Martinelli was a stickler for good spelling, and that last error shattered his excitement. Someone knocked at the door.
“Come in!” shouted the warden, and with a click of his mouse he closed the escort website, replacing it with a drab and bureaucratic email from the Ministry of the Interior.
The office door swung open and the bearded face of a guard appeared. “Dottore! Mozzicarelli, the inmate who asked to see you, is here.”
“Send him in.”
The guard gestured and Sergio came in, his shoulders bowed, his hands in front of him, and his head hanging low.
“Well, what is it?” snapped the warden, out of sorts, without inviting him to sit down. “You’ve been asking for this meeting since yesterday. I hope it’s something important.”
“Dottore, I . . . I have to see someone.”
“Mozzicarelli, this is a prison, not a hotel. Who do you need to see so urgently?”
“The deputy chief.”
Martinelli narrowed his eyes. “Do you mind telling me why?”
“No, Dottore, I mean yes, I do mind. It’s something that . . . in other words, I can only tell him.”
The warden nodded seriously and seemed offended. “All right. We’ll take care of it later. Now go back to your cell and don’t worry about it.”
“Actually, today I’m on cafeteria duty.”
“Even better, so go to the cafeteria, and if Dottor Schiavone has time to see you, I’ll let you know.”
“Make sure you tell him that this is something he’ll be very interested in.”
“Mozzicarelli, if this is to waste the deputy chief’s time and mine with some delirium of yours, say so immediately and we don’t have to discuss it ever again.”
“Dottore, you and I have known each other for many years. And I’ve never asked you for a thing. If I tell you that it’s urgent, trust me. It’s urgent and it’s very, very important.”
“Sollima!” shouted the warden. The door swung open again and the guard’s bearded face reappeared. “Take the inmate back to his cell.”
“To the dining hall, actually,” Sergio corrected him.
“Wherever it is!”
The two men left the room. Martinelli went back online to get the photo of that Amelia. In any case, he wanted to make a note of the girl’s cell phone number.
DEPUTY INSPECTOR CATERINA RISPOLI ENTERED THE CONFERENCE room in police headquarters where Antonio and Italo were waiting for her. She carried two small plastic cups.
“What am I going to tell Schiavone?” she asked as she set the espressos down for her colleagues.
Antonio grabbed his espresso. “What do I know? Just tell him what happened to me. Anyway, the Carabinieri were there and they’re following Cremonesi. Then Schiavone can figure what it all adds up to.”
“It’s a strange thing,” said Italo after sampling the cup of bilge from the vending machine. “It seems to me that there are maneuvers going on here that we don’t understand. What should I do? Report it to the judge?”
Caterina thought it over. “No. For now, let’s just tell Schiavone about it. But he insists on keeping his cell phone switched off.”
“Okay, but what am I supposed to do?” asked Antonio. “Do I go on following Cremonesi?”
“Forget about it. Let’s wait for Rocco,” said Italo, tossing the little plastic cup into the trash can.
“Anyway, I printed the photos I took of those four people.”
“Put them in the deputy chief’s drawer. We’ll show them to him as soon as he gets back,” Caterina ordered. Antonio nodded.
“I have something to say . . . but, actually, it’s a little embarrassing, you know?”
“Go ahead, Italo,” Antonio urged him.
“Yesterday I had to take some medicine to my aunt up in Nus. I was on my way back when I saw Pietro Berguet, Chiara’s father.”
“What’s so strange about that?” asked Caterina.
“The strange part is that he was coming out of the Hotel Pavone . . .” And he shot a little smile at Antonio.
“Why are you laughing like a fool?” Caterina upbraided him. “Well?”
“Oh, come on, Caterina, don’t you know? The Hotel Pavone is famous, or at least notorious.”
Caterina shook her head. “Famous for what?”
Antonio came to his colleague’s rescue. “It’s a love hotel. Guys take their lovers there.”
Caterina incinerated Italo with a glare. “And how would you know about this?”
“Everyone knows.”
“Everyone who engages in this filth!”
