Game for Five (12 page)

Massimo and the lawyer talked about this and that over dinner. In spite of his law degree, Attorney Valenti was quite an intelligent, widely read man, although not an especially witty one. It was not until after coffee that he revealed his anxieties, in the manner already quoted.

“There's one thing I don't understand,” Massimo said.

“What's that?”

“P.G., I mean your client, has been arrested. That's all. What I don't understand is why you're so worried. Are you sure that, as things stand, he'd be found guilty?”

“No, not at all. There's no evidence. There's no motive. There's only the testimony of a barman—I'm sorry, but that's the way it is—who says that the seat of the victim's car had been moved a long way back. Admittedly, there's my client's lack of an alibi. But in any trial worthy of the name, we wouldn't even get to the alibi. We're not in Burundi. Here, in order for a man to be found guilty of murder, his guilt must be demonstrated beyond a reasonable doubt. If there's no evidence and there's no motive, no jury would find him guilty. Even arresting him was an exaggeration, though you can't expect anything better from someone like our inspector.”

“Well, then?” Massimo asked.

“The problem is that although, from the point of view of the State, my client can't be found guilty, the community found him guilty quite some time ago. Let me put it more clearly. My client knows that this is a small town.”

“And people whisper,” Massimo said automatically.

“Congratulations! People whisper. The local papers write, and they write what the people want to hear. We have papers that talk almost exclusively about disasters, and that aren't objective even when they talk about the weather, so they're hardly going to be held back by ethics when it comes to a case like this. People read the papers, comment on them, and come to conclusions. My client will become ‘the man who killed the girl and got away with it.' He wants to avoid all that.”

Then he has to kill the rest of the town, Massimo would have liked to say. Instead, he decided to continue playing the Serious Person and limited himself to asking, “What's he planning to do?”

“According to him, there's only one way out. And I agree with him. Find the culprit, and prove his guilt.”

“Then I'll repeat the question. What's he planning to do?”

“We have to reconstruct everything from the beginning. Question the victim's friends, reconstruct her last day. Discover where she was during that period of time when nobody saw her. Dig deep. There's no magic formula, unfortunately.”

“I'm sorry, but what this got to do with me?”

“You were at the scene when the body was found, but as far as that's concerned”—the lawyer smiled—“you've already made your contribution. But I know you're friendly with the victim's best friend. I mean Giada Messa, the first suspect's sister.”

“Not exactly. I know her.”

“All right, you know her. How would you feel about exploiting that acquaintanceship?”

“That depends,” Massimo said, imagining various meanings of the word “exploitation” with a seventeen-year-old Lolita as protagonist.

“How would you feel about discreetly asking this girl and her brother specific questions about the victim? Questions I'd suggest to you?”

“I don't know. I don't think I'm the right person to do that.”

“Nonsense. I'm sorry, but in cases like this, people are more likely to confide in a stranger than in their friends, or the police. I don't think the girl told the police everything she knows, especially after they arrested her brother. Apart from anything else, you got her brother out of jail. Because of that, I think they'll both trust you. The brother might also have some useful information. After all, he and the victim were supposed to meet on the night of the murder. It's possible he too hasn't revealed everything he knows. You would be very useful in that respect.”

Massimo felt ill at ease. On the one hand, he was curious to know how things were going to end up. On the other, the thought of getting involved in this nasty business again made him feel bad.

“I'm sorry, but I have to be frank with you. I don't think this would get us anywhere. We each believe what we believe, whether we're right or wrong. But I'm not inclined to question people. Irritate them, yes. Make them think sometimes. But getting them to talk, being understanding when they tell me their life stories, no. I have a problem with that. I don't feel up to it.”

“I understand, but you have to understand me. It's the only chance we have to reopen the investigation.”

At this point, an explanation is in order. At a conservative estimate, there were about ten thousand situations potentially capable of irritating Massimo. But if there was one thing that irritated Massimo more than anything else, it was saying no to somebody and then the other person not giving a damn and keeping right on trying to persuade him as if he were a six-year-old. This applied to everyone, from street vendors to his own mother. Whenever it happened, Massimo invariably lost his temper.

“Obviously, I haven't made myself clear. I don't want to do it. And I don't want to do it because I'm not suited to what you're asking of me. I'm telling you this for the last time because I have no intention of changing my mind. Please don't insist.”

“Don't worry. We'll sort it out together. We just have to—”

“Goodbye.”

And he got up and walked out. Leaving the other man to pick up the tab, of course. But as the man was a lawyer, there shouldn't have been any problem about that.

 

Later, at home and already in bed, Massimo continued to reflect on the evening. On one thing, in particular, that he had told the lawyer. The lawyer had asked him to ask questions. To ask questions
discreetly.
That didn't make any sense to Massimo. If he wanted to make sure the case was reopened, why act discreetly? Why not make waves? Because, Massimo answered himself, it wasn't in his interests to make waves.
Ergo
, he really might be interested in doing what he had said: finding out who the real murderer was.

Massimo had taken it for granted that the lawyer was working only in the interests of his client, which was why he had lost his temper and left like a child who doesn't want to play ball anymore. Now he was no longer so sure.

On the other hand, there was one thing he was very sure of.

That the murder had come back into his head, and wasn't going to leave any time soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“‘Too Many Question Marks, Bouncer Remains in Gail

by Pericle Bartolini.

 

“Let's have some quiet, shall we?

