Donna Leon - Doctored Evidence

He turned right again; at the end of this corridor he found a sign that read, DOTTORE MAURO ROSSI, DIRETTORE. He knocked. A voice called, 'Avanti,' and Brunetti went in. The man sitting at the desk looked up, seemed puzzled at the arrival of a stranger in his office, and asked, 'Yes, what is it?'

'I'm Commissario Guido Brunetti, Dottore. I've come to ask some questions about a man who used to work here.'

'Commissario of police?' Rossi asked, and at Brunetti's nod, pointed him to a chair in front of his desk. As Brunetti approached, Rossi stood and extended his hand. When Rossi reached his full height, Brunetti saw the bulk of the man, easily half a head taller than he was himself. Though he was more heavily built than Brunetti, there was no suggestion of fat. Rossi looked in his mid-forties; his hair, still thick and dark, fell across his forehead as he moved his head. His skin was rugged with good health, and he moved gracefully for so large a man.

The office projected the same powerful sense of masculinity: a row of silver sports trophies stood on top of a glass-fronted bookcase; silver-framed photos of a woman and two children stood on the left side of the desk; five or six framed certificates hung on the walls, one of them the embossed parchment conferring a doctorate upon Mauro Rossi.

When he was seated, Brunetti said, 'It's about someone who worked here until about five years ago, Dottore: Paolo Battestini.' Rossi nodded for Brunetti to continue but gave no sign that he recognized the name.

'There are some things we'd like to know about him,' Brunetti said. 'He worked here for more than a decade.' When Rossi remained silent, Brunetti asked, 'Could you tell me if you knew him, Dottore?'

Rossi considered the question, then answered, 'Perhaps. I'm not really sure.' Brunetti tilted his head in a request for clarification, and Rossi explained, 'I was in charge of the schools in Mestre.'

'From here?' Brunetti interrupted.

'No, no,' Rossi said, smiling to excuse his oversight in not having specified. 'I was working in Mestre then. It was only two years ago that I was appointed here.'

'As Director?'

'Yes.'

'And so you moved here?'

Rossi smiled again and pursed his lips at the continuing confusion. 'No, I've always lived in the city.' It surprised Brunetti that the other man continued to speak in Italian: at this point in a conversation, most Venetians would slip into Veneziano, but perhaps Rossi wanted to maintain the dignity of his position. 'So the transfer was a double blessing because it meant I didn't have to go out to Mestre every day,' Rossi went on, breaking into Brunetti's reflections.

'The Pearl of the Adriatic,' Brunetti said with some sarcasm.

Rossi nodded in the true Venetian's dismissal of that ugly upstart, Mestre.

Brunetti realized they had wandered astray from his original question and returned to it. 'You said perhaps you knew him, Dottore. Could you explain what you mean?'

‘I suppose I must have known him, actually,' Rossi answered, then added, seeing Brunetti's confusion, 'That is, in the way one knows people who work in the same office or department. You see them or read their names, but you never get to know them personally or speak to them.'

'Did you have occasion to come here, to this office while you were working in Mestre?'

'Yes. The man I replaced as Director was here, and so when I was in charge in Mestre, I had to come in once a week for conferences because the central directorship is here.' Anticipating Brunetti's next question, Rossi said, ‘I don't remember ever meeting someone with that name or talking to him. That is, when you say his name, it sounds familiar, but I don't have a picture of him in my mind. And then, by the time I was transferred here, he must have already left, that is, if you say he left five years ago’

'Have you ever heard people here speak of him?'

Rossi shook his head in silent negation then said, 'Not that I recall, no.'

'Since his mother's death, has anyone spoken of him?' Brunetti asked.

'His mother?' Rossi asked, and then his face registered the connection. 'That woman who was killed?' he asked. Brunetti nodded.

‘I didn't make the connection’ Rossi said. ‘It's not an uncommon name.' Rossi's voice changed and he asked, 'Why are you asking about him?'

‘It's a case of eliminating a possibility, Dottore. We want to be sure there was no connection between him and his mother's death.'

'After five years?' Rossi asked. 'You say he left here five years ago?' His tone suggested he thought Brunetti might be better occupied asking questions about something else.

Brunetti ignored this and said, 'As I said, we're trying to eliminate possibilities, rather than make connections, Dottore. That's why we're asking.' He waited for Rossi to question this, but he did not. When Rossi moved back in his chair, Brunetti observed that he did not use his hands, only the strength of his legs.

Brunetti leaned back in his own chair, threw up his open palms in a gesture of defeat, and said, 'To tell the truth, Dottore, we're at a bit of a loss about him. We have no idea what sort of man he was.'

'But his mother is the one who got killed, isn't she?' Rossi asked, like one who had taken it upon himself to remind the police of what they were meant to be doing.

'Indeed,' Brunetti answered and smiled again. 'It's nothing more than habit, I suppose. We always try to learn as much as we can about victims and the people around them.'

As if remembering, Rossi asked, 'But wasn't there something in the papers when it happened about a foreign woman, a Russian or something?'

'Romanian’ Brunetti said automatically. Some sense registered that Rossi did not like being corrected, and so he added, 'Not that it matters, Dottore. We had hoped to find some reason why she might have resented or disliked Signora Battestini’ then, before Rossi said anything, he went on, 'The son might have offended her in some way.'

'She came to work for Signora Battestini after her son died, didn't she?' Rossi asked, as if to add this fact to the others that rendered Brunetti's questions futile.

'Yes, she did’ Brunetti said, repeating his open-handed gesture less dramatically, and got to his feet. ‘I don't think there's anything else I need to ask you about him, Dottore. Thank you very much for your time.'

Rossi stood. ‘I hope I was able to be of some help’ he said.

Brunetti's smile grew even broader, 'I'm afraid you were, Dottore’ he said, then continued seamlessly, seeing Rossi's surprise, 'in that you eliminated a possibility for us. We'll have to concentrate our attention on Signora Battestini again.'

Rossi accompanied Brunetti to the office door. He leaned down a little to reach the handle and pulled open the door. He put out his hand, and Brunetti took it: two city officials, shaking hands after a few minutes of helpful cooperation. With repeated thanks for the doctor's time, Brunetti pulled the door closed behind him and started back towards the stairway, wondering how it was that Dottore Rossi knew that Paolo Battestini, whom he said he did not know, was dead and that Flori Ghiorghiu had come to work for his mother only after that event.

It was after eight when he got home, but Paola had decided to delay dinner at least until half-past on the assumption that he would have called if he was going to be much later.

His sober mood was matched by that of the other three members of his family, at least when they first sat down. But by the time the kids had eaten two helpings of orecchiette with cubes of mozzarella di bufala and pomodorini, they were ready to cheer in delight as Paola broke open the salt crust within which she had baked a branzino, revealing the perfect white flesh.