Flowers over the Inferno, page 18
Teresa was still gripping her gun, and she felt her hand shake as she lowered it.
“That’s not his skin. He’s peeled the skin off and put the clothes back on.”
She had to walk away to regain her composure. When she looked again at the scene she saw a shape on the road lit up by the car’s headlights. For a radius of two meters around it, the ground wasn’t white: the floury snow there looked like a pool of strawberry ice cream. The involuntary association made Teresa feel sick. It was blood. This was the spot where the killer had celebrated his ritual.
She squatted down and swept the snow aside, exposing the hide of an animal.
“Maybe that’s how he makes them stop,” she said out loud to ensure Marini heard her.
He went up to her. His face was drawn, and he looked deeply distressed. He wiped away the rest of the snow and managed with difficulty to turn the carcass over. It was a wild boar.
“The legs are tied together with rope,” he said. “He must have used a trap to catch it. He didn’t shoot it. The neck is broken . . . That would require a huge amount of strength.”
Teresa nodded.
“Our killer doesn’t like weapons. He kills and hunts with his bare hands.”
“But that uses up a great deal more energy.”
“And it’s risky. Never underestimate the strength people can muster when they’re fighting for their lives. But they don’t care.”
Marini looked at her.
“Who’s they?” he asked.
“People like him. They’re obsessed with blood. Ed Kemper would dissect the bodies of his victims to play around with their internal organs.”
“Do you mind if I throw up?”
“Not all over my evidence, Inspector.”
“Is that what you think the killer is doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“The skin is not here. Did he take that with him, too?”
Teresa sighed. She felt tired and defeated. There was no sign of the rage she desperately needed to feel.
“Call headquarters,” she commanded. “And get the forensics team here.”
She rose wearily to her feet and noticed a bloodied rock on the ground a little way off, far from the tracks around the jeep. It was sheltered by the branches of a fir tree, and the snow hadn’t covered it. The killer might have used it to knock the victim unconscious, perhaps with a blow to the back of his head.
She went back to the body and looked more closely at its head. She tried to look under the fur hat without touching anything: even the scalp had been removed.
She felt a light puff of air stroke her face. It was warm. She looked uncomprehendingly at the body’s blank eyes. And when the truth began to dawn on her, she felt like her body might finally fail her.
“He’s alive!” she shouted.
-49-
Bergdorf, 12 November 1978
Day 94
Initial observations indicate that the subjects remain healthy, exhibiting no signs of illness or serious pathology, despite continuing to show symptoms of what our esteemed colleague René Spitz termed “anaclitic depression.” I would describe their condition as a waking stupor.
Interestingly, one individual has shown a partially dissimilar reaction. Unlike the others, this subject demonstrates a high level of responsiveness, despite the absence of external stimuli. Though he, too, lacks facial expressions, the attendant has twice described him as appearing to be “aware.”
As I had predicted, he has begun to reject physical contact and has responded aggressively to an attempt to approach him. The attendant is convinced that the subject exerts some kind of negative influence upon the others.
Though it has no scientific basis, and rests on mere superstition, her suspicion indirectly supports my own theory: that the subject possesses the traits of a “primitive alpha male.” In Freud’s definition, he is a “Father,” a dominant male, an individual equipped with exceptional authority, capable of ruling over the masses and subjugating the primitive horde—the earliest incarnation of human society.
The “Father” possesses a mysterious power that might be termed animal magnetism. Like a hypnotist, he uses his eyes to exert his influence. There is notably something sinister about hypnosis itself: one takes without asking, one enters uninvited.
We must conclude that the subject in question possesses what Freud described as mana.
In light of the attendant’s observations, I have studied the behavior of the individuals situated in proximity to the subject.
As of now, I can report that those closest to the alpha male are deteriorating at a slower rate than the others, as if some form of communication were helping them overcome their isolation and draw strength from elsewhere (from the “Father”?).
We must thus concur with Spitz’s closing observations: social interaction is crucial to human survival.
To those who might object that the subject is too young to manifest the characteristics of a “Father,” I shall reply in Freud’s words:
“Just as primitive man virtually survives in every individual, so the primal horde may arise once more out of any random crowd.”
That is what is happening here.
-50-
Superintendent Battaglia had decided to follow the ambulance that was carrying Abramo Viesel to the hospital in the city. Massimo, who had insisted on driving, was spurring the car as fast as it would go in the wake of the ambulance’s blaring sirens. Neither of them said a word on the way. He was pretending to concentrate on the road, she on the view outside the window, and on those sweets of hers that so irritated him. He didn’t understand how she could be so cavalier with her health. She was popping them into her mouth one after the other, so slowly, he thought, that she had to be doing it on purpose to goad him into voicing his disapproval. But Massimo didn’t take the bait. His sense of unease left little room for anything but silence. He could picture Teresa’s thoughts and knew she must in turn know his. At long last they had something in common, but it was something horrific: an act of violence so extreme that it numbed the soul. Together, they had witnessed a profound darkness and come away from it with their stomachs cramping and their hearts burdened.
