The sunshine lightly caressed the grass in the Foro Italico. A cruise ship was heading towards the harbour, most likely to unload a flock of pale-legged, old people in shorts. Middle-aged men and overweight women jogged on cement pathways between the grass and the beach. A group of teenagers played football and volleyball, some of the guys were showing off their naked torsos.
Mr Fisichella pulled his car up next to mine about ten minutes after I had parked near the hamburger van. I turned off the radio, interrupting Raina Kabaivanska’s interview on why she wanted to return to Pinkerton. The white cruise ship had begun to dock, just like in the dreams of the poor Madame Butterfly.
I got into the passenger side of his dark Golf car – on the inside, the car looked a lot older than it appeared to be from the outside.
“Don’t tell me that you think this car is older than you thought, because I know already. My ex-wife, who dumped me, reminded me about it every single day.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“There you go, that’s the attitude that I like. A world of silent people would be like heaven. You know where I’d like to live? Under the sea. Can you imagine how peaceful it would be there?”
I was relying on a crazy man to get my brother out of prison. I stared at him and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Alright, I’ll give you some information first. I believe that Mr Moncada is hiding something, but I haven’t been able to find out any more information about him in the last few days. There’s nothing that links him to Mr Palillo. Except for those fucking calls of course. There’s something else, though, my dear friend…”
He paused to light up a cigarette. Smoking inside a vehicle is twice as harmful. I hated the smell, but I remained still and surprisingly calm.
“It’s about the information that you gave me the last time that we spoke on the phone, Mr Corsaro.”
“Do you mean the present from the military?”
“Yeah, that’s right. The military. Did you ever serve in the military, Mr Corsaro?”
“Yeah, I’m one of the last few assholes who had to do it by law.”
“I bet you were an officer cadet.”
“No way, I was just a driver in Persano. They moved me to Palermo later on.”
“That’s interesting, I look forward to hearing about the rest of your life later. Mr Palillo didn’t serve in Persano or Palermo.”
He liked to change the topic like that, as if he was on a TV show. I didn’t want to ruin his fun.
“Where did he do it then?”
“CAR in Trapani, then he was moved to Syracuse.”
“Syracuse?”
“Yeah, there were some barracks in Syracuse – the structure was called Abela. There was an infantry regiment there and a combat engineer district. The complex was right next to the Maniace castle – it was active until not long ago.”
“That’s a good start. It’s still a long way away from understanding what Mr Palillo was on about, though, and that’s assuming that we’re on the right track.”
“When you think about Syracuse, what do you think of first?”
“I don’t know… the ancient Greek theatre? I can’t imagine Mr Palillo enjoying a bit of Aeschylus and Sophocles, though.”
“No, me neither. Anything else?”
“The papyri?”
“Yeah, the papyri, my arse. When I read the word Syracuse, I thought about something completely different. But I acknowledge that I’m a troubled policeman.”
“What did you think about?”
“Syracuse is close to Ragusa.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure.”
“You still don’t get it? Ah, the lawyers—”
“I don’t get what?”
“Do you know anybody from Ragusa?”
“I think you’re getting a little obsessed with Mr Moncada?”
“Intuition and perseverance are the fundamentals of my job.”
“What does Giorgio Moncada have to do with Mr Palillo’s military service? It’s difficult to imagine that they were comrades in arms, Mr Palillo was twenty years younger than him.”
The unpleasant feeling of wasting precious time triggered my excruciating impatience.
“Why do you think Mr Moncada lied to you when you asked him if he knew Mr Palillo?”
“We don’t know if they really did know each other.”
“We do, for goodness sake, we do. We just have to find the connection.”
I looked him in the eyes.
“Listen, my brother is rotting away in prison. I have to get him out of there. I don’t have time to waste. I think I’ve found something a little more useful. The guy my brother spoke to at five in the afternoon near Mr Palillo’s building was a priest. I’m confident he was. If I find him, Fabrizio has an alibi.”
“Then find your priest, and do your fucking job on your own, if you don’t want to listen to me.”
I breathed in and counted to three, like my teacher Mr Pisciotta had taught me to do when I was training to become a lawyer.
