Kill the Father

by Sandrone Dazieri

  She told herself no. There had to be another reason, something more powerful than the fondness that, Colomba felt sure, Rovere felt toward her, stronger than the loyalty he had always shown toward his direct and indirect reports, much more than toward his superior officers. And it certainly had nothing to do with any power struggle to take Santini’s job at the CIS. Now Colomba could clearly see that that had been a lie, a way to get her to stop wondering about the real reasons that were driving him. Rovere had been willing to have her think he was an envious, despicable careerist, as long as it got her involved. If he hadn’t been killed, Colomba would have quit the game, but now she knew she had to take up his legacy, however heavy the burden.

  And while she was thinking about how to carry on, the shadow of a man in a lab coat loomed up between her and the window, through which came pouring the last rays of the setting sun. It was Tirelli, and he was looking at her tenderly.

  “Mario, what are you doing wearing a lab coat?”

  Tirelli smiled, putting his stick of licorice back into his chest pocket. “Have you forgotten that I’m a doctor?” He stepped closer to take a good look at her. “Let me see how you’re doing. Your pupils look fine . . . Raise your eyes toward the ceiling . . . Now to the right . . .”

  Colomba moved uncomfortably. “You’re not thinking of giving me an examination . . .”

  “Is there some problem?”

  “Just the fact that your patients are usually dead.”

  “I have other specialties, little lady. But I’ll admit that I’m at my best working with cold bodies.” His expression turned sad. “They asked me to perform the autopsy on Rovere, but . . . I preferred to leave the job to my assistants.”

  The tears that Colomba had successfully choked back over the past several hours welled up again. “How did he die?”

  “From massive hemorrhaging due to a lesion to the superior mesenteric artery. A metal fragment ran him through.”

  Colomba blew her nose on a Kleenex. “Did he suffer?”

  “Not much. And I’m not saying it just to comfort you. He had a serious lesion to his spinal cord; he was numb from the sternum down. And he didn’t die alone.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “Your friend. Signor Torre. He stayed with him. When the first responders got upstairs, he was sitting there holding Rovere’s head.”

  Colomba was stunned. “Dante went in?”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember?”

  “Nothing. But Dante is afraid of closed places, so you can imagine how he’d feel about going into an apartment house in flames . . . How did he bring himself to do it?”

  Tirelli caressed her face. “Maybe he had a good reason. He made sure someone carried you out of there.”

  “God . . .” Everything seemed even more surreal to her. “Mario, you have to give me a hand.”

  Tirelli sat down in the chair from which De Angelis had delivered his little speech just a few hours ago. “With what?”

  “Dante was right. The Father was behind the kidnapping of the Maugeris’ son. And I think it was he who planted the bomb in Rovere’s apartment.”

  “You need to rest, Colomba . . .”

  “No, no. I haven’t gone around the bend.” Colomba pulled herself up into a sitting position and did her best to put an expression on her face that wouldn’t make her look like a pathetic nutcase in the throes of delirium. “We investigated. We found definite points of contact. And Rovere knew that the Father was still active. That’s why he had me bring Dante in on it.”

  Tirelli studied her. “Are you sure of what you’re saying?”

  “Rovere confirmed it before dying. He knew something he didn’t have time to tell us, which is why he was killed.”

  Tirelli pulled out the licorice and bit it. “I’ll admit it, you’ve caught me off guard. Have you talked about this with De Angelis?”

  “No. Rovere didn’t trust him. And neither do I. If I had any solid evidence, I’d slap it in front of somebody. But I don’t. All I have are guesses. I know that they’re right, but still . . . I have to prove them.” She took a gulp of water from the bottle to soothe the pain in her throat. “Can you imagine what would happen if I went to the chief of police and told him about my suspicions? He already thought that the Disaster in Paris was my fault. But if I can just bring him something . . .”

  “What do you want me to do, Colomba?”

  “Have you ever heard of Silver Compass?”

  “No.”

