An hour later, the facts of what had happened seemed pretty clear, even though they continued to baffle the investigators.
Ricciardi and Maione were done gathering the testimony of the spectators. The various versions seemed to match, down to the smallest details. At the end of the dramatized song, a number that revolved around betrayal, as with every new performance of the show and exactly as in the show of that afternoon, Michelangelo Gelmi had pulled out the usual pistol and fired the two usual shots: one at Pio Romano, the young actor whose trousers were now stained with urine, and the other at the poor, late Fedora, who lay in a pool of blood against the painted panel.
At that point, according to what the actors, musicians, and regular attendees told them, the song would end and the curtain would come down. Then the curtain was raised again so that the performers could bask in the thunderous applause from the audience. That evening, however, the second bullet hadn’t been a blank, and the curtain had remained open, revealing a variety show that had been transformed in a split second into a bloody tragedy.
The photographer had arrived; and after a few minutes, while the magnesium flashed and Fedora Marra posed for her last stage pictures, though devoid of her renowned smile, Dr. Bruno Modo also arrived on the stage. The medical examiner nodded curtly to Ricciardi and Maione, murmuring sullenly: “You know, this habit people seem to have of getting themselves murdered late at night, when a poor hard-working wretch ought to have a sacrosanct right to an evening’s entertainment, is that something you’ve been trying to encourage? Because it only seems to happen with you. Your colleagues, at least, have some manners, and they only call me at regular business hours. But you seem to be in cahoots with the murderers and you always call me at night. Damn you.”
Maione flashed him a broad smile, thumbs carelessly stuck under the belt that supported his jutting gut, and replied:
“Ah, dotto’, I took charge of it personally, let me assure you. I’ve been working for the past two days with my friends the actors, here, and we’ve been laying the groundwork. Now, fellows, I told them, let’s make sure it happens around eleven. Any later and the doctor is liable to move on to a different bordello, and then we’ll never be able to track him down.”
Modo shook his fist at Maione.
“You’re right that the line of people waiting to gun you down is just too long, and I’m a stickler for the rules. I don’t butt in line. I’ll just have to settle for waiting to receive the late-night call to come tend to your corpses. All right, then, let’s not waste any more time here. I have an appointment with a couple of young ladies and an excellent bottle of wine. What do we have here?”
Maione wrinkled his nose.
“Why are you talking about young ladies and bottles of wine, dotto’? It’s three more days till New Year’s.”
“Brigadie’,” the medical examiner replied, “if you’re intelligent, you celebrate life on the exact days nobody else does. Because life is a special gift and there’s no point in wasting it. Don’t take your example from our grim young friend here, who looks like he’s running a funeral parlor.”
Hearing his person called into question, Ricciardi replied: “And a hearty buonasera to you, too, Bruno. I see that the sight of a theater stage brings out your renowned satirical vein. But what if you were to show off your own professional skills, that is, if the urge to get back to your late-night festivities isn’t too overwhelming?”
The doctor threw both arms wide in a theatrical gesture.
“What is this, irony? Because, unless my ears are deceiving me, Brigadie’, we’ve just heard Commissario Ricciardi, the Cop of the Sad Countenance, uttering a sort of joke. I must already be drunk. All right, then, let’s take a look . . . But . . . but this is . . .”
Maione nodded with a sigh, as he stared at the corpse.
“Yes, that’s right. Allow me to introduce you to the deceased Fedora Marra.”
Modo squatted down next to the woman. As always happened in cases like this, those present murmured quietly among themselves, taking care not to look at the victim, whose sad, damaged body demanded respect, but also instilled a certain detachment. Death, Ricciardi knew all too well, is an awkward guest at the party of life.
Once the eyewitness accounts had been double-checked and the list of identities and home addresses had been jotted down, the commissario had allowed the spectators to leave the building. A few rubberneckers among the crowd would have opted to remain behind to goggle at this unexpected extension of the show, but Camarda and Cesarano made sure, with rather brusque encouragement, that they too were ushered out the doors.
The waiters, the cooks, and the bartender had all been shooed away hastily as well because they’d seen little or nothing, busy as they were with their assigned tasks. There remained only the performers and other artists responsible for the performance and the theater staff. At the actual moment of the crime, they’d all been backstage readying themselves for the grand finale which was scheduled to follow the fateful number. Onstage at the time of the shooting there had been only the five protagonists of the dramatized song, and one of the five now lay lifeless on the boards, while the others still seemed to be quite upset.
While the doctor examined the corpse, Ricciardi considered the facts. No one had heard a second shot alongside the one that Gelmi had fired. And the bullet’s trajectory ruled out the possibility of a shooter firing from some other location. There were no alternatives: the lead actor had killed the lead actress by shooting her in the chest.