“No, I will listen to you. I didn’t mean to offend you. I hope you realise how much pressure I’m under at the moment.”
Mr Fisichella smiled at me faintly.
“Yeah, the pressure fucks us up. And you’re one of those who never gets fucked up, am I right? Your brother’s the dickhead of the family, the cheeky one that everyone likes. You’re the wiser brother who has to take charge of everyone else’s problems. Terrible destiny, my friend. Do you believe in destiny?”
“Not very much. I believe in God, but I’ve been doubting my faith recently.”
“Ah, this explains why you have a masochistic attitude to your life. Religious people are fascinating. I’d really like to understand how the hell someone can believe in something that they can’t see.”
“You can’t see love, but you still believe in it.”
“Those who believe in love are bound to fail at life. It’s part of the game. That said, I respect the believers more than the atheists. Because stating that God doesn’t exist in the name of reason is bullshit for prideful fuckers.”
I stared at him in surprise. He noticed it.
“What’s up? Is my language too colourful for a policeman?”
“No, I just agree with you.”
“When I was seven years old, my three year old brother died of severe meningitis. I can’t believe that there’s a supreme being – a benevolent god – that allows anything like that to happen. It’s better to believe in fate or destiny. Or not to believe in anything at all, like I do.”
“The desire to find an answer to any question is the worst starting point for anybody who wants to draw themselves closer to faith. It’s the mystery of its own essence.”
“That’s a good one – I’ll make mental note of it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Don’t worry, I really meant it. Now, do me a favour – don’t assume that deputy police superintendent Mr Fisichella is a nutter. I’m saying it for your brother’s sake. We have to dig deeper into this story of Mr Palillo’s military career.”
“There’s something else.”
“Go on,” Mr Fisichella was getting impatient.
“The loan shark had a collaborator, somebody who was in charge of nudging the people who owed money to Mr Palillo. His name is Salvatore Marchese. He goes by the name of Big Jim and he seems to have vanished.”
“And how does this relate to our case?”
“Somebody saw Mr Marchese heading towards Mr Palillo’s flat on the afternoon of the murder. They didn’t see him enter the building, but we know that he often went to visit Palillo in his flat. Miss Moncada also confirmed this to me.”
“And how do you know that Big Jim has disappeared?”
“I just do. I bet he has something to do with the murder. Maybe he killed his boss himself and then vanished into thin air. Or perhaps somebody else made him disappear. Fabrizio always stresses the detail of the front door being left ajar. I don’t know how, but I have a feeling that this detail does matter. I have to do more research.”
“Yes, do your research. I’ll try to find out more about Big Jim. But listen to me – let’s not forget the military. It would be a mistake if we did. I can’t go around asking questions, but you can. Send somebody else to chase your priest and Big Jim, you do what I’m suggesting instead.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Go and find out more about Mr Palillo’s military career. Finding his comrades in arms after thirty years will be a job and a half. Start with his family, you might be lucky.”
“The only living relative of Mr Palillo is his sister.”
“Then talk to her.”
“I’m the lawyer of the suspected murderer of her brother.”
“Yeah, but you’re also a very polite gentleman. Go and find her. Give me a call after you’ve spoken to her.”
*
I had survived the motorway that linked Palermo to Agrigento – that was the first good news of the day. That motorway has always terrorised me – it has killed more people than asbestos. I drove patiently behind a van without attempting to overtake. I was attempting to utilise the time it would take to make the journey to collect my thoughts. Gaetano had already begun to hunt down the mysterious, watchless priest – assuming that he really was a priest, and not some crazed religious enthusiast who cited the Bible at every opportunity. I was comforted by the idea that it was very unlikely that someone would cite the word of the Lord in Latin. I was hopeful that Gaetano would discover more about it. Even though I was finding it hard, I forced myself to keep an optimistic and positive attitude.
I’d tracked down Mr Palillo’s sister, the only relative of the usurer still alive. She lived in Agrigento, Pirandello’s city. From the motorway, the city welcomes visitors with a crazy skyline made of multi-coloured buildings and structures which contrast starkly with the classical architecture of the Valley of the Temples. Palillo’s sister was called Concetta Cuffari – she had taken her husband’s surname when she married. I’d given her a call from my car the day after my meeting with Mr Fisichella. She didn’t seem to mind me visiting to ask her a few questions.
