The minute Lojacono and Di Nardo had walked out the door and Palma had gone back into his office, Romano slammed a fist down on his desk.
“Dammit. They get to do the real work, and we’re just sitting at our desks like a bunch of accountants.”
Ottavia, who had practically leapt out of her chair at the unexpected noise, said: “Come on, Francesco, the commissario would never play favorites and—”
Aragona interrupted her: “No, no, little mother, you’re always justifying anything that your Signor Commissario does. But the Incredible Hulk over here has a point, anytime there’s anything important going on, Palma sends the Chinaman; and as far as that goes, Calamity Jane enjoys special treatment too. I’d like to know how we’re supposed to get promotions by writing up reports on cases dating back a century that never got wrapped up because your partners on the force were too busy dealing drugs.”
Pisanelli glared at him grimly: “Aragona, since I’m supervising this project, I’m sorely tempted to assign you some dusty case file that hasn’t seen the light of day in a good solid decade. What do you say to that?”
Ottavia Calabrese tried to soften the tone: “Listen, all of you, I’m sure that the commissario isn’t playing favorites at all. It’s just that Lojacono has the most experience. He proved he knew what he was doing with both the Crocodile case, when he was still back at the San Gaetano police station, and the death of the notary’s wife. Come to think of it, Palma assigned you to work alongside him, Marco, so—”
Romano was having none of it: “All I see happening is that Lojacono is getting more and more experience and the rest of us never see the light of day. I’m going in to see Palma, and I’m going to ask him if—”
The sound of a cough from the door to the room put an end to the argument. Everyone swung around. Standing at the door was a middle-aged lady, rather nicely dressed, who was waiting for someone to notice her presence.
“Excuse me, Signora, can I help you?”
In response to Ottavia’s invitation, the woman took a step forward and entered the office, uneasily. From the ink spots on her hands, which anxiously clutched at the handles of her handbag, Pisanelli deduced that she must be a schoolteacher. He also noticed her rotund physique and her diminutive stature, only slightly elevated by a pair of low-heeled shoes.
“Yes. I would . . . I’d like to file a criminal complaint. Or, rather, I should say: I’d like to . . . make a report, that’s better, I think. A report.”
Romano stood up: he had no intention of letting the second opportunity of the day to work on a real-life case instead of a pile of old documents slip through his hands.
“You can tell me all about it, Signora. I’m Officer Francesco Romano, warrant officer.”
She flashed a strained smile which, nonetheless, did make her look a little younger.
“Buongiorno, I’m Professoressa Emilia Macchiaroli. I’m a teacher at the Sergio Corazzini Middle School, not far from here. Can I . . . could we speak here?”
“Why, of course, Professoressa. We’re all colleagues here.”
The woman looked around and ran her tongue over her lips, still clearly ill at ease.
“Well, you see, I don’t even know if I did the right thing. I thought it was the right thing to report . . . Or, I don’t know if I should say, report this matter . . . I tried to persuade the mother to . . . but for some reason, she just wouldn’t. Not that that’s uncommon, for a mother it’s hard to believe such a thing, and of course the girl’s an only child, which as you know only makes it worse. On the other hand, I said to myself, what if it turns out to be true? There are lunatics, attention-seekers, make no mistake, with all the filth people see on TV, but then one time out of a hundred, it might actually turn out to be true. And then, certainly, we all know about the boy who cries wolf, just for fun, and the one time that there really is a wolf, no one believes him. Not that I’m an alarmist, in any way, shape, or form, but then you can’t just let things slide without speaking up. Don’t you agree?”
Aragona stared at her, openmouthed. Pisanelli concealed his face behind a police report. Ottavia struggled to focus on her computer screen. Romano wondered to himself whether the woman really expected an answer. Since in fact she seemed to, he decided to stick to generalities: “Well, of course. And to be specific, Professoressa, exactly what would we be talking about here?”
“Ah, sex abuse, of course. You see, I teach Italian Literature. To tell the truth, they have different names for the subjects these day, but those of us who went to school in the old days tend to stick to tradition, am I right? That is, it’s really all a question of imprinting: if I get used to a certain terminology when I’m young, then it stands to reason—”
Aragona couldn’t help but weigh in: “Please, please, Professore’, try to stick to to the subject. Otherwise, our colleague can’t make heads or tails of it all, and neither can any of us. And if we can’t understand, we can’t very well help you either.”
Professoressa Macchiaroli blinked rapidly, as if astonished to have been interrupted: “Why, of course, and that’s what I’m doing, I’m explaining, aren’t I? Let me say it again, I teach Italian Literature, which means I’m basically the homeroom teacher for the whole class. Naturally, the kids write essays and papers, they do research projects, and I read what they write. Of course, they usually write to show off what they’ve learned: Literature, History, Elements of . . . ”
Aragona rose to his feet: “Professore’, if you teach the kids the way you come in here to lay out your situation, I can hardly be surprised that the levels of educational achievement are plunging in this country. Let me implore you, could you just tell us why you’ve come in today?”
With a glance that by rights ought to have incinerated Corporal Aragona, Romano tried to set things right: “Professoressa, what we’re trying to understand is whether you are here to file a criminal complaint.”
“No, officer, not a complaint. I believe that a complaint implies the outright certainty that a crime has taken place: and I can’t be certain of that fact, nor is there any way for me to be. All the same, I do believe that one of my female students is being sexually abused. And if I want to have a clear conscience, then I have no alternative but to inform you to that effect.”
Silence descended over the room. Palma appeared in his office door, his curiosity piqued by the conversation, and asked: “How old is this student of yours? And who do you think is molesting her?”
The woman turned to face the commissario, leveling her calm pale blue eyes in his direction.
“She’s twelve. Martina Parise, Class 2B. And the abuser is her father.”