The Crocodile (15 page)

Orlando had waited. He’d expected those words to be the preamble; he expected his father would have something more to say. Instead, the old man had slowly let his hand slide away, and then he’d dropped off to sleep.

For a long time after that, he’d assumed that those words had been nothing more than the ravings of a man on the brink of death. But then, the day when he found himself unsteady on his feet, dressed in a hospital gown with sleeves too short for his arms, struggling with nausea after watching and hearing his wife give birth, it had suddenly dawned on him, clearly and unmistakably, what the elderly engineer had been trying to tell him.

A life split into two parts. Nothing ever the same again.

As he climbed the Via Orazio, pushing the stroller in pale sunlight, and as he checked to make sure that the biting cold and seeping damp were unable to penetrate the plastic rain hood protecting his baby girl, he peered in, admiring the button nose of his tiny daughter Stella. And he decided that he’d never seen anything more beautiful, more miraculous in the whole wide world.

Just six months now. And every aspect of his life had changed completely. Perhaps, to an outside observer, Orlando’s life might seem the same as it ever was. His job, as the chief engineer for a major construction company; his wife, the adorable Roberta, beloved of anyone who spent five minutes in her company; his wonderful house, with its perfect garden, an absolute rarity in that city, grounds that he tended personally, with scrupulous care. Everything perfect, everything untroubled.

But in fact, everything had changed, from the moment they had put that filthy, screaming little thing into his arms, wrapped in a towel. His daughter. Stella.

He had decided on the name at that instant. To ward off bad luck, he’d never talked it over with Roberta. In the long years of medical treatment, as they struggled to conceive a child who refused to come into the world, they had never once speculated about a name. His wife had always insisted that the name would pop into the mind of one of the two of them as soon as they laid eyes on her, and it had happened to him.

Stella—the name meant “star.” Because a star shows you the way, guides your path, and he had understood at the very moment he’d first held her in his arms that every single step he took on earth from that moment forward would be directed towards that small screaming creature.

As he smiled and took a deep breath of the damp chilly air from which he was careful to protect his baby girl, Orlando considered how wonderful life managed to be sometimes. And he turned an affectionate thought to that gruff father of his, whose harshness had still been so crucial in keeping Orlando on track and out of trouble.

Certainly, there had been occasions when that harshness seemed like too heavy a burden to bear; certain impositions had struck him as high-handed and incomprehensible. Other times, the thought of his father’s disapproval had steered him away from decisions that, left to himself, he would certainly have made.

When he wanted to become a professional football player. When he wanted to take off and travel the world. When he wanted to study philosophy at university. And of course when . . .

But this was no time to dwell on such things. It had taken him a little longer to get there, that much was true. And truth be told, his path could have been smoothed, with the help of certain friendships that his father had chosen not to use, convinced as he was that everything in life had to be won through determination and hard work. Life doesn’t give you anything for free, Orlando mused, as he pushed his way up the last stretch of the street, passing by the front door of the hotel across the way.

Now, after the long climb, he had reached the safest place in the world: his home. And Roberta, with a hot cup of tea. And most important of all, his wonderful baby girl, Stella. He was about to lift her out of her stroller and glimpse her smile.

An ashen Di Vincenzo was sitting at his desk. He kept moving his files to one side and then back to where they’d been in the first place, as if his life depended on it. Lojacono, who stood in the doorway waiting for permission to enter the office, felt sorry for him: the weight that had suddenly been dropped on to his shoulders was clearly far more than he could handle.

“Dottore, may I come in? You sent for me?”

Di Vincenzo looked up at him with a chilly glare. “Ah, Officer Lojacono, of course. Come in, have a seat. And close the door. Let me cut to the chase. For some reason that eludes my understanding, Dottoressa Piras would like you to be made a member of the team investigating this damned case, looking into the connections between the murders, even though the only killing that concerns us has to do with this kid—Mirko Lorusso. I believe the reason for this development is that you—in direct violation of my recommendations, though I’m happy to let that slide for now—were the first officer on the scene of the crime. We are therefore summoned to police headquarters, in half an hour, to attend a meeting.”

