Conor Fitzgerald - Fatal Touch

No matter how bad the crime scene, even one that included a child, Blume knew that if he waited, something would click in his mind and his thoughts could detach themselves from his emotions and float into a state of forensic serenity. But for now the feeling would not come. He could not bear to look at Paoloni, nor even at the dead black beast by the door. He checked an impulse to run, battled down a rebellion in his gut and stomach and a heaving in his chest.

After ten minutes, he began to reassert control. He still could not look at Paoloni, but he was able to start checking the apartment, making plans for his next moves, deciding on how he would deal with colleagues as they arrived.

He conducted a search of the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, followed by the Sovrintendente, who was trying to be casual about making sure the Commissioner did not compromise the scene.

“What are we looking for, sir?”

“Anything,” said Blume.

Paintings, which would not be here, he thought to himself. Paintings that, if he had left them alone in the wardrobe of his own house, would not have led to this. Paintings that were cursed.

“Sovrintendente, start calling all the hospitals in the city now, find out if anyone is being treated for dog bites. But this is not my crime scene. Seal it. Call in the forensics, the PM, medical examiner-the usual.” He walked toward the door.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes. I arrived outside the door approximately five minutes before you, I’ll write up a report and respond to questions later. OK?”

The Sovrintendente deftly interposed himself between Blume and the front door, saying, “Don’t you think it would be better to stay here, Commissioner?”

“No,” said Blume and barged past.

When he reached his car, he delivered several hard kicks to the body and dented the door so badly that it was hard to open, which gave him an excuse to pummel it with his fists.

Blume phoned Caterina to get her to look up the Colonel’s home address. She answered with what sounded to him like the epitome of irrelevance.

“Have you seen Emma? She was supposed to get back to me, tell me about how her talk with her mother went.”

“Get me the Colonel’s address and phone straight back,” said Blume and hung up. He started driving back toward the city center, heading in the direction of his station until someone told him where to find the Colonel.

Then, clear as if a voice had spoken from the backseat, so clear that Blume checked his mirror, half expecting to see Paoloni there, grinning, whispering secrets, he realized where he was going. With a jerk of the clutch and a sharp pull on the steering wheel, he pushed the car into the left lane and accelerated hard, switching on his siren as he came racing up to within a centimeter of the car in front. He gunned the motor, wobbled the steering wheel side-to-side looking for a way around, and hit the whoop function on the siren. Reluctantly it moved away, and he went roaring up behind the next car.

On the seat next to him, his phone was ringing. He brought it up to his ear.

“We have been informed of Paoloni’s death.” It took Blume a moment to realize it was Lieutenant Colonel Faedda who was speaking. Faedda paused, and his voice took on a less official tone. “I am sorry. I understand you two were close. I have already sent two patrol cars to the Colonel’s house, but he is not there.”

“What about the Maresciallo who is always with him? Maresciallo.. ” Blume could not remember the name. Had he ever heard it?

“Maresciallo Farinelli,” said Faedda. “His house is under observation, too. We have put out a call to all units. We’re watching the airport, too.”

“And the hospitals?”

“Yes. I see you ordered the Polizia to do the same. We’ve divided the task up between us. I think it’s most likely that’s where we’ll pick them up.”

“It’s where you’ll pick up the Maresciallo,” said Blume. “He’s the shooter… Wait, what did you say the Maresciallo’s name was?”

“Farinelli. I thought you knew that.”

Blume could not believe he was learning this only now. “He’s the Colonel’s son?”

“Not his son. His nephew. Not even that. Great-nephew. The Colonel’s older brother’s son’s son.”

“Let me know when you find him,” said Blume. His phone was beeping to indicate another incoming call. He switched to it.

“Alec, I’m so sorry.” It was Caterina. He said nothing and she continued, “The Colonel lives on Via Boccea, or nearby, his address is…”

“That’s OK. I don’t need that now. He’s not there.”

“Do you… ” But Blume hung up on her, and, putting both hands on the wheel, drove hard and fast on the wrong side of the road past San Giovanni in Laterano, the car rumbling and sliding over the cobblestones. Above, the sky was blue, but in the background it was black. Outside the gates of the Irish College, a silver rain seemed to be falling sideways without reaching the ground.

As he descended toward the Colosseum, it almost became night as the clouds billowed and darkened. The background sky grew inkier. When the rain came, it would flood the streets in seconds, grease the cobbles, hollow out potholes in the asphalt, and cause three hundred or so accidents, of which five or six would be fatal. Romans can’t drive in the rain. He did not turn off the siren until he had arrived in Trastevere. He parked his car on the corner of Via Corsini and Via Lungara and started walking. Twenty meters on, sitting there in broad daylight, was the Colonel’s auto blu. Blume tried the door, but it was locked. He pulled out his pistol and rapped the side window hard. On the fourth blow, it disintegrated into thousands of glass squares. Without bothering to open the door, Blume poked his head in. There was blood still visible on the dashboard and seat fabric.

His cell phone rang.

“We got him.”

“Great. Who is this?”

“Sovrintendente Branca.” When Blume failed to acknowledge him, he added, “I’m the Sovrintendente from the crime scene. You told us to check hospitals, and you were right. A Maresciallo of the Carabiniere was transferred to Sant’Andrea for an emergency operation. He had lost a lot of blood. They radioed in the news just now. He can’t be questioned yet, the doctors say.”

“Good,” he said. But nothing felt good. He hung up and switched off his cell phone. Why wasn’t the driver’s seat pushed as far back as possible to accommodate the Colonel’s bulk? Who had driven him here?

The green door set into the high wall appeared shut, but almost collapsed as he touched it. He made a grab for it, catching it before it fell in and made too much noise. He moved slowly and quietly down the passage between the high walls on either side. The damp in the air and the heavy green of the creepers and ivy made his lungs feel waterlogged. He reached the door to the greenhouse, and eased down the handle, pausing each time it made a small click. When he had it all the way down, he pushed softly at the door, which opened with a slight creak of its hinges and scrape of its baseboard against the tiles of Treacy’s greenhouse. He stepped inside, and gently closed the door behind him.

The room was filled with a heady reek of solvents, turps, paints, paraffin, and gasoline. They were smells that always elated him, though the gasoline sounded a nostalgic note, too. He could hear voices. A woman’s voice and that of a man, not the Colonel. He drew his weapon, feeling the dry polymer grip slide a little before it found the ridges of his palm; he walked past the old-fashioned stove, and gently parted the bead curtain that led into the kitchen. The hollow beads clacked very slightly as he edged his way through the parting he had scooped out. He swept silently across the kitchen to the door leading into the living room, ready to pause and take stock. Framed there, looking straight at him, face flushed, blouse unbuttoned down to her breast, and hair askew stood a middle-aged woman he had never seen before, but who was somehow familiar. Behind her, beside the large portrait of Henry Treacy that he had last seen in the gallery, was John Nightingale, shaking his head at Blume as if…