They arrived at the A&E to find a frenzy of activity as the paramedics unloaded the stretcher. Soon, Viesel was swallowed by the sliding doors, and calm reigned once more.
“You should go home,” said the superintendent.
Massimo opened his mouth to object, but she didn’t give him the chance.
“I’ll stay. Go home and rest for a couple of hours. I’ll call you when it’s time.”
It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order, though her voice when she imparted it was so tired that he could barely hear it.
Massimo watched her walk toward the entrance, looking exhausted in mind and body. It was obvious that something inside her was beginning to give; something had cracked and was making her falter. Yet she stayed on her feet and kept going, despite everything.
He returned to his car, turned the engine on, and realized that he didn’t really feel like holing up in his apartment—that place he still didn’t quite consider a home.
He drove aimlessly around the city center, hoping that it might relax him, but having to deal with the traffic and with reckless pedestrians worsened his mood. He was waiting at a red light when he remembered that he wasn’t too far from the public library.
Why not, he thought.
When the light changed to green, he took a turn instead of driving straight through.
He had already devoured the books he’d borrowed earlier, reading well into the night and during the short breaks he took for lunch and dinner, and he’d been surprised to find he was actually interested in the material. He wanted to continue this journey into the psyche of a murderer partly to better understand how Teresa Battaglia worked: what she thought, why she thought it.
At that time of night, the library was full of university students. Massimo tried to blend in and made a point of not looking for the girl who’d pegged him for a sociopath the last time he’d come. He made straight for the section he was interested in and started scanning the book spines.
Would Teresa Battaglia also come here, back in the day, and turn her face up to the shelves, a fire inside her urging her to find out more, to look beyond the surface of things? He could picture her there, the temples of her glasses between her lips, constantly blowing her red fringe out of her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
He turned around. It was her, the librarian girl, and this time she was smiling at him.
“Hi,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, biting her lip.
Massimo shrugged.
“What for?” he asked.
“For thinking you were some kind of murderous psycho.”
He laughed.
“What makes you think I’m not?” he teased.
“I saw you on TV, on the news.”
“Oh, so psychos can’t be on TV?”
She laughed, too.
“You could have told me you were a policeman.”
“You didn’t exactly give me time to mention it,” he replied.
He saw her lower her eyes briefly. She must be feeling guilty.
Shit, now I’m beginning to think like the superintendent, too. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried about that.
“My name is Sara.”
“Massimo.”
“I was hoping you’d come back. I’d like to make amends,” she said, and took from his hands the book he’d been leafing through. “This one’s not for you.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
He watched her examining the shelves. She seemed to know what she was looking for, and when at last she found it, she stood on tiptoes to pick it out.
“Here,” she said, handing it over.
Massimo studied it dubiously.
“The Paths of the Mind and its Deviancies,” he read aloud. “A Manual of Psychology.”
“Someone returned it just the other day. I thought of you straight away.”
“That’s strange. I don’t see any mention of dismembered corpses or maimed victims.”
Sara glared at him, but soon a smile took over.
“To catch the killer, you have to figure out the way he thinks, right?” she asked.
“Huh. I feel like I’ve heard those words before.”
“Here’s my number, by the way.”
Massimo looked at the piece of paper she’d just given him, and his cheeks turned red. It was, he thought, rather charmingly old-fashioned.
It was in times like these that Teresa found herself wondering how she could love her job when it offered such a disturbing insight into the cruelty humans were capable of. She could not understand why people feared death and not life. Life was savage, a fratricidal battle that always left a trail of blood behind.
Abramo Viesel was battling, too, in a hospital room somewhere on that floor. Teresa had waited until a doctor had emerged and updated her on his conditions, which were critical. It was stuffy inside the waiting room. Teresa opened a window and stood there, facing the garden, looking for fresh air and silence.
“Coffee?”
She turned around. Marini was back. He hadn’t done as he’d been told; he was wearing the same clothes as when they’d parted earlier and looked just as exhausted.
“No, thanks,” she said.
“Now what do we do?”
Teresa looked out at the garden again.
“Lucia Kravina’s mother, the kid with the SUV, and now Viesel . . . I can’t figure out why he’s let three of the victims live,” she mused.
“Four.”
They turned around to find Parri in the room. The coroner nodded in greeting, touching Teresa’s arm, and peering intently into her face.
“How are you?” he asked.
Teresa smiled. She knew he wasn’t one to ask that question casually. He must already be assessing her fatigue levels.
“I hope you’re not going to ask me if I’ve eaten and slept enough in the past twenty-four hours,” she said.
Parri studied her over the frame of his glasses.
“This is consuming you,” he said gravely.
