“Round-trip?”
“Just coming.”
“Strange . . . either the cardinal failed to plan ahead or he came to the conclave with high hopes. Maurizio, you know I’m not particularly religious. What have you heard about Robayra’s chances to become pope?”
“Not much. I read something about him a week ago, I think in La Stampa. They thought he was well positioned but not one of the great favorites. In any case, you know how the Italian media is: they only pay court to our cardinals. Portini I have read about, and plenty too.”
Pontiero was a family man, impeccably honest. He was, from what Paola knew, a good husband and father who went to mass each Sunday without fail. And his invitations to Dicanti to accompany the family were just as punctual, forcing her to come up with one excuse after another. Some were good, some bad, but none of them held up. Pontiero knew that in Dicanti’s heart of hearts faith didn’t play a large part. That had taken leave with her father, ten years before.
“Something bothers me, Maurizio. It’s important to know what sort of frustration connects this killer to the cardinals. If he detests what the cardinals stand for, if he’s a seminarian who isn’t playing with a full deck, or if he just hates their little red hats.”
“Their cappellos cardenalicios.”
“Thanks for clearing that up. I suspect there’s something which ties the victims together, something bigger than the hat. Basically, we’re not going to get very far down this road unless we are in contact with an authentic source, someone who can speak with authority. It’s Dante’s job to open doors for us, so we have access to someone high up in the Curia. And when I say high up, I mean very high up.”
“Won’t be easy.”
“That we will see. But for now, let’s focus on what we know. For starters, Robayra died somewhere else other than the church.”
“There really wasn’t much blood. He must have died in another location.”
“Clearly the killer had to keep the cardinal in his power a certain amount of time in a secluded place no one else knew about, where he could take his time interacting with the body. We know that he had to gain his victim’s confidence in some way, so that the victim would enter the secluded place of his own free will. From there, he moved the body to Santa Maria in Traspontina, obviously for a reason.”
“What about the church?”
“I spoke with the parish priest. It was closed up like a drum when he went to sleep. Remember that he had to open it for the police when they arrived. But there’s a second door, very tiny, which lets out onto the Via Corridori. That’s probably how they got in. We checked it out?”
“The lock was in good shape, a new one. It wouldn’t give. But even if the door was swinging on its hinges, I don’t see how the killer could have gotten in.”
“Because?”
“Do you have any idea how many people were standing in the main door, on Via della Conciliazione? And on the street behind, even more. Jesus. It’s crammed with people here for the funeral. They’re in the street, blocking traffic. Don’t try to tell me that our killer walked in with a body in his arms in full view of the entire world.”
Paola thought for a few seconds. Maybe that tide of humanity was wonderful camouflage for the killer, but still, how had he entered without forcing the door?
“Pontiero, let’s make sure that how he got in is among our priorities. Tomorrow we’ll talk to the friar. What was his name?”
“Francesco Toma, a Carmelite.” Pontiero nodded his head slowly as he jotted in his notebook.
“That one. On the other side of the margin we have the macabre details: the message on the floor, the severed hands resting on the canvas . . . and these bags here. Go ahead.”
Pontiero started reading the list while Inspector Dicanti filled out the evidence report with a ballpoint pen. An ultramodern office, and they still had relics from the twentieth century like these antiquated forms.
“Evidence, item number one. Priest’s stole. Embroidered cloth, rectangular, worn by Catholic priests during the sacrament of confession. Found hanging from the dead man’s mouth, soaked in blood. Blood type is the same as that of the victim. DNA analysis in progress.”
That was the brownish object they had been unable to make out in the half-light of the church. The DNA analysis would need at least two days, and even that was because one of the world’s most advanced laboratories was at UACV’s disposal. Dicanti broke out in laughter whenever she watched the American show CSI. If only evidence could be processed as quickly as it seemed to be on television.
“Evidence, item number two. White canvas. Origin unknown. Material, cotton. Presence of blood, minimal. The severed hands of the victim were found sitting on top of it. The blood type is that of the victim. DNA analysis in progress.”
Dicanti hesitated. “One thing. Robayra is written with a y, not an i?”
“With a y, I’m pretty sure.”
“Good. Keep going, Maurizio, please.”
“Evidence, item number three. A crumpled piece of paper, approximately one-and-a-quarter-inch square. Found in the left eye socket of the victim. The type of paper, its composition, weight, and percentage of chlorine are all being studied. Written on the paper, by hand with a ballpoint pen, the letters
“MT 16,” Dicanti said. “An address?”
“The paper was found covered with blood and crushed into a ball. It’s clearly a message from the killer. The absence of the victim’s eyes could be not so much a punishment as a sign. . . . As if he were telling us where to look.”
“Or that we are blind.”
“A killer who does it for his own amusement. The first one to show up in Italy. That’s why I think Troi wanted you to be in charge, Paola. Not your usual detective but someone who thinks creatively.”
Dicanti reflected on Pontiero’s words. If it were true, the risks doubled. The profile of a killer who taunts the police typically corresponded to an extremely intelligent person, one much harder to catch as long as he never tripped up. Sooner or later they all tripped up, but in the meantime the morgue was standing room only.
