Morning
HE WAS AWAKENED ON Antonella’s sofa by a cell phone ringing. It was Corvu calling. It was already eight thirty, and they were waiting for him in the office. While he took an ice-cold shower, Antonella made him a double espresso and some toast. He smoked two cigarettes as he drank his coffee.
“You’re back on caffeine and tobacco?” There was no reproach in her voice; actually, she appeared to approve.
“I flushed all my pills, too, together with some old ways of thinking.”
Antonella smiled. “Now you just have to get back to having sex. Or have you already started?”
He gave her a light kiss on the lips and called a taxi.
Corvu, Piccolo, and Mastroianni had been in the office since six that morning, trying to reconstruct the case from the beginning.
“In light of the new information, I’ve checked out all the alibis for Elisa Sordi’s death. I hope you don’t mind, but I also checked up on Angelo Dioguardi,” Corvu said apologetically.
“You did very well, Corvu. Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“Okay. We know for certain that Elisa Sordi was alive at five o’clock when she spoke to her mother on the phone, because it shows up in the phone records. Immediately after, or immediately before, the concierge came up to her and took the work she’d finished to Cardinal Alessandrini. Then Manfredi paid Elisa a visit, or else he was already there when she received her mother’s call. He stayed there for about twenty minutes, while Balistreri and Dioguardi arrived at the main gate and were talking to Gina Giansanti. Manfredi was still in Elisa’s office when Angelo came in and went up in the elevator. He heard the cardinal open the door. Manfredi left Elisa beaten unconscious, if we believe him. He locked the door, went to his building, and called his father, who was at the Hotel Camilluccia, which is about five minutes away—we checked. Then he went out onto the terrace and saw Balistreri talking to the concierge through his binoculars. He went to his room, where he started cutting himself with a razor blade and moaning. That woke his mother. The count arrived after a few minutes, met Balistreri, exchanged a couple of words with him, and went up to the penthouse, while Gina Giansanti was getting ready to go to Mass. As Balistreri was walking over to Building B he met Father Paul coming out, then went up in the elevator to the top floor, where Angelo Dioguardi and the cardinal were waiting for him. Father Paul left the complex with Gina Giansanti. She went to Mass, and he went back to San Valente.”
Corvu paused to consult his notes.
“Valerio Bona took advantage of the concierge’s absence—she’d left with Father Paul—and, following Balistreri, entered Building B. He went to see Elisa and found her dead. That is, Valerio thought she was dead. Manfredi swears he left her unconscious. One of the two is lying or mistaken, or she died in the interim. The six people in the Via della Camilluccia complex all moved around at six o’clock. Balistreri, Dioguardi, and Cardinal Alessandrini came down and saw the count and Ulla leaving in their car and Manfredi on his bike. From that point on we know exactly where five of these people were. Balistreri and Dioguardi went to watch the game, while the cardinal, Ulla, and Manfredi were at the Vatican. And we know the count went to see the minister of the interior. At the time, the police checked the registers and found he went in at six fifty and left at seven thirty five.”
“Corvu, I want you to get a complete copy of the ministry’s logbooks.”
Balistreri pointed to the blackboard where they’d put the letters in chronological order.
O (Elisa)
? (Ulla)
A (Alina)
R (Samantha)
E (Nadia)
? (Giovanna)
V (Selina)
I (Ornella)
? (Fiorella)
“For the three we don’t know, we can use what Hagi said about his wife, Alina,” Mastroianni said. “Where there’s no letter carved, we should use the first letters of their first names.”
“I have my doubts about the last letter being an F,” Corvu said.
It depends on what they find carved there, he thought, but avoided saying it.
“So we have O U A R E G V I F. But it doesn’t have to be in that order,” Piccolo said.
“I’ve read up on similar cases. The order is part of the obsessive behavior and is always important.”
Balistreri lost patience. “These letters tell me nothing.” And yet in his mind a memory was stirring. It took shape, rose and fell, and disappeared. It was something he had seen somewhere.
Piccolo took the floor. “Valerio Bona’s death was a suicide. After being questioned he went to Ostia—two witnesses saw him getting onto a boat by himself and going out to sea as it was getting dark. He anchored in a quiet cove. The boat was five hundred yards from the shore. A finance police patrol boat sighted it around ten. Valerio Bona had hanged himself from the mast.”
Piccolo paused, then said, “He left a note. It’s confirmed that it’s in his handwriting”
She looked down at the piece of paper and began to read.
“We should have told the truth then, but we weren’t brave enough. I leave my punishment in God’s hands.”
“Was it addressed to anyone?” Balistreri asked.
“Not the note, but there is something else,” Piccolo said. “There was a single outgoing call from Valerio Bona’s cell phone after he was questioned. The phone company checked the records: the call was to the Vatican switchboard.”
. . . .
This time Cardinal Alessandrini’s personal assistant was adamant. The cardinal was celebrating Mass, then he had to accompany the wife of a foreign head of state on a private visit to the Sistine Chapel, and then he had to go over the pope’s sermon for the Angelus, which he would give at noon from Val D’Aosta where he was on vacation.
Balistreri knew he’d already overstepped his boundaries, but made up his mind to force the situation. A spat between the Italian state and the Vatican paled in comparison to the life of Fiorella Romani.
He called Floris at nine that morning, went to meet him, and spelled out his plan. The chief of police heard him out attentively, his reactions somewhere between incredulity and horror. Finally he smiled and shook Balistreri’s hand.
Floris called the minister of the interior. The minister was strongly opposed to it, but Floris pointed out that Balistreri was a loose cannon and would certainly get in touch with Linda Nardi to call a press conference if things did not go his way.
The minister called the prime minister’s undersecretary, a man famously close to Vatican circles. Only the explicit threat of a press conference, during the course of which Balistreri would attribute direct responsibility for Fiorella Romani’s death to the cardinal, persuaded the undersecretary to call Alessandrini. He made his apologies, saying that Balistreri was out of control and would be replaced as soon as possible but suggested that the Church, already under accusation for its defense of Roma rights, might like to try to avoid any further trouble. The cardinal allowed Balistreri thirty minutes at ten sharp in the Sistine Chapel. Although he had lived in Rome for so many years, Balistreri had never been there.
Alessandrini’s assistant was shocked and disgusted by Balistreri’s scruffy appearance. The cardinal arrived punctually, dressed in his vestments. Coming dressed like this further underlined the light years’ distance between them, a gap that Balistreri had only a few minutes to bridge.
The greeting was extremely cold. “I thought we had finished with our reciprocal confessions,” Alessandrini said instantly. “Nevertheless, let’s take a walk together—perhaps it will do your spirit good. I hope it’s in a better state than your appearance.”
They walked slowly, while Balistreri tried to gather all his strength. He was there for one reason only and could not allow himself to be distracted either by his contempt for the cardinal or by the wonderful ceiling that people from all over the world came to admire.
“You don’t have much time, Eminence, and Fiorella Romani has even less.”