“Well then, you can get mad at Antonio, too. He knows about it.”
“What did I do wrong?” Scipioni asked defensively.
“Yeah, how come you know about it?” And now the poison darts that seemed to be pouring out of Caterina’s eyes were targeting the Sicilian-Marchesan officer.
“Caterì, everyone knows.”
The deputy inspector made a face. “Because you’re animals!”
“Listen, the guys that go there go with women. Whether they’re their lovers or something else.”
“Their lovers are just pathetic fools, tricked by guys who squire them around promising them the moon and the stars. And in any case, you’re all still animals!”
“If only I were an animal,” said Italo calmly, “then by now maybe I’d be sleeping under the same roof as you!”
Caterina said nothing in response. She just swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
HE’D TALKED TO THE ROMANIAN INMATE WHO HAD WALKED by Cuntrera’s corpse during the brawl, but he hadn’t managed to get any interesting information out of him. Mimmo Cuntrera seemed to have died in some parallel dimension that made him invisible to the others. Standing in front of a vending machine that had just dispensed an espresso, on the second floor of the office wing, the deputy chief was stirring his plastic cup with a plastic stirrer stick and looking young Abela right in the eyes.
“That’s how it was, Dottore. I was in the courtyard, next to Wing 2, when I heard the shouting and I saw the brawl. So, along with Marini, I ran over to help. I took Agostino Lumi into custody and handed him over to my colleagues.”
“Yes. I saw that in the footage from the security camera.”
“Then Marini called me, because he’d seen that man on the ground . . . that Cuntrera.”
Rocco took a sip of espresso. It tasted like a chicory broth. “What the fuck . . .” And he flung the still half-full plastic cup into the trash can. “So it won’t do any good to ask you questions. You were on the far side, opposite from where Cuntrera was killed.”
“Yes.”
“So you didn’t see anyone approach him and talk to him . . .”
“No, Dottore. Truth be told, I was just getting a breath of fresh air outside of the office and thinking about my summer vacation. I’m taking it in June!” he said with a hint of pride.
“Dottor Schiavone!” From the end of the hallway, Tolotta, the giant panda, was calling for the deputy chief’s attention. “There’s a phone call for you. From Aosta.”
Rocco rolled his eyes. “Where should I take it?”
“I’ll put it through to you in the warden’s office. He’s out doing his rounds and the room is empty.”
Rocco nodded. He slapped Abela on the back and took the stairs to Martinelli’s office.
“Dottore, do you mind? I’m going on my lunch break. You can find me down in the dining hall.”
“All right, Tolò . . . see you later.”
“LISTEN, TELL ME SOMETHING, DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH your thumb that keeps you from turning on your cell phone? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! I called police headquarters and I spoke to one of your officers, and it took an hour before he’d agree to give me the phone number of this fucking prison!” Fumagalli was shouting into the receiver that Rocco was holding a good five inches from his ear as he sat in the warden’s office. He was looking at a framed photograph. Three
little kids. All three were blond and all three wore red-and-white-striped overalls. “Didn’t you see the texts I sent you?”
“Yes, I saw them.”
“Then why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I didn’t feel like it.”
“What are you doing in prison?”
“Are you done asking questions, or do you plan to go ahead for half the day?”
“I have something extremely important to tell you, you asshole. Do you want to know it or not?”
“So go ahead and tell me!”
“Open your ears good and wide . . .”
“Okay, but you stop yelling at me, Albè.”
“This is about Cuntrera . . . All right, so you remember? The corpse swelled up, then it shrank back down to normal, and so on and so forth?”
“Yes, I remember all of that. God willing, I haven’t come down with Alzheimer’s yet.”
“I sent the glands to two of my colleagues in Brescia. Two luminaries. They’re the only ones capable of it.”
“Capable of what?”
“Capable of identifying the substance that killed Cuntrera. You probably ought to be sitting down for this: ethyl carbamate!”
Rocco furrowed his brow but said nothing.
“Oh, did you hear me or not?”
