The Last Enemy (36 page)

6

THE ROAD FROM Gubbio to Assisi is a tarted-up one-lane mountain pass of some forty kilometers, mainly curves but with a sufficiency of straights for it to pose as a super strata in Italy. It took Cenni a treacherous fifty minutes, passing on the right, the left, and sometimes through the center, to arrive at the cemetery at precisely 7:35 in response to Sergeant Antolini’s frantic call for help.

His instructions to her had been clear. “Call Piero
now!
If you don’t reach him, call Elena. Do nothing on your own, Sergeant; that’s an order. Wait for me at the front gate and stay out of sight. Russo is dangerous!” And just before he hung up, “Nice work, Genine . . . thanks.” But he didn’t trust her to follow orders. She’s too nervy by half, he decided, remembering her foray into the dumpster, so when he wasn’t passing cars, and even when he was, he dialed Piero, then Elena, and in desperation Antonio Martini, but an electrical storm over Gubbio was blocking transmission.

The scene-of-crime was immediately behind the Casati vault. It was a nightmare of noise, lights, and confusion, a replay of the thunderstorm he’d just left behind. Blinding strobe lights were focused on the body of Russo, who was lying uncovered in a halo of coagulated blood, his body cordoned off by a bright band of yellow tape. A battalion of police officers—municipal, carabinieri, and state—were milling around the edges of the scene, joined by a complement of unidentified bystanders. Only the finance police seemed to be missing.

The commander of the Assisi carabinieri and Dr. Batori— who’d happened to be in Assisi presiding at the autopsy of Amelia Casati—were center stage. As Cenni also noted to his distress, they were the only officers appropriately garbed for a blood-soaked crime scene; at least they had covered their street shoes with plastic. The forensic team had not yet arrived, and without the constraint of their silent, ordered professionalism, chaos reigned.

As soon as he saw Cenni, Batori excused himself and approached the commissario. “It’s all over but the cheering,” Batori said, a disquieting smile lighting his face. “It would appear that we have Minelli’s murderer right there,” he said, pointing to Russo’s horribly savaged body almost with glee.

Cenni reminded himself that Russo had once threatened to have the medical examiner fired. Batori had been on the scene when Sophie Orlic had made a brief statement to the carabinieri before being removed to the Assisi Hospital, and he proceeded, without invitation, to give Cenni a description of the events that had led to Russo’s death.

“The other one, the pretty blonde, she was gutsy, bleeding like a stuck pig, yet she insisted on making a statement before they took her off to the hospital. These head wounds bleed like the dickens, you know. But she’ll be all right, a few stitches, a few days rest.
Il Lupino
hit her with a brick,” he added. “He would have killed her if the young countess hadn’t intervened. She saved the blonde’s life. He can tell you more about it,” he added as an afterthought, pointing to the carabinieri commander. “He took her statement.” Batori then pointed to one of the bystanders, a little man, not five feet tall, who looked over at Cenni with an air of expectation. “He’s the caretaker here; he found the three of them together behind the Casati vault and called the carabinieri.”

“And him?” Cenni interrupted, pointing to the blood-soaked body of Fulvio Russo. “It would appear that his throat was slashed. By whom?”

“Slashed right enough,” Batori responded in awe. “Right through the thyroid ligament. Couldn’t have done a better job myself,” he nodded. “Not that the service provides us with such elegant tools. A huge ruby on its handle and as sharp as any of my surgical instruments. Worth a fortune, too, I’m told. According to the blonde. . . .”

“Her name is Sophie Orlic, Signora Orlic,” Cenni interjected.

“Signora Orlic, then,” Batori conceded before continuing. “She said that the countess was carrying the dagger to protect herself from Russo. The countess and the blon . . . Signora Orlic—she worked for the family, you know—they’d both suspected Russo of murdering Minelli. They joined together to accost him in the cemetery. They’re damned lucky it’s not one or both of them lying there.” It seemed to Cenni that Batori was caught between admiring the women for their courage and reproaching them for their foolishness. “Damned fine women,” he opted for finally, and excused himself to join the forensic science policemen who’d just appeared on the scene.

