Daughter of Ashes, page 11
She pulled the curtains shut against the night, went to the kitchen, and turned on the stove.
16
Twenty-seven years ago
THE NAUSEA HAD BEEN bothering her all morning. Teresa had been forced to skip lunch, though she’d made up for it in the late afternoon with some Chinese takeout she had wolfed down in the office. She had thrown it up afterward, then felt hungry again, polishing off a pack of cookies that she kept in a drawer in the filing cabinet. The nausea had passed, replaced by heartburn.
She was exhausted, and it was only the beginning.
There were two large files on her desk full of material on the case of the “killer of the pensioners,” but the investigation was languishing. Although the situation was obvious enough, if not yet fully clarified, Albert refused to take any of the necessary steps, insisting instead on lengthy witness interrogations, which were getting them nowhere.
Maybe she should be the one to take the initiative, but at what cost?
It wasn’t the risk of being ridiculed or rebuffed by the rest of the team that she was worried about, but the possibility that her ideas might be dismissed by the person who had been her one guiding light in the blizzard she was forging through. A mentor figure who had inspired her both as a human being, and as a professional.
At what cost? she asked herself once more.
She grabbed a piece of paper, staring at it as if the fate of many—including her own—could be glimpsed on its blank surface, and finally began to write. A few sentences in English: only those that were strictly necessary, and would be enough for her correspondent to determine the presence or absence of evil.
She read through the note several times, made a few corrections, scrunched it up into a ball, and wrote a fresh one.
It was now or never.
She faxed the sheet to a number in Chicago, though she wasn’t even sure whether it was still working, or if there was anyone there at the other end—ideally him—who would receive her plea for help. She wasn’t hoping for a swift response; any answer would do, if it could reassure her that she hadn’t completely lost her mind.
The machine’s rollers swallowed the sheet up and churned it back out with a series of sounds heralding an invisible transmission that would cross thousands of kilometers in just a few seconds.
Teresa pushed back the taste of bile rising from her stomach. It was done; now she just had to be patient.
She opened her notebook and read through what she had written so far, jotting down some additional thoughts. Putting things in writing helped her to think and to ask herself new questions.
She was chewing the cap of her pen, pondering the mysterious ritual the killer performed with every murder. Each gesture, every detail was a powerful symbol that required correct interpretation. Nothing was done by accident, for the perpetrator’s hand—like thousands before it—was guided by the principle of economy. As long as his emotional needs are fulfilled, the killer will tend toward the same modus operandi every time.
His emotional needs. What were they, in this case? It wasn’t enough to search for footprints and traces of blood, unlikely eyewitnesses, and—even more unlikely—a standard motive behind the crimes. What they needed to do was to chase down a shadow and ask it following question: “What do you get from the death of an innocent man?”
She was startled by the sound of an incoming fax, and leapt to her feet. She watched in disbelief as the machine produced its answer, one line at a time. She nearly ripped the sheet out. The ideas it outlined were clear, and Teresa had no trouble translating them.
Dear Teresa, I have seen this happen before, with different signatures.
You must ask yourself: what kind of danger does the victim represent? Understanding that is fundamental to understanding him.
The killer undressed the victim so that you would not find fibers or other traces on his clothes. He knows the process: he has either been in prison before, or he follows crime news. He might be a reader of detective stories.
When he strikes again—and he will—you must make sure your mind is a clean slate when you arrive at the crime scene: it will be a scene he’s prepared especially for you all.
R.
True to form, Robert had not indulged in any unnecessary flourishes. But he was there across the ocean, he believed her, and he was telling her what to do next. He hadn’t cast the slightest doubt on the validity of her assumptions. She felt a little less alone.
She couldn’t sit still and wait for some fortuitous development that would help move the investigation forward—that is, if it even arrived in time.
The light from the hallway dimmed. Her colleagues must be going home, but Teresa knew that Albert would not have left his office yet. He was furious about the impasse they were in, thrashing about in the cage he himself had built. It was up to her to release him, even at the risk of getting bitten.
It cost her a hefty chunk of pride to knock on his door, and an even greater amount to utter the words with which she announced her arrival.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Superintendent, but could I have a minute of your time? I need to talk to you.”
She saw him motion at her to come inside. As she stood there, he kept his head bent over the papers and folders he had been perusing, and let several minutes pass before he finally spoke.
“Have you come to apologize?”
“What?”
“That ridiculous tantrum you threw earlier. You embarrassed me in front of the whole team.”
Paternalism. A toxic paternalism Teresa had realized she was being forced to inhale wherever she went. She had nothing to apologize for. He was the one who had grabbed her in that brutish manner she wouldn’t have dreamed of inflicting on anyone, treating her as if he had power over her—a power transcending anything to do with office hierarchies.
“I didn’t like it, Teresa. I didn’t like it at all.”
She didn’t like it, either—the way she was constantly being pushed aside, leapfrogged, her work diminished and undermined. Now he’d had the temerity to touch her; it must never happen again.
“I’m not here to apologize, Albert.”