“What the fuck is ethyl carbamate?”
“May God incinerate the ignorant!”
“I have a computer in front of me. Do you want me to go on the Internet, or are you going to tell me yourself?” And he touched the mouse with one hand. The screen lit up.
“Structurally speaking, it’s an ester of carbamic acid . . . You can even find it in wine, it develops independently . . . It’s also known as urethane. You ought to know that certain carbamates like neostigmine were also utilized in pharmacology.”
Rocco smiled. On the monitor of the warden’s computer he saw the last search the functionary had done: “Escort Aosta.”
What a sterling husband and head of household, Rocco thought.
“Oh! Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, sorry . . .”
“You know what it does, Rocco, if it’s injected in massive doses?”
“You tell me.”
“It kills you on the spot! But it’s just that it has another characteristic: it’s volatile. And if we hadn’t performed that autopsy, we’d never have known.”
Rocco was distracted by the escort’s web page. He was about to read the welcome message, but it struck him as more important to focus back on what Fumagalli was saying. “Let me get this straight . . . They injected him with this urethane, the guy died, and the killer was expecting a distracted, half-assed autopsy, in other words, hoping they’d give it a glance and move on, hopefully two days after his death . . .”
“Exactly, and in that case it would have appeared that Cuntrera had died of natural causes. A nice fat heart attack, just to make it perfectly clear . . .”
“The volatile chemical substance would have vanished . . .”
“And we would have just held a funeral and buried him. Most importantly, we’d never have noticed that sudden crazy swelling of the corpse, which was a result of the garbage they injected him with.”
“Where can a person get their hands on this urethane?”
“It’s not easy. No one uses it anymore. There was a time when it was prescribed for multiple myeloma, but nowadays we know that it’s highly toxic.”
“In other words, laying your hands on it is no simple matter . . .”
“No, not at all. Listen, maybe you can still find it in circulation for veterinary applications . . . but like I said, it’s hard to obtain. Meaning, it’s not as if you can go to the pharmacy and go up to the prescription counter and—”
“Albè, I get it!”
“It was useful, right?”
“You bet it was useful. It means that whoever killed Cuntrera had an accomplice outside of these walls. Thanks.”
“When are you coming back to Aosta?”
“Why?”
“Because I owe you dinner. I pay my debts and I pay my bets!”
“As soon as I get back I’ll call you.”
He hung up the phone. A detail of the photograph in which the escort in a garter belt with her face blanked out was giving it her all made the deputy chief smile. A little bee tattooed on her neck. Rocco recognized that tattoo. “Nice work, Amelia,” he said, under his breath. “‘I’m in charge of PR for Luca Grange’ . . .” Then it occurred to him that, in a sense, that was a form of PR, wasn’t it? Just a question of nuance.
He turned off the computer. He got up from the leather office chair and headed for the door. He pulled it open. He came perilously close to a head-on collision with Alessandro Martinelli, who was returning to his office.
“Ah, Martinelli. They put a phone call for me through to your office.”
“Yes, in fact, they told me about it. Listen, Dottor Schiavone, earlier an inmate came to see me. Sergio Mizzica . . . Mozzica—I can’t remember his exact name right now. He wanted to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“That’s right, he wouldn’t tell me what it was about. But trust me, as often as not this stuff is nonsense, the inmates have to find a way to pass the time, they make up stories as long as it gives them some margin of prestige inside the prison.”
“This Mozzica, Mizzica, or whatever his name is, who is he?”
“He’s an old inmate. Doesn’t have any family, I believe. He’s been here for many years. Do you really want to talk to him?”
“Well, you know what they say, right? Wardens come and go, but the inmates stay on!”
“You can say that again.”
“Where would I find him?”
“Downstairs, I think, in the cafeteria. He was on duty.”
AS SOON AS HE ENTERED THE STAFF DINING HALL, THE MIXED odors of minestrone and fried onion filled his nostrils. Of the ten tables, only three were occupied. Tolotta had his mouth full, and he waved hello to him from the far end of the room. He recognized Biranson, the little guy from Wing 3, and young Abela. Rocco went over to his personal sherpa. “Tolò, I’m looking for an inmate. Mizzica . . . Mozzica . . .”
