The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  Savelli looked at his protégé. As usual, his reasoning was sound, but removing someone from the investigation when they were already familiar with it was an odd move. It went against his pursuit of what’s right, especially given that left to himself Guidoni was already a loose cannon. He was presumptuous and inexperienced, had powerful backers and could count on their helping him through seemingly insurmountable obstacles. The judge wasn’t aware of any ties between Guidoni and Astroni, so it struck him as peculiar that Astroni was considering keeping him on board. What his right-hand man said next, however, clarified things.

  ‘We could assign Marta Bossini to him as support and incentive. She’s already dealt with terrorism cases.’

  It all made sense now. Despite the demanding trial that awaited him, Astroni also wanted control over this important and delicate case. As always, he’d mapped out every detail. Guidoni had little experience, but with a Rottweiler at his side who’d lead the chase and be guided as necessary by Astroni’s counsel… As Federico’s current lover, Marta Bossini was perfect, loyal in every respect.

  Well played, Federico. You want the Petri case; it’s yours. Savelli smiled at Astroni, who was still feigning ignorance, as if the final say didn’t really matter to him.

  ‘It seems like a good solution. Do you want to tell him?’

  6

  Annibale sat beside Giovanna in the small office next to the one belonging to the magistrate following the case. He was planning his immediate future, and not really paying attention to his niece. The niece he’d only just discovered he had.

  Eventually she complained, ‘You’re not listening to me!’ in a tone so adult it made him jump.

  He gave her a weak smile, feeling out of his depth in the role of babysitter yet knowing full well that his relationship with her wouldn’t be ending any time soon. Nor would it get easier after their time together in that depressing place, its files packed with stories that saddened him to his core.

  Despite having served his country for a long time, he still got sharp, stabbing pains in his stomach when he looked at that dark, grey building jutting out of Milan’s city centre. It was almost an allergic reaction. At first he thought it was just an isolated case, but he’d noticed the same symptoms in Turin, Genoa, Rome, and realised it was something else. Inside those buildings, the law (and he was intimately acquainted with its injustice) had revealed time’s real trick: everyone may be equal before the law (though that wasn’t true), but time is an inescapable sentence for everyone; it doesn’t play favourites. Time got lost; a second, a minute, an hour – it didn’t have the same meaning in there that it did outside. Time was lost for ever. Not only did it move more slowly, it actually took you to a different dimension. Point in case: how long had they been there? He had no idea. And if it happens to me as a former Carabiniere, what about others? So he’d avoided courts of law whenever he could, opting to meet magistrates and judges in barracks or literally anywhere else.

  ‘Of course I’m listening,’ he replied to Giovanna.

  ‘Are you my uncle?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So why didn’t you get me a Christmas present? My friend, her uncle got her tickets for the Laura Pausini concert.’

  The kid’s reasoning rattled him, but he played along. ‘Because I’m a new uncle, so I start doing uncle things now. I’m going to get you a pen and a piece of paper. Here. Will you draw me something?’

  Giovanna took his offerings with a condescending look, letting him know that they were for babies. But she accepted her task.

  ‘Okay. I’ll draw Mummy.’

  Annibale smiled at her. He cast his thoughts back to when he was sitting in the back seat of a police car with her and his sister-in-law (it was still very strange to think of them like that), and he’d realised they were being followed. The driver and his colleague hadn’t noticed. When he’d been on the front line, it was precisely that attitude, that kind of distraction that had most infuriated him. ‘Each attack is preceded by a string of daily tailings and stakeouts – and not one of you bastards has noticed,’ he’d scolded his team at the time. Of course, it had been difficult even for him, but his senses had come out of hibernation fairly rapidly, engaging the cycle of attention-prevention-defence-attack.

  Their followers were good, but they’d made a space-time mistake. There were a couple of them, one on a scooter and the other in a nondescript car. They delayed at a critical moment – what Canessa had always termed ‘the changing-of-the-guard’: the scooter had fallen behind in traffic, so the car had to stay behind them a little longer instead of turning down a side street. It blew their cover.

  So they weren’t police or the press. They were something to do with whoever had killed his brother and Petri. Maybe… but why would they be coming after him now? Was he a threat to them? If so, something deeply troubling was afoot. Petri knew things that could harm powerful individuals, not just terror-related tales. Were the Secret Service behind it? He didn’t think so. Calandra wouldn’t have shown his hand this soon. It was something else. But what?

  Sara came back from the office next door, interrupting his thoughts. She looked almost relieved.

  He stood to greet her. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It went well. They were kind and understanding, nothing like you described. They said I can go home, and they’ll let me know when they’ll release Napoleone for the funeral.’

  She covered her tears with a sneeze.

  A brigadier appeared at the door. ‘Madam, whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘They’re giving me a lift to the station. There’s a train in half an hour.’ She looked to him for reassurance.

  ‘Go, look after your daughter. I’ll sort things out here, the funeral too,’ he replied. Sara hugged him and took Giovanna’s hand. Giovanna turned to him and handed him the paper. ‘It’s for you.’ And she left with her mother.

