Donna Leon - Fatal Remedies

Brunetti had barely raised his pistol when he heard two shots, then a third, ring out. After that, nothing. Seconds passed, then a man’s voice called, ‘All right, you can come in.’

Brunetti slipped through the doorway, della Corte following close behind. The policeman knelt behind an overturned sofa, his pistol still in his hand. On the floor, his head visible in a wedge of light that spilled in from the hallway, lay a man Brunetti recognized as Ruggiero Palmieri. One arm was flung ahead of him, fingers aimed at the door and the freedom that once lay behind it; the other was crumpled invisibly under him. Where his left ear should have been was only a red hole, the exit wound from the second of the policeman’s bullets.

Brunetti had been a policeman too long and had seen too many things go wrong to want to waste time in trying to figure out what had happened or attempting to devise an alternate plan that might have worked. But the others were younger and hadn’t learned yet that failure taught very little, so he listened to them for a while, not really paying attention but agreeing with whatever they said while he waited for the lab crew to arrive.

At one point, when the officer who had shot Palmieri lay on the floor to study the angle at which he had entered the apartment, Brunetti went into the bathroom, moistened his handkerchief with cold water, and wiped at the small cut on his cheek where a sliver of wood from the shattering door had sliced off a piece of flesh about the size of one of the buttons on his shirt. Still holding his handkerchief, he opened the small medicine chest, looking for a piece of gauze or something to stop the bleeding, and found that it was full, but not with plasters.

Guests were said to explore the medicine cabinets in the bathrooms they used; Brunetti had never done it. He was amazed at what he saw: three rows of all manner of medicines, at least fifty boxes and bottles, vastly different in packaging and size, but all carrying the distinctive adhesive label with the nine-digit number from the Ministry of Health. But no bandages. He pushed the door closed and went back into the room where Palmieri lay.

During the time Brunetti had been in the bathroom, the other policemen had arrived and now the young ones were gathered at the door, where they replayed the shooting, with, it seemed to a disgusted Brunetti, the same enthusiasm they’d give to rewatching an action video. The older men stood separately and silently in various parts of the room. Brunetti went over to della Corte. ‘Can we begin to search the place?’

‘Not until their crime crew gets here, I think.’

Brunetti nodded. It didn’t make any difference, really. Only in time, and now they had all night to do it. He just wished they would hurry, so that the body would be taken away. He avoided looking at it, but as time passed and the young men ceased their retelling of the tale, that grew harder. Brunetti had just moved over towards the window when he heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see the familiar uniforms come into the apartment: technicians, photographers, the minions of violent death.

He went back to the window and studied the cars in the parking lot and those few that still drove by at this hour. He wanted to call Paola, but she believed him safely in bed in some small hotel, so he did not. He didn’t turn round when the photographer’s flash went off repeatedly, nor at the arrival of what must be the medico legale. No secrets here.

It wasn’t until after he heard the grunts of the two white-jacketed men from the morgue and the thunking noise as one of the handles of their litter hit the door jamb that he turned. He went over to Bonino, who was talking to della Corte, and asked, ‘Can we begin?’

He nodded. ‘Of course. The only thing on the body was a wallet. With more than twelve million lire in it, in the new five-hundred-thousand-lire notes.’ And before Brunetti could inquire, he added, ‘It’s on the way to the lab to be fingerprinted.’

‘Good,’ Brunetti said, then, turning to della Corte, he asked, ‘Shall we take the bedroom?’

Delia Corte nodded and together they walked into the other room, leaving the local men to take care of the rest of the apartment.

They had never searched a room together before, but by unspoken consent della Corte went to the cupboard and began going through the pockets of the slacks and jackets hanging there.

Brunetti started on the dresser, not bothering with plastic gloves, not after he saw the fingerprint powder dusted over its every surface. He opened the first drawer and was surprised to find Palmieri’s things lying in neat piles, then wondered why he had assumed that a killer had to be untidy. Underwear was folded into two piles, socks balled and, Brunetti thought, arranged by colour.

The next held sweaters and what looked like gym clothes. The bottom one was empty. He pushed it closed with his foot and turned to look at della Corte. Only a few things hung in the wardrobe: he could see a down parka, some jackets, and what looked like trousers inside the clear plastic wrap of a dry-cleaner’s.

A carved wooden box sat on the dresser, its lid left closed by the technician, whose dust fluttered up in a small grey cloud as Brunetti lifted it open. Inside he found a stack of papers, which he took out and placed on the top of the dresser.

Carefully, he began to read through them, laying each one aside as he finished it. He found electric and gas bills, both made out in the name of Michele de Luca. There was no phone bill, but that was explained by the telefonino that lay beside the wooden box.

Below that he discovered an envelope addressed to R. P.: the top, where it had been carefully slit open, was grey with much handling. Inside, dated more than five years before, he found a piece of light-blue paper with a message written in a careful hand. ‘I’ll see you at the restaurant at eight tomorrow. Until then, the beating of my heart will tell me how slowly the minutes are passing.’ It was signed with the letter M. Maria? Brunetti wondered. Mariella? Monica?

He folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, then placed it on top of the bills. There was nothing else in the box.

He looked round at della Corte. ‘You find anything?’

He turned from the cupboard and held up a large set of keys. ‘Only these,’ della Corte said, holding them up. ‘Two of them are for a car.’

‘Or a truck?’ suggested Brunetti.

Delia Corte nodded. ‘Let’s go and see what’s parked outside,’ he suggested.

The living-room was empty, but Brunetti noticed two men in the small kitchen angle, where the refrigerator and all the cabinets stood open. Light and noise spilled from the bathroom, but Brunetti doubted that they would find anything.

He and della Corte went downstairs and out into the parking lot. Glancing back, they saw that many of the lights in the building were turned on. At his movement, someone in the apartment above Palmieri’s opened the window and shouted down, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Police,’ della Corte called back. ‘Everything’s all right.’

For a moment Brunetti wondered if the man at the window would ask more, demand an explanation for the shots, but the Italian fear of authority manifested itself, and he pulled his head back in and closed the window.

There were seven vehicles parked behind the building, five cars and two trucks. Delia Corte began with the first of these, a grey panel truck with the name of a toy store printed on the side. Below it, a teddy bear rode a hobby-horse off to the left. Neither key fitted. Two spaces along sat a grey Iveco panel truck with no name on it. The key didn’t fit, nor did either key fit any of the cars.