A Florentine Death (3 page)

'That was his name. I mean . . . that's what everyone here called him. He was as good as gold. Pleasant to everyone, well-liked.'

'I understand. Please go on.'

'When I arrived, it was obvious the shop was closed. I rang the bell and waited. As there was no answer I rang again, and at the same time pressed my face against the glass door, making a screen with my hands. It was quite dark inside. Except that the door wasn't locked as it usually is, and a small amount of pressure was enough to push it open. What a fright! I nearly fell flat on my face . . . my God!'

His voice had again risen in pitch. The effect was more comic than dramatic.

And then?'

'I came in very cautiously and called, "Stefanino! Stefanino!" There was no reply, so I started walking towards the back room and then for some reason I turned my head to the left and . . . that's when I saw him! Oh my God, oh Lord, have pity on him. Have pity on us.'

'Please calm down - it's all over now.'

Don Sergio sniffled. 'I saw a heap on the floor,' he resumed. 'Behind the counter. And blood - blood everywhere. Even though it was dark, you could see it. It was almost shiny, like
...
I don't know, like liquid rubies.'

'Did you touch anything? Did you cry out, call for help?'

'I ran out. I ran to the bar and raised the alarm. The cashier called you. I wanted to go to the church and tell Father Francesco, but Signor Beccalossi begged me to come back here with him. He wanted to see for himself.'

'Did you notice anything suspicious? Did you see anyone?'

'No - nothing, nobody.'

'Did you know him well? Stefano Micali, I mean.' 'I've known him since we were children. We were at school together.'

'We'll need to talk to you again, if you don't mind. And if you think of anything, anything at all, however insignificant it may seem, please contact me. Either me or Superintendent Rizzo. There are still a few formalities to go through, so I'll hand you over to the inspector. Thank you for your time.'

Meanwhile, the cashier and the owner of the bar, as well as the customers who had seen Don Sergio come in, had been interviewed by some of the officers. Two other officers had immediately taken up guard outside the shop. Fortunately, nobody had entered before Ferrara's arrival, apart from the priest, the owner and the police.

The public have seen a lot of crime movies,
Ferrara thought.
They're well trained.

Nothing of any great interest had emerged from the interviews. They had merely confirmed that Stefano Micali was a good man - a modest, rather retiring man, hard-working and generous.

By now, the shop had been thoroughly searched. As far as could be ascertained, nothing had been stolen. The money was all in the till, and nothing valuable seemed to be missing. The owner would be able to confirm that later.

There was no sign of the murder weapon.

The forensics team and the pathologist had finished their work. The body had been wrapped in a waterproof sheet which was then zipped up and placed in a zinc casket, to be taken to the morgue at the Institute of Forensic Medicine of the University of Florence. Any objects which might turn out to be useful to the investigation - either because of the position in which they had been found or because they might be connected in some way, however remotely, with the murder -had been placed in special containers. The most interesting of these objects was some kind of missal or small Bible, bound in black and with a gold cross on the cover, which had been found lying under the body, so thoroughly drenched in blood as to be completely unreadable.

Perhaps this was the object the assistant had been showing, or intending to show, the customer, if the murderer had indeed been a customer. There were similar books displayed on the shelf behind the counter.

The shop was emptying. Soon the last men would leave and seals would be placed on the door.

Ferrara walked back to the square and got there just in time to see Gianni Fuschi of Forensics, an old friend of his, heading for one of the police cars.

He called to him.

'Can you do me a favour?' he asked when he came level with him.

'Maybe even two, Gatto,' Fuschi replied, using the nickname - the Cat - that many of his men, and even some journalists, used for Ferrara. It was an affectionate term that not only showed their admiration for the shrewdness concealed beneath his often secretive exterior, but also alluded to the catlike shape of his eyes and his sharp, penetrating gaze.

'Follow me,' he said, drawing Fuschi away from the other men, who were getting into their cars and vans to return to Headquarters. Spotting Rizzo among them, he called, 'Go ahead, I'll join you!' Then, turning back to Fuschi, 'There's another thing I'd like you to take a look at. But whatever you find, I don't want anyone else to know. Just me, okay?'

From his jacket pocket he took out a plastic envelope containing the threatening letter, which he had wiped clean of fingerprints - a serious mistake, perhaps, but there was no avoiding it if he didn't want his own fingerprints or, worse still, Petra's to be identified.

He had decided that nobody, at least for the moment, should know that his life had been threatened. There were too many people who could have used it as an excuse for removing him, for his own safety, from the Monster case.

'All right, all right,' Fuschi said, amused. 'So - the upright Chief Superintendent Ferrara has taken to removing evidence from a crime scene. For his own personal use. I have a couple of friends on
La Nazione
who'd be prepared to buy me dinner at Sabatini's for a scoop like this. Maybe even two dinners. With a nice Havana cigar to finish off, not one of those disgusting pieces of charcoal you stick in your mouth!'

'This is important, Gianni,' Ferrara said.

But Fuschi had already grasped that.

On the way back Ferrara let Officer Franchi give free rein to his motor racing ambitions. There was no reason to slow down now - quite the contrary.

