The Deliverance of Evil (43 page)

He turned the air-conditioning up to maximum and closed the blinds against the sweltering afternoon. Finally, he switched on the reading lamp and took it over to the sofa along with three folders. The first contained all the interrogations of the three Roma youths who had brutally attacked Samantha and killed her. The second contained those of Vasile, Nadia’s presumed rapist and murderer. It took over two hours to read through them all.

Then he grabbed a magnifying glass and opened the third folder, containing Elisa Sordi’s autopsy report. After twenty-four years, he still remembered it. The photograph was number 43. Semicircular scab of recent scarring to left breast, broken sharply by the loss of a part of the breast. Possible causes: bite from the superior dental arch of a human being, cut or gouge from branches or piece of metal in the river.

Truly an amateur investigation: a real collection of doubts, superficialities and absurdities. A textbook example of what errors not to make.

There was no need for the magnifying glass to discount the idea that the cut or gouge mark was accidental. The line of the curve cut into what remained of the breast was continuous and regular, a quarter circle. Superior dental arch? It could match the central and lateral incisors and the canines. He used the magnifying glass to see it better. It was no line of an ellipse, it was definitely a circle. A piece of the letter O. Certainly, no pathologist would have sworn it was a cut. The letter O cut into the flesh.

But now we know many things we didn’t in 1982. Four young women murdered: R.E.V.I. And perhaps an O. Perhaps the same hand for all of them—the Invisible Man’s.

He worked until the evening, fighting off sleep and hunger. He called in Corvu and Piccolo. They read Elisa Sordi’s file together three times. It was a job he should have done all those years ago. All the details, all the alibis. But now there were new names to add: Hagi, Ajello. And new facts.

Finally Corvu wrote on a sheet of paper:
Check alibis of the following people for all the crimes.

Pasquali and Floris would have been appalled to see some of the names, and would have easily ruled out a number of them. But Balistreri had no intention of asking their permission.

Evening

At the end of the day, Corvu offered to give him a lift home.

“You’re tired, sir, and it’s late. Tomorrow’s going to be a tough day between questioning the Roma and arresting Hagi.”

“Take it easy, Corvu. I still need to walk on my own for a while and clear my head.”

Rather than head toward home, he set off again toward the banks of the Tiber, which were crowded with noisy young people. He had no idea where he was going, not consciously. The heat and humidity were suffocating. He walked wearily, smoking one cigarette after another.

It was his thoughts that spurred his steps on over the bridge, where he should not have gone, and as far as the street where Linda Nardi lived. It was fate that decided it for him. A few seconds more or less would have changed everything. But destiny led him to turn the corner at the precise moment when Linda Nardi was opening the front door to the apartment building, accompanied by Angelo Dioguardi whose arm was draped around her shoulders.

. . . .

He decided to try sleeping in his office with its air-conditioning on, when he returned there at midnight. There were few policemen around and no one on his floor. The flower in the glass still on Margherita’s desk was now completely dead, and he knew with certainty the flower had always been destined to wither.

Taking off his jacket and shoes he made himself comfortable, switching off all the lights and turning the air-conditioning on high. He poured a whiskey and lit a cigarette. Then he went into the bathroom and threw all his medicines into the toilet. First the gastro-protectors, then the antidepressants.

He felt better now that he had a few answers. Angelo and Linda: two adult children, insensitive as only children can be and clever at hiding themselves as only adults can be. And traitors, like those other two thirty-six years ago.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Morning

H
IS PRIVATE CELL PHONE
rang at seven, while Pasquali was getting ready to go to Mass before heading to the office. That morning he had been less punctilious than usual. He had cut his chin and his part was crooked.

The familiar voice spoke. “Everything is set. We’ll end it this morning.”

Pasquali tried to sound confident. “I’ve arranged a meeting for him at ten o’clock, so he won’t get in the way.”

“Excellent. Take care of it yourself. No outside help.”

