It took almost a minute before Maria Carmela Iovine del Castello came to the door. She shot the concierge a harsh glare, but then looked past her to Ricciardi and Maione and, seeing the brigadier’s uniform, she understood. She turned and went back into the apartment, leaving the front door open behind her. Ines threw her arms wide and trotted away.
The apartment was shrouded in shadows; the shutters were closed. There was a scent of lavender in the air which, along with the heat, gave Maione an immediate headache. Since the only partly illuminated space was the living room, they headed there, where the woman stood waiting for them.
Signora Iovine was of average height, elegant, about forty. Her oval face was longish: there were faint lines on either side of her mouth and on her forehead.
As Ricciardi introduced himself, he extended his own and Maione’s condolences, then stepped closer: “Could I ask you how you learned of your husband’s death?”
“They phoned from the general hospital. The ward charge nurse, Coppola.”
Maione recalled the large female nurse who had been in the knot of people gathered around the corpse. How diligent, he thought to himself.
Signora Iovine gestured to two chairs: “Have a seat. Can I get you something? An espresso? A rosolio cordial? Forgive me, but in this situation I’m afraid I’m hardly a perfect hostess.”
The two policemen politely declined and sat down. She perched on the sofa.
Ricciardi heaved a sigh.
“We’re very sorry, Signora, to disturb you at a time like this. But as you can imagine, time is of the essence. Still, if you don’t feel you’re up to answering a few questions right now, we can certainly come back some other time.”
“No, Commissario, I understand the urgency and I intend to do what I can to help. I’m the first to want to know what happened.”
Her voice was calm; only her hands, white-knuckled and clenched in fists in her lap, betrayed grief-laden tension.
Ricciardi went on: “We searched your husband’s office but we found neither a letter nor a note that might suggest . . . that he had decided to end his life. Do you know of any reason or situation that might have pushed him to . . .”
“No. My husband was a powerful, wealthy, respected man. He had no debts, he didn’t gamble, there was no shadowy past of poverty and desperation, he had no relatives in dire straits. His family was well-to-do: his father was a prosperous merchant. I’d rule out any motivations for . . . for an act of that kind.”
Maione cleared his throat: “All right, Signo’, money wasn’t a problem for your unfortunate husband. But money isn’t the only thing there is, don’t you agree?”
“What do you mean by that?”
Ricciardi broke in: “My colleague is trying to ask whether there might be reasons of some other kind, not economic in nature. A state of excessive exhaustion, some disagreement at work, or at home, perhaps with you yourself. The brigadier is trying to reconstruct your husband’s psychological state.”
Signora Iovine pursed her lips and furrowed her brow in an expression that must have been a habitual one, given the wrinkles they had noticed previously.
“Commissario, as I told you, my husband is . . . was an untroubled person. He worked hard, but he always had. A university career, and he’d reached the very highest peaks of academia, means keeping to a demanding path and it involves rivalries and conflict, but he’d clearly achieved his goals. Here at home, too, there was no reason for conflict.”
Ricciardi nodded. It was time to explore new territory: “We understand that you have a son. Is that right?”
“Yes, Commissario. His name is Federico, and he’s eight years old. I sent him out to play in the park with his nanny as soon as I heard the news. I haven’t told him yet: he’s very close to his father, and he’s quite a sensitive child. I’m going to have to find a way.”
“Certainly . . . Excuse us if we insist, but it’s our job to take into consideration any possibility, however remote. It does happen that people who commit such an extreme act do so without leaving a note or any written message, but it’s pretty unusual. Do you happen to remember anything strange he might have mentioned? Did your husband say anything that surprised you?”
“No, really, nothing. My husband, Commissario, was away from home a lot. For that matter, that was the nature of his job: pregnant women can hardly plan the timing of their medical needs. Lately, he’d been very busy, and he was definitely tired, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
Maione sighed. They’d come to the crucial point.
Ricciardi resumed: “In that case, since we have no reason to suspect this was suicide, we need to take another possibility into consideration: that someone might have pushed your husband out that window. Do you know whether the professor had recently had any disagreements or quarrels, even a petty argument, and if so with whom?”
The woman fell silent. Hers was an expressionless silence that Maione found unsettling. She sat staring into empty space, practically without blinking, and slowly twisted her hands. Then she looked up and said: “You’re asking me a difficult question, Commissario. My husband was beloved, but he was a surgeon and a university professor. He took both responsibilities very seriously, he was exacting; as demanding with himself as he was with those who worked with him or studied under him.”
