Uniform Justice

  would like anything to eat or drink, but the boy refused. In the

  manner of his refusal, Brunetti saw generations of B movie actors

  spurning the handkerchief offered by the commander of the firing

  squad.

  As soon as the boy was led away, Brunetti told Vianello to wait for

  Major Filippi and the lawyer and to delay them as long as he could

  before letting them see the boy.

  Calling to Pucetti, he told him to go down and wait at the launch, that

  he'd be down in a moment.

  "Where are you going?" interrupted a puzzled Vianello.

  "Back to the Academy. I want to talk to the Cappellini boy before they

  get to him Brunetti said. "Let them talk to the boy

  alone as long as they want. If you have to, let them take him away.

  Jusl see that it all takes as long as possible. Do anything you can to

  delay them." He was gone even before Vianello could make any

  acknowledgement.

  The launch stood before the Questura, the pilot gunning the engine in

  response to Pucetti's excitement. Pucetti had already untied the

  moorings and stood on the dock, holding the boat close to the pier.

  Brunetti jumped on board, followed a second later by Pucetti, who lost

  his footing on the already moving boat and had to steady himself with a

  hand on Brunetti's shoulder. Full throttle, the launch sped out into

  the Bacino, straight across, then turned into the open mouth of the

  Canale della Giudecca. The pilot, warned by Pucetti, used the flashing

  blue light but not the siren.

  The first thrill of excitement was followed almost immediately by

  Brunetti's embarrassment that, in the midst of death and deceit, he

  could still revel in the simple joy of speed. He knew this was no

  schoolboy holiday, no cops and robbers chase, but still his heart

  soared with delight at the rush of wind and the rhythmic thump of the

  prow against the waves.

  He glanced at Pucetti and was relieved to see his own feelings

  reflected on the younger man's face. They seemed to flash by other

  boats. Brunetti saw heads turn and follow their swift passage up the

  canal. Too soon, however, the pilot pulled into the Rio diSant'

  Eufemia, slipped the motor into reverse, and glided silently to the

  left-hand side of the f canal. As he and Pucetti jumped off, Brunetti

  wondered if he f had been rash to bring this sweet-tempered young man

  with him instead of someone like Alvise who, if equally decent, at

  least had the professional advantage of looking like a thug.

  "I want to frighten this kid," Brunetti said as they started up the

  Riva towards the school.

  "Nothing easier, sir," Pucetti replied.

  As they walked across the courtyard, Brunetti sensed some sort of

  motion or disturbance to his right, where Pucetti was. Without

  breaking his stride, he took a quick glance at him and was so surprised

  that he almost stopped. Somehow, Pucetti's shoulders had thickened,

  and he had adopted the stride of a boxer or roustabout. His head

  jutted forward on a neck that, to Brunetti, looked suddenly thicker.

  Pucetti's hands were curled, almost as if poised for the command that

  they be turned into fists, and his steps were, each one, a command that

  the earth dare not resist his passage.

  Pucetti's eyes roved around the courtyard, his attention turning with

  predatory haste from one cadet to another. His mouth looked hungry,

  and his eyes had lost all trace of the warmth and humour which usually

  filled them.

  Brunetti automatically slowed his pace, allowing Pucetti to cut ahead,

  like a cruise ship in the Antarctic that moves aside to allow an ice

  breaker to slip in front of it. The few cadets in the courtyard fell

  silent as they passed.

  Pucetti took the steps to the dormitory two at a time, Brunetti

  following at a slower pace. At the door to Filippi's room, Pucetti

  raised his fist and banged on it twice, then quickly twice again. From

  the end of the corridor, Brunetti heard the yelp from inside and then

  saw Pucetti open the door and shove it back on its hinges so that it

  banged against the wall.

  When Brunetti got to the door, Pucetti was standing just inside, his

  hands raised almost to the level of his waist; his shoulders looked, if

  this were possible, even thicker.

  A thin blonde boy with acne-pitted cheeks was on the top bunk, half

  sitting, half lying, but pressed back against the wall, his feet pulled

  towards him, as though he were afraid to leave them hanging in the air

  so close to Pucetti's teeth. As Brunetti came in, Cappellini raised a

  hand, but he used it to wave Brunetti closer, not to tell him to

  stop.

  "What do you want?" the boy asked, unable to disguise his terror.

  At the question, Pucetti turned his head slowly to Brunetti and raised

  his chin, as if asking if Brunetti wanted him to climb up on the bed

  and hurl the boy down.

  "No, Pucetti/ Brunetti said in a voice generally used to dogs.

  Pucetti lowered his hands, but not by much, and turned his head back to

  face the boy on the bed. He kicked the door shut with his heel.