“The subject must be armed. And he has to react in a certain way when arrested.”

Pasquali had never thought of having to shoot at anyone, not even a serial killer. But if he shot at an armed serial killer it would be more than justified. He dared not look at the crucifix as he formulated the thought.

“You’ll be a national hero.” There was a mixture of irony and contempt in the voice.

“This thing has gotten way out of hand. We need to talk after it’s over.” It was a small act of rebellion, the most his fear would allow him to say.

“Of course. Our friend will be in suite twenty-seven. Be careful not to get your shoes dirty.”

A last jab at his compromised respectability. He did not dare take Communion that day.

. . . .

They arrived punctually at ten. He had chosen Piccolo to come with him so she’d definitely be under control, given she was prone to going over the top. They had brought the three Roma boys to Regina Coeli, the prison nearest to Trastevere.

They left their pistols and cell phones at the entrance and were accompanied to a room where the three Roma were waiting for them with an interpreter and a lawyer. They were between eighteen and twenty-one years of age, but they seemed much older than Balistreri remembered them.

Piccolo started at the beginning. When had they arrived in Italy? What were their casual jobs? Thefts. How had they met? The boys replied in monosyllables. They weren’t particularly interested. When the evening of the murder came up, Piccolo’s questions became more detailed. Which of them had been approached by the fourth man? His description? Medium height, black hair, long and straight, metal-rimmed glasses. Where was he while they were drinking his whiskey? In the bar, maybe. Maybe outside. Did he invite them to go outside? Yes. And the cocaine? Yes, it was his. Now, Samantha. Who suggested the idea? He did. Who hit her first? He did. Then they’d dragged her to the garbage dump. He had more cocaine and more whiskey. The story became much more muddled. Who had raped her first? Who had been last? And where was he duirng all this? There, somewhere around. They could hear him coughing as he smoked.

“Stop,” Balistreri said. Piccolo nodded. She’d picked up on it, too. He asked each of them again in turn, “Where was he while you were raping the girl?” One of the three was a little more specific. “He was nearby. We couldn’t see him, but we could hear him coughing.”

Piccolo checked their earlier statements. “You never mentioned the coughing before.”

The guy who had spoken shrugged and replied in Italian, “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

They were shown a recent photo of Hagi. They looked at it reluctantly. “No,” said the first. “Don’t know,” said the second. “Could be, maybe,” said the third.

Then they were shown a photograph of Hagi with long hair and glasses added to it by computer. “Yes, that’s him,” they all said.

“Which one of you was the last to speak to him?”

No one could remember. The man disappeared at a certain point, as if vanishing into thin air. They all confirmed the same story. Samantha was alive, she was moaning, when they left. This time Balistreri had no doubts: they were telling the truth. It was the Invisible Man who had finished her off.

. . . .

Every time a cell phone disappeared that was connected in any way with a crime, the phone company was informed and told to take note and notify the police immediately of the eventual reactivation of the SIM card. The news came to Corvu in the office at exactly ten o’clock, at the precise moment when Balistreri and Piccolo were entering Regina Coeli. Selina Belhrouz’s SIM card had been reactivated and the phone company was very precise in its information. The microchip had been pinned down to the very narrow area of Rome where Casilino 900 was located.

Not being able to communicate with Balistreri, and wanting to follow procedure, Corvu informed Pasquali.

“Let’s go in with two men. No sirens—we don’t want to give anyone time to get away,” Pasquali said.

“But, sir, it could be dangerous with just two men,” Corvu protested.

“We’re going to make the arrest. You park a car at each exit, discreetly. Let’s meet downstairs in five minutes,” Pasquali said.

Corvu put on his bulletproof vest and his holster containing his Beretta. He got ahold of two plainclothes officers. It was the standard format for a simple arrest. But there was no telling that this would be a standard arrest. He tried the cell phones of Balistreri and Piccolo again. No answer. He left both of them a text message:
Call me ASAP
.

