Friends in High Places (29 page)

Brunetti turned away from them and looked around the room. A pile of stained mattresses was heaped against one wall. Beside it lay the pieces of clothing - he realized only when he looked back at the dead couple that they were half naked - which they had discarded in their haste to do whatever it was they did on those mattresses. He saw a bloody syringe and the memory rushed at him of a poem Paola had read to him once in which the poet tried to seduce a woman by telling her that their blood was mingled inside the flea that had drunk blood from both of them. At the time, he’d thought it an insane way to view the union of man and woman, but it was no more insane than the needle that lay on the floor. Beside it lay a few discarded plastic envelopes, probably not much bigger than the ones that had been found in the pocket of Roberto Patta’s jacket.

Downstairs, he pulled out the
telefonino
he had thought to carry that day and called the Questura, telling them what he had found and where to come to find him. The voice of professionalism told him to return to the room where the two young people lay and see what else he could discover. He chose to remain deaf to it and, instead, stood idly in a patch of sun in front of the building opposite while he waited for the others to come.

They eventually did, and he dispatched them upstairs, though he resisted the temptation to tell them that, as there were no workers in the building that day, they could get on with their investigation of the scene. There was nothing to be gained from a cheap gibe, and it would make no difference to them to learn that they had been duped the last time.

He asked who they’d called to examine the bodies and was glad to learn it was Rizzardi. He didn’t move when the men went into the building and was still standing there twenty minutes later when the pathologist arrived. They nodded at one another by way of greeting.

‘Another one?’ Rizzardi asked.

‘Two,’ Brunetti said, turning toward the building and leading the way.

The two men made their way upstairs with little difficulty, the shutters all open now and light flooding in. At the top of the stairs they were drawn, moth-like, to the bright lights of the technicians that spilled out of the room and down the corridor, beckoning them to come and see this new proof of the fragility of the body, the vanity of hope.

Inside, Rizzardi went over and examined the bodies from above. Then he slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and bent down to touch the girl’s, and then the boy’s, throat. He set his leather bag on the floor and squatted down beside the girl, then reached across her body and slowly rolled her away from the boy and on to her back. She lay, staring up at the ceiling, and one shattered hand came drifting across her body and slapped down on to the floor, startling Brunetti, who had chosen to avert his eyes.

He came closer and stood above Rizzardi, looking down. Her short hair was hennaed a dark red and lay close to her head, greasy and dirty. He noticed that her teeth, which showed through the slit of her bloody mouth, were glistening and perfect. Blood had hardened around her mouth, though the flow from her savaged nose had apparently run into her eyes as she lay on the floor. Had she been pretty? Had she been plain?

Rizzardi placed a hand on Zecchino’s chin and tilted his head toward the light. ‘They were both killed by blows to the head,’ he said, pointing to a place on the left of Zecchino’s forehead. ‘It’s not easy to do and requires a lot of strength. Or a lot of blows. And the dying isn’t quick. But at least they don’t feel much, not after the first few blows.’ He looked at the girl again, turned her face to the side to examine a darkening concavity at the back of her head. He looked down at two marks on her upper arms. ‘I’d say she was held while she was hit, possibly with a piece of wood, or maybe a pipe,’

Neither of them thought it necessary to comment on this or to add, ‘Like Rossi.’

Rizzardi got to his feet, slipped off the gloves, and put them in the pocket of his jacket.

‘When can you do it?’ was all Brunetti could think of to say.

‘This afternoon, I think.’ Rizzardi knew better than to ask Brunetti if he wanted to attend. ‘If you call me after five, I should know something.’ Before Brunetti could respond, Rizzardi added, ‘But it won’t be much, not much more than what we see here.’

After Rizzardi had left, the crime team began their deadly parody of domesticity: sweeping, dusting, picking up small things that had fallen to the floor and seeing that they were put in safe places. Brunetti forced himself to go through the pockets of the young people, first the discarded clothing that lay beside and atop the mattresses, then, after he’d accepted a pair of lab gloves from Del Vecchio, the clothing that they still wore. In the breast pocket of Zecchino’s shirt, he found three more plastic envelopes, each containing white powder. He passed them to Del Vecchio, who carefully labelled them and placed them inside his evidence kit.

Rizzardi, he was glad to see, had closed their eyes. Zecchino’s naked legs reminded him of the legs he’d seen in photos of those stick figures standing at the front gates of concentration camps: there was only skin and sinew, little sign of muscle. And how knobby his knees were. One pelvic bone was exposed, cutting sharp. Red pustules covered both of his thighs, though Brunetti couldn’t tell if they were suppurating scars from old injections or symptoms of skin disease. The girl, though alarmingly thin and almost breast-less, was not as cadaverous as Zecchino. At the realization that both were now, and for ever, cadaverous, Brunetti turned away from them and went downstairs.

Because he was in charge of this part of the investigation, the least he could do for the dead was remain until the bodies had been removed and the lab teams were satisfied that they had found, sampled, and examined everything that might be of future use to the police in finding the killers. He walked to the end of the
calle
and looked across at the garden on the other side, glad that forsythia always succeeded in looking so happy, however hastily dressed.

They would have to ask, of course, canvass the area and see who could remember seeing anyone going into the
calle
or into the building. When he turned around, he saw that a small group of people had already gathered at the other end of the
calle,
where it opened out on a larger street, and he started towards them, the first questions already forming in his mind.

