Ricciardi made it clear that the first of the investigative operations that needed to be set afoot would be his responsibility, and his alone. Maione objected, but the other man refused to be swayed. It was a matter of tailing someone for a considerable length of time, and if they both did so, the odds of being detected would increase considerably: if that happened, all would be in vain. The brigadier took offense and pointed out, respectfully, that of the two of them, it was he who was best able to blend into the background. His superior officer conceded the point, but retorted that, in order to be able to carry out the subsequent interrogation in the field, it was going to be necessary for him to do the tailing in person. It was only because there did not seem to be any particular risk involved that, in the end, Maione’s protective instincts toward Ricciardi were successfully suppressed.
The brigadier would enter into action during the second phase, the one that—if the theory was borne out by the facts—would put an end to the case.
Maione explained to Ricciardi which routes could be employed to reach the place that, they presumed, was the destination of the person the commissario intended to follow; this was in case the commissario lost track of the subject, an eventuality that the brigadier did not feel he could entirely rule out. His superior officer took note, pretending not to pick up on his underling’s scant confidence in him; after all, the information might well come in handy.
Well before the time of day that they considered to be appropriate, Ricciardi headed off. Even facing the rain and the wind, which had resumed their now daily spectacle, was better than sitting there mulling over everything that had happened the night before. The memory of Enrica leaving the café with her eyes downcast, forcing herself to choke back a sob that instead reached his ears clear as a bell, was something he couldn’t get out of his mind.
For once he had brought an umbrella. Not to keep off the rain, which never bothered him to any serious extent, but in order to avoid being conspicuous and to cover his face if necessary. Thus equipped, he reached the location that the brigadier had suggested, a nook from which he would be able to survey the point that interested him without being seen, and got ready to spend some time waiting.
The work that Maione had done by means of his network of informers had been first rate, and it had rounded out the array of evidence at their disposal. What he had discovered concerned personal matters, matters that remained highly secret.
On the basis of the brigadier’s suppositions, all of them carefully transcribed by Ricciardi on a sheet of paper he carried in his pocket, the person to be followed might choose either of two routes, if in fact they were heading for the destination that Ricciardi and Maione had theorized.
The first route was the simplest, but slightly longer. In this case the subject would take the number 8 trolley, black or red, running from the Central Station and heading for the new Piazza Vanvitelli on the Vomero hill; they’d ride the length of Via Duomo and get off on Via Foria, whereupon, by way of Largo del Tiro a Segno, passing the Botanical Gardens, they’d continue on foot to Piazza Carlo III. Then they’d continue on the local trolley, past Doganella, until they reached Capodichino.
The second route was shorter, but it meant crossing the piazza in front of the train station, which was much busier. In that case, they’d get the number 5 trolley on Piazza Nicola Amore and ride to Piazza della Ferrovia. From there, they would walk to Porta Capuana, where they would catch the local trolley.
Maione had been categorical: unless they had a car—and there was no record of the person possessing one—there were no other feasible routes they could take. Certainly, they could always hire a carriage, but that would have made no sense, considering the almost daily need for this trip and the general picture of their situation that had been emerging.
When the time that the commissario had so clearly emblazoned on his mind arrived, with stopwatch precision, a figure opened the door, called out a hasty farewell, and headed off.
The person chose the shortest route: Piazza Nicola Amore and the number 5 trolley.
Ricciardi hoped that, at that time of the day, the trolley would be crowded, so that he’d be able to conceal himself effectively. The main reason he had asked Maione not to come with him was precisely the brigadier’s sheer bulk and the fact that he wore a uniform, both fairly conspicuous features.
Luckily, the trolley was packed to the rafters. A few passengers were actually riding on the running board, preferring to get drenched with rain outside rather than risk suffocating inside. The person whom Ricciardi was following was clearly quite experienced. They pushed their way through the wall of human flesh and managed to get into the interior of the trolley. A moment later, using a different door, the commissario too managed to squeeze inside and, as Maione had suggested, worked his way in until he was directly behind them; when people are packed into a crowded space, the brigadier maintained, they tend not to turn around, whereas it’s far more likely that they’ll focus on the face of someone ahead of them, though perhaps further away.
The person did not, in fact, turn around. They remained standing in the same position the whole way, one hand gripping the stanchion, shoulders slightly bowed, gaze fixed on the half-open window through which came a steady stream of air and a fine drizzle; Ricciardi wondered what they were thinking about, and he managed to guess at it with a greater insight than he really might have preferred.
At Piazza della Ferrovia, as Maione had supposed, the person got off. Ricciardi, who had made careful and timely preparations, followed them a moment before the trolley took off, when they had already moved off several yards in the direction of Porta Capuana. It wasn’t easy to keep up, his way blocked by the considerable number of strolling vendors who were attempting to balance the not entirely compatible tasks of attracting customers and sheltering both themselves and their merchandise from the rain.
The local trolley, too, was jam-packed, and once again the commissario managed to make himself invisible, mentally proffering his compliments to Maione for the perfection of his predictions and once again coming to his perennial conviction that a colleague like Maione was worth his weight in gold, which in Maione’s case would add up to quite a considerable sum.
