By My Hand (4 page)

“
Grazie
, Maio'. Thanks especially because, as far as I can tell, you don't listen to a word I say: Haven't I told you that gorging yourself like that is bad for your health? Will you get it through your head that you need to start living a healthier life?”

“I give up, Dotto': there's just no way to put a smile on your face today. Christmas must just really get you down.”

“It's not Christmas, it's humanity's sheer evil that gets me down. This morning, before you called and invited me to join you at your murder victims' social club here, I had to stitch up another couple of skulls because your friends from the Fascist Party were letting off steam by strolling around town cracking people over the head with bats. Whether you call this Year Nine of the Fascist Era or 1931, it doesn't change the fact that those who have power use it to crush the powerless underfoot.”

Ricciardi looked at his watch.

“How about that: we'd been talking for almost three minutes and politics still hadn't come up. That may be a record. Why can't you get it through your head that if you keep talking like this you'll wind up with a fractured skull yourself?”

Modo grinned, slyly.

“Because the police can't protect me, that's why. Neither me nor any other honest citizen. Speaking of which, would you care to show me your new clients, my dear Commissario Dracula? Your thirst for blood has brought us all down to the seashore: So who's dead now, some fisherman? Or have you found a comely mermaid murderess?”

“Come with me, I'll take you upstairs and introduce you to a handsome couple. I'll also have you know that we have a brand-new orphan on our hands, an eight-year-old girl who still doesn't know, so it's nothing to joke about.”

 

Standing off to one side of the room while Modo, the photographer, Maione, and the two police officers performed the usual minuet that is always danced around corpses, Ricciardi mulled over the feelings that the murder scene filled him with. He was curious about the phrase that the dead woman kept uttering—
Hat and gloves?
—in a tone both affectionate and deferential; the commissario sensed a familiarity, a straightforward warmth underlying the formality of the words. The man in the bedroom, on the other hand, had been brusque and peremptory; his words—
I don't owe a thing, not a thing
—clearly referred to a debt he refused to acknowledge. Money and affection, mistrust and warmth, scorn and reverence. It was a sharp contrast. The man had thought about money, the woman about cordially welcoming a visitor into their home.

The commissario had always recognized that hunger and love, and their various, countless derivations, were the root causes of every murder. Hunger gave rise to ambition, envy, and vendetta; love was the mother of jealousy, hatred, and rage. The two great enemies, allies until the first drop of blood was spilled. This time Ricciardi would have to wait for the evidence he needed to identify which of the two corrupt passions had played the leading role in the performance he was observing.

Maione called him, taking him out of his thoughts.

“Commissa', come take a look.”

The brigadier's voice reached Ricciardi from elsewhere in the apartment, a little sitting room next to the bedroom. The room was decorated for Christmas with garlands and cockades. In the center, on a wooden table, stood a large manger scene. It was really extraordinary, complete with all the traditional touches; Ricciardi was no expert, but he could appreciate a finely detailed landscape, with animals and human figures and architectural elements all arranged so as to give the impression that the scene covered more ground and was more expansive than it actually was. He spoke to Maione.

“Very nice. But what's special about it, in particular?”

“According to tradition, the
zampognari
play the novena right in front of the manger scene,” the brigadier replied, “nine times, that is, in front of the Christ Child. Which means that the Lupos, father and son, would have been ushered into this very room. Now, we have no way of knowing with certainty, but it looks to me like nothing is missing. These Garofalos were well-to-do, the apartment is upscale, the furniture and decorations are new and handsome, there are even a number of pieces of silver serving ware still in their places. And aside from the mayhem visited upon the bodies, there's nothing broken, no sign of forced entry.”

Ricciardi waited for the punch line.

“So? Why did you tell me to come over here?”

Maione smiled cunningly.

“The reason why is right here, Commissa'. Just crouch down and look under the tablecloth on the table with the manger scene.”

Ricciardi noticed that under the landscape constructed on the wooden table there was a heavy red linen tablecloth decorated with embroidered stars, the edges of which reached almost all the way to the floor. He kneeled down next to Maione, who lifted a section of tablecloth, and spotted some broken shards. He picked up a few of them and held them up to the light.

Among the other shards, he made out half a bearded face and the curved handle of a staff, with a small hand attached to it. He turned to look at the manger scene again, and before he could even articulate the question, Maione answered:

“That's right, Commissa'. Everyone's in the manger scene except for Saint Joseph.”

T
hey remained on their knees before the manger scene, Ricciardi holding a handful of pieces of the statuette of Saint Joseph, looking at each other, perplexed. Finally, the commissario said to the brigadier:

“So what's its significance? Maybe one of the Garofalos dropped it, and it just broke by accident.”

Maione scratched his head, lifting his cap an inch or two.

“Well, Commissa', I don't know. If I drop something at home, I pick up the pieces and toss them in the garbage if there's no way to fix them. I don't throw them under a carpet or a tablecloth, the way someone did here. It looks to me like something that was done intentionally.”

“So what's the meaning of it? I could understand if they'd taken it, or broken it out of spite; but then they'd have left it on the floor, in plain view. Instead, someone tried to conceal it. What does it mean?”

The brigadier spread his arms wide in frustration.

“Like I said, I don't know. It might not mean anything. Maybe I'm running past the manger scene and I knock over one of the shepherds, I'm in a rush so I don't stop to pick up the pieces. After all, with all that blood . . . Something like that, I guess.”

Thinking out loud, Ricciardi said:

“But this room isn't on the way from the door to the bedroom: you'd have to come here on purpose. No, if it was the murderer, he was trying to say something. But what?”

Dr. Modo appeared in the doorway. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his white hair was unkempt, and his hands were stained with blood.