“I told you everything I know yesterday.”
“Marius Hagi says Fiorella Romani will die this afternoon unless you tell me—”
Alessandrini held up a hand to stop him and came to a halt before The Last Judgment. Christ presided over the scene, directing a severe gaze at those descending into the pits of hell; beside him sat the Virgin Mary, looking away, resigned.
“What do you see, Captain Balistreri?” Alessandrini asked.
“I see a God who strikes fear and beside him a woman who looks unhappy because she doesn’t have the power to make decisions. I see miserable people looking horrified, no matter which side they fall on. There may be justice in this painting, but I see no mercy.”
Alessandrini was lost in thought. “Evil is a part of the divine plan, Balistreri. Christians like Gina Giansanti know that and accept it as a test. They wait for the moment you see depicted here, when God metes out justice.”
A lesson in theology. He doesn’t want to help me. Or can’t. It’s part of the divine plan!
Balistreri took an envelope from his pocket and showed Alessandrini the photographs of Elisa, Samantha, Nadia, Selina, and Ornella. Burns, bruises, letters carved into their flesh.
Alessandrini wouldn’t touch them. He moved sharply away and walked toward the exit. Balistreri looked desperately at his watch—his time was up. He saw the master of ceremonies with the wife of the head of state already waiting. The cardinal was some distance away when he turned back toward him.
“Pass on our conversation to Marius Hagi. Tell him to listen to the Angelus address.”
. . . .
Balestreri called Floris on his cell phone to tell him about the conversation while he drove back once again with Corvu through the traffic in the morning heat to Regina Coeli prison.
“The prime minister and the minister of the interior are very concerned,” the chief of police informed him.
“About relations with the Vatican, I imagine, not about Fiorella Romani.”
“Balistreri, I’m not worried about my position. We already have too many deaths to mourn, and there’s no point in useless debate. Offer Hagi anything you can.”
“The man’s dying,sir. We only have the truth to offer him.”
“What are you thinking of doing?”
“I’m going to do what Cardinal Alessandrini said. I’ll tell Hagi about our conversation.”
“But he didn’t tell you anything,” Floris protested.
“Let’s let Hagi be the judge of that.”
The graffiti on the city’s walls incited people to set fire to the camps. So-called civic organizations were having their say. Political posters proposed drastic solutions.
If Fiorella Romani dies, it’ll start a riot. Hagi’s always known that. It’s part of his plan.
They got to the prison at eleven thirty. Hagi was waiting in an interrogation room that had been equipped with a television, as Balistreri had requested.
Balistreri told him everything—the alibis, Valerio Bona’s suicide note, his conversation with Cardinal Alessandrini about The Last Judgment.
Hagi nodded, pleased with the news of Valerio Bona’s phone call to the Vatican, but it was the conversation with Alessandrini that really piqued his interest. He asked for it to be repeated to him twice with barely concealed satisfaction.
Then he turned to Balistreri. “So? What’s the answer to my question?”
“I’ll tell you after the Angelus.”
“Then let me have a cigarette.” There was no smoking in the room. Balistreri lit one for Hagi and one for himself.
At noon, the television was going to start broadcasting live from Les Combes in Val D’Aosta, where the pope was spending his vacation.
“Dear brothers and sisters.”
The pope was smiling and full of energy. He spoke about the Middle East, expressing solidarity with the unfortunates there. Then he changed the subject.
“Yesterday we celebrated the memorial of St. Mary Magdalene, Our Lord’s disciple, who occupies a prominent place in the Gospels.”
The pope went on with his sermon about Mary Magdalene, then came to the end. Hagi perked up and leaned toward the television set.
“Mary Magdalene’s story teaches us a fundamental truth: a disciple of Christ is someone who, in the experience that is human weakness, has the humility to ask him for help, is healed by him, and follows him closely, thereby becoming a witness to the power of his merciful love, which is stronger than sin and death.”
The pope ended with a reminder about the situation in the Middle East. Then he began to recite the Angelus.
“You can turn it off.” Hagi was lost in thought. Then he came out of it and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was twelve forty.
“I’d like the answer to my question, Balistreri.”
“The cardinal lied because he presumed he could distinguish between good and evil, and now he’s humiliating himself like Mary Magdalene before God and asking for your help. He lied out of fear that we would accuse two young men, who he maintained were innocent, of a terrible crime. One was Manfredi.”
Hagi was wracked by coughs. Balistreri could see the veins pulsating under his transparent temples and the bones sticking out over the ever-deeper hollows in his cheeks.
He’s dying. And Fiorella Romani with him.
“And what will you do now, Balistreri?”
“I swear to you that Elisa Sordi’s killer will be punished, whoever he is. But I beg you to save Fiorella Romani. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s not guilty of anything.”
“Do you think my wife was guilty of something?”
Balistreri shook his head.
“No, Alina was guilty of nothing. But it was her fear of you and bad luck that killed her, not a murderer who tortures, strangles, and carves flesh.”
Hagi said, “Wrong! It was your wretched Catholic religion that killed her! It was Anna Rossi, Valerio Bona, Cardinal Alessandrini, and that young priest with the red hair—”
“Father Paul.”
Hagi was coughing and spitting blood. “Yes, Father Paul, who had lunch with Elisa that Sunday, the last day of her life. Alina told me. She saw them together near the parish. And she saw Valerio Bona there, too, spying on them.”
That was why Valerio had called Alessandrini in the Vatican before he hanged himself—to remind him of the truth.
“Alina was terrified of you, Mr. Hagi, because of something you’re holding back from us. And your wife wasn’t one to scare easily.”
“Well then, I’ll spell it out clearly, Balistreri. Ulla had overheard a conversation of the count’s. She told Anna Rossi, Samantha’s mother, about it. And she passed it on to Alina that I’d thrown Elisa in the river. And my wife, poor innocent young girl that she was, was terrified by the damnation of hell into which your God threatens to send even those who remain silent in order to protect her own husband.”
Balistreri was incredulous. “All these deaths twenty-four years later to punish someone who turned Alina against you? You could have thought about it before, couldn’t you?”
“Believe me, I thought about it many times, but I didn’t know who had killed Elisa Sordi. I threw her in the river, but when I carried her out of that office she was already dead.”
“Do you know who did it now?”
“No, Balistreri. I still don’t know. That’s your fault.” He pointed to his blood-spotted handkerchief. “But I can’t wait any longer. You’ve got to find out who did it.”
“What do you think you’ll achieve by acting like this? The name of a killer? Or the massacre of Romanians in Italy? You’re turning this country into a hellish pack of racists!”
Hagi looked at him mockingly. “Like that Coppola I shot between the shoulders that night—”
Enraged, Balistreri lost control and launched himself on him. He felt the blood pounding in his ears and bursting his eardrums and temples as he squeezed Hagi’s neck. The prison officers rushed to stop him. Fortunately, one of them was built like an ox and pulled Balistreri off Hagi as if he were a leaf.
