Adam's Rib (11 page)

At last, the wait was over. He saw Officer Scipioni walk out the front door of headquarters, followed by Caterina Rispoli. Knee-length skirt and high heels in spite of the cold, a little black overcoat, unbuttoned in front. The deputy police chief's eyes had turned into two directional lasers. The inspector had a healthy pair of breasts that swelled proudly from under her sweater, and a pair of slender ankles. Shapely calves, long and tapered. He watched her get into the car and when she swung her leg in, he caught a generous glimpse of thigh.

He'd been right; he'd nailed it. Under her bulky awkward police uniform was hidden a highly desirable woman. Too bad about the overcoat that covered her derriere, but even in her uniform trousers, he'd been able to get a pretty
exact idea. Caterina Rispoli had everything she needed back there too.

“Rocco?” Italo asked. “What are you looking at?”

“Mind your own fucking business, Italo. Okay, now that life has deigned to show us a smidgen of beauty, let's descend into the depths of hell and have a chat with Charon the red-eyed demon.”

“SO I HAVE TO WORK SATURDAYS TOO,” ALBERTO
Fumagalli had grumbled as he tied his green apron, stained with rust that wasn't actually rust. “What do you people think? That I don't have a damned thing to do all week? Two dead of poisoning plus a fatal crash in Verres, and as if that wasn't enough, Esther Baudo. You know what? On a Saturday, for instance, I could go down and visit my relatives in Livorno instead of standing here freezing my balls off.”

“Alberto, do you have anything to tell me or are you just here to bust my chops?” asked Rocco, sitting down on a waiting room chair near the morgue.

“Don't sit down. Now we're going to go in and see the poor dead girl. Is he coming with us?” he asked, pointing at Italo with a smile.

“Of course,” said Rocco.

Alberto walked over to the coffee vending machine and stuck in his flash drive. “Come on, let's see if he holds out this time and keeps from vomiting on himself.”

“Don't make me laugh, Doctor,” said Italo.

“Never been more serious in my life,” replied the doctor. “You want a cup of coffee, Rocco?” He pushed a button and the machinery ground into motion. “Well, do you want it or don't you?”

“An espresso from that contraption?” said Rocco. “Have you lost your mind? Then you'd have to perform an autopsy on me too and figure out what poisoned me. I'll spare you the work.” And the deputy police chief got up from the sofa. “Hurry up with that swill and let's get going.”

THERE WAS THE USUAL SMELL OF ROTTEN EGGS MIXED
with disinfectant and stale urine. A faucet dripped somewhere in the distance, marking time, a unit of measurement that concerned no one in that place but Rocco, Italo, and Dr. Fumagalli. For all the others, wedged into their morgue caskets like winter suits put away for the summer, time had no meaning and no worth.

Lying under a sheet on the central table was the corpse of Esther Baudo. An aluminum counter ran along the perimeter of the room. On it were three stainless steel basins full of bloody clumps. The policemen were observing that array of samples on display and Alberto felt obliged to point out a detail: “That stuff doesn't belong to Esther. It's part of those two miserable wretches who died of poisoning near a purification plant. The usual things, liver, brain, lungs . . .”

Italo turned suddenly pale. “Excuse me, I can't take it.” And covering his mouth he rushed out of the autopsy room. Alberto Fumagalli looked at his watch. “Twenty-three
seconds. He's improving. Last time, he didn't last even ten seconds.”

“Yep, the kid is making progress.”

Alberto indicated the metal basins. “Should I have told him that those are just dirty rags?”

“It wouldn't have made any difference at all. He would have thrown up even if Scarlett Johansson had been lying in them naked.”

“Believe me, sooner or later Scarlett Johansson
will
be lying naked in a place like this.”

Rocco gazed at him levelly. “What the fuck kind of thought is that?”

“It's not so much a thought, it's more like an occupational hazard, the kind of thing I think out of force of habit.”

“So let me get this straight: if you see a picture of Scarlett Johansson, tits and all, I don't know, in a magazine, the first thing you think about is the day that she's going to be stretched out on a gurney in an autopsy room?”

