Day of the Dead (7 page)

And he looked down sadly at his boots: polished and gleaming, but not for long.

The walk to the hospital wasn't long, but the rain made it unpleasant. As Don Antonio walked, he kept the hem of his tunic lifted with one hand and held his hat to his head with the other, taking care not to stumble into any of the numerous puddles of unknowable depth that had formed on the sidewalks. Maione had the same problem, and he muttered curses under his breath, so that they would not reach the priest's ear, while trying to hold up the umbrella to shelter Ricciardi, who, as usual, seemed indifferent to the water drenching his uncovered hair.

They finally reached their destination and stood dripping in a waiting room, where they were met by Dr. Modo. The physician was dropping on his feet, his face creased with wrinkles and stubbled with in a day's growth of whiskers. Ricciardi felt a stab of remorse for having forced him to take on that extra, no doubt draining task, which would probably turn out to have been pointless.

“Ah, there you are,” said the doctor. “I would have called you later, I'm waiting for the results on some tests that I've ordered from the lab. And after that, with your permission, I'd like to head home and get at least twenty-four hours of sleep. Who is this gentleman with you?”

Maione hid a smile: Modo never missed a chance to display his nonconformist views, especially his anticlerical ones. Don Antonio looked back at him offendedly and then turned to Ricciardi, waiting for the commissario to introduce him.

“This is Don Antonio, the parish priest of Santa Maria del Soccorso. Did I get that right, Padre? He runs a small shelter for orphans and he thinks that the child you have here with you might be one of his, a little boy who disappeared a couple of days ago. He'd like to take a look at the corpse to see if he can identify it. May we?”

Modo ran a hand through his hair, a habitual gesture.

“Yes, I would think so. I'm done with him; I'll tell you the findings later.”

Don Antonio squinted, in an expression of mistrust. He spoke not to Modo, but to Ricciardi.

“Excuse me, Commissario. What does the doctor mean when he says that he's done with him? Just what has been done to the child?”

The doctor answered brusquely:

“We've done what we thought necessary. We performed an examination to determine how this child died, while those who ought to have been keeping an eye on him were doing other things. That's what was done.”

The priest took a step back, blinking.

“We look after these children for as long as they allow us to. If they go out and wander the city by themselves, that's hardly our fault. Can I see him, now?”

Modo, still glaring angrily at the priest, turned and led the way back to the hospital morgue.

The boy's corpse had been reassembled and dressed in the tattered clothing he'd been found in. Even though Ricciardi was hardened to terrible sights, he still felt his heart break when he saw the body, which looked so tiny on the marble table. The signs of the restitching done after the autopsy were clearly visible, on the head and on the shoulders; from there, the incision disappeared underneath the boy's shirt.

Don Antonio rocked back on his heels; his eyes filled with tears. He took a step forward and approached the corpse. He made the sign of the cross over the child's forehead, then murmured a prayer and a benediction. Then he ran his thumb over the incision on the top of the head and gave Modo a cold, hard look. Finally, he said to Ricciardi:

“It's him. This is Matteo, little Matteo. But someone is going to have to answer for this, this thing
that's been done to him. This massacre.”

Maione, hat in hand, shot a glance at Ricciardi as if to say: I told you so. The commissario returned the priest's look with a level gaze.

“Well, report me, if you're going to report anyone, Padre. I'm the one who arranged for the body to be examined further, and I take full responsibility. Neither the doctor nor Maione, here, thought it was necessary. But I felt a need to know how the child died, and so I ordered the autopsy.”

The priest hissed:

“And now, do you know how he died, at least? And, more importantly, does it make a difference?”

Modo was about to break in, but Ricciardi gestured to him to be quiet.

“Forgive me, but that's still under investigation. It's not something we can share with the public. But would you please be so good as to return to headquarters now? Brigadier Maione will accompany you. I'll have to stay behind for a few minutes to talk with the doctor, but I'll meet you there shortly.”

