Professoressa Macchiaroli seemed to have experienced a stunning transformation, which might have been a result, mused Palma, of her growing confidence that she had done the right thing by speaking to them. The commissario had thanked her and told her she could go, assuring her that they would check out her suspicions, with the greatest possible discretion, naturally. Her only reply came in an utterly chilly tone, and as she spoke, she kept her tight grip on the handles of her handbag, which she had never once released: “Don’t you worry about that, Commissario. I’m willing to take full responsibility, I’m certainly not afraid to have anyone know that I took steps when I learned that one of my female students was ill at ease. You should be discreet only if it serves a good purpose, to gather information: often, when talking to strangers, young people tend to clam up, and you can’t get another word out of them. It’s happened to us other times, you can’t get them to talk no matter how hard you try. But if you need me, you can always find me at school.”
Opinions differed in the squad room. Aragona had a theory all his own, which he considered to be the final word on the matter: “If you ask me, that girl’s just been watching too much TV, and she mentioned something in an essay that she’d seen in some stupid series so her teacher came running to tell the cops.”
Romano nodded: “Probably you’re right. Around here, there’s a thin line between fantasy and reality. A father can’t stroke his daughter’s hair without being lynched as a child molester.”
Pisanelli started rifling through the papers in the folder open on the desk in front of him: “I don’t know about that. Professoressa Macchiaroli is an experienced teacher, this isn’t her first year teaching. She didn’t strike me as the sort of person who gets carried away by excitement or mindless zeal. I’m sure she’s seen more than her share of young female students. If she thought it was worth coming in, she must have had a good reason.”
Aragona snickered mockingly: “Well isn’t that nice, old folks standing up for each other. The decrepit, experienced cop happens to believe the word of the decrepit, experienced literature teacher. Let me tell you something, chief: just like you coming up with your conspiracy theories about unexplained suicides, she comes up with her own theories about child-molesting fathers. Who can say, maybe it’s just a matter of psychological compensation: the schoolteacher dreams of being raped by someone and you’re secretly yearning to commit suicide, so the two of you just fantasize about it happening to other people.”
The unexpected reference to what everyone else considered a harmless obsession on Pisanelli’s part plunged the office into silence. The senior policeman was convinced that a series of suicides that had taken place in recent years within the bounds of the precinct had actually been murders, and he continued stubbornly investigating his theory, gathering data, testimony, and photographs. He did so outside working hours and bothered no one, so his colleagues tacitly agreed to look the other way and limited themselves to the occasional wisecrack when Pisanelli wasn’t around.
Ottavia broke the awkward silence: “Aragona, you really can be a jerk sometimes. I’m tempted to tell you to go to hell, I have to say. You have no right to judge what Giorgio thinks and says. I’m pretty sure that when you’re his age, you won’t have achieved a fraction of what he’s done.”
Romano, too, even though he was personally in favor of ignoring the schoolteacher’s report, reacted angrily: “You’re an idiot, Arago’. An authentic cretin. You just freely launch into two-bit psychological analysis, but you don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
Aragona threw his arms wide: “Well, gosh, what did I even say? It’s not like I insulted anyone, did I? Chief, did I hurt your feelings? I was only kidding.”
Pisanelli forced a semblance of a smile onto his face: “Don’t worry about it, Marco. Trust me, I have no intention of committing suicide. Sooner or later you’ll understand; in fact, all of you will see that I’m right. You just assume that I have a fixation, that I’m wasting my time, but I don’t embezzle a minute from my job, I wouldn’t dream of it. Plus I have my own reasons for digging into these cases. To come back to the schoolteacher, though, I was just saying that certain things shouldn’t be overlooked or dismissed, that’s all. Sometimes they might seem like trifles, but then it turns out—”
Romano interrupted him: “Sure, you bet, the others are investigating a multiple murder and we’re stuck with the fantasies of a middle-aged woman? Why doesn’t the commissario just send Lojacono to the school?”
“I told you before that no one’s playing favorites, Francesco,” Ottavia retorted, archly dignified. “And I also think that if there’s even the shadow of doubt that a little girl is being molested, we ought to—”
Palma appeared in the door to his office: “Unless there’s something urgent on the agenda, guys, I’d like you to check out this report about the little girl. It seems worthwhile to at least take a look, no? Better to make certain. Romano and Aragona, why don’t the two of you check it out?”
Aragona tried to put up some resistance: “But listen, boss, that woman’s just an old nutcase. Can’t we at least wait until there’s a formal complaint before swinging into action? There have to be more important things we could be doing.”
“Of course there are, Aragona. Like I was telling you not long ago, there are old cases to wrap up. I’m almost tempted to assign you the whole lot of them, with all the police reports to be transcribed. A nice little intellectual task that will keep you with your ass glued to a chair for six months, give or take. What do you say?”
Aragona was already on his feet, overcoat in one hand. Romano got to his feet to follow him out, emitting a low muttering gurgle.
Palma turned serious: “Guys, stop your bellyaching. A cop is a cop, and it’s a cop’s duty to look into every report he gets with the same amount of attention. I don’t want any complaints going to headquarters about the way we comport ourselves, is that clear? If they decide to shut down this precinct, I can’t have that being on account of any of our shortcomings. We’re all in agreement, right?”
Aragona snapped to attention, raising two fingers to his forehead like an American Marine: “Yessir, chief. Don’t worry. We’ll distinguish ourselves famously, at school, and we’ll bring home a first-rate report card.”
“Aragona, you’re an absolute idiot.”