“‘Pineta: After four hours of questioning, the position of Piergiorgio Neri, popularly known as P.G., for some time now a lively figure on the disco scene in Pineta, has become clearer, and he is now officially under investigation. Questioned yesterday by Deputy Prosecutor Artemio Fioretto, the bouncer reconstructed his movements on the day of the murder, assisted by his lawyer, Luigi Nicola Valenti.'—Must be the son of Valenti from San Piero, who used to repair bicycles.—‘The version of events supplied by Neri is simple: he claims that after coming back from a boat trip with some friends he was at home from eight in the evening until one in the morning, suffering from acute stomach pains and high fever, caused by eating rotten food.'—And I suppose it was too much of an effort to lift the phone, that's why he didn't call anyone. Do me a favor!—‘Since nobody has come forward to confirm this, and the deputy prosecutor himself has ordered that Neri remain in custody'—seems to me that's the least they can do—‘at least until the DNA test, planned for today, thanks to which the police should know if the fetus was biologically the child of Neri himself, and be able to establish a possible connection between him and the victim. A connection that has so far eluded them, in spite of their obvious belief that the bouncer knows much more about the murder that he is prepared to say. There are in fact too many things linking Neri and the description of the murderer: not having an alibi either for the period between eleven and one, when the girl was killed, or for the period between four-thirty and six the following morning, when the body was hidden in the trash can. In addition, Neri is six and a half feet tall, which tallies with the fact that, according to the findings of the forensics team,'—if you waited for them, you could wait forever—‘the driver of the vehicle in which the girl was transported to that her terrible, improvised coffin must have been unusually tall.'

 

Like you, Pilade.” Ampelio lowered the newspaper and took a tiny sip of his hated iced tea.

Del Tacca, who had been exempted from military service because he was just over five feet tall, had finished his ice cream and was getting ready to light his dreaded unfiltered Stop. “Listen to me, dammit,” he said, putting the cheap cigarette in his mouth, “firstly the reason I'm short is because my brain has been weighing me down all my life, secondly if you don't stop making stupid comments, we'll wait for Rimediotti to read the paper. I didn't understand a fucking word of that article!”

“Oh, weren't you supposed to be Einstein? My brain weighs so much, my brain gives me arthritis from how much it weighs . . . Enough with your brain.”

“Grandpa,” Massimo said, “a comment every now and again is amusing, one every ten seconds isn't. We end up listening to you and getting distracted from what you're reading.”

By now, Massimo was resigned to the idea that the old-timers would continue to discuss the murder. All right. But at least let me understand the article, he thought, with everything I have to do I'm damned if I'm going to find time to read it myself. Rimediotti's already irritating enough, it's as if he's reading in block capitals, and he spells every word he doesn't know.

“You're right, Massimo,” Aldo said. “You sound like the footnotes in an old book. Read what's written and keep the comments for later.”

Muttering something about young and old all being Fascists, Grandpa Ampelio went back to the paper and finished the article without further comments. It didn't say much more, apart from the fact that “the police have not revealed anything” about the motive P.G. might have had for killing the girl.

“In other words, they don't know a fucking thing,” was Ampelio's gloss on that, and this time nobody objected, except for Del Tacca, who asked polemically, “Oh, and you do?”

“No, I don't know anything.”

“But there really are too many things that point to him,” Aldo said. “He's tall, nobody knows where he was that night, and is it a coincidence that the murderer waited until the disco closed to hide the body? Come on!”

“I'll admit that,” Del Tacca said. “But I need more. Why would he have killed her, in your opinion?”

“Because he'd knocked her up!” Ampelio exploded. “Maybe she didn't want an abortion, and he killed her.”

“Yes, and then Savonarola came along and gave him a medal!” Del Tacca said. “Come on, Ampelio, we're not living in the Middle Ages anymore.”

“Well, I think it's possible,” Aldo said. “Not in cold blood, maybe not. But how often do you hear about guys who kill girls who've dumped them, or things like that? When you were young, if a girl had suddenly come out and told you you'd knocked her up wouldn't you have panicked? So then you take someone like P.G., with the kind of life he leads . . . ”

“I don't know,” Rimediotti, who had come in a minute earlier and stood aside to enjoy the discussion, now piped up. “In my opinion, even if he knocked her up, there was no need to kill her. What do you think, Tiziana?”

Tiziana, who was in the middle of cutting the rolls and didn't stop, replied acidly, “I think ‘got her pregnant' is a perfectly good term that everyone understands immediately, and if anyone uses an expression like ‘knocked her up' again, I'll poison his amaro.”

“Narrow minded . . . ” Ampelio muttered.

“Well, say what you like,” Del Tacca resumed, “but in my opinion, the police don't have a motive of any kind.”

“You're absolutely right,” said the doctor, who had just come in. “Not even the one you're talking about.”

Ta-dah! The effect is magnetic. Enter the doctor and everyone turns, as if Claudia Schiffer had just walked in.

“Hello to the pathology department,” Massimo said. “Are you having a drink?”

“If I'm allowed to decide, yes.” For some reason, the doctor's tone was slightly sharp.

“Of course you can decide. What a question! You can order whatever you like.” Massimo sounded like a documentary on professionalism. “Whether you get it in what you'd consider a reasonable time is another matter entirely.”

“All right. But bear in mind that my mouth's dry, and it isn't easy to talk when your mouth's dry. And that's a pity, because I have a lot of things to say. A cappuccino, please.”

In silence, Massimo went to the machine and started preparing the foam.

“Dammit, I'd like to try that too,” Ampelio said.

“I don't think so,” Massimo replied in a neutral voice as he placed the cup on the saucer. “For once, I'm curious to hear what you have to say.”

The silence was heavy with curiosity. For a few moments, at least. Something along the lines of: We all want to ask the same question. Who's going to ask first, though? Is anyone going to make up his mind? Why are we all so polite suddenly?

It was Aldo who assumed the responsibility. “All right,” he said in a soft but resolute voice. “What's the story with the motive?”

The doctor sipped at his cappuccino triumphantly. Then he put his cup down on the saucer and sat down on one of the stools at the counter.