Uniform Justice

  They still here?" asked Brunetti.

  "Yes/ Vianello said, glancing at his watch, then at the closed door.

  "Been in there more than an hour."

  "Hear anything?" Pucetti asked.

  Vianello shook his head. "Not a word. I went in a half-hour ago to

  ask them if they wanted anything to drink, but the lawyer told me to

  get out."

  "How'd the boy look?" Brunetti asked.

  "Worried."

  The father?"

  The same."

  "Who's the lawyer?"

  "Donatini," Vianello said in a studiedly neutral voice.

  "Oh, my," Brunetti answered, finding it interesting that the most

  famous criminal lawyer in the city should be chosen by Maggiore Filippi

  to represent his son.

  "He say anything?" Brunetti asked.

  Vianello shook his head.

  The three men stood in the corridor for a few minutes until Brunetti,

  tiring of it, told Vianello he could go back to his office and himself

  went up to his own. There he waited until, almost an hour later,

  Pucetti phoned and told him that Avvocato Donatini said his client was

  ready to talk to him.

  Brunetti called Vianello and told him he'd meet him at the

  interrogation room but deliberately made no haste in going downstairs.

  Vianello was there when he arrived. Brunetti nodded, and Vianello

  opened the door and stood back, allowing his superior to pass into the

  room before him.

  Donatini stood and extended his hand to Brunetti, who shook it briefly.

  He smiled his cool smile, and Brunetti noticed that he had had

  extensive dental work since last they met. The Pavarotti-style caps on

  his upper front teeth had

  been replaced with new ones that better corresponded to the proportions

  of his face. The rest was the same as ever: skin, suit, tie, shoes all

  joining in a hallelujah to wealth and success and power. The lawyer

  gave Vianello a curt nod but did not offer his hand. The Filippis,

  father and son, looked up at the policemen but did not acknowledge

  their arrival with even a nod. The father wore civilian clothes, but

  it was a suit that, like Donatini's, spoke so eloquently of wealth and

  power that it might as well have been a uniform. He was perhaps

  Brunetti's age but looked a decade younger, the result of either

  natural animal grace or hours in a gym. He had dark eyes and the long,

  straight nose that was mirrored on the face of his son.

  Donatini, staking a claim to the proceedings, waved Brunetti to a seat

  at the opposite end of the rectangular table and Vianello to a chair

  across from the father and son. Thus he himself faced Brunetti, while

  the other two looked at Vianello.

  "I won't waste your time, Commissario," Donatini said. "My client has

  volunteered to talk to you about the unfortunate events at the Academy/

  The lawyer looked to his side, where the cadet sat, and the boy gave a

  solemn nod.

  Brunetti gave what he thought was a rather gracious one.

  "It would seem that my client knows something about the death of Cadet

  Moro."

  T'd be very eager to hear what that is," Brunetti said with a curiosity

  he allowed to be tempered with politesse.

  "My client was .. ." Donatini began, only to be stopped by Brunetti,

  who held up a hand, but gently and not very high, to suggest a moment's

  pause. "If you don't mind, Avvocato, I'd like to record what your

  client has to say."

  This time it was the lawyer who responded with politesse, which he

  conveyed by the merest inclination of his head.

  Brunetti reached forward, conscious as he did so of how

  often he had done the same thing, and switched on the microphone. He

  gave the date, his name and rank, and identified all of the people in

  the room.

  "My client .. ." Donatini began again, and again Brunetti saw fit to

  stop him with a raised hand.

  "I think it would be better, Avvocato Brunetti said, leaning forward to

  switch off the microphone, 'if your client were to speak for himself."

  Before the lawyer could object or question this, Brunetti went on with

  an easy smile, "That might give a greater appearance of openness on his

  part, and it would certainly then be easier for him to clarify anything

  that might seem confusing." Brunetti smiled, aware of how elegant had

  been his implication that he reserved the right to question the boy as

  he spoke.

  Donatini looked at Maggiore Filippi, who until now had remained

  motionless and silent. "Well, Maggiore?" he asked politely.

  The Maggiore nodded, a gesture his son responded to with what appeared

  to be an involuntary half-salute.

  Brunetti smiled across at the boy and turned the microphone on again.

  "Would you tell me your name, please?" he asked.

  "Paolo Filippi." He spoke clearly and louder than he had spoken the

  last time, presumably for the benefit of the microphone.

  "And are you a third-year student at the San Martino Military Academy

  in Venice?"

  "Yes."

