Kill the Father

by Sandrone Dazieri

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” Dante looked down into the street: the man in the jacket had almost exited his line of sight. Another twenty minutes, and he’d be gone.

  “The little girl says that her father sexually molested her.”

  “Do we still have to talk about this?” asked Dante.

  “Yes, until you’ve convinced me.”

  Dante huffed in exasperation. “Does the girl show any physical signs of abuse?”

  “No. But the stories she tells are detailed. And everyone that’s talked to her so far is convinced she’s telling the truth.”

  Dante drained the cup once again, put it back under the spout, and started a third cup of espresso. He used caffeine to help manage his benzodiazepine. “She doesn’t know she’s lying. And that’s not me saying it. It’s DeYoung, von Klitzing, Haugaard, Elterman and Ehrenberg, Ackerman, Kane, and Piaget,” he said, reeling off the names in a monotone.

  “Psychologists and psychiatrists. I know them. To become a lawyer, you have to study . . .”

  “Then you ought to know that children the age of your non-client’s daughter have only one way of distinguishing between the truth and lies. The truth is whatever their parents approve. Lies are whatever make them unhappy. And they’re eminently capable of remembering things they never experienced; you just have to ask them the right way. In the eighties, Stephen J. Ceci—”

  “That’s one I don’t know.”

  “He’s a psychologist, too, a professor at Cornell University, and he studies the accuracy of children‘s courtroom testimony. In one study, Ceci asked a group of children to concentrate and remember that one time they hurt their finger, by getting it caught in a mousetrap. It hadn’t happened to any of the children, but when questioned in the weeks that followed, nearly all of them remembered it and embroidered on the details. That their finger had bled, that the mouse had run away . . . Do I need to go on?”

  “No. And you’re saying the mother prompted her?”

  “You can see it in the video.”

  “All you can see is her hands.”

  “Hands that are clutching the girl’s shoulders before her answer accusing her father. And then the hands relax and caress her. First tension, then reward. The girl realizes she’s doing well and continues. The expert is having the wool pulled over her eyes. Or maybe we should say, the coconut mat, since she’s a vegan, just like the mother.”

  “How can you tell that the girl’s mother is a vegan?” asked Minutillo, sincerely astonished.

  “In the video you can see her handbag, a model produced by a vegan manufacturer using vegetan instead of leather. Cruelty free. It’s hard to know these things even exist unless you’re an insider, like me.”

  “Now you’re just taking stabs in the dark.”

  “The little girl is consuming a meat-free diet. The father included that fact as a reason for his request for custody, saying that a vegetarian diet was cruel to the child, even though that’s unmistakable bullshit. That was in the documents you sent me.”

  “And you read them?”

  “As much as I needed to. Okay, then? Can I send you my invoice?”

  “For ten minutes of work?”

  “They’ll be the ten most expensive minutes of your life.”

  Someone rang the doorbell. Dante said good-bye to the lawyer, went silently over to the door, and looked through the peephole.

  On the landing, he saw a woman who looked a little over thirty, with a serious look on her face. She wore a pair of tight jeans and a light-colored jacket that stretched over her swimmer’s shoulders. She looked strong enough to bend a steel bar. Dante shivered. He didn’t know who the woman was, but he was certain of one thing: she was bringing trouble.

  2

  To avoid surprise visits, Dante had put the apartment in Minutillo’s name and gave out the address to only a very small and select group of people. He’d made that decision after the father of a missing boy had stubbornly stood downstairs from the terrace of his old apartment, shouting and sobbing.

  The woman placed one green eye against the peephole, and Dante realized that she’d seen his shadow moving behind the door. “Signor Torre,” she said. “I’m Deputy Captain Caselli. I need to talk to you.”

  She had a slightly hoarse voice, which Dante would have found sexy if it weren’t a cop’s voice. He slid the chain into place and pulled the door open a cautious crack.

  Colomba gave him a level look, then pulled out her ID and put it in front of his nose. “Buongiorno.”

  “Can I take a closer look?” asked Dante.

  Colomba shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  Dante took it with his good hand and pretended to examine it closely. He had no talent for catching counterfeit IDs, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. He wanted to see how Colomba reacted. She didn’t seem concerned about his examination. Most likely, she was exactly what she claimed to be. Dante gave her back her ID. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. I just need a few minutes of your time.”

  “What for?”

  “I’d prefer to discuss that inside,” Colomba replied patiently.

  “But I don’t have to, do I? I could just tell you no and there’s nothing you could do. You wouldn’t kick down my door.”

  “Absolutely not.” Colomba smiled, and Dante was struck by the way her face changed for an instant, losing all its hardness. Even if it was fake, it was still a nice smile. “But if I were you, I’d be curious to know what I wanted.”

  “I think that if you were me, you wouldn’t have even answered the doorbell,” said Dante.

  Colomba stiffened, and Dante understood that he’d touched a sore spot. He’d done it on purpose, but he still felt oddly guilty. To get rid of the sensation, he stuck his bad hand into his pocket and let her in.

  Colomba made an effort not to change her expression at the sight of the mess in the apartment, but she was unsuccessful.

