Flowers over the Inferno, page 8
“Superintendent . . .”
“As a child, he was fascinated by women’s shoes, but whenever his mother caught him trying on some of hers, she would punish him by dipping his feet in boiling water. As an adult, he wanted to change sex, but instead he settled for buying dozens of pairs of women’s shoes. He stopped desecrating graves and began killing young women. He picked his victims during the summer, when he could see their feet. He would cut them off and fit them inside the shoes he kept at home. The police came close to catching him several times, but I guess you could say he was always one step ahead. So, what do you think—good story?”
“It would make a great film.”
“Yes, except that it actually happened, and not so far from here. It was in the nineties, the guy was called Igor Rosman, and his victims were real.”
Marini’s smirk had disappeared.
“How did the story end?” he asked.
“I arrested him.”
He didn’t reply. Teresa held his puzzled gaze.
“It’s only by studying the minds of criminals like Rosman and hundreds of others like him that we have been able to learn what we now know about the way a murderer’s psyche works,” she told him. “We know how he thinks and what he thinks about, and we even know where to look for him. That’s why it’s important that we figure out what kind of killer he is. If he’s disorganized, we need to look for a clouded mind, a misfit who lives on the fringes of society.”
“And if he isn’t disorganized?”
“Then we’ve got a problem, because people like that tend to hide behind seemingly perfect lives. Do you understand what I mean? It could be that teacher who’s handsome and a little bit shy, or the prim and proper next door neighbor, a guy just like you.” Teresa rose to her feet. “Come on. We’ve got a two-hour drive ahead of us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the crime scene. He’s left a message.”
Marini looked at her in confusion.
“Who?”
Teresa threw the car keys at him.
“The killer.”
-16-
“Do you think he wanted to mark out the house?”
Marini had spoken in the faintest of whispers, as if the troubling sight of that exposed flesh were too indecent to be discussed out loud. It was the carcass of a hare, dangling from one of the windows of the house. It had been skinned, and its neck broken. Robbed of its fur, it looked fearsome: its skull was wrapped in lean, taut muscle, and its jaws hung wide open.
Teresa didn’t reply. She’d had the same thought.
Hugo Knauss, the local police chief, pulled her aside. Stocky and not particularly tall, with light skin and coppery hair, he always looked like he was smiling, even when he was dead serious. It was because of the way he moved his chapped lips, and how he always seemed to be squinting, the cold-ravaged skin around his eyes stretching them sideways.
“It was the little girl, Lucia Kravina, who called us. She was alone at home,” he told her.
Teresa nodded, her eyes on the carcass of the wretched creature.
“Has this ever happened before?” she asked.
“No, I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been working here almost all my life. You might get a prankster stealing people’s washing from the line, but that’s about as bad as it gets. We’ve already had a murder this week, and now this . . .” He spat on the ground. “Do you think it’s some kind of professional criminal who did this? Could it be a warning?”
Teresa believed it was something more dangerous than that.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think this has anything to do with organized crime. What’s the Kravina family like?”
The man snorted.
“The father’s a loafer who can’t hold down a job. The mother’s a waitress at a diner in town, and she works the evening shift at the pub to make ends meet. I’ve seen better, but I suppose they’re harmless.”
Teresa refrained from noting how the most seemingly unremarkable lives could hide a sinister ferment, a putrid humus of frustration and rage.
“Harmless,” she echoed, rolling the word over her tongue as if each of its letters tasted unpleasant. “There is no creature on this earth that is truly harmless, Chief Knauss.”
The man stopped chewing the gum he’d been pushing around inside his mouth ever since they’d arrived at the scene. He seemed personally offended, as if he were the one being scrutinized instead of the little girl’s parents.
“We’re not savages,” he told her. “No one from Travenì would ever do something like this.”
Teresa understood: he harbored a misplaced sense of loyalty toward this community and felt he had to exculpate its members.
“So it couldn’t have been a local because they would be a local. An interesting observation, Chief,” she replied, though she wasn’t sure whether he could tell she was being ironic.
Knauss took his leave with a silent nod while Teresa continued to examine the wall of the house. It was bleeding. Crimson tracks ran down the plaster all the way to the snow, like tears. The marks were frozen now, but it was clear that the creature had been killed not long before it had been hooked to the shutters.
Teresa could feel Marini’s silent presence behind her.
“They’re everywhere,” she remarked.
The wall was covered in dozens of handprints belonging to the person who had committed this act.
“What do they make you think of?”
He seemed hesitant.
“Come on, Inspector. Out with it.”
“Cave paintings,” he finally said, and it was obvious from how tightly his lips were pressed together that he was embarrassed.
Teresa nodded.
“Exactly.”
