“Not in the least! Inspector Augello acted in an exemplary fashion! I do not understand how . . .”
The commissioner raised his hand again.
“There have been some developments you’re unaware of. Yesterday evening, Riccadonna phoned me to ask that Inspector Augello be dismissed from the case for the reasons you know. I tried to explain to him that he was wrong about that, but he became stubborn. So I called the chief prosecutor and laid out the whole situation for him. Which is that I was intending, at the press conference, to nominate Inspector Augello for a citation of honor, and that therefore my words were going to be in direct conflict with what Riccadonna was going to say. The journalists would have gone to town with it. A short while later the chief prosecutor called back to tell me that Riccadonna, after some arm-twisting, had withdrawn his request.”
“Are we so sure that Riccadonna won’t blurt out some unpleasant assertions during the press conference?”
“If he does, I’ll be ready to rebut them.”
“I appreciate that.”
Bonetti-Alderighi then leaned all the way forward in his chair, and said in a soft voice:
“But, in all honesty, Montalbano, have you come up with any possible explanation for what happened?”
Montalbano looked him in the eye, dead serious.
“In all honesty, sir, no.”
“Well, keep me informed of any positive developments, even the most minuscule. I mean it. I’m being bombarded from Rome with pressures, demands . . . If there was one little thing I could give them, however small . . .”
He was clearly scared. Naturally, he felt his career was in jeopardy.
* * *
It was almost noon when the inspector got to the station. He barely had time to go into Augello’s office and turn on the television to the Free Channel. There, on the screen, behind a long table, sat Augello, Marchica—who was the chief of the counterterrorism unit—Bonetti-Alderighi, Riccadonna, and Liberati of the Flying Squad. The commissioner, who was the first to speak, said that this was going to be a communiqué for the press, not a conference. Therefore, given the sensitive nature of the ongoing investigations, no questions would be permitted. There was a buzz of discontented muttering among the mob of journalists present. Hearing those words, the inspector became convinced that there had been another spat between the commissioner and Riccadonna and that the press conference, or whatever it was, could very well take a bad turn, or almost. And, indeed, Riccadonna, whose turn came next, was off like a rocket.
He announced that the prosecutor’s office, as was their duty, was following every lead, but they were favoring one in particular: the terrorism angle, and they could only regret that the police, at the moment of the assault on the school, had not acted as decisively as might have been hoped. And he sat back down. As pale as a corpse, Augello was about to stand up, but Fazio, who was standing behind him, put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to remain seated. Then Marchica stood up and explained that the mask the two assailants were wearing was the trademark of Anonymous, an international organization operating via the internet that coordinated individual as well as group actions against things they deemed unjust. According to Marchica, however, the two men wearing Anonymous masks had behaved in a manner inconsistent with the group’s general pattern.
Liberati explained how they’d found the car the two gunmen had stolen, and then the commissioner resumed speaking. He told how Inspector Domenico Augello, of Vigàta Police, happened purely by chance to be engaged in a discussion with a teacher at the school when the two armed men suddenly burst into the classroom. The only thought in Inspector Augello’s head was to be sure, even at the cost of personal humiliation, to avoid any chance of an exchange of fire in that classroom with thirty kids in it. He did, on the other hand, open fire on the two men once they were in a relatively safe area with no danger to bystanders. And for his bravery, lucidity, and the deep sense of responsibility he had shown in protecting the students, he was recommending Inspector Augello for a well-deserved citation of honor and recognition by the Ministry of Justice.
He then thanked the journalists gathered, adjourned the meeting, and went out, followed by everyone else.
Everyone had tooted his own horn, and each horn had a different sound. As the commissioner had foreseen, the newsmen now had a great deal to feast on.
Montalbano went to get his car and then drove off to the Pirandello School.
* * *
He parked outside the front gate, walked through the courtyard in which the exchange of gunfire had taken place, and then returned the greeting of the police officer standing at the entrance.
“Have the custodian and Mr. Puleo arrived yet?” he asked him.
“They went out to get some coffee. They’ll be right back.”
The inspector went in, climbed three broad stairs, and found himself at one end of a long, wide corridor that had a large window at the far end. On his right was a table and chair, which must have normally been the custodian’s post for keeping an eye on people coming in and going out. The staircase leading upstairs began about halfway down the hallway, on the left-hand side. He began walking down the hall, reading the nameplates outside each door. He had to walk the entire length of the corridor, since III B was the last classroom on the right, just beside the large window.
He turned the doorknob and went in.
The room was in a state of indescribable chaos. Benches on their sides or overturned, legs in the air, the blackboard on the floor next to the teacher’s desk, which was resting on one side. All resulting from the panic that had broken out after the two men had fired their guns. The inspector looked up and saw the damage done by the two shots. He couldn’t help but think of how good Mimì had been to protect all the kids, including his own son, at all costs.
He went back out, turned his back, and saw a pair of men approaching who looked rather like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. One was tall, lanky, and very thin, the other short and round as a barrel. He went up to them and introduced himself.