As he expected, no one had seen anything, neither that day nor at any time in the last few weeks. No one had any idea that it was possible to get into the building. No one had ever seen Zecchino, nor could they remember ever having seen a girl. Since there was no way to force them to speak, Brunetti didn’t make the effort to disbelieve them, but he knew from long experience that, when dealing with the police, few Italians could remember much beyond their own names.

The other questioning could wait until after lunch or the evening, when the people in the buildings in the area could be expected to be at home. But no one, he knew, would admit having seen anything. The word would quickly spread that two drug addicts had died in the building, and it would be the rare person who would see their deaths as anything special, certainly not as something worth the trouble of being questioned by the police. Why put up with endless hours of being treated as a suspect? Why run the risk of having to take the time off from work to be asked further questions or to attend a trial?

He knew the police were not viewed with anything even approaching sympathy by the general public; he knew how badly the police treated them, no matter how they fell into the orbit of an investigation, either as suspect or witness. For years he had tried to train the men under him to treat witnesses as people who were willing to be of help, as, in a sense, colleagues, only to walk past questioning rooms where they were being hectored, threatened, verbally abused. No wonder people fled in fear from the very idea of providing information to the police: he’d do the same.

The thought of lunch was intolerable: so was the idea of taking the memory of what he had just seen into the company of his family. He called Paola then went back to the Questura and sat there, doing whatever he could to dull his mind with routine, waiting for Rizzardi to call. It would not be news, the cause of their deaths, but it would at least be information, and he could put that in a file and perhaps take comfort from having imposed this small bit of order upon the chaos of sudden death.

For the next four hours, he sorted through two months’ backlog of papers and reports, neatly writing his initials at the bottom of folders he’d examined without understanding. It took him all afternoon, but he cleared his desk of papers, even went so far as to take them down to Signorina Elettra’s office and, in her absence, leave her a note, asking that she see to their filing or consignment to whoever was due to read them next.

When this was done, he went down to the bar at the bridge and had a glass of mineral water and a toasted cheese sandwich. He picked up that day’s
Gazzettino
from the counter and saw, in the second section, the article he had planted. As he expected, it said far more than he had, suggesting that arrest was imminent, conviction inescapable, and the drug trade in the Veneto effectively destroyed. He dropped the paper and went back to the Questura, noticing on the way that the sparse yellow tops of forsythia were pushing their way over the top of the wall on the other side of the canal.

At his desk, he checked his watch and saw that it was late enough to call Rizzardi. He was just reaching for the phone when it rang.

‘Guido,’ the pathologist began with no introduction, ‘when you looked at those kids this morning, after I left, did you remember to wear gloves?’

It took a moment for Brunetti to overcome his surprise, and he had to think for a moment before he remembered. ‘Yes. Del Vecchio gave me a pair.’

Rizzardi asked a second question. ‘Did you see her teeth?’

Again, Brunetti had to put himself back in the room. ‘I noticed only that it looked as if they were all there, not like with most drug addicts. Why do you want to know?’

‘There was blood on her teeth and in her mouth,’ Rizzardi explained.

The words took Brunetti back to that squalid room and the two figures draped across one another. ‘I know. It was all over her face.’

‘That was her blood,’ Rizzardi said, putting heavy emphasis on the pronoun. Before Brunetti could question him, he went on, ‘The blood in her mouth was someone else’s.’

‘Zecchino’s?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, my God, she bit him,’ Brunetti said, and then asked, ‘Did you get enough to...’ and stopped, uncertain about just what it was Rizzardi would be able to get. He’d read endless reports about DNA matching and blood and semen samples that could be used as evidence, but he lacked both the scientific knowledge to understand how it all worked as well as the intellectual curiosity to care about anything other than the fact that it could be done and that positive identifications could be made from the results.

‘Yes,’ Rizzardi answered. ‘If you can find me the person, I have enough to match him to the blood in her mouth.’ Rizzardi paused and Brunetti could tell from the tension on the line that he had much more to say.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘They were positive.’

What did he mean? The results of his tests? The samples? ‘I don’t understand,’ Brunetti admitted.

‘Both of them, the boy and the girl. They were positive.’

‘Dio mio!’
Brunetti exclaimed, understanding at last.

‘It’s the first thing we check with addicts. He was much farther along than she was; the virus had really taken hold. He was already far gone, couldn’t have lived another three months. Didn’t you notice?’

Yes, Brunetti had noticed, but he hadn’t understood, or perhaps he had been unwilling to look too closely or to understand what he saw. He had paid no real attention to how thin Zecchino was or to what that might mean.

Instead of answering Rizzardi’s question, Brunetti asked, ‘What about the girl?’

‘She wasn’t as bad; the infection wasn’t as far advanced. That’s probably why she was strong enough to try to fight them off.’

‘But what about these new medicines? Why weren’t they taking any?’ Brunetti demanded, as if he thought Rizzardi would have an answer.

‘I don’t know why they weren’t, Guido,’ Rizzardi said patiently, remembering that he was speaking to a man with children little younger than the two victims. ‘But I saw no sign in their blood, or anywhere inside them, that either one of them was taking anything. Drug addicts usually don’t.’