Joseph Kanon - Alibi

“Moretti,” he said, patting the file again. “Rosa shows us where to look and we find him.”

I leaned forward, holding the desk. “But he’s dead. You mean he didn’t die?”

“Yes, he died. That’s it-a vengeance killing. The son.”

“You think Moretti’s son killed Gianni? Why?”

“But Signor Miller, it’s as you say. The connection is the house, what happened there. I didn’t know this. But once you look.”

“But Rosa never said-”

“No, but she’s not a policeman, you know,” he said with a little smile, almost smug. “Still, she suspects. And she’s right. One man in that house was in hospital. His doctor? Maglione.” He held up a light blue folder in illustration. “And Maglione is working with the SS. She makes this connection.”

“But he was released days before they-”

“So she goes to see his son. She is an old friend of the father. How long was the father in hospital, when did he leave, did the boy see him-also Carlo, like the father. And of course he wants to know why, and she tells him she suspects Maglione of betraying his father. And what happens? He becomes agitato. ‘It’s my fault,’ he tells her. ‘I killed him.’ Why? Because he went to the house, so maybe they followed him. And Rosa tells him, ‘No, you were there before, people never followed you.’ He was a courier for them, you see. Imagine using a child that way. A Communist, of course, the boy too. No, he tells her, this time he was also bringing medicine for his father, from Maglione. A trap. So now it’s his fault. And Rosa tells him it’s foolishness-he can’t blame himself for this. They already knew somehow. But she’s troubled. She hadn’t known about the medicine, you see.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Some from him, some from her. So she leaves,” he said, picking up the story. “And he’s still agitato. An unstable boy anyway, according to the neighbors.” Police work. Collecting gossip, like a noose. “The father’s dead and he’s to blame. No, somebody else. Somebody still alive. This is a boy who worked with the partisans, someone who acts. What could be more natural?”

“So he had a motive,” I said. “But that doesn’t-”

“A strong motive. Very strong. It’s as you predicted-a political crime, but also a personal one.” He walked out from behind the desk, a courtroom gesture, enjoying himself. “Of course, we’re hoping for a confession. And it’s possible. This kind of case-so much remorse. I’ve seen it before. It’s a kind of relief for them.” He glanced at me, amused. “Signor Miller, such a face. We’re police, not SS. We hope for a confession. We don’t torture, we ask questions.”

“And if he doesn’t confess?”

Cavallini shrugged. “It’s still a very strong case. He has no alibi.”

“No?” I said weakly, sitting down to hear the rest.

“No. The night of the murder, where is he? Out for a walk. In that weather. You remember that evening, the rain? And where did he walk? Around. Along the Riva, then he’s not sure where. Who walks like that in Venice? Tourists.”

“No one saw him?”

“No one. Then the cine. Except the ticket girl doesn’t remember.”

“That doesn’t necessarily-”

“No, not necessarily,” he said, looking at me. “So, you act the defense? Good. We need to think of everything. But no one sees him, that’s the point. So, his word only. Next, his profession? He works on one of the delivery boats from the Stazione Marittima. Not just to Venice, also the outer islands. So, familiar with the lagoon.” He paused. “Even in fog.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “And after the murder, what does he do? We have witnesses to this, his behavior. Drunk, in the bar he goes to. With the newspaper. He keeps reading it and drinking. ‘For once, justice,’ he says-we have a witness to this. ‘What are you talking about?’ the witness says. ‘He deserved it, he deserved it,’ the boy says, ‘a toast to justice.’ And then what? Tears. Unstable, you see. More than one saw this.”

“The newspaper,” I said, almost to myself. “So this was after the body was found? Not before?”

Cavallini looked at me, uncomfortable for a second, weighing this, then decided to ignore it. “Yes, after it was found. Celebrating.”

“But why would he do that, draw attention that way? Why would he be happy they found the body? Wouldn’t it be better for him if they never found it?”

Cavallini sat back, a twitch of annoyance in the corner of his mouth. “Nevertheless, that is what he said. A toast to justice. Of course, really to himself. We have witnesses to this,” he said again, then paused. “It’s not always the logic that rules the head in these cases. A boy who blames himself, then who kills-you’re surprised he gives himself away?”

“It just doesn’t make sense.”

“But it will. Don’t worry. We will make a case.”

I looked up at him. Held together by nothing except his will. But convincing, a solution to everything, delivered by Cavallini to a grateful force.

“You’re troubled?” he said.

I shrugged, not knowing what to say, swirling again. A case any defense lawyer could pick apart, but would he? Who was the defense? What were trials like here? It wasn’t America. Maybe a different set of priorities, with Carlo Moretti, whoever he was, satisfying all of them. Gianni’s killer.

“But why?” Cavallini said. “It was you yourself who suggested the motive. You said it would be someone exactly like him. And it is.”

“It’s just-” I stopped, my heart sinking. Someone exactly like him. You yourself suggested it.

He waited, frowning a little, surprised now at my reluctance. And why should I be?

“It’s just-you know, to prove it in court, you’ll have to prove that Gianni did betray them. An informer, all of that. It’ll have to come out.”

“Ah,” Cavallini said, “I see. But Signor Miller, it’s a case of his murder.”

“But can you prove it? About Gianni?” What I’d wanted in the first place, just to know.

“Well, as to that, we only have to prove that Moretti believed it. A doctor prescribes medicine, the boy delivers it, his father is betrayed. Because he is followed? Perhaps not. But he believes it, so he acts.” He paused. “Dr. Maglione’s reputation need not be in question. Only Moretti questioned it.”

He met my eyes, an explanation that was also a bargain. Perfect in every way. Justice done. A family’s honor held intact. A promotion for him. A kindness to Giulia, to my mother. Gianni a victim, like Paolo.

“Yes,” I said, thinking, “and what if he was wrong-if we were wrong?”

“How do you mean?”

“For the sake of argument,” I said, getting up, “what if Gianni didn’t do it? It explains the gap. He treats Moretti, he releases Moretti, nothing happens. A week-longer, ten days. He prescribes medicine. Why? If he wanted to betray Moretti, why not do it earlier? Why wait? What if the son is wrong? What if Gianni never meant the father harm?”

Cavallini got up and walked back behind the desk. “Then he killed him for nothing.” Another pause. “Signor Miller, I am confused. Do you think Dr. Maglione was innocent? After all, it was you-” He let the words drift, his eyes simply curious, the way they’d been at the water entrance, asking about the boat.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “But if we can’t prove it, then it’s very difficult to prove the motive.”

“Well, that’s for the lawyers,” he said, dismissing this. “And you forget there is still the confession. Would that satisfy you?” He smiled again, a kind of tease. “It was like this in Germany? Always the proof?”

“Not always,” I said. “But in capital cases-” I stopped. “What happens in Italy? To the boy, if he’s guilty.”