She’d thought the same thing, remembering an image she’d seen somewhere—a TV documentary, perhaps?—of caves full of the same kind of pattern. More than ten thousand years of human history, and as many thousands of kilometers, separated that image from the scene before her, yet there was an impalpable connection between the two that Teresa could scarcely bring herself to admit. For a moment, it had looked to her like a ritualistic expression, the work of a childlike personality wanting to leave its mark on the world, and be initiated into adulthood.
But there was nothing childish in the hand that had left those primitive marks. She brought her own hand to hover over one of them, taking care not to touch it: the print was significantly larger than her hand, the palm wide and the fingers robust. Teresa felt a shiver course through her. It had almost felt like brushing against the maker of those signs.
“There are plenty of footprints, too. They come from the woods,” said Marini, breaking the spell.
Their eyes followed the tidy line of footprints. Teresa pictured a lone figure crossing the snowy lawn at night, eyes fixed on the house, and holding a little carcass in his hand.
Why?
“There’s only one set of footprints, and they end at the window,” she noted.
She watched the expression on Marini’s face change into one of horror and determination. He looked at the Kravina home.
“He’s still here,” he said, reaching for the gun sheathed inside his coat.
“Calm down, Inspector. Look closer,” Teresa commanded, leaning toward the ground. “Some of the footprints are much deeper than others. He must have retraced his steps.”
She straightened up.
“That’s clever. I expect these footprints will also come to a stop somewhere inside the woods.”
Marini seemed overwhelmed by all the detail. Teresa could sympathize.
“You can’t figure him out, can you?” she asked. “Well, neither can I.”
“Are you sure it’s Valent’s killer who put on this show? Surely any sadist could have done it.”
“Any sadist? No. But you’re right: it is a show. An exhibition, just like the presentation of Valent’s body. There is a deeper meaning to it all that I’m sure we’ll figure out eventually.”
“What do you think about the dead animal? A threat?”
Teresa shook her head.
“That’s not how it works. The urge to harm animals is a trait commonly found in inveterate killers, but they usually act upon it in private. It’s like a first step toward fulfilling the fantasies that torment them, clamoring to be put into practice.”
Marini looked around.
“Now what do we do?” he asked.
“Now I want to talk to the girl.”
Lucia Kravina was like a grown-up already. She was only eight years old, but she’d been the one to bring coffee to the police officers, and she seemed much less disoriented than her mother, who’d only just come home, and hadn’t even given her daughter a hug for comfort. Judging by her appearance, Teresa surmised she must have been very young when she had Lucia, probably before she was ready to stop being a little girl herself. With chipped, black nail varnish, bitten nails, a streak of pink and fading highlights in her hair, and wearing leggings that were too tight for her with a leather jacket cropped just below her breasts, she looked like an overgrown teenager. Parisi had already begun taking her statement, but soon gestured at Teresa to signal they wouldn’t glean much from her.
The real child, then, was this woman with absent eyes, which meant that Lucia must have been used to looking after herself. Teresa was sure she was the one who kept the house in her mother’s stead. It was a humble home, but it was tidy and clean.
Teresa hadn’t approached the little girl yet, but had been watching her from a distance. She had been trying to figure out how to avoid scaring her, how to earn her trust without causing her too much suffering. The child had witnessed enough violence for a day—not only the sight of the wretched carcass hanging from her window, but now the arrival of these strangers barging into her home. And one of those strangers was Teresa.
“Lucia is a strong girl. She’s had to grow up fast, but she’s as sweet as any child her age.”
Teresa turned around.
The man who had spoken was smiling at her now. He was wrapped in a green wool coat, face half hidden behind a thick scarf with a checked pattern, and he wore a felt hat with a thin band and a bow of small, silky feathers. He wasn’t much taller than Teresa.
“I’m sorry,” said the stranger. “I saw the way you were looking at her.”
“You’re a good observer,” said Teresa.
He smiled and held out his hand. His irises were a remarkably light blue.
“Carlo Ian,” he said, introducing himself. “I’m the village doctor. I know the Kravina family well. I was concerned when I saw the police cars.”
The man must have been long past retirement age—a whole decade, perhaps. Teresa shook his hand.
“Superintendent Battaglia,” she said. “I’m handling the Valent case.”
Ian’s expression darkened. His eyes shot to the window, toward the form that still hung outside. A forensic photographer was capturing it from various angles.
“Do you think it was the same man who did this and killed Roberto?” he asked.
Teresa didn’t get a chance to respond.
“Doctor!”
Lucia Kravina ran into the doctor’s arms, and he crouched down to let the child bury her face in the curve of his neck. They stood very close, speaking in whispers, like a pair of best friends trading secrets. Teresa felt relieved. She was glad to know there was someone in that little grown-up’s life with whom she could still act like a child. She heard her sob, and watched him dry her tears and make her smile by pulling a lollipop out of thin air.
Teresa almost felt like she was intruding. But the doctor came to her aid.
“Lucia, this lady is here to find out who did this terrible thing,” he said to the little girl.