At last, they reached the trolley stop on Piazza Capodichino, at the top of the hill of that name.
The place was far less congested and the wind carried the scents of the surrounding forested areas. The broad streets were largely empty, save for the occasional passerby, a few donkey carts, and infrequent automobiles. Not far off, in a noteworthy display of optimism, two horse-drawn carriages were waiting to be hired, with the coachmen smoking and chatting as they did their best to shelter beneath their canvas rooftops.
The passengers scattered in all directions. Ricciardi gravitated to the rear of the line, so that he was one of the last to get off. The individual he was following, on the other hand, had been the first to leave the car, heading off briskly toward the road running downhill from the piazza, leading back, several miles away, to the center of town. The commissario felt no particular need to stick close to his quarry: by now there could be no doubt about their destination.
Ricciardi hadn’t explained to Maione what a burden the task he had chosen to take on was going to be for him. As each new footstep echoed through the street, basically deserted even at that time of the day, a tide of uneasiness rose in his chest like a slimy black pool. It had been a great many years since he had last visited a place like the one where he was heading, and if it had been up to him, he never would have.
His ears were greeted, in far too vivid recall, by the memory of despairing screams, dull thuds on the walls, on the doors, and metal scraping against metal. He saw before his eyes blank white walls, iron bars, and benches, also made of iron. Above all, his nostrils quivered at the harsh odor of vomit, feces, and disinfectants. When he thought of hell, he imagined it as a place like that.
And the dead, the many many dead. Killed by their own hands and by the darknes
s of the human mind. Impossible to avoid them, for him. And for her. He had wondered a thousand times whether that hadn’t helped to hasten her premature end.
The figure walking ahead of him, proceeding with head bowed as if they shared the thoughts of the man tailing them, turned through a wide, open gate. Ricciardi stopped and waited, shielded beneath the umbrella, as the figure vanished from his sight. From there on, it would no longer be necessary to keep them under surveillance.
He let a few minutes go by, trying to convince himself that his hesitation was entirely a function of the need to avoid compromising the operation. His heart pounded in his chest with a mournful beat. He heard the noise of rain falling on grass and leaves; he scrutinized the foliage of the trees inside the outside enclosure wall. A bird let out a cry that sounded like a human scream. Actually: it had been a human scream. After taking one last, deep breath, the commissario walked through the gate.
Before him there spread out a spacious park. At that moment it was deserted, but when the sun was shining it must be heavily populated, as suggested by the stone tables and seats, the benches, and a couple of small structures in wrought iron and stained glass. The vegetation was dense and well groomed; a number of palm trees, rising quite high into the air, were dripping with rain water from their broad fronds—every so often they would drop substantial dollops to the ground below. A lane led to a courtyard paved with gravel, where two cars were parked, alongside a carriage drawn by a black horse. The driver was nowhere in sight. At the far end of the courtyard was a three-story building that stood adjoining other, lower buildings. The general impression was one of peace and quiet. Ricciardi shuddered as he guessed at what that façade concealed.
In the spacious entrance hall, there was a desk behind which sat a young nun who was laughing with a uniformed doorman. When the nun and the doorman noticed the visitor, they immediately put on serious expressions and asked him how they could assist him. The commissario identified himself, displaying his police ID, and made his requests. The two of them exchanged a glance, and the nun replied that she’d have to ask the director: if he’d be good enough to wait, she’d go and summon him.
A short while later, the young nun returned, accompanied by a man of average height, about sixty years of age, with gold rimmed spectacles and a black bow tie under his white lab coat. His bushy mustache and gray hair conferred an air of authority, but his eyes sparkled with an almost childlike intelligence and irony.
He walked over to Ricciardi, hand extended.
“I’m Dr. Santoro, the director of the facility. What can I do for you today?”
Ricciardi summarized briefly the reason that he had come to call, taking care not to venture into the crucial details of the investigation that he was carrying out. The doctor proved to be willing to help.
“As you can well imagine, we are frequently in contact with the police, both as consultants and concerning the histories of our guests; quite a few of them have had episodes of, shall we say . . . intemperance. We try to avoid inflicting further traumas upon them or their families, and we therefore absorb, to the extent that we are able, the requests of law enforcement and the magistracy without bothering them directly. If you please, let’s go to my office.”
They walked down a hallway that was illuminated with the gray light of day from high windows on either side. The absence of bars and of any noise allowed Ricciardi to loosen, if ever so slightly, the vise grip that clamped down on his chest.
Santoro’s office looked like a small library. All the walls, except for the one behind the desk, which featured a window overlooking the grounds, were lined with books. The man gestured for the commissario to be seated, and instead of going to sit down in the large armchair behind the desk, sat down in one of the chairs adjoining Ricciardi’s.
He lit his pipe with slow, measured gestures, and inhaled with gusto.
“I’ve just finished my first rounds of the day, so I have a little time. Go ahead, Commissario: what’s this all about?”
Ricciardi uttered the name of the person he had come to find out about, and Santoro’s expression changed from one of polite interest to one of involvement.
