Authors: Donna Leon
Since detectives had to be brought in from other cities so as not to be detected as they presented themselves at the
Casinò
in the role of gamblers, and employees had to be found who would be willing to testify against their employers and colleagues, the investigation had so far been a slow and complicated one. Brunetti found himself involved in it at the expense of other cases, including that of Ernesto Moro, where the evidence continued to pile up in support of a judgement of suicide: the crime lab’s report on the shower stall and the boy’s room contained nothing that could be used to justify suspicions about his death, and none of the statements of students or teachers suggested anything at variance with the view that it was suicide. Brunetti, though unpersuaded by the absence of credible evidence in support of his own view, recalled occasions in the past when his impatience had proven harmful to investigations. Patience, then, patience and calm would be his watchwords.
The magistrate appointed to the investigation of the
Casinò
was on the point of issuing warrants for the arrest of the entire directorate when the mayor’s office put out a statement announcing the transfer of the director of the
Casinò
to another position in the city administration, as well as the promotion of his chief assistants to places high in other city services. Further, the two leading witnesses found themselves promoted to positions of importance within the reorganized
Casinò
, whereupon both began to realize that their previous interpretation of events must have been mistaken. Their case in rubble, the police backed away from the gorgeous
palazzo
on the Canal Grande, and the visiting detectives were sent home.
These events resulted in a late-morning summons from Patta, who chastised Brunetti for what he considered an over-aggressive attitude toward the
Casinò
administration. Because Brunetti had at no time felt more than mild disapproval of the behaviour of the suspects – always taking a broad-minded view of crimes against property – Patta’s heated words fell upon him with no more effect than spring rainfall upon sodden earth.
It was when his superior turned his attention to the Moro family that he found himself attending to what Patta was saying. ‘Lieutenant Scarpa has told me that the boy was considered unstable, and so there’s no further need to drag our heels on this. I think it’s time we closed the case.’
‘By whom, sir?’ Brunetti inquired politely.
‘What?’
‘By whom? Who was it that thought he was unstable?’ It was evident from Patta’s response that he had not thought it necessary to ask this
question
: Scarpa’s assertion would more than suffice by way of proof.
‘His teachers, I imagine. People at the school. His friends. Whoever the lieutenant talked to,’ Patta shot off in a quick list. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Curiosity, sir. I didn’t know the lieutenant was interested in the case.’
‘I didn’t say he was interested,’ Patta said, making no attempt to disguise his disapproval at this latest evidence of Brunetti’s inability – though Patta suspected it was his refusal – to do what every good policeman should do: realize when a suggestion was really an order. He took a long breath. ‘Whoever it was he talked to, they said that the boy was clearly unstable, and so it’s even more likely that it was suicide.’
‘That’s certainly what the autopsy indicated,’ Brunetti affirmed mildly.
‘Yes, I know.’ Before Brunetti could ask, Patta went on, ‘I haven’t had time to read it carefully, but the overview is certainly consistent with suicide.’
There was no doubt in Brunetti’s mind as to the author of this overview; what was in doubt was why Lieutenant Scarpa should take an interest in a case in which he was not involved.
‘Has he had anything else to say about this?’ Brunetti asked, trying his best to sound only mildly interested.
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, merely that if the lieutenant is so convinced, then we can inform the boy’s parents that the investigation is closed.’
‘You’ve already spoken to them, haven’t you?’
‘Some days ago, yes. But if you remember, sir, you asked me to be sure that no doubt could be cast on our conclusions so the father would have no reason to complain about our work, given that he’s already created a great deal of trouble for other agencies of the state.’
‘You mean his report?’ Patta asked.
‘Yes, sir. I was of the understanding that you wanted to be certain he would have no grounds to launch a similar investigation of our handling of his son’s death.’ Brunetti paused a moment to assess the effect of this, and when he saw the first signs of Patta’s uneasiness, he drove in another nail. ‘He seems to be someone who has earned the trust of the public, so any complaint he might make would probably be picked up by the press.’ He allowed himself a small, dismissive shrug. ‘But if Lieutenant Scarpa is satisfied that there’s enough evidence to prove to the parents that it was suicide, then there’s certainly no reason for me to continue working on it.’ Slapping his hands on his thighs, Brunetti pushed himself to his feet, eager to go off in pursuit of some new project, now that the Moro case had so neatly been settled by his colleague, Lieutenant Scarpa.