  “It was an association that looked after children with problems.” She told him about the Palladinos and what she and Dante had figured out.

  “And you think that the Father found the child through the association?” Tirelli asked at last.

  “It’s a possibility. And it might not be the only one.”

  “But the child from the mountain meadows wasn’t going to this Silver Compass . . .”

  “The association went out of business, and the Father was forced to find another way of selecting his victims.”

  “That is, if there really is any connection.”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you about it. You know lots of people: doctors, volunteers . . . Can you find out who ran it? All I need is for you to find me someone I can grill.”

  Tirelli got laboriously back to his feet, with his knees creaking. “Do you remember that old TV show Quincy, M.E.?” he asked. Colomba shook her head no. “It was about a medical examiner who hunted murderers. I always thought it was ridiculous. I investigate the insides of bodies, not out in the streets.”

  “You’re the only one I can ask.”

  He nodded. “I know, that’s why I’m not telling you no. I’ll make a few phone calls.”

  “Thanks.” Tirelli turned to go. She called him back. “Mario . . . talk only to people you trust, and tell them as little as you can. Be careful.”

  Tirelli smiled. “Of course I’ll be careful. I plan to hold on to this old carcass of mine,” he said, pointing to his chest.

  Colomba followed him out the door with her eyes. Thinking about what the Father had proved himself capable of, she couldn’t help but worry.

  4

  The man Colomba and Dante called the Father had based his way of life on systematically keeping a low profile. He shopped only at department stores, changing the ones he frequented to avoid becoming a familiar face to the cashiers. He wore only nondescript suits, but always clean and neat to keep from attracting attention. He eschewed bright colors, flashy patterns. He preferred gray and brown, never black, which was too extreme. His car was a station wagon that he’d bought used, he lived in a one-bedroom apartment, his gymnasium was a set of exercise equipment he kept in a closet and pulled out every morning. He had no bank account in his name, he never ate out, he never went to the movies or the theater. Once every fifteen days he’d indulge in a prostitute, chosen off the street from among the foreigners who didn’t speak Italian. He paid what was asked, then never saw her again. His only other distractions were watching TV and reading military history. He didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke. He was sufficient unto himself, and all he required was his work to fill his life. He had no friends, and of the few human beings who knew him at all, only a tiny number knew his real name and what he really did.

  One of that tiny number was sitting next to him at that very moment, at the gas station at kilometer marker 8 on the Rome beltway, off in a corner of the asphalt apron far from the security cameras. The man had aged poorly, he thought to himself. The belt of fat around his waist and his sagging pectoral muscles clearly bespoke an absence of physical exercise, while the broken blood vessels on his nose meant he drank. And then there was the fact that he smiled and chatted like a fool, trying to remind him of episodes he had prudently long ago forgotten. Eyeing him, the man whom Dante and Colomba referred to as the Father or Zardoz thought about giving up the idea entirely. Act nonchalant, say good-bye, then follow him home and kill him. Someone like this man, incapable of self-discipline
or sobriety, who didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, was nothing but a danger. But an even greater danger now hovered over his work, and he realized he couldn’t do the easy thing, the obvious thing. That he’d have to get rid of him eventually was obvious—but later, when he could no longer be useful to him. Right now he needed a partner, to minimize the risks. A temporary partner.

  The man he hadn’t seen in more than twenty years nodded contentedly when he offered him the job, and the contentment turned into eagerness as soon as he heard the sum he would never live to enjoy. After lots of pointless chitchat, after wisecracks and laughter and slaps on the back, he asked the only question that mattered: When and where?

  “Tonight,” the Father answered. “At the hospital.” And he handed him the syringe.

  5

  It was seven in the evening by the time Minutillo managed to spring Dante out of police custody, and the lawyer was forced to support his client as they made their way down the stairway of police headquarters. Dante hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, he’d eaten only cookies from the vending machines, and he was in withdrawal from pharmaceuticals and caffeine. What little lucidity remained to him after the first interview had been consumed by his encounter with the magistrate from De Angelis’s team who had taken his testimony. After that experience his memory was patchy at best, up to the moment that his lawyer’s friendly face had appeared on the balcony where he’d been confined, luckily by this point without handcuffs.

