The Whisperer (22 page)

Military Hospital of R.
16 February

L
et them say what they like, but you just drop it! You’re a good police officer, OK?”

Sergeant Morexu summoned all his gypsy spirit to express his sympathy with her. Never before had he spoken to her in that sad tone. It was almost fatherly. And yet Mila felt she didn’t deserve his defense. The phone call from her superior had reached her unexpectedly, just as news of her nocturnal trip to the orphanage had emerged. They would blame her for the death of Ronald Dermis, she was sure of it, even though it had only been self-defense.

She had recuperated in a military hospital. A civilian establishment had not been chosen because Roche had wisely decided to take her away from the curious eyes of the press. That was why she had a whole ward to herself. And when she asked why on earth there were no other patients there, the concise reply had been that the complex had been planned to quarantine people affected in a possible bacteriological attack.

The beds were remade every week, the sheets washed and ironed. In the pharmacy, the medicines that went out of date were promptly replaced. And all this waste of resources solely for the remote possibility that someone might decide to unleash a genetically modified virus or bacteria that would leave no survivors.

The craziest thing in the world,
thought Mila.

The wound in her arm had been sewn up with about forty stitches by a kind surgeon who, when he had examined her, hadn’t mentioned the other scars. He had only said, “You couldn’t have ended up in a better place for a firearms injury.”

“What do viruses and bacteria have to do with bullets?” she had asked provocatively. He had laughed.

Then another doctor had examined her a few times, measuring her blood pressure and taking her temperature. The effects of the powerful sleeping pills that Father Timothy had administered had vanished of their own accord in a few hours. A diuretic had done the rest.

Mila had had lots of time to think.

She couldn’t help thinking about child number six. She didn’t have a whole hospital at her disposal. The greatest hope was that Albert was keeping her constantly sedated. The specialists that Roche had called in to give their thoughts about the likelihood of survival had taken into account not only the serious physical damage but also the shock and stress to which the girl had been subjected.

She may not even have noticed that her arm is missing,
Mila thought. That often happened to people who had suffered an amputation. She had heard it mentioned with reference to people who had suffered war injuries—even though they’ve lost a limb, they still feel a residual sensitivity in that part of the body, have a sense of movement beyond the pain and sometimes even a tickling sensation. Doctors call it “perception of the phantom limb.”

Those thoughts profoundly disturbed her, amplified by the oppressive silence of the ward. Perhaps for the first time in many years she found herself wishing she had company. Before Morexu’s phone call no one had come. Not Goran or Boris or Stern, let alone Rosa. Which could mean only one thing: they were taking a decision about her, and about whether or not to keep her in the team. Even though the last word would go to Roche.

She was angry with herself for having been so naive. Perhaps she really did deserve their mistrust. The only thought that consoled her was Goran’s certainty that Ronald Dermis couldn’t be Albert. Otherwise there would be nothing to be done for the sixth child.

Isolated in that place, she knew nothing of the developments in the case. She asked for updates from the nurse who served her breakfast, and who showed up again with a newspaper a short time later.

The case filled the first six pages. The small amount of information that had filtered through was repeated several times and inflated beyond measure. People were greedy for news. Once the public had found out about the existence of a sixth child, the country had reacquired a sense of solidarity that prompted everyone to do things that would have been unthinkable shortly before, like organizing prayer vigils or support groups. An initiative had been launched: “A candle for every window.” Those little flames would mark the wait for the “miracle,” and would be extinguished only when the sixth child returned home. People used to ignoring each other for a lifetime were encountering a new kind of experience thanks to this tragedy: human contact. They no longer had to wear themselves out trying to find pretexts for having relationships with each other. Because it was taken for granted that they now had something in common: pity for that creature. And that helped them to communicate. They did it everywhere. At the supermarket, in the bar, at work, on the subway. The television programs spoke of nothing else.

But amongst all the initiatives, one in particular had created a sensation, embarrassing even the investigators.

A reward.

Ten million to anyone who provided information useful to the rescue of the sixth child. A big sum that had prompted fierce polemics. Some people maintained that it had polluted the spontaneity of people’s solidarity. Others claimed it was a fair idea that would finally get things moving because, beyond the feel-good facade, selfishness still ruled, and could be harnessed only by the promise of profit.

So, without noticing, the country had divided itself once again.

The initiative for the reward came from the Rockford Foundation. When Mila asked the nurse who was behind the charity, the woman opened her eyes wide with surprise.

“Everyone knows it’s Joseph B. Rockford.”

Her reaction told Mila how much, absorbed in the hunt for missing children and her own personal problems, she had cut herself off from the real world.

“Sorry, I don’t,” she replied. And she thought about the absurdity of a situation in which the life of a magnate was fatally interwoven with that of an unknown child. Two human beings who, until now, must have led very different lives, and they would probably have continued like that until the end of their days if Albert hadn’t thought of bringing them together.

She went to sleep with those thoughts, and was finally able to benefit from a dreamless sleep that cleansed her mind of the waste of those days of horror. When she woke, restored, she was not alone.

Gavila was sitting beside her on the next bed.

Mila sat up, wondering how long he had been there. He calmed her down: “I chose to wait rather than wake you. You looked so serene. Did I do the wrong thing?”

“No,” she lied. It was as if he had caught her at a moment when she was entirely defenseless and, before he noticed her embarrassment, she hurried to change the subject: “They want to keep me under observation here. But I told them I’m getting out this afternoon.”

Goran looked at his watch: “Then you’ll have to get a move on: it’s almost evening.”

Mila was surprised she had slept so long.

“Is there any news?”

“I’m just back from a long meeting with Chief Inspector Roche.”

That’s why he’s here,
she thought
. He wanted to tell me in person that I’m out.
But she was wrong.