Gelmi was still in a state of shock. He had struggled to his feet with the support of two other artists, still wearing the greasepaint of performance, and had been conveyed out into the orchestra seating. Now he sat, eyes staring, his gaze lost in the middle distance, as his lips had resumed psalmodizing senseless words. His hands were trembling. After the first few enigmatic words uttered by the man, Ricciardi had asked him no further questions, choosing to wait a little while. And so he had instead interviewed Romano, the actor who’d been the target of the first gunshot which, luckily for him, had been free of consequence.
The commissario had immediately eliminated all suspicion of a relationship between this Romano and Marra. The trauma and tragedy of events had made blindingly clear—by shattering all barriers of self-control—the young man’s effeminate nature.
Romano, gesticulating, had said: “Sweet Madonna, Commissa’, I was terrified. He could have killed me. You pour your soul into your calling, and you wind up shot down like a dog onstage. Yes, that’s right, every single performance unfolds in the exact same progression, the first shot at me and the second shot at Fedora. No, no disagreements, no quarrels, she was all sweetness and light, I can’t believe that she’s dead. Yes, I’ve been working with them both for years, a close and loving couple. Sure, we’re theater folk, Commissa’, now and then someone will rub someone else the wrong way, but nothing big. No, I hadn’t seen them before the beginning of the second performance. Their dressing rooms are separate from ours, you know, after all they’re the lead actors, lucky them. Or actually, I shouldn’t say lucky them, should I? Not considering this slaughter. Sweet Jesus, he could have shot me. Commissa’, is it all right if I change my trousers now? I feel just a bit uncomfortable, you understand.”
Ricciardi had made a mental note to have another conversation with Romano as soon as the intense emotion of the moment had subsided a bit. He knew by personal experience just how many details could surface in a witness’s memory in the hours following events, when a full understanding of what had befallen began to emerge in the mind. The next day, he’d be sure to question the musicians and other artists. There was something strange about this story: Why would a man kill his wife in front of all those people, eliminating any doubt about who had committed the murder, and then vociferously deny his guilt?
He walked over to the doctor.
“Well, Bruno? What can you tell me?”
Modo stood up.
“What can I tell you, Riccia’? It’s a real shame. Fedora Marra was one of my favorite actresses, she was beautiful and talented, as good at playing dramatic roles as comic parts. A born actress, and a gorgeous woman. And now just look at her, a heap of bones, congealed blood, and lifeless flesh. What a pity.”
Ricciardi furrowed his brow.
“Yes. It’s a pity. Exactly the same as every time we find ourselves faced with this kind of thing. But what else?”
The doctor sighed.
“What else? Nothing more than what meets the eye here. A gunshot wound on in the left hemithoracic region. At a glance, I’d guess that the diameter of the entry wound is roughly ten millimeters. No doubt the bullet severed the aortic arch, otherwise we wouldn’t see blood flowing from mouth and nose. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet must necessarily still be inside her. I’ll be able to tell you more after the autopsy, of course. Which I’m guessing you need in a hurry, of course.”
Without taking his eyes off the corpse as it continued to utter the same words, softly: Love of my life. Love of my life. Love of my life, the commissario replied in a low voice: “As soon as you possibly can, of course. Even though this time I don’t think there can be any doubt about who pulled the trigger, when, and how. What we need to understand, though, is why.”
Modo gave an off-kilter grin.
“And do you think that’s a minor detail, my friend?”
Ricciardi said nothing, turned, and joined Gelmi in the orchestra seating. Maione was standing behind the man, ready for whatever events might unfold.
“Signor Gelmi,” the commissario asked, “do you wish to confirm what you’ve said so far? Did you shoot your wife?”
The man looked up, his eyes watery. His makeup was dissolving into a sloppy grayish mass, giving the lead actor a ridiculous, unkempt appearance; now he looked every bit his age, all his years showing, a great many more years than he tried to convey onstage.
“Yes, exactly the same as I have at every performance. I shot her because that’s what the script calls for. I do it three times a day. I shot her, but with a blank.”
Ricciardi pointed at the victim.
“Then how do you explain this?”
Gelmi slowly shook his head.
“I have no explanation. I loaded the gun myself, and it’s my own gun, and I loaded it with blanks, like I told you before. I don’t own any real bullets. I don’t understand.”
The commissario heaved a deep sigh.
“All the same, you admit that you loaded the weapon and you pulled the trigger.”
The actor nodded, slowly.
“Yes. I admit that. But it wasn’t me. I’d never have killed her. She is the love of my life.”
Ricciardi nodded to Maione, who gently helped Gelmi to his feet to lead him away.
The case seemed to have been solved.