  Dante headed for the kitchen, zigzagging past the books. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee if you like,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  He pointed her to the table in the living room. “Clear off a chair and sit down. How do you like it? Full-bodied, rich, aromatic . . .”

  “I usually drink instant, so anything’s good for me.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” To make up for his rudeness of just a short while ago, Dante added to the blend a handful of Kopi Luwak beans, light roasted. The beans were gathered after the Indonesian palm civet ate the coffee cherries and defecated the partly digested beans. Connoisseurs considered it the finest coffee on Earth for its fruity aftertaste and absence of bitterness, and it was certainly the most expensive and the hardest to find. He had it sent to him by courier, like nearly everything else. “I don’t know if you normally take yours with sugar, but this variety doesn’t need it,” he said, closing the lid of the machine, which started the coffee grinder. “Something not right?” he asked.

  Colomba nodded. Her eyes had turned hard as marbles, and looked even greener than ever. “Would you mind taking your left hand out of your pocket, please?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I noticed that you’ve kept it in your pocket ever since I came in. Even when you could have used it. For example, to open the can of coffee.”

  That was true, of course. Dante kept his bad hand hidden whenever he met someone, a habit that was something he couldn’t help.

  Colomba’s body language was clearly expressing imminent danger. She’d instinctively pushed one foot forward and was holding her arms slightly flexed. Her right hand was clenched around the handle of her purse, as if she were ready to throw it in his face. “Please,” she said again.

  “As you wish,” said Dante, raising his bad hand so she could see it clearly. It was a mass of scar tissue. Only his thumb and forefinger worked, while the other fingers were clasped shut, much smaller than normal, and devoid of fingernails.

  Col
omba had seen a hand like that once, on an ex-con who’d had it mangled in an accident in an industrial laundry facility. “I apologize,” she said, looking away. “I just woke up a little on edge this morning.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Accustomed to reading even the faintest of signs in those he spoke to, Dante understand that Colomba’s nervousness was anything but momentary. She’d been the victim of something. Some kind of violence, an on-duty incident? Interesting, he decided. He went back to working with the coffee cups. With a black robe that was too big for him and his fair hair slicked back, still wet from the shower, he reminded Colomba very much of David Bowie in a science fiction movie she’d once seen.

  The aroma of coffee spread across the room. Dante took a seat across from Colomba and set down two modern-looking designer demitasses. Just to put the finishing touch on things, I could break his cup, she thought, but she managed to get the coffee to her lips without any further damage. Her head was spinning, and she felt terribly on display. Until two days ago, she’d avoided even her closest friends, and now she was trading idle chitchat in the home of a perfect stranger. “Good,” she lied. It was too weak for her taste.

  “I thank you,” Dante replied, with a half smile. “I’m not ashamed of my poor hand.” To prove it, he held it up and turned it in front of her face: the scars on the back of the hand formed an intricate network. “I usually hide it just to avoid having to answer the questions it prompts. Even though most people are too kind and polite to ask. Or else they already know what happened to me and don’t need to ask.” He smiled again. “But you belong to a third category.” Dante’s eyes glittered. “What do you know about me?”

  “Are you giving me the third degree? Or is it just a topic you’re fond of?”

  Dante smiled. He had gleaming white teeth. “Let’s say it helps to save time.”

  Colomba decided that after her gaffe, she couldn’t refuse. “You’re from Cremona. You were born in 1972. In November of 1978, at the age of six, while you were playing alone in a construction site behind the building where you lived, you were kidnapped by one or more unknown persons. You weren’t capable of remembering what happened, and no one saw anything.”

  “There was a door that led from the cellar under my apartment building to the field where we used to play. I must have been taken somewhere along the way and probably drugged,” said Dante.

  Colomba nodded. “You were held prisoner for eleven years, most of the time in a cement silo next to a farmhouse in the province of Cremona.”

  “Not most of the time. The whole time. The town is Acquanegra Cremonese, a nice archaic name.”

  “You’re right. In 1989, you managed to escape from your captor. He killed himself. His name was Antonio Bodini, and he was a farmer.”

  “Bodini owned the farmhouse, and he certainly did commit suicide, but he didn’t kidnap me. Or at least he didn’t hold me prisoner.”

  Colomba narrowed her eyes in surprise. “I didn’t think I was wrong on that point.”

  “You aren’t the one who was wrong. It’s the person who investigated the case. I looked my captor in the face, and he didn’t look a bit like Bodini.”

  “Why didn’t they believe you?”

  “Because all the evidence pointed right at Bodini, because he killed himself, because I was in a mental state that . . . let’s just say was anything but easy.”

  “But you’re still convinced of what you say.”

  “Yes.”

  “They investigated, in a hunt for accomplices,” Colomba said, cautiously.

  “And they didn’t find any. I know. But go on with your account, I was just starting to enjoy it.”

  “I don’t have a lot left to add. You changed your last name, taking your mother’s maiden name. You traveled a bit and got yourself into some trouble. You have a criminal record for brawling, disorderly conduct, assault and battery, and unauthorized possession of a weapon.”

  “It was a Taser, which in many countries is sold legally.”