She had sounded a bit perplexed when I asked her to tell me more about her brother’s time in the military. “I can meet you today, if you want. I’m home,” she’d said to me on the phone. She didn’t need to say it twice – Mr Fisichella’s persevering attitude had encouraged me – and I told her that I would visit her that afternoon.
I rang the buzzer of her apartment at 5 p.m. As I noted the time, I thought about the events involving Fabrizio and the mysterious priest who had asked him the time. Mr Palillo’s sister lived in a detached house on the outskirts of the city, not far from Porto Empedocle. Her house was on a solitary little road – the nearest neighbour was about two hundred metres away. A very well kept garden surrounded the house and a couple of bicycles led me to think that kids lived there. Concetta Cuffari, née Palillo, welcomed me into a lovely living room with kitsch – perhaps a little tacky – furniture. The woman had to be only five or six years older than me, but she looked a lot older. The bags under her eyes dominated her gaunt face, her black hair, which was gray in parts and dyed unevenly, was tied into a knot. Her fitted white blouse could barely contain her sagging breasts, which must have been one of her best features in her younger days. A lovely smell of ragù was coming from the kitchen. I sat on a flowery-patterned sofa, and she sat in front of me.
“Thank you for inviting me here.”
“I really wanted to ask you this – your surname is the same as your clients. Are you two related?”
“Yes, we’re brothers.”
“Your brother trusts you, obviously.”
She spoke good Italian, with a slight Agrigento accent. The t sound systematically turned into a d after n. For a man from Palermo, it’s a stereotypical countryside accent, a bit like the ciociaro accent for the citizens of Rome.
“I think so. Why do you ask?”
“Do you trust him? Do you believe he’s innocent?”
“Yes, my brother would never do such a thing. I’m certain of it.”
“You see, when the newspapers wrote all that stuff about my brother, I didn’t think the same way that you did. When they mentioned the fact that my brother may have been a usurer, I didn’t think ‘no, my brother would never do such a thing’. I didn’t say anything. But in my heart, I wasn’t surprised. Don’t judge me – a sister probably shouldn’t say these things about her brother, but my brother was an evil man. I mean, nobody deserves to be slaughtered the way that he was, and I hope that God will show mercy to him for the way that he died.”
It was then that I noticed her collection of small images of saints – from Padre Pio to Saint Rita from Cascia – arranged neatly on the marble top of a large chest of drawers which took up a good part of the living room.
“You weren’t on good terms?”
“We weren’t even in touch, Mr Corsaro. I haven’t seen my brother for five years, ever since our father died. He got in touch to cash in the small inheritance that was owed to him. He came to the funeral though. He didn’t even do that for my mother. He was out, he told me. ‘I can’t make it back in time, I’ll find our dear mother at the cemetery’. She’s still waiting for him to visit. Poor mum, he broke her heart so many times. She always loved him. This is my mother’s house, and I still have a few of my brother’s belongings that my mother kept for him. Do you have any children?”
“Yes, two young ones.”
“Congratulations. Don’t expect too much from your children, though. We love them like we love our own lives, we love them like God loves us – an unconditional love and we never expect anything in return. If you expect something, you’ll be disappointed. You’ll suffer the consequences. Like my parents suffered for my brother.”
“Had he been away from Agrigento long?”
“A lifetime. He left for military service, which he did in Syracuse. After that he never really returned home. He moved to Palermo and began to mingle with dangerous people. He began to earn a lot of money. He only really cared about money, he thought about it all day long. He never had any other goals in his life. Then all of a sudden he was arrested. He was innocent, though, and he whinged at the newspapers about it. If the journalists had known him well, they wouldn’t have written so many good things about him.”
“Did you fall out with him?”
“As I said, we never really had any sort of relationship whatsoever, Mr Corsaro. I have two sons and a husband. I teach in a primary school, I help out with Sunday school at church, and every Saturday I place a flower on my parents’ grave. This is my life – what would I have in common with somebody who threatens people for money? The newspapers said that he was certainly a loan shark and that he left all the people that owed him money in misery. I know what you’re thinking – I’m a devout church goer who is showing no charity for her murdered brother. Maybe you’re right. The Lord teaches us to forgive, but I’m asking the Lord for some time to be able to do that.”