Hagi was spitting blood on the floor and coughing as he held his throat. But his mocking gaze never wavered while the prison officers were restraining Balistreri.
“Call a doctor,” Corvu said.
“It’s not serious,” Hagi said, massaging his own neck. Then he turned to Balistreri. “You see how little it takes to kill? But you already know that, don’t you?”
“That’s enough for now,” Corvu said. “You can take this animal back to his cell.”
Hagi said, “But we’re just getting to Fiorella Romani.”
“Let me go. I’ve calmed down,” Balistreri said to the officers, who loosened their grip on him but stood between the two men.
“You’re not going anywhere, Hagi,” Corvu said.
“Then say good-bye to Fiorella Romani and you add another death on your conscience, Balistreri. And what’s it going to change anyway? One more, one less . . .”
He wants your rage. He wants to turn you into an animal like him.
The thought calmed him down. “I don’t believe you, Hagi. You don’t even know if she’s alive.”
Hagi glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a minute to one.
“Switch on your cell phone, Balistreri. Right now.”
There’s still one thing he wants to do, and that is to destroy you. It’s his price for saving Fiorella.
As soon as the phone was on, it rang. “Hello?” Balistreri said.
He heard a terrified whisper. “This is Fiorella Romani. I’m begging you, come get me and bring Titti to me.”
The call ended abruptly.
Balistreri called Fiorella’s mother. “Does the name Titti mean anything to you?”
Franca Giansanti was surprised. “Titti? That’s Fiorella’s favorite stuffed animal. It was a present from her grandmother Gina. What’s going on?”
“Just trust me, Franca. I’ll let you know before this evening.”
In order for Hagi to be allowed out of prison, even under escort and in handcuffs, the chief of police had to call the minister of the interior and the minister of justice.
“This is crazy, Balistreri. But it will all be worth it if we save her,” Floris said.
“You’re a decent man, sir.”
“Thank you, Balistreri. So are you. Be careful.”
Balistreri instinctively felt for the Beretta in his holster.
He came back into the room. “Where do we have to go, Mr. Hagi?”
“It’s a beautiful sunny afternoon, or so they tell me. Let’s go to the beach. I’ll ride with you.”
“We should go in a police van,” Corvu said.
But Hagi didn’t want to do that.
“No, let’s go in a regular car. I want to enjoy the view. It’s going to be the last trip I ever take. And besides, if I can’t see the view I can’t show you the path to her salvation.”
Afternoon
They formed a line of five vehicles, the first and last two each containing four armed policemen. In the middle was the car with the four of them: Corvu at the wheel, Piccolo next to him, Balistreri in the back, and Hagi in handcuffs. They left at two thirty in the scorching-hot afternoon. The car’s thermometer said the outside temperature was well over one hundred degrees.
“Take the Via Pontina toward the coast,” Hagi ordered.
As they left the center of Rome, Hagi was silent, looking keenly at the pavements crowded with tourists, the Tiber, and the open-air restaurants. There was little traffic. In that heat everyone was at the beach or up in the hills. It took them only twenty minutes to get onto the Via Pontina, an minor highway leading south of Rome to the coast.
“Where are we going?” Corvu asked.
“Keep going straight. There’s still time.” Hagi seemed completely absorbed in the view.
Balistreri gathered this was not going to be a short trip.
“Take the handcuffs off and give me a cigarette, Balistreri,” Hagi ordered.
“Not the handcuffs,” Corvu said.
“Then you can turn the car around and go back. These are the last cigarettes I’ll ever smoke and I want to smoke them with my hands free.”
“Unlock his right hand and cuff the left to the seat,” Balistreri told Piccolo. She leaned over and complied.
Then he gave Hagi a lit cigarette.
“Don’t you have the Bella Blu lighter anymore?” Hagi asked him, inhaling.
So you want to talk? All right, let’s talk.
“Who’s waiting for us at the beach?” Balistreri asked.
Hagi gave a little laugh. “Don’t be impatient; you’ll see when we get there. But if you have other questions, I might answer some of them. I’m in a good mood today.”
Balistreri caught Corvu’s warning glance in the mirror, but he had no wish to be cautious. By now he thought he knew who had killed Elisa Sordi, but that wouldn’t save Fiorella Romani. It was a mosaic that was still missing several tiles, one in particular.
“Let’s start with Samantha Rossi. Why her?”
“I’ve already told you. It was Anna Rossi who told to Alina that I’d removed Elisa’s body and then persuaded her to run away. It was as if she had killed her. I could have avenged myself on Anna right away, but I’d already learned the hard way that a greater pain is the death of someone you love. And so I chose her daughter. And please, I must insist, tell the lady that if she’d minded her own business, her daughter would still be alive today.”
Balistreri heard a deep intake of breath from Giulia Piccolo and placed a warning hand on her shoulder. Hagi wanted to provoke them, but they had to remain calm and focused on one goal: saving Fiorella Romani.
“And why Nadia?”
“Oh, Christ, why all these questions I’ve already answered? Because she looked like Alina and Alina hurt me.”
Balistreri wasn’t convinced, not for a moment. “I just don’t buy that answer, especially after Camarà saw you with Nadia in Bella Blu’s private lounge.”
Hagi shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I could meet up with Nadia any time I wanted. Someone else wanted to meet her there.”
Piccolo turned around. “Colajacono,” she said.
Hagi had a fit of coughing mixed with laughter. “You are such a fool to be fixated on that man. Colajacono was invited that evening so that he’d be more deeply involved in what was about to happen. That idiot thought it was about blackmailing a politician and that Nadia was being used for that.”
“But you called Vasile. You went to get the Giulia GT at the top of the hill with Adrian’s bike. You left the bike there, picked up Nadia, took her to Vasile, and left on the bike.” Piccolo came to a halt, confused.
Hagi laughed. “You’re missing something, aren’t you? Who killed Nadia?”
Corvu said. “You went up on the bike, took the car, and left the bike on the hill. Then you went to pick up Nadia in the car around six thirty. You slowed down when you saw Natalya, because you thought it was her. Then you were lucky enough to find Nadia by herself.”
“I’ve never been lucky in my life. I’ve just had an excellent assistant,” Hagi said placidly.
Balistreri had already reconstructed that part.
“It was the man who couldn’t get it up with Ramona. That gave you time to make off with Nadia. You rode with him on the bike to collect the Giulia GT that would be used to pick up Nadia on Via di Torricola. Then you both came down from the hill separately, one on Adrian’s bike and the other in the Giulia. At six o’clock you picked up Nadia while he kept Ramona busy. Then you handed Nadia and the car over to your assistant. He took her up the hill, while you went home, hid the bike, and then went to Casilino 900 to distribute presents to the children.”
Corvu and Piccolo stared at him in the rearview mirror. Hagi clapped his hands. “Bravo, Balistreri. You’re beginning to catch on after all these years.”
Balistreri ignored the provocation and continued.
