Dying on the Vine (17 page)

“Gideon,” Franco said, “we very much appreciate all that you’ve done. If there’s any way we can thank you . . . a fee—”

Gideon held up his hands. “I didn’t do anything. I’m just glad I was able to help a little. I wish I could do more.”

“Well, actually, I have a thought, Gideon,” Luca said. “You got some pretty amazing clues just from looking at
babbo’s
autopsy report. Would there be anything more to learn if you examined his actual remains? I know I’d certainly be willing to authorize an exhumation.”

Franco wasted no time correcting him. “I believe that such authorization would have to come from me, Luca. That’s correct, isn’t it, Severo?”

Before Severo could answer Luca bowed his head Indian style, fingers steepled at his forehead. “I crave forgiveness, elder brother.”

Franco smiled skeletally.

It had taken until now for Gideon to process what they were talking about. “Wait a minute, do you mean your father’s remains are still there? He wasn’t cremated?”

Franco stared at him. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“I . . . I’m not sure . . .”

“That’s what Rocco thought,” John said. “He mentioned it in class.”

“Well, he was wrong,” Nico said. “Jesus,
babbo’
d never let us get away with
cremating
him. Are you kidding me?” He made the wrist-wobbling gesture that Italians use where Americans might say, “No way.”

“But Nola was, wasn’t she?” Gideon asked. “The mortician, Cippollini, said it was set for yesterday.”

Franco’s mouth turned down. “That’s Cesare’s doing. She would have preferred otherwise, I’m sure, but it wasn’t up to us.”

“Well,
could
I see your father’s remains? Would you object? Would you be willing to authorize it, Franco?”

Franco didn’t look happy about it. “I don’t like to do it, to disturb his bones.”

“Get real, Franco,” Luca said. “We’re trying to clear his name here. I don’t think he’d mind having his bones poked at if it would help.”

“Well, what exactly would you be looking for, Gideon?” Franco was unconvinced.

“I don’t really know. It’s impossible to say. Anything I can find that might be pertinent.”

Franco shook his head. “I really don’t . . .”

“Oh, Franco, for Christ’s sake—” Luca began.

“Yes, yes, but you know, these things take time. I’m not sure it can be arranged before you leave, Gideon.”

“It will take no time at all,” Quadrelli said, joining in on the pressure on Franco. “Pietro is no’ buried, they no’ need picks and shovels. They are in a vault in the crypt. To turn a key and open the door is all that is necessary. I will call signor Cippollini myself.”

Franco reluctantly gave in. “You would treat them with respect, Gideon?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Call signor Cippollini, Severo. Tell him he has my permission.”

“If you could do that right now, I’d appreciate it,” Gideon said. “As Franco said, we’ll only be here another couple of days.”

Quadrelli promptly hauled out his phone. He spoke in rapid Italian, nodding at Gideon and making a circle with his thumb and forefinger at one point to indicate it was a go. He hung up, pleased with himself.

“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He will have the remains ready for you. But he makes a request. He says please not to bring this time the entire police force with you.”

FOURTEEN

WITH
no memorial service under way at Onoranze Funebri Cippollini, Gideon and John were not required to go around to the back door this time. Signor Cippollini, wearing what seemed to be the same tightly fitting black suit and pretty much the same hassled demeanor, distractedly ushered them in through the front entrance, took them through the church-like chapel with its faux stained-glass Gothic windows, and into the strangely cheery, brightly colored workroom. On a flatbed, wheeled table lay something quite different from Nola’s child-size cardboard box. Pietro’s casket was the full-size item and made for the long haul, rather than for a single incendiary appearance. Constructed of ebony or something like it, it was elegantly traditional in style, with ornate brass handles and carrying rods, an arched, carved lid, and, on the side, a plastic-coated black-and-white studio photograph of Pietro as a young man, along with his name—
Pietro Vittorio Teodoro Guglielmo Cubbiddu—
and dates—
1953–2011
—incised in flowing gilt script. It all was clean and gleaming, as if it had gotten a coat of furniture oil that morning, which it probably had.

Cippollini himself unlocked and opened the coffin’s upper panel—the lid was in two parts, Dutch-door style, as if in preparation for an open-casket display—which Gideon very much doubted had taken place. The broken, gaping, lichen-blackened skull was nothing the mourners would have cared to look at, but it was reverently placed, face up, at the center of an immaculate, satin pillow. The rest of the bones were neatly hidden beneath a padded white coverlet, equally spotless. Cippollini stood admiringly before his creation for a few seconds, then opened the lower lid as well, and, with a bullfighter’s flourish, removed the coverlet to reveal the earthly remains of Pietro Vittorio Teodoro Guglielmo Cubbiddu in their totality.