There was no mistaking the captain’s annoyance at having been forced to summon Lojacono. He did nothing to conceal his irritation: lips compressed, he avoided the inspector’s gaze.

He went on, “You therefore have a little more than ten minutes to have Savarese—who’s been in charge of the case up till now—give you all the evidence we possess. I’m afraid it’s not a lot of material; and I imagine that you already know most of it because it’s been extensively covered in the press, on television and who knows where. Not that anybody else has made much more progress than we have, God bless them. But we seem to be singled out for the blame because the first killing took place in our jurisdiction. How absurd.”

Lojacono started to get to his feet. “Well then, dottore, I’d better go talk to Savarese . . .”

“Just a second, Lojacono. Tell me one thing: what did Piras tell you the other day when you went to the café together? And most important of all, why did you invite her to go?”

Lojacono considered the question. He’d had no doubt that Di Vincenzo would find out about what had happened immediately; what did surprise him was that the man had the nerve to ask him about it at all.

“Your informants seem to have their facts wrong: they should have told you that it was Piras who invited me to get a cup of coffee, not the other way round. She wanted further details about my first inspection of the crime scene, nothing more, nothing less. But I didn’t have anything to add to my report. By the way, let me point out once again that the only reason I was on duty that night was the shift assignment that you countersigned. And I have no interest in taking part in any investigations, unless I’m ordered otherwise. Which is what you just did. Am I free to go?”

Di Vincenzo’s neck had turned beet-red, but otherwise the man betrayed no emotion at all. He gestured vaguely towards the door.

“By all means, go. We’ll see you at the car in twenty minutes.”

The short drive to police headquarters took place in silence. The documents that a disgruntled and openly hostile Savarese had handed over added very little to what Lojacono already knew.

Ballistics testing had been performed on both the shell casing and the bullet removed from Lorusso’s head during the postmortem, confirming the caliber of the weapon, a .22 pistol. Faxed copies of the police reports on the second murder further confirmed the correspondence between cartridge and projectile. An innovative computerized analysis had been used—the Integrated Ballistic Identification System (IBIS). It produced the same results: there was no doubt that it was the same weapon.

The tissues, on the other hand, offered little information.

Apart from traces of a liquid that was probably human tears, there were also remnants of shredded epithelial tissue, plausibly the result of rubbing against the eyelids. The DNA sequencing—completed in record time since this case involved a serial killer—provided confirmation that all the samples came from a single individual. Unfortunately, it matched none of the evidence on file in the database and so it was useless in terms of tracking down a suspect.

There was no trace of fingerprints. The kids’ clothing and Lorusso’s helmet only revealed the victims’ own fingerprints. Either the Crocodile had touched nothing or else he was wearing gloves.

There were no reports on the third murder, which had taken place too recently, but Lojacono knew that certain elements must have been confirmed, otherwise he would never have been invited along.

Sitting in the backseat next to Savarese, a corpulent cop in his fifties with a perennially furrowed brow, Lojacono wondered why Piras had decided to summon him. He didn’t think he’d shown any particular signs of acuity or demonstrated any special skills. The one explanation that struck him as plausible was the fact that from the very outset, more out of instinct than any strong line of reasoning, he had ruled out the theory that these were Camorra murders. Clearly, this third murder had persuaded the assistant DA of the same thing.

When they reached police headquarters, both men followed Di Vincenzo, who knew the way, up to a third-floor meeting room. Sitting around a conference table piled high with documents were four men in plain clothes, a woman armed with a pen and notebook, and Piras, who raised a hand in greeting.