“Your assistant waited two hours while Vasile had sex with Nadia and then fell asleep because he’d had so much to drink. Then your assistant strangled her and carved the letter E on her. Alessandrini was right about you, Hagi—you’re not the kind of man to rape, strangle, and carve letters into women.”
Hagi nodded. “I prefer to torture the living. That’s my specialty, Balistreri.”
Balistreri made no comment and went back to his reconstruction of the events. “From Casilino 900, the others went to St. Peter’s Square, but you went to pick up your assistant on the bike. You left the car up there and came back down together on the bike.”
Hagi seemed genuinely pleased with Balistreri’s progress, as if someone was finally going to admire his grand plan.
“That’s right, Balistreri. He carved the letters into all of them, including Elisa Sordi. It was ugly. I wouldn’t be able to do it, but that’s how my assistant is. He enjoys that kind of thing.”
“A collaboration that started twenty-four years ago,” Balistreri said. “The count assumed Manfredi hadn’t killed Elisa and wanted someone to go and talk to her, calm her down, maybe make a deal with her. The first thing he did was call Francesco Ajello.”
Hagi made a slight bow. “Bravo, Balistreri. I see your brain is working today. Francesco was supposed to make a deal with her in exchange for her silence. But when he went into the office, he discovered she was already dead. He called me to help him out. We cleaned up the office, and then we put her body in the trunk of my car and took it away. Ajello went to watch the game with some friends, and I dumped the body in the river. That wasn’t very pleasant, especially since I had to cut her and burn her with cigarettes to make it look as if she’d been tortured. I’m tired now, Balistreri. Give me another cigarette and leave me alone.”
They didn’t speak for a while. Hagi smoked in silence as the road signs went by one after another. Pratica di Mare. Pomezia. Anzio. Nettuno. It was nearly four thirty in the afternoon and Via Pontina was absolutely deserted under the blazing sun.
Balistreri was unsettled. Something wasn’t quite right. That insistence on Nadia was ridiculous. Without her and the broken headlight on the Giulia GT, no suspicions would ever have been aroused.
“I want to talk about the letters of the alphabet,” Corvu said all of a sudden.
“A childhood passion of my assistant, perfected over time,” Hagi replied, as if they were talking about art or sports.
“I’d like to know if we have to use the initial of the first name for Ulla and Giovanna Sordi, as with your wife Alina.”
Hagi was amused by the question.
“You’re determined to solve the puzzle, aren’t you, Corvu? I, on the other hand, find it childish, not to mention risky. But he’s determined to finish it. U for Ulla is correct. But after her daughter’s death, Elisa Sordi’s mother wore an engraved charm on a bracelet.”
“A golden heart with the letter E,” Corvu recalled, thanks to his photographic memory.
“But there’s already an E immediately before that, the one carved on Nadia,” Balistreri protested.
“You’re very quick today, Balistreri. It’s true, there are two consecutive Es. My assistant is very particular, a little like Corvu here. He insisted that there be two. It might interest you to know that killing Giovanna Sordi was simple.”
“Killing Giovanna Sordi?” Piccolo echoed.
Hagi coughed and spat blood into his handkerchief.
“A stroke of genius that your idiotic World Cup final made quite easy. My assistant met her that morning at Mass and told her that he was going to reveal the truth about her daughter’s death, but in exchange she would have to join her daughter that same evening.”
“I don’t buy it,” Corvu said. “Elisa’s mother was ruined by grief, but she wasn’t gullible enough to do that.”
“You’re wrong. He told her he knew the killer’s name and offered it in exchange for her jumping off the balcony. She swore on the Virgin Mary that she’d do it. And besides, what better occasion than another World Cup final? If Italy hadn’t won that shootout, she might not have jumped. But my assistant would just have killed her off anyway.” Hagi was coughing and laughing.
Piccolo turned around, furious, and Balistreri shot her a warning glance.
“And how did your assistant convince her he knew who the killer was?” Corvu asked.
“He revealed a detail that only someone who had witnessed the attack on Elisa would have known. That was no problem for him.”
Corvu said, “So, the sequence is OUAREEVI plus the last letter.”
Hagi was clearly amused. “I see Corvu can’t resist, so I’ll give him a little help. The sequence is correct, but the first letter is missing.”
The car skidded, and Corvu straightened it out, swearing in Sardinian. Piccolo turned and pointed her gun at Hagi’s forehead. Balistreri put his hand between the gun and Hagi.
“Piccolo, put the gun away and put the cuffs back on him.”
Balistreri tried to remain icily calm, but the restlessness he felt a little earlier was slowly becoming agitation. Something was not right. It was as if the shocks of a distant earthquake epicenter were approaching.
The truth is never a straight line. The truth is a circle. The first letter, before Elisa Sordi.
. . . .
The call came on Angelo Dioguardi’s cell phone while he was out on Linda Nardi’s terrace. It was nearly five thirty in the afternoon.
He went back into the apartment. She was sitting on the sofa bundled up in a heavy sweater, even though it was warm outside.
“That was Father Paul. He needs to talk to me about something important. I’m supposed to meet him at San Valente in an hour.”
She nodded sadly. Perhaps the decisive moment had arrived. She smiled at him and caressed his hand tenderly. “Thanks, Angelo.”
. . . .
The road signs announced that the Sabaudia exit was less than a mile away.
“We’ve nearly reached our destination, Corvu. Take the exit for Sabaudia,” Hagi said. On her cell phone, Piccolo notified the officers in the cars in front and behind.
The five cars turned and took the long tree-lined avenue into Sabaudia’s white central square with its bell tower and blocky Fascist-era buildings.
They drove toward the beach. The seafront was full of cars, parked among the sand dunes, and beautiful villas overlooking the sea. They proceeded under the still blinding sunshine opposite the sea crowded with swimmers, surrounded by families dressed in swimwear and carrying ice cream and rubber rafts. Hagi had chosen the most absurd setting: here death could slowly fill the space that life occupied in the way that a colorless and odorless—but lethal—gas could invade a beautiful living room full of people.
“The gate to the next villa is open. Park in front of it,” Hagi said. He looked at Balistreri’s watch. “Good, it’s almost five thirty, so we’re slightly ahead of schedule. Now I can tell you exactly what to do so as not to make this a wasted trip.”
“And what do we have to do?” asked Balistreri patiently.
“My assistant is in the villa with the girl. Since five o’clock he’s been holding a pistol pointed at her temple, so if you attempt to enter, Fiorella Romani will die. You’ll have to let me go in alone and convince him you’re going to find out who killed Elisa Sordi.”
“No fucking way,” Corvu blurted.
“As you wish,” Hagi said calmly.
“Did your assistant know you’d be here at this time?” Balistreri asked.
“Of course. He knew he had to call your cell phone at one and he did so. If I don’t arrive by five thirty, he’ll kill her. As you can see, we leave nothing to chance,” Hagi said looking pleased with himself.
He’s enjoying himself; it’s his big show. But he’s got a surprise finale in store for us.