As they drove, they passed a white van with the letters RAI in blue on the side.

5
p.m.: the Commissioner's office

At exactly five o'clock, Ferrara reported to the Commissioner.

Riccardo Lepri, who had replaced the Mephistophelean Angelo Duranti, was almost the exact opposite of his predecessor. Where Duranti had been in a constant bad mood, Lepri was affable, sometimes even merry. A man of large build and clearly robust appetites, he very rarely lost his temper and exuded an air of calm and self-confidence. But there was something a tiny bit ambiguous in that diplomatic stance of his, something Ferrara could not quite put his finger on. It was as if, deep down, his real interests were not those his position dictated, but lay elsewhere. That was why Ferrara's relations with him, although cordial and polite, were not really as friendly as they had been with other commissioners.

'So, a difficult case,' he commented rhetorically when Ferrara had finished his report.

'Like any case where the killer isn't either caught red-handed or identified immediately. A victim with no criminal record, no witnesses, no murder weapon, no apparent motive. It may have been an attempted robbery that went wrong, but I doubt it. First, because this was an extremely violent attack, and second, because there wasn't much cash in the till, which wasn't touched anyway, and there was little or nothing of any real value in the shop.'

'The press are going to have a field day.'

'I'm surprised I haven't had them under my feet already'

The Commissioner winked. 'A good turn from a devoted admirer of yours. As soon as I heard about the murder, I got all the journalists out of the press room and gave them an impromptu briefing on the measures we're taking to avoid or limit disorder in the stadium on Sunday. They couldn't resist.'

'Thank you, though I don't think it'll help much. The TV people have already arrived, which means the papers won't be far behind.'

As I expected. But even a few minutes' head start can help, don't you think? If we can forestall them before they start spreading scare stories as they usually do . . .'

'It depends how long we take to get on the right track and bring the culprit to justice. My own feeling is that it's going to take a while.'

'I assume you'll be handling this personally?'

'Not exactly. I'd like to put Superintendent Rizzo in charge of the investigation. He's a good detective, he could do with the space.'

The Commissioner seemed slightly put out. Ferrara preferred not to think that he was someone else who'd have liked to see him working on something other than the Monster of Florence case for the moment.

'Of course, of course. I know Superintendent Rizzo. But his experience . . . Well, anyway, I'd be really grateful if you gave this case your special attention. You know as well as I do that when something like this happens, the police need to act quickly and efficiently, or people start to feel scared. Apart from anything else, the publicity is bad for the tourist trade, and Greve is only fifteen miles from here, practically part of Florence.'

'Don't worry, Commissioner. I stand by my men and I've never shirked my responsibilities. The case will be pursued with due diligence and Rizzo will have my full backing. I'll keep you updated myself.'

'Thank you. I have every confidence in you.'

6 p.m.: Chief Superintendent Ferrara's office

There was a knock at the door, and Rizzo, just back from the morgue, came in.

'Sit down, Francesco.'

'Thank you, chief.'

Ferrara no longer found it strange that, although he had been calling Rizzo by his first name since early in their relationship, Rizzo, with a traditional respect for rank and seniority, continued to address him formally. Of medium height and solid, even stocky build, a down-to-earth man of few words, Francesco Rizzo was the personification of a reliable policeman and a regular guy.

'Anything interesting?'

A few things,' he said, sitting down on one of the two small black armchairs in front of the big wooden desk and taking out a packet of cigarettes. Then, remembering that Ferrara, although not expressly forbidding it, didn't like the stench of cigarettes to clash with the smell of his cigar, put it back in his pocket.

He appeared visibly tired. His face was drawn, and his dark, prematurely greying hair slightly ruffled.

He checked in his notebook. 'The most important thing is that they were able to pinpoint the time of death very precisely: between 1.15 and 1.45. Definitely not before or after, most likely the twenty minutes between 1.20 and 1.40. From an examination of the wounds, it's clear that death was almost instantaneous, and was caused by the first or second wound to the back. They were the two deepest wounds. The weapon used was a knife with a blade about four and a half inches long.'

'How many times was he stabbed?'

'A lot. Thirty-six, and almost all of them, as I said, after he was already dead and lying on his side on the ground.'

'What do we know about the direction of the blows?'

'The first blows were struck with great force in a downward direction and from right to left, in rapid succession, which indicates that the killer is right-handed and must be as tall as, or taller than, the victim. The other blows, more cuts than blows, were inflicted from right to left, from left to right and in a downward direction.'

'Well, that's something.'

'There's more, chief.'

'Go on.'

'Leone conducted a close examination of the tissues of the rectal walls. There's no doubt about it: Micali was a practising homosexual, and had been for a long time.'

Ah, our "Stefanino",' Ferrara said knowingly. 'What about this afternoon? Any signs of sexual assault?'

'No. Leone's ruled it out.'

'Is that all there is?'

'Yes, chief.'

'Let's see what we've got so far. The murder took place after the shop closed for lunch. According to the priest, Micali usually locked the door. And again according to Don Sergio, Micali never went out during the lunch break. On the contrary, that was when people sometimes, or maybe often,