Pasquali did three things at great speed. He put on his bulletproof vest, readied his Beretta, and turned to the crucifix.

“Lord, forgive me for what I am about to do.”

. . . .

Corvu and Pasquali sat behind the two plainclothes officers in the car.

“Good,” said Pasquali. “The telephone company’s circled an area containing a total of six broken-down trailers. We’ll go in quietly, as if it were a normal patrol. They’re used to seeing the police these days. After we’ve gone in, no one can leave without being searched and having their ID checked.”

Corvu said, “With all due respect, sir, I think it would be better to search in groups.”

“No. We’d only find the cell phone in a dumpster. I want to catch someone holding that phone in his hands.”

“It could be dangerous,” Corvu protested.

“That’s precisely why we’re here. And I want one thing clear. We’ve already lost three able policemen and Captain Balistreri only survived by some miracle. If you see even a hint that someone’s going for a gun, open fire immediately. Don’t wait for them to fire first.”

The two plainclothes officers were clearly intimidated by Pasquali’s authority. They looked at Corvu.

“But, sir, that’s not proper procedure.”

Pasquali gave him a withering look. “Deputy Corvu, I will not allow another criminal to shoot at a policeman. I take full responsibility. There certainly won’t be any shortage of political support if you shoot an armed Roma in self-defense.”

His face strained, Corvu leaned his head back, stifling his thoughts. “All right. How are we to proceed?”

“We’ll start with the trailer closest to the entrance to the camp. One of you will knock. If they open up, we go in, check IDs, and continue to search until the Belhrouz woman’s phone turns up.”

“And if no one opens the door?”

“We go in and search anyway.”

Corvu didn’t like this at all, and he knew Balistreri would have been furious.

. . . .

Vasile confirmed that the man who had called on December 23 spoke excellent Italian. “Did he have an accent?” Piccolo asked.

“I don’t know. He sounded Italian to me.”

“What else do you remember about the call?”

He repeated what he’d said in his statement.

“What was his voice like?”

“Raspy. He coughed a lot.”

Balistreri and Piccolo exchanged glances. Perhaps this wouldn’t be enough for the prosecutor’s office. All they had was circumstantial evidence. Many people have a cough. Many people have friends with motocross bikes. The deaths in Romania weren’t attributable to him. His wife Alina was running away from him when she had her accident on the moped, but so what? And he didn’t have any alibi? Neither did millions of people.

Piccolo tightened her lips in rage. “But we know it was him.”

Balistreri got up, troubled. Something wasn’t right. He’d never liked coincidences, and here there really were a great many—too many.

I must tell Pasquali how Colajacono died. And as soon as I can.

. . . .

They entered the camp under a blazing sun that had dried the mud left from the previous day’s storm. There were a good many people around, mainly women, old men, and children jumping off a heap of old mattresses for fun. The garbage gave off a dreadful smell in the sun and mingled with the smell of urine from the port-o-potties. Groups of children swarmed happily around the policemen. Corvu shivered—this was sheer folly. Their holsters were open below their jackets and visible to the expert eye. He saw Pasquali, disorented and sweating in his impeccable gray pinstripe suit, and looking around.

He made a last attempt to call Balistreri. Nothing. They were still in Regina Coeli.

They knocked on a trailer door. A toothless old woman holding a child in her arms opened the door; she could as well have been the mother as the grandmother.

They went in. The heat was suffocating, as was the smell. Water was boiling on the small camp stove. There was no one there besides the old woman and the child.

“You search the trailer, Corvu. I don’t see any danger here. I’m going next door,” Pasquali said.

Before Corvu could protest, Pasquali was out the door.

Corvu imagined that he wanted to make the arrest himself because he wanted to be the star of the show. He indicated to the two plainclothes men to go with Pasquali.

“Do you have a cell phone in here?” he asked the old woman as he looked around. It was a stupid question, but he had to ask.