“You told me that you weren’t aware of the illegal activities that your brother was involved in.”
“No, I didn’t know anything, but I’m not surprised to hear what he did, because I knew him. I knew that he had a shop. And even if he didn’t sell much, he always had money. Rumours spread. I didn’t imagine, though, that he was so rich. Two years ago, my younger son was diagnosed with a heart malformation. He was eleven years old. I needed money to help him and I humiliated myself by visiting my brother in Palermo. He spread his arms. ‘Concetta, my dear sister, I’m just as poor as you,’ he had a devil-like voice. He’d smoked forty cigarettes a day since he was sixteen. He put a hand in his pocket and he gave me one hundred Euros. That was my brother, Mr Corsaro.”
“How’s your son now?”
“Very well. My husband and his family put together their money and my son was operated on in France. Our Lady interceded for me. He’s out with his elder brother right now, they’re racing. They drive karts and they’re obsessed with Ferrari. My husband owns a car workshop, they grew up with his obsession for cars.”
“I’d like to ask you something more specific. You mentioned your brother’s military service…”
“Sure. He made his oath of allegiance in Trapani. I remember that my mother was crying that day. Then they transferred him to Syracuse.”
“What year was it?”
“I don’t remember, the early eighties? I’d just left middle school, I believe.”
“Listen, did anything happen during your brother’s military service – any unusual episodes at all?”
“I don’t really remember much at all, to be honest with you. The best thing for me was to be rid of him, we didn’t like each other even back then. I was becoming a woman, and he acted like a possessive brother. He wasn’t really interested, though, it was just an adult-like attitude. I don’t seem to remember anything worth mentioning happening during his military service.”
“Did he have any friends, or a comrade in arms, anyone that he was close to?”
“Almost certainly so, but I really don’t remember. It was thirty years ago, you know… I’ve no idea.”
“Did he have a girlfriend at the time?”
“Not that I know of. Maybe he met somebody where he was staying. He was twenty, you know what guys of that age are like.”
So far, so very bad – no useful information. I hadn’t expected much from our conversation anyway. I was only indulging the delirious whims of an alcoholic policeman who had heard rumours about a mysterious prisoner, but the image of soldier Palillo had started to intrigue me. For a moment, the thought of him reminded me of myself in uniform in that photo that Valeria kept in her house. That memory had turned on a faint bulb, a little light that lit the darkness I was walking through.
“You said that your mother stored some of your brother’s belongings here in this house. Are there any old photographs?”
“Yes. There are a few photo albums. My mother liked the memories, like most mothers do, you know.”
I sure did know. My mother had already begun to show our photo albums to my young daughter Rebecca, despite her obvious lack of interest. Papa looks cute in this photo. Can we watch Mickey Mouse now, Nana?
“Do you think we could find some photos of him when he was in the military?”
“It’s possible. After the military, my brother came back home for a few months, but then he left again – this time for good. Why are you so interested in his time in the military?”
“I’m following a lead, Mrs Cuffari. I can’t really say more about it.” Oh, how I loved to talk like one of those investigators you find in American films.
“Come, follow me.”
She wiggled her hips as she led the way. Her bottom was almost as large as her breasts. She led me to a cellar, where she turned on a light and pointed to a pile of books.
“It’s all there.”
“Can I look through them?”
“Of course, I’ll go and make you a coffee if you’d like one.”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you.”
“No problem.”
She pulled out the albums and led me to the kids’ room, which was covered in Formula One posters. She placed the albums on a desk and left me alone. I sat in front of a poster of a smiling Fernando Alonso and began to flick through the Palillo family’s memories.