  Just as he’d done after the meeting at the autogrill with De Angelis, Minutillo took Dante home and waited until he had finished showering and downed a dose of assorted psychotropic drugs that would stun an elephant, along with a tub of coffee. Unseen by his friend, Dante tossed a couple of tablets of Ritalin into the mix, the medicine that was prescribed in the United States to sedate hyperactive children but that had the opposite effect on grown-ups. What with the caffeine and the various pills and capsules, before long Dante was capable of thinking straight again. Minutillo even managed to persuade him to choke down a soy protein burger and a package of crackers. At that point, though, Dante noticed that something wasn’t right: the things in the apartment were far messier than he had left them. The stacks of books had been knocked over, the boxes of food were no longer arranged according to color, the various envelopes had been torn open. All that was left of his computer was the screen; the dresser drawers all hung open so their contents could be seen. As he focused on details, he realized that his clothing, too, had been tossed into random heaps and that when he had changed, he’d had to rummage through a tangled pile at the bottom of the armoire. If he hadn’t been moving like a robot, he would have noticed immediately. “What happened here?” he asked, already fearing the answer.

  “They searched the apartment,” the lawyer replied.

  Dante dropped his utensils. “Oh, fuck.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get everything back.”

  “What do you mean, everything? What did they take?”

  Minutillo hesitated, embarrassed. “Dante . . .”

  But he wasn’t listening anymore; he’d already rushed into the guest room. The “time capsules” that had once filled the room to the ceiling were gone. All that lay on the floor was the case from the Supercar videocassette and a small heap of phone cards. Dante leaned over to pick them up: they were of various vintages. The police had probably opened the boxes and tossed everything around indiscriminately.

  “I’m sorry,” Minutillo said from behind him.

  Dante grabbed the phone cards and twisted them in his fist, cutting himself on the stiff plastic. “Fuck! Fuck!” he shouted. “Two years of work up in smoke! Two years of research, of cataloguing!”

  “It’ll all come back home.”

  “Dirty, mixed up! Fuck!” Dante hurled the phone cards against the wall, then grabbed the metal bed frame that for the past few years had served as the platform for his collection and shook it, banging it against the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust while cursing in three different languages.

  Minutillo let him vent until he ran out of steam; given his friend’s state of physical weakness, that didn’t take long. Dante let himself drop onto the sprung bed frame, feeling miserable and violated, his eyes glistening. He felt like crying.

  “I was here the whole time,” said Minutillo, doing his best to comfort him. “I limited the damage the best I could.”

  “Now I understand why the coffee tasted so foul. They mixed up the beans. I’ll have to separate them one by one. Or just throw them all away.”

  Minutillo tried to lighten the mood. “You can call it the ‘Judge De Angelis blend.’ ”

  “It was his order, wasn’t it?” Dante raised one hand. “No, don’t answer. I already feel like enough of an idiot for having even asked the question. It’s obvious. Am I officially a suspect?”

  “Not yet. But the fact that you were on the scene of the explosion is reason enough for the district attorney’s office to turn you inside out like a sock.”

  “Have they searched CC’s place, too?”

  “Yes. And they also suspended her from active duty on a cautionary basis. Which makes no sense since she’s already on medical leave. They told me that they confiscated her gun and police ID while she was sedated.”

  “De Angelis is making her pay for sticking her nose into the Luca Maugeri investigation,” said Dante grimly.

  “If I know anything about the way these things work, this is only the start. If he has anything he can use against you, he’ll use it. And—”

  Dante threw his arms wide in a gesture of malaise. “And what? Come on, spit it out. Worse than this . . .”

  “The rumor will get started from the district attorney’s office, one way or another. About the fact that you’re a ‘person with information about the crimes’ or else a suspect. You’ll wind up in the papers.”

