father and son, who were facing one another. And as he watched he saw
Paolo, who had his father's complete attention, close his right eye in
a single wink of triumphant, sly satisfaction. In the same instant,
the father's right hand came up and gave the boy an approving punch on
the right biceps.
Vianello hadn't seen it; he had been facing away from that millisecond
of comp licit understanding between father and son. Brunetti turned
towards the door and passed in front of a silent Donatini. In the
hall, he waited until Vianello emerged, followed by the two Filippis
and their lawyer.
Brunetti closed the door of the interrogation room, moving slowly to
give himself time to think.
Donatini spoke first. "It's your decision, Commissario, about what to
do with this information." Brunetti was entirely unresponsive, didn't
even bother to acknowledge that the lawyer had spoken.
In the face of Brunetti's silence, the Maggiore spoke. "It might be
better if that dead boy's family were left with the memory of him that
they have," he said solemnly, and Brunetti was shamed to realize that,
had he not seen the momentary flash of triumph between him and his son,
he would have been moved by the man's concern for Ernesto's family. He
was swept by a desire to strike the man across the mouth but instead
turned away from all of them and started
down the corridor. From behind him, the boy called out, "Do you want
me to sign anything?" and then a moment later, intentionally delayed,
"Commissario?"
Brunetti kept walking, ignoring them all, bent on getting back to his
office, like an animal that has to return to its cave in order to feel
safe from its enemies. He closed the door behind him, knowing that
Vianello, however confused by his superior's behaviour, would leave him
alone until called.
"Check and mate and game at an end he said aloud, so much the victim of
the energy surging in him that he could not move. Clenching his hands
and closing his eyes didn't help at all: he was left with the image of
that wink, that sustaining punch. Even if Vianello had seen it, he
realized, it would make no difference for them, nor for Moro. Filippi's
story was credible, the entire performance perfectly pitched. He
cringed at the memory of how he had been moved by the boy's
embarrassment, how he had superimposed upon his halting account what he
imagined would be his own son's response in the same circumstances and
seen fear and remorse where there had been only low cunning.
Part of him longed to hear Vianello's voice at the door so that he
could tell him how they had been duped. But there would be no purpose,
he realized, and so he was glad that the Inspector stayed away. His
own rashness in going off to talk to Cappellini had given the Filippis
time to concoct their story; not just to concoct it but to work on it
and to put into it all of the ingredients that were sure to appeal to
the sentimentalism of anyone who heard it. What cliche did they leave
untouched? Boys will be boys. My shame is greater than my guilt. Oh,
spare from further pain the suffering mother of the lad.
Brunetti turned and kicked the door, but the noise and the jolt of pain
in his back changed nothing. He confronted the fact that anything he
did would have the same effect: nothing would change, regardless of how
much pain was endured.
He looked at his watch and saw that he'd lost all track of tone while
questioning the boy, though the darkness outside should have told him
how late it was. He'd given no orders but there was certainly no
reason to hold FilipVaTvSnello must surely have let him go. He wanted
desperately not to see any of them when he left, so he forced hfrnse f
to s and there eyes closed and head leaning back against the door for
another five minutes, and then he went downstairs
could Tee "Tde Wm r id ^ ffiCerS' r 0m' thought he could see light
coming from the door as he went silently outside he turned to the right
-d ^ St.
presenTed h I" VaP rett SUdd6 my ^^the ^action presented by the many
people on board at this hour
One was just pulling away as he arrived at the imbarcadero
;:0a:iewwhaited forHthe next he had ten Az
people who arrived, most of them Venetian by the look of them. When it
came, he boarded the boat, crossed to the far sule and stood at the
rail, back turned to the g'ryo the city When at last he arrived at the
door to his apartment he paused, hoping that some remnant of humanity
wAd' be
Pao "8H r I" inSide' ^ if ^ ^ he ^ a son liS creatd hinT, HPmSe *,*? ^
*** Without having *** aparLent **"** ** *** *"* let hims^ ^ the
1 will not buy you a telefomno because they create a race of spineless
weaklings; it would make you even more
rejoTedt thl^H ^ ^ ** ^ ^oTa -yTnd
S^S^S*8 ng Ur ^ ^^ She *" her
Her voice came from the direction of the kitchen but
HTkn'wTat inStead' dr ^ hall to--dkolaSud; He knew that years of lying
awake for the sound of the footsteps of returning children would alert
her to ^arrival
S Shee did" d dUb rat t WOULD S n -- -AnA ' She did, and they talked.
