Daughter of Ashes, page 18
“Lorenzi, are you free?”
Her voice came out sounding curt, so that her question was more of a command.
The officer flinched, glancing around the corridor.
“Yes.”
“We need to dig deeper. There must be a connection between the victims. The killer may have taken advantage of some specific circumstance that saw them all involved.”
“We’ve already established that they didn’t know each other.”
“We’ve not established a single thing. I’m not talking about personal acquaintance, but of habits. Pensioners’ clubs, amateur sports associations, dance classes, activities they might have accompanied their grandchildren to . . .”
“We’ve combed through their lives already . . .”
“And we’ll do it again. You will find something. Understood?”
He seemed to be taking stock of his new and wholly unexpected situation. Finally, he nodded, looking at her as if it was the first time he’d seen her.
“Yessir.”
29
Today
DRIVING AT SPEED THROUGH the city’s residential neighborhood, Massimo felt his phone vibrating in the pocket of his blazer. Whoever it was would have to wait.
He skidded to a halt outside Teresa Battaglia’s Liberty-style house. The gate was open.
He sprinted down the driveway. Massimo had been utterly distraught as he’d left the prison, insisting before he walked out on verifying personally that Giacomo Mainardi was locked up in his cell and couldn’t hurt anyone. But even so, after what he had just seen, his gut told him something different. Teresa wasn’t safe.
He furiously pressed the bell until the door swung open. It was Parri.
“I was just calling you, Inspector.”
Massimo walked in.
“Where is she?”
“In the library. I wanted to see you both because there’s something important I need to tell you.”
“So do I, and you’re not going to like it.”
His terror did not fade even when he saw her sitting in an armchair, holding a book, and with the temple tips of her glasses squeezed between her lips, as they always were whenever she was thinking about something. She looked unperturbed, slightly weary, perhaps a little older, and maybe even quite pleased to see him again—though she would never say that aloud.
“Massimo?” said a familiar voice.
“Elena?”
Elena had appeared behind Teresa, bearing a tray of pastries.
“What are you doing here?”
Elena placed the tray on the desk.
“I brought Teresa my books on Egyptian Christianity. I was telling her about our visit to the basilica. Don’t worry, the pastry is for me.”
Teresa Battaglia closed the tome she was reading, and placed it on top of a pile of other books.
“Your hair is all ruffled, Inspector. Between you and Parri, I’m not sure who’s in a greater rush today.” She took a closer look at him, and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
The pile of books toppled over. Massimo would have liked to go down with them, knees buckling to the floor.
“I saw the mosaic Mainardi has been working on. It’s a portrait of you. He’s been making a portrait of you, Superintendent.”
Teresa Battaglia stood up, Elena rushing to her side to help her.
“You went to see him? On your own?”
She seemed angry.
“Did you hear what I said? He’s made a portrait of you.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Because I would have learned too much?”
Elena gave him a horrified look.
“Massimo!”
Teresa pointed her finger at him.
“And now you think you’ve won, while all he’s done is show you exactly what he wanted you to see, and nothing more.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Well, I’m surprised, but not exactly shocked. Giacomo has become somewhat fond of me, or at least he thinks he is.”
“And rightly so, given you’ve been visiting him regularly for years now.”
“Is it me you’re investigating now, Marini?”
“I’m trying to understand. It’s not an ordinary portrait, Superintendent. The face . . . the face is missing a tooth.”
This time the blow found its mark. He saw her close her eyes and squeeze them shut, as if she’d been physically hit. Massimo hated himself for this, but he knew he couldn’t give her time to let the news sink in. He had to understand what was going on so that he could keep her safe.
“Teresa, this man has thought about committing an act of violence against you, probably so many times that he has felt the urge to portray it in a mosaic.”
“Marini . . .”
“Listen to me.”
“You should all listen to me, actually,” said Parri, interrupting them. He seemed to be shaking. “Now I really have to tell you, though I have no idea how.”
But whatever it was, he couldn’t say it. His mouth seemed to be chewing on words that refused to emerge. Parri’s uncharacteristic hesitance left Massimo feeling like a loaded gun, ready to shoot.
“This isn’t helping, Doctor Parri.”
“We have isolated the DNA from the tooth retrieved in the basilica. It’s old, but we started with it because we figured it would be easier to extract genetic material from a tooth than from tiles. We were right. We will need more time to isolate the full sequence, but we already have a confirmed match.”
Massimo could scarcely believe it.
“We have a match?”
“Yes. It’s ‘external’ DNA that does not belong to Mainardi. I can also confirm with absolute certainty that the bones the other tiles were made out of do not belong to this same individual.”
“So we’re looking for two bodies now?”
“No. Two people. One of whom is still alive.” He took a deep breath. “The tooth belongs to Teresa.”
Massimo asked him to repeat what he’d just said.