  "Could you tell me what happened at the Academy on the night of

  November third of this year?"

  "You mean about Ernesto?" the boy asked.

  "Yes, I'm asking specifically about anything concerning the death of

  Ernesto Moro, also a cadet at the Academy."

  The boy was silent for so long that Brunetti finally asked, "Did you

  know Ernesto Moro?"

  "Yes?"

  "Was he a friend of yours?"

  The boy shrugged that possibility away, but before Brunetti could

  remind him about the microphone and the need to speak, Paolo said, "No,

  we weren't friends."

  "What was the reason for that?"

  The boy's surprise was obvious. "He was a year younger than me. In a

  different class."

  "Was there anything else about Ernesto Moro that prevented him from

  being a friend of yours?"

  The boy thought about this and finally answered, "No."

  "Could you tell me about what happened that night?"

  When the boy did not answer for a long time, his father turned

  minimally towards him and gave a slight nod.

  He leaned towards his father and whispered something, the last words of

  which, 'have to?" Brunetti couldn't help but overhear.

  "Yes/ the Maggiore said in a firm voice.

  The boy turned back to Brunetti. "It's very difficult," he said, his

  voice uneven.

  "Just tell me what happened, Paolo/ Brunetti said, thinking of his own

  son and the confessions he had-made over the years, though he was sure

  none of them could compare in magnitude to what this boy might have to

  say.

  "I was the boy began, coughed nervously, and began again. "I was with

  him that night."

  Brunetti thought it best to say nothing and so did nothing more than

  look encouragingly.

  The boy glanced up to the top of the table at Donatini, who gave an

  avuncular nod.

  "I was with him he repeated.

  Where?"

  "In the showers the boy said. Usually, it took them a long time to get

  to the confession. Most people had to build up to it with a long set

  of details and circumstances
, all of which

  would make what finally happened seem inevitable, at least to

  themselves. "We were there the boy said and then stopped.

  Brunetti looked at Donatini, who drew his lips together and shook his

  head.

  The silence went on so long that at last Donatini was driven to say,

  Tell him, Paolo."

  The boy cleared his throat, looked at Brunetti, started to glance at

  his father but stifled the gesture and looked back at Brunetti. "We

  did things he said, and stopped.

  For a moment that seemed all he was going to say, but then he added, To

  one another."

  Brunetti said, "I see. Go on, Paolo."

  "A lot of us do it the boy said in a voice so soft Brunetti doubted the

  microphone would pick it up. "I know it's not right, not really, but

  nobody gets hurt, and everybody does it. Really."

  Brunetti said nothing, and the boy added, "We have girls. But at home.

  And so it's .. . it's hard .. . and .. ." His voice stopped.

  Brunetti avoided the eyes of the boy's father and turned to Donatini.

  "Am I to understand that these boys engaged in sexual acts with one

  another?" He thought he might as well be as clear as he could and

  hoped he was right.

  "Masturbation, yes Donatini said.

  It had been decades since Brunetti had been as young as this boy, but

  he still failed to understand the strength of Paolo's embarrassment.

  They were boys in late adolescence, living among other boys. Their

  behaviour didn't surprise him: the boy's reaction did.

  Tell me more about it Brunetti said, hoping that whatever he heard

  would help this to make sense to him.

  "Ernesto was strange Paolo said. "It wasn't enough for him to, well,

  just to do what we do. He always wanted to do other things."

  M5

  Brunetti kept his eyes on the boy, hoping with his attention to spur

  him on to explain.

  That night, he told me that... well, he told me he'd read about

  something in a magazine. Or a newspaper." Paolo stopped and Brunetti

  watched him worry at this detail. Finally he said, "I don't know where

  he read it, but he said he wanted to do it that way." He stopped.

  "To do what?" Brunetti finally asked. "What way?" For an instant, he

  took his eyes from the boy and saw his father, sitting with his head

  lowered, looking down at the table as if he were willing himself not to

  be in the room where his son had to admit this to a policeman.

  "He said the thing he read said it made it better, better than

  anything," the boy went on. "But it meant he had to put something

  around his neck and choke himself a little bit when he ... well, when

  he did it. And that's what he wanted me there for, to be sure that

  nothing went wrong, when it happened."

  The boy gave an enormous sigh, pulling air into his lungs, preparing

  himself for the final leap. "I told him he was crazy, but he wouldn't

  listen." He brought his hands together and folded them primly on the

  table.

  "He had the stuff there in the bathroom, and he showed me the rope. It

  was where it was ... I mean, where it was after, when they found him.

