Lost and Found in Prague (4 page)

“He expected you sooner,” Pavla Bártová told Chief Investigator Damek and Detective Kristof Sokol as she led them into her uncle’s study. A thin woman, wearing a skirt and sweater set, she appeared to be about thirty with the demeanor of an academic or librarian, which she was, according to the information recently gathered by Detective Sokol. She worked at the city library in the village of Kutná Hora in Southern Bohemia about seventy kilometers east of Prague. It was just 9:00
A.M
., they had no appointment, but the woman’s face had registered little surprise as she opened the door. Even before the two men introduced themselves and produced identification, it seemed she was expecting them.

Dal, too, had hoped for
sooner
. Working nonstop, assigning extra officers, they seemed to be making little progress toward resolution in their investigation of Senator Zajic’s murder, and they were getting pressure from above, the chief of criminal investigations, who he was sure was also getting an earful from the independent prosecutor who oversaw all police proceedings.

Professor Josef Kovár was one of many on a list of those who might desire to see Senator Jaroslav Zajic dead, among them the senator’s wife as well as myriad political and personal foes. The professor might have been placed nearer the top of the list had they known his whereabouts sooner. He had left his position in the history department of the University of Prague more than seventeen years before and, though he had gone but a short distance, it had taken over two weeks to discover his whereabouts.

“He’s doing well,” Pavla said as she glanced back at Investigator Damek and Detective Sokol. “It’s sometimes difficult to understand him. His speech has been affected by the stroke, though his mind is still crystal clear, which I’m sure you understand leads to some frustration.” They entered the room, dimly lit by a single lamp. The niece went immediately to the blinds. The snap seemed to rouse the man sitting nestled in a blanket wrapped around his legs and lower body, head hung as if he’d momentarily dozed off while reading the newspaper held limply in his lap. A thin, blackened log smoldered in the fireplace.

Quickly, Dal cast his eyes about the room. Seeing a small cot with a rumpled quilt wedged against one wall, he guessed that the study, as the niece had called it, also served as the man’s sleeping quarters. The scent of the log along with a medicinal smell permeated the air. Bookcases filled with hardbound books threw in a hint of dust and mold and history, creating a mix of scents that sat heavily in the stuffy room. Dal took in a deep breath, wishing for fresher air. Wishing the niece would lift the window as well as the shade.

“Uncle Josef.” The woman spoke softly to the man, then turned to the detectives. “Detectives Damek and Sokol, from the Republic Police in Prague.”

The professor nodded, one side of his mouth lifting slowly in a knowing smile.

“Coffee for our guests,” he told his niece in a low voice. The words, as carefully formed as his smile, seemed to emanate from just one side of his mouth. He appeared to be much older than late sixties, barely recognizable as the man in the academic photos in his file. He whispered to the niece, who immediately left the room.

The professor studied his visitors for several moments before speaking again. “Please,” he said, lifting a finger to indicate the chair near the opposite side of the fireplace, identical to the one in which he sat, then toward a small sofa facing the mantel. “You are here about the senator.” His speech was slurred but understandable.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Dal replied. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” He lowered himself to the chair. Kristof perched eagerly on the edge of the sofa.

“Yes, yes . . .” The professor reached with shaky hand into the pocket of his robe, pulled out a tissue, and carefully wiped the corner of his mouth. “I can tell you little . . . as I have been confined for some time. A stroke,” he said, repeating what the niece had already told them.

“You’ve had no recent contact with the senator?” Dal asked.

“No,” he said, paused, then added, “I have never personally met the man. But, yes, you are correct, I am not unhappy at his demise.” Each word came forth with great effort.

Professor Josef Kovár had been one of the first victims of a lustration program set up in 1991. Zajic, not yet a senator, had chaired the independent commission formed by the Civic Forum. Its purpose—to remove from office or ban from academic, judicial, military, and high-level civil service positions, those who had been involved as spies or informants or otherwise active in the StB, the Communist secret police. The commission had labored until 2000, sifting through and studying millions of documents relating to the Communist reign, which lasted from 1948 until the Velvet Revolution of 1989. Even after his removal, the professor had continued to write scathing articles, most recently concerning the corrupt state of the Czech Republic and specifically Senator Zajic, though these had been published in liberal media with little if any circulation.