  Into the reverberating silence, Brunetti asked, "Cappellini?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Where were you on the night Cadet Moro was killed?"

  Before he thought, the boy blurted out, "I didn't do it," voice high

  and himself too frightened to realize what he'd just admitted. "I

  didn't touch him."

  "But you know," Brunetti said in a firm voice, as if repeating what

  he'd already been told by someone else.

  "Yes. But I didn't have anything to do with it," the boy said. He

  pushed himself farther back on the bed, but his shoulders and back were

  flat against the wall, and there was no place for him to go, no way he

  could escape.

  "Who was it?" Brunetti added, stopping himself from suggesting

  Filippi's name. When the boy hesitated, he demanded, Tell me."

  Cappellini hesitated, calculating whether this current danger were

  worse than the one he lived with. Obviously he decided in Brunetti's

  favour, for he said, "Filippi. It was his idea, all of it."

  At the admission, Pucetti lowered his hands, and Brunetti sensed a

  general relaxing of his body as he allowed the menace of his presence

  to slip away. He had no doubt that, were he to take his eyes off

  Cappellini, he would see that Pucetti had managed to return to his

  normal size.

  The boy calmed down, at least minimally. He allowed

  himself to slip down lower on the bed, extended his legs and let one of

  his feet hang off the side. "He hated him, Filippi. I don't know why,

  but he always did, and he told us all that we had to hate him, too,

  that he was a traitor. His family was a family of traitors." When he

  saw that Brunetti made no response to this, Cappellini added, "That's

  what he told us. The father, too. Moro."

  "Do you know why he said that?" Brunetti asked in a voice he allowed

  to grow soft.

  "No, sir. It's what he told us."

  Much as Brunetti wanted to know who the others were, he was aware that

  it would break the rhythm, so he asked, instead, "D
id Moro complain or

  fight back?" Seeing Cappellini's hesitation, he added, When Filippi

  called him a traitor?"

  Cappellini seemed surprised by the question. "Of course. They had a

  couple of arguments, and one time Moro hit him, but somebody stopped

  it, pulled them apart." Cappellini ran his right hand through his

  hair, then propped himself up on both hands, letting his head sink down

  between his shoulders. There was a long pause. Pucetti and Brunetti

  might just as easily have been two stones.

  "What happened that night?" Brunetti finally prodded him.

  "Filippi came in late. I don't know whether he had permission or he

  used his key," Cappellini explained casually, as if he expected them to

  know about this. The don't know who he was with; it might have been

  his father. He always seemed angrier, somehow, when he came back from

  seeing his father. Anyway, when he came in here .. ." Cappellini

  paused and waved his hand at the space in front of him, the same space

  now filled by the motionless bodies of the two policemen. "He started

  talking about Moro and what a traitor he was. I'd been asleep and I

  didn't want to hear it, so I told him to shut up."

  He stopped speaking for so long that Brunetti was finally prompted to

  ask, "And then what happened?"

  "He hit me. He came over here to the side of the bed and reached up

  and hit me. Not really hard, you understand. Just sort of punched me

  on the shoulder to show me how mad he was. And he kept saying what a

  shit Moro was and what a traitor."

  Brunetti hoped the boy would continue. He did. "And then he left,

  just turned and walked out of the room and went down the hall, maybe to

  get Maselli and Zanchi. I don't know." The boy stopped and stared at

  the floor.

  "And then what happened?"

  Cappellini looked up and across at Brunetti. "I don't know. I fell

  asleep again."

  "What happened, Davide?" Pucetti asked.

  With no warning, Cappellini started to cry, or at least tears started

  to roll down his cheeks. Making no attempt to brush them away he spoke

  through them. "He came back later. I don't know how long it was, but

  I woke up when he came in. And I knew something was wrong. Just by

  the way he walked in. He wasn't trying to wake me up or anything.

  Just the opposite, maybe. But something woke me up, as if there was

  energy all over the place. I sat up and turned on the light. And

  there he was, looking like he'd just seen something awful. I asked him

  what was wrong, but he told me it was nothing and to go back to sleep.

  But I knew something was wrong."

  The tears slid down his face, as if independent of his eyes. He didn't

  sniff, and he still made no attempt to wipe them away. They ran down

  his cheeks and fell on to his shirt, darkening it.

  "I suppose I went back to sleep, and the next thing I knew, people were

  running down the halls shouting and making a lot of noise. That's what

  woke me up. Then Zanchi came in and woke Filippi up and told him

  something. They didn't speak to me, but Zanchi gave me a look, and I

  knew I couldn't say anything."