“We’ve found Father Rolf.”

Mila felt a contraction in her stomach, imagining the worst.

“He died about a year ago, of natural causes.”

“Where was he buried?”

From that question, Goran knew that Mila had already guessed everything.

“Behind the church. There were other graves, too, containing animal carcasses.”

“Father Rolf was keeping him on a short rein.”

“It seems to have gone like this. Ronald had a borderline personality disorder. He was a serial killer in the making, and the priest had understood that. The killing of animals is typical in these cases. It always starts like that; then when the subject gets no more satisfaction from it, he shifts his attention to his peers. Ronald, too, would have moved on to kill other humans. Basically that experience had been part of his emotional baggage since childhood.”

“We’ve stopped him now.”

Goran shook his head seriously. “In fact, it was Albert who stopped him.”

It was paradoxical, but it was also the truth.

“But Roche would have a heart attack rather than admit anything of the kind!”

Mila thought that by saying these things Goran was just trying to postpone the news that she was off the case, and decided to get to the nub.

“I’m out, aren’t I?”

He looked startled. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I fucked up.”

“We all do that.”

“I caused Ronald Dermis’s death: so we’ll never know how Albert found out about his story…”

“First of all, I think Ronald took his own death into account: he wanted to end the doubts that had troubled him for many years. Father Rolf had turned him into a fake priest, convincing him that he could live like a man dedicated to God and his fellowman. But he didn’t want to love his fellowman, he wanted to kill him for his own pleasure.”

“And how did Albert find out about that?”

Goran’s face darkened. “He must have come into contact with Ronald at some point in his life. I can’t think of any other explanation. He understood what Father Rolf understood before him. And he got there because they are similar, he and Ronald. In some way they found one another, and recognized one another too.”

Mila took a deep breath as she thought about fate. Ronald Dermis had been understood by only two people in his life. A priest who had found no better solution for him than hiding him from the world. And someone like himself, who had probably revealed his own nature to him.

“You would have been the second…”

Goran’s words brought her back to reality.

“What?”

“If you hadn’t stopped him, Ronald would have killed you as he did Billy Moore many years ago.”

At that point he drew an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her.

“I thought you had a right to see them…”

Mila took the envelope and opened it. Inside were the photographs that Ronald had taken as he pursued her in the refectory. In a corner of one of those pictures, there she was. Crouching under the table, eyes wide with fear.

“I’m not very photogenic,” she said, trying to play it down. But Goran noticed that she was shaken.

“This morning Roche announced that you’re dismissed for twenty-four hours…or at least until the next corpse is found.”

“I don’t want a holiday, we have to find the sixth child,” protested Mila. “She can’t wait!”

“I think the chief inspector knows that…but I fear he’s trying to play another card.”

“The reward,” Mila said immediately.

“It might yield unexpected fruits.”

“And what about research into the professional registers of doctors? And the theory that Albert might be one who’s been struck off?”

“A feeble track. No one really believed in that from the start. Just as I don’t think anything can come out of investigating the drugs he’s probably using to keep the girl alive. Our man could have got hold of them in lots of ways. He’s cunning and he’s prepared, don’t forget it.”

“Much more than we are, by the look of it,” was Mila’s piqued reply.

Goran took no offense. “I came here to collect you, not to argue.”

“To collect me? What do you have in mind, Dr. Gavila?”

“I’m taking you to dinner…And by the way, I’d like you to start calling me Goran.”

Once they were out of the hospital, Mila had insisted on calling in at the Studio: she wanted to wash and change her clothes. She went on telling herself that if her sweater hadn’t been torn by the bullet, and if the rest of her clothes hadn’t been bloody from her wound, she would have worn the ones she had on. In fact that unexpected invitation to dinner had made her agitated, and she didn’t want to stink of sweat and iodine.

The tacit agreement with Dr. Gavila—even if she now had to call him by his first name—was that she shouldn’t see it as an excursion, and that after dinner she would come back to the Studio straightaway to resume her work. But—even though she felt guilty towards the sixth child—she couldn’t help feeling slightly smug about the invitation.

She couldn’t shower because of her wound. So she washed herself carefully bit by bit, until she exhausted the supply of hot water in the little boiler.

She put on a black polo-neck. The only spare jeans she had were too provocatively tight at the rear, but she had no choice. Her leather jacket was torn at the left shoulder, where she had shot it with her gun, so she couldn’t use it. To her great surprise, however, an army-green parka lay on the camp bed in the guest room, with a note beside it: “The cold here is deadlier than any bullets. Welcome back. Your friend, Boris.”

She felt full of affection and gratitude. Most of all because Boris had signed himself her “friend.” That stripped her of any doubts about him. There was also a box of mints on the jacket: Stern’s contribution to that gesture of friendship.

It had been years since she had worn a color other than black. But the green parka suited her. Even the size was right. When he saw her coming out of the Studio, Goran didn’t seem to notice her new look. He had always been too distracted, he probably didn’t pay any attention to other people’s appearance.

They walked to the restaurant. It was a pleasant stroll and, thanks to Boris’s present, Mila didn’t feel the cold.

The steakhouse sign promised juicy Argentinean Angus steaks. They sat down at a table for two, by the window. Outside, the snow covered everything, and a reddish, smoky sky promised more that night. In the restaurant people chatted and smiled, cheerfully.

Everything on the menu looked good, and Mila took a while to make her mind up. In the end she chose a well-done steak with roast potatoes and lots of rosemary. Goran had an entrecôte and tomato salad. They both drank only sparkling mineral water.

Mila had no idea what they would talk about: whether it would be work or their lives. The second option, interesting though it was, made her uneasy. But first there was something she was curious about.

“What really happened?”