IM10 August Heat (2008) (16 page)

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Authors: Andrea Camilleri

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BOOK: IM10 August Heat (2008)
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“You’re damn right something happened to him. The poor guy woke up the next morning in his sleeper car and his stepson was gone!”
“In short, you don’t see Speciale as a murderer?”
“No way.”
“But, you know, in Greek tragedy—”
“We’re in Vigàta, Chief, not Greece.”
“Tell me the truth: Do you like the story or don’t you?”
“It seems okay for TV.”
12
It had been a long day, made longer by the August heat.The inspector felt a little tired. But he had no lack of appetite.
When he opened the oven, he was disappointed not to find anything. But when he opened the refrigerator, he saw a sort of salad of calamari, celery, and tomatoes that still needed to be dressed with olive oil and lemon. Adelina had wisely prepared him a dish to be eaten cold.
A mild, newborn breeze was circulating out on the veranda. It was too feeble to move the dense mass of heat that was still holding out as night fell, but it was better than nothing.
He took off his clothes, put on a bathing suit, ran down to the water, and dived in. He went for a long swim, taking broad, slow strokes. Returning to shore, he went into the house, set the little table on the veranda, and began to eat. When he had finished, he still felt hungry, so he prepared a plate of green olives, cured black
passuluna
olives, and caciocavallo cheese that called for—indeed demanded—good wine.
The light breeze on the veranda had matured from infancy to adolescence and was making itself felt.
He decided to seize a favorable moment when his thoughts weren’t logjammed from the heat, and tried to think rationally about the investigation he had on his hands. He cleared the little table of dishes, cutlery, and glasses, and replaced these with a few sheets of paper.
Since he didn’t like to take notes, he decided to write himself a letter, as he sometimes did.
 
 
Dear Montalbano,
 
I find myself forced to point out that, either from the onset of a senile second childhood or because of the intense heat of the last few days, your thoughts have lost all their luster and become extremely opaque and slow-moving.You had a chance to see this for yourself during your dialogue with Dr. Pasquano, who easily got the better of you in that exchange.
Pasquano presented two hypotheses concerning the fact that the killer took away the girl’s clothes: one, it was an irrational act; and two, the killer took them because he’s a fetishist. Both hypotheses are plausible.
But there is a third possibility. It occurred to you as you were talking to Fazio, and that is that the killer took the clothes because they were stained with blood. Stained with the blood that had spouted from the girl’s throat as he was killing her.
But things may well have gone differently.You need to take a step back.
Neither when you discovered the body yourself, nor when you had Callara discover it officially, did you see the giant bloodstain near the French door, and you didn’t see it for the simple reason that it wasn’t visible to the naked eye.The Forensics team only noticed it because they used luminol.
If the killer had left the big stain exactly the way it had formed on the floor, some traces of dried blood would have remained on the tiles, even six years later. Whereas, in fact, nothing was found.
What does this mean?
It means that the man, after killing the girl, wrapping her up, and sticking her in the trunk, used her clothes to wipe up, however superficially, the pool of blood. He dampened her clothes with a little water, since the faucets were in working order, then he put them in a plastic bag that he’d found there or brought along with him.
Now the question is:Why didn’t he get rid of the clothes by simply throwing the bag on top of the corpse?
And the answer is:
Because in order to do this, he would have had to reopen the trunk.
And this was impossible for him, because it would have meant having a reality he had already begun to repress thrown back in his face. Pasquano is right: He hid the body not to keep
us
from seeing it, but to keep
himself
from seeing it.
There’s still another important question. It’s already been asked, but it’s worth repeating:Was it necessary to kill the girl? And, if so, why?
As for the “why,” Pasquano hinted at the possibility of blackmail, or a fit of temporary insanity from the rage at finding himself suddenly impotent.
My answer is:
Yes, it was necessary. But for only one, completely different, reason.
The following:
The girl knew her aggressor well.
The killer must have forced the girl to enter the underground apartment with him, and once she was down there, her fate was sealed. For if the man had left her alive, she would surely have accused him of rape or attempted rape.Thus, when the killer brought her underground, he already knew that, in addition to raping her, he would also have to murder her. On this point, there could be no more doubt. Premeditated murder.
Then comes the mother of all questions:Who is the killer? One must proceed by elimination.
It definitely could not be Spitaleri. Even though you can’t stand the guy, and even though you’ll try to screw him on some other charge, there is one incontrovertible fact: On the afternoon of the twelfth, Spitaleri was not in Pizzo, but on a flight for Bangkok. And bear in mind that for Spitaleri, a girl Rina’s age was already too mature for his tastes.
Miccichè has an alibi: He spent the afternoon at Montelusa Hospital.You can have this verified, if you like, but it would be a waste of time.
Dipasquale says he has an alibi. He left Pizzo around five in the afternoon and went to Spitaleri’s office to receive his boss’s phone call. At nine P
.
M
.
, he spoke with Miccichè. But he didn’t tell us what he did after going to Spitaleri’s office. He said he and his boss had agreed he would call between six and eight o’clock. Let’s say for the sake of argument that the phone call comes in at six-thirty. Dipasquale leaves the office and happens to run into Rina. He knows her, asks her if she wants a ride back to Pizzo.The girl accepts and . . . That leaves Dipasquale plenty of time to call Miccichè by nine.
Ralf. He stayed behind in Pizzo with his stepfather after Dipasquale left. He knows Rina, has already tried to assault her.What if things actually did happen the way you told Fazio? The mystery of his death remains, and could be linked in some way to his guilt. But accusing Ralf would be, for all intents and purposes, an act of faith. He’s dead, his stepfather is dead. Neither of the two could tell us what happened.
In conclusion: Dipasquale should be the number-one suspect. But you’re not convinced.
A big hug and take care.
 