Their condition came as something of a surprise. Dr. Bosco’s report had listed the trauma, all right, but when he’d written “multiple fractures,”
Gideon had taken him to mean that the skeleton as a whole had suffered many breaks, not that each named bone was broken into separate
pieces
. But unlike Nola’s bones, which were cracked and splintered but mostly in one piece, these were
shattered
. The most cursory of glances showed him three pieces of the left scapula alone.

That got him thinking.
Why the difference?
Two bodies undergoing exactly the same terrible fall and impacting on the very same rocky scree—why should the injuries to their bones look so different? Could they be the results of “taphonomic” changes—natural postmortem changes that had occurred as a result of lying out in the open for almost an entire year? No, they’d lain right up against each other and endured exactly the same weather conditions and animal depredations for exactly the same length of time.
He could come up with only one answer, but it seemed too bizarre to . . . He tucked the question away for later, when he had time for solitary cogitation.

Despite his trade, it was clear that Mr. Cippollini had little knowledge of skeletal anatomy. Either that, or his penchant for symmetry outweighed his care for anatomical precision. The bones of the legs and pelvis, which were among the few that were unbroken, were in place (although he’d gotten the left and right tibias and fibulas confused), but just about everything from the hips up was arranged strictly for show. “Matching” pieces of scapula and ribs were placed on either side with no regard for what had gone where in the living body. The “spinal column” consisted of vertebrae, whole and in chunks, that tapered beautifully down from skull to pelvis—in complete defiance of nature’s way. At their bottom, between the hipbones, was the broken sacrum, misarranged, but at least in the right general area.

Cippollini was quite proud of the totality of his efforts and even more of the quality of the coffin. Gideon couldn’t follow it all, but he understood enough to learn that the exterior wood
was
ebony, the interior wood was mahogany, the soft interior fabric was arranged and sewn in a French-fold design, and the mattress was his own patented invention, the Eternal Rest Adaptable Couch.

“Well, next time I need a coffin I’ll sure know where to come,” John said, but of course he said it in English and with a smile, so Cippollini happily nodded along with him. Encouraged, he began to get into the finer points of the wood molding, but Gideon politely told him that they were pressed for time and needed to get on with it.

“Once again, for the sake of decency, I have cleaned the bones,” Cippollini told him. “Would you like me to take them out of the casket for you?”

“No, thank you.”

“If you let me know when you’re done, I will put them back.”

“I can do that for you,” Gideon said.

“No, signore, I want to be positive that they are in their natural order, as close as possible to the way God made them.”

“Well, then, you better let him do it,” John said to Gideon. “You might not get ’em right.”

When Cippollini left, they stood looking at the remains. Gideon found the whole thing creepy, and not only because of the misplaced bones. He’d looked at his share of newly exhumed burials, and many of them had been skeletonized, but always before: the coffin fabric on which they lay had been gray and mottled with age, and stained with the effluents of decomposing tissue. It was anything but pretty, but it was as it should be. But Pietro’s bones lay on brilliantly white bedding—French folded, no less—and while it made things less nasty (as did the pre-cleaning), it just didn’t seem right. It was as if he were looking at a wax museum exhibit or a dubious reliquary purportedly containing the toe bones of an obscure saint, and not at what was left of a once-living human being

“Well, let’s get them laid out on the table,” he said. “Forget about the order for now. We’ll just—hey, wait a minute . . .” He was doing a double take at the bone he’d just picked up; the third rib on the right-hand side. “Damn, now that’s really funny. . . .”

“Well, that didn’t take you long,” John said casually, transferring a hip bone to the zinc work table. “So, what’d you find?”

Gideon gave him the rib. “Anything about it catch your eye? Any difference from what we found with Nola?”

“Not really. It’s kind of chewed up.”

“Bingo. It’s
very
chewed up. Animals have been all over it. All those scratches and these conical indentations—gnaw marks, mostly from canid teeth.”

“Okay, if you say so, but what’s the big deal? Nola’s bones were plenty chewed up too. Why wouldn’t they be? There’d be plenty of forest critters up there. Ferrets, weasels, wolves—”

“John, would you do me a favor, please? Get Rocco on the phone?”

He took Rocco’s card out of his wallet and handed it over. While John made the call, Gideon did a quick examination of the rest of the skeleton. He was puzzled by the absence of cranial fragments, which Rocco said had been recovered from the top of the cliff and along the route the bodies had taken down it, but then under the pillow he found a red velvet sack tied with a golden cord, like some top-of-the-line old cognac, except for the tape label, which read
Frammenti di calotta cranica
—skull fragments. He began to untie the cord but was interrupted by John’s proffering the telephone.

“Got him. Here he is.”

“Thanks, John. Rocco? Hi. Listen, you told me they were both—”

“Who were both?”

“Nola and Pietro, of course.”