Marshal Stefano Sbarretti had waited for Batori to leave before approaching Cenni. They had met only once and that on a somber occasion where social exchanges were out of order—at the funeral in Perugia of two officers who had lost their lives in a gun battle with car thieves—but Cenni knew of Sbarretti’s reputation. The caribiniere was some years younger than Cenni and highly ambitious for honors and advancement, but he was also punctilious in observing the rules of engagement. He avoided stepping on toes, at least where the outcome was in doubt.

Sbarretti spoke first, “Commissario Cenni, we meet again and again under disastrous circumstances. One of your own, too!” he said, nodding with distaste toward Russo’s body. “I apologize for the circus,” he said, looking around at the large group of police and bystanders who now attended the scene, “but it couldn’t be helped. The caretaker was the first person on the scene. He found the three of them just a few feet from the Casati vault and called us immediately. We had a police car in the vicinity and when my officers saw who was down and learned who was involved, they called me. One of Russo’s junior officers, a sergeant, was also on the scene. She got here just after the caretaker called us. She notified your people in Assisi, and four of them came trooping up, with Batori in tow. A medical doctor would have been more helpful,” he added.

“And now I see that someone’s tipped off the press,” he said, looking over toward the caretaker. “If I’m not mistaken that’s a reporter from
Telegiornale Umbria.
” He pointed to a tall, darkhaired man holding a camera and talking avidly to the caretaker. “I’d better nip that in the bud right now. And you’ll want to talk to the caretaker yourself. He’s the most reliable witness we have to what happened here.” He hesitated for a second. “There’s Russo’s officer, of course, but she’s probably not reliable. One of
Il Lupino
’s babes is what I’ve been told by some of my men; he had them standing in line,” he added with a sly grin. “She’s back at the hospital with the Croatian.”

Carabiniere vaffanculo!
Cenni said to himself. And aloud to Sbarretti, “
D’accordo
, you mean Sergeant Antolini.”

Sbarretti was a filthy-minded chauvinist, Cenni concluded, but he had his uses. He overheard snatches of what Sbarretti was saying to the reporter—
national security, best not to offend,
Prime Minister, clearance
, and again,
national security
.
National
security
was the most powerful equivocation used by the PM since 9/11 to restrict freedom of the press, but reflecting on the potential for scandal to the Perugia Questura, Cenni was not unhappy to have Sbarretti do his dirty work.

The caretaker, an elderly man well beyond official retirement age, peered up at Cenni, open-faced, anxiously waiting for the commissario to initiate the conversation. Cenni recognized the fusion of apprehension and ebullience that often overtakes witnesses to murder. He imagined that for a caretaker in a provincial cemetery there was little to relieve the daily tedium of a life spent shooing children off the gravestones of their ancestors.

“I’m sorry but I don’t know your name,” Cenni said with a smile. The smile was all that was needed.

“Vittorio Scapaccino, commissario. I know you, from the American’s funeral. I knew the other commissario too.” He nodded toward Russo. “He used to bring his women into the cemetery in the evenings, when he thought no one was here. Ghoul!” he added, spitting in the direction of the body to show his contempt. “The
straniera
, the flower lady. I knew her, too. Very beautiful, but she never smiled. Didn’t say hello if she could help it.”

Cenni interrupted. “And the other one, you knew her?”

“The dark one? The young countess? I saw her a few times in the cemetery but I didn’t know who she was, not until now,” he added conscientiously. “She’s one of the women he brought here. Not at all like her mother, that one; she never smiled neither, anyways not at people like me.”

Cenni interrupted again, aware that the only disinterested witness he had to the events of that evening had difficulty staying on subject. He didn’t mind when a witness rambled— ramblings often yielded more than direct questions—but he was determined to get to the hospital.

“Marshal Sbarretti tells me that you telephoned the police, that it was you who found the body. When? How? Just those few questions and we can get you home to your dinner.”

“No problem at all about my dinner, commissario. I already rang my Marinella,” he replied, holding up the ubiquitous cell phone. “I told her to hold dinner.”

“What time did you find the body, Signor Scapaccino?” Cenni asked.

Looking somewhat abashed, Scapaccino replied at once, “A little past seven, commissario, two, three minutes at most.”

“You’re very exact. I don’t see a wristwatch.”