Fumagalli gave that some thought. “No. Not always. But to tell you the truth, there's nothing that I find less erotic than a naked body. Do you know that French poet who said that he couldn't kiss a girl's face because he was reminded that underneath that flesh was a skull that would one day lie worm-eaten in a coffin?”

“I have a vague recollection.”

“Well, a naked body has the same effect on me.” With that, the doctor tossed back the cup of coffee, accompanying it with a grimace of disgust. “Jesus Christ, that stuff is foul!” he muttered.

“Why do you drink it if it's so disgusting?”

“To remind myself that life is harsh and full of hardships.”

“And you need that swill for that? Isn't it enough just to look around you?”

“Why, what's wrong with this place?” Alberto asked in a serious voice.

They walked over to Esther's body. The face was battered. Her lip was cut, her right eye was puffy and swollen, and on her cheekbone she had a dark bruise the size of a hand. On her neck was the unmistakable mark of the cord that had taken her life.

“All right, let's get to the point,” Alberto Fumagalli began. “She didn't die of asphyxiation but from compression of the vagus nerve with resulting brachycardia and cardiac arrest.” The cut down the corpse's chest showed that the medical examiner had removed the internal organs. “And we also have a dented right cheekbone and, on the same side, two missing molars.”

Rocco nodded as he looked at the woman's face. Her hair spread out loose on the metal tabletop. Looking at her from above, you'd say that Esther was bobbing on the water's surface.

“She was beaten,” Rocco concluded.

Alberto nodded silently. “Now listen carefully, because this is where things get interesting. Now, usually strangulation leaves a mark on the neck, from the cord or the rope, right under the trachea, but also all the way around. Practically to the nape of the neck.”

“And instead here?”

“Instead here there are only marks on the front of the throat. Around the rest of the neck there's nothing but a patch of red skin. That makes me think that death was the result of hanging. Shall I make it a little clearer?”

“If you like.”

“Why would you answer that question? It was a rhetorical question and everyone knows you're not supposed to answer rhetorical questions.”

“I always thought that the rule was you're not supposed to ask rhetorical questions in the first place. They're less than fucking useless,” Rocco retorted.

“You ask them.”

“And when I do, I regret it. It's a habit I'm trying to break myself of. You want to go on? And that's not a rhetorical question.”

“I'll go on. When a person is hanged, what causes the death by strangulation is the weight of the body. In other words, it's the weight that pulls down on the body, and the rope mark ought to be seen only on the front of the throat. Whereas when someone is actually choked, what causes death is the murderer's strength. The cord, the cable, or whatever is used, is wrapped all the way around the neck, and therefore it ought to leave a circular mark from the trachea to the nape of the neck.”

“So what you're telling me is that she died from hanging?”

“That was the first hypothesis. But then I thought it over. And you know what I thought of? Concentrate on the scene:
Esther Baudo is being beaten. She faints. Once she's on the floor, the killer goes on working on her and strangles her. Do you see the scene, Rocco?”

“Of course I see it, it's what I do for a living.”

Alberto snorted. “Talking with you takes years off my life.”

“You can say that again!”

“Let's continue,” Alberto went on. “So what do we have? A victim on the floor, senseless, incapable of any resistance. So the son of a bitch strangles her. And how does he strangle her? Let's just say that Esther is on her stomach. All he needs to do is jam his knee against the helpless victim's back as he throttles her esophagus and trachea with a cord and voilà! The job is done. He kills her by strangling her without leaving marks all around her neck, but only on the front of her throat, which is what we have.”

“And then he stages the hanging?”

Alberto thought it over. “Look, I'm not trying to say that the murderer knew it. I'm just saying that there's a difference between the marks left by death from hanging and death from strangulation. Let's just say that he could have done what we said and as a result he lucked out. That's right, he could have lucked out, you see what I'm saying?”

“Then let's not rule out either of the two things.”

“After all these years of experience, no, no, I wouldn't rule out either. Because the blows to the face that this poor woman took were serious business. I'm surprised that the beating didn't just kill her outright.”

Esther's face was right there, a silent witness to the medical examiner's theory.