I immediately dismissed the photos of Mr Palillo as a child. I lingered on the photos of his adolescence – I was intrigued by his ridiculous swinging seventies look. I flicked through and witnessed Onofrio Palillo growing up – his mellifluous look was like a trap. I couldn’t find any trace of his time in the military in any of the bulky albums. There were still a few smaller albums left though, all of which had the same simple cover with the logo of a photographer from Agrigento. There was a pile of them. I was tempted to give up, but my mind quickly reminded me that I had to carry on for my brother’s sake. I saw birthday parties, fancy dress parties – a lovely Pierrot costume stood out from the crowd… I had completely forgotten about Pierrot. Then more photos from a barbeque, country festivals, sand castles – the life of a simple family flowed through images that time had faded. I lingered on a few photos taken at the beach and noticed that Concetta Palillo’s breasts had been very full and attractive during her adolescence. Unfortunately, she appeared with the coffee right behind me at that moment.
“Did you find anything?”
“Not yet.”
She sugared my coffee and handed the mug to me on a tray with a couple of aniseed coffee biscuits.
“I’ll leave you to it. Looking at my younger self depresses me.”
She’d noticed the photo – I must have looked like a complete tit.
I continued with my research as I sipped the piping hot coffee. Eventually, my patience paid off – I found pictures of him in the military. The cover of this album was different. The photographer was from Syracuse. These photos hadn’t been taken by Palillo’s proud mum after the oath of allegiance – they were photos taken by Mr Palillo himself and his friends. There were photos of comrades in arms lying in bed, a few photos of him in uniform standing in front of the Aretusa spring, and photos of him with his comrades. There were a few recurrent faces, including a few girls who were clearly fascinated by the men in uniform. Then, I don’t know why, I paused on a photo on the penultimate page.
It was a close up of a young couple. Onofrio Palillo was wearing a black beanie, he had green and red tabs on his shoulder pads. His eyes looked shifty and he held a cigarette in his lips. He was hugging a young girl who must have been eighteen years old – she smiled, flaunting her perfect teeth and she shone with youthful joy. I lingered on her without really understanding why I felt so attracted to the picture. The girl’s eyes were big and blue but the quality of the photo wasn’t that great and I couldn’t be sure. She had long, black hair down to her shoulders and a few untidy strands covered part of her face. She was wearing a white and blue striped t-shirt, which made her look like a sailor. She held her boyfriend tightly.
I stared at the photo for a few minutes. I couldn’t find any answers to my questions in it. I turned the page and found another photo of the same girl – she was walking through the beautiful piazza in Ortygia. Something was buzzing in my brain, yet my thoughts fled away like an annoying mosquito. I flicked back to the close shot of the couple. I lifted my eyes and stared into the eyes of the driver from Oviedo.
“Saint Fernando, I call upon your grace,” I whispered to the poster.
Your grace.
An echo thundered through my brain.
Your grace, tua gratia in Latin.
Grazia.
The black hair, the big blue – almost violet – eyes, the shape of her face. I knew it.
I pictured the soon-to-be lecturer, I could almost hear her voice.
Grazia Moncada was hugging the soldier Onofrio Palillo, years before she had been born.
I was sweating from excitement.
I pulled out the two photos and showed them to Concetta.
“Do you know this girl?”
The Sunday school teacher studied the photos for a few seconds.
“I have no idea who she is.”
“No clue?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr Corsaro. Maybe one of my brother’s friends. I’ve never seen her before.”
“Can I keep these photos?”
“Sure, feel free to take anything you want.”
“Thank you so much, the coffee was great.”
I shook her hand and walked energetically towards the front door.
“Mr Corsaro,” she called after me, as I was about to walk out of the house.
“Yes?”
“If your brother’s innocent, I hope he’ll be free soon.”
“Thank you,” I muttered awkwardly.
It was dark outside. The air was crisp, large black clouds had appeared, pushed by a devious wind. A gust blew through the trees across the road. The fresh smell of imminent rain caressed my nostrils. I walked to my car and, before getting in, I pulled out Mr Fisichella’s mobile phone to call him, as I had promised. As I was trying to hold both the phone and my keys in my hand, I dropped the phone. I bent down to retrieve it, whispering a few mild curses to myself. Right at that moment, I heard a noise above my head. A quiet hiss followed by a loud bang – an explosion of sound near the trees, on the other side of the road. I remained crouched by the car. It took me a few seconds to realise what had just happened to me. But I was too slow, because they shot at me again from the trees, and this time one of the bullets chipped my car’s bonnet and scratched my shoulder.