He finally deigned to look at her.
“We have no use for hysterical little women, here. How do you expect to have even the slightest shred of credibility after this? Do you know what they’ve been saying about you?”
“No, and I’m not interested.”
“That the whole investigation hinges on your hormonal oscillations. How very authoritative you are, Inspector Battaglia. A lady inspector—good God, even the sound of it is ridiculous.”
Teresa could feel herself flushing, as if she were the one who ought to feel ashamed—not him and all those others just like him. Before she spoke again, she bit her lip until she could feel the hardness of her teeth. If she wanted to survive, both in there and in the wider world, she had to make that hardness her own.
“Albert, the killer bit into his victim’s body, then covered up the marks with cuts so that we wouldn’t be able to take a dental impression.”
“I’ve read Parri’s report, obviously. Are you now both convinced that I should be looking for an aspiring cannibal?”
“I’m trying to show you how his mind works.”
“How you think it works.”
“It’s just statistics. The analysis of hundreds of cases has shown that criminals with similar traits end up committing similar crimes. Bite marks are typical signs of uncontrollable rage. He literally wanted to feed on the violence he was meting out. He was hungry, and greedy. But crucially, there are no bite marks on the second victim.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t quite to the killer’s taste.”
“Could you try to take this seriously?”
“I was about to ask you to do the same, Teresa.”
“The body of the first victim was left where it would be most easily noticed, while the second was concealed. This indicates that the perpetrator is in the process of perfecting his modus operandi. He is showing himself to be an organized killer, Albert. He is clearly of sound mind—and that is terrible news. He’s learning, he is controlling his urges, and he has also become more violent. And more dangerous too, because . . .”
“Because he kills and has already done so twice? Thank you for the superlative insight; I’m sure it will prove invaluable to the progress of the investigation.”
Teresa planted her palms on the cluttered surface of his desk, brushing manners and convention aside. Inside she was vibrating with energy, and she had to make sure he felt it, too, if she was going to persuade him to follow her lead.
“No. He is dangerous because he makes plans. From his perspective, he is channeling his aggression in a more constructive fashion. He knows our methods, and knows how to trick us, nudging us further and further away from the truth and from himself.”
Albert stood up and walked around the desk. Exhaustion had fallen like a gray shadow across his face, but there was also a growing anger there, which—as was his wont—he would mold around the shape of others, turning it into a trap.
“You say he knows how to trick us, but what you mean is me. I’m the one getting tricked. Is that it? You’re questioning my abilities, and by extension my leadership of this unit, too.”
“That is not what I meant.”
Albert raised his hand to silence her. It hovered between them for a moment, but Teresa felt as if it were physically pressing against her mouth. Quiet. Shut up.
“Yes it is. But what you should really be asking yourself is: Are you part of this squad? Does this squad need you? Does it even want you? You’re not a team player; everyone can see that.”
Her breath caught.
“That’s not true. I’m trying.”
“But you’re not getting anywhere. On a personal level, you’re a failure. On a strictly professional level, your contribution is negligible. I can see you’re fascinated by psychological profiling. Great, I’ll give you one. Yours.” He leaned toward her with his arms crossed over his chest, though he probably wanted to shake her instead. “A woman with obvious self-esteem issues, held hostage by her own frailties and obsessions, itching to prove herself, yet totally incapable of turning her intentions into concrete results. These fantasies of yours are nothing but the delusions of grandeur of someone who’s read far too many murder mysteries and convinced themselves they are the hero. But this is my investigation, Teresa. I’m the one running it. If you want to be the hero, take the superintendents’ exam, pass it, and lead your own team.”
Teresa shook her head as if to brush off any dangerous thoughts. She mustn’t let them take hold and start growing roots.
“He’s the one who’s been reading murder mysteries. The killer! He’s well-informed. He follows the crime bulletins, he reads specialist publications. He knows that traces of evidence can stick to a victim’s clothes, for instance. That’s why he stripped them.”
Albert narrowed his eyes. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and swiped it over her cheek. Teresa backed away, but it was too late.
Her foundation was gone, revealing a new bruise. It hadn’t been caused by a slap this time, but by a book thrown across the room in a fit of rage.
“Teresa . . .”
As he spoke her name—which, in that moment, meant something else altogether, and carried with it a whole host of unsaid words—his voice sounded almost tender, so much so that she was tempted to give in, one human being to another.
“Let me help you, Teresa.”
She was shaking. He ran his finger over those parts of her skin that had turned purple. Her discomfort morphed into nausea.
“Come to me, and I promise I will help you.”
Teresa looked up, confused. The unspoken “if” in his offer implied that whatever his intentions might be, they were contingent on something else.
“Come to you?”
“You seem surprised.”
“That’s not the word I would have used.”
“There are many ways of loving, Teresa.”
On hearing this admission, Teresa took a step backward.
Albert noticed, and looked displeased.
“I thought you’d realized. Or perhaps you have, but think it inappropriate.” He twitched. “I’m fed up with seeing scorn in your eyes every time you look at me.”