“Do you know of anyone who might want to harm the senator?” Investigator Damek asked.

Professor Kovár laughed, then nodded. “With all the commotion made by the commission, fewer than one hundred were removed. Not a particularly worthwhile project.” His lips quivered, emitting a hissing sound that Dal thought might turn into a word. Again he wiped his lips with the tissue clutched in his hand.

Dal waited several moments before asking, “You are aware of others who were removed?” Dal knew that many had since died, the professor being one of the few left.

“The Communists were seen as the saviors,” the professor began again, speaking now as if he stood before a classroom lectern. He looked directly at the younger detective, sensing a captive audience. Boyishly handsome and always attentive, Kristof Sokol looked several years younger than his twenty-nine and could have passed for a student. His pale blond hair was a shade normally seen only on children.

“Coming after the Nazis,” the professor continued, “they were a welcome sight. But as each new government takes hold, the powers shift. Communism in its truest, purest form will tend to its citizens.” The words were slow, laborious, but Dal sat quietly as the professor continued. Perhaps he would catch himself in a net of his own arduously placed words. “Few of the idealists are left. Czechoslovakia,” he said, using the former name of the two countries, the Czech Republic and Slovakia, “now sits in the quagmire of its own corruption.” The man’s hand lifted from the blanket wrapped around his lap as the newspaper slid in slow motion to the floor. Dal glanced down, but did not retrieve the paper as the professor waved him off.

The headline read:
PARTY LEADER ACCUSED O
F GRAFT.

“Look at your beloved democracy,” he said directly and dismissively to Dal, as if this democracy truly belonged to the police investigator.

The niece entered with a tray bearing two cups, one sturdy-looking mug, sugar bowl, and creamer. She asked the young detective if he would like cream or sugar as she placed the tray on the table in front of him. He replied, “No coffee, but thank you.”

Dal lifted a cup from the tray with a
please
, a nod.

The woman added cream and sugar to the professor’s and set it on the table next to his chair, lifting several books to make way for the mug. She stepped to the bookcase and began replacing them on the shelves.

“Yes, yes . . .” The professor started in again. “I might have reason to wish the senator gone. But we were not Nazis. We were not killing the Jews. Do I look capable of killing the senator?” He laughed, the resonance oddly strong as if it had emerged from the half of his body not ravaged by the recent stroke. He held up his hand, forming a gun with his fingers. “Shot in the head? I would wish to see his eyes as he fell. The morning of the murder, I was here . . .” His uneven gaze wandered around the room, settling on Pavla. “Ask my niece. I go nowhere. I speak with few. Surely not an assassin. I communicate by writing. The pen: mightier than the sword. No guns. You may search.” The man’s arm waved over the room. He breathed heavily now. Pavla approached her uncle, protectively placing her thin hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I believe my uncle has told you all he knows. It is no secret that he despised the senator, but as you can see he is incapable of committing such a crime. And my uncle is not known to pass such important tasks on to others.” She smiled wryly.

Dal nodded to Kristof, who rose.

“Thank you, Professor Kovár, Miss Bártová. If you can think of anything that might help with our investigation . . .” He handed the man his card. “Thank you.” Pavla motioned and the two detectives started out of the room.

“The young actor, Filip Kula,” Professor Kovár said, and Dal turned. “Killed recently in Prague at the feet of St. Wenceslas on Václavské námesti. Oh, not so young anymore,” he said, words unhurried and reflective. “Stabbed through the heart . . . this case has been solved? Very quickly, as I understand. Your predecessor, Tomáš Malý, perhaps, Investigator Damek, he is much better at this than you.” The man smiled again. And this time it appeared as if he had engaged his entire face in the effort.