“Yes, I recall the case. You see, our institution, which, as you probably know, is entirely privately owned, can accommodate a hundred guests. We receive a far greater number of applications, but we believe that this is the highest number compatible with satisfactory care. Any more and we feel we’d be unable to track each guest in a rigorous manner.”
Ricciardi cleared his throat, doing his best to still his sense of anguish.
“As I mentioned, I’d like to meet with this person, and I’d also like to meet with another person who is, at this very moment, paying a call on them, or at least so I am informed. First, though, I’d need to know a few details about the specific situation concerning the payment of the clinic’s fees.”
Santoro stirred uncomfortably in his chair.
“Commissario, this is very confidential information, I hardly think that I can . . . ”
Ricciardi interrupted in a voice that was calm but firm.
“Doctor, this is a police investigation. An investigation that has to do with a murder, what’s more. Unless I immediately obtain the information I need, I’ll have to turn to a magistrate, and that request could result in embarrassing repercussions for your operation. It’s up to you.”
The man fell silent for a while, inhaling thoughtfully on the pipe stem. Then he sighed and said: “All right, Commissario. I understand and I thank you for your consideration and diplomacy. Now then, the way we organize ourselves involves separating our guests, as we prefer to call them, into groupings of the agitated, the semi-agitated, and the tranquil; that is done to avoid mixing individuals whose interaction would only be harmful. These different conditions, of course, require differing levels of surveillance and security. And it stands to reason that these differences entail differing levels of costs and, correspondingly, differing levels of fees.”
Ricciardi felt the agitation grow inside him again.
“Where is the person in question being detained?”
Santoro smiled.
“We don’t detain anyone, Commissario. In here, people pay to be admitted, and there are very long waiting lists. Our clinic is one of the most renowned in the country. So, to finish up, the tranquil guests are, in turn, broken down into two categories: the ones whose demeanor and behavior are proper and those whose behavior may prompt concerns from time to time. The guest you are inquiring about is, in fact, classified in this second group because of some intemperant behavior observed in the past. That entails the need for round the clock monitoring, which in turn results in an increase in the fees.”
Ricciardi thought he had glimpsed a rapid movement outside the window. He clenched his fists in his pockets.
“So keeping them here is rather costly, is that right? Could you give me a ballpark figure?”
Santoro exhaled a cloud of pale blue smoke.
“I’d like to make it clear that it’s all in proportion to the first-class services we offer, both in terms of health care and in terms of security. And they are given only the best in every area. The meat used in the preparation of the meals is grade A and . . . ”
“How much is the person in question paying?”
Faintly embarrassed, Santoro replied: “Ten thousand lire annually. The price, moreover, is also determined by the number of applications that we receive and, as I was explaining to you, our decision to limit the number of guests that we . . . ”
Ricciardi stopped him, grim-faced.
“I’m not asking you for a discount, Doctor. For now, I have no intention of becoming one of your . . . guests, as you put it. I just need to know whether or not this person is up-to-date with their payments.”
Santoro ran a hand down his cheek.
“I can rely on your discretion, can’t I, Commissario? If anyone were to hear that I had disclosed information of this sort . . . ”
; Ricciardi reassured him with a brusque wave of the hand. The man replied without looking him in the eyes.
“The family was two months behind in their payments. We demanded full payment, otherwise we would be forced to move the guest out of the single room and cease the treatment they were currently enjoying. In consideration of the fact that this person has resided here for close to six years, we would have been willing to offer new accommodations in a common area. We aren’t such heartless people that we’d simply turn a human being in that condition out onto the street, but before long this guest would have been required to leave the clinic. Luckily, though, everything was taken care of. And we heaved a sigh of relief when it was.”
Ricciardi leaned forward.
“What do you mean, everything was taken care of?”
Santoro looked surprised by the question.
“Well, yesterday all the fees were paid off. And they even gave us next semester’s payment in full, and in advance.”
XLIV
Santoro entrusted Ricciardi to the care of a strong-looking male nurse with a likable face, by the name of Iovane, who led the commissario to a door. The man pulled a heavy bunch of keys from the pocket of his spotless white labcoat and opened the door, and they then found themselves in one of the wings of the building.
The commissario immediately perceived a change in the atmosphere. The windows, which did not have handles to open them, but rather keyholes, had glass panes that were reinforced by metal netting, and on the exterior they were further guarded by crossbars. Since those windows faced onto the rear of the grounds, they weren’t visible to anyone passing by on the road, and therefore the impression that the building was a mansion rather than a place of confinement remained intact.
Lining the left side of the corridor they were walking along were a series of closed doors. Suddenly a horrible, despairing cry issued from behind one of these doors: it was a male voice, but there was very little of the human about it. Immediately the occupants of the other rooms responded, like monkeys in the jungle, and there arose a brief concert which however soon ceased all at once, as if a conductor had put an end to it with a short sharp sweep of the baton. Ricciardi pulled his head down between his shoulders, and felt as if he’d been tossed back into a world with which he’d been in painful contact until his mother’s death.
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 32
