Doctored Evidence (15 page)

Recognizing the book, he asked, ‘Are you still reading the catechism?'

‘Yes,' she said, not removing her eyes from the page. ‘I'm reading a chapter a day, though it's not called a catechism any more.'

Rather than inquire as to its new title, Brunetti asked, instead, ‘And where are you now?'

‘On the Sacraments.'

By rote, the words swam up from his youth: ‘Baptism, communion, confirmation, marriage, ordination, confession . . .' and then his voice trailed off. ‘There's seven of them, aren't there?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘What's the seventh? I can't remember. It's just gone.' As happened every time he failed to remember something simple and ordinary, he had a moment's panic that this was the same beginning no one had wanted to recognize in his mother.

‘Extreme unction,' Paola said, glancing aside at him. ‘Perhaps the most subtle of them all.'

Brunetti failed to understand what she meant and asked, ‘Why “subtle”?'

‘Think about it, Guido. Just at the time a person is approaching death, usually when it's generally agreed that there is little or no hope, the priest arrives.'

‘Yes. Exactly. But I still don't understand why that's so subtle.'

‘Think about it. In the past, the only people who could read and write were priests.'

Because he was hot and thirsty and because he usually woke up cranky if he slept in the afternoon, Brunetti said, ‘Isn't that a bit of an exaggeration?'

‘Yes, all right. It is. But priests could, and most people could not, at least not until the last century.'

‘I still don't see where you're going with all of this,' he said.

‘Think eschatologically, Guido,' she enjoined, further confusing him.

‘I strive to do so every moment of every day,' he said, having forgotten the meaning of the word but already regretting that he'd snapped at her.

‘Death, judgement, heaven and hell,' she said. ‘Those are the four last things. And at the point when people are about to encounter the first and know they cannot escape the second, they start to think about the third and the fourth. And there is the priest, all too ready to talk about the fires of hell and the joys of heaven, though I've always been of a mind that people are far more concerned with avoiding the former than with experiencing the latter.'

He lay still, beginning to suspect where this was going.

‘So there he was, the local priest – who incidentally often happened to be the notary – and then he no doubt started to talk about the fires of hell that would consume a person in the flesh, unspeakable pain to be prolonged for all eternity.'

She could have been an actress, he thought, so powerfully was her voice a testament to belief in every word she spoke.

‘But there exists a way for the good Christian to achieve forgiveness,' switching to the present tense, she went on in her most syrupy voice, ‘to free themselves from the fires of hell. Yes, my son, you have but to open your heart to the love of Jesus, your purse to the needs of the poor. You have but to put your name or, if you cannot write, your mark on this paper, and in exchange for your generosity to Holy Mother Church, the gates of heaven themselves will swing open to receive you.'

She let the book fall open on her chest and turned to face him. ‘So the last-minute will was signed, leaving this or that, or everything, to the Church.' Her voice turned savage. ‘Of course they wanted to get in there when they were sick or dying or out of their minds. What better time to suck them dry?'

She picked the book up again, turned a page, and said in an entirely conversational tone, ‘That's why it is the most subtle.'

‘Do you say these things to Chiara?' asked an appalled Brunetti.

She turned to him again. ‘Of course not. Either she'll realize these things when she's older, or she won't. Please don't forget that I agreed never to interfere in the religious education of the children.'

‘And if she doesn't realize these things?' he asked, quotation marks of emphasis around the last three words and expecting Paola to say that she would then be disappointed in her daughter.

‘Then her life will probably be a lot more peaceful,' Paola said and returned her attention to the catechism.

Dottor Carlotti's
ambulatorio
was on the ground floor of a house in Calle Stella, not far from Fondamente Nuove. Brunetti had found the address in his
Calli, Canali, e Campielli
and recognized it when he saw two women with small children in their arms standing outside the door to the building. Brunetti smiled at the mothers and rang the bell to the right of the door. A grey-haired man of middle age answered, asking, ‘Commissario Brunetti?'