  It was long, so he could sort of crouch on the floor in there and

  pretend to fall over. And that would make him choke. And that's why

  it was so good. The choking, or something. Or that's what he said."

  Silence. From beyond the wall, everyone in the room could hear a low

  humming noise: computer? tape recorder? It hardly mattered.

  Brunetti remained absolutely silent.

  The boy began again. "So he did it. I mean, he had this bag and put

  it over his head and over the rope. And then he started laughing and

  tried to say something, but I couldn't

  understand what he said. I remember he pointed at me and laughed

  again, then he started to ... and after a while, he crouched down and

  sort of fell over to the side."

  The boy's face grew suddenly red and Brunetti watched his hands grip at

  one another. But he went on, unable to stop himself from telling it

  all until it was finished. "He kicked a few times and his hands

  started to wave around. And then he started to scream or something and

  kick real hard. I tried to grab him, but he kicked me so hard he

  knocked me out of the shower. But I went back and I tried to untie the

  rope, but the plastic bag was tied over it, so I couldn't get to the

  rope, and when I did, I couldn't untie the knot because he was yanking

  around so much. And then, and then, he stopped kicking, but when I got

  to him it was too late, and I think he was dead."

  The boy wiped at his face, which was covered with sweat.

  "And then what did you do, Paolo?" Brunetti asked.

  The don't know. For the first minute, I just was there, next to him. I

  never saw a dead person before, but I don't remember what I did." He

  glanced up, then immediately down. As Brunetti watched, his father

  reached out and placed his left hand on top of his son's clenched

  hands. He squeezed them once and left his hand there.

  Encouraged by that pressure, Paolo went on. "I guess I panicked. I

  thought it was my fault because I hadn't been able to save him or stop

  him. Maybe I could have, but I didn't."

  "What did you do, Paolo?" Brunetti repeated.

  "I wasn't thinking much, but I didn't want them to find him like that.

  People would know what happened."

  "And so?" Brunetti prodded.

  The don't know where I got the idea, but I thought if it looked like a

  suicide, well, it would be bad, but it wouldn't be as bad as ... as the

  other." This time, Brunetti didn't press, hoping that the boy would

  continue by himself.

  "So I tried to make it look like he hanged himself. I knew I had to

  pull him up and leave him there." Brunetti's eyes fell to

  their clasped hands; the father's knuckles were white. "So that's what

  I did. And I left him there." The boy opened his mouth and pulled air

  into his lungs as though he'd been running for kilometres.

  "And the plastic bag?" Brunetti asked when his breathing had grown

  calmer.

  "I took it with me and threw it away. I don't remember where. In the

  garbage somewhere." "And then what did you do?"

  "I don't remember much. I think I went back to my room." "Did anyone

  see you?" "I don't know." "Your roommate?"

  "I don't remember he said. "Maybe. I don't remember how I got back to

  my room."

  What's the next thing you do remember, Paolo?" "The next morning,

  Zanchi woke me up and told me what had happened. And then it was too

  late to do anything." "Why are you telling me this now?" Brunetti

  asked. The boy shook his head. He separated his hands and grabbed at

  his father's with his right. Finally in a soft voice, he said, "I'm

  afraid." "Of what?"

  "Of what will happen. Of what it could look like."

  "What's that?"

  That I didn't want to help him, that I let it happen to him because I

  didn't like him."

  "Did people think you didn't like him?"

  That's what he told me to do," Paolo said, turning minimally away from

  his father, as if fearful of what he would see on his f
ace, but not

  letting go of his hand. That's what Ernesto told me to do. So people

  wouldn't know about the other thing."

  That you were, well ... ?"

  "Yes. All of is do it, but we usually do it with different

  guys. Ernesto just wanted to do it with me. And I was ashamed of

  that."

  The boy turned to his father. "Papa, do I have to say any more?"

  The Maggiore, instead of answering his son, looked across the table at

  Brunetti. Instead of replying, Brunetti leaned forward, gave the time,

  and said that the interview was over.

  Silently, all five of them got to their feet. Donatini, who was

  closest to the door, went and opened it. The Maggiore wrapped his

  right arm around his son's shoulders. Brunetti pushed his chair under

  the table, nodded to Vianello that they would leave now, and moved

  towards the door. He was just a step from the door when he heard a

  noise behind him, but it was only Vianello, who had stumbled against

  his chair.

  Seeing that Vianello was all right, Brunetti took a final glance at the