“What do you mean,
of course
? What do you think, I’m a TV detective or something? I only work one case at a time? Hell, I’m not working
that
case at all, remember? That case is over and done. And I’m sitting here looking at a goddamn desk full of—”

“Not having such a good morning, huh?”

Rocco laughed, and Gideon heard some rustling that suggested he was settling back in his chair. “Sorry. Okay, I told you they were both what?”

“Both wearing leather jackets.”

“Umm . . . yeah, they were. Matching ones. Good ones. From Forzieri. I wish I could afford one.”

“What kind of condition were they in, the jackets?”

“Condition? They were fine.”

“Not torn up at all?”

“No. I mean, they didn’t look like anything you’d want to slip into, but no, no holes, no rips. Their pants had some holes in ’em. Not too surprising, after all that time outside. But the jackets, they were good, thick leather; they held up. I mean, there might have been some pinprick or crack that I missed somewhere or other, but—”

“They must have been wearing shirts or something under the jackets. What about them?”

“Uh, that I don’t know. I don’t really think anybody paid attention. Everything was pretty ratty and moldy and all. They just cut the clothes off them for the autopsy, and as far as I knew they just threw them away. Is that bad?”

“Rocco, could you possibly get away for a while? We’re down here in Figline, at your cousin’s funeral home, and we’re looking at Pietro’s remains.”

“You’re looking at his
ashes
?”

“No, his bones.”

“But I thought he was—”

“Well, he wasn’t. He’s lying here right in front of me.”

“Huh. I thought . . . I guess I just assumed . . . So you’re asking me to come there? Right now?”

“I am, yes. I think I’m onto something.”

“Gid, how important is this? Because I got a lot of stuff that needs doing, and Captain Conforti is breathing down my neck.”

“It’s important. I think.”

A hesitation, a sigh, and then: “Half an hour. Ciao.”

“What’s up?” John asked. “What’s so special about this rib? Why
shouldn’t
it be chewed up?”

“John, it’s not that I want to keep you in suspense—”

“No, of course not. Why would I think that?”

“—but Rocco’s on his way, and I want to get my act together before he gets here, so give me a few minutes, okay?”

“Sure. Far be it from me to interrupt the Skeleton Detective when he’s communing with a skeleton.” He pulled up a stool and leaned over to watch, his elbows on the table.

“And no offense, but maybe you could give me a little breathing room?”

“Jeez, talk about prima donnas. Okay, I can take a hint. There was a café up the block. How about I go away and come back in a little while with a couple of cappuccinos?”

“Good, great, thank you. I’ll have a latte, though. Give me ten minutes. Make that twenty,” he yelled as John went through the door.

Left alone, Gideon went back to his examination of the bones, most of which were still in the casket. Opening the velvet sack that held the cranial fragments, he separated one that was actually a curved chunk of scapula, spread the rest out on the table, and fitted some of them together. They represented much of the right half of the cranium, and they held no surprises. Entrance wound in the left temple, much larger exit wound in the right temple, exactly as described in the autopsy report.

Overall, the postcranial trauma were also as reported: fractures of most of the ribs on the left side, the left scapula and left arm bones, the sacrum, and many of the thoracic and lumbar vertebrae. But while Dr. Bosco had done an accurate enough job of listing them, that was where he’d stopped. No detailed descriptions, no analyses, no conclusions derived from them. But for Gideon, when it came to bones, the devil lay in the details, and ten minutes spent examining them and comparing them in his mind to Nola’s injuries made him even more certain he was onto something.

His excitement building, he took a break to refresh his thinking. Going out to the rear parking lot, he put two one-euro coins into the vending machine for a nougat candy bar, sat down on one of the nearby benches, leaned against the wall, and—slowly, thoughtfully chewing—gazed eastward across the valley to the gentle, green foothills of the Apennines and the pretty little puffballs of clouds that clustered around their tops.

“Whew,” he said aloud. “It’s going to take me a while to get my head around
this
.”

• • •

HE
was finishing the candy bar when he heard the front door to the workroom open and close. “I’m out in back, John,” he called, and a second later, out came John with Rocco trailing a couple of steps behind. “Hey, Doc, look who I found loitering on the street out there.”

“Hey, Gid,” Rocco said. Again, he was in his splendid, tailored uniform, billed cap and all.

John handed Gideon a typically capacious bowl-shaped cup, kept one for himself, and sat down on the other bench. Rocco, with an espresso cup of his own, sat beside him. “I ran into him right outside the café,” John said. “Lucky for us. They don’t do takeaway, but when the generalissimo here walked in, they decided to make an exception. Anyway, don’t let me forget, we gotta bring the cups back.”

Rocco looked harried. “So, what have you got?” he asked, with an unsaid
This better be good
in its wake.

Gideon smiled and reached for his latte. “It’s going to knock your socks off. Let’s go inside.”