‘Well,’ Patta said, drawing the word out, ‘perhaps it’s hasty to think that things are as conclusive as Lieutenant Scarpa would like to believe.’
‘I’m not sure I understand you, sir,’ Brunetti
lied
, unwilling to let Patta off so easily and wondering to what lengths he would go to distance himself from Scarpa’s eagerness to settle matters. Patta said nothing, and so an emboldened Brunetti asked, ‘Is there some question about these people? These witnesses?’ By a remarkable exercise of restraint, Brunetti kept all hint of sarcasm from the last word. Still Patta said nothing, and so Brunetti asked, ‘What, exactly, did he tell you, sir?’
Patta waved Brunetti to his seat again and contented himself with leaning back in his chair, and holding his chin with one hand – no doubt a non-threatening posture learned at a management seminar as a means to create solidarity with an inferior. He smiled, rubbed briefly at his left temple, then smiled again. ‘I think the lieutenant might be too eager to bring closure to the boy’s parents.’ Surely, this was a word that had its origin in the same seminar. ‘That is, it was rumoured at the school that Moro was not his normal self during the days before his death. Upon sober reflection, it occurs to me that the lieutenant might have been hasty to interpret this as proof of suicide,’ Patta ventured, then added quickly, ‘though I’m sure he’s right.’
‘Did these boys say how he was behaving?’ Before Patta could answer the question, Brunetti asked a second, ‘And who were these boys?’
‘I’m not sure he said,’ Patta answered.
‘Surely it’s in his report,’ Brunetti said, leaning forward minimally as though expecting Patta to
satisfy
him by producing the lieutenant’s written report.
‘He gave his report orally.’
‘So he didn’t mention any names?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Not that I recall, no,’ Patta said.
‘Do you know if he subsequently submitted a written report?’
‘No, but I doubt he’d consider that necessary, not after having spoken to me,’ Patta said.
‘Of course.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Patta demanded, swiftly returning to his usual manner.
Brunetti’s smile was bland. ‘Only that he would have thought he had done his duty by reporting to his superior.’ He allowed a long pause to extend beyond this, then changed his expression to one he’d seen used by a tenor singing the Simpleton in
Boris Godunov
: ‘What should we do now, sir?’
For a moment, he feared he’d gone too far, but Patta’s response suggested he had not. ‘I think it might be wise to speak to the parents again,’ Patta began, ‘to see if they’re willing to accept the judgement that it was suicide.’ There were still times when Patta’s honesty was breathtaking, so absolute was his lack of interest in the truth.
Brunetti offered, ‘Perhaps the lieutenant should go and speak to them, sir?’
That caught Patta’s attention. ‘No, it might be better if you went. After all, you’ve already
spoken
to them, and I imagine they thought you were sympathetic.’ Never had that quality sounded so much like a character defect as when Patta used it in reference to Brunetti. Patta considered further. ‘Yes, do it that way. Go and talk to them and see how they feel. You’ll know how to handle it. Once they’ve accepted that it was suicide, we can close the case.’
‘And turn our attention back to the
Casinò
?’ Brunetti could not prevent himself from asking.
The coolness of Patta’s glance not only lowered the temperature of the room; it removed Brunetti to a greater distance. ‘I think the city has proven itself capable of attending to that problem,’ Patta pronounced, forcing Brunetti, not for the first time, to suspect that his superior might not be as dull as he’d always found it convenient to believe him.
Upstairs, he pushed papers around on his desk until he found the thin file which contained the papers generated by the death of Ernesto Moro. He dialled the father’s number, and after six rings, a man’s voice answered with the surname.
‘Dottor Moro,’ Brunetti said, ‘this is Commissario Brunetti. I’d like to speak to you again, if possible.’ Moro did not answer, so Brunetti said into the silence, ‘Could you tell me a time that’s convenient for you?’