  Alone, Annibale looked at the drawing. There was a slide with a boy on it, and a man and a woman under it. A family on a happy day. Really well done.

  ‘Mister Canessa, please.’

  The clerk formally invited him to step into the office of Deputy Prosecutor Fabio Guidoni. Annibale folded the drawing with care and slid it into his jacket pocket.

  7

  Carla was tapping excitedly on the keyboard in the cupboard of an office they’d carved out for her when she was hired. It was her personal oasis: clippings were sorted into files stacked with precision, and each article backed up on the PC’s personal folder, easily accessible. There were no signs of her personal life. No photos, no posters, no trinkets – all things that profoundly irritated her.

  The article was flowing smoothly, easily, filled with facts and images. Carla was feeling great, the previous night with Giulio Strozzi already a faded memory. It only reappeared now at longer intervals, but it still brought some lingering nausea with it. It felt like leaning over the abyss, teetering on the edge and feeling the draw and pull of the fall, if only for a second. Then the feeling would leave, she’d take a deep breath and collect herself again.

  Across from her, Salvo Caprile was typing up a profile of Colonel Canessa, which would be printed alongside the scoop she got from the former Carabiniere behind the morgue.

  ‘Shit, Carla, this guy was a cross between Rambo and the Terminator,’ her colleague exclaimed, highlighting a clipping from the archives.

  Carla smiled. She really rated the small Sicilian guy who’d joined them a year ago as a sub and had immediately been offered a full contract. He was quick and flexible, even if not the greatest writer. Strozzi called him a ‘mouse’, but it wasn’t a put-down: whenever they needed to locate a story, a resource, a paper trail from the past, Caprile was like a mouse with cheese.

  ‘The via Gaeta story is incredible. I was two years old. I never knew all the details.’

  ‘I was three
. My mum told me years later that when my dad got home from work that day he said: “Someone finally got him.”’

  ‘Shit, that’s cool. Can I put it in?’

  ‘Don’t fuck around, Caprile.’

  ‘Shame.’

  Carla stared at him with a mixture of tenderness and pity before her gaze moved to the Monica Bellucci poster behind him.

  She returned to her typing, but the screen showed a new email notification. She opened it. ‘Well done, an excellent piece.’

  Giulio Strozzi was live-editing her article, reading it while she was writing it. Technology: a double-edged sword, both extremely useful and incredibly invasive.

  Maybe her boss was just trying to cover up his guilt, but even without his flattery she knew she was doing a great job. Her colleagues had discovered the identity of the other victim with Pino Petri, and that the former Colonel Canessa was in Milan and about to be heard by the prosecutors as an informed witness. But she was the only one who’d talked to him, so her article would lead the front page. It had been Strozzi’s idea, and the chief agreed.

  The memory of her night with the managing editor returned to dampen her mood.

  8

  Annibale Canessa was surprised – and not pleasantly – by the diplomas festooning the wall behind Deputy Judge Guidoni. He already had a strong dislike of people who paraded their accomplishments, but this one really pushed the meaning of ‘accomplishment’: they weren’t just work-related – law degree, Master’s from an American college – he’d even included a bungee-jumping certificate from New Zealand and third prize in a Hawai’i triathlon.

  He had to admit that Guidoni was well-built, with the body of a weight-lifter. There was nothing about him of the stereotypical magistrate. Not that it makes a difference, Annibale muttered to himself, a firm believer in the book and cover adage for any role, but this wall display of testosterone isn’t promising. He spotted a revolver stuffed into the man’s belt, and the picture was complete. Jesus! He thinks he’s a sheriff.

  The woman next to him was something entirely different. Her gaze was piercing, and though her face wasn’t what you’d call pretty, there was something seductive about it, like Medusa’s head. She was squeezed into a beige trouser suit that hugged her body. Repetto would charmingly have called her a prick tease. The term made him smirk.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Guidoni asked him. He couldn’t have been that dumb, then.

  ‘Actually, I’ve been trying all morning to think of something,’ he shot back.

  Guidoni nodded. The woman watched him carefully.

  ‘Mister Canessa,’ the words underlined his point that, in here, previous rank no longer mattered, ‘may I offer first of all my sincere condolences for your brother’s death. That said, I’d like to take a statement.’

  ‘I’m all yours.’

  Annibale had decided to play the part of the retired Carabiniere who’d never forgotten the force’s motto: Usi a obbedir tacendo, to follow orders in silence.

  ‘How long had it been since you’d seen your brother?’

  ‘Twenty-five years, give or take.’

  The prosecutors looked at each other in confusion. The woman spoke next. ‘Not even a phone call, a card?’

  ‘Nothing. The last time I saw him was on the 22nd of December 1984, for less than an hour, in the self-service restaurant in the train station in Modena. And then today, as a corpse.’ He spoke like a police report. The colleagues in front of him knew he was telling the truth: Canessa realised they’d have checked his calls, emails, confirmed his movements.

  ‘Your brother’s wife confirms your story. Yet I must admit, I’m surprised. It’s not that I don’t believe you, of course. But your hatred for each other must have been fairly strong to keep you apart like that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it hatred. More resentment of each other’s life choices. From my point of view, his behaviour towards our parents played its part too. Ever since we were kids.’

