Black Run (25 page)

Once he'd made his way through the wall of people, the nave opened out before Rocco's eyes. Everyone inside was seated. Leone's coffin sat at the foot of the altar. There was a wreath of flowers on one side and a bouquet carefully laid on the gleaming wooden coffin cover. The priest, a man in his early forties, clad in vestments, stood next to the coffin. Every head was directed at him. Rocco continued toward the pews in the front. A few people shot fleeting glances at the deputy police chief. There was the postmaster, who waved at him, as did the barman, Mario, as well as the beaver-physician sitting next to his wife, Annarita. Instead of greeting him, she kept her eyes downcast. There were the ski instructors sitting in a group, dressed in their work attire, and Omar Borghetti was among them. Amedeo Gunelli, the one who had found Leone dead in the snow, was sitting next to his boss, Luigi Bionaz, who, at least in church, for once wasn't rolling a cigarette.

“On the cross, Jesus is alone. He no longer has his disciples with him, the apostles whom he taught for three years. There is no crowd chanting hosanna in the highest. There is only his mother, Mary, and John at the foot of the cross. But Jesus knows, deep in his heart, that God the Almighty has not abandoned him. And this is the meaning of Psalm 22 . . .”

At last, Rocco came to a halt. He had spotted Luisa Pec's profile. He also saw Leone's brother, Domenico, with his wife.

“And he teaches us that death is only the beginning, that it is only a drawing closer to our Father who is in heaven, where he will take us into his infinite arms for a new beginning, the true new life. Let us pray. Our Father who art in heaven . . .”

All of the faithful joined with the priest in prayer. All except Luisa, who sat there, eyes downcast, looking at the floor of the church. Then she slowly raised her head and turned to look at Rocco, as if she'd sensed the deputy police chief's eyes on her.

They looked at each other. She was a
mater dolorosa
of a stunning, Renaissance loveliness, with her copper blond hair tumbling down over her shoulders.

Yep,
Rocco thought,
you could die for a woman like that. And you could kill.

“Words serve no purpose,” the priest continued. “The whole valley, this whole city, gathers close around Luisa, around Leone's brother, Domenico, and his wife, around Leone's friends, Leone who was welcomed as a brother in these mountains, where he was not born but that now, without him, seem a little emptier; in short, we are all yearning, we all wish to know, we all need to know the truth. And I see that we have the police here among us today”—the faintest of smiles appeared on the priest's lips—“and we thank them, do we not? We thank them for the work that they will do to ensure that whoever committed this horrible murder may be apprehended and brought to justice.”

Rocco didn't like the priest's tone of voice. It was clear that this shepherd of souls placed no trust in him or in the officers who were with him. Certainly, when he thought of Deruta and D'Intino, how could he blame this minister of God? Still, the irony that veined the priest's voice was starting to irritate him.

“We've seen them at work, no? The deputy police chief and his dauntless officers.”

Now the priest was taking it too far. But Rocco stood motionless, listening with his arms folded across his chest, the eyes of the entire community focused on him.

“Perhaps now and again they employ methods that are somewhat unorthodox, our guardians of law and order . . .”

Rocco shot a glance at the postmaster, who bowed his head. The little man had gone and spilled the beans to the priest about the slap in the face.

Piece of shit,
Rocco thought to himself.

“But we also know that the path to the truth is paved at times with hardships and pitfalls.”

He was tempted to break in and give the priest a piece of his mind, but he was playing on a hostile field. And after all, an open quarrel in the middle of a funeral sermon struck even him as out of line.

“And so we place our faith in them, certain that as soon as possible we shall have results. Am I right?”

This time he'd addressed him personally. The echo of the question amplified through the microphone was accompanied by the rustling of every head in the church turning to look at him. Rocco Schiavone smiled and cleared his throat. “You are right, Padre,” he replied. “Much sooner than you might expect.”

The priest bowed his head ever so slightly, looked out at his flock, and went on. “Luisa has asked to say a few words about our brother Leone,” he said, stepping back from the microphone just as Luisa Pec was standing up from her seat. She walked to the lectern amid general silence. She had dark circles under her eyes. A black sweater and a pair of jeans were her mourning attire. Luisa took a deep breath and began.

“Leone isn't a Catholic.”

A murmur ran through the church.

