The Bottom of Your Heart (33 page)

I thought to myself: I'll wait a few days. Better not to go out, otherwise the baby girl will start crying again, and then she'll never stop.

Then, a week or two later, one of my men came to see me. Peppi', he said, have you heard the news? That piece of shit fell and was killed, he fell out his own window. You need to run, everyone will assume it was you, because of that oath you swore.

Maybe, Commissa', maybe I should have been happy to hear he was dead. Or maybe I really should have run away: no one believes people like us, the souls in purgatory. We alone believe each other. But there was the baby girl, Commissa'. You know, the minute I move away from her, she starts crying again.

No, it wasn't me. Men like me, if they're going to do something like that, they do it in broad daylight, not by night, not in secret.

And I wouldn't have thrown him out of a window down onto the pavement. No, I wanted to look him in the eyes while I gutted him like a fish, making sure that it took him an hour to die, drop after drop of blood, just as my little Rosinella died at his hands. I wouldn't have killed him like that, with one quick shove.

Someone killed him, no doubt about it. Men like him don't kill themselves, because they possess neither honor nor conscience. To kill yourself takes pride, or despair. And he had neither.

That's right, Commissa', I should have killed him myself. I'd sworn an oath. And maybe I would have done it, as soon as I was done with this baby girl who starts crying as soon as I step away. Or maybe I wouldn't, because in the past few days I've started to wonder if it's Rosinella making her do it, just to keep me at home. And I was at home, that night, with my mother and the baby girl. All the family that's left to me.

I should have killed him myself.

But I didn't.

M
aione glared grimly at the young man leaning against the wall at the mouth of the
vicolo
.

“It's like an army, just think about it, Commissa'. Look over there, a sentinel standing guard on the road that leads to headquarters. I'd arrest them for that fact alone.”

“Yes, but the fact that they're criminals doesn't necessarily mean that we have to assume they're guilty of everything. Graziani struck me as a young man in the throes of an enormous personal loss.”

“Sure, Commissa', whatever you say, but he had sworn in front of a crowd of eyewitnesses to murder the professor. And a few weeks later, the professor was murdered, and he has no alibi.”

Ricciardi corrected him: “He was home with his family. The same alibi as the professor's son and hundreds of thousands of other people who live in this city, including you and me. And it was nighttime. We can't base things merely on the existence or absence of an alibi.”

Maione defended his thesis: “Commissa', if a criminal swears that he's going to murder someone and that someone is murdered, I'm inclined to believe that the criminal kept his vow, and that's that. And don't let's forget that I can always have one of my men do the deed while I stay at home, nice and comfortable, don't you think?”

“No, in that case, I'd go out and mingle with the crowds, make sure everybody saw me, and then I'd have a real alibi, don't you think?”

Maione shook his head: “Well, this isn't getting us anywhere. How are we going to proceed now?”

“The way we always do: we'll keep asking questions and hope either that we can figure something out, or that someone says something unintentionally revealing. We just have to grope in the dark, Raffaele, and wait for something we don't know to stick in our minds.”

They'd reached the apartment house where Iovine had lived. Ines, the concierge, was delivering a speech to a smaller crowd than she'd had the first time: two housekeepers and a tradesman who were listening to her, mouths agape: “. . . and that means someone pushed him for sure, he didn't jump the way they thought at first. I hear that the police . . .”

Maione came up behind her and coughed. The woman started and her audience scattered, only to stop to peer from behind the corner at the epic unfolding of events, an appropriately exaggerated account of which would later be spread around the neighborhood.

“Oh, Brigadie', you gave me a fright.
Buongiorno
.”

“So tell us, Signo', now you're certain someone pushed him? And just what are the police doing now? Tell us about it too, maybe we'll learn something.”

“No, Brigadie', what are you trying to say? I'd never dare to say such a thing! It's just that the general hospital's charge nurse, who I've known for many years, came to see the poor widow, and the charge nurse confided in me that she had learned from the assistant the same thing that you found out from the doctor at Pellegrini Hospital, namely that maybe, and I repeat, just maybe, someone threw the professor out the window. And this was confirmed by the custodian of the general hospital, who saw one of you—now, I couldn't say which because he didn't tell me—even go to the scene of the crime late at night, at the same hour it happened, to see, and . . .”

Maione turned to Ricciardi, with some exasperation: “I wonder why we bother to go to all the trouble. We might as well just come to see Signora Ines here, and let her tell us the whole story. Just think how much walking we'd spare ourselves, how much less sweating we'd do in this heat.”

The concierge put on a contrite expression: “Sorry, Brigadie', but we have to talk about something, no? The days are long, and a major event like the professor falling out a window isn't something that happens all the time. We'll be arguing about it for years.”

Ricciardi decided it was time to break up the cheery conversation.

“Is Signora Iovine home?”

The woman looked around, prudently.

“I wouldn't really know . . .”

Maione was furious now: “Ah, so you're familiar with every nook and cranny of our investigation, but you don't know whether a person who lives in the apartment building where you work as a concierge is home or not? Now you're going to come straight upstairs with us, or I swear to God I'll arrest you!”

Ines shot off up the stairs, motioning for the policemen to wait. Soon she was back: “If you please, Brigadie', come right on up. The Signora will see you.”

A housekeeper in a black dress with a white apron ushered them into the same parlor where they'd spoken to the woman on their first visit. The pitiless noonday sun filtered through the shutters, but the air remained reasonably cool thanks to a pleasant breeze, possibly produced by a clever combination of open windows and doors. Everything was clean and tidy, and there was a faint odor that Maione was unable to identify.

Maria Carmela Iovine came in a few minutes later. She was dressed in black, with a string of pearls around her neck and her hair gathered in a bun. Her face was serene and her wrinkles, so unmistakable the first time, were less marked now. Only her dark eyes spoke of an intractable grief.

