable, pulled out all his teeth, which we were unable to find, chopped off his head, hands, both legs all the way up to the groin, the right arm and forearm, but only the left forearm. Strange, isn’t it?”
“All this butchery, you mean?”
“No, the fact that they left the left upper arm. I wonder why they didn’t cut that off, too, while they were at it.”
“Have you found anything that might lead to a quick identification?”
“Not a fucking thing.”
“Speaking of which, Doctor: and the sex organ?”
“Not doing too badly, thank you very much. Nothing to worry about.”
“No, Doctor, what I mean is: Did they cut off his sex organ as well?”
“If they had, I would have mentioned it.”
“How old was he?”
“About forty.”
“Height?”
“Not less than five foot ten.”
“Non-European?”
“Hardly! One of ours.”
“Fat? Thin?”
“Trim and in excellent shape.”
“Can you tell me anything else?”
“Yes. When he was killed, he hadn’t yet evacuated.”
“Is that important?”
“It certainly is. Because we found something of potential importance in his stomach.”
“Namely?”
“He’d swallowed a bridge.”
Montalbano balked.
“What kind of bridge?”
“The Brooklyn Bridge.”
“What?”
“Has the dessert wine gone to your head, Montalbano? I’m talking about teeth. The bridge may have come loose while he was eating, and he may have swallowed it later by accident.”
The inspector thought about this a moment.
“Couldn’t the bridge have ended up in his stomach while they were mangling his face?”
“No, it would have remained in his mouth or throat. The body can’t swallow after it’s dead. He may have swallowed it during some trauma before he was shot.”
“What did you do with it?
“I sent it immediately to Forensics. You realize, however, that it’ll be months before they can tell us anything about it.”
“Right,” said Montalbano, discouraged.
“And don’t expect them to be able to tell you the name of the victim’s dentist, either.”
“Right,” Montalbano repeated, more disconsolate than ever.
“Want another cannolo?”
“No. Thanks anyway. I’ll be seeing you.”
“You will? I hope not to see you again for a good while,” said the doctor, sinking his teeth into a second cannolo.
But Pasquano had told him something of great importance. The man had been killed by a gunshot at the base of the skull. Execution style. With hands and feet bound, the poor bastard had been forced to kneel, and the executioner had fired a single shot into his brain.
It was as if the Mafia had actually left its signature.
But questions still remained. All of them. Who was he? Why was he killed? Why go to such trouble to make him unidentifiable? Why cut him into so many pieces? Certainly not to facilitate moving the body. There are other ways to do that. Like dissolving the body in acid. And why did they bury the body at ’u critaru under a foot of topsoil? Didn’t they know that with the first heavy rains the bag would be unearthed ? There was a rocky crag barely fifty yards farther up: under a pile of rocks the bag would never have been found.
No, it was clear that the killers wanted, after a certain amount of time had passed, for the body to be discovered.
“Ah, Chief Chief! Fazio tol’ me a tell yiz ’at the minute y’ got back I’s asposta tell ’im y’got back.”
“All right, then tell him and send him to my office.”
Fazio arrived at once.
“Before you say anything, let me talk first. I’ve been to see Pasquano.”
He told him what the doctor said.
“So, in conclusion,” said Fazio, “the victim was a forty-year-old man, five feet ten inches tall, and trim. Not much to get excited about. I’ll start looking into the disappearance reports.”
“Meanwhile tell me what you wanted to tell me.”
“Chief, the woman you wanted information on is called Dolores Alfano. She’s thirty-one, married without children, and lives at 12 Via Guttoso. She’s foreign, maybe Spanish. Alfano met her abroad when she was twenty, fell head over heels for her, and married her. And she is, in fact, a very beautiful woman.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, but every single man I talked to raved about her looks.”
“Does she have a car?”
“Yes. A Fiat Punto.”
“What does she do?”
“Nothing. Housewife.”
“What about the husband?”
“Sea captain. At the moment he’s sailing as first mate on a container ship. He’s been out of the country for the past few months. They say if the husband comes home four times a year it’s already a lot.”
“So, in theory, the poor girl is forced to go hungry. Did you hear anything to the contrary? Did anyone suggest that she fools around when the husband’s away?”
The Potter's Field Page 4