Teresa saw how surprised Marini seemed at Parri’s tone, but his unflinching honesty was something she’d become used to. Parri was her friend, and he’d been worrying about her for what felt like an eternity. Teresa could still remember what he’d said to her one night many years ago as they stood by the corpse of a victim she had been too late to save: one day, this job is going to hurt you one too many times.
Teresa wondered if that moment had finally come. She looked at her reflection in the window.
“How can you tell?” she said, examining the bags under her eyes. “Is it because I look like shit?”
Parri burst out laughing, but his eyes retained a trace of concern.
“I was about to call you,” he told her. “The results of the tests on Roberto Valent’s body have come in.”
Teresa regained her focus.
“And?”
“He died from cardiac arrest, I would say about an hour or two after the attack.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“That means the killer must have stayed with him all that time.”
“Yes. It’s unbelievable.”
“He doesn’t kill. He never meant to. The death was unintentional,” Teresa deduced.
Parri nodded his agreement.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
“Maybe it’s a refusal to accept what he’s done? But it can’t be, it doesn’t make any sense. Nothing does. Serial killers aren’t conscious of the seriousness of their actions. They regard their victims as objects. They don’t feel empathy; they’ve never developed it, often because of some kind of trauma in their past. They don’t show remorse because for them, killing is a necessity.”
“Perhaps this is not your typical serial killer,” Marini suggested.
Teresa shook her head.
“Avoidance of a violent act is just not compatible with the profile of a serial killer,” she noted. “The ultimate aim of their actions is always to bring death. It’s their only relief, the only thing that can temporarily quieten them.”
“I guess the only person who could help you make sense of it is the woman, Lucia Kravina’s mother,” said Parri. “But they’ve put her in an induced coma, and I think it’ll be a while yet before they bring her out of it.”
Marini looked at Teresa. “You told me about Igor Rosman and about his collection of feet,” he said. “What if our killer’s doing the same?”
Teresa tried to look at the facts from a fresh perspective.
“He’s not collecting human limbs, it’s something else,” she said. “He’s taken eyes . . .”
“Nose and ears.”
“And now skin. What will it be next time?”
Marini picked up her coat and put on his own.
“We still haven’t found Lucas Ebran,” he said. “And it’s the fifth of December today—Saint Nicholas’s Day: the perfect night to kill undisturbed.”
-51-
Once again the time had come when the whole appearance of the village was transformed for one winter night—like the moon when it is gradually obscured by encroaching shadows even when the rest of the sky is clear.
He had looked for the source of those shadows but had never been able to find it. He had searched for it on the mountain slopes and down in the valley. He had examined the heavens and the earth beneath his feet. Nothing. He’d understood, then, that the darkness came from somewhere beyond, from the unfathomable.
There was a shiver of that darkness inside him, too. It spread out every time he took a life, and it made him feel cold; it thrashed about like a trapped animal, but vanished as soon as he paused to capture its sound.
He looked at his hands. The smell of blood wafted up to his nostrils. He wondered at his own unease. All around him, life and death were engaged in their daily dance, like a butterfly and a moth at twilight.
That night the people of the village were going to face their fears, disguised as creatures half human and half beast. They would wear long horns the likes of which he had never seen in the wild, drape themselves in animal pelts, and brandish sticks and torches; they would paint their faces until they looked fearsome; that night, they would become like him.
He wore his sheepskin cloak and wrapped it around his waist with a strip of leather. He put on his headdress. The shadows projected onto the walls by its majestic antlers looked like the branches of a bare tree.
He dipped his fingers into the bowl and rubbed their tips over his skin. He watched his reflection on the pewter turn white.
He stood like that for a moment, staring into his own eyes. Then, he picked up the object that had recently captured his attention: a book he’d found abandoned in the village. He had barely understood the words at first, but now they evoked clear images in his mind. He started leafing through it and stopped at the page he’d marked with a leaf from an oak tree.
He opened and closed his mouth a few times—a hatchling testing its wings before leaping into the void—until the words began to flow.
“Yes, su-such you shall be, you, qu-queen of all graces, after the last s-sacraments, when you go beneath the grass and waxy flowers, to mold among the skeletons.”
He looked at the skull beside him. It had eyes now, and it had a face, but it was still missing the warmth of life.
He had captured a lizard for him, so that he wouldn’t feel lonely when he left, and so that he wouldn’t be scared at night. He’d found the animal inside the deepest of crevasses and had woken it from its winter sleep. Unlike the other creatures that hibernated during winter, this one hadn’t curled up in a ball because its body didn’t require any warmth; its blood always ran cold, even in the summer. He’d tied it to his companion’s hand with a piece of string. He caressed its tiny head as he was about to leave, and in doing so brushed against the skeleton’s phalanges. They made a brief clicking sound, and so he waited, hoping this creature, too, might rise from its sleep as the lizard had done.