“
Buongiorno
, gentlemen. Forgive me, I wasn't expecting visitors and the housekeeper just cleaned the silver with ammonia. The last few days have been challenging, as you can imagine, and we'd neglected the apartment. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Maione put a name to the odor he'd noticed and hearing talk of caring for apartments gave him a stab of discomfort; it seemed to him that lately his wife had been paying less attention to her domestic duties.

Ricciardi looked at the woman: “Forgive our intrusion, Signora, we should have called ahead, but we're working the entire city trying to figure out just what happened. First things first: I must inform you that the findings of the autopsy might lead us to conclude that . . . that it was not the professor himself, of his own free will, who caused his own death.”

She nodded, her long slender fingers interlaced.

“Yes, Commissario, I knew that already. My husband's charge nurse told me, when she came to keep me company after the funeral. You know, rumors spread from one hospital to another, and my husband was quite well known.”

“May I ask what you think of this news? If it's confirmed, naturally.”

“What can I tell you, Commissario? It would have caused me more grief to learn that he'd taken his own life. I'm religious, and an act of that sort would have sent him into eternal damnation. What's more, the scandal would have affected my son: a father who killed himself, can you imagine? And what's more, for a woman, it would be terribly sad not to have realized that the man she lived with had been brooding over such a decision.”

Ricciardi went on: “I understand . . . Signora, the last time we were here we asked you whether for any reason your husband might have been so desperate or upset that he might have been pushed to commit an extreme act. Now, however, we must focus on the hypothesis that there was someone who greatly resented him.”

Maria Carmela thought it over: “Commissario, I already gave you that letter from Ruspo, and the charge nurse, Ada Coppola, told me about a man, someone whose wife died in childbirth, who had made threats. I don't know anything else.”

“Did this sort of thing happen frequently? That the husband of one of his patients talked about taking revenge?”

“You see, Tullio was one of the best known physicians in the country. He was constantly being asked to consult on cases; he was truly gifted, but that hardly means he was infallible. It could happen that, in one of the vast number of procedures performed under his supervision, something went wrong. But there were very few patients that he took under his direct care. He never mentioned that episode to me, presumably because he didn't want to worry me. All the same, I doubt that anyone would kill a doctor for a tragic event that was hardly his fault, wouldn't you say?”

Maione and Ricciardi remained in silence. Then the commissario said: “Are you by any chance aware of . . . other situations outside of work that might have created problems or conflicts for your husband?”

The woman remained silent for a few seconds, her eyes calmly fixed on Ricciardi; from the piazza came the rumble of traffic. Then she said: “Let me see if I understand, Commissario: are you asking me whether my husband was leading a double life, and if I was aware of the fact?”

Ricciardi exchanged a glance with Maione. They had reached the crucial point.

Signora Iovine stood up and went to the window. She spoke without turning around: “Tullio wasn't my first husband. I was a widow. I'm a widow now, too, of course, but I'd already been widowed once. However, I had no children. My only child is my son Federico. He's eight years old, I think I told you that the last time you were here. Every love is different from all the others, in my opinion. Love is like an article of clothing. You choose a certain size and you wear it, maybe even for many years. Then one day you look at it and you wonder why you ever put it on. It doesn't suit you anymore. Your first love, the love you first feel when you're young, is made of flesh and blood. You can't conceive of anything else, you're jealous, you even suffer. But when you're an adult, on the other hand, you reason. Above all, you reason.”

She turned halfway round. Looking at her profile, Ricciardi noticed the long, narrow nose, the willful chin. A woman who might not be beautiful, but who was strong and intelligent.

“Children are a different matter. Children split your life in two. When you have a child, you must protect him against everything and everyone. You carry a child in your womb forever: a parent is responsible for anything that happens to him. And also anything that doesn't happen.” She came back over to them: “No, Commissario. I imagine, certainly, I have my ideas. Let's say that I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had another woman, or even that he had two other women. And I couldn't swear that Tullio didn't have other vices. When a man has a job that keeps him out of the house most of the time, a wife can't have too many certainties. He was a good husband, and a good father. He took care of us, he made sure we never wanted for anything. That's what I know and that's what I can tell you.”

Ricciardi nodded: “I understand. I beg your pardon for having to ask these questions, but I hope you'll understand that everything we're doing is meant to clarify the facts of the event, as I'm sure you want, too. One last thing: are you aware that the professor had purchased a gift for your upcoming name day?”

The woman smiled: “Every year he bought me something more expensive. I believe it was his way of proving to me how successful he was.”

“Do you have any idea of what it might be?”

“A ring? I'd told him I wanted a new one. A girlfriend of mine, I can't remember which, told me about an artisan with a workshop down in the goldsmiths'
borgo
who makes especially beautiful rings, and I remember that Tullio wanted to know the man's name. He was so transparent when he thought he was planning a surprise. You men can be so naïve sometimes.”

Before Ricciardi had a chance to reply, a little boy dressed in a sailor suit ran into the room. The resemblance to his mother was extraordinary.

He threw his arms around her neck. Tenderly, she asked him: “Federico, have you said hello to the nice men?”

The little one turned around, his expression serious: “
Buongiorno
, Signori. Did you know that my
papà
is dead? Now when we go on vacation, we'll have to hire a chauffeur.”

Maione felt a knot in his throat. He said: “Why, what a brave little man. Listen to me, now you have to take care of your
mamma
. . .”

The little boy looked the brigadier up and down. Then he said: “But if bad men come I'll call you, because you have a pistol.”

Ricciardi saw Maria Carmela Iovine's eyes glisten.

The woman kissed her son and whispered in his ear: “My little man will take care of me. And I'll take care of him. For the rest of my life, I'll take care of him.”