Dal didn’t reply. The case had officially been closed, a Romany man sitting in jail at the moment, accused.
Murder of film star solved,
the headlines read just days before Malý’s retirement. Certainly adding dramatic flair to the finale. The case still lingered in Dal’s mind, taunting him not with jealousy at his predecessor’s glory in such a quick resolution, but with the so obvious lack of resolution. Now, the professor brought up this case, perhaps to goad Dal. Or perhaps to alert him to the fact that he, too, doubted this case had been solved.

“As a professor of history,” Kovár added slowly, “I often advise my students to look to the past. Always good advice in seeking a solution. But perhaps the answers are in the future.”

Father Giuseppe Ruffino and Father Giovanni Borelli sat in the garden, enjoying a midmorning coffee and Italian breads prepared by the monastery’s new cook, Brother Gabriele, a young Carmelite monk recently arrived from Arenzano. The spring weather, along with the just-out-of-the-oven bread mingling with the scent of newly mowed grass bordering the orderly beds of herbs and vegetables, made for a pleasant morning respite, tempering the agitation Father Borelli had felt that morning upon learning his suit and cassock had yet to arrive. Fortunately he had the clean underwear he’d slipped into his briefcase, or he’d still be sitting in his hotel room in day-old undershorts. The desk clerk assured him they’d contacted the shipping company and he would have his clothing, pressed and hanging, by noon.

Giovanni Borelli had not visited for several months now, though the two priests corresponded frequently, the old-fashioned way, through handwritten letters, exchanging ideas on theology and politics, personal thoughts, and old family stories. The man was like a brother to him.

Spreading a second buttery roll with homemade apricot
marmellata
, Father Borelli attempted to look at his friend in an objective way. In his mind, he always pictured Beppe as the young boy he had been, yet his hair had long ago turned silver, unlike Giovanni’s, which had all but disappeared.

“How do you do it, my friend?” Giovanni took a bite of the fresh bread. “If I had joined a monastery with such daily offerings, I would be twice my size.” He licked his fingers, then patted his ample belly. “How do you remain so fit?”

“Blessed be those with good metabolism,” Beppe replied. “I get my exercise. Each morning I walk as I read the Divine Office.” He waved toward the covered, columned path of the cloister just as Brother Gabriele returned with the coffeepot to refill their cups. With his halo of golden curls, he looked more like the archangel from whom he’d taken his moniker than an Italian monk.

“
Grazie
, Brother Gabriele,” Beppe said. “You have made our distinguished guest from Rome feel very welcome.”

“Indeed,” Father Borelli concurred.
“Grazie.”

The young monk smiled humbly, tilting his head in appreciation before retreating back into the interior of the monastery.

Father Borelli lit a cigarette. Beppe had found a receptacle for his ashes, a tin can large enough to hold sufficient beans or vegetables to feed a monastery of hungry men. He didn’t scold, but Giovanni knew his friend did not approve of this harmful habit.

Gazing about the garden, Father Borelli took in a comforting drag and reflected on what an agreeable setting Father Ruffino found himself in. Years ago, when Beppe wrote that he was being uprooted from the Carmelite community in Italy to care for Our Lady Victorious in Prague, Giovanni knew his true wish was to return to his mission in the Central African Republic, where he felt his services were truly needed. But, an obedient servant, Giuseppe Ruffino had accepted with grace. The position as prior of the Church of Our Lady Victorious had been vacant for some time, the Carmelites having been driven from the city over two hundred years before. The church had fallen into disrepair. If anyone could revive the church and nurture the devotion to the Holy Infant, it was Father Ruffino. He had settled down in Prague, accepted this calling with an open heart.

Giuseppe Ruffino was that rare gifted soul who seemed to have come into this world with an abundance of blessings—a superb athlete, a scholar, a handsome lad. He could have done anything with his life, but everyone knew that Beppe would be a priest. He was a good, compassionate man. He had been a good, compassionate boy.

Giovanni himself had come to the priesthood in a more roundabout way, and even now after over thirty-five years, he wondered if it had been a true calling. He had never experienced a spiritual summons as if the Holy Spirit had invaded his soul with a message to “come follow.”

