Pisanelli ran his hand over his eyes. He was tired. His shift had been over for hours, his and everyone else’s. But they needed to plan out their next steps in the investigation, and they couldn’t stop now.
Lojacono, on the other hand, seemed carved out of stone; he wasn’t moving a muscle.
“Has the father been contacted?” he asked, calmly.
Ottavia shook her head.
“No. He’s not in his hometown. He told a friend that he was coming here.”
“Did he tell him why?”
“To go get his daughter. He wanted her to come home with him.”
There were a few seconds of silence, broken only by the whistling of the icy wind as it rattled the windowpanes. Finally Palma spoke up.
“The girl must have had other ideas, and that’s the reason for the quarrel that the two young men overheard.”
“Probably,” Alex agreed. “But it seems that she wasn’t there for that argument. Vinnie and Paco heard two men arguing in dialect, but they didn’t see anyone. What’s more, they don’t know Cosimo Varricchio.”
Pisanelli toyed idly with a pen.
“Maybe it was just the television turned up loud, sometimes that happens. It strikes me that this whole thing with the father is a little contrived.”
Ottavia disagreed: “Let’s not forget that he’s a violent individual, with a prior conviction for murder.”
“He beat a man to death over a trifle. It seems reasonable that he might have lost control,” Aragona added.
Romano snapped.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Arago’, what do you know about it? Are you saying that if a guy made a mistake once, he’s bound to make the same mistake again? What, is he branded for the rest of his life? What we’re talking about here is a father that you’re saying murdered both his children, I mean, can you imagine? These aren’t crosses you can lightly put on people’s backs to bear. Not even when you’re a bunch of loser cops gossiping in the local bar.”
That disproportionate reaction to what Aragona had said created a sense of awkwardness in the office. It was clear to everyone that Romano was defending himself, not the victims’ father. In the past, because of his inability to control his temper, he’d grabbed a suspect by the throat, winning himself a suspension, followed by a transfer away from the Posillipo police station. And that wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened.
Palma tried to buffer the tension.
“Of course, of course. We certainly shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Let’s take the fight into account and try to figure out who was yelling and why. Let’s track down this father, if nothing else, we’re required to inform him of what’s happened. And let’s find the young woman’s boyfriend, too, so we can figure out when the last time he saw her was. Ottavia, do we know where he works?”
“Yes, luckily we can turn to the social networks: people post everything imaginable these days. He’s a waiter in a trendy bar in the center of town, the Marienplatz, a place that stays open till all hours. The bar is closed today. We should be able to go talk to him there late tomorrow morning, when they’re busy cleaning the place up. Unfortunately, I don’t seem able to track down a home address.”
Lojacono listened attentively, while Alex took notes.
“So this young man is from their hometown, too, isn’t he?” asked the lieutenant. “What’s the place called . . . Roccapriora? Which means he would be just as capable of arguing in dialect.”
Palma nodded, wearily.
“Yes, but for now we’re strictly in the field of suspicion and innuendo, for the moment we have no solid evidence. All right then, we need to get busy. Lojacono, Di Nardo, of course we’re all at your disposal, any logistical support you may need. I believe that the survival of this precinct may largely depend on the outcome of this case.”
Lojacono furrowed his brow; this was the first time in hours that there had been a crack in his impassive demeanor.
“No pressure, though, right, boss? If we do manage to crack the case, though, credit will be due to all of us. The information that Ottavia and Giorgio manage to put together saves us lots of legwork and time. Aragona, too, plays a fundamental role: his presence here at the station definitely gives us plenty of incentive to stay out on the street in spite of this cold.”
Everyone laughed. Aragona objected.
“Why, I’m the one who has to find the culprit for you every time, because you’re all rotten old fossils with decaying synapses!”
Palma turned to Romano.
“By the way, what did you turn up with the young girl? Did you go by the school?”
Romano exchanged a rapid glance with Aragona.
“Yes, yes. Most likely, just as we imagined, the schoolteacher is a bit of an alarmist. We met the principal: she and Professoressa Macchiaroli let us read several passages of certain essays she wrote that could easily lend themselves to suspicious interpretations.”
Ottavia snickered.
“Boy, it’s easy to see that you don’t have children. We’ve been referring to the principal for years now as the academic director and class writing exercises have become ‘short essays.’ You ought to keep up with things.”
Aragona shot her a grimace.
Palma pressed on.
“Well, so what impression did you get?”
Aragona put on a wary, watchful face. In the rest of the room, the tension had subsided, and the others were still discussing the double homicide in low voices; the group’s slackened attention allowed the young officer to remain vague.
“Well, boss . . . maybe it’s worth the trouble to check out a couple more details on this matter. Tomorrow, unless there’s something more important on the agenda, we could do a short informal investigation of the girl’s parents.”
Palma scrutinized him.
“Listen, men: if there’s anything, anything at all, tell me about it right away and we can get the family court involved. There are certain matters here that only specialists can handle. In any case, I’m in agreement, first let’s make certain: the last thing I want to do is ruin people’s lives over a bunch of fantasies. Just be cautious, though.”
Romano scratched his cheek.
“All right, chief. Just one last quick check.”
Palma looked at him, as if trying to decipher his expression. Ordinarily, Francesco was only too willing to share his doubts. It was unusual to see him being so reserved.
The dense agenda of appointments and commitments that awaited the team took his mind off that nagging thought, though. He called the room to attention, cutting through the low buzz of conversation.
“It’s late, people, very late. Thanks as always for your generosity and cooperation, but now we’d all better get some rest, tomorrow’s going to be a long day. Let’s go home.”