  “The whole old story will come out.”

  “Yes.”

  Dante cradled his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

  “I’ll find a place for you to stay.”

  “Do you know how much it’s cost me to design this apartment to my specifications?” asked Dante, still incredulous.

  “Yes, I know.” Minutillo smiled. “Remember, you sued the architect.”

  “Because he was a charlatan. And now I’m going to have to sell it. And who would buy an apartment in this condition? An exhibitionist? A pornstar who wants people to see her naked from the street?”

  “Once things calm down . . .” Minutillo started to say.

  Dante interrupted him. “Things aren’t going to calm down. Even if the Father were to magically disappear along with De Angelis and all his little friends, that would just mark the beginning of the procession through here of people in search of vanished relatives. ‘Please, we need you to save us,’ ” he said, mockingly imitating a despairing voice. “I’ve been through that.”

  Minutillo didn’t reply, knowing full well that Dante had a point. It had happened once before, exactly as he’d said. “Okay, but still, let’s just not make things worse. The important thing is not to give De Angelis any excuses. Otherwise, he could definitely make things much, much worse.”

  Dante looked down at the tips of his shoes. “What was on Rovere’s flash drive?”

  “I couldn’t open it. It wanted a password, and I preferred not to type in random attempts.”

  “Do you have it with you? Give it to me, please.”

  Minutillo ran a hand over his hair, so short it was practically a crew cut. “Did you hear what I told you earlier? About what you could be risking?”

  “Maybe De Angelis will leave me in peace if I bury my head in the sand, but what about the Father?”

  “Till now, he’s never gone after you directly.”

  “True. He’s only killed . . . how many people? . . . and all because we were investigating him. Do you think he’s just going to drop it now?” Dante shook his head. “I’m getting closer, Roberto
. It’s too late to give up.”

  Minutillo sighed and handed him the small plastic drive. “What do you think’s on the flash drive?”

  “Who do you know that takes the trouble to put a password on a flash drive?”

  “No one.”

  “In that case, whatever it is, it must be important.”

  Minutillo stared at his friend for a few seconds without speaking. “I’m worried about you, Dante,” he finally said. “More than I’ve ever been before.”

  Dante smiled and pretended to yawn. “Well, stop. I’m too tired to get myself into trouble. In fact, I think I’m going to take a good long nap right now.”

  Minutillo left, and when Dante heard the sound of his car going away down the street, he slipped the flash drive into an envelope, put the envelope into his pocket, and went out wearing a gunmetal gray parka that practically swallowed him up. The stairs were a walk in the park compared with what he’d been through lately, or maybe he’d just hit the exact blend of pharmaceuticals. He got downstairs in only ten minutes. Once out in the street, he looked around alertly. He’d never been tailed in his life, but he was sure that he’d know if someone was following him. After countless twists and turns through the streets of San Lorenzo, which were just starting to fill up with kids, he was pretty sure no one was.

  He made his first stop at the Bar Marani, at the beginning of Via dei Volsci. The owners knew him well; he was the only client who’d sit outside in the rear patio even in the winter rain, and they were fond of him. He left the envelope with them and told them someone would come by to pick it up before they closed the bar that evening. From there he walked to the pay phone on Via Boccanegra. It took him about twenty minutes, and the walk did him good, sweeping the last few cobwebs from his brain. He called Santiago, told him where to pick up the envelope, explained what he wanted done, and pleaded with him to work as quickly as possible. Yes, there was money in it for him, he reassured him, but only once the job was completed.

  When he hung up, he realized that he didn’t feel like going home and going to bed. The Ritalin, which at first had simply eliminated any traces of sleepiness, now burned inside him like gasoline. His brain kept spinning, elaborating hypotheses and scenarios, and once again, at the center of each of them was Rovere. Now that Dante had solved the mystery of why he’d been drawn into the Luca Maugeri investigation, he was starting to ask other questions: When had Rovere started working on this matter? And, most important of all, why?