A five-year-old girl knocked on the car window, smiling and shaking an ice cream cone. Hagi waved at her. A man with few days to live, in handcuffs. And yet he was as happy and peaceful as a little kid on a field trip. Trouble was brewing. Balistreri had left Rome believing he had the situation under control: he knew who had killed Elisa Sordi, he knew who was waiting for them in Sabaudia. But now he wasn’t so sure.
“Give me your word that Fiorella’s still alive and will come out of there,” Balistreri said.
“I’ll need time to explain all the lies that were told in 1982 to my assistant and convince him that you’re getting to the truth. But I swear on my wife’s memory that Fiorella Romani will be returned alive to her family.”
“I can’t take off your handcuffs,” Balistreri said, “and I’ll stay outside and call out to you every so often. If you don’t answer, we’ll come in.”
Hagi smiled. “Okay, but don’t be concerned about my safety, Balistreri. My assistant would never harm me. And now I must go or it’ll be too late.”
They let him out. The thin little man in handcuffs was unsteady on his feet. He coughed and spat some blood onto the pavement under the brutal sun. Hagi paused a moment to contemplate the sea and the cheery scene around him. Looking at him in that moment, Balistreri felt certain that he, too, was suspended with Hagi in the no man’s land between life and death.
Then Hagi went in.
. . . .
Hagi had been inside for a half-hour. Balistreri, Corvu, and Piccolo waited nervously under a tree in the yard, a few yards away from sunbathers on the beach. The police had the villa completely surrounded. Chief of Police Floris was in direct communication by cell phone. Every so often Balistreri called in to Hagi, who replied, “Everything’s fine. We’re still talking.”
At five minutes past six, Hagi calmly came to the door. He addressed Balistreri.
“My assistant wants you to swear to him in person that you’ll be able to catch Elisa’s killer.”
Corvu said, “Captain Balistreri’s not coming in, and you’re coming out of there right now.”
Hagi looked at Balistreri. “I swore on the memory of my late wife that Fiorella Romani is inside here, alive. If you’ll come in, I swear to you that Fiorella will go back to Rome, alive. Otherwise . . .”
Balistreri knew that only by going into that house would the girl be saved. He looked at the beach, bubbling over with life, then at the dark door of the villa. He was ready to pay his debt. Absurdly, Angelo Dioguardi’s face on television and his senseless bluff came into his mind.
He was risking everything.
He turned to Corvu and Piccolo. “All right. If I don’t come out with Fiorella Romani after twenty minutes, break the doors down and come in.”
He saw Piccolo angrily wipe away a tear of frustration and heard Corvu swear in Sardinian. There were further discussions and objections, but Balistreri calmed down his deputy officers, then followed Hagi into the villa. It was six fifteen.
. . . .
At six twenty Angelo and Linda embraced on the landing.
“Are you sure?” she asked one more time. This was the point of no return.
“Yes,” he said, stepping into the elevator. He was gathering the chips and sweeping them toward himself as the decisive hand of the game was dealt.
. . . .
The house was cool and shady with the shutters closed and the lights out. They went into the living room. Fiorella was blindfolded, gagged, handcuffed, and tied to a chair, but she was alive.
“I’m from the police, Fiorella. I’m going to get you out of here and take you home in a few minutes.” She jerked mutely on the chair. Balistreri stroked her hair reassuringly.
Hagi was sitting in an armchair. The gun in his handcuffed hands was pointing directly at Balistreri.
“Sit down, Balistreri. We still have some things to say to each other before we say good-bye forever.”
Balistreri sat down opposite Hagi. He was ready to look evil in the face.
Today your life has to end in order to save an innocent girl.
“I expect you to keep your promise, Mr. Hagi,” Balistreri said, indicating Fiorella.
“I always keep my promises, Balistreri. But I always avenge the wrongs I’ve suffered. This is our last meeting.”
He seemed like Lucifer in person. Dark shadows under his eyes, the thick eyebrows, his eyes a feverish red.
“Light me one last cigarette, Balistreri, and put it on that table without coming any closer.”
Holding the gun in one hand, Hagi took the lit cigarette in the other cuffed hand and stuck it in his mouth. The sunlight filtered in from outside, along with the muffled sounds of the beachgoers. The barrier between life and death was a flimsy wooden shutter discolored by the sun and the salt air.
Hagi inhaled the smoke greedily, at ease in the armchair. He was enjoying every moment of his victory. He seemed to be in no hurry at all.
“Why have you done all this, Hagi? Plotting with a maniac killer for an accomplice and also with the secret intelligence service, then all those deaths among your Romanian friends, too.”
“They were my troops, Balistreri, and they died in a war against your civilized people who are nothing more than deceiving bigots, whorish wives, and corrupt police, like those who plotted with Elisa Sordi and urged Alina to turn against me. But they will all pay for their guilt.”
“I can understand the vendetta against Valerio Bona, Anna Rossi, and the cardinal. And I can understand the one against me, because I let Elisa’s real killer go free. But what have the secret intelligence service, the Roma, ENT, and Dubai got to do with it?”
Hagi greedily took a few last drags on the cigarette.
“One year ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer. Incurable. I had to move quickly, and a war requires soldiers and allies, Balistreri.”
“But you unleashed the hatred of the Italian people on the Roma, you and the part of the secret intelligence service that lets itself be used that way.”
“The secret intelligence service used me and I used them, Balistreri. I wanted revenge, and they wanted to subvert once and for all the political bargain that’s kept this rotten country going for the past sixty years. They counted on doing it by setting off a wave of general and uncontrollable violence against the Roma people. We gave each other a helping hand with great pleasure.”
“That will never happen, however. The Italians have many defects; perhaps they are racist, hypocritical conformists and corrupt, but they’re opposed to violence. There will never be an uprising against the Roma, much less against Romanians.”
“You’re mistaken, Balistreri. Mistaken once again. The next death will be a truly dreadful one. The victim will be a young Italian woman, and she’ll be butchered to death. The Italians will certainly rise up.” He gave a diabolical smile and a sneer. “And you, Balistreri, will be on the front line leading the slaughter.”
You only deliver suffering to those who survive, not to the dead. Eternal suffering.
“You coughed on purpose while they were raping Samantha and while you were speaking to Vasile on the phone. You smashed the headlight on the Giulia GT on purpose to help the investigation along. And finally, you chose Nadia just because she was connected to you, to lead the police to you, so you’d be captured and brought here.”
Hagi’s ice-cold eyes stared at him in irony. The glow of his last drag on the cigarette lit up his face in the darkness. “Are you afraid at last, Balistreri?”
Hagi was only one half of the evil. The other half was the Invisible Man who had killed the girls and who had spared his life that night on the hill.
Balistreri felt the cold knife blade of fear pressing against him. He hadn’t feared death since that moment thirty-six years earlier when he had stopped liking himself. But this fear was worse than fear of death—he felt the fear of dying while still alive. A punishment demanded by the devil, not by God.
. . . .