Federico swallowed his mouthful. “Sergio Mozzicarelli, a little old guy. He’s over there, in the kitchen.” He jutted his chin toward the double doors behind the food counter. “Why?”
“None of your fucking business.”
A FAT AND SWEATY COOK WAS STIRRING AN ENORMOUS CAULDRON with a scorched bottom. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and his bovine eyes were gazing into the horrendous concoction. “Who are you?” asked a faint voice from somewhere behind Rocco. It was a small, dirty man who was drying his hands on a tattered, mended rag.
“Deputy Chief Schiavone, state police. I want to talk to Sergio Mozzicarelli.”
“Are you from Rome, too?” the little man asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m from Frascati!” he said with a hint of pride.
“Frascati isn’t Rome. It’s Frascati. So where’s Mozzicarelli?”
The kitchen attendant was clearly offended. He retreated to a hurt silence and jutted his chin toward a cluster of stainless steel prep tables against the far wall. A man with his back to them, dressed in an old shiny tracksuit, was cleaning the tabletops. Rocco went over to him.
“Mozzicarelli?”
Sergio jerked, startled, and emerged from his reverie. “Yes . . . ?”
Rocco had already seen him, his first day in the cafeteria. That man had smiled at him, and had then retreated to the kitchen. “I’m Deputy Chief Schiavone. You wanted to talk to me?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You went to the warden’s office because you wanted to see me . . .”
Sergio glanced around—“No, it was nothing, I must have been confused”—and went back to wiping the stainless steel work surface with his wet rag. Rocco grabbed him by the arm.
“Mozzicarelli . . . what was it you wanted to say?”
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“Why, no, it was nothing. Nothing important. I mean it was trivial.”
The deputy chief dropped the inmate’s arm. “Let’s hear it.”
Sergio drew a deep breath. “If you can help me with the warden, I could be very useful to your investigation.”
“What could you tell me?”
“Cuntrera was my cell mate . . . He never uttered a single word in those three days. He didn’t get any packages . . .”
“Mozzicarelli, cut the bullshit.”
“Can’t you help me? It’s tough in here. If I could just get some furloughs, some time on the outside . . . I’m an old man and I really need to get out of my cell.”
Rocco turned around. The cook went on stirring. The little man from Frascati was peeling potatoes. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to their conversation. “Tell me the truth, what do you want from me?”
“I told you! Nothing. Just a little help. Give me some help.”
Rocco heaved a sigh. “Who’s threatening you?”
“Threatening me? Why would anyone want to threaten me?”
“Because all you’re telling me about is nonsense and you won’t tell me the serious things.”
“There’s nothing!” Sergio raised his voice. His chin was trembling, and his eyes had hardened. “If you don’t want to help me, don’t. Now let me get my work done, or else I’ll lose my kitchen-work rights and I’ll have to go back to my cell.”
Schiavone stepped closer to the old convict. “Do you want to talk to me somewhere other than the kitchen, or else in private? I can make sure that no one touches you. I guarantee it.”
Sergio stepped around him and strode, his mind made up, toward the double doors. “Leave me alone!” And he went through into the dining hall. But Rocco hurried after him. He grabbed him by his arm. In a low voice he whispered again: “I could have you transferred to solitary confinement, you’d be safe there.”
Sergio looked at him for an instant, eyes filled with desperation and fear. “Leave me be!” he shouted, but nothing in his face indicated an actual, sudden, internal rebellion. “I haven’t done anything wrong and I don’t know anything!” Mozzicarelli’s piercing voice echoed through the dining hall. The old man shook loose of Rocco’s grip and walked quickly away toward the food counter. The guards sitting at their table observed the scene curiously. Abela was smiling; Biranson quickly dropped his eyes when he saw the deputy chief looking at him. Tolotta, in contrast, was fooling around with his smartphone.
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