Conor Fitzgerald: The dogs of Rome

“OK.”

“Also, the coroners are here.”

Blume left the study. The head of the forensics team who had let him in earlier had vanished, leaving his deputy, a personable overweight youth, in charge.

“Hey,” said Blume. He had worked at least seven times before with this guy and liked him.

The man turned around and Blume immediately forgot his name.

“Did you find a wallet?”

“No.”

“A cell phone?”

“No.”

“Are you looking for a cell phone?” asked the young man, who, maybe, was called Fabio.

“Not so much me as my boss… It doesn’t matter. Still, it’s a bit unusual. No cell phone at all?”

“I can check,” said the young man. “But I don’t think so.”

Flavio, not Fabio.

“Thanks,” said Blume. “Maybe we’ll have a secondary scene, too. Clemente probably had an office somewhere.”

No way was the guy called Flavio. Flavios were always thin. Francesco was a better bet.

“OK, Commissioner Blume. You just let us know.”

“Thanks, Flahvrwb.”

Blume began another tour of the house. He opened the door to a child’s bedroom, which he found depressingly neat.

Principe came in, then stood in the middle of the room. “Doesn’t look like our killer even came in here,” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, you can see. Nothing in here has been touched. He made a mess of the other rooms.”

“Yes. I was just thinking about that,” said Blume. “The door to this room was closed, too, wasn’t it?”

Principe thought for a bit, then said, “Can’t say I remember.”

“I noticed it,” said Blume. “I’ll need to check with the people first on the scene to see if it was closed when they got here. Then we can check the photos.”

“Supposing it was closed, so what?”

“The killer seems to have looked into every room in the house, and every door is open, except this one. It doesn’t make sense to think he didn’t come in here.”

“OK,” said Principe. “Then he closed the door on his way out.”

“Also, he left this room neat. Didn’t mess it up like the others. To me that looks like a choice. It looks like the sight of a child’s room brought out something in him. Mercy, respect, whatever.”

“There is such a thing as overinterpretation,” said Principe. “I need to talk to the coroner team. I’ll send Paoloni in here; you can run your idea by him.”

Paoloni arrived and stood in the middle of the room. Blume repeated what he had said to Principe.

“So he decided not to mess up a child’s room,” concluded Blume.

“Oh, you mean he was being thoughtful?” said Paoloni coming out of a long yawn. “I would have missed that. Are you saying he has his good points, likes children?”

“Yes. I think it could be important for profiling,” said Blume. “He didn’t mess up the child’s room, but he left the father dead in the middle of the house. That’s…”

“Not normal?”

“I suppose,” said Blume. “There’s something going on there. Maybe he suffered as a child, something along those lines.”

“You’re not beginning to feel sorry for him?”

“God, no,” said Blume. “I’m always pleased when I find out an assassin had a lousy childhood. It means they got what they deserve, even if they had to pay in advance.”

From the corridor outside, Blume heard Principe discussing the removal with the men from the coroner’s team.

Blume looked at a row of Disney DVDs between two bookends made to look like trees with happy faces. They stood lined up beside a DVD player, beside which was a small black tele vision set. Aladdin, Aristogatti, La Bella Addormentata, La Bella e la Bestia, Biancaneve, all in alphabetical order.

The only books were maps of the sky at night, atlases, an English picture dictionary. They looked unopened. He bent down and looked underneath the bed, where, as if in hiding from the organizing agency that ran the rest of the house, lay a crumpled Batman suit and cape.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 10:30 P.M.

At half past ten in the evening, after repeating his alibi for the umpteenth time, Leonardo Ulmo told Inspector Paoloni that he could no longer take it. Paoloni nodded as if he understood, said he would see what he could do.

But they kept him there.

Leonardo said all he had done all day was deliver boxes of groceries in the Monteverde neighborhood. Blume nodded appreciatively and wrote this down. Leonardo became more specific about his day. Blume asked about his delivery to the apartments at № 7 Via Generale Regola.

Leonardo explained he had had two deliveries to make at this address.

Two boxes of groceries to Block C, Apartments six and ten on the third and fifth floors. Also two packs of Nepi mineral water for Apartment six.

Block C had no elevator. Most of the deliveries he made were to apartment buildings with no elevators.

“Yeah? How’s that?” asked Blume.

“The people who live in buildings without one often have their groceries delivered. That way they don’t have to carry them up the stairs. I do.”

Blume peered at him from over the tips of his fingers. “OK,” he said finally. “That makes sense. Go on.”

“So I’m bringing up the boxes on the…”

Blume held up a hand. “What’s with this getting right into the middle of things? First of all, who sent you?”

“My manager at the supermarket,” Leonardo explained.

“Described by my colleague as a sweaty bastard who wears a striped shirt and white belt?”

“That’s the one.”

“Did you deliver anything before Via Regola?”

“Yes. To Via Regnoli, Carini, Quattro Venti.”

“And after?”

“Piazza Cucchi.”

“You can give me the exact address?”

Leonardo could. Blume wrote it down, then said, “Are you thirsty?”

“I’m dying of thirst,” said Leonardo.

“Be right back,” said Blume and left the interrogation room. He got the number from the address Leonardo had given him and called. A woman answered, and was quickly able to confirm her groceries had been delivered at precisely eleven o’clock that morning. It was during the news, she said, just before her favorite comedy DJs came on Radio 2.

It was not a total alibi, but it was close. Blume went up to the ground floor, bought two bottles of water, drinking his own on the way back, cursing himself for being fooled yet again into paying a euro for stuff that ran free from the taps. He stuck the empty bottle into his pocket. He would use it for refills.

He handed the other bottle to Leonardo, who drank it in a single draught.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. So, after the delivery to Piazza Cucchi, you went back to the supermarket?”

“Yes. My arrival time is logged, so you can check that.”

“OK. Let’s go back. What time did you get to Via Regola?”

“Must have been half past ten.”

“Must have been or was?”

“Was, must have been. I don’t know. A bit later. Ten forty, OK?”

Blume drew three circles around ten forty on his pad.

“I parked the Iveco alongside a row of cars, opened the back doors, took out the porter’s trolley and two boxes and the water.”

“A porter’s trolley?”

“For carrying the boxes and the mineral water.”

“You pull the boxes all the way up the stairs using this metal trolley thing, bouncing from step to step all the way to the top? Wouldn’t it be quicker just carrying them yourself?”

“Maybe, until my back caves in.”

“OK.”

“So I got to the apartment block, pulled in the trolley with two boxes and two packs of mineral water.”

“Who let you in?”