The Invisible Man was feeling euphoric and a little depressed at the same time. In a little while his debt would be settled. By that evening all his enemies would be dead and his grand plan implemented. He thought about Balistreri at that moment miles away and allowed himself to smile.
Nothing compared with what he will suffer later. And later I will no longer have a mission to accomplish.
He had left Sabaudia at a quarter to three, when his informant confirmed the departure of five police cars from Regina Coeli, one carrying Marius Hagi. Before leaving he had had time to eat sea bass baked in salt with an excellent glass of white wine in a restaurant near the villa that looked out onto the sea.
He had arrived in Rome at five o’clock, in time for his first task, which he handled with great facility. Another debt paid, another enemy eliminated.
At a quarter past six he parked below the apartment. At twenty-five past he saw the man leaving in his car. The trick had worked. For an hour she would be alone while Hagi kept Balistreri busy in the Sabaudia villa. More than enough time to really enjoy himself and leave the traces of evidence collected by Hagi in Casilino 900 to implicate the Roma.
He decided to wait ten minutes, to make sure the other man didn’t come back. It was now six thirty. Another five minutes.
. . . .
At six thirty Balistreri suddenly got up from his chair. Hagi did nothing to stop him, only followed him with the pistol in his hand. He had understood what was going on: Hagi wanted to keep him there as long as possible, but was not authorized to kill him. This was Hagi’s pact with the Invisible Man.
He quickly crossed the hall and opened the door to the cellar. Immediately he smelled the sickening odor of death. He didn’t even think of taking out his Beretta. While he went down the wooden steps he felt every step taking him closer to both evil and the truth.
He came down into a dark humid place, Hagi behind him with the pistol in his hand. Light was filtering in from a door at the end of the room. The smell of death was coming from it. He opened the door wide.
Francesco Ajello was stretched out on his back, naked, his wrists and ankles bound to the four corners of a bed, his castrated testicles and penis stuck in his mouth. His guts had been torn out from a huge gash in his abdomen and were spread over the sheet and the tiled floor.
Balistreri staggered and retched. Hagi gave him a push and made him fall into the vomit, guts, and blood. Then he pointed the gun at him. “Stay right where you are.”
In a flash of understanding, Balistreri remembered that Hagi was only trying to stall for time and wouldn’t shoot him.
In desperation, he forced himself to get to his feet. Hagi stepped back three paces and put the pistol in his handcuffed hands up to his temple. He stared at him one last time, his demonic eyes burning with a lifetime of hate.
“The first letter is a Y, and you’re as good as dead, Balistreri.”
Then Hagi pulled the trigger. It was six thirty five.
. . . .
At six thirty five the Invisible Man again meticulously checked the pistol he had used a little while ago, the scalpel used for the incisions still dark with Ajello’s blood, and the skeleton keys he used to open the doors. He had forty-five minutes in which to simulate a break-in and a robbery. In a plastic bag he had hairs and fingernail fragments from two Roma in Casilino 900 that Hagi had given him.
He put on surgical gloves and a cap. They were probably unnecessary; no one would be looking for his DNA. Then he set off on his last mission. The front door opened for him easily. He went up on foot. Every step on those stairs took him away from his age-old unbearable pain and brought him closer back to life.
If things had gone differently that first time with her, maybe I wouldn’t have killed the others. I often wondered about that in the beginning. After all these years I don’t even know how many I’ve killed anymore, and I ask myself a different question: Would I be a better person if I had killed only her in that single moment of madness?
. . . .
While Corvu and the policemen searched the house and Piccolo tended to Fiorella Romani, Balistreri filled in the chief of police and asked him to send a helicopter for them. A few minutes later, at six forty five, he, Corvu, Piccolo, and Fiorella Romani were in the air.
Clouds were gathering in the sky and promised to deliver one of the intense storms he loved. But this summer rain also brought to mind that gray dawn when Ulla dei Banchi di Aglieno had jumped from her penthouse.
Unsettled, Balistreri put on his headset and looked out the window. Down below beachgoers were running for cover as the first drops of rain hit the beach.
The first letter is a Y. And the last one isn’t for Fiorella Romani. YOUAREEVI_.
Suddenly, he remembered where he’d seen it before: YOU ARE EVIL.
It was where he’d felt he should look right from the beginning. Right back in 1982.
“Linda,” he said aloud.
A living death. Eternal punishment.
. . . .
At six forty, the Invisible Man entered the apartment with no trouble and without making any noise. It was calm and quiet.
The setting sun was shining in from the French windows leading onto the terrace. She was sitting out there, her back to the living room, looking over to St. Peter’s.
“Hello, Linda,” the Invisible Man said. He had waited twenty-four years to say those two words again to his first victim, Y.
She turned slowly, her face calm. “Hello, Manfredi.”
She had seen photos of him with his new face, handsome, smiling and official in his white coat, as he was opening the hospital wing in Nairobi on Christmas morning, only a few hours after he’d killed Nadia in Rome.
When they’d met at the Charlemagne School, they had much in common: both were young, intelligent, sensitive, and lonely. He suffered due to his deformity and his impossible father, while she had never known her own father. He was a tortured adolescent looking for love to make life was worth living.
Over the years, Linda had often reflected on this.
If, on that first occasion with him, things had gone differently, if I’d only considered how intelligent and sensitive he was and hadn’t rejected him because of his deformity, perhaps Manfredi wouldn’t have killed all the others.
But in the last twelve months she’d understood that, by now, whatever the change in Manfredi’s face, nothing could change what that lonely adolescent had become: a benefactor of Africa’s poorest and a killer of innocent women. The boy beast who wanted to become the handsome prince was now a handsome prince with a caged beast inside him that could never stop killing. A deliverer of pain and death to punish the world that had rejected him.
Manfredi came toward her. “I gave you notice I’d come.”
“Yes, I got your card last year. Then the murders started. I knew you’d get here sooner or later. But I was surprised you’d be so careless.”
This was true, he thought. That card had been a weakness, and careless of him. But the desire to terrorize her had been too strong in him. And then, after all, he was invincible.
“Good, Linda. Luckily we have some time for what I have in mind. Do you like my face a little better now?”
“I’ve already seen many photos of you, Manfredi, taken in Africa.”
“Really? And who gave them to you?”
“Angelo Dioguardi. He went in search of you for me in Kenya ten days ago. And he discovered about all those young Kenyans killed and disfigured over these past twenty-four years.”
Manfredi laughed. “That was my training for you, Linda. It wasn’t so much fun with the natives, but I made up for it with Samantha, Nadia, Selina, and Ornella.”
“If you kill me, Angelo Dioguardi will report you.”
Manfredi looked at the gun in his hand and felt the scalpel in his pocket. This was going to be fun.
“Today I’m settling scores with my old enemies and untrustworthy accomplices. I disemboweled one before lunch, and then I paid a visit to Father Paul, Elisa’s confidante. Before killing him, I forced him to call Angelo and ask him to come over. I wasn’t planning to hurt Angelo, because he was the only one who didn’t turn on me in 1982, but if I have to I will. Right now, though, I’m going to concentrate on you. I’ll take care of him later.”