When Brunetti nodded, the doctor put out his hand and, half shaking, half pulling, brought Brunetti into the building. He pointed to the door to his office, then stepped outside the door and invited the two women in, explaining that he would be busy for a time and asking them to come into the waiting room where they could at
least escape the heat. He led Brunetti through the room so quickly that all Brunetti was aware of was the usual glossy-covered magazines and furniture that looked as if it had been taken from some relative's parlour.

The office was a copy of all the doctors' offices Brunetti had passed through in his life: the paper-covered examining table, the glass-topped counter holding packets of gauze-wrapped bandages, the desk covered with papers and files and boxes of medicine. The single difference from the offices of the doctors of his youth was the computer, which stood to the right of the desk.

He was an invisible man, Dottor Carlotti: look at him once, indeed, look at him five times, and the memory would register nothing save brown eyes behind dark-framed glasses, dry hair of an indeterminate colour retreating from the forehead, and a mouth of average size.

The doctor leaned back against his desk, arms folded, and waved Brunetti towards a chair. But then, as though he realized how unwelcoming his posture was, he went and sat behind his desk. He moved aside some papers, shifted a tube of something to the left, and folded his hands in front of him.

‘How may I help you, Commissario?' the doctor asked.

‘By telling me about Maria Battestini,' Brunetti began without introduction. ‘You found her, didn't you, Dottore?'

Carlotti looked at the surface of his desk, then
across at Brunetti. ‘Yes. I ordinarily went to see her once a week.'

When it seemed the doctor was going to say nothing more, Brunetti asked, ‘Was there an ongoing condition you were treating, Dottore?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. She was as healthy as I am, perhaps even more so. Except for her knees.' Then he surprised Brunetti by saying, ‘But you probably know that already, if it was Rizzardi who did the autopsy. Probably know more about her health than I do.'

‘You know him?'

‘Not really. We belong to the same medical associations, so I've spoken to him at dinners or at meetings. But I know his reputation. That's why I say you'd know more about her state of health than I do.' His smile was shy for a man Brunetti guessed must be well into his forties.

Brunetti said, ‘Yes, he did the autopsy, and he told me exactly what you've said, that she was extraordinarily healthy for a woman her age.'

The doctor nodded, as if pleased that his opinion of Rizzardi's skill had been confirmed. ‘Did he say what killed her?' Carlotti asked. Brunetti was surprised that anyone who had seen the woman's body could ask the question.

‘He said it was trauma of the blows to her head.'

Again that nod, again a diagnosis confirmed.

Brunetti took out his notebook and opened it to the pages where he'd made some notes of what Signora Gismondi had told him.

‘How long was she a patient of yours, Dottore?'

Carlotti's response was immediate. ‘Five years, ever since the death of her son. She insisted that the doctor they both went to was responsible for his death, so she refused to go to him after the son died and asked to join my practice.' He said it with a hint of regret.

‘And was there any basis to her claim that this other doctor was responsible?'

‘It's nonsense. He died of AIDS.'

Suppressing his surprise, Brunetti asked, ‘Did she know this?'

‘Better to ask if she believed it, Commissario, because she didn't believe it. But she must have known it.' Neither found this difficult to make sense of.

‘Was he gay?'

‘Not publicly and not to the knowledge of my colleague, though that doesn't necessarily mean that he was not. Nor was he a haemophiliac, nor a drug user, and he'd never had a transfusion, at least not that he could remember or the hospital had any record of.'

‘You tried to find out?'

‘My colleague did. Signora Battestini accused him of criminal negligence, and he tried to protect himself by finding out the source of the infection. He also wanted to know if there was any chance of Paolo's having passed it on, but she refused to answer any questions about him, even when someone from the Public Health went to talk to her. When she became my
patient, she said only that he had been murdered by the “doctors”. I made it clear I would not listen to such things and suggested she find another doctor. So she stopped saying it, at least she stopped saying it to me.'

‘And you never heard anything that suggested he might be gay?'