Yours,
Salvo
 
 
He was taking off his bathing suit, getting ready to go to bed when, all of a sudden, he felt like talking to Livia. He dialed the number of her cell phone. It rang a long time, but nobody picked up.
How was that possible? Was Massimiliano’s boat so big that Livia couldn’t hear her cell phone ring? Or was she too engaged, too busy doing other things to answer the phone?
He was about to hang up in anger when he heard Livia’s voice.
“Hello? Who is it?”
What did she mean, “Who is it?” Couldn’t she read the caller’s number on the display or whatever the hell it was called?
“It’s Salvo.”
“Oh, it’s you.”
Not disappointed. Indifferent.
“What were you doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“Where?”
“On the deck. I fell asleep without realizing it. It’s all so peaceful, so beautiful . . .”
“Where are you?”
“We’re sailing towards Sardinia.”
“And where’s Massimiliano?”
“He was right beside me when I fell asleep. Now I think he’s—”
He cut off the call, pulling out the plug.
And what was that fucking asshole Massimiliano doing there? Singing her a lullaby?
He went to bed with his hair standing on end.
And it took the hand of God for him to fall asleep.
 
 
 
In vain he went for another swim after waking; in vain he got into the shower, which should have been cold but was actually hot because the water in the tanks on the roof was so torrid you could have boiled pasta in it; in vain he dressed as lightly as possible.
The moment he set foot outside the house, he had to admit to himself that it was no use. The heat was a fiery blaze.
He went back into the house, stuck a shirt, underpants, and pair of trousers as thin as onionskin in a shopping bag, and left.
He arrived at the station with his shirt drenched in sweat and his underpants all of a piece with the skin of his ass, so tightly were they sticking.
Cataralla tried to stand up and salute, but couldn’t manage, falling lifelessly back into his chair.
“Ah, Chief, Chief! I’m dying! ’Ss the devil, this heat!”
“Suck it up!”
He went and slipped into the bathroom. He took all his clothes off, washed himself, pulled out the shirt, underpants, and trousers, got dressed, returned to his office, and turned on the minifan.
“Catarella!”
“Comin’, Chief.”
He was closing the shutter when Catarella entered.
“Your ord . . .”
He trailed off, braced himself against the desk with his left hand, and brought his right hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. He looked like an illustration in a nineteenth-century acting manual for the expression “shock and dismay.”
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus . . .” he said in litany.
“Hey, Cat, you feel sick?”
“Jesus, Chief, whatta scare! The heat’s got into my head!”
“But what’s wrong?”
“Nuttin’, Chief, go ’head ’n’ talk, I feel fine. My ears are workin’ great, iss my eyes got me seein’ tings.”
And he didn’t move from his position: eyes shut tight, hand on his forehead.
“Listen, in the bathroom are some clothes I just changed out of—”
“Ya changed clothes?!” said Catarella.
He looked relieved, opened his eyes, lowered his hand from his forehead, and eyed Montalbano as if he’d never seen him before.