  Canessa wasn’t entirely happy about divulging that painful domestic reality to the prosecutors, but he needed to concede some truth in order to get them to believe the lie: that he was indeed sad and dejected.

  ‘What about Petri?’

  ‘The last time I saw him? Same year, in July. I arrested him in Spain, brought him back to Italy, and never saw him again except on the news. He eventually disappeared from there too.’

  ‘Did you know he was on parole and close to release?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about him for a long time. And I haven’t really followed the news for the past couple of years.’

  ‘You’re in the hospitality and food service business now,’ Guidoni said, looking at a document. Probably a police report.

  ‘Yes, I’m helping my aunt.’

  ‘But you’re also a member of the Genoa bar association.’ The woman was also holding a folder, a blue one, and pretending to look through it. ‘Yes, after leaving the force I went to university and graduated in philosophy and law.’

  ‘Two degrees? Good god.’

  The macho prosecutor seemed impressed.

  ‘So, coming back to us, can you imagine why Petri might have met with your brother?’

  ‘No. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘We’re pursuing various lines of inquiry. But that meeting between two former terrorists is definitely unusual.’

  Annibale was irritated by the woman’s provocation but he swallowed, not taking the bait. Instead he stated, slowly and clearly, ‘However distant we were, I must point out that my brother, in all honesty, was never a terrorist.’

  ‘He spent a five-month sentence on suspicion of belonging to the armed wing of the party,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Three. It was three months. They did arrest him, but he was let go for lack of evidence, and when we last saw each other he told me he’d received a written apology. As far as I know, he was clean.’

  ‘We’re at an impasse then, my lawyer friend – if I can call you that,’ Guidoni smiled, with no trace of malice. ‘Is there anything you can do to help us?’

  ‘If I could, I honestly would, but I’ve been out of the game for a quarter of a century and have no more contacts. I’m in a different industry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No hunches, theories?’

  ‘All I can tell from my own experience is that Petri was the target. My brother must’ve been collateral damage.’

  It was true, but sitting in that room even he didn’t fully believe it.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course not, but Petri was a former terrorist on parole, a lifer with multiple sentences. My brother was a librarian from Reggio Emilia with a wife and daughter and a false arrest behind him. If you’re looking for a motive, then Petri’s your man.’

  ‘My dear sir,’ Guidoni couldn’t resist the lure of titles, even if he meant it cuttingly. ‘You simply can’t imagine how many families turn out to be viper’s nests. Maybe your brother had a secret life. Even at the time, his arrest surprised you, right?’ Presumptuous, insinuating, Guidoni thought he’d just scored a point against Canessa, whose very silence urged him to continue. ‘Did your brother use drugs?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware, but again, I hadn’t heard from him in quite some time.’

  ‘You know, it wouldn’t be the first time a former terrorist moved up the social ladder by dealing heroin, cocaine – or something else.’

  Annibale held hard to his self-control to stop himself giving a piece of his mind to this arrogant bastard who was already advancing some inane theory without a scrap of evidence. He kept quiet, grinding his heels into the floor.

  His sermon over, Guidoni offered, ‘I hope you don’t mind, and I told your sister-in-law the same, but we won’t be eliminating any possible lead.’

  It sounded like a threat rathe
r than consideration. The prosecutor looked at his colleague for backup. She was still standing, pretending to be busy with something else.

  ‘I think that for now we can dismiss Mr Canessa.’

  She resurfaced from her thoughts, as if only half-involved with proceedings. ‘Yes, sure. Just one question, please. You got to Milan pretty quickly. Who told you?’

  ‘I still have friends on the force. They heard my brother was involved and called me out of respect.’

  ‘I suppose you won’t be telling us who told you.’

  ‘You suppose correctly. They have nothing to do with this and I’d rather not drag them into it.’

  The woman replied with a cutting glare and turned to the clerk, saying: ‘For the record: Mister Canessa refuses to collaborate.’

  ‘Very well, you can go,’ Guidoni cut the tension, ‘for now. Of course, we’ll have to talk to you again, once we uncover more evidence. You’re not planning on leaving the country, are you?’

  Canessa looked at them both and then stood up, asking flatly, ‘Where would I go?’

  Back in the corridor, Annibale took a deep breath and made for the exit. The afternoon had almost yielded to evening, and the courts were quiet. It was a Saturday, too.

  No one offered to walk him out, nor did he ask for help. Though he’d been away for a lifetime, he recognised the old routes, the labyrinthine staircases and corridors of that large building dedicated to the pursuit of the law. He went to the public phone in the lobby and dialled a number he’d learned by heart a long time ago. The clear voice of a young woman replied, and was immediately disappointed. She was clearly expecting someone else, maybe her partner.

  ‘Hello, this is Max. Is your dad home?’

  ‘Hold on, please.’

  She put the receiver down carelessly while Annibale considered what right he had to involve his friend, dragging him into a game that was showing every sign of turning dangerous.

  ‘Max! It’s been a while, how are you?’ No sign of any kind of emotion in his voice.