Rather, he talked and she
listened. After a long time, when he had explained everything and
named the choices open to him, he asked, "Well?"
The dead can't suffer," was all she said, an answer that confused him
at first.
Familiar with her habits of thought, he considered the remark for some
time and finally asked, "And the living can?"
She nodded.
"Filippi and his father he said, then added, 'who should. And Moro and
his wife
"And daughter, and mother Paola added, 'who shouldn't."
"Is this a contest of numbers?" he asked soberly.
She flicked this away with a quick motion of her hand. "No, no, not at
all. But I think it matters, not only because of the number of people
who will be affected but for the amount of good it would do
"Neither choice will do anyone any good he insisted.
Then which will do less harm?"
"He's dead Brunetti said, 'no matter what the official verdict is."
This isn't about the official verdict, Guido
Then what is it about?"
"It's about what you tell them The way she spoke, she made it sound
self-evident. He had shied away from accepting that, had almost
succeeded in preventing himself from thinking about it, yet the instant
the words fell from her lips, he realized that it was the only thing
any of this was about.
"You mean what Filippi did?"
"A man has the right to know who killed his child
"You make that sound so simple. Like something from the Bible."
"It's not in the Bible, to the best of my knowledge. But it is simple.
And true Her tone was a stranger to uncertainty.
"And what if he does something about it?"
"Like what? Kill Filippi? Or his father?"
Brunetti nodded.
"From what I know of him and what you've said, I doubt that he's the
kind of man who would do something like that."
Before he could say
that one never knew, she said, "But you never know, do you?"
Once again, Brunetti had the strange sensation of being adrift in time.
He looked at his watch and was stunned to see that it was almost ten.
"Have the kids eaten?"
"I sent them out to get a pizza when I heard you come in."
He had gradually, as he told her the story of his meeting with the
Filippis and their lawyer, sunk lower and lower on the sofa until he
was now lying with his head on a pillow. "I think I'm hungry he
said.
"Yes/ Paola agreed. The, too. Stay here for a while and I'll make
some pasta." She got to her feet and went to the door. "What will you
do?" she asked.
Till have to speak to him Brunetti said.
He did so the next day, at four in the afternoon, a time chosen by
Dottor Moro, who had insisted on coming to the Questura rather than
have Brunetti come to his home. The doctor was on time to the minute,
and Brunetti stood up when a uniformed officer ushered him into his
office. Brunetti came around his desk and extended his hand. They
exchanged strained courtesies and then, as soon as he was seated, Moro
asked, "What is it you want, Commissario?" His voice was level and
calm, devoid of curiosity or, for that fact, interest. Events had
washed him clean of such things.
Brunetti, who had retreated behind his desk more out of habit than
choice, began by saying, There are some things I think you should know,
Dottore." He paused, waiting for the doctor to respond, perhaps with
sarcasm, perhaps with anger. But Moro said nothing.
"There are certain facts regarding the death of your son that
I think..." Brunetti began, then flailed to a stop. He looked at the
wall behind Moro's head, then began again. That is, I've learned some
things and want you to know them."
"Why?"
"Because they might help you decide."
"Decide what?" Moro asked tiredly.
"How to proceed."
Moro shifted to one side in the chair and crossed his legs. "I have no
idea what you're talking about, Commissario. I don't think there are
any decisions I can make, not now."
"About your son, I think."
Brunetti saw something flash into Moro's eyes.
"No decision can affect my son," he said, making no attempt to disguise
his anger. And then, to hammer the message home, he added, "He's
dead."
Brunetti felt the moral heat of what Moro had just said sweep over him.
Again, he looked away, then back at the doctor, and again he spoke.
I've come into the possession of new information, and I think you
should be aware of what it is." Without giving Moro a chance to
comment, he went on. "Paolo Filippi, who is a student at the Academy,
maintains that your son died by accident and that, to avoid
embarrassment for him, and for you, he arranged it to look like
suicide."
Brunetti waited for Moro to ask if that would not also be an
embarrassment, but Instead the doctor said, "Nothing my boy did would
embarrass me."