Yet he felt he had served his Church well. He was no saint, but he liked to think that in his own way he had made a contribution, particularly in his work as an officer of the Sacred Congregation of Rites. After his appointment as Promoter of the Faith, known also as Advocatus Diaboli, he often teased his friend about the power he now wielded.

“You are aware, Beppe,” he’d said, “after you’re gone, I will have to approve your canonization.”

“With all your bad habits,” Beppe had immediately come back, “you surely don’t expect to outlast me?”

Giovanni often laughed at the memory of his friend’s response. Perhaps more truth than humor, unless there was validity to the old adage
the good die young.
He surely couldn’t expect to outlast a healthy man who treated his body like a temple. Now as they both approached seventy, Giovanni Borelli acknowledged that they were not only well beyond their youth, they had passed right over middle age and were entering the twilight of their years. At times, he looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe that fat, old, balding man squinting out at him was the once-handsome, slender Gianni Borelli.

Beppe had yet to bring up the reason for this requested visit. They had just relived a particularly exciting soccer match in which the two men, mere boys then, played heroically to bring a championship trophy to the village where they both attended school. Yet, even in this familiar and often repeated discourse, Giovanni sensed something was not right, that Beppe was merely attempting to gather the courage to speak of a matter of great importance, that this chatter was merely a prelude.

“Another form of exercise,” Beppe went on, piling another stone of avoidance upon a stack that Giovanni sensed was about to tumble, “getting down in the garden, down on my knees.” His laugh was sliced with nervousness. “As if I don’t spend enough time on my knees, begging the good Lord to watch over us, to keep our little community in his graces. I pray he does not see me as the beggar I am, that I do not become too much of a nuisance. But the good Lord has entrusted me to look after this little church, after the Holy Infant, and I must do what is necessary . . .”

Beppe often wrote of the commercialism in the city, how the tiny church of Our Lady Victorious had been swept up in the growth of the tourist trade.

“We need to keep up with repairs, our museum and gift shop, to attract the tourists,” he said, “yet maintain the dignity of the church and a respectful devotion to the Infant. I’m afraid it may become a circus. The circus of the Infant of Prague.” His words carried a hint of sadness, accompanied by a dismissive shake of the head. “The assignment has its challenges, but I have truly been blessed.”

Now Beppe adjusted himself in his chair, his eyes flashing briefly toward the door into the monastery where Brother Gabriele had disappeared just minutes before. Father Borelli knew a half dozen other Carmelites, both priests and brothers, lived in the monastery, but the morning air carried no telltale signs of activity.

“The reason for my call . . .” Beppe’s voice was low as he leaned in, his eyes still darting about. “There was a . . . an incident in the church.”

Giovanni took a final, quick draw on his cigarette, snuffed it.

“Friday morning,” Beppe said.

“Good Friday?”

Beppe nodded. “I always arrive early before my servers to open the church. That morning I found it unlocked, which gave me a scare in itself. I did a quick search of the church, starting in the sacristy where we keep the gold chalices, ciboriums, and monstrances, then on to the museum and altars. We have a collection of valuable paintings and statuary.”

Valuable statuary
,
indeed,
Giovanni thought. The world-famous Infant of Prague, here in this tiny church in the Czech Republic.

“When I approached the Infant’s altar, there she lay.” Visible sweat beaded on the man’s brow.

“Who?”

“Sister Claire.” He pressed his fingers to his forehead. “She was ninety-two. She accepted her vocation at an early age. She knew no life other than one of service to the Church, to our Lord.”

As you, my friend,
Giovanni thought, but said nothing to interrupt.

“I was unaware,” Beppe continued, “though the prioress knew she often rose in the night. I’m not sure she knew . . . well, until . . . that at times she might have left the convent. Sister Claire was always in attendance for early-morning chapel. She tended the altars. I learned recently that this might have transpired at odd hours. I play no role in overseeing these duties. I leave it to the prioress to set the schedule and supervise the nuns.”

“Were the altars not stripped for Good Friday?”

“She suffered from the ailments of age . . . her memory. Often confused.” Again his hand rose to his head, a tap to indicate the demented workings of the old woman’s mind.

