Adam's Rib (26 page)

But actually his thoughts weren't there in that room. His mind was elsewhere. Again he had that uncomfortable sensation of having forgotten something.

“For that matter, my deputy police chief, Dottor Schiavone, can confirm this,” said Corsi.

And suddenly he was the center of attention. “Certainly,” he said, without the faintest idea of what he had just confirmed. All eyes were on him. Even the police chief's. He knew he needed to add something, but he didn't know what. The general topic had to be Patrizio Baudo's arrest, but he hadn't the slightest idea of what specific angle they were discussing. So he stalled for time. “Certainly, that's in line with the typical case studies we've seen,” he said.

“What case studies?” asked a reporter with curly hair.

“The ones that line up with the statistics gathered by police headquarters,” said Rocco.

Error. He saw the reporters' faces twist in confusion.

“Excuse me,” asked a young guy with white hair, “but what are you saying, that the police are keeping an eye on the prices of racing bikes?”

What the fuck are they talking about now, goddamn it to hell? thought Rocco. Go on lying, never own up to the truth. “Certainly. Among other things. You should understand, my good man, that it's from details like this, apparently insignificant details like the price of a racing bike, for example the price of a Colnago, which can range around six thousand euros, that we can figure out an amazing array of things. Let me give you an example. Our man, Patrizio Baudo, was jealous of his bike, and he treated it as if it were his daughter. This jealousy of his ensured that the racing bike in question ultimately became a Trojan horse, because it was under the bicycle seat that he hid the necktie that had been the murder weapon. But the shop label got tangled in the seat springs and tore off.”

They all went on looking at him, in utter silence. He was tempted to ask the police chief under his breath what the hell they were talking about, but he knew that such a question would be transformed into a dressing-down lasting at least an hour in Corsi's office, and he knew that his nervous system was in no shape for such an ordeal.

“I can't quite see what any of this has to do with the Aosta–Saint-Vincent–Aosta race,” said the curly-haired reporter.

A lightbulb flashed on in Rocco's head. They were talking about that fucking amateur charity bike race, the Aosta–Saint-Vincent–Aosta, the weird obsession that had come over the Aosta region's governor.

“It has more to do with it than you realize, clearly,” said Rocco, in a desperate bid to make sense. “Because it helped me to focus on the Baudo case; I believe that Baudo was planning to compete in that race and was training for it on a daily basis.”

“But we were just talking about the bicycle that was going to be given as a prize to the winner!” blurted out an elderly journalist who, in spite of her age, seemed to be pregnant.

“And I'm here to confirm that it's going to be a Colnago racing bike worth six thousand euros,” Rocco said with grim determination. Corsi looked over at him, openmouthed. “It is?” he asked.

“It's an idea of mine.”

The police chief took back the floor in a frantic bid to salvage the situation. This time Rocco decided to listen. Once
again, the topic was Esther Baudo's murder. The questioning had begun with a well-dressed and rather aggressive young woman who asked: “So are we seriously going to waste our time here today talking about this bike race and ignoring yet another case of femicide?”

The room had burst into a roar of frantic talk. Corsi was helplessly trying to keep up with the reporters' questions. “Why don't the Aosta police get organized and set up a task force to work on this social blight?” “Why should a woman have to be driven to this point before anyone will listen?”

Corsi had done plenty of homework, and set out to prove, with facts and statistics, that the Aosta police force had in fact frequently intervened to stop the mistreatment of women within the family setting, and was working in close collaboration with a number of regional associations. The police were well informed and on the alert.

“Then why is Esther Baudo resting in peace in the cemetery now?”

“We have no record of any complaint from Signora Baudo. Unfortunately that's the real problem with domestic violence. Unless somebody says something we're helpless, because we have no information.”

“Holy Christ,” the dark-haired woman cried, “a woman is hospitalized five separate times, I say, and the police don't even have an inkling of suspicion?”