He heard the other man sigh. ‘I told you I had nothing further to say to you, Commissario.’ His voice was calm, entirely without expression.
‘I know that, Dottore, and I apologize for
disturbing
you, but I need to speak to you again.’
‘Need?’
‘I think so.’
‘We need very little in this life, Commissario. Have you ever considered that?’ Moro asked, quite as if he were prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon discussing the question.
‘Often, sir. And I agree.’
‘Have you read Ivan Ilych?’ Moro surprised him by asking.
‘The writer or the short story, Dottore?’
Brunetti’s response must have surprised Moro in turn, for there followed a long silence before the doctor answered, ‘The short story.’
‘Yes. Often.’
Again, the doctor sighed, after which the line lay silent for almost a minute. ‘Come at four, Commissario,’ Moro said and hung up.
Though reluctant to face both of Ernesto’s parents on the same day, Brunetti still forced himself to phone Signora Moro. He let the phone ring once, cut the connection, then pressed the ‘Redial’ button, filled with relief when the phone rang on unanswered. He had made no attempt to keep a check on the whereabouts of either parent. For all he knew, she could have left the city any time after the boy’s funeral two days ago; left the city, left the country, left everything behind save her motherhood.
He knew that such thoughts would take him nowhere, and so he returned his attention to the papers on his desk.
The man who let Brunetti into the Moro apartment at four that afternoon might well have been the doctor’s older brother, if such a brother were afflicted with some wasting disease. The worst signs were to be found in his eyes, which seemed covered with a thin film of opaque liquid. The whites had taken on the tinge of ivory often seen in people of advanced age, and inverted dark triangles had settled under both eyes. The fine nose had become a beak, and the thick column of his neck was now a trunk held upright by tendons that pulled the skin away from the muscle. To disguise his shock at the change in the man, Brunetti lowered his gaze to the floor. But when he noticed that the cuffs of the doctor’s trousers hung limply over the backs of his shoes and dragged on the floor, he raised his eyes and looked directly at the doctor, who turned away and led him into the sitting room.
‘Yes, Commissario? What is it you’ve come to say?’ Moro asked in a voice of unwavering politeness when they were seated opposite one another.
Either his cousin had come frequently or someone else was seeing that the apartment was kept clean. The parquet glistened, the rugs lay in geometrical regularity, three Murano vases held enormous sprays of flowers. Death had made no inroads into the evident prosperity of the family, though Moro might as well have been living in the atrium of a bank for all the attention he paid to his surroundings.
‘I think this has put you beyond lies, Dottore,’ Brunetti said abruptly.
Moro displayed no sign that he found Brunetti’s words at all unusual. ‘You might say that,’ he answered.
‘I’ve thought a great deal about our last meeting,’ Brunetti said, hoping to establish some connection with the man.
‘I don’t remember it,’ Moro said, neither smiling nor frowning at the admission.
‘I tried to talk to you about your son.’
‘That’s understandable, Commissario, as he had just died, and you seemed to be in charge of investigating his death.’
Brunetti hunted, but hunted in vain, for sarcasm or anger in the doctor’s tone. ‘I’ve thought about him a great deal,’ Brunetti repeated.
‘And I think of nothing but my son,’ Moro said coolly.
‘Is there anything among your thoughts that you can tell me?’ Brunetti asked, and then amended his question by adding, ‘Or will tell me?’
‘Of what interest could my thoughts be to you, Commissario?’ the doctor asked. As Moro talked, Brunetti observed that his right hand never stopped moving, as his thumb and middle finger kept rubbing against one another, busy rolling some invisible object between them.
‘As I said, Dottore, I think you must be beyond lies now, so I won’t hide from you the fact that I don’t think your son killed himself.’
Moro’s gaze drifted away from Brunetti for a
moment
and then returned to him. ‘Lies aren’t the only thing I’m beyond, Commissario.’
‘What does that mean?’ Brunetti asked with conscious politeness.
‘That I have little interest in the future.’
‘Your own?’
‘My own or, for that fact, anyone else’s.’
‘Your wife’s?’ Brunetti asked, ashamed of himself for doing so.