BELLA MAFIA (42 page)

incarnate. This child was Paul Carolla's son, Giorgio."

Pirelli sat very still, listening intently.

The priest's gentle voice continued. "Luka had committed some misdemeanor in our monastery, and as a punishment he was to clean the rooms. One of those rooms was that of the dying boy, Giorgio Carolla. What occurred, Commissario, was nothing less than a miracle. Luka embraced the invalid, cared for him as a mother would her child. They became inseparable. This poor boy who had never walked, never joined in the simple pastimes of other children recovered to such an extent that it was indeed miraculous. Luka washed him, fed him, dressed him, and in the carpenter's shop made him a wheelchair of sorts so the child could sit outside. Within two years of his joining us, Giorgio was fit and well enough to take part in the daily classes. His intellect was far above the other children's, and he was an inspiration. . . . We had no further trouble with Luka; he had found a family; the sick boy became everything to him."

Taking a linen handkerchief out of his robe, Angelo wiped his eyes. Pirelli remained silent.

"But Giorgio only seemed well. The added strain was making his poor heart fight to keep up. We knew he could not survive." Father Angelo's hands were shaking as he tried to pour himself a glass of water. Pirelli rose and poured it for him.

"In January 1974, Giorgio required an emergency heart operation. He contacted his father, insisting that if he were to go to Rome for the operation, he would agree only if Luka could accompany him. It was, you understand, doubtful from the very beginning that the operation would be successful, but without it there was no hope at all. The travel arrangements were made, and Giorgio's physician came to prepare him for the journey. It had been a matter of days, perhaps a week, but in that time the boy's condition had deteriorated rapidly. Sadly the operation was no longer a possibility. Instead of Paul Carolla's arriving to take his son to Rome, he came to wait for his inevitable death."

Father Angelo pressed the tips of his fingers together, his head bowed. "During the sick boy's time here, time spent mostly with Luka, he had changed radically. I believe for the first time he wanted to live, had someone to live for. And Luka, oh, how Luka had changed! I cannot impress on you the goodness that flowed from this our most wayward boy. He was born with an angelic face; during his metamorphosis, for that is the only way I can describe it, he became an angel. He doted on the sickly boy and would, I believe, have died for him. We knew time was against the child. The day his father came to stay, Giorgio seemed somewhat recovered. He accepted the news that there would be no operation; I believe he made a joke. He was such a joker. You must understand, if any one of us had realized how close to death he actually was, we would never have left him alone."

Father Angelo stared silently at the blank wall. Many times he had relived the terrible winter morning, hearing the cry that echoed around the cloisters, and now he could not stop the tears. "It was forbidden—" He swallowed, unable to continue until he had a sip of water. "It was forbidden for the children to leave their dormitories after nine, but somehow Luka had crept out, past the father on duty. Giorgio died in Luka's arms, Commissario. Many times I have comforted the grieving, but never, never have I witnessed such depth of grief. Luka stood by Giorgio's window; he clung to the sill, his body rigid, his shirtfront soaked with tears that streamed endlessly down his cheeks. He would not come away from the window, and in the condensation on the glass he had scrawled—"

Father Angelo's voice dropped to a whisper as he told Pirelli that Giorgio's room had always been kept warm by special oil heaters his father had bought, and in the condensation that resulted, Luka had scrawled Giorgio's name over and over again, frantic scribblings, as if by repeating his beloved friend's name, Luka could recall him to life.

"I tried to pry his cold hands from the window ledge; his knuckles were white with the effort of holding on. He spit and kicked out at anyone who tried to move him. It broke my heart, Commissario. He would not let anyone touch him or hold him. He shrank from any contact.

"Signor Carolla was deeply touched by the boy's reaction; he asked if he might speak with him. When he came out of Giorgio's room, Luka was holding his hand. Signor Carolla adopted Luka shortly afterward and took him to live in America."

Father Angelo made no mention of his own anguish at how

Luka had behaved to him after Giorgio's death. The expression on the boy's face, the hard glint to his eyes, had been identical to the closed, unforgiving look he had worn the day Father Angelo had brought him to the orphanage, as if the years of loving care had counted for nothing, had never existed.

Pirelli waited, watching Father Angelo's bowed head, then said gently, "Please continue, Father."

"I received a number of letters. I have brought them for you to read if you wish. I signed the adoption papers, releasing him from our care. I believed it was for the best. I believed Luka would have a great opportunity." The tears trickled down his face. "I did not see him again until his return this year."

Again he reached for the glass of water, taking small sips. "Would it be possible for you to tell me why you are so interested in my son Luka? Do you believe he has committed some crime?"

Pirelli coughed and licked his lips. "Yes, Father, I believe

so."

"Then I am to blame. I should never have let him go. At that time I had no knowledge of what Paul Carolla—of what he became. I thought it only for the best. Please, you must excuse me, I—"

His frail body shook as he wept. Pirelli was at a loss to comfort him. How could he even begin to tell this kindly old man what Luka Carolla had become? He rose to his feet.

"I think that is all I need to know. I don't wish to distress you further."

"He came back to me; he came back here for help. I know that now. You see, as a boy, whenever he had done wrong, he would attempt to make up for it by working. Painting, digging, anything ... He came here and worked very hard for six months, and I knew, I knew something was terribly wrong."

Pirelli rang the bell by the door for someone to escort Father Angelo away, but Father Angelo was not finished.