“But, Signora, you see—”

“You can call me
dottoressa
, not
signora
,” said the journalist. Corsi turned red as an apple. He corrected himself. “Dottoressa, unless we receive reports from the health
authorities, which means an administrative director or a head physician, or even just a call from a doctor, there are certain things that we have no way of knowing.”

“And yet I'm well aware of cases that have been reported and never investigated. Is it true that unless the husband beats his wife to a bloody pulp there's nothing that the police can do about it? That first a woman has to wind up in the hospital and only then are you willing to listen? Have any of you ever heard of psychological violence?”

Rocco plunged back into his thoughts. He still had that same sensation, the feeling that some detail had eluded him. Some fragment. A name. Something. Then he saw a familiar face in the room. She'd just sat down next to the TV cameras. It was Adalgisa, Esther's friend, and she was trying to catch his eye. She smiled at him ever so faintly, the corners of her mouth rising slightly. Rocco replied with a tiny tilt of the head. Adalgisa's eyes were glistening and a sweet smile lit up her face. She was thanking him.

“That man, Patrizio Baudo, beat his wife bloody for years, and she never worked up the courage to go to the police or to the Carabinieri. I'm just trying to understand how such a thing could happen in the year 2013.”

Corsi held both arms out wide: “Dottoressa, I can't answer you that. All I can tell you is that my men and I are doing everything within our power to make this city a better place.”

“Perhaps one of your men could speak to this question?” asked the journalist who looked pregnant.

“But without bringing in the issue of bicycles,” added the curly-haired reporter, and everyone burst out laughing.

Touché. The deputy police chief could only shrug and move on.

“So what is the specific question?” asked Rocco, as he twisted open a bottle of water. He had no interest in making an even worse showing on his second appearance.

“Why does it seem to be impossible to put a stop to these violent and destructive dynamics in the context of family life?”

“That's a very good question, Signora.” And he poured himself a plastic cup full of water. “But you need to understand. I'm not a sociologist, much less a psychiatrist. I'm just a humble deputy police chief. A cop, as they say on TV.”

“But what's your experience? What have you seen? You work in the field, you're not a pencil pusher,” the elderly journalist insisted.

Rocco took a sip, then set down the cup. “There are two types of criminals. There are hardened criminals, and they're not hard to deal with. And then there are people like Patrizio Baudo. Normal people, people you might work with and see at the office every day. Then they go home and beat their wives or molest children. If you ask their neighbors, they're good citizens. But they're actually the worst. Respectable people are the ones I fear the most. I'm not afraid of hardened criminals; I'm afraid of respectable citizens.”

“As a great American writer once said: ‘Beware the average man, beware his love, for it is average and it seeks average.'”

This time it was Adalgisa who had spoken, and everyone had turned to look at her.

“You kind of modified the exact quote to suit your purposes, but let's agree, that's the basic concept,” Rocco added with a smile.

Corsi broke in abruptly. “Now, before this press conference turns into a symposium on world literature, are there any other questions?”

Three more arms shot up. “Do you think Patrizio Baudo will be able to plead mental infirmity?” It was the young man with white hair.

“That's something you should ask the judge and the criminal psychiatrist.”

“In that case, what kind of questions should we ask you, excuse me very much?”

“You can ask us how we caught him, when we caught him, and what evidence we used to nail him. Concerning Patrizio Baudo's mental illness we have nothing to say; that lies outside our jurisdiction,” the police chief replied.

Rocco leaped to his feet. “I hope you'll all excuse me. I'm having trouble breathing, and I'm afraid it may be a panic attack. I have to go.”

“Are you all right?” a reporter asked in an alarmed voice.

“Let's just say that I'm sick and tired of being here.”

He hurried down the steps so he could get outside and fill his lungs with fresh air. Even if it had started raining again, it was nothing but a fine, tolerable drizzle. In any
case, better than going to the office to listen to Deruta's whining or the case history of D'Intino's ribs or the fabulous love story between Italo and Caterina.