"He maintains your son died as the result of homosexual activity."
Brunetti waited for the other man to respond.
"Even though I'm a doctor Moro said, "I have no idea of what that can
mean."
That your son died in an attempt to increase his sexual excitement by
near-strangulation."
"Autoerotic asphyxiation Moro said with clinical detachment.
Brunetti nodded.
"Why should that embarrass me?" the doctor said calmly.
After a long silence, Brunetti realized that Moro was not going to
prompt him, so he said, "I don't think what he told me is true. I
think he killed your son because his father had persuaded him that
Ernesto was a spy or a traitor of some sort. It was his influence,
perhaps even his encouragement, that led the boy to do what he did."
Still Moro said nothing, though his eyes had widened in surprise.
In the face of the other man's silence, the best Brunetti could do was
say, "I wanted you to know what story Filippi will give if we pursue
the case."
"And what is this decision you've called me in here to make,
Commissario?"
"Whether you want us to bring a charge of involuntary manslaughter
against Filippi."
Moro studied Brunetti's face for some time before he said, "If you
think he killed Ernesto, Commissario, then involuntary manslaughter is
not much of a charge, is it?" Before Brunetti could reply, Moro added,
"Besides, this should be your decision, Commissario. Not mine." His
voice was as cool as his expression.
"I wanted to give you the choice," Brunetti said in what he thought was
a calm voice.
"So you wouldn't have to decide?"
Brunetti bowed his head but turned the motion into a nod. "In part,
yes, but it's also for you and your family."
To spare us embarrassment?" Moro asked with heavy emphasis on the last
word.
"No/ Brunetti asked, worn down by Moro's contempt. To spare you
danger."
"What danger?" Moro asked, as though he were really curious.
The danger that would come to all of you if this went to trial."
"I don't understand."
"Because the report you suppressed would have to be produced as
evidence, or at least you would have to testify as to its existence and
contents. To justify Filippi's behaviour and his father's anger. Or
fear, or whatever it was."
Moro put a hand to his forehead in what seemed to Brunetti an
artificial gesture. "My report?" he finally asked.
"Yes. About military procurement."
Moro took his hand away. There is no report, Commissario. At least
not about the Army or procurement or whatever it is they're afraid I've
done. I abandoned that when they shot my wife."
Brunetti was amazed to hear Moro speak so calmly, as though it were a
truth universally acknowledged that his wife had been shot
deliberately.
The doctor went on. The started doing research on their spending and
where the money went as soon as I was appointed to the committee. It
was obvious where all the money was going; their arrogance makes them
very sloppy bookkeepers, so their trail was very easy to follow, even
for a doctor. But then they shot my wife."
"You say that as though there's no question Brunetti said.
Moro looked across at him and said in a cold voice. There's no
question. I was called even before she reached the hospital. And so I
agreed to abandon my research. The suggestion was made at the time
that I retire from politics. And I did. I obeyed them,
Commissario."
"You knew they shot her?" Brunetti asked, though he had no idea who
'they' were, at least no idea so clear that a specific name could be
attached.
"Of course," Moro said, his voice slipping back towards sarcasm. T'd
done at least that much research."
"But then why arrange the separation from your wife?" Brunetti
asked.
To be sure they left her alone."
"And your daughter?" Brunetti asked with sudden curi
osity.
"In a safe place was the only answer Moro was willing to provide.
Then why put your son there, at the Academy?" Brunetti asked, but as
he did it came to him that perhaps Moro had thought it would be best to
hide the boy in plain sight. The people who shot his wife might think
twice about creating bad publicity for the Academy; or perhaps he had
hoped to fool them.
Moro's face moved in something that might once have been a smile.
"Because I couldn't stop him, Commissario. It was the greatest failure
of my life that Ernesto wanted to be a soldier. But that's all he ever
wanted to be, ever since he was a little boy. And nothing I could ever
do or say could change it."
"But why would they kill him?" Brunetti asked.
When Moro eventually spoke, Brunetti had the sense that he was
relieved, at long last, to be able to talk about this. "Because they
are stupid and didn't believe that it was so easy to stop me. That I
was a coward and wouldn't oppose them." He sat thinking for a long
time and added, "Or perhaps Ernesto was less of a coward than I am. He