Teresa wasn’t sure whether he really meant the things he was saying.
“Albert . . .”
As he returned to his seat, Superintendent Lona was a picture of composure, and seemed to have already moved on from their exchange, but Teresa could have sworn she could feel the blazing heat of the anger he was emitting. He pretended to concentrate once more on the files he had been looking at when Teresa had interrupted him earlier.
“Albert, what will it take for you to understand that the killer is going to strike again—and very soon, judging by his behavior so far?”
He pointed at the door.
“I could say the same about your husband, Inspector Battaglia, and yet you seem disinclined to do anything to stop him. Now get out of my sight.”
17
Today
THE GARLIC HAD BEGUN to sizzle, browning in the olive oil Parisi had brought her from Calabria. Teresa chopped the cherry tomatoes up and threw them in the pan. She added salt and pepper, and stirred a few times. She sautéed them and let them soften until they released their juices. From the table, her mobile phone alerted her to another message from Blanca, who was checking in on Teresa while she was out having dinner with her father. Perhaps she wasn’t having a particularly enjoyable evening.
Teresa added oregano, chili, and roughly chopped Taggiasca olives, then turned off the gas. A pot of spaghetti was simmering beside it, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam that seemed to carry the aroma of all the herbs and spices she was using.
Her doorbell rang, announcing a visitor. Teresa glanced at the clock. No one ever came to see her at dinner time. She wiped her hands on her apron, and as she walked through the living room, she tidied up some magazines and plumped up the cushions.
She parted the curtains and peered out of the window. The man had his back to her, and was crouching down to tie up his shoelaces, but she would have recognized that troublesome backside anywhere; it had drawn more than a stray glance ever since it had first turned up at headquarters, and she’d been tempted—once or twice—to give it a well-placed kick.
She leaned with her shoulders against the wall. What did he want now?
In truth she knew exactly what he wanted, and was familiar with the need that had brought him here. She wasn’t ready, she never would be, and yet he kept insisting, pushing her all the way to her limit at a time in her life when corralling and ordering her emotions was proving to be an impossible task. Teresa exploded with rage every time she felt sad, and with sadness when she was overcome with love. This illness was toying with her like a breeze with a dry leaf; torn from its branch, it was at the mercy of the weather, of the heavens, and of God.
She took off her apron and swung the door open.
“Marini!”
The inspector sprung upright with a sheepish smile.
“Superintendent.”
Teresa gave him a once over. He looked like he was ready for a date, his hair still damp, his shirt fresh from the hanger, that scent of rain and leather Teresa had learned to recognize, and which encapsulated him so perfectly. It filled their office even when she left the windows wide open, and in the evenings she would find it lingering on her clothes, sticking there just as its human source stuck to her during the day. Soon it would become the scent of a stranger.
Marini was holding a bag.
“Any news on Giacomo?”
She saw him tense up.
“No. No news.”
“Then why . . . ?”
Marini stammered as he spoke.
“I thought we could . . . I thought we might talk about the case. Tonight. You . . . and me.”
He’d practically breathed the last two words in.
Teresa was feeling increasingly bewildered.
“I told you I’m not coming back to work. I thought I’d been clear enough.”
He flushed.
“Should I leave?”
She felt a wave of tenderness for him. He seemed to have gone back to being that insecure young man who had first walked toward her one snowy, icy day, up to his knees in mud, dressed to the nines in an outfit that was wholly ill-suited to both location and weather—and running late, to boot.
He must have been so terrified of her, and yet he had never given up.
They’d come so far together in just a few months.
And it had taken so little, now, to send him into a tailspin—because emotions made you fragile, and left you exposed to your opponent’s blows. But she had no intention of hurting him.
“You’re blushing, Marini. What’ve you got there?”
“Ice cream.”
She took the bag.
“Come on in.”
WHEN MASSIMO CROSSED the threshold, his first thought was that after tonight, there would be no going back. Teresa Battaglia had already warned him: nothing would ever be the same again.
It was a little untidy inside, enough to show that the house was lived in, but not neglected. This was the clutter of a creative personality, lively, receptive, needing the objects around it to be in perpetual motion, always at hand, never static and tucked away. It was a house teeming with colors and scents, exotic items, modern art on the walls, and ancient-looking carpets. He could see dozens of books scattered across the living room. Some were open, others had bookmarks peeking out from between ruffled pages, which must have been read and reread countless times. This was the cozy den of a creature who led a solitary yet curious existence, open to all the discoveries the world had to offer.
But to those who had not been lucky enough to get to know her hidden qualities, or who had the misfortune of having to face her as an adversary, Superintendent Battaglia would have appeared to be the antithesis of her home. Massimo never ceased to be impressed by the aura of authority she radiated. It contrasted starkly with her appearance—soft, wide, maternal. She would give him a tongue-lashing if she heard him call her “wide,” yet in that loose, distended figure, Massimo identified an ability to exist fully and powerfully in the world, with every cell and fiber of her being. Her body was emotion made of matter.
