The Crocodile (17 page)

Di Vincenzo muttered through clenched teeth, “What are we doing now, philosophizing?”

Piras shot him an eloquent glare and the station captain lowered his eyes. Unexpectedly, Lojacono started talking again.

“Three kids, each of them an only child. Three single parents. Lorusso, a young unmarried mother. De Matteis, a divorced woman with her ex-husband on another continent. The father of this boy murdered yesterday: I hear he’s a widower.”

Piras turned to Palma. “Can you confirm that? Is this true about Rinaldi’s father?”

Palma nodded, rapt in thought. “Yes, I think that’s right. The two of them definitely lived alone. To tell the truth, we were focusing on the technique of the killing. Excuse me, Lojacono, but how did you find that out?”

Lojacono shrugged. “A journalist, a young woman who was in the crowd outside the police station this morning. I bought her an espresso.”

Piras’s jaw muscle twitched. “That’s a nice way to get information, taking people to a café and buying them coffee. I’ll keep that in mind for future reference. What else did you learn from this woman journalist?”

The edge in Piras’s tone was not lost on those present, and they exchanged disconcerted glances.

Lojacono replied nonchalantly, “That this Dr. Rinaldi was distraught, at his wits’ end, devoid of any interest in life, and practically on the verge of insanity. Just like the two mothers, Lorusso and De Matteis.”

Scognamiglio blurted out, “Dottoressa, seriously, do we have to sit here and listen to this utter nonsense? We’ve had three young people murdered here, probably selected at random, or maybe because they were easy targets, or else because they were somehow involved in the same drug deal. We need to take the time to investigate this thing, go into it in depth; maybe this Rinaldi had some contact that could be traced back to the other two. But we’re wasting our time here.”

Lojacono spoke to him directly. “True enough, this might not be the right lead. But nothing says we can’t consider a theory, explore a hypothesis, does it? I’m not saying we should stop investigating, that’s the furthest thing from my mind. Still, if I wanted to inflict a fate worse than death on someone, I’d murder their child.”

Palma scraped his chin. A five o’clock shadow was beginning to show on his face.

“True, this latest murder seems to have no connection to the first two. It wouldn’t be easy or fast, but we could start digging into the parents’ past. It wouldn’t cost us a thing, really.”

Di Vincenzo shot back with a cold retort. “Speak for yourself, if you have extra men to assign to your case. In my department we have the whole staff working full-time on the first boy’s case. The boy’s mother? She’s nothing but a home-care nurse, just a poor woman. She can’t have ever done anything to make anyone want to take revenge.”

Piras felt obliged to break in.

“There’s something that still baffles me. The way these murders have been carried out is strange, there are odd details. I’ve studied the modus operandi, the process, the routine, and the third case only reinforces my impression. On the one hand, they all point to careful study, patient preparation, an attention to detail that would have to be the product of a lengthy and painstaking organizational effort. It can’t be pure chance that no one has ever seen him; it can’t be dumb luck that he’s struck repeatedly without encountering resistance, getting away with it three times. But on the other hand, there are aspects that cry out that this is the work of an amateur: like the tissues, or the weapon he used. The two sides of the equation don’t add up.”

Lojacono sat up straight in his chair.

“That’s exactly right. The overall picture points to someone who’s had a long time to prepare, but who’s still no professional killer. A blackmailer, perhaps. Or someone out for revenge. But not a professional criminal.”

They all thought over what Lojacono and Piras had just said, trying to modify their points of view after spending days on the theory that there was a Camorra connection between the first two murders. At this point Savarese broke in, with the scowling expression of someone who’d been insulted.

“All right then, let’s say that the Camorra has nothing to do with it. How on earth can one person move undisturbed through three isolated locations, two of which are low-traffic areas where the inhabitants all know each other? How can he kill three kids and then fold his tent and silently steal away without being seen? Riddle me that.”