Ricciardi and Maione waited. After a brief pause, during which she took a sip of water from a glass on the side table, the woman went on: “When it comes to work at the hospital, Dr. Rispoli, my husband’s assistant whom you no doubt already met, is better informed than I am. I can only tell you what went on here, at home.”
It was clear that Maria Carmela Iovine was thinking about something and trying to decide whether she ought to mention it.
Ricciardi had to proceed with all deliberate caution.
“You see, Signora, in this phase anything can be useful in guiding our investigation, and we’re going to have to investigate in any case. Any information provided to us would not be considered an accusation against the person in question, but simply a piece in a larger puzzle. Don’t worry, we can assure you that anything you say will be held in the greatest possible confidence.”
Signora Iovine seemed relieved by those words. She got up from the sofa and said: “There’s something I want to show you.”
Both men leapt to their feet. The woman walked away and, a short moment later, returned with a sheet of paper in one hand, which she gave to Ricciardi.
“Go ahead and read it. It came by mail last week, here at home.”
Ricciardi unfolded the sheet of paper.
Tullio,
I imagine you will be surprised to receive this letter of mine, after nearly twenty years. It is true, I had hoped that our paths would never cross again, but as you can see destiny, which works in ways impossible for us mere humans to fathom, has decreed otherwise.
You no doubt clearly remember everything that I remember, but please understand that I bear no grudge for what you did all these years ago; you’ve always been a master at eliminating your adversaries. For that matter, when all is said and done, your vile act actually laid the cornerstone of my good fortune. Being unable to undertake a university career forced me to find partners so that I could open a clinic, and I like to think that our clinic’s success hasn’t eluded your notice, and even that it’s prompted some feelings of anger and envy, two emotions that, I might add, have always been part of your character.
In the past two decades I have never made any attempt to exact revenge for your betrayal, even though I might have done so; we work in the same field, and more than once I’ve been forced to remedy an error made by you or one of your assistants at the general hospital: I know that you like to surround yourself with incompetents so that your own supposed skill can stand out even more sharply. And yet, let me say again, I never have. Not because of I never wanted to, but because launching an attack against you, out in the open, would have triggered your retaliation or, even worse, might have led you to ask for help from one of your many political allies. Still, I’ve saved the documents, and I could track down all the necessary witnesses. I’m not saying that I’d be able to ruin you, but I could certainly undermine that image of probity and competence that you’ve built on the ruins of those you’ve destroyed.
Why am I writing you all this? You know why.
I’m a sick man, Tullio. Nature has its way even with us physicians. I’m treating myself, but little by little my strength is ebbing away. My son, my Guido, needs to take my place as soon as possible, otherwise my two partners will succeed in ejecting me from my position at the clinic, nullifying the work of an entire lifetime.
You know very well that my son is a good-hearted young man, though I recognize that he is hardly brilliant. But he studies hard, and he’s passed nearly all of the required examinations. He should by rights have earned his medical degree a year ago, which would have given me time to instruct him in those rudiments necessary for him to replace me as director of the clinic, so I could wait to die in peace. But fate has placed you in my path once again: you have flunked him, directly or through a subordinate, three times now. You did it in a way that was ostensibly irreproachable, by tripping him up with complicated questions and clinical hypotheticals that no one has ever seen in reality. I know that, you know it too. But I don’t understand why: after all, I’m the one who suffered from your treachery all those years ago. It’s clear that your wickedness, your thirst for blood, lives on. But this time you’re playing with something that matters far more to me than my career: you’re playing with the life of my son, and that’s something I won’t allow.
Understand that I’ll stop at nothing. At nothing, I tell you.
Guido will come to see you outside of your usual office hours, far from prying eyes. You two will decide on the questions together, and you will let him pass the exam. He will take his degree and you will safeguard your reputation, because he will bring you, in the same meeting, the documentation concerning your bungled operations which I had to remedy surgically, in some cases leaving the patients sterile.
I’m sure that only fear can persuade you to give in. I know you.
I’ll wait for your response, and then I’ll let you know when my son will come to see you. I imagine that late at night might be best, at your office. And if you fail to ensure that you are alone when he comes, then I’ll take it that you’re not interested in this trade, and I’ll take action accordingly. As the saying goes, let Samson die with all the Philistines.