“OK, let’s think for a minute. What streets do we know with those initials?”
“Viale del Muro Torto.”
“No go, it runs through a park, and it has no street numbers, Maurizio.”
“In that case Monte Tarpeo is out too. It’s the street that crosses the Palazzo dei Conservatori gardens.”
“And Monte Testaccio?”
“In Parco Testaccio . . . that might be it.”
“Wait a minute.” Dicanti picked up the phone and dialed a number in the police department. “Documents? Ah, Silvio, hello. Take a look for me and see if there is a number 16 on Monte Testaccio. And bring us a map of the city streets here in the conference room. Thanks.”
While they waited, Pontiero continued on with the list of evidence.
“And the last, for now: Evidence, item number four. Crumpled paper, one-and-a-quarter-inch square. Found in the victim’s right eye socket, in identical condition to that of item number three. The kind of paper, its composition, weight, and percentage of chlorine are being investigated. Written on the paper, by hand, with a ballpoint pen, the word undeviginti and an arrow.”
“Undeviginti. Damn, it’s a fucking hieroglyph.” Dicanti was exasperated. “I just hope it’s not the continuation of a message that he left on the first victim, because the first part went up in smoke.”
“I guess we have to resign ourselves to what we have, for now.”
“Stupendous, Pontiero. Why don’t you tell me what undeviginti is, so I can resign myself to it?”
“Your Latin isn’t what it used to be, Dicanti. It means nineteen.”
“It’s true, dammit. They were always throwing me out of school. And the arrow?”
At that moment one of the assistants from Documents entered the room with the street map of Rome.
“Here you are, Ispettore. I looked for the street you asked me about: there
is no 16 Monte Testaccio. That street only has fourteen distinct residences.”
“Thanks, Silvio. Do me a favor: stay here with Pontiero and me and we will go over all the streets in Rome that begin with MT. It’s a blind shot but I’ve got a hunch.”
“Let’s hope you’re a better psychologist than fortune-teller, DottoressaDicanti. You’d do better if you looked in the Bible.”
Their three heads spun around to the entrance to the conference room. A priest in his street clothes was standing on the threshold. He was tall and thin in a wiry frame, and noticeably bald. He looked to have lived about fifty well-preserved years, and his features were forceful, even hard, evidence of many mornings he had spent outdoors watching the sun come up. Dicanti’s first thought was that he looked more like a soldier than a priest.
“Who are you and what do you want? This is a restricted area. Please do us the favor of leaving immediately,” said Pontiero.
“I am Father Anthony Fowler. I’m here to give you a hand.” His Italian was grammatically correct but ever so singsong and unsteady.
“This is part of the police department and you’ve entered without authorization. If you want to help us, find a church and pray for our souls.”
Pontiero started to walk toward the new arrival, in the spirit of inviting him to make his exit whether he wanted to or not. Dicanti had already turned back around to study the photographs when Fowler spoke again.
“It’s from the Bible, the New Testament to be precise.”
“What’s that?” Pontiero was surprised.
Dicanti raised her head and looked at Fowler.
“Mind explaining yourself?”
“MT 16. The Gospel according to Matthew, chapter 16. Did he leave another note?”
Pontiero looked upset.
“Listen, Paola, you are not really going to get yourself involved with this guy—”
“We’re listening.”
Fowler stepped into the conference room. He carried a black overcoat draped on his arm, which he then laid over a chair.
“As everyone knows, the Christian New Testament is made up of four principal books, one for each of the Evangelists: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. In the Christian bibliography the book of Matthew is abbreviated MT. The number which follows represents the chapter. And the next two numbers indicate a citation in that chapter, between two verses.”
“The killer left this.”
Paola put piece of evidence number four, wrapped in plastic, in front of him. The priest studied it closely. He gave no indication that he recognized it, nor did the blood upset him. He simply looked it over thoroughly and then said:
“Nineteen. How appropriate.”
Pontiero was just about to boil over.
“Are you going to tell us what you know now or are you going to make us wait around for it, Father?”
“Et tibi dabo claves regni coelorum,” Fowler recited. “Et quodcumque ligaveris super terram, erit legatum et in coelis; et quodcumque solveris super terram, erit solutum et in coelis. And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven; and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven. Matthew 16, verse 19. That is to say, the words with which Jesus confirmed Peter as the leader of the Apostles, and awarded him and his successors power over the whole of Christendom.”
“Santa Madonna,” Dicanti said out loud.
“Considering what is just about to take place in this city, ladies and gentlemen, I think that you ought to be worried. Very worried.”
“Shit, some vagabond who lost his marbles slits the throat of a priest and you’re ready to sound the alarm. Doesn’t sound so scary to me,” said Pontiero.
“No, my friend. The killer isn’t just a homeless person who’s lost his mind. He’s a cruel man, methodical and intelligent, and he’s terribly conflicted. Take my word for it.”
“Really? Seems like you know a good deal about what’s motivating him, Father.” Pontiero was mocking their visitor.
“I know much more than that, gentlemen. I know who he is.”