With my shaking hands, I opened one of the car doors and climbed inside, keeping my head low. I struggled to turn on the engine. I sped forward, with one of the doors still open, as another car drove towards me. A third shot – again, the bullet missed me. I drove flat out towards the motorway, hunkered down in my seat for shelter.
I reached the motorway junction and glanced in my rear view mirror. Nobody was following me. The first few heavy drops of rain fell on the windscreen and within a few seconds it was pouring down. I joined the motorway racing like Alonso in Monza – twice I almost caused a serious accident. After a few kilometres, I noticed a police patrol car parked near a gas station. I stopped – my heart was pounding in my throat and all I could see were the smiling faces of my kids. I decided to ring Mr Fisichella before approaching the policemen.
He answered on the seventh ring – his voice was hoarse.
“Hello?”
I uttered the words.
“I found it.”
Mr Fisichella burped.
“You what?”
“The connection.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The connection between Mr Palillo and Mr Moncada. I have it here in my pocket. You won’t believe it.”
“Great stuff,” he struggled to speak. He had probably just puked up his alcohol.
“I need to see you.”
“I’m not doing very well, right now,” he muttered.
“Ah, I almost forgot – they shot at me.”
“What the fuck?”
“It was a miracle that I got away. They shot at me outside the house of Mr Palillo’s sister. Somebody followed me.”
“Where are you now?”
I told him, then I told him about the patrol car.
“Ask them to take you to the nearest police station and report everything there. Don’t say anything about Mr Moncada and your investigation – try to be as vague as you can. I’ll drive over to you.”
“Are you sure you’re okay driving?”
“Shut the fuck up, Mr Corsaro, and do as I say.”
This last sentence sealed the beginning of a relationship between me and Mr Fisichella that was free of formalities.
*
As I got out of the car, I realised that the patrol car had already left. I couldn’t move for a few seconds, fear kept me frozen. I could have easily just called 113, but it was difficult to get my mind to think clearly. I decided to get back into my car and drive aimlessly, glancing obsessively at the rear view mirror. After a while, Mr Fisichella’s phone rang again.
“You didn’t tell me what police station you were going to.”
“It doesn’t matter, they drove away before I managed to talk to them. I’m driving back to Palermo now.”
“Are you fucking serious? Where are you?”
“Near Cammarata, I believe.”
“Drive into the town, go to the nearest police station and wait there. Make sure that nobody’s following you. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Mr Fisichella kept his word. He stopped next to my car, and told me to follow him. He pulled over at the first isolated road and got out of the car. I did the same.
“Did you tell anybody that you were going to Agrigento?” He asked in a whisper. He had skipped the greetings, as usual. He looked worn out and still tipsy.
“No, I didn’t tell anybody. I told my secretary that I was going to be away all day. And… well, I told my wife.”
“Did you call her from work?”
“No, I called her from the mobile phone, in the car.”
“Let me see.”
Mr Fisichella pulled a gadget from his pocket. He stepped closer to my car and fiddled with the gadget – he seemed to know what he was doing. He hunkered down and stretched his arm underneath the car, feeling for something.
After a while, Mr Fisichella stood up and got inside the car. He fiddled with the dashboard and the doors. As he was leaning over one of the doors, his gadget beeped.
“There you are, motherfucker,” I heard him mumble.
He went back to his car and pulled out a tool box from the boot. He got back into my car and fiddled about again for a while. Then he stood up and handed me a small object.
“Mr Corsaro, meet the bug. Bug, meet Mr Corsaro.”
“Who put this in my car? Was it the police, because I’m a relative of a man who’s been charged with murder? If so, that sounds like an abuse of power.”
“No, this is not a police job, we don’t use this stuff. You could buy this shit yourself, if you wanted to. It’s as easy as buying shampoo at the supermarket. Just go to one of those shops for those who want to play detective, just pay them five hundred Euros, and they’ll sort out everything for you.”
“Surely we can track down who bought this, then?”
“Fuck, no. Do you have any idea of how many husbands and wives use these services to find out if their partner’s playing away? Do you have any idea how many shops like these you can find in Sicily? It’s not an easy job, man. Anyway, now we know how the gunman knew where you were.”
“Maybe he sensed that I was getting close to some important information.”
