God's Spy (13 page)

Dante came back two hours later. With him was a middle-aged woman who repeated her story to Dicanti. Brother Francesco had shown up when the previous parish priest, Brother Darío, had died. That had been three years ago, give or take. From that day on, the lady had been helping him clean the church and the rectory. According to her, Brother Francesco Toma had been a model of humility and Christian faith. He had taken thorough care of the parish. No one had had a bad word to say about him.

It was, taken all together, a sufficiently frustrating statement, but at least it made one fact clear. The Franciscan Darío Bassano had died in November 00, which therefore gave a date for Karosky entering the country.

‘Dante, do me a favour. Find out what the Carmelites know about

Francesco Toma.’
‘I’ll make some calls. But I suspect we won’t come up with
much.’
Dante went out the front entrance, heading towards his office at
the Vigilanza.
Fowler was also on his way out. ‘I’m going to my hotel to change.
See you later.’
‘I’ll be at the morgue.’
‘You don’t have to do it.’
‘Yes, I do.’
They stood there uncomfortably, not saying a word to each other,
their silence underscored by a hymn one of the pilgrims was singing. In the vast, turbulent crowd of people, one after another slowly
joined in the chorus. The sun slipped behind the hills and Rome
slowly sank into long afternoon shadows; yet nothing tempered the
electric atmosphere in the streets.
‘A song like that was probably the last thing Pontiero heard.’ Paola didn’t respond. Fowler had witnessed what the profiler
was going through too many times before, the process that takes
place after the death of a close companion: at the outset, a kind of
intoxication, mixed with the desire for vengeance. Little by little the
person would descend into exhaustion and sadness, as they came to
terms with what had happened and the shock took on the character
of a physical wound. She would finally be left with a dull grief, a
mixture of anger, blame and resentment, which would only resolve
itself once Karosky was behind bars, or dead. And perhaps not even
then.
The priest was about to put his hand on Dicanti’s shoulder but
stopped himself. Even if she hadn’t seen him, he was standing
directly behind her and she must have felt something, because she
turned around and looked at Fowler, a worried expression on her
face.
‘Careful, padre. He now knows you’re here, and that could change
everything. Not only that, but we don’t really know what he looks
like. He’s taken pains to be very clever at disguising himself.’ ‘How much can he have changed in five years?’
‘I’ve looked at the photograph that you showed me of Karosky,
and I’ve seen Brother Francesco with my own eyes. They don’t
resemble each other in the slightest.’
‘The church was exceedingly dark and you hardly paid any attention to the old Carmelite.’
‘Trust me: I’m good at faces. He might be wearing a beard covering half his face, and he’ll look like an authentic old man. He knows how to conceal himself, and by now he could be an entirely different
person.’
‘All well and good. But I’ve seen him up close. If he crosses my
path, I’ll recognise him. Subterfuge will only get him so far.’ ‘It’s not just subterfuge. He’s got his hands on a nine-millimetre
now, with thirty bullets to spare. Pontiero’s pistol and his bullet clip
are missing.’

0

Thursday, 7 April 2005, 1.32 a.m.

She had attended the autopsy encased in stone. All the adrenaline of the first minutes dissolved and she began to feel steadily more depressed. Watching as the coroner’s scalpel dissected her partner was almost more than she could bear, but she managed to make it through. The coroner announced that Pontiero had been struck forty-three times with a blunt object, in all likelihood the candelabrum that had been recovered, coated with blood, at the scene of the crime. As to what had caused the cuts on his body, including the slit across his throat, the coroner was reserving judgement until the laboratory personnel furnished him with moulds of the incisions.

Paola listened to the report through a sensory fog that failed to attenuate her suffering in the slightest. She stood there watching for hours, enduring a self-imposed punishment. Dante stopped by the autopsy room, asked a few questions and quickly went on his way. Troi stuck his head in too, but it was only a symbolic gesture. He left immediately, stunned, muttering in passing that he had been speaking with Pontiero just a few hours before.

When the coroner had finished, he left the body on the metal table. He was about to lift the sheet over the dead man’s face when Paola spoke up.

‘Don’t.’