Lojacono gave him a melancholy smile. “Trust me, Savare’, it’s much easier than you think to move around in this city without anyone noticing you. If anything, that’s helpful. We’re looking for someone nondescript, an ordinary man in every sense of the word.”

Piras nodded. “And what should we do now, Lojacono, in your opinion? What’s our next move?”

Lojacono seemed completely unaware of the irritation of Scognamiglio and Di Vincenzo. He looked Piras in the face.

“In my opinion, the first thing we should do is bring the three parents together and arrange a face-to-face confrontation. Let’s try to find out what they have in common, or what they might have had in common in the past.”

Scognamiglio spread his arms out wide.

“Absurd. It’s flat-out absurd. You’re suggesting we take three people who have suffered a calamity of this magnitude and subject them to questioning as if they were three criminals. Moreover, you’re suggesting a confrontation, all three of them face-to-face! If we’re going to question them, let’s talk to them one at a time, at least. Let’s not bandy names around; let’s move cautiously. The De Matteis woman has friends in high places, and so does Doctor Rinaldi. We could be asking for serious fallout, take it from me.”

Palma agreed. “He’s right. I’ve already received a number of phone calls to my police station, and one of them even came from here, from police headquarters. I can’t imagine it would be a straightforward matter to question the doctor about his past even on his own; it would become impossible if we put him in the same room with other people. There’s also the question of whether he’s in any kind of shape to put up with questioning at all. This morning the man looked like he was dead himself: staring eyes, a face I couldn’t really describe.”

Scognamiglio couldn’t believe that someone was actually throwing him a lifeline in his quandary.

“I won’t even try to describe the De Matteis woman. If you ask me, her testimony would be unreliable; in fact, I’m not sure she hasn’t lost her mind.”

Lojacono nodded in agreement. “I can well imagine. And I understand perfectly, you both have a point. But it’s absolutely necessary, and we’ll need to move fast too.”

“Why on earth should we move fast?” asked Di Vincenzo. “They’re certainly not going to run away. We can give them a little time to recover. Try to show a little consideration.”

“Simple. Because the Crocodile, or whatever we choose to call him, might not be done yet.”

This time the silence around the table was tinged with fear. Finally, Piras spoke softly.

“Here’s what we’ll do: you go on investigating, but on a broad basis. Don’t neglect any clues, even if it takes you off the Camorra trail. It’s what we would have done in any case after this third murder. None of you will be involved in questioning the three parents: I’ll take care of that myself. I’ll summon them all in here, and there will be no pressure on any of you. Lojacono and I will handle the confrontation ourselves, and from this point on he’s assigned full-time to this investigation.”

Di Vincenzo started to object, but Piras shut him up with a wave of her hand.

“That’s all for today. You’re free to go.”

It’s not enough. Knowing what needs to be done, having made the decision. It’s still not enough.
Eleonora learned this at her own personal expense.

She waited, right up to the very last minute. A phone call, a word would have been sufficient. She waited to be picked up and carried off, to be given some crumb of comfort. If nothing else, to be told that she’s not alone, in this steep uphill climb, on this sheer mountain face that she’s trying to scale.

Instead, only silence was forthcoming. She fought against her temptation to break that silence herself; to pick up the telephone receiver, or even to present herself at his front door, on the threshold of that house she’d never even seen. And to say: here I am. Here we are. Now tell me what it is you want me to do. And tell me clearly; don’t expect me to guess what you want from your absence.

It wasn’t pride that kept her from doing it. Her pride had died days ago, the instant that she saw the bewilderment and fear that filled his eyes. And the mistrust. At that exact instant, just as a part of her had decided days ago, she should have turned her back on him and on her dreams and run away.

But then what would she do?

If only she had the courage she lacks, she would have kept the baby. She would have gone back to her hometown, defying the disapproving eyes and the secret exultant triumph of all those who had envied her independence, her talent, and her determination to make something of herself.

If only she had the courage she lacks, she would have searched her mother’s and father’s gazes to find a new awareness of herself. The tenderness that had always been there, and a new sentiment, and an acceptance that their dreams would have to be adjusted.