With my very worst regards,
Francesco Ruspo di Roccasole
Ricciardi handed the sheet of paper to Maione so he could read it, and turned to look into Maria Carmela’s pale face. Extortion, no doubt about it. And a tacit threat: I’ll take action accordingly.
So there was more than one person who had it in for Iovine. The image of the professor that was emerging was quite different from that which had at first appeared.
“Signora, do you know the man who sent this letter?”
“Yes, Commissario. I know him, but I haven’t seen him for more than twenty years. He’s the director and part owner of the Villa Santa Maria Francesca nursing home, the one in Mergellina.”
“And do you know what he is referring to when he speaks of your husband’s alleged unethical behavior toward him?”
“I do remember that he was competition with Tullio for a position as university assistant, and that my husband was selected, and he was not. But I couldn’t tell you why, nor could I say why Ruspo was denied a career at the university.”
Maione, who was done reading, turned to the woman: “Excuse me, Signo’, but did you receive this letter? Did you read it first and then talk about it with your husband?”
The woman stared at Maione. Such direct questions irritated her, but she had to answer them.
“Yes, Brigadier. I received it. I thought it must have been . . . I thought I’d received it by mistake, that it had been sent to the wrong address. My husband never receives correspondence at home. Never. I read it and I waited for him to come home. I was upset. He skimmed it and told me not to worry. He started laughing.”
Maione exchanged a glance with Ricciardi.
“He started laughing?”
“Yes. He said they were the ravings of a man on his deathbed, but that out of respect for days gone by, he wouldn’t report the matter to the police or to the council of the physicians’ guild.”
Ricciardi pressed on: “So he didn’t seem worried to you? You didn’t get the impression he was afraid?”
“No, Commissario. He didn’t give any weight to the matter at all. But I wasn’t as calm as he seemed to be, and I urged him to be careful. And as you can see, I decided to hold on to the letter.”
Ricciardi nodded.
“I’m going to have to ask you to let us take it. I assure you that, once we’ve checked it out thoroughly, we’ll return it to you.”
“Are you going to talk to Ruspo? You’ll need to investigate in depth, I’d imagine . . . But if it were to turn out that my husband . . . anything that might sully my husband’s memory . . . Certainly you must understand, I have a child to protect, if his father’s integrity were called into question . . . I’m all alone now, I have to look after him.”
Ricciardi reassured her: “Signora, the only thing we want is to find out whether someone is responsible for the professor’s death. Anything not directly related to that matter is of no interest to us and will not be divulged. Not by us, at least.”
After a moment’s silence, Maione said: “Signo’, forgive me, but we do have to ask you this. Where were you yesterday evening? Could your husband have tried to contact you by phone, or I don’t know, might somebody else have tried to contact you on his behalf?”
“I went to dinner with my son, here in the building, at the home of my cousins. I go quite often, when my husband doesn’t come home. We stayed out late, listening to a program on the radio. We didn’t get back until after midnight. As of eight o’clock, when we left for dinner, no one had called; and if someone had called after that, my housekeeper would have come to inform me. So I’d rule out that possibility.”
The last few words were uttered in a whisper; the woman’s gaze was wandering around the room as if this were the first time she’d seen it. Ricciardi and Maione knew that expression, they’d seen it many times before on the faces of family members of people who had met violent deaths: they didn’t understand right away what had happened, then the reality began to lap against them like a series of waves, until, like a tsunami, the awareness of their loss buried everything, stripping away rational reasoning and mental equilibrium.
Signora Iovine’s lips began to quiver; she put her hand on her forehead.
Ricciardi asked: “Do you need anything? Can we do something for you?”
She emitted a long racking sob and covered her face with both hands. After a moment, she recovered and, apparently calm now, stared at the commissario.
“We had plans, my husband and I. We had plans. In August we were going to the countryside, where it’s nice and cool. The countryside is so good for the boy. He’s delicate, extreme heat isn’t good for him. We had a new car, did you know that? You can put the top down. Federico couldn’t wait to go on vacation in a convertible. I don’t know how to drive. Now how can I take him to the country? I’ll have to learn to drive, won’t I?”
Ricciardi dropped his gaze to the carpet. Maione coughed softly. At last, Maria Carmela Iovine del Castello began to cry.