Don Antonio seemed to have calmed down, but his expression remained fierce. He nodded a brusque farewell, directed midway between Modo and Ricciardi, and left the room, escorted by Maione.

The doctor lit a cigarette.

“The very idea of bringing a priest here. You know, they bring bad luck, from my experience. I never want to see one in my hospital if I can help it.”

“But the place is full of nuns, I see,” said Ricciardi.

“What does that have to do with anything? They're nurses, and they're first-rate nurses, too. The best, believe me: even in wartime, at the front, they were tireless. That might be a form of fanaticism, too, but at least it's useful fanaticism.”

“All right then, what can you tell me? Do you know what killed the little boy?”

Modo gestured for Ricciardi to leave the room. A muscle in his jaw was twitching. His exhaustion aged him.

“Come on, let's get out of here. I need some fresh air, even if it's raining.”

They found a place to talk under an awning at the entrance to the wing where the morgue was located. From behind a couple of scrawny saplings being whipped by the rain came the calls of the strolling vendors in the market. Ricciardi guessed they were calling their wares in vain: there couldn't be a lot of people out in this weather.

“Well, Bruno? What can you tell me?”

The doctor said nothing for a moment, then replied:

“No, first you tell me. Why did you insist on this autopsy? What made you suspicious?”

Ricciardi, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, replied:

“You know, Doctor, the work you and I do is based on intuitions. That's what you always say, isn't it? The clinical picture steers you toward one diagnosis, but then you glimpse another: and you pursue that other diagnosis, and in the end you're either right or you're wrong. That's the way it is for me. It was just an instant, when the morgue attendants were carrying him off. The way his head was dangling, all that rain. The pity of it. I don't know: it was just an impulse.”

Modo went on smoking in silence. He looked out at the rain falling on the trees. Then he said:

“Sure, intuitions. Things you can't put your finger on. But you know what an autopsy is like. It's sheer butchery. I was hoping I wouldn't have to open up the child's head. But I did. I even had to carve into his back, to gain access to his spinal cord.”

“If you're worried about the priest, don't be, Bruno: I take full responsibility, whatever the outcome . . . ”

“I don't give a damn about the priest,” the doctor snapped, “I don't give a damn about him, the bishop, or the pope himself. It's the child, the fact that he couldn't complain. If I hadn't found anything, then I would have seen him at the foot of my bed every night, demanding an explanation, asking why I'd sent him to his grave chopped into little bits.”

“So you're telling me you found something?”

The doctor laughed.

“And out comes the policeman. Straight to the point, eh? Okay, yes, I found something.”

“I knew it! That means we'll have to do a full investigation; we can start with the priest and . . . ”

Modo interrupted him:

“Don't get all worked up. I said that I found something, not that there's something to investigate.”

“But what does that mean? Tell me, then, what killed this child?”

“Let me tell you the whole story. First thing, I took a look at the heart, and it was in the systolic phase, as I expected: big as a watermelon. And then there was the rigor mortis, extreme and much longer lasting than normal. The cyanosis and the spotted bruises . . . In other words, there were just too many signs pointing to convulsions. So then I had to resign myself to assessing the nervous system.”

Ricciardi was listening very attentively.

“Why, is there some connection?”

“Of course, if there are convulsions then it's quite likely that the nervous system is responsible in some way, don't you agree? And in fact both the meninges and the spinal cord were full of blood. I even found a few areas that were outright hemorrhagic. Our young friend didn't die peacefully. Not at all.”

“And yet he seemed so serene, in the position he was in when we found him.”

Modo shrugged.

“That doesn't mean anything; you know that. An instant before dying, he might have relaxed, and perhaps the only reason he was sitting up and not flat on the ground is that the wall was supporting him. In any case, at that point I took samples from the brain and from the spinal cord and I sent them to the laboratory, where luckily a friend of mine was on duty. He was on his regular hospital shift, fully paid, and I was on a special shift ordered by Commissario Ricciardi, working completely free of charge.”

Ricciardi made a face.

“You're getting really obsessed with money in your old age, you know that? Fine, I'll buy you a pizza at the Trattoria Da Nannina, around the corner.”