“The tooth is yours, Teresa.”
Nobody breathed a word.
“The DNA is a perfect match with the sample I took from you to identify any contamination in the evidence.”
Teresa looked petrified. Massimo touched her arm and made her look at him. His head and his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton wool. A thrumming in the background muddled every thought and every gesture.
“Is there a single goddamned reason why a homicidal maniac would have one of your teeth in his possession?”
Teresa’s eyes had reddened, but she did not let a single tear fall.
“Yes.”
“Yes? That’s all?”
“It’s a long story, Marini.”
It may indeed have been a long one, but it was clear that she had no intention of even beginning to tell it. Massimo refused to let it go.
“We need to talk to Mainardi. We need to persuade him to meet with us so that we can figure out what he’s been trying to tell us.”
She turned her back on them and walked toward the window. Her footsteps were unsure again, her body hunched over.
“You could force him to see you, if you really wanted to. But you can’t force him to talk to you. He won’t tell you anything he hasn’t already said.”
“And what about you? Do you have anything else to tell me?”
The answer traced a silent arc over their heads, then plunged down upon them.
“No.”
“Superintendent!”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Let me help you.”
She turned around. She was trying to smile.
“Telling you that part of the story wouldn’t be of any use. Not to you, not to me. And certainly not in solving the case. Trust me.”
Massimo looked at Elena and saw that she was in tears. He glanced at Parri in search of support, but the coroner motioned at him to let it be.
That was when he understood. Teresa’s past was a tomb, and it must never again be opened.
30
Twenty-seven years ago
TERESA’S EYES SPRUNG OPEN in the darkness. The phone was ringing downstairs. Sebastiano was a silent silhouette on the other side of the bed, a curved form that was not to be touched. She carefully pulled the covers aside, and did not bother looking for her slippers on the floor. She moved in slow motion, and only once she had reached the corridor did she break into a run, bounding down the stairs barefoot, stifling a curse when she banged her little toe on a sharp edge and the pain shot through her like bolts of lightning. She hopped the rest of the way to the phone.
“Hello?”
“He’s killed again.”
It was Albert. Teresa squinted at the clock display. It wasn’t even dawn yet.
“I’m coming.”
“I’ll come to you. I’m calling from a phone booth around a hundred meters from your place. Hurry up.”
He hung up, leaving Teresa with the receiver in one hand and her eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if they could pierce right through it and check that her husband—her persecutor—was still asleep.
Once again, she would have to choose whether to be true to herself or surrender to his threats.
Leaving the house was a provocation.
Working was a provocation.
Having aspirations was a provocation.
Pretty soon, Sebastiano would come to see even her breathing as a provocation. And Teresa could already feel the air running out.
She put the receiver down and scribbled an explanation on the notebook by the phone. She forced herself to add a few expressions of affection and regret, offerings designed to soothe the wrath of a fallen god.
To avoid going back into the bedroom, she picked an outfit from the pile of clothes that still needed ironing. She shut the front door and vowed to her trembling self that she would not have to be afraid for much longer.
By the time Albert’s car pulled up in front of her house, Teresa had banished all traces of sleepiness and dread from her face.
They were both quiet for a long time, until he finally worked up the courage to speak.
“Let’s figure out how to stop him. Let’s just focus on that. All right?”
What he was really saying was that it didn’t matter how he’d treated her, it didn’t matter that he’d gone through her possessions and stolen her ideas to pass them off as his own. He wasn’t conceding anything at all, and he never would.
Teresa turned her head to look into the night.
“We’ll stop him.”
“Really?”
He sounded so hopeful.
“Yes. But you’ll never change.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are and always will be a scumbag.”
Albert did not respond. He accepted the insult as the price he would have to pay so that he could use her again—and all things considered, it wasn’t even that steep.
A gentle rain began to patter onto the windshield. It washed the asphalt clean and lifted fragrant scents from people’s gardens, which turned into fields as the car drove on.
Death had risen like a rarefied mist from a cluster of acacias in bloom, among the odorous moisture of a verdant hollow traversed by a canal. It had climbed out of the silty bed like smoke, far from the lights of the city. In the blue dawn, as frogs croaked and trickles of water polished the fronds, the soil, teeming with bulbs, had become saturated with blood.
Teresa lifted her hood over her head, her long hair sticking like dark seaweed to her cheeks and chest. She zipped her parka over her belly to keep her baby warm.
It was so nice not to feel alone anymore. Wherever she went, there would be two of them now. It would never be just her again. She started walking, murmuring a soft, comforting lullaby. She was taking her child into hell, singing songs of love along the way.
“I’ll protect you.”
She would vow to do so every day for the rest of her life, to kiss him and cuddle him and never hold anybody else as tight as she held him.