  He stopped again, and the two policemen watched his tears fall. He

  nodded at Pucetti. Then you all came and started asking questions, and

  I did what everyone else did, said I didn't know anything." Pucetti

  made a sympathetic patting gesture in the air with his right hand. The

  boy raised a hand and wiped away the tears on the right side of his

  face, ignoring the others. "It's what I had to do." He used the

  inside of his elbow to wipe all of the tears away; when his face

  emerged, he said, "And then it was too late to say anything. To

  anybody."

  The boy looked at Pucetti, then back at Brunetti, then down at his

  hands, clasped in his lap. Brunetti glanced at Pucetti, but neither of

  them risked saying anything.

  Beyond the door, footsteps went by, then came back after a minute or so

  but did not stop. Finally Brunetti asked, "What do the other boys

  say?"

  Cappellini shrugged away the question.

  "Do they know, Davide?" Pucetti asked.

  Again, that shrug, but then he said, "I don't know. No one talks about

  it. It's almost as if it never happened. None of the teachers talks

  about it either."

  The thought there was some sort of ceremony Pucetti said.

  "Yes, but it was stupid. They read prayers and things. But no one

  said anything."

  "How has Filippi behaved since then?" Brunetti asked.

  It was as if the boy hadn't considered it before. He raised his head,

  and both Brunetti and Pucetti could see how surprised he was by his own

  answer. "Just the same. Just the same as ever. As if nothing's

  happened."

  "Has he said anything to you about it?" Pucetti asked.

  "No, not really. But the next day, that is, the day they found him,

  when all of you came here to the school and started asking questions,

  he said he hoped I realized what happened to traitors."

  "What do you think he meant by that?" Brunetti asked.

  With the first sign of spirit the boy had shown since the two men came

  into his room, Cappellini shot back, That's a stupid question."

  "Yes, I suppose it is," Brunetti admitted. "Where are the other two?"

  he asked. "Zanchi and Maselli."

  Their room is down to the right. The third door

  "Are you all right, Davide?" Pucetti asked.

  The boy nodded once, then again, leaving his head hanging down, looking

  at his hands.

  Brunetti signalled to Pucetti that they should leave. The boy didn't

  look up when they moved, nor when they opened the door. Outside, in

  the corridor, Pucetti asked, "Now what?"

  "Do you remember how old they are, Zanchi and Maselli?" Brunetti said

  by way of answer.

  Pucetti shook his head, a gesture Brunetti interpreted to mean they

  were both underage and thus obliged to have a lawyer or parent present

  when they were questioned, at least if what they said were to have any

  legal weight at all.

  Brunetti saw then the futility of having rushed here to speak to this

  boy; he regretted the folly of having given in to his impulse to follow

  the scent laid down by Filippi. There was virtually no hope that

  Cappellini could be led to repeat what he had just said. Once he spoke

  to cooler heads, once his family got to him, once a lawyer explained to

  them the inescapable consequences of an involvement with the judicial

  system, the boy was certain to deny it all. Much as Brunetti longed to

  be able to use the information, he had to admit that no sane person

  would admit to having had knowledge of a crime and not going to the

  police; much less would they allow their child to do so.

  It struck him that, in similar circumstances, he would be reluctant to

  allow his own children to become involved. Surely, in his role as

  police officer, he would offer them the protection of the state, but as

  a father he knew that their only hope of emerging unscathed from a

  brush with the

  magistratura would be his own position and, more importantly, their

 
grandfather's wealth.

  He turned away from the boys' room. "Let's go back," he told a

  surprised Pucetti.

  On the way back to the Questura, Brunetti explained to Pucetti the laws

  regarding statements from underage witnesses. If what Cappellini told

  them was true and Brunetti's bones told him it was then he bore some

  legal responsibility for his failure to tell the police what he knew.

  This, however, was only negligence; the actions of Zanchi and Maselli

  if they were involved and of Filippi, were active and criminal and, in

  the case of Filippi, subject to the full weight of the law. But until

  Cappellini confirmed his statement in the presence of a lawyer, his

  story had no legal weight whatsoever.

  Their only hope, he thought, was to attempt the same strategy with

  Filippi as had worked with his roommate: pretend to have full knowledge

  of the events leading to Moro's death and hope that, by asking

  questions about the small details that still remained unexplained, they

  could lead the boy to a full explanation of just what had happened.

  Holding the mooring rope, Pucetti jumped on to the Questura dock and

  hauled the boat up to the side of the pier.

  Brunetti thanked the pilot and followed Pucetti into the building.

  Silent, they went back to the interrogation rooms, where they found

  Vianello standing in the corridor.