The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara) (16 page)

Alone again, Ferrara settled down to read last night’s reports.

He was particularly struck by the fire in the lift. A carabiniere had suffered the effects of smoke inhalation and the residents had had to seek refuge on their balconies.

It wasn’t the first occurrence. There had been several similar cases, with a couple of months between them. In the end, thanks to a neighbour’s testimony, they had identified the probable perpetrator of at least one of the fires: a thirty-something doctor who specialised in psychiatry. From their inquiries, it had emerged that he had been treated several times for neurological problems, hence the gaps in his activities. The investigation had had to be abandoned for lack of proof. His parents had even provided him with a watertight alibi: they swore that he had been at home with them on the night of the fire.

Could this one be the same person?

He leafed through his files and took out the FBI study he had consulted back then to learn more about the personality of a pyromaniac.

The American experts called such people serial arsonists, and they had sketched a profile: a young male between twenty and thirty, single, introverted but excitable, with few friends and a low IQ. Upper-middle class, often living near where he started the fires. Psychologically, he suffered from sexual and obsessive-compulsive disorders, which drove him to repeat acts he recognised as dangerous to other people, which he simply could not do without. In time, these acts could lead to more serious crimes. In fact, according to the Americans, many serial killers had pyromaniac pasts, just as others began their criminal careers by torturing and killing animals: dogs, cats, birds, and so on.

He read the FBI report a second time, then summoned Superintendent Ascalchi. He assigned him the latest case of arson, advising him to keep in close contact with the Carabinieri, who were officially in charge of the investigation.

‘See whether that crazy doctor is free and check any alibi he may have. Hopefully, unlike the other times, his parents won’t insist he was at home.’ He handed him the folder, into which he had put a copy of the FBI study.

‘OK,’ Ascalchi replied. ‘I’ll arrest him at home and give him the third degree.’

‘I urge you to use caution and tact, Ascalchi. We’ve got enough problems already.’

‘Don’t worry, chief.’

As Ascalchi was leaving the room, the telephone rang.

‘Chief Superintendent Ferrara?’

‘Speaking.’

‘This is the guardhouse. Officer Pizzimenti speaking.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘There’s someone asking for you. A priest.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Father Torre.’

‘Bring him up to my office.’

A few minutes later, Father Giulio Torre was sitting in front of his desk. Ferrara had met him several months earlier during the investigation into the murders committed by Leonardo Berghoff. It had been his old friend, the bookseller Massimo Verga, who had introduced him as an expert on the occult, especially Satanism. Father Torre had given Ferrara some useful pointers about the rituals in the deconsecrated chapel where Madalena’s charred body had been found.

Ferrara had called him the night before to arrange a meeting.

‘Thank you for coming, Father.’

‘It’s always a pleasure, Chief Superintendent. In fact, we ought to meet up for dinner again one of these days.’ Father Torre remembered the excellent Florentine steak he had enjoyed while discussing esotericism with Ferrara. It had been an interesting evening. ‘This time it’ll be my treat. But tell me, were you hoping for my opinion on something else?’

‘Precisely,’ Ferrara replied.

He told the priest some of the details of Enrico Costanza’s death. Then he asked the question which had him racking his brains. ‘Father Torre, what do you think is the significance of the victim’s eyes being removed?’

The answer was not long in coming.

‘It was a punishment, and at the same time a message to those able to understand it.’

‘What do you mean?’

The priest explained that historically, the eye was a Masonic symbol meaning enlightenment, which was the means by which the Masons came to know the secrets of the group. He added that on the physical level it also symbolised the Sun, from which Life and Light derived, on the intermediate astral level the Word, and on the spiritual or divine level the Great Architect of the Universe.

What a load of bullshit!
Ferrara thought. Out loud, he said, ‘Go on, Father.’

‘Perhaps the killer was trying to tell us that Enrico Costanza was no longer a Mason, no longer among the enlightened.’