“So ya changed clothes!”
“Yeah, Cat, I changed clothes. What’s so weird about that?”
“Nuttin’ weird, Chief, it was juss a missunnerstannin! I seen ya come in dressed one ways ’n’ then I seen ya dressed anutter ways ’n’ so I tought I was loosinating cuzza the heat. ’Ssa good ’ting ya changed clothes!”
“Listen, go get those clothes and put them out in the courtyard to dry.”
“I’ll take care of it straightaways.”
On his way out, he was about to close the door but the inspector stopped him.
“Leave it open, so there’s a little draft.”
The outside line rang. It was Mimì Augello.
“How are you doing, Salvo? I tried you at home but there was no answer, and then I remembered that you don’t give a shit about August fifteenth, and so—”
“You were right, Mimì. How’s Beba? And the kid?”
“Look, Salvo, don’t even ask.You know what? The baby’s had a fever since the moment we got here! The upshot: We haven’t managed to have a single day of vacation. Only yesterday did the fever pass, finally. And tomorrow I’m supposed to be back on the job . . .”
“I understand, Mimì. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay another week if you want.”
“Really?”
“Really. Say hi to Beba for me and give your son a kiss.”
Five minutes later, the other telephone rang.
“Aaahhh, Chief! Iss the c’mishner says he emergently needs to—”
“Tell him I’m not in.”
“And where should I tell him you went to?”
“To the dentist’s.”
“You gotta toothache?”
“No, Cat, it’s the excuse I want you to give him.”
So the c’mishner was busting his balls even on August 15?
 
 
 
As he was signing some papers that Fazio explained had been piling up for a few months, he happened to look up. In the corridor he saw Catarella coming towards his office. But what was it that looked so strange about the way he was walking? The inspector knew the answer as soon as he asked the question.
Catarella, as he walked, was dancing. That was it. Dancing.
He was on tiptoe, arms stretched away from his body, hinting at a half pirouette every few steps. Had the heat indeed gone to his head? As he entered the office, the inspector noticed he was keeping his eyes closed.
O matre santa,
what had happened to him? Was he sleepwalking?
“Catarella!”
Catarella, who had come up to the desk, opened his eyes, stunned. He had a faraway look.
“Huh?” he said.
“What’s got into you?”
“Ah, Chief, Chief! There’s a girl here you gotta see with your eyes! She’s the spittin’ image of the poor girl that got killed! Mamma mia, she’s so beautyfull! I never seen anyting like ’er.”
It therefore was Beauty, with a capital B, that gave Catarella’s step a dancing lilt, his gaze a dreamy look.
“Send her in and inform Fazio.”
He saw her coming from the end of the corridor.
Catarella walked in front of her, literally bending forward, making a bizarre movement with his hand as if he were cleaning the ground in front of her where she was about to set foot. Or maybe he was unrolling an invisible carpet?
And as the girl approached and her features, eyes, and hair color became more and more distinct, the inspector slowly stood up, feeling himself happily drowning in a sort of blissful nothingness.
 

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