The barrel said his name was Vitantonio Camastra, and called himself the “school manager”—in plain language, the custodian. Mr. Puleo simply shook the inspector’s hand, saying his surname under his breath.
“Where can we talk?” Montalbano asked.
“We can talk in the teachers’ lounge,” replied the custodian, setting out down the hall.
He opened a door halfway down and stepped aside to let the other two in.
It was a large room with a long table in the middle, surrounded by a great many chairs.
“Who do you want to start with?” asked the teacher.
“I’ll start with Signor Camastra, but if you feel like staying . . .”
“I’m happy to stay.”
They sat down.
“I’m told,” the inspector began, “that you contributed descriptions to the artist’s reconstruction of the two gunmen. Did they stop for long to talk to you?”
“No, not at all,” replied Camastra.
“So then how were you able—”
“The principal says I have a photographic memory. And it’s true.”
“Can you repeat to me with any precision what they said when they came in?”
“Actually, I spoke first. When I saw them come in, I asked what they wanted. The taller guy replied that they were part of the film crew and were supposed to scout the place, and they had the principal’s permission to do so. And then he started digging in his pocket for something. At that point I asked him: ‘Do you know where to go?’ and the tall guy said, ‘Yes,’ and so I said, ‘Okay, you can go on in.’ I kept on watching them as they headed down to the end of the hallway, then a man appeared and said he’d come to pick up his son.”
“You’re very observant. So I’d like you to make a little effort to search your memory. When you asked them if they knew wher
e to go, did the taller guy immediately say yes?”
The little barrel gave him a strange look, openmouthed, a bit like Lou Ravi in a crèche.
“How’d you guess?”
“What did they do?” asked Puleo.
Then, a bit shyly, the custodian said:
“Sorry, sorry. They looked at each other, and the blond guy gave a little laugh. A stupid little laugh. To the point that I thought: ‘What’s so funny, anyway?’”
“And did you hear the gunshots?”
“Of course, but I was upstairs, since I’d accompanied the boy’s father to the classroom where he could find his son.”
“When the two gunmen entered room III B, they were wearing masks. Were you able to see where they’d been hiding them?”
“They were probably inside the cases they wore around their necks. You know, the kind used for carrying small cameras and that sort of thing inside.”
“In your opinion, was the guy who spoke Italian or a foreigner?”
“If you ask me, he was Italian. But Italian Italian.”
“You mean he wasn’t Sicilian?”
“Right, neither Sicilian, nor Calabrian, nor Apulian, nor Neapolitan. And not even Roman.”
“Are there any other details you can give me, using your photographic memory?”
“Wha’ can I say! The blond guy looked lost. His eyes looked like he was in a daze. Like he was hypnotized. The other guy, the one who talked, when I saw him walking from behind, looked like he was on a ship on rough seas.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“He walked weird, leaning from side to side, first to the right, then to the left, then forward, then back.”
“Do you think they were drugged?”
“I have no idea. But I know one thing: They sure weren’t normal. But I didn’t get suspicious ’cause I thought . . . well, you know what those movie and TV people are like . . . they’re weird!”
“After you heard the shots, what did you do?”
“I went downstairs in a hurry, but when I got there the two guys were already outside. And inside there was panic, everybody running every which way, screaming and crying. I didn’t know which ones to help first. Then there was a teacher, Mrs. Arnone, who seemed like she’d gone out of her mind. She started yelling: ‘Fire! Fire!’ I dunno why she got this idea that there was a fire. ‘Everybody run to the fire escapes! Grab the extinguishers! Break the glass with the hammers!’ It took me a little while to convince her there wasn’t any fire. And then I did the only thing I felt it was my duty to do. When I saw the two guys at the end of the corridor about to go out, I ran first into III A, then into III B, and then, just to be sure, I went into all the other classrooms in that hallway, and when I was sure there weren’t any more kids or teachers or injured or dead, and only then, I sat down on the floor.”
“All right, thanks. That’ll suffice for now.”
11
“Does that mean you don’t need me no more?” asked Camastra.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Montalbano. “For the moment I have no more questions for you.”
Camastra stood up.
“Then I’m gonna go. School reopens tomorrow, and so if you need me, you can find me here.”
He said good-bye to Puleo and the inspector and went out.
Left alone in the room, the two men looked each other in the eye for a moment, and that brief glance expressed a shared sense of dissatisfaction. Camastra’s account did nothing to advance the investigation by so much as one step.
“I don’t think,” said the schoolteacher, as if he’d read the inspector’s mind, “that I can really add anything to what you already know, either.”
“Well, let’s try anyway. Were you able to tell whether or not the two gunmen spoke with some northern inflections? And if so, from where?”
The schoolteacher thought about this for a moment, then said:
“To be perfectly honest with you, I had the exact opposite impression from the custodian.”
“Meaning?”
“To me they seemed like two southerners doing everything possible to try not to seem like southerners. There was a certain lack of spontaneity in the way they pronounced their words.”