Carlotti shrugged. ‘People talk. All the time. I've learned not to pay much attention to it. Some people seemed to believe he was, others not. I didn't care, so they stopped talking about him to me.' He glanced at Brunetti. ‘So I don't know. My colleague believes he was, but that's because there seems no other way to explain his having the disease. But I repeat: I never met him, so I don't know.'

Brunetti left it there and asked, ‘About Signora Battestini, then, Dottore. Is there anything you could tell me that might explain why someone would do this to her?'

The doctor pushed his chair back and stuck his legs out, unusually long legs in a man so much shorter than Brunetti. He crossed his ankles and scratched the back of his head with his left hand. ‘No, not really. I've been thinking about this since you called, in fact, since I found her, but I can't think of anything. She was a person of a certain character . . .' the doctor began, but before he could continue with this platitude, Brunetti interrupted him.

‘Please, Dottore. I've spent my life listening to people speak well of the dead or find ways to avoid speaking the truth about them. So I know
about “a certain character”, and I know about “difficult”, and I know about “wilful”. I'd like you to remember that this is a murder investigation, and because it is, Signora Battestini is far beyond any harm your words might do to her. So could you please forget politeness and tell me honestly about her and about why someone might want to kill her?'

Carlotti grinned at this, then glanced towards the door to the waiting room, from which the voices of the two women could be heard speaking in soft, nervous voices. ‘I suppose it's a habit we all have, doctors especially, always afraid we'll be caught saying something we ought not to say about a patient, caught telling the truth.'

At Brunetti's nod, he went on. ‘She was a nasty old shrew, and I never heard a good word said about her.'

‘Nasty in what way, Dottore?' Brunetti asked.

The doctor considered before answering, as though he'd never stopped to think about why this woman was nasty or in what particular ways she was. His hand moved to his head and went back to scratching at the same spot. Finally he looked at Brunetti and said, ‘Maybe all I can do is give you examples. Like the women who worked for her. She never stopped complaining about them or telling me, or them, that the things they did weren't done the right way. They used too much coffee to make her coffee, or they left lights on, or they should wash the dishes in cold water, not hot. If they tried to
defend themselves, she'd scream at them, telling them they could go back where they came from.'

There was a cry from one of the children in the waiting room, but it stopped. Carlotti went on. ‘It doesn't sound like a lot, I realize now, when I hear myself saying it, but it was terrible for them. They were probably all illegal, the women, so they couldn't complain, and the last thing any of them wanted to do was go back to where they came from. And she knew it.'

‘Did you know any of them, Dottore?'

‘Know them how?' he asked.

‘Speak to them about where they came from, about what they did before they came here.'

‘No. She wouldn't let me, probably wouldn't let anyone. If the phone rang while I was there, she demanded to know who it was, made them hand over the phone. Even if their
telefonini
rang, she wanted to know who was calling them, told them they couldn't talk on the phone while she was paying them to work.'

‘And the last one?'

‘Flori?' the doctor asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Do you think she killed her?' Dottor Carlotti asked.

‘Do you, Dottore?'

‘I don't know. When I found her, the first thing I did was look for Flori's . . . for her body. It never occurred to me that she could have done it: the only possibility I could think of was that she might have been another victim.'

‘And now, Dottore?'

The man seemed genuinely pained. ‘I read the papers, and I spoke to that other officer, and everyone seems sure she did it.' Brunetti waited. ‘But I still can't believe it.'

‘Why is that?'

The doctor hesitated for a long time, glancing at Brunetti's face as if to see if this man who also spent his time with human weakness would understand. ‘I've been a doctor for more than twenty years, Commissario, and it's part of my profession to notice things in people. It might seem as though all I need to pay attention to are physical things, but I've seen enough sick people to know that what's wrong with the soul is often also wrong with the body. And I'd say that there was nothing wrong with Flori's soul.' He looked away, looked back, and said, ‘I'm afraid I can't be more precise or professional than that, Commissario.'