“You found her in the church? Lying at the altar? Dead?”

Beppe took in a deep breath, eyes closed. “Sister Claire passed in the church.” His eyes shot open and met Giovanni’s. “The circumstances of her death are suspect.”

“You called the authorities?”

“Why, yes, of course.” The priest’s eyes narrowed.

“The circumstances of her death?” Giovanni asked, repeating Beppe’s words.

“A gash, a cut across her face.”

“Murdered?” Was this why his friend had called? Did he wish Giovanni to investigate a murder? His heart pounded at the thought. He had substantial investigative experience, but he had never been called upon to investigate a murder.

“She was still alive, though barely. I suspect she was waiting for me. For a last anointing. She passed in my arms, took her last breath as I prayed to the sweet Infant Savior.”

“There was nothing missing from the church?” Giovanni asked. “Is this correct?”

“The investigator went through the church with me to make sure nothing was taken.” His voice grew quiet.

“Any damage?”

“No damage,” Beppe replied tentatively. He stared down at the table and then looked up. Giovanni noticed a twitch in his friend’s eye, a blink. His hand trembled as he placed it flat on the table. He covered it with his other hand, perhaps attempting to quiet the tremor.

“Is there anyone who would have motive to murder this elderly nun?”

“She had no enemies,” Father Ruffino replied. “Few acquaintances other than the nuns with whom she lived. No remaining family.”

“There is an ongoing investigation? Why have you called me?”

Father Ruffino ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Because of your investigative skills, I . . .”

“The police?”

Beppe shook his head dismissively. “The Czech police . . .”

“She was stabbed? A knife?”

“The weapon, perhaps her own garden shears. We keep them here in the church for the nuns to tend to the altar arrangements.”

“When you arrived did
you
see anything unusual?” Father Borelli asked.

Father Ruffino shook his head.

“Nothing on the surveillance cameras? The alarms?”

“The alarms had been turned off. By whom I’m not sure.” Father Ruffino’s voice quivered, and Giovanni sensed he might carry a burden of guilt upon his own trembling shoulders over the nun’s death. “The cameras . . . we are hoping to set up a new digital system. The equipment is old. Not trustworthy.” He shook his head, and Giovanni understood there was nothing recorded to help with the investigation.

Giovanni placed his hand on the arm of his fellow priest. This normally calm man, who had always put his fate in the hands of the Lord, was shivering, running his fingers along the edge of the table now.

“As I’ve said, Sister Claire was . . . Well”—Beppe hesitated as if gathering his thoughts—“she was still alive when I arrived. And . . . she was dying. I’m sure she was aware of that. I’m not sure how clear her mind was.” Beppe smiled faintly. “The prioress claims her mind hadn’t been clear for some time now.”

“She spoke to you?”

“Yet, at that moment of death perhaps she was very clear. At first she was mumbling, praying. But then . . . Sometimes as one draws near death, there exists a profound clarity. Do you ever feel that, Giovanni?” he asked. “When you sit with someone at the last moment, when they take in and then exhale that last breath, do you ever feel that presence, the presence of our dear Lord, when you hold the hand of a dying soul? Do you ever feel as if you are handing them over to the Lord?”

Giovanni knew other priests who had described a sense of God’s physical presence in claiming a soul.

Both men were silent for a long moment. Giovanni knew from experience it was sometimes more fruitful to refrain from interference or suggestion that might alter one’s perception and memory, though he was getting impatient.

“She told you something?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

“Then we must start from there.” Again, Giovanni Borelli forced himself to be still.

“After the initial mumblings,” Beppe said, starting in once more, “her words were very clear, but the reliability, the proper interpretation, I’m not sure.” He looked at Giovanni, deep into his eyes.

Dark circles hung beneath Beppe’s warm brown eyes, and myriad wrinkles fanned out from the corners, something Giovanni hadn’t noticed until that very moment, as if his friend had aged during the short time they’d sat in the garden.

“She told you what she saw?” Giovanni asked.

Father Ruffino shook his head. “Sister Claire had been completely blind for the past ten years.”