Linda’s cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and then at Manfredi. “It’s Michele Balistreri.”
Any one of them could have found himself in my place that first time. And it is to these men who have lived without remorse or honor that I intend to dedicate myself. And to one in particular.
It’s too soon. There must have been some hitch with Hagi, Manfredi thought, mildly unsettled. Then he decided instead that it was a magnificent occasion. Indeed, an irresistible one.
He knew he was committing a small error, another act of arrogance like the card he’d sent a year ago to Linda. Two flaws in a genius plan. But they were justifiable risks. The thought of delivering terror to Linda Nardi and Michele Balistreri brought pure joy to his heart.
He took Linda’s cell phone and hit the answer button.
“Hello? Linda!” Balistreri’s voice was desperate as he shouted over the deafening roar of what sounded like helicopter blades.
“No,” Manfredi said calmly.
“Is that you, Angelo?” Balistreri asked.
“No, Balistreri. We met that night on the hill. My name is death.”
Manfredi hung up and pointed his gun at Linda. He was a little displeased because now he would have to hurry. He had been hoping to spend more time with her. But that conversation had made it all worth it. Balistreri would spend the rest of his life cursing himself.
“I’m sorry, Linda, unfortunately I have to hurry. In a little while Balistreri will be here to shed tears over your corpse.”
She hesitated. She still felt a few pangs of sympathy for him, for all the suffering that being what he was had brought him. It was her rejection of him that had pushed him into violence and to his first criminal act. A very sweet adolescent who had really loved Linda. She had rejected him only because of his deformed face, and he had wiped her out and set off on his journey of death.
It’s not a vendetta for what you did to me. It’s for all those murdered girls. For all the ones you’d murder still. Because you are the deliverer of evil, Manfredi.
Linda closed her eyes. “Kill him,” she said softly.
Manfredi felt the voice at his back before even hearing it.
“I’m here, Manfredi.”
He recognized the voice and smiled. He certainly wasn’t afraid of that big kid with no guts, he who had never been afraid of anyone. He turned round slowly, in no hurry, preparing to shoot.
But Angelo Dioguardi had been ready for this moment for a long time. His Beretta Combat Combo, 40 caliber, exploded five times in rapid succession.
. . . .
Balistreri landed on the ministry roof at seven. While Piccolo took Fiorella Romani to their office, he and Corvu rushed over to Linda Nardi’s apartment, sirens wailing. They arrived in less than ten minutes. “Wait for me downstairs, Corvu. Don’t let anyone up.”
Corvu protested, but Balistreri was already running up the stairs, gun in hand, his heart pounding.
Linda’s dead. And so is my life.
The apartment door was ajar. He rushed in and came to a sudden stop. Linda was on the sofa. Angelo Dioguardi was sitting stiffly next to her, his eyes swollen with tears, his hands trembling, the Beretta Combat Combo at his feet. Manfredi’s body was stretched face down on the tile floor in a pool of blood.
Tears stung Balistreri’s eyes. His legs gave way from the release of tension and what felt like a lifetime of fatigue. He slowly sank onto his knees before them.
He wanted to hug them both but couldn’t manage to lift his arms. He wanted to take part in their desperation and their joy but couldn’t manage to open his mouth.
Now he knew. What had happened today was clear, but he also saw what pain had buried over time. He looked at his own hands, then at Angelo, then at Manfredi’s corpse.
Any one of us could have found himself in his place that first time. We’re all capable of killing. Me, Hagi, Manfredi, even Angelo.
Then Angelo, who was staring into space, spoke. “Michele, there’s never been anything between Linda and me.”
The words were pathetic, misplaced, pointless, and yet indispensable. That was Angelo Dioguardi. The likable big kid, good humored, a bit crazy and simple minded, who had become a poker player of international fame, and a man who would help anyone who needed it, exactly like Manfredi.
He had shared twenty-four years—nights of poker and talks till dawn in the car—with this man. And now Angelo had done for Linda what Balistreri had refused to do.
I only kill when forced to do so. But she wanted him dead, not in prison. And Angelo was the right man for the job.
“I know, Angelo. You were protecting her. But you should have told me. I should have been the one to do it.”
“This was the right thing to do. I had to do it.”
Balistreri bowed his head and squeezed Angelo’s arm. Then he looked at Linda, but she would not return his gaze. She would never look at him again. She was holding Angelo’s hand as if he were a small child who needed to be protected.
. . . .
Instead of calling the police, Balistreri told Corvu to come up. Then Linda and Angelo told them everything.
Linda was extremely calm. She held Angelo’s hand and told her story without looking at Balistreri. “We were both students at the Charlemagne School. I was in middle school, and he was in high school. Manfredi was an intelligent, sensitive kid. He was so understanding.”
Balistreri looked into her eyes, but there was nothing there for him.
“We were both in pain. I had no father, he had a domineering one. And that disfigured face.”
Linda was quiet, as if she were searching for the right words.
“One day, at the beginning of spring in 1982, we were taking a walk in a distant corner of the Villa Borghese Park. Manfredi declared his love for me and tried to kiss me. I smiled to play down the rejection, but he felt I was mocking him and he slapped me, then he started lashing out at me.”
She paused again, then continued.
“He tried to rape me, but he was impotent. Then he lost it. He started screaming about his face and said that all girls were teases. He took a razor out of his pocket and carved a Y between my breasts.”
Her hand flew up to her breastbone. When Balistreri had attacked her, she’d crossed her arms over her chest, he recalled. “Finally he left me there. I went to the emergency room. I told the police I’d been beaten up by a group of drug addicts. Only my mother knew the truth.”
“Why didn’t you report him?”
“I was a mixed-up kid. I smoked a lot of pot, and I slept around. He was the only boy I ever rejected, and he was the only one who really loved me. But I wouldn’t touch him because of his face.”
“You had every right, Linda. It was up to you to choose.”
Finally, she turned to look at him. “Oh, sure, it was up to me to choose. But I gave him no choice, neither then nor today.”
“Didn’t you worry that he might do the same thing to other girls?”
“Not at first. That’s why I didn’t report him. Then, when they reported on the news that he’d been arrested for Elisa Sordi’s murder, I wanted to report him, but before I could come forward his mother committed suicide, and they said it’d all been a big mistake.”
“And he never contacted you again in person?”
“No. Manfredi went to Africa and I started to live again, and with a lot of help from my mother I tried to forget. For years I thought of Manfredi not as a monster but as a victim. My victim.”
By now he knew Linda Nardi. She had accepted the evil that Manfredi had done her with the tolerance of St. Agnes.
“Then he came back,” said Balistreri.
Linda nodded. “A year ago, the day after Samantha Rossi’s death, I found a card in the letterbox. It said: I’M BACK.”
The Invisible Man’s one mistake. His desire to terrorize Linda Nardi had been too strong to ignore.