"There is something more I must tell you. That darkness in Luka . . . He had been sexually abused as a child. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Guido overheard the last few words as he entered the room. Father Angelo acknowledged his presence but persisted. "Whatever happened to him made him terrified of small spaces, of being locked in. He would become hysterical, violent even, and for the first few years he was here we were unable to get him to enter the chapel. He had a terror of the chapel and would become physically sick if we attempted to take him there for prayers. . . . Gradually this phobia subsided, and he would, though not frequently, go to mass. I believe that whatever sins were committed against Luka were within the confines of a holy place. May God forgive me, but that is what I believe."

Guido, flushing deeply, would not meet Pirelli's eyes. He fussed with the walker.

Almost as an afterthought, Pirelli asked, "Did you speak with Luka before he left, Father?"

The old man shook his head. "No . . . No, I did not. Brother Guido was the last one of us to see him. Our poor deceased Brother Louis was in a very nervous state. He once believed we had a circus in the courtyard and more recently that Christ has arisen in the chapel. He died shortly afterward. Perhaps he did in truth see Our Lord embracing him."

He inched toward the door, then paused, with his back to Pirelli. "Luka did not even bid me good-bye. . . . Have a safe return journey, Commissario."

"One moment, Brother Guido . . . Could you spare me a few minutes after you have seen to Father Angelo?"

As he waited for Guido to return, Pirelli felt drained and cold. The dampness of the room, coupled with the overpowering sadness of Father Angelo, made him long to breathe fresh, clean air—either that or smoke a cigarette! But he could hear Brother Guido approaching.

The young monk's nervousness was very apparent. Pirelli noted the tension in his hands as they plucked at his robe.

"You were the last to see Luka. Why did you never mention this before?"

"I did not think it was important."

"It might be. Brother Guido, I believe Luka Carolla is a very dangerous man. I am sure he has killed at least one child, and he possibly murdered his father, Paul Carolla."

Guido gasped. His eyes blinked rapidly, and he slumped into the chair, putting his hands over his face as he spoke. "The night Luka left, I was in the chapel, close to the crypt. I was kneeling in prayer, and he didn't see me."

Pirelli rested his hand on the monk's shoulder, encouraging him to continue.

"I saw him enter and put down his bag, the small leather bag I told you of. He moved up the aisle; I was about to call out, say something to let him know I was there—"

"But you didn't?"

Guido shook his head. "He stood so still, facing the cross, and ... his face, it was like watching a statue. I have never seen such stillness, such—"

His shoulders trembled. Pirelli could feel it through the rough robe. Guido was whispering, "Such exquisite beauty. His face was like a carving, like Christ Himself." He crossed himself quickly.

Pirelli released his hold and moved away. "What happened then?" He repeated his question, this time more sharply. "What happened?"

"I stood up, revealing my presence, and he reacted like a wild animal. He hissed ... a terrible hissing sound, and backed away down the aisle into the darkness, until I could no longer see him. He then said something blasphemous; I beg you not to ask me to repeat it. I heard the doors open, and he was gone."

"Taking only the small bag? You didn't see the other case you described?"

Guido sobbed, "No . . ."

Pirelli made the sign of the cross before following Guido up the stone steps to the crypt. He edged around the massive wooden cross and looked up. At first he saw nothing, but then Guido switched on his flashlight.

Pirelli walked into the ballistics section of the forensic laboratory. He handed over the gun case he had taken from the monastery. "I want this checked out now, and I want the rifling matched against the bullets used in the Luciano children's murder and the Paluso murder, and I want it done by tonight."

The technician moaned, but he carried the case to a long trestle table where three men were working. Pirelli followed.

"Did you come up with anything from the gunsmith's?"

The assistant paused. "The reports with Inspector Mincelli."

"Give me a rundown."

"Well, as far as I can remember, it's all in the report."

"I heard you the first time," Pirelli snapped.

The assistant took a file from a cabinet. "The unused cartridge found in the Armadillo Club was the same type used to blow Carolla's head off. The fragments taken from the corpse had the same drilled grooves as the unused bullet, and we verified that they had been made with a drill found at the gunsmith's. Similar grooves, also made by the same type of drill but not the same one, were found on the bullet fragments taken from the Luciano and Paluso children."

Pirelli interrupted. "Got any idea of the type of gun used in the kids' murders? Could the bullets have been fired from a forty-four magnum? I brought one in. It's loaded, two bullets in the chamber."

The assistant slammed the filing cabinet shut. "Look, we are working overtime down here. There're more fragments of bullets around here than you've had hot dinners. If the gun you brought in is the one, then, when we've checked it out, I'll let you know. It's not our job to make guesses."

Pirelli gave the assistant a hard look and turned to walk out. The man called after him, "What about prints from the weapon you brought in? You want it checked for prints?"

Pirelli hesitated, then gave a tight nod. He had been so eager to bring his find in that he had forgotten. "Yeah, no one's touched it."

"Except you, right? You must have handled it to find out it was still loaded?"

Pirelli flushed. "Yeah . . . You've got my prints, so you can eliminate them, and . . . you're doing a great job."

The assistant muttered an obscenity under his breath as Pirelli walked out.

Pirelli was irritated to find Ancora using his typewriter again. "Don't you have an office of your own?"

Ancora grinned. "Not anymore. It's a shoebox at the end of the corridor. Had a good day?"

"Yep, and it's not over. Take a look at this. . . . An old brother at the monastery gave it to me, very furtively. There's a photograph of Luka at twelve, maybe thirteen. Get it blown up, may help. And he's got very distinctive blond hair all right, almost albino, blue eyes, about five-ten and a half to eleven. According to Brother Guido, he's pretty strong."

Ancora looked at the photo and wrinkled his nose. "Jesus Christ, is this a kid, the one in the wheelchair?"