“Here you are, the two of you, in the full throes of a mystical crisis, kneeling before a nativity scene. What a moving sight to behold, the conversion of two hardboiled cops. What will the two of you do now, get thee to a monastery and cultivate your gardens?”

Ricciardi easily got to his feet, and Maione struggled to do the same.

“Bruno, I'm happy to know that you appreciate spirituality. Why don't you do like us and choose a mission of your own? I'm sure you convert the hundred or so Mary Magdalenes that you patronize on a weekly basis.”

Modo laughed.

“Can you imagine the faces of the young ladies, if I were to show up at the bordello with a cross in my hand? Maybe I'll actually do it, just to see their reactions. Do you know how heartbreaking that would be for them, to lose a man like me?”

“And one of their primary sources of income as well, I'd have to guess. Well, have you found something?”

The doctor began cleaning his hands on a handkerchief.

“Well, I'll tell you, the autopsy of the woman by the front door was pretty straightforward. Someone, using an extremely sharp blade, decided to give her a nice second smile an inch or two below the one she was born with. A single blow, from someone standing in front of her, using the right hand. Incredible power behind it: just a little more and it would have taken her head off. It sliced through everything, larynx, sternomastoid, carotid artery. That's where all the blood came from. It must have been quite a spurt.”

Maione broke in.

“So, Dotto', that means there's a good chance the murderer got blood on himself, no?”

Modo nodded.

“No doubt, Brigadie'. Unless he was quick enough to jump out of the way, he must have gotten some blood on his face and on his clothing. In any case, she died immediately, a matter of seconds. She didn't even have the time to understand what was happening, fortunately. What I'm not so sure about is the husband. That's a different matter.”

“What's different about it?” Ricciardi asked.

“I'll explain. In his case, the fury behind the attack was spectacular. The body has about sixty stab wounds, many of them inflicted after death, I believe at least half. The murderers must have had some very grave reason to hate him. They assaulted him while he was asleep, or half asleep; there's no sign of struggle or resistance. I'll have to do a close examination during the autopsy, but from what I can tell the victim's nails are intact and there are no marks on the hands. However, and this is one of the curious things, after all this violence they laid him out neatly, straight as a board, and covered him with the sheet. Showing a respect they clearly lacked when they killed him.”

The change from singular to plural wasn't lost on Ricciardi.

“Excuse me, Bruno: when you were talking about the woman you said ‘the murderer,' as in one person, acting alone. But for the man, you said ‘the murderers.' Why is that?”

“The old bloodhound doesn't miss a thing, does he? You're right, I used the plural. I'll have to do the autopsy; then I'll have more information. But judging from appearances, just based on an initial examination, it seems to me that the wounds on the man's body must have been inflicted by different hands.”

Maione looked from the doctor to the commissario, baffled.

“What are you talking about, Dotto'? What do you mean ‘by different hands'?”

“Well, there's the angle, first of all,” Modo replied. “Some of the stab wounds were made by a blow from right to left, others from left to right. A right-handed stabber and a left-handed one. Then there's the force of the blows. Some stab wounds are deep, in fact I think there were even some broken ribs. Others are shallow, made by just the tip of the blade. I couldn't say how many weapons were used, but it's my impression that at least two different hands were at work.”

Silence fell. Then Ricciardi said:

“What about the time of death, is there anything you can tell us there?”

Modo shook his head.

“You see, this place is very warm in comparison with the exterior. Can you feel how toasty it is in here? There are several heaters going full blast; the couple must have suffered the cold even worse than I do. That tends to alter the time line for the changes that take place postmortem: the cooling of the body, for instance. Generally speaking, however, I think I can narrow the window down: our friends died sometime between seven and one, considering that it's now five in the afternoon.”

“Dotto', can't you be a little more precise?” Maione asked. “Seven in the morning is one thing, one in the afternoon is another!”

Modo snapped a brusque reply:

“Why of course, I'll just grab my crystal ball, Merlin-the-Magician-style.
Abracadabra!
Tell me the exact time, because Brigadier Maione wishes to know. What do you think, that I'm some kind of charlatan? I'm a scientist, goddammit! It's already quite an achievement, narrowing the window that much, without an autopsy!”

“All right, Dotto', don't fly into a temper. Just so long as we can say with certainty that Signore and Signora Garofalo are dead. Can we at least say that much?”

Modo threw up his hands, feigning resignation.

“I surrender. I killed them both myself, I confess: I'm tired of carrying on this charade. Listen, I'm hoping to get you more information once I've done the autopsy. The morgue attendants are here, and I'm going to have these two unlucky souls taken to the hospital, now that the photographer says he's finished. Are you coming downstairs with me?”

At the main entrance to the building, they found Ferro surrounded by a small group of people.

“Commissa', these are the tenants from the other apartments; I detained them here because I didn't know if I could let them in. Can they go up?”

“Yes, you can all go upstairs. Just stop to talk with Brigadier Maione, here, for a moment; he'll have a few questions for you, but it won't take long.”

He turned to Maione, murmuring under his breath, “Try to find out something about Signore Garofalo: his routines, his bad habits, acquaintances, friends. Sometimes neighbors know a little something more than the relatives.”

Maione nodded.

“Certainly, Commissa', don't worry. I'll take care of it. I also sent Cesarano to the school the little girl attends, to alert them to what's happened. I thought it was best to make sure the kid didn't come home and find that bloodbath. Did I do the right thing?”

“Yes, certainly. It would be better for the child to stay there tonight. Tomorrow morning we'll go talk to her aunt and, if possible, to the little girl, too.”

As Maione began the process of questioning the neighbors, Ricciardi walked the doctor to the front door.

“You know, Bruno, I feel the same way you do about Christmas. The whole holiday just doesn't mean that much to me. But for whatever reason, seeing something like this this time of year in particular makes me feel more depressed than usual.”