Conor Fitzgerald: The dogs of Rome

Behind the desk was a gray steel filing cabinet, on top of which stood two plants in terra-cotta jars. Judging by the stains on the top of the cabinet, Clemente had watered them where they were. He opened the cabinet.

Clemente’s life had been ordered. He checked under the letter A in the top drawer, and found five folders marked “Alleva, Renato” filed after “Allergies.”

He spent another ten minutes hunting in the study. He found two cards for restaurants in the town of Amatrice, both claiming to make the best amatriciana in the world, but did not find any money.

He left the study and went back into the hall. Using the knife again, he sliced through the masking tape holding the grocery box closed and foraged inside for booty. He came out with a jar of Nutella, which he loved.

It went into the backpack. He found a jar of strange brown paste. Peanut butter. It might have an interesting taste. He dropped it into the backpack.

He kicked the towels away from the base of the door, peered through the spy hole to make sure the stairway was clear, opened the door, and crept down the stairs, out the main door across the courtyard and away.

Five hours later, Sveva Romagnolo, tired from a train journey and unenthusiastic at the prospect of a few days with her husband, turned the key in the apartment door. Tommaso ducked under her arm and pushed in through the gap, anxious to show off his new shoes with Velcro straps to his father.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 5:15 P.M.

Chief Commissioner Alec Blume received the call on his mobile from headquarters at 17.15, while he was having a late lunch in Frontoni’s. Dressed in a T-shirt with paint stains, shorts, and running shoes, Blume was enjoying a white pizza overstuffed with bresaola, rocket, and Parmesan and drinking a beer. His intention was to eat a lot, then run a lot. He was alone in the restaurant, and almost alone in Trastevere. An overheated tourist family stood for a while staring at him through the window, like he was a tropical fish, then moved on, only to be intercepted by a North African hawker selling socks.

Blume picked off a salt crystal from the pizza and crunched it between his teeth. His phone on the table peeped and shook a little, and he pressed at it with an oily thumb. They had texted the address to him.

The street name on the display meant nothing, but the efficient sovrintendente at the desk had very usefully included the postal code. Blume saw it was in a nearby area, so he had time to finish his lunch and knock back a thimbleful of coffee before returning to his car. He called Paoloni, told him they had a case. Paoloni said he knew and was already on site.

Blume drove at a stately speed beneath the plane trees, not wishing to spoil the quietness of the streets. He took just ten minutes to reach the top of the Monteverde hill. He glanced at a Tuttocitta map to find the street. Five minutes later, he swung his Fiat Brava around a corner and parked. Three squad cars blocked the road, their lights flashing. A forensics van had been slotted in at a right angle in the narrow space between two parked cars, its front wheels and nose blocking the sidewalk, the back section creating a bottleneck on the narrow street. As he arrived, Blume saw an ambulance, unable to squeeze behind the forensics van, start executing what would probably be a twelve-point turn. The coroner’s wagon had not arrived yet.

Apartment building C, one of four around a pebbled courtyard, was guarded by a uniformed officer who did not even ask for identification.

Blume gave it anyway, told the officer to note it down, check who was going and coming and generally do his job. Then he went in.

The building had no elevator. When Blume arrived puffing on the third floor the apartment door was shut, and the landing outside crammed with far too many people.

Commissioner Paoloni was wearing a billowy Kejo jacket despite the heat, low-slung jeans, and bling-bling bracelets. His head was shaved bald, his face was gray.

“I went in, but they told me to leave,” he said when he saw Blume.

“Who did?”

“The head of the Violent Crime Analysis Unit. He wants only the most senior officer or the investigating magistrate in there. He’s raging, says the scene has been totally compromised with all the people walking around.”

“What people?”

“D’Amico was here. Then he went, only to be replaced by the Holy Ghost, of all people. Also it appears the wife who found the body touched it, walked all over the place.”

“D’Amico. As in Nando? What’s he doing here?”

Paoloni shrugged. “Beats me. Anyhow, he’s a commissioner now. Same rank as you.”

“I know.” Blume did not like to be reminded of D’Amico’s promotions.

“Thing is, he’s not an investigator anymore. So he has no reason to be here. And the Holy Ghost, was that a joke?”

Paoloni adjusted his crotch, sniffed, scuffed the wall with a yellow trainer, and looked vacantly at his superior. “No, he was here, and says he’ll be back.”

“But Gallone never comes to a crime scene,” said Blume.

“Yeah, well, he did this time.”

Vicequestore Aggiunto Franco Gallone was Blume’s immediate superior.

Everyone referred to him as the Holy Ghost, but nobody could say for sure where the name came from. It stuck, because he was invisible when the hard work was being done, but somehow always present with a pious demeanor whenever the press or his superiors invoked his presence. There was a story that he got the name back in 1981, when, a mere deputy commissioner at the time, he was found weeping in the station, devastated after the attempted murder of Pope John Paul II.

Blume looked around. There were four policemen standing on the landing. There was one other apartment on the floor, he noticed, and its door was firmly shut. “Is the officer who first arrived on the scene here?”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the uniformed policemen, coming out of a comfortable reclining position.

“What are you doing now?”

“I am logging the names of people coming in and out.”

“You get my name?”

“I know who you are, sir.”

Blume looked at the officer. He was in his thirties, and would have seen his fair share of scenes.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it in there?”

“A scale of one to ten? I don’t know-two, three?”

“That low?”

“No children, no rape, just one body, not even that young. Corpse fresh, so not much of a smell, no wailing relatives, no animals, no public, no reporters yet.”

“Who was here when you arrived?”

“A woman. The wife of the victim. She found him like that. She called emergency.”

“Why did you let the witness leave?”

The policeman’s gaze flickered, and he shifted his weight onto the other foot.

“There was a kid, short thing, with long blond hair. It seemed best to let them get out of here. They left when the ambulance men arrived.”

“We have female officers and psychologists for these things.”

“That wasn’t all.”

“What else?”

“I got a direct order, from the vicequestore. He told me the technicians from UACV were on their way, said I was to let the witness leave.”

“The Holy Ghost spoke to you directly?”

“Yes, Commissioner.” He grinned at Blume’s use of the nickname.

“Beppe, did you get the name of this officer?” said Blume.

Paoloni nodded.

“Right,” said Blume. “Let’s go in.”

He bent down and stepped through the barber pole-colored masking tape around the door. His foot caught on a lower strand and snapped it.

The head of the Violent Crime Analysis Unit team came down the corridor and pointed to Blume. “Come in, come in, join the trample-fest. So now you’re the officer in charge? Not, who was it-D’Amico? And not Gallone? Or are you all in charge? Maybe you’d like to invite a few friends over?”