The crime scene had already been marked off. There were officers at work combing through the area for clues. Teresa spotted the district attorney and Doctor Pace talking under an umbrella as dark as their clothes, and further along she saw Parri, who also had his hood up over his head and was crouching over a figure Teresa couldn’t quite make out.
She huddled inside her coat, but not from the cold. It was that melancholy feeling of abandonment that always took hold of her every time she saw a corpse.
Albert had shown no inclination to make his way toward the district attorney. He stood right beside her, hoping, perhaps, to catch some suggestion she might let slip. He was groping desperately in the dark. He needed a scapegoat, someone naive enough to let their guard down and advance some kind of hypothesis.
Teresa was not naive, but she didn’t have much to lose, either. The moment she told them about her pregnancy, she would be taken off the case anyway.
“How did the attack unfold?” she asked him.
“Exactly the same as the previous one. No signs of duress, and he cut his throat. Parri is still examining the body, but the cut is a neat one. He sliced the carotid artery wide open.”
“So he’s learning. What did he take away this time?”
A moment’s hesitation.
“There is a laceration on the torso, along the flank. It’s a rib. The tip of a rib.”
“Which one?”
“Which one? I don’t know which one.”
Teresa turned to look at him.
“You’ve been here already, haven’t you? How many hours has it been since you found him?”
“Don’t get all edgy now.”
“What’s your excuse this time? Same as the last time? My phone didn’t start ringing until half an hour ago.”
Albert remained impassive, which for him meant assuming a glacial expression that turned his well-proportioned features into marble, lips sealed shut and rivulets of rainwater flowing from his eyelashes down his jawline and all the way to his chin.
“You’re a woman, Teresa, and you need to accept that. Do you really want to be looking at scenes like this for the next thirty years of your life?”
He gestured at the body sprawled over the muddy ground not far from where they stood. Teresa’s gaze did not follow his hand.
“I don’t know, Albert. But I think I can make my own mind up about what I may or may not want to do.”
She started walking, and he followed right behind her.
“You called me because you have absolutely no idea what to do.”
“If they take me off the case, you’ll be gone, too.”
“You’re making it sound quite tempting.”
He grabbed her arm and spun her around.
“It’s your husband you should be sneering at like this, not me!”
She stared at his hand. Albert let go.
“Superintendent Lona?”
It was Lorenzi.
“The victim’s car has been found abandoned on the dirt road.”
Teresa flinched.
“Where?”
“Over there, just past the turn. There are traces of blood.”
Teresa was already heading for the vehicle. She slipped on a pair of gloves and shoe coverings in readiness.
The back doors were wide open, and the blue chrome Volvo looked like a beetle that had dropped dead just as it was spreading its wings to fly.
Teresa approached the passenger side. The seat was drenched in blood, a thick pool that the foam rubber and its velvet upholstery had failed to fully absorb.
“The killer drove the car.”
The words had come out in a whisper. Teresa suddenly realized that everyone was looking at her. They had followed her there, and now they were surrounding her. Perhaps they were trying to understand her fascination, her passion for what she did; perhaps they felt it was inappropriate.
Instead of dismissing her, this time Albert gave her free rein.
“Keep going.”
“I read about a similar case, once. The killer would drive around in his victims’ cars for hours, even after he’d already slain them. He would later explain that this helped him create an even deeper bond with them.”
“The body was found by a couple who came here in search of a private spot where they could fool around. They said they saw the car arrive, then someone dragged something out of it, stared at it for a while, and finally left the scene.”
“On foot?”
“Yes.”
There was something else he was about to blurt out. Teresa could tell from the tone of his voice. And she was right.
“Our findings so far indicate that at some point the killer must have driven past a police checkpoint on the state highway, not too far from where we are now.”
That explained the weariness in his voice. It was fear. Teresa would not let it infect her.
“The photo from the victim’s driver’s license?” she asked.
“It’s gone.”
Another totem. Teresa often thought about the wedding ring they had retrieved in the nymphaeum. It was a detail whose precise significance she just couldn’t seem to place. Why had the killer taken it from the first victim only to discard it?
She requested a map of the area, and used a pen to mark out where the three bodies had been found.
Albert watched from over her shoulder.
“What are you thinking?”
“That the theory of the geographical midpoint might apply, though we would need at least five different crime scenes to make an even remotely reliable estimate.”
“We certainly can’t afford five victims.”
Teresa’s eyes filled with lines, contours, and place names—the killer’s hunting ground, where she could picture him marking his territory like an apex predator. And just like any predator, he must have a den where he would retreat to fantasize, plan, and bask in the afterglow of the kill. Wherever it was, they had to find it.
“When there are multiple homicides with similar characteristics, it is likely that the killer either lives close to the first crime scene, or has his center of main interests there. In time, he will tend to start moving around more, taking his victims—whether they are still alive or already dead—farther and farther away.”