The woman didn’t understand Italian. The child began to cry while the pungent smell of its feces spread through the caravan along with the stink of rubbish.

Corvu had a feeling he was going to vomit and went to a window to get some air. From where he was he saw one of the policemen knocking at the door of trailer twenty-seven. Pasquali and the other policeman were a yard behind him. A moment later the door opened. It was another old woman. Three small children ran out between the legs of Pasquali and the two policemen.

Corvu saw with surprise that there was a motocross bike parked behind the trailer. And he didn’t notice the old man in a hat and dark glasses coming up behind the men and Pasquali. Then he heard the sound of a cough.

He swore in Sardinian and, turning sharply around, bumped into the old woman, knocking her to the ground along with the child, whose feces spattered across the floor. He lost a few seconds apologizing and helping her get up again, then he burst outside with the Beretta in his hand, shouting, ready to shoot.

Pasquali turned but did not raise the pistol in his hand quickly enough. He only managed to see Marius Hagi’s malicious grin below the dark glasses as he squeezed the trigger. He had no time to ask God to forgive his sins before the bullet passed through his head. Hagi threw the pistol far away and raised his arms above his head in the sign of surrender. The plainclothes men pointed their weapons at him, trembling with fear and rage.

“Stop! Don’t shoot!” Corvu shouted to the plainclothes men as he ran toward them, keeping his Beretta aimed at Hagi. Hagi looked at him with a mocking smile.

“Call an ambulance and block all the exits,” Corvu shouted desperately.

“No accomplices. I acted alone,” Hagi said. He was completely unruffled.

Corvu didn’t dare look at Pasquali. He ordered the other policeman to handcuff Hagi, who offered no resistance. A huge crowd had gathered around them and many patrolmen were running toward them, weapons in hand.

Hagi watched the scene with seeming amusement. He smiled at Corvu. “Where’s your boss, chief street sweeper in paradise?”

Afternoon

Balistreri refused to participate in the press conference arranged for the early afternoon. He watched it on the television in his office along with Corvu, Piccolo, and Mastroianni. First the minister of the interior spoke a few words of praise for the police and Captain Antonio Pasquali’s heroic sacrifice to rid the Italian people of this source of evil. He promised that within a few days the government would take drastic measures to control all immigrants, using a decree with the force of law so as to avoid bureaucratic delays in Parliament’s red tape.

To a question from a French journalist about possible protests from the UN, the Vatican, and humanitarian organizations, he replied with scant diplomacy: “We do not expect protests from anyone, and they will not be welcome.”

He then handed the floor to the chief of police for a reconstruction of events. Floris was visibly shaken, but he maintained his composure. He gave a succinct precis of the deaths of the four young women, which were linked by the four incisions in their bodies. He spoke about the Invisible Man and, by way of illustration, the mountain of indirect evidence that converged on Marius Hagi on whom, incidentally, Selina Belhrouz’s cell phone had been discovered. He recalled that four Romanians linked to Hagi had been killed in an exchange of fire in which three heroic policemen had lost their lives and the head of the special team, Michele Balistreri, had been gravely wounded.

He ended by saying he was certain that Marius Hagi’s arrest had delivered the city from a nightmare and added that, together with the minister of the interior, he had summoned the mayor of Rome for urgent talks. He used the word
summoned
, as if calling for a servant.

Then all hell broke loose, the journalists unleashing a barrage of questions at the top of their voices, but there were no further statements.

Corvu was overcome. Television’s merciless footage had shown his face drained of color as Pasquali’s body was taken away from Casilino 900 and Hagi was loaded into the police van that would take him to jail. Balistreri had tried everything to get him to go home, but without success. He had explained in every way that he was not at fault; it was only Pasquali’s rashness and desire to play a leading role that had led to this outcome.

“Corvu, you can’t be in the room for Hagi’s questioning. You’re in shock. You’ve filed your report. Take a few days off and go see Natalya in Ukraine.”