“Excuse me. He wasn't a Catholic. And this funeral was held at the devout insistence of the Miccichè family, with my support, because even though I have personally embraced another religion, I still feel strong ties to my original roots.”

What the fuck,
thought Rocco, but he said nothing. Even if he was an atheist, he still remembered that he was in a church.

“The words that Don Giorgio has given us here today were beautiful and heartfelt. And it's true, a funeral is helpful—it's a balm to the soul. A person might think that by sharing their sorrow with others they will suffer less. But that's not how it is. Grief, like everything, is subjective. It has various layers; everyone knows that and experiences grief differently.” She cleared her throat. But it wasn't an emotional knot in her throat; very simply, some saliva had gone down the wrong way. “Leone was my husband. And I'm carrying his child. That is why . . .”

“Stop right there!” shouted Rocco, freezing the entire churchful of people to the spot. Padre Giorgio opened his eyes wide. Everyone turned their heads to stare at the deputy police chief. Luisa, too, stopped speaking and clutched at the microphone. “Just one thing, Luisa. Please stick to the truth,
grazie
.” Then Rocco nodded his head as if to say, “You can go on,” and sat waiting.

All heads now swiveled in Luisa Pec's direction. “But I
am
speaking the truth!”

“There's only one person here who knows the truth,” said Rocco, and once again the congregation all turned to look at him. It was like watching the Wimbledon finals. “For those who believe—and we're talking about Truth with a capital T—we have Don Giorgio,” and he pointed to the priest. “While for those who are less demanding, like me, those who believe only in what they can see and understand, in that case the repository of that truth, that truth with a lowercase
t,
I mean, well, in that case, they have me.”

“Please, Mr. Deputy Police Chief, we're in the house of the Lord,” Don Giorgio broke in.

“That's just the point, Padre. Here, of all places, and in the presence of Leone's coffin, lies are an abomination, and nothing but the truth should be spoken. You said so yourself only a little while ago. Leone was murdered. Everyone here knows it—we all know it. And God knows it better than any of us. I know it, too. The only difference is that, unlike the rest of you, I know who did it.”

A buzz of excited conversation rushed through the pews lining the center aisle. Heads swiveled excitedly to get a better glimpse, to speak to a neighbor. Till that moment, the audience had been calm and relaxed, sober in its grief, like the surface of a calm lake. But suddenly, swept by shivers of curiosity, that smooth surface had been broken and small jets of spray and foaming waves sprang up. Officer Pierron, who now understood, backed up and left the church, hurrying outside. Omar Borghetti looked around, speaking in a low voice into the ear of his cross-eyed colleague, who was shaking his head. Annarita was clutching her husband's arm, eagerly gobbling up every detail with her eyes, ears, and nose, noting words, movements, and even smells. Amedeo Gunelli was staring at the deputy police chief, terrified that Rocco Schiavone might suddenly speak his name and place him at the center of attention.

“This is no place to hold a trial. This is a place of prayer,” thundered the priest, and his voice rose all the way to the ceiling, where a triumphant Christ spread his arms to gather in the souls of the innocent.

“Certainly, Padre. Certainly. And in that case, by all means, pray. But don't say things that have nothing to do with the truth.”

Now the audience was divided, unsure whether to stare at the widow, Rocco, or Padre Giorgio.

Luisa moved away from the pulpit and sat down again. Rocco leaned against the column and folded his arms across his chest. By rights, Padre Giorgio had the floor once again, and he slowly walked to the altar, followed by the altar boy, swinging the censer on a chain, wafting clouds of incense over poor Leone's coffin. But the audience continued to murmur. Suddenly out of that thicket of voices, one more powerful than all the rest made itself heard: “So who was it?”

“Yes, we want to know. Who was it?”

An elderly gentleman rose to his feet. “I'm an old man, and there's one thing I know for sure. Certainly the church is a place of prayer, that's true. But it's also a place of community. And the community wants to know. Who did this? I want to know—we all want to know!”

Padre Giorgio froze, caught off guard. He looked out at his congregation, and he looked at Rocco. The altar boy stood there, with the chain holding the censer dangling in his hand, the plume of incense smoke rising straight up toward the ceiling. “Please, Ignazio,” said Padre Giorgio to the old man, “please! We're here to remember Leone, not to hold a trial.”