ARTICLE REPRINTED FROM THE DAILY MARYLAND GAZETTE
July 29, 1999, Page 7
AMERICAN PRIEST ACCUSED OF
SEXUAL ABUSE COMMITS SUICIDE
SACHEM PIKE, Maryland (wire service)—As the sexual abuse scandal continues to rock the Catholic Church in North America, a Connecticut priest accused of sexually abusing minors hung himself in his room at an institution for troubled clergy, according to a report police made to the American Press wire service last Friday.
Peter Selznick, 61 years old, relinquished his position as parish priest at Saint Andrews in Bridgeport, Connecticut, April 27 of last year, just one day after authorities in the Catholic Church interviewed two men who claimed Selznick abused them over the course of several years from the end of the 1970s to the early 1980s, according to a spokesman for the Bridgeport Diocese.
The priest was being treated at the Saint Matthew Institute in Maryland, a psychiatric center, which takes in members of the clergy accused of sexual abuse or with “problems in sexual orientation,” according to a statement from the institution.
“Hospital personnel knocked on his door several times and attempted to enter his room, but something was blocking the door,” Diane Richardson, Prince George police department spokesperson, stated at a press conference. “When they entered the room, they found the body hanging from one of the exposed beams in the ceiling.”
Selznick hanged himself with a bed sheet, Richardson stated, adding that his body was taken to the mortuary for an autopsy. At the same time, she categorically denied rumors that the body was found nude and mutilated, rumors which she characterized as “completely unfounded.” During the press conference, reporters cited “eyewitnesses” who stated that they had seen the mutilations. The spokeswoman stated that “a nurse who works for the County’s medical team was under the influence of marijuana and other drugs when those declarations were made.” This particular municipal employee has been suspended from his job without pay until his case is resolved. This newspaper made contact with the nurse who started the rumor, who refused to say anything further than a brief “I was wrong.”
The Bishop of Bridgeport, William Lopes, stated that he was “profoundly saddened” by Selznick’s “tragic” death, adding that the scandal which preoccupies the North American branch of the Catholic Church has “many victims.”
Father Selznick was born in New York in 1938, and was ordained in Bridgeport in 1965. He served in various parishes in Connecticut and for a brief time worked as a priest at the parish of San Juan Vianney in Chiclayo, Peru.
“Every person, without exception, has dignity and value in the eyes of God, and everyone needs and deserves our compassion,” Lopes stated. “The disturbing circumstances which surround his death cannot eradicate all the good that he did,” the Bishop said in conclusion.
The Director of the Saint Matthew Institute, Father Canice Conroy, refused to speak to this publication. Father Anthony Fowler, director of New Initiatives at the Institute, apologized for the absence of a statement from the Director, explaining that Father Conroy was presently “in a state of shock.”
UACV HEADQUARTERS
Via Lamarmora, 3 Tuesday, April 5, 2005, 11:14 P.M.
Fowler’s declaration was like a shot to the solar plexus. Dicanti and Pontiero were frozen in their tracks. They stared at the priest.
“May I sit down?”
“There are plenty of empty seats, “ Paola said. “Take any one you like.”
She made a sign to the staffer from Documents, who quickly left the room.
Fowler laid his small black suitcase down on the table, its edges scratched and frayed. The suitcase had seen a good part of the world, and its condition was a testament to the many miles its owner had carried it around. He opened it and took out a thick stack of papers from a cardboard carton whose edges were bent and coffee stained. He set the pap
ers on the table and sat down across from the inspector. Dicanti watched him carefully, noting his economy of movement and the energy radiating from his green eyes. The question of where exactly this strange priest came from very much intrigued her, but she made a firm decision not to let herself be overwhelmed, much less on her own turf.
Pontiero grabbed a seat, spun it around, and sat to Fowler’s left, his hands resting on the support. Dicanti made a mental note to remind him to knock off imitating old Bogart movies: Her second in command must have watched The Maltese Falcon three hundred times. If he considered someone suspicious, he inevitably sat to this person’s left, compulsively smoking one Pall Mall nonfilter after another.
“Go ahead, Padre. But show us something that proves who you are.”
Fowler took his passport out of his breast pocket and handed it to Pontiero. He made a gesture to show his displeasure at the cloud of smoke billowing from Pontiero’s cigarette.
“I see, I see. A diplomatic passport. So you have immunity, eh? Who the hell are you? Some sort of spy?” Pontiero asked him.
“I am an official in the United States Air Force.”
“Holding what rank?”
“Major. Would Detective Pontiero mind if I asked him to stop smoking right next to me? I gave it up years ago and have no desire to start all over again.”
“He is addicted to tobacco, Major Fowler.”
“Padre Fowler, Dr. Dicanti. I am . . . retired.”
“Wait a second. How is it you know my name, or the Ispettore’s?”
The specialist in criminal affairs smiled. She found herself both curious and entertained.
“Maurizio, I suspect that Padre Fowler is not so retired as he says.”
Fowler returned Dicanti’s smile, but with a tinge of sadness.
“I have recently gone back to active service, it’s true. And strangely enough, the reason for that is the work I did in civilian life.” He grew quiet, waving his hand to push the smoke away.
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