“Oh, that’s easy, commissario. I heard the seven bells of San Ruffino. I always stop to say a prayer,” he said and blessed himself. “As soon as the bells stopped ringing, I heard the scream. Horrible it was, like the squeal of a pig having its throat cut! I slaughter a pig every year for Pasqua. Forty years now, and I still hate the sound,” he said with a shiver. “I thought it was two male boars fighting. It’s been a very hard winter, and the
cinghiale
are foraging closer and closer to the town. Ate a quarter of our shrubs this year. The direttore says—”

Cenni cut him short, again, wondering how he could gracefully get the hell out of there. He glanced at his watch; 7:40 already. Where was Piero? Or Elena? He looked over to Sbarretti for relief, but he was still talking to the reporter. He sighed deeply.

“Where were you when you heard the scream?”

“In the rear, next to the little church there.” He pointed to the cemetery chapel, still visible in the diminished light. “They’re renovating it, and the workmen left bricks and other materials lying along the path, in the public area. The direttore asked me to move the materials to a safer place before I left for the evening. I was almost finished. Just one more load, I said to myself and I can go home, so I ignored the scream and kept working. And then I heard a woman’s voice.”

Cenni nodded encouragingly, to keep him going.

“I found them over there,” he said, nodding toward the crime scene. “The young countess, she was sitting on the ground soaked in blood. It was everywhere, on her clothes, shoes, even in her hair!” He paused, and looked over at the forensic police who were now photographing the body. Avoiding Cenni’s eyes, he swallowed hard. “The commissario’s head was in her lap, lolling, twisted like, and then I saw what she was doing. She had a knife in her right hand and she was sawing away at his neck like you would at a chicken bone. And talking to him! I didn’t know what to do,” he said in a whisper. Even in the low light, Cenni could see the dark flush of shame.

“Where was the flower lady?” Cenni cut in, almost afraid to ask.

“A foot or so away. She was sitting on the ground, the same as the young countess. I could see blood running down the side of her face. And then, just like that, another woman comes out from behind the vault. A ghost, I thought.” He giggled nervously. “It was a police officer. I watched as she walked over to the young countess. She knelt down to speak to her, so I couldn’t hear what she said, but she must have asked her for the knife.”

“Did she give her the knife!” Cenni asked, hurrying him along.”

“Gave it to her all right; the blade right across the palm. Then the young countess she just ups and walks away, soaked in blood, as though nothing had happened.” He shuddered.

It was right then that Cenni lost control. He stormed over to Sbaretti, who had just walked away from the reporter. “We need to talk, Sbarretti! What happened to Sergeant Antolini?”

“Sorry, Cenni. I thought you knew. Didn’t any of your people tell you? There’re enough of them here. While she was disarming the countess, she cut her hand. She’s back in Assisi, at the hospital, having it looked at. Can’t be too serious, though, as she was the one who telephoned your people to get them up here.”

“Artemisia Casati is not a countess, Sbarretti. You should know that even if the rest of these jokers don’t. And where
is
her highness? I
assumed
one of your officers took charge of her. Or don’t the carabinieri arrest murderers anymore?”

Sbarretti turned a dark red. “Listen Cenni, you’re the wonder boy here. The carabinieri are not involved in this fiasco and we’re not getting involved. Your witness—he pointed to the caretaker—said she up and left after handing over the knife to your sergeant. I assume she went home. You want her arrested, do it yourself. One of your officers wants to talk to you,” he said sharply, ending the exchange by turning on his heels and walking away.

Cenni turned to find Piero standing at his elbow gasping for air.

“Che cosa?”
Cenni said.

“Hospital with Genine . . .” Piero responded in a stammered half-sentence.

“Catch your breath! Then tell me where you’ve been, you and Elena. The carabinieri seem to be in charge here.”

Piero took two deep breaths and continued. “Elena’s on her way to Perugia, with Genine, to see a specialist. That Casati bitch almost sliced her hand in two. It’s a deep cut, Alex, and the doctors in Assisi were worried about permanent nerve damage.”

“I heard. You can tell me about it in a minute.” He pointed to the chaotic crime scene with contempt. “Where were you when all this was going on?”

“Sorry Alex. Our cell phones were down during the storm; I didn’t get any of Genine’s messages or yours until shortly before seven. Neither did Elena. We got here a few minutes after the carabinieri arrived.” He lowered his voice. “Too late. She was gone. She actually stole Genine’s Vespa. Jesus, but I hate that bitch!”