If only she had the courage she lacks, she would have been able to forget about love, a little at a time. She’d have cleansed her heart and soul of all sentiment and steeled herself against the fear of loneliness—a fear that right now clings to the walls of her heart like an irremovable encrustation.

If only.

But she doesn’t possess that courage in her heart. She has only grief, sorrow, and silence.

As she searches for an address in the rain, she thinks that—however paradoxical it might seem, when all is said and done—if she’d kept the baby she would have had the strength to face up to her family’s disapproval, the vicious gossip of the place where she was born, and even the abandonment, the shameful way that the man she loved took to his heels when confronted with adult responsibilities. But by letting the baby go, she’s condemned herself to endless silence; to the lack of any human caress.

Her classmate, the one who knows everything, also knew exactly where to send her, whom to put her in touch with. She called her back, not ten minutes later, with an address and phone number. At that point, the only thing still lacking was the money.

There was only one source available to her, the only one she could ask for help. Not him, of course, not the man who was old enough to father a child but lacked the maturity and the willingness to bring that child into the world. The other one. The man to whom she was accustomed to turn, to confess her sorrows and her innermost thoughts. Even though she knew that by doing so she was wounding him deeply. Even though she knew that she was condemning him to know what no one else would ever find out, ever.

She’d had to tell him. Him and no one else. And the money had arrived promptly.

Now, faced with a locked street door and a nameless intercom buzzer, standing in a fine misting drizzle that penetrates her heart like a probing needle, in the silence of her soul, in the desert of her heart. Now. Now, she’ll have to find the strength to say farewell to her dreams, to the smiling little girl she once was.

Now she’s going to have to find the strength to say farewell to her child.

In the end, Lojacono fell asleep.
He’d spent the rest of the day reading reports, transcripts, and test results concerning the other murders. Di Vincenzo had brusquely enquired whether he’d need an office to himself, but Lojacono had told him that he preferred to remain at his usual desk. He had good concentration and, in any case, there really wasn’t much traffic through that office. Giuffrè was beside himself with excitement, and from time to time he’d pepper him with questions about the Crocodile, but Lojacono mostly ignored him.

He didn’t have any answers. The documents only reiterated what he already knew. And the more he thought it over, the more deeply Lojacono became convinced that there was no link at all between the three murdered kids.

Tomorrow was going to be an important day: for the first time, the parents would be brought together in one place. Lojacono hoped they would recognize each other, that they would reveal a relationship that could set the police on the right track.

The best thing now was to get some rest; but that was no simple matter. After a year, he could finally go back to doing his real work, the work he felt cut out for, the work he’d wanted to do ever since he was a boy. He had to admit there was a rising tide of excitement inside him, a euphoria that he hadn’t expected. The thrill of the chase.

He stretched out on his bed and toyed with his cell phone. He scrolled through the few numbers in his directory and, as always, lingered over one. The display read: Marinella. He imagined her in her bedroom, the room he’d never seen, in their new flat in Palermo, intently reading one of those strange romance books she liked so much, or chatting on her computer with some girlfriend or other. He smiled in the dark, and fell asleep.

He dreamed he was flying, dragged by his cell phone as if it were a jet engine, or a flying carpet. In silence, he was whisked high over the bay, immersed in the darkness of night, crossing the Calabria coast. He hurtled over the Strait of Messina, floating thirty feet above the face of the water that separates the island from the mainland. He dreamed he was flying over the sleeping city of Messina, and it took him only seconds to travel the road that leads to Palermo. He reached the town from the sea, from the waterfront down by the port. He crossed Via Crispi and climbed Via Notarbartolo, remembering in his dream the elegance of the palazzi, the grand shops with their metal shutters rolled down. He travelled the length of Via Leonardo da Vinci, where, to the best of his knowledge, Sonia had chosen to live now. In his dream, he knew the house number, and he gently alighted on the balcony of his daughter’s bedroom.