Maione was waiting for Ricciardi outside the front entrance of police headquarters, in the shade of the stone arch. Upon his return from Vomero he was sure he would find him in his office, as they’d agreed the previous day, and he was already starting to worry for no particular reason when he spotted the commissario in the distance, walking toward him with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground as usual; but to the brigadier’s empathetic gaze it was clear that something wasn’t right.
He walked to meet him, climbing a few dozen yards up the narrow vicolo from the building’s entrance.
“Commissa’, are you all right? I was just starting to wonder where you were, you told me that you were going to go talk to Rispoli first thing and then you’d come to the office. But here they tell me that they haven’t seen you since yesterday. Did something happen?”
Ricciardi said nothing, as if preoccupied, his face creased with pain.
“Has something happened to Signora Rosa, Commissa’? When could it have happened? I just phoned over to the hospital a few minutes ago, because when I heard you weren’t here I thought she might have taken a turn for the worse. But I talked to Dr. Modo and he told me that her condition is stable.”
At the mention of Rosa’s name, Ricciardi seemed to snap out of it.
“Ah, you already called over? I was planning to do that myself, as soon as I got back to the office. No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s normal. Come on, let’s get upstairs; we need to make arrangements for the last interview we need to conduct, so we can close out this investigation.”
“No, Commissa’. I think we’re going to have revise our plans. A call came in from Incurabili Hospital, where they’ve completed the autopsy on poor Coviello, which by the way confirms in every aspect what we already know about his death. They tell me that there’s someone claiming the body to give it a funeral.”
Ricciardi stared at Maione, a long stony gaze.
“Well, that’s something at least. Okay, let’s get over to Incurabili.”
Incurabili—“Incurables”—was the largest hospital in the city. Its name was in apparent contradiction with its mission, but only because the institution’s full name, St. Mary of the People of the Incurables, was habitually abbreviated, and this because it, in turn, was at odds with the frenetic activity that went on there.
Ricciardi and Maione made their way across the atrium, threading carefully through the crowd of physicians, nurses, family members, and those patients well enough to walk on their own two feet. They passed the entrance to the church on their right, from which emerged the sound of mass, and emerged into an inner courtyard; they ignored the broad staircase leading up to the wards and the monumental old pharmacy, and instead proceeded on toward the rear of the building, where the morgue was located.
Just as they were about to step out from the courtyard, they were cordially greeted by the young physician they’d first met in Coviello’s workshop: “Good afternoon, Commissario, greetings, Brigadie’. So they informed you that we were done with your hanged man, right?”
Ricciardi took immediate issue with the man’s glib tone and offhanded manner toward the deceased; once again, he gained renewed appreciation for the merciful respect for the dead that Bruno Modo invariably displayed. The words that the ghostly image of the goldsmith had uttered at the scene of his death echoed clearly in his ears: the bottom of your heart.
“What is your name, Doctor?”
The physician replied in a haughty voice: “Guglielmo Franzi, Commissario.”
“So I would guess that you prefer to be called Dr. Guglielmo Franzi, don’t you?”
The young man blinked behind the round lenses of his spectacles: “I don’t follow you, Commissario. What are you saying?”
Ricciardi snapped back: “The person you refer to as “our hanged man,” sir, had a first and last name, you know? He was called Nicola Coviello. He had a mother, a poor demented old woman who’s now all alone in the world, an apprentice that he was teaching a trade, as well as an array of feelings, loves, interests, and ideas. I’d be much obliged, if our professional paths chance to cross again, if you’d refer to the deceased by their first and last names.”
The young doctor blushed.
“You’re absolutely right, Commissario. I beg your pardon. The corpse . . . er, Signor Coviello, as seemed to be the case on a preliminary investigation, died as a result of strangulation caused by the rope after a certain period of . . . after he . . . after he came to be suspended from the rafter. The groove on his neck showed the marks of the rope, which unfortunately means that a fair amount of time had passed. I would therefore confirm the presumable time of death.”
Maione asked: “And there are no signs of struggle, correct?”
“No, Brigadier. In fact, from the marks on the hands and the traces of hemp fiber corresponding to the rope, it is evident that he hauled himself up, without any external support. He must have been incredibly strong. Otherwise, he was healthy, no signs of any advanced-stage diseases: this wasn’t done to avoid further suffering, in other words.”
But he was suffering, Ricciardi thought to himself. He was suffering, and how. Regrets, despair. Perhaps remorse.
“Thank you, Doctor. There’s nothing else, is there?”
“Actually, Commissario, yes, there is. I had that information conveyed over the telephone. As you know, there’s a person who has claimed the dead . . . that is, the remains of the deceased. They say they won’t leave until they can make arrangements for a funeral and decent burial. I explained that we would have to await instructions from police headquarters, but . . .”
Ricciardi nodded: “Yes. I did know that, Doctor. We’ll take care of it. Where is this person?”
The doctor pointed toward the rear of the courtyard: “Back there, by the entrance to the morgue itself. There’s a bench, in the shade of the porch roof.”
“Fine. Thanks again, and have a good afternoon.”
Maione touched his visor in a salute, and followed Ricciardi, whispering: “Nice work, Commissa’, you told him what’s what, this young punk of a doctor. He’s going to have a lot more work to do before he can become like Dr. Modo.”
“Doctors as bad as Bruno are born, not made. Let’s go, Raffaele. Let’s try to understand just when Coviello started to die.”
On the bench that the doctor had pointed out to them was a single person: a woman dressed in black, skinny, with gloved hands clutching at a purse in her lap. She wore a hat, likewise black, with a dark veil that covered her face, making her unrecognizable.
Ricciardi walked over, followed by Maione, and came to a halt before her. The heat was terrible and the crickets were chirping loudly in the trees.
The commissario made a slight bow: “Buonasera, Signora Iovine.”