“Dottor Schiavone!” A woman's voice made him spin around.

It was Adalgisa. “Dottor Schiavone, just a moment.”

She caught up with him.

“Weren't we once on a first-name basis?”

“You're right, Rocco. I wanted to thank you, for real. And I'm feeling terrible.”

“Why?”

“Because of things that were said in there.”

“Are you talking about the bicycle?”

Adalgisa smiled. “No. But can I buy you an espresso?” She opened her umbrella. Rocco took it, the woman locked arms with him, and together they strolled toward the nearest bar.

THE COFFEE WAS DECENT, AND EVEN THE CONSOLATION
biscotto wasn't bad. Too much butter, but every now and then Rocco needed a little hypercaloric filthy excess. It helped him to put up with a day that had been hard enough to take and a sky that had been vomiting rain for months now. Whether cool or icy, it was all just water.

“I was the one who should have done something. Because I knew, I knew everything, and I never lifted a finger.”

“What did you know?”

“That Patrizio beat Esther. Hospitalized five times! Is that really true?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“I only found out about it when she went in because of her arm. She told me she'd fallen downstairs. Once that bastard started beating on her, she wouldn't call me for weeks. I told her a thousand times: Esther, let's go report him to the police. You can't go on like this. But she always stood up for him. He was just jealous, she'd say, and also Esther was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Rocco asked.

“Afraid of being left to fend for herself. She had no work. And maybe Patrizio would have come after her. I don't know, Esther's parents were dead and her only family was a sister in Argentina—they hadn't spoken in years.”

“May I?” Adalgisa nodded and Rocco scarfed down the woman's biscotto as well. “Why didn't you tell me anything?”

“I've thought about it plenty of times. I could have told you these things about Patrizio, but then what if it turned out that Patrizio was innocent? That would have been a terrible thing. To accuse a person of murder is no joke.”

“When we talked earlier you said it was bound to happen, sooner or later, and you were talking about Esther's suicide.”

“She was just falling apart. We'd practically stopped talking to each other. She no longer told me about herself, about the life she led. She spent her days at home, watching TV or cooking for her husband. Every time she went out, he grilled her relentlessly. He didn't kill her last Friday, Rocco. He killed her for seven long years.”

“Seven years of agony. Not something you'd wish on your worst enemy.”

The woman picked up the valise and set it on her lap. “I have something for you.” She pulled out a small black notebook. She handed it to the deputy police chief.

“What is it?”

“Something Esther gave me. Thoughts, a diary—I'd like you to read it. But only if you promise to give it back when you're done.”

“Why do you want me to read it?”

“Because now that I know you better, I'm sure I can give it to you and not worry. Because you'll find Esther in that notebook. Because you never knew her. But what you did for her is more than anyone else ever did.”

“I didn't do anything for her at all.”

“That's what you think, Rocco. But you've done a great deal, I assure you.”

WHEN ADALGISA LEFT, SHE'D GIVEN HIM A KISS ON
the cheek. Sitting in the bar, he'd ordered another espresso. He had Esther Baudo's black notebook in his hands. He opened it. He started to read.

WHAT A STRANGE, ODD THING TIME IS. YOU CAN
Measure it with a clock, a calendar, or a chronometer. But it's relative. While you look out the window and watch a snowflake fall, not even a minute has gone by. Nothing. A
minute of nothing. That same minute for a newborn baby is the beginning of a lifetime. For someone swimming, that minute amounts to years of training. For me, it was just a snowflake falling. And I wonder what my minute is. My hour. Or even my day. There are people whose day consists of sitting in front of the television and watching the Home Shopping Network. For a dog, it's his two daily meals. For a prison inmate, it's just one day checked off his sentence. But for me, it'll be the day that changed my life. And when will it come? And what will it be like? Sunny?
Will the sun be out, or will it rain? It's a safe bet that it will rain. I've never been very lucky.