“Ah, there you are. Fine, you’re all acquainted. Inspector Lojacono is here because I asked him to come, and I’ll explain why later. Lojacono, these are the station captains within whose jurisdictions the murders took place, and their deputies in charge of the individual station investigations. To speed things up, I’ve asked them to introduce themselves whenever they happen to join in the discussion. This meeting became necessary because the latest murder, the one in upper Vomero, in my opinion casts a new light on the situation. It’s crucial that we give this new development full consideration.”

A smartly dressed older man broke in with some annoyance.

“Scognamiglio, station captain of Via Manzoni. Dottoressa, I’m not really all that convinced, and I’d like to make it clear from the outset that the line of investigation we’ve pursued till now was the wrong one. We have ascertained, thanks to the interrogation of Antonio Ruggieri, undertaken by our colleague here, Di Vincenzo, that the first victim, Mirko Lorusso, was dealing outside the school attended by Giada De Matteis, the second murder victim. That strikes me as a perfectly adequate basis on which to continue with this line of inquiry.”

Piras shot him a cold glance.

“Scognamiglio, that’s not all Ruggieri said. He also declared that Lorusso was nothing more than a peripheral player, a petty apprentice dealer who was just getting started, who hadn’t been out more than three times before. And there is not a shred of evidence, much less any solid proof, that the two victims even met, nor that De Matteis, a girl who has been described as absolutely irreproachable, both by her mother and by her classmates, ever used drugs. Last of all, the third murder, the Rinaldi case, looks to be entirely unrelated to the first two, though it was clearly carried out by the same perpetrator. Any objections, Palma?”

The man whose name she had called was the third station captain present, a guy in his forties with a rumpled look, his cuffs unbuttoned and the face of someone who hadn’t had a wink of sleep in the past twenty-four hours or more.

“I’d have to agree. The forensics team, given the urgency of the case, has already delivered the ballistics report: bullet and cartridge line up. I spoke to the guy in charge and he told me, on an informal basis, that the tests on the exhibits recovered—the tissues in other words—show that it’s the same individual. That’s all we know for sure right now.”

Piras nodded. “Just as we expected. Now, everything depends on how quickly we can shift our thinking and formulate new theories. And with that in mind, I’d say—”

Di Vincenzo cleared his throat. “Forgive me, dottoressa, but I’m obliged to state that I find Scognamiglio’s point of view persuasive. To discard so hastily the entire Camorra-related line of investigation in the aftermath of the Rinaldi murder, without first ascertaining the possible links between the medical student and the other victims, strikes me as premature at best. I’m of the opinion that first we ought to allow Palma and his men to investigate accordingly, and postpone this meeting until further notice. And when we reconvene, perhaps it might be with a shorter list of attendees, so that we can avoid distracting our colleagues from their work.”

Di Vincenzo’s little speech fell into the silence with a boulder-like thud. Everyone in the room looked in other directions, studiously avoiding Piras’s glance. Lojacono had no doubt that Di Vincenzo was referring to him when he mentioned the idea of pruning the guest list. Piras tapped her pen on the conference table, nodding in time. By now Lojacono knew her well enough to understand that this was her way of channeling her anger and averting an unseemly outburst.

“Di Vincenzo, you’ve had more time than anyone else to think about these murders, so we should pay special attention to what you have to say.”

The unmistakable allusion to the failure of his investigation landed like a resounding slap. The station captain sat impassive, but gulped visibly.

Piras continued. “All the same, there are a number of factors that argue for a change in direction. First: the media are tearing us literally limb from limb. Every day, the television news and websites are having a field day, deriding us as incompetent. Plus the city is uneasy: murder is never a laughing matter, but when the victims are children, it’s especially serious. Second: we’ve come to a complete standstill. No one is saying that we won’t sift minutely through every aspect of what we learn about Rinaldi’s life, but we need to start thinking about other leads, or else we run the risk of overlooking fundamental elements. As we may very well have done already. Third, and most important of all: this damned Crocodile—and let me say in parentheses that there is no animal I find more despicable—may very well strike again. And correct me if I’m wrong here, Di Vincenzo, but we haven’t shown any ability to predict his future moves.”