To Ferrara, this interpretation seemed to confirm what he had already suspected: that Costanza had been killed by his brothers. Leonardo Berghoff had suggested as much in his letter.

‘Could that gesture have any other significance?’

‘Yes, of course, though not in this case, in my opinion.’

‘I’d still like to hear the alternatives,’ Ferrara insisted.

Father Torre cited the Egyptian tradition, in which the eye had a less sinister meaning. It represented the eye of the Sun God, who was depicted in sculpture and painting as having the head of a falcon and the body of a man.

‘The Egyptians decorated their sarcophagi with a drawing of two eyes, because they believed that this would allow the deceased to remain in the world of the living…’

Ferrara could have listened to him for a lot longer, but the investigations did not allow him that luxury. He promised Father Torre he would ring him to arrange their dinner.

‘This time I’ll take you to another restaurant with a really amazing wine list,’ he said, thinking of the 1995 Brunello di Montalcino he had drunk on his return from Germany.

‘I’ll expect your call,’ the priest replied. His cheeks and nose had turned red, almost as if he was already savouring one of those excellent wines. He shook Ferrara’s hand firmly and left the room.

After a few moments Ferrara left too. He had an appointment, and he was late.

His destination: the offices of the Tuscan Regional Forensics Centre.

The ballistics results were ready.

‘Do you fancy going for a wander round the centre of town?’

Angelica was driving, and Guendalina was sitting beside her. They were just crossing the Ponte delle Cure. ‘We can leave the car in the car park near here, in the Piazza della Libertà, and continue on foot.’

‘Oh, yes, let’s. We can go for a little stroll and maybe have a pizza at one of those restaurants in the Piazza San Giovanni.’

‘No, not there, Guendi. They’re tourist traps. The pizzas will be frozen, and so will the starters. I see I need to teach you all about this city.’

‘Where shall we go, then?’

‘A really nice little place. We’ll stop there on the way home. I want you to try potato tortelli made with handmade pasta, and
migliaccio
for dessert.’ Angelica gave Guendalina’s leg a squeeze and winked at her.

‘What’s migliaccio?’

‘Oh, darling, you’ve still got so many of our local delicacies to discover. It’s a dessert made with chestnuts, sometimes known as
castagnaccio
.’

They had reached the car park. Angelica got the admission coupon and started driving down the ramp.

‘The same gun was used in both murders, Michele. No doubt about it.’

Ferrara was in the forensics lab, a veritable forest of computers, test tubes and optical and electronic microscopes, looking out onto the Piazza Indipendenza, where Gianni Fuschi was giving him the results of the ballistics tests.

Fuschi ran a hand through his hair. He was wearing a white lab coat over a pair of brown linen trousers and an ivory polo shirt. Tall and elegant, he was a handsome man by any definition, who looked more like a university lecturer than a police forensics expert.

‘I’ve examined the casing and the nose with both the measuring microscope and that optical comparator.’

The optical comparator was used to compare the imprints on ballistic exhibits by making it possible to view two separate objects in the same field. It consisted of two microscopes with identical lenses linked by an optical bridge containing a combination of prisms that channelled the two images into a single eyepiece.

‘Did you find anything else?’ Ferrara asked.

‘I checked the database, but it doesn’t look as if the gun was used in any other incidents.’

‘What else?’

‘It had a silencer, Michele. The signs are unmistakable.’

He explained that they had found semi-circular indents on the nose of the bullet casing, typical of a bullet impacting against one of the metal diaphragms coaxial to the barrel.

Ferrara nodded. He knew that such indents were caused by the elements of a silencer being imperfectly aligned with the axis of the barrel.

‘A real professional,’ he murmured.

‘There’s no doubt about it,’ Fuschi said by way of confirmation.

‘Gianni, I need your report as soon as possible.’

‘You’ll have it on your desk tomorrow…’ He was about to add ‘Gatto’, but stopped himself just in time. Now was not the moment to make jokes, and it was best to drop that nickname given to Ferrara by a journalist at
Il Tirreno
who had been struck by the catlike shape of his hazel-green eyes.