“Did you mention any details on the phone?”
“I made reference to the military.”
“Which might not be a joke, after all.”
“Ah, no, it’s not a joke. Like my father used to say, hard work pays off. Look what I found on my trip to Agrigento.”
I pulled out the photos from my pocket.
“Lovely, it looks like an old Cornetto advert?”
“This young man is Onofrio Palillo. And this lady, trust me, she’s identical to Grazia Moncada.”
“Bingo, mate! I’m always right.”
“I’m too shocked to come to a sensible conclusion.”
“There’s time for that, you have to go to the police station now. I’ll warn you, they might keep you there for a while.”
“What shall I do when they’re done with me? Do I go home and maybe find the man who wanted to shoot me waiting right in front of my house?”
“Where was he shooting from? How far?”
“I don’t know, he was hiding in the trees. He must have been about ten metres away.”
“How many shots?”
“Three, I believe. The first one missed me by pure chance, I’d bent down to pick something up. They wanted to kill me, not scare me away, if that’s what you’re trying to figure out.”
“You have to tell the police then. As I said, remain vague on what you discovered at Mr Palillo’s sister’s house. They’ll take you there for an inspection – call home, you’ll be late. These events will follow you for a while. You’ll have to talk to a magistrate, and you’ll be on the news.”
“I don’t want to scare my wife, I have two kids!”
“Yeah, but they might give you a guard to watch your house.”
“At least I’ll be able to talk to the journalists and say ‘see, the killer’s still on the loose’. This could help Fabrizio.”
“Yeah, that’s assuming that people believe that whoever shot at you was Mr Palillo’s murderer. Do you have any idea how many assholes own a gun these days? Do you know how many criminals in prison are overtly jealous of their wives, especially if a lawyer pays them a compliment? Listen to me, I have experience. When one investigates an event like this, one has to think about every possibility. The investigators will almost certainly assume that you did something wrong. Why would anyone want to shoot an innocent man? Brace yourself, this is what you’re going to face.”
I kicked one of the tyres. It hurt, and I stained one of my new shoes.
“Fuck, what else can happen?”
Mr Fisichella raised his finger, as if he was asking for my permission to carry on talking.
He walked a few steps away, bent over and retched. He came back a few minutes later, he looked exhausted.
“There’s another possibility, but it’s too much responsibility. As you can see, I’m not ready to take on any responsibility at the moment.”
“What are you talking about?
“We could keep it to ourselves, without making any fuss. The man wants to play? We’ll play with him. We were in the dark before, now we know a little more. Talking to the police will mean that we’ll have to tell them a lot of information. If we keep it to ourselves, we can fuck with the gunman.”
“He might shoot at me again, and he might hit me next time.”
“I was shot twice, they never got me.”
“You’re a policeman.”
I was discussing my death with a broken man. I wanted to cry.
“That doesn’t mean anything. The first time that I got shot, I lost a man. We had to arrest somebody, we made some mistakes. There were five of us. One of us fell. You know, when you get shot and you’re with somebody else, it creates a bond. They were my men, and they always will be. No asshole like Mr Aronica and no blonde fucker like Mr Benedetti can come between us. They would die for me, and I would die for them.”
“That’s moving, sorry if I seem insensitive – I have other stuff going through my mind right now.”
Mr Fisichella smiled at me, it was obviously a struggle for him. He was exhausted.
“You sound like your brother and he’s an asshole… This is what I could offer you – I’ll keep an eye on you. Me and my men. I have a few of them, they were fired from the team when I was kicked out. All I need to do is ask them. They’ll be happy to help without knowing who you are. They’re the best, rest assured. They’ll make your life safer than it would be with four random policemen waiting unwillingly in a patrol car outside your apartment.”
“It sounds like madness.”
“I know, it’s crazy for me too. When you came to visit me at the office… that was also crazy for me.”
I glanced at my watch. I realised that Monica was about to tuck the kids into bed.
“Okay, I’m game. May God help us all.”
Mr Fisichella shook my hand. Then he wiped his stubble with the sleeve of his jacket to remove any remaining traces of puke from his face.
“Now, Mr Corsaro, let’s go somewhere quiet and study these photographs.”