“What did they strangle her with?”

“Unfortunately, I didn't find any residue. No leather, no threads, no fibers, nothing. In any case, the rope must have been at least this thick.” He held up two fingers side by side to show Rocco.

“That thick a piece of rope isn't something you're going to find just lying around, is it?”

“No. I'd say not.”

“A belt?”

“For example, yes. Or a necktie.”

The deputy police chief delicately covered the corpse back up. “And then they staged the hanging with a clothesline.”

“Maybe the tie or belt were too short? One thing is certain. The mark of the belt or necktie, two finger-widths thick, is clear, then a little fainter is the mark of the plastic-coated steel clothesline.”

“So you're saying they hanged her twice? That's strange, Albe'. It's all very strange.”

“Well, that's your problem. As usual, I can tell you how and when they died . . .”

“I know! And the why is up to me. By the way, the when?”

“No later than seven o'clock.”

“You've been a great help, as always. Take care,” said Deputy Police Chief Schiavone, who then headed for the exit.

“If I were a betting man, I'd put a hundred euros on a necktie,” Fumagalli added, thoughtfully.

Rocco stopped at the door. “Why?”

“Because the marks a belt would leave would be much sharper. A belt is made of leather; a tie is made of silk.”

“A necktie . . . I'll have all the ties found in the Baudo apartment sent around to you. Could you take a look?”

“Certainly. If one of them was used to strangle her, there should be skin fragments on it.”

“Okay, though I think that whoever did it must have gotten rid of the tie. But it doesn't hurt to try . . .”

“First-rate. Have all the ties found in the Baudo residence sent over. And the belts too; you never know, I might still lose that hundred euros. So will you let me keep her?” asked Alberto.

“What?”

“Esther Baudo? Let's say till tomorrow at the latest?”

Rocco looked at the medical examiner with a look of serious concern. “You want me to leave her with you? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. I just want to finish doing a proper examination. Since they've just sent me two more patients from an accident up in Verres, plus the ones who were poisoned near the purification plant, I'm going to take a break and start over again tonight.”

“Patients?”

“That's what I call them. And I assure you, considering what I do to them, they're very patient indeed.”

“Albe', they're dead. They can't exactly complain.”

“No, they can't. But if you listen carefully, there are times when you can hear them. They ask you nicely, in a tiny whisper, to take it easy on them.”

Rocco bit his lip. He left without saying another word, but with the personal conviction that Alberto Fumagalli seriously
needed some time off. A break, in other words, fifteen days on a sunny beach to restore his sense of proportion and reestablish the boundary that lies between life and death.

HE'D PREPARED A WHOLE SPEECH. OR, REALLY, HE'D
prepared a plausible excuse to tell Nora. He tried to peer in through the plate glass window of the wedding gown shop, but the sumptuous wedding dress, its skirt embroidered with beads, blocked his view. He would have to go in and take matters head-on. Only he couldn't seem to bring himself to do it. And he felt like an idiot. He'd walked clear across town to the shop, and now he wasn't going in. But he couldn't do it. In part because, in the end, he didn't feel that guilty, really. He'd made things clear with Nora from the very outset. No questions, total discretion, and they'd see each other only when they felt the desire or the need.

Then why was he standing in front of that shop?

It couldn't have been remorse, could it? When had remorse ever made him turn back? He'd always and only followed his instincts. And his instinct the other night had told him to stay home. Even though it was Nora's birthday. Even though she wanted nothing better than to spend that night with him. He needed to apologize. And then? What would that do for him? There might be a reconciliation, perhaps. But was that really what he wanted? A reconciliation? Before another two days had gone by, he'd surely have mistreated her or ignored her once again, leaping flat-footed back into the doghouse. Instead, he could take
advantage of the situation and leave, right now, without having to say a word. If he just stayed out of sight entirely, he could spare himself one of those breakup fights that were bound to come sooner or later—and probably sooner. One of those grueling, endless arguments, where you're as likely as not to say things you wish you hadn't. So instead of letting the thing die a gentle, painless death, he'd have to wade into a duel in which both sides were sure to come out the loser.