  “But not in this one. Over the past eight years, you’ve calmed down. No more criminal complaints.” Colomba looked him in the eye. “Is that enough?”

  Dante let himself slump back into his chair. He was struck by the fact that Colomba had never looked at notes. Good memory, solid preparation. “You know a lot of things about me, but you didn’t know about the hand.”

  “Maybe I just missed that.”

  “You couldn’t have missed anything like that. Not you. No, quite simply, the documents you read made no mention of it.” Dante flashed a smile that looked more like a sneer. “You see, the hand made me too recognizable, especially in a small town like Cremona. The family court chose not to publish the detail.” Dante stared at her. “Which makes me think you didn’t have access to the documents in the district attorney’s office. And there’s another strange thing. Do you want to know what that is?”

  Colomba didn’t, but she nodded anyway. “Sure.”

  “You’re on administrative leave.”

  “How can you tell that?”

  “You’re not armed. I might not see the gun if you wore it behind your back, but a person who’s armed and well trained tends to keep their dominant hand next to the holster if they think they’re in danger. But you grabbed the handle of your purse. And a deputy captain goes everywhere armed, unless they’re on vacation or on administrative leave. Am I wrong?”

  Colomba shook her head. “No.”

  “On administrative leave, not fully informed . . . Are you here for some personal reason?”

  Colomba tried to keep her expression unchanged. “Yes.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, which means you’re slightly ashamed of it. But let’s skip over that detail, for now. What do you want from me?”

  “A child is missing, up at the Vivaro mountain meadows.”

  “A woman murdered, her husband in a jail cell. I heard the news.” Dante was doing his best to conceal it, but it hit him hard. “Whoever it was that sent you to see me thinks the man’s innocent, but someone else involved in this investigation disagrees, probably the investigating magistrate. And since the father has no way of knowing what’s become of his son and this probably isn’t a kidnapping for ransom, you want my help finding him.”

  Colomba’s head was spinning. “You’re an expert on missing persons.”

  “According to you.”

  “You’ve worked on at least two kidnappings for ransom, five others involving psychological abuse, and I don’t know how many other cases of voluntary abandonment. You solved every one. You sometimes work on cases of child abuse.”

  Dante cracked his usual, humorless grin. “Can you prove that?”

  “Of course not. You hide behind the law firm, which in turn hires private investigators and operates under cover of attorney-client privilege. Still, word does get around, and the people who sent me here have heard about you. And what they’ve heard is that you’re good at what you do.”

  Dante shook his head. “I’ve just made good use of my own experience.”

  “As a kidnap victim?”

  “You see, Agent Colomba, for eleven years, the most critical years in any human being’s development, I lived in total isolation except for occasional interactions with my kidnapper. No books, no TV, no radio. When I got out, the world was incomprehensible to me. Ordinary social exchanges appeared alien, as alien as you might find life in an anthill.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Colomba, and she meant it.

  “Thanks, but spare me the condolences. While I was studying the world outside, I realized that I understood certain workings of that world better than people who had grown up in it. To see something clearly, you need the right distance. And I had that distance, through no choice of my own. I can summon it even now, when I need it. I can see if something’s altered in a missing person’s daily habits, I can sense what they love and what they fear just by observing the way they arrange their personal effects. Whether someone or something has inte
rrupted the normal course of their lives.”

  “And you read body language, the way you did with me.”

  Dante nodded. “My kidnapper always wore gloves and kept his face covered. I tried to read his posture to tell if I was doing the right thing or if he was about to punish me. If he was telling the truth when he promised me I’d have food or water to drink. I used it to find the people you mentioned. There was always someone who knew more than they told, and I could see that. But a prosecutor isn’t likely to want me as an expert witness. Aside from the fact that the last thing I want is to be in the spotlight again.”

  “All I’m asking for is a private consultation,” said Colomba. “Your name could be kept out of it.”

  “No, Agent Colomba. There are two things I won’t do: become involved in a case directly or work with the police. And you’re asking me to do both.” Dante stood up and extended his good hand. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. Come back and see me, and I’ll be glad to make you another espresso.”

  Colomba didn’t budge, and Dante grimaced faintly. It was like a crack through which she could briefly see him for what he was. A victim who had painstakingly rebuilt a life for himself, gluing the pieces back together after experiencing the unimaginable. I ought to leave, Colomba thought. That would be the right thing to do. But she couldn’t. “Signor Torre,” she said. “Now please let me have my say.”

  Dante sat back down, reluctantly.

  “I want to begin by saying once again how sorry I am,” Colomba went on. “With all that’s happened to you, you deserve to be left in peace for the rest of your life.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t pity me. It’s one thing I can’t stand.”

  “I just want to be straight with you. I dislike this situation every bit as much as you do. I’m not accustomed to involving civilians in police investigations, and I don’t like behind-the-scenes maneuvering.”

  “That comes as a surprise.”

  “While we’re on the subject, believe me, the only reason I drank that coffee squeezed out of some squirrel’s butt was to be polite. That’s right, I saw the name on the bag, and even though I’m just a cop, I know what Kopi Luwak is. I know how much it costs, too, before you try and throw that fact in my face.”