But the elderly Ignazio wasn't giving up that easily. “Padre, the best way to honor Leone's memory is to throw whoever murdered him behind bars. Just a short while ago, you thanked the police for the work they've done. Well, here's a representative of the law who tells us that he knows who took Leone's life. If there's one thing that's sacred, it's life. God alone can take a life. And if that sinner is here in our midst, well, let me tell you from the bottom of my heart: he has no right to be here in the house of the Lord!”

“True!”

“Very true!
Bravo,
Ignazio!”

“Take the wine away from him!” called a voice from the choir.

At that point Rocco spoke up, doing his best to calm the audience with both hands. “Padre Giorgio is right: this is poor Leone's funeral. It's not the place to hold a trial. Please, Padre, go on with the service and please excuse me. And I beg all of you to forgive me for my inappropriate outburst.” Then, just as he had entered, Rocco left the church, but this time without having to use his voice to clear his way, because the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

“Dottor Schiavone!” Padre Giorgio's voice echoed like the trumpet of the Last Judgment. “Do you know who did it?”

Rocco stopped. He turned to face the altar. The eyes of the audience were hundreds of pinpoints fixed on his face. He was about to answer the priest when a woman's voice caught everyone's attention. “Excuse me. Can I get through? Excuse me.” Now the audience turned around to look back at the church doors. The Wimbledon finals were still under way. “Excuse me, let me through.” And at last, among the faithful, standing by the doors, they saw the uniform and the tense face of Inspector Caterina Rispoli. The instant she realized that there were hundreds of people staring at her, she blushed. Her eyes sought those of Rocco, who was standing just a few yards away from her. “Everyone please forgive me. Dottore?”

The woman handed the deputy police chief an envelope. The priest stood there, waiting for an answer to his question. Rocco opened the envelope and read the contents amid general silence. Then he looked up toward the altar, at Padre Giorgio. “Yes, Padre, I know. And the guilty parties are right here, in the house of the Lord, where—as Ignazio said—they don't belong. Though, actually, as far as I'm concerned, they're perfectly welcome to be here, but I think that for the faithful, like Ignazio, it's grossly offensive. No?”

“Who are they?!” shouted an impatient voice, unable to remain silent a minute longer.

He could hear the breathing and the sighs; he could sense the tension in the eyes and nerves of that entire levelheaded, hardworking community raised to an extreme level. Amedeo Gunelli turned his head to look at his neighbors; the postmaster sat with both hands over his mouth. Signor and Signora Miccichè were now on their feet, glaring at the crowd in an accusatory manner. Annarita kept her eyes on the floor and shook her head slowly back and forth. Rocco retraced his footsteps, followed now by Inspector Rispoli. As he headed for the altar, he walked past Omar Borghetti. He stopped. The man turned pale. But Rocco held out his hand to shake Omar's. “I owe you an apology.”

Omar smiled faintly. “No problem, Dottore. The slap in the face was to get a sample of my blood, wasn't it?”

Rocco nodded and went on walking as Omar heaved a sigh of relief and his cross-eyed co-worker slapped him several times on the back. The deputy police chief went past Signor and Signora Miccichè. He went past the priest as the eyes of the faithful clung to him like so many hungry bloodsuckers. Hundreds of eyes, eyes that were about to have their curiosity satisfied. Not even at the penalty shoot-out between Italy and France in the 2006 World Cup Final had Rocco sensed such tension. He stopped in front of Luisa Pec. He looked at her. Then, with a slow, one-handed gesture, he said, “Please come with me.”

Luisa's eyes opened wide. The priest clutched at the microphone, and a chorus of shrill whistles broke the surreal silence. Domenico Miccichè turned pale. His wife collapsed into her pew. The faithful, as if complying with a specific command from a choreographer, all clapped their hands to their mouths. Luisa slowly stood up. She nodded twice, then slowly trailed after the policemen. Rocco shot an accusatory glare at Annarita, then walked around to the opposite side of the aisle. When he got to the middle, he stopped once again. Again, silence. The only sounds came in from the street: a bus horn and, in the distance, a child's joyful cry. Rocco looked at Amedeo Gunelli, whose jaw dropped in fright. Then the policeman swiveled his gaze over to Luigi Bionaz, the head snowcat operator. “Luigi Bionaz, would you please be so good as to come with me.”