The coroner understood and exited the room without saying a word.
The body was clean, but it exuded a faint coppery scent. Under the harsh, unrelenting light, her small friend seemed to be miniscule. Bruises covered his body like medals of pain and his wounds, gaping open like huge, obscene mouths, still gave off the rusty odour of blood.
Paola looked around for the envelope with the contents of Pontiero’s pockets. A rosary, a few keys, his wallet; a ballpoint pen, a lighter, a newly opened packet of cigarettes. When she saw that last item and realised that no one was ever going to smoke those cigarettes, she felt very sad, and alone. She began to accept the fact that her partner and friend was dead. In a gesture of defiance she shook one of the cigarettes out of the pack. The lighter’s dancing flame broke the heavy silence in the autopsy room.
Paola had given cigarettes up after the death of her father. She repressed the urge to cough and took a heavy drag. Imitating Pontiero, she blew the smoke straight at the ‘No Smoking’ sign. Then she began to say goodbye.
Shit, Pontiero. Fuck. Shit, shit, shit. How could you have been so clumsy? This is all your fault. Look at yourself. We haven’t even let your wife see your body. He did a good job on you – fuck, he really did. She wouldn’t have been able to take it, she couldn’t have seen you like this. It’s shameful. Does it seem normal to you that I’m probably the last person in the world who will see you naked? I promise you, this isn’t the kind of intimacy I wanted to share with you. No, of all the police in the world, you were the last one to want a closed coffin and now you’ve gone and got one. Everything for you. Pontiero, you lummox, you jerk. Why didn’t you see it coming? What the hell were you doing in that tunnel? I can’t believe it. You’ve always been chasing lung cancer, just like my goddamned father. Jesus Christ, you’ve no idea the things I think about every time I see you smoking one of these pieces of shit. I see my father in the hospital bed again, coughing his lungs out on to the sheets. And me, studying there every afternoon. In the morning, school, then every afternoon spent cramming the assignments into my head to the sound of his coughing. I always thought I’d end up at the foot of your bed too, holding your hand while you went to the other side, accompanied by Hail Marys and Our Fathers and you with your eye on the nurse’s behind. That’s what was on the cards for you, but you’ve gone and checked out early. Couldn’t you have called me, you jerk? Shit, you look like you’re smiling at me as if you’re apologising. Or do you think it’s my fault? Your wife and children don’t think so now, but they will when someone tells them the whole story. But no, Pontiero, it’s not my fault. It’s your fault and yours alone, you imbecile. Worse than an imbecile. Why the hell did you go down into that tunnel? And screw your damned faith in anything wearing a robe. That bastard Karosky, he really played us. Well, he played me and you’re the one who paid for it. That beard, that nose. He wore those glasses right in front of us like he was giving us the finger, just to make us look like fools. The bastard. He looked me straight in the eye, but I couldn’t see his eyes past the two bottle tops perched on his nose. That beard, that nose. Can you believe that I don’t know if I would recognise him if I saw him again? I already know what you’re thinking. Take a look at the pictures of Robayra’s murder to see if he’s there somewhere in the background. And I’m going to do it, for God’s sake. I’m going to do it. So stop being a wise ass. And stop smiling, you son of a bitch, stop smiling. I know it’s just rigor mortis, for the love of God. Even though you’re dead you want to keep foisting the blame on me. Don’t trust anyone, you kept telling me. Watch your step, you´d say. Is it possible to know why you gave me all that damned advice if you weren’t going to follow it yourself? God, Pontiero, what a mess you’ve left me with. Because of your damned clumsiness I’ve got to face this monster alone. Fuck, if we’re on the trail of a priest, then robes automatically become suspect, Pontiero. Don’t come at me with that. Don’t let yourself off the hook with the argument that Francesco looked like a homeless, crippled old man. Christ, he really did a good job on you. Shit, shit. How I hate you, Pontiero. Do you know what your wife said when she was told that you’d died? She said, ‘He can’t die. He likes jazz.’ She didn’t say, ‘He has two kids,’ or ‘He’s my husband and I love him.’ No, she said that you like jazz. As if Duke Ellington or Diana Krall were a fucking bullet-proof vest. Shit, she senses your presence, she feels you as if you were still alive, she hears your gravelly voice and the music you listen to. She can still smell the cigarettes you smoke. That you smoked. How I hate you, you pious little turd . . . What good did all those prayers do you? The people you trusted turned their backs on you. Now I remember that day we ate pastrami in the middle of Piazza Colonna. You said that priests were simply men with a calling, not angels, and that the Church didn’t realise that. And I swear to you that I’ll say that to the next one who stands on the balcony of Saint Peter’s, I swear I’ll write it on a poster so big that he’ll see it even if he’s blind. Pontiero, you goddamned idiot. This wasn’t our battle. Oh shit, I’m afraid, I’m very afraid. I don’t want to end up like you. That table looks as cold as ice. And what if Karosky follows me to my home? Pontiero, you idiot, this isn’t our battle. It’s a battle between the priests and their church. And don’t tell me it’s mine, too. I don’t believe in God any more. Or I should say, I do, but I don’t believe he’s a good person. My love for Him left me stranded at the feet of a dead man who should have lived another thirty years. He took off faster than a cheap deodorant, Pontiero. And now all that’s left is the stench of the dead, of every dead body we’ve seen over the last few years. Bodies that stink to high heaven before their time because God didn’t know how to care for some of his creatures. And your body is the one that will smell the worst of any of them. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t tell me that God believes in me. A decent God doesn’t let things like this happen, he doesn’t let one of his own be transformed into a wolf among sheep. You heard what Fowler said. That head-case they left with his lower half in knots after all the shit they threw at him is now looking for something even more powerful than raping little boys. And what do you have to say for yourself? What kind of God lets them stick a straight arrow like you in a fucking freezer with wounds big enough for your co-worker to slip her hand into? Shit, it wasn’t my battle before, even before I got so carried away with Troi, to catch one of these degenerates. But you can see I’m useless. No, shut up. Don’t say a word. Stop protecting me. I’m not a child. Yes, I’ve been useless. Is that so terrible to admit? I haven’t been thinking clearly enough. It´s obvious that this situation has overwhelmed me, but there it is. It’s over. Fuck, it wasn’t my battle, but it is now. Now it’s personal, Pontiero. Now I couldn’t give a shit about the pressure from the Vatican, from Cirin, from Troi or from the bitch who gave birth to every single one of them. Now I’m going to go all out, and it doesn’t matter to me if heads roll along the way. I’m going to catch him, Pontiero – for you and for me. For your wife who’s waiting outside and for your two brats. But above all for you, because you’re in the deep freeze and already your face doesn’t look like your face any more. God, he really fucked you over. How fucked over he left you and how alone I feel. I hate you, Pontiero and I’ll miss you even more.
Paola went out into the hallway. Fowler was there waiting for her, sitting on a wooden bench and staring at the wall. As soon as he saw her, he stood up.
‘Doctor, I—’
‘It’s OK.’
‘No, it’s not OK. I know what you’re going through. You can’t be in good shape.’
‘I’m definitely not in good shape. But for Christ’s sake, I’m not about to fall into your arms a second time like some damsel reeling from the pain. That only happens in films.’
She was about to leave when Troi appeared in the hallway.
‘Dicanti, we have to talk. I’m very worried about you.’
‘You too? What a novelty. Sorry, I don’t have time for a chat.’
Troi stepped into her path. Dicanti’s head came up to her boss’s chest.
‘You don’t understand, Dicanti. I’m taking you off the case. There’s too much at stake now.’
Paola looked up. She stared into his eyes and spoke very, very slowly, her voice cold and controlled. ‘Listen to me, Carlo, listen carefully, because I’m only going to say it once. I’m going to capture the man who did this to Pontiero. Neither you nor anyone else has any say in the matter. Do I make myself clear?’
‘What doesn’t seem to be clear is who’s in charge here, Dicanti.’
‘Maybe so. But what I am clear about is what I have to do. So please – out of my way.’
Troi opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it, and stepped aside. Paola stormed off towards the exit.
Fowler laughed.
‘What’s so amusing, padre?’
‘You, of course. You don’t fool me. You didn’t think of taking her off the case for a second, did you?’
The director of the UACV pretended to be shocked. ‘Paola’s a strong, independent woman, but she needs to centre herself. All the anger she’s feeling must be focused, channeled.’
‘Words, words, words. I’m not hearing the truth.’
‘OK, yes, I fear for her. I’m nervous about her. I needed to know that she has the strength to keep going. Any other answer than the one she gave me, and I would have thrown her off the case immediately. We’re not up against somebody who plays by the rules.’ ‘Now you’re levelling with me.’
Fowler intuited that behind the cynical politician and administrator there lurked a human being. The priest saw what kind of man Troi was at that early morning hour, his clothes all crumpled and his soul rubbed raw by the death of one of his subordinates. Maybe Troi spent a good deal of time on self-promotion, but he’d almost always covered Paola’s back. And he was still very attracted to her – that was obvious.
‘Fowler, I have a favour to ask you.’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Troi was bewildered.
‘You don’t have to ask me. I’ll take care of the doctor, in spite of herself. For better or worse, there are only three of us on this case: Fabio Dante, Dicanti and myself. We’ll have to present a united front.’