The Piazza Libertà, where the company that ran the city’s CCTV cameras was based, was just a few minutes away from Headquarters, so Rizzo decided to go there on foot.

A little earlier, Venturi had called Costanza’s driver, who had confirmed the route he had followed on Saturday evening: Piazzale di Porta al Prato – Via Roselli – Via Strozzi – Via Lavagnini – Piazza della Libertà – Viale Don Giovanni Minzoni – Cavalcavia delle Cure – Piazza delle Cure – Viale dei Mille – Viale Volta – Via San Domenico – Fiesole.

It was the first time that Rizzo had been here. He had made an appointment over the phone with the manager, who had told him that he would be able to see him that same morning. In fact he was waiting for him: a tall, thin man in his early forties. He shook Rizzo’s hand and led him into the surveillance room.

Once inside, Rizzo looked around and was taken aback by the sight of dozens of monitors and a large workforce sitting at long benches of computers.

The manager, who had introduced himself as Giuseppe Aviati, noticed the surprised expression on Rizzo’s face and smiled. He was always pleased to see the effect his ‘baby’ had on the few visitors allowed in to see it, mostly officials.

‘We started off with about ten or twenty cameras, almost all focused on key central points in the city,’ he said proudly, ‘but now we’ve got about five hundred of them and we’ll soon be installing more. We have a direct connection to the city centre police, and arrests are often made on the basis of what my staff see on these monitors.’

‘Is there always someone on duty?’ asked Rizzo.

‘Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Sometimes we’re asked to keep an eye open for suspicious individuals, and if we spot them we inform the State Police or the Carabinieri. Follow me!’

He led Rizzo over to one of the monitors.

‘This is CCTV Camera 32. It’s at the traffic lights near the Ponte Vespucci. If our technician moves the joystick in front of him, he can zoom in on the parked cars or those that are going through. And even on the people crossing the road or walking by the river.’ He proceeded to give a quick practical demonstration.

Rizzo was struck by how clear the images were. ‘Would you be able to follow the progress of a car from the Hotel Villa Medici to Fiesole by way of the Via Il Prato?’

Aviati smiled. ‘I guessed your visit was connected to the senator’s murder. On Sunday morning, the technician on duty noticed the police cars and ambulance going down the Viale Volta towards Fiesole with their lights flashing. We’ve had a look at the footage from earlier, but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary or we would have been in touch before now.’

‘We need to confirm the presence of a black Mercedes from about eleven o’clock on Saturday night,’ Rizzo insisted, taking a small notebook from his jacket pocket and giving him the licence number of Enrico Costanza’s car.

‘We’ll do our best,’ Aviati replied. ‘It’s a good thing you came this morning.’

‘Why?’

‘The footage is automatically deleted after seventy-two hours. We keep copies of the useful stuff on video and on hard disk, always bearing in mind the privacy laws.’

‘I realise you can’t just hand over the information to anybody who asks for it.’

Aviati nodded. ‘We can give you the material, but we need a court order.’

‘Of course. In the meantime, maybe you could at least check for the Mercedes. If you find what we’re looking for, you’ll get the court order straight away.’

‘We’ll do what we can, but it’s going to take time. There are several CCTV cameras to check, because from the Via Il Prato, the car could have gone in a number of directions to get to Fiesole. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’

‘We know the route the car took,’ Rizzo replied, and reported what they had learnt from the driver.

‘Perfect. It’s still worth checking the other routes as well.’

‘OK. But remember, this is urgent.’

‘Don’t worry.’

Rizzo was just about to leave when he remembered the A-Class Mercedes, and asked Aviati to also let them know if there were any sightings of that model.

He left the building. He had other things to do, mainly interviewing Enrico Costanza’s friends and acquaintances.

His next stop, though, was not Police Headquarters, but the Hotel Villa Medici.

He called Venturi and instructed him to start the interviews. He would be there in about an hour.