Montalbano pressed him further.
“You, I’m told, are an astute observer, to the point that you were able to draw the masks they used to cover their faces. My question now is: Could you tell whether they were drugged or otherwise in some sort of altered state?”
“They certainly weren’t normal, but I couldn’t really say whether it was because of drugs or the tenseness of the situation. I do remember clearly, however, that the guy who didn’t talk seemed subservient to the other one. He depended on him not only verbally but also in his actions, to know ‘what moves to make.’”
“Well, that’s sort of normal. Apparently the taller guy was the boss.”
“Yes,” said Puleo, “but to me it looked like something more than just a hierarchical thing. It was as if the two men were linked by something else, something I can’t define. And it wasn’t just camaraderie. The look in the blond guy’s eyes was . . . wait, let me think . . . it was a look of devoted submission. That’s it.”
Montalbano’s thoughts went back for a moment to the photo of the Sabatello brothers. Maybe the two gunmen were also related.
“Thank you for your observations,” said Montalbano, “but as of this moment, I want us to proceed as if we were just chatting freely. Neither of us should feel the need to ask questions or provide answers. Is that okay with you?”
“It’s okay with me.”
“I know just about everything that happened from the moment the two entered the classroom. My second-in-command, Mimì Augello, told me all about it. Therefore—”
“I’m taking advantage of your instructions, so please forgive me for interrupting,” said Puleo. “But, in all the time that’s passed since that moment, among the thousands of other questions I’ve been pointlessly asking myself, there’s one, perhaps, that you might be able to answer.”
“What is it?”
“Do you know why your second-in-command, Salvo Augello’s father, came to talk to me?”
“Yes,” said the inspector. “I think I do. He wanted to alert you to the fact that there’d been some unpleasant cases of bullying in class III B.”
Puleo looked at him with surprise.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“But how did Augello find out? Was Salvo perhaps directly involved?”
“No, he’s not the one being bullied,” said Montalbano. “Apparently there are three boys in the class who are picking on one of their classmates. One day Salvo tried to defend him and ended up paying for it, coming home with a black eye and his clothes all torn. So you didn’t hear anything about any of this?”
Puleo was genuinely astonished.
“Nothing whatsoever.”
Montalbano remembered what Augello had said about the teacher—about the man he’d shown himself to be when the assailants burst in. Certainly no young toughs were going to start acting like assholes or bullies in front of him.
“Maybe,” said the inspector, “it’s because these things occur outside of class.”
“Probably,” Puleo added. “But I assure you that none of my colleagues has mentioned anything of that nature.”
He sat there for a moment, absorbed in thought.
Montalbano resumed.
“Back to us. Going by what the custodian said—and you heard him yourself—the two assailants already knew the location of classroom III B in the building. And they headed straight for it. Do you agree with me about that?”
“Yes.”
“So, in every classroom, you have the teacher on the one hand, the students on the other. In your opinion, when the gunmen i
ssued their threats, before shooting their guns, to whom were the threats directed?”
As soon as he’d formulated his question, the door opened and Fazio came in, greeted them both, and went and sat in a chair a bit farther away.
“When I saw them come in,” said Puleo, after returning Fazio’s glance of greeting, “armed and masked, my first thought was that their target must be me.”
“Why did you think that?”
Puleo made a slight grin.
“Certainly not because I thought I was guilty of anything.”
“Why, then?”
“Inspector, at that moment, my mind was unable to conceive that so violent and terrifying a threat could possibly be directed at my kids. But I had to revise my opinion. And I had proof of it almost immediately.”
“How?” asked Montalbano.
“I’ll explain. Let’s say you come into this room, the teachers’ lounge, during a meeting. You look directly at the person you intend to threaten, no? It’s perfectly natural. Well, neither of those two guys ever looked at me. Not once did either of them ever turn their eyes to me. Actually they acted the same way our principal does when she wants to scold the class. She comes in, closes the door, remains close to it, looks over at me—she, at least, does—then addresses the class. She talks to them, not to me. Well, I had that same exact feeling. I wasn’t part of their plan.”
“That makes sense to me,” Montalbano admitted. “Unfortunately, however, it’s not enough for me.”
Puleo seemed surprised.
“Why not?”
“Because personal convictions are never enough for me. I need to know, beyond your impressions, whether the two assailants really never looked at you, and whether their general focus on the class might not have been just a cover to hide their real purpose.”
“I have no enemies,” Puleo said without hesitation.
This time it was Montalbano who smiled.
“In an official interrogation, I would have asked you: My good professor, how could you think the two might have come for you if you have no enemies? You’re contradicting yourself. But since we’re just having a chat, I can tell you that I don’t think there’s a single man alive who can say he doesn’t have any enemies. I’ll grant that the word ‘enemy’ may be a bit excessive. But it’s impossible for a man not to know a single person he might rub the wrong way, and who detests him for one reason or another, or maybe envies him, or somebody who, rightly or wrongly, thinks he did him a bad turn.”
The Safety Net Page 13