“Why didn’t you report the letter to the police?” Balistreri asked.
“At first I wasn’t even sure it was from him. You wouldn’t tell me whether a letter had been carved on Samantha. I had a private investigator make some inquiries, but Manfredi didn’t seem to have been in Italy when Samantha and Nadia died.”
“Then I told you that Ramona’s client was impotent, and you knew it was him,” Balistreri said.
“Yes. And you told me about Alina Hagi’s death and I made the connection to Elisa Sordi. After Giovanna Sordi’s suicide, I knew he had to be stopped. Forever.”
Because your tolerance is equal to your decisiveness. I would have arrested him, and you wanted him dead.
She read his mind once again. “Thanks to his father they would have judged him to be mentally unstable and put him in the psychiatric ward instead of prison. Then he would have escaped to Africa and killed more women.”
Balistreri looked at Angelo Dioguardi. “And you persuaded Angelo to help you.”
“I couldn’t do it on my own. I explained the situation to Angelo. The idea was mine alone; he bears no responsibility.”
Angelo made a feeble protest, but she continued.
“He accepted, and we prepared. Angelo was with me always. We expected Manfredi to come forward in some way. Today, when Father Paul’s call came, we knew it was him. Angelo went out to show himself to Manfredi, then he came back in via the garage before he came up and hid himself in the kitchen.”
Balistreri shut his eyes. It was premeditated murder. Even with all the extenuating circumstances the sentence would be many years for both of them.
But Balistreri set it aside for a moment. Whatever different kind of justice Manfredi deserved, God would see to it, if he existed. And whatever injustice he’d suffered in his life, including that dished out by Balistreri, Linda Nardi, and Angelo Dioguardi, Manfredi had in any case lived twenty-four years too many, killing many people. Angelo Dioguardi and Linda Nardi had done what he should have done if he’d still had the stomach for it.
Balistreri and Corvu told them what they should and should not say to the police. Then they called Floris, and only after Balistreri and the chief of police had had a chance to talk did they call in the police.
No one asked Balistreri and Corvu what they had talked about with Angelo Dioguardi and Linda Nardi for a half-hour before calling the chief. There was no record of that half-hour in any report. Despite the clear conflict caused by Balistreri and Corvu knowing Nardi and Dioguardi personally, Floris and the public prosecutor allowed the two officers to take their statements. No one else questioned them; the public prosecutor simply recorded their replies.
The story Dioguardi told was very simple. He had been a member of a shooting range for years and had even been there that Sunday morning with his lover, Linda Nardi. There were witnesses. Then he’d been to lunch at Linda’s and preferred not to leave the bag containing his earphones, gloves, and pistol in the car, which was parked on the street.
At six twenty he’d gone out to buy some cigarettes, but as soon as he drove off in the car he realized he’d left his wallet containing his driving license in the bag in Linda’s kitchen. He’d gone back in through the rear entrance in the garage. Linda was out on the terrace, so he’d gone straight into the kitchen to look for the bag.
Then he heard Manfredi’s voice, the threats to Linda, his confession about having killed all those women, and the phone call with Balistreri. He’d pulled his Beretta out of the bag and walked onto the terrace. Manfredi had his back to him. Angelo told him to drop his gun and put his hands in the air, but Manfredi turned with his own gun drawn instead. Angelo had no choice but to shoot him, which he did five times.
Evening
At a late evening meeting between the chief of police and the head of the team, no objections were raised about any of the incredible coincidences: that Dioguardi entered through the garage, was in possession of a loaded gun, and that he reacted so quickly to Manfredi. It was almost as if Dioguardi had been mentally prepared to shoot him dead.
There were no grounds for excessive use of self-defense or premeditation.
The reconstruction of Manfredi’s movements was equally straightforward. He’d left Via della Camilluccia on the Saturday evening after his meeting with Balistreri and joined Ajello at his villa in Sabaudia, where the lawyer had been entrusted with guarding Fiorella Romani. On Sunday morning, he’d given Ajello a sleeping pill and tied him up. When he woke up, Manfredi disemboweled him. One less inconvenient witness, dispatched along with Colajacono and Pasquali.
Then he had eaten lunch in a Sabaudia restaurant—the receipt was in his wallet—and left town. Next, as the telephone company’s records showed, he’d called Father Paul on his cell phone.
He arrived at San Valente parish church a little after five. Paul was alone; the children were all at the beach with the volunteers. He’d forced him to call Angelo Dioguardi and ask to see him. Then he’d taken him down to the basement, shot him, and left his body in the locked storeroom where the police would find it later. Finally, he had gone to Linda Nardi’s apartment.
Ramona identified Manfredi in the photo sent via e-mail to Bucharest. He was the client who had wasted her time because he couldn’t get it up. Hagi had handed Nadia over to him in the Giulia GT and had come back to pick him up with Adrian’s bike at Vasile’s farmhouse after Manfredi killed Nadia. Then they’d left the bike in Hagi’s garage and taken the rental car Manfredi had used to pick up Ramona.
Hagi had taken him to Rome’s Urbe airport, where they handed back the rental car and where the ENT aircraft was waiting for Manfredi to take him to Zurich in time for the Nairobi flight. In this way, despite the two-hour difference in the time zone, he’d arrived in time to open the hospital. They still had to clarify why Manfredi’s name didn’t appear on any passenger list, but Balistreri had his answer for that.
This was all purely investigative reconstruction; there wasn’t even any proof of Manfredi’s presence at the crime scenes, not even in the cases of Ajello and Paul. In regard to Giovanna Sordi, it was probable that he’d approached her on the Sunday morning after Mass. Manfredi was with Elisa when her mother called, therefore he knew the subject of that conversation and so had persuaded her. But this was only more investigative speculation.
The only hard fact was the attack on Linda Nardi. During that long evening meeting on the evening of July 23, the government, the chief of police, the prosecutor’s office. and the police all chose to keep the matter quiet. Manfredi’s tragic end was minimized and set apart from the rest. An old Charlemagne School friend who was showering his attention on Linda Nardi. An argument with her actual lover, and then his tragic death. Nothing about a serial killer, nothing about scalpels, nothing at all.
The torture and deaths of the young women were all attributed to Hagi, who had been present the entire time—the perfect scapegoat. Hagi had been killed in an exchange of fire with the police during Fiorella Romani’s dramatic rescue. Francesco Ajello had been his accomplice, and Hagi had killed him while he was alone in the villa. How he came to do this, given that he was handcuffed and unarmed, was never explained.
Count Manfredi dei Banchi di Aglieno was informed of the tragic accident in which his son lost his life by an apologetic chief of police, while he was in Nairobi and embarking on the night flight to Frankfurt.
Balistreri accepted everything without objection. He was able to make sure that the name of Linda Nardi’s lover who accidentally killed Manfredi dei Banchi di Aglieno remained hidden away in the archives of the prosecutor’s office. It was a feeble secret, but one that nevertheless would enable him to buy a little time.