The girl studied Teresa, but her arms remained wrapped around the doctor’s neck.
Teresa smiled at her.
“Hello, Lucia. My name is Teresa,” she said.
The girl bit her lip. She seemed unsure whether to answer or flee.
“She’s here to help you,” Ian told her. “Do you trust me?”
The girl nodded.
“Then you can trust her, too. I’ll vouch for her.” He winked.
Lucia allowed herself a smile. She was a pretty little thing, perhaps a bit too thin, but with eyes so black and brilliant that you could almost see stars reflected in them.
The child told them about the bowl of milk she had been finding empty every morning, and about the ghosts that lived in the forest. Doctor Ian began to look concerned. Marini, on the other hand, looked vaguely amused, as if he thought they were wasting their time listening to a little girl’s fantasies.
But as far as Teresa was concerned, she knew exactly what her next question would be.
“Where do you usually see these ghosts, Lucia?”
Without a trace of hesitation, the girl pointed at a spot on the edge of the woods.
“Over there. He hides in the trees and watches me.”
-17-
AUSTRIA, 1978
A new day was dawning over the School. It was the light of a feeble sun; it brought neither warmth nor comfort. It crept over the stone walls of the little chapel, displacing the shadows. Yet it was shadow itself in all but name.
Magdalena sat on a pew across from the unadorned altar and observed the advancing light, feeling a growing sense of revulsion. There was something wrong with the School, and whatever it was, it infected everyone who set foot in it and the nature that surrounded it; every living creature, every pebble, every frigid breath of wind was imbued with a piercing hardness. Even that little church in front of the refectory was devoid of the warmth you would expect to find in a place of prayer and penitence. Only the figure of the crucified Christ that hung in the apse exhibited any signs of human longing. Everything else was built along grey and rigid lines.
Magdalena looked at the crucifix, but couldn’t bring herself to pray. Never in her life had she felt so distressed. She was waking up in tears every night, tormented in her dreams by the things she saw in the School.
There was something wrong with it all. Something so slight as to be formless and impossible to describe—which was why she had failed to understand it at first, and had now ended up an accomplice in what was effectively an affront to life.
She brought her hands closer to her face so that she could see them properly. They looked tainted.
No one at the School seemed to understand her anguish. They regarded her with suspicion and monitored her every move, so that Magdalena had begun to wonder whether she was the one singing off-key in an otherwise pitch-perfect choir.
She raised her gaze once more, and in that moment, a shaft of light broke through one of the stained glass windows. The light took on a reddish hue and pierced the crucifix at rib height. The blood seemed to come alive and gush from the wound. This was the second time she had seen this sign. The first had been when Agnes Braun was explaining the rules of the School to her: “Observe, record, forget.”
Magdalena shuddered in awe.
That figure before her showed neither hope nor any notion of salvation. It was a representation of torture. The Christ returned her gaze with the disconsolate look of those who know that nobody will help them. There could be no accusation fiercer than the despair contained in those eyes.
Magdalena rose to her feet. She had finally understood what she needed to do: she had to bring change.
She walked briskly through the deserted corridors of the ground floor, as if she couldn’t wait a moment longer to start making amends, until she reached the entrance hall. She took a few steps up the main staircase, then stopped.
Agnes Braun was watching her from the mezzanine floor, her interlaced hands resting over her sunken abdomen. Something about the way she was smiling disturbed Magdalena. It was as if she could read her mind, probing and widening the cracks in her soul until the very core of Magdalena’s being seemed to shake with fear.
“I need to go to them,” said Magdalena, steeling herself.
Agnes shook her head slowly.
“The first floor patients no longer fall within your remit,” she said, not unkindly. “From now on I will assign you different duties, more suitable for someone with your temperament.”
Magdalena’s hand gripped the marble banister. She was sure that her fingers were even colder than the dead stone beneath them.
“Patients?” she exclaimed. “I need to go to them,” she repeated, more forcefully this time.
Agnes’s smile vanished.
“This School has treated you like family, Magdalena. It won’t do to bite the hand that feeds you.”
“I don’t want to bite anything, I just want to help them.”
Agnes raised her face to the sky, and the curve of her chin in the air was like a crescent moon.
“Is that not why we are all here?” she asked.
Magdalena took a deep breath.
“The things we do to them don’t help. They’re . . . weird,” she said. “This is not what they need. We should—”
Agnes Braun listened impassively to Magdalena’s misgivings.
“What we do here is to apply certain medical principles,” she replied calmly. “Who are you to question a scientific procedure?”
Magdalena didn’t reply. She realized they were no longer alone in the room. The rest of the School’s staff was now gathered in the entrance hall, watching with stern looks her attempt to defy the Rules.
“Do any of the subjects display the signs of physical abuse?” said Agnes.
Magdalena looked at her.
“No, Mrs. Braun.”