Modo snickered.

“Well, I'll be! Then it's true what they say: you're filthy rich but still a skinflint. Anyway, as I was saying, I sent those samples in for analysis, along with the food remains that I found in the stomach and duodenum. I'm still waiting for the written results, but an hour ago my friend came to see me in the autopsy room and told me what he'd found.”

Ricciardi waited.

“Well? Are you going to tell me what the hell killed this child or not?”

The doctor crushed his cigarette butt under his heel and exhaled the smoke in a theatrical plume.

“You were right. He didn't die of natural causes, he didn't die of an infection, malnutrition, or some disease. He was in bad shape, there's no denying that, but he was strong and he would have gone on living for many years to come. But I was right, too, when I brought up the possibility of accidental death with you earlier.”

“Which means what?”

“The child died from poison. Strychnine, to be exact. He must have simply ingested a handful of poison bait, those little clumps of sugar and flour that they put out to kill rats.”

Ricciardi stood there openmouthed.

“Rat poison? The boy ate rat poison?”

“Surprised, are you? Well, that's because you don't see the things I see, day in and day out. They eat everything they find. You eat or you die. They dig through the garbage, they fight dogs for scraps. They'd eat the rats themselves, if the rats were easier to catch. I've seen this kind of thing before, though I have to say that they usually stop before they ingest a fatal dose, because strychnine has a bitter taste; but such a frail child would only have to eat a tiny amount for it to kill him. And then those bastard shopkeepers, to protect their disgusting merchandise, they hide the poison in bait balls made out of bread and cheese or sugar: a tasty little morsel, in other words.”

The commissario was perplexed.

“But couldn't someone have given him the poison? Intentionally, I mean.”

Modo gave him a long hard look, then said:

“Listen, Ricciardi: I don't know why you're devoting so much time to this child and his death. You know I admire your dedication, and I feel as much pity, if not more, for the poor people who die of privation in this city that the Fascist regime has made so utterly perfect. Unfortunately, for a child to die from accidentally eating some rat poison is a normal turn of events. The dead should be left in peace; and the world this little boy spent his short life in is far too murky and filthy for us to delve into. I told you that this is a case of accidental death, and I have no intention of writing anything else in the report. Please, just accept it.”

Ricciardi had nothing more to say. He squeezed the doctor's arm.

“You're probably right, Bruno. I just have a couple more questions for our friend the priest and then I'll be done. Thanks again, and let me know when I can buy you that pizza.”

With the doctor's gaze following him, he headed back to headquarters. In the rain, by the hospital's main entrance, he saw a dog looking in the direction of the morgue.

Rosa Vaglio fastened her hat in place with a couple of hatpins, picked up her umbrella, and went out, double- and triple-locking the door behind her. She was only going to do a little shopping in the neighborhood, but she wasn't taking any chances: even if people said that everything was safe these days, it was still a rough quarter.

Actually, the whole city scared her. They'd moved there ten years ago, and she still wasn't used to all those people, all the hustle and bustle, and the fact that you could go out every day and walk around for hours and never run into anyone you knew.

Back home, in the village of Fortino, in the southern part of the province of Salerno, almost in Lucania, things were quite different. Everyone knew everything about everyone: they never had strangers visit from other towns, or when one happened to pass through, they looked at him as if he had two heads, until he felt so uncomfortable that he left, and then everyone heaved a sigh of relief. There was no need for strangers, back home.

What's more, there was respect. When she walked down the main street of town (the only street, for that matter) everyone doffed their hats at the sight of the Barone di Malomonte's
tata
. She knew it, and she strode proudly, head held high, eyes straight ahead. No one dared to address her, unless she spoke to them first. She had been chosen to raise the next baron, and that was all anyone needed to know. She made her rounds of the farms and workshops, checking to make sure that no one was stealing, that everyone set aside the finest products—the fattest hogs, the best cheeses—for the family that lived in the castle. That's how it was meant to be, and that's how it was.