Jon Tracy - The Rome Prophecy

But he can’t.

He can only see a leg – and part of the man’s right side and arm.

The rest of him is buried.

He’s dead.

Tom puts the torch down.

It rolls off a rock and blackness hides everything.

He feels around for the Maglite.

Re-positions it.

The beam illuminates the corpse.

He steps closer to the body.

Carefully he pulls away several boulders and stacks them so they don’t roll down into the river and lose any evidence that might be attached to them.

He still can’t see the entire corpse, but he sure can smell it.

His own body momentarily blocks the light and his hands touch something.

Something soft and broken.

The skull has been caved in.

He fingers a crawling moist mass inside the shattered cavity and jerks his hand away.

Something is still slithering over his fingers.

Maggots and crustaceans that have been feeding on the brain.

He furiously rubs his hands on his jacket and feels them turning sticky and dry.

It takes almost a full minute for him to catch his breath and calm down.

He reaches for the torch and plays the light across the exposed cadaver.

It’s bloated. Swollen. Pumped up.

Tom feels his stomach flip. He turns away and vomits.

He spits his mouth clean and tries to suck in fresh air.

He can’t help but feel ashamed at his revulsion. His thoughts should be of sympathy and respect for the stranger who died in this barren place.

The ex-priest leans over the body, joins his hands and briefly prays. ‘O Lord, let perpetual light shine upon this poor soul and may he rest in peace. Amen.’ He crosses himself and looks around.

He knows he should step away now and phone Valentina. He certainly shouldn’t touch the corpse or disturb the scene any more than he already has done.

But he can’t do that.

The curiosity is too great.

He has to see.

He turns the body over.

Even in the darkness, it’s obvious what’s happened.

There’s a gaping hole in the man’s abdomen.

He’s been stabbed to death.

The next hour is a blur.

Time speeds up to a frightening pace. Tom feels like he’s caught in one of those trick photographs, the only static image in the centre of a blur of dashing bodies and streaky car lights.

After Valentina briefly inspects the mutilated body, she calls Federico. He informs Central Control and actions her request for a support unit.

A taxi is called to take Louisa Verdetti home.

The entire scene is cleared of civilians and secured.

The automatic machinery of a homicide investigation clicks into gear.

An officer is posted to control access and keep a log of anyone who comes and goes.

A police doctor arrives to pronounce death.

The duty pathologist turns out.

A crime-scene photographer starts snapping away.

Forensics set up arc lamps and strategic walkways to access the corpse, and ensure the crime scene isn’t compromised or contaminated any more than it already has been.

Officers begin working the street, taking statements from nightclub stragglers and local residents, who’ve already started to gather around the taped-off area.

Tom sits with Valentina in her Fiat.

He’s still dazed. ‘Is this going to be awkward for you?’

She manages the outline of a smile. ‘Very.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He reaches out a hand and squeezes hers. ‘What will you tell your bosses about us and how I came to discover the body?’

She shrugs. ‘Everything. Or maybe nothing.’ She turns to him. ‘I won’t lie to them, Tom. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of and I’m not going to deny we’re having a relationship.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop saying that. Without you, we would never have found this body. You’ve done nothing to be sorry for. Far from it.’

She knows he’s right, though. Explaining how a foreign civilian came to be at the centre of a criminal investigation and found a mutilated corpse won’t be easy.

Valentina looks through the windscreen and sees Federico. The collar of his long wool coat is up, Elvis style, and he’s blowing balloons of cool breath up into a blood-orange dawn sky.

She gets out of her car and walks over to meet him.

‘Buongiorno, Capitano.’ He rubs his hands together for warmth. ‘Working with you really isn’t conducive to getting any beauty sleep.’

She ignores the small talk and walks towards the body. ‘We’ve got a dead male, pre-mortem injuries to the head and stomach, lots of post-mortem injuries as well, due to the fact that rocks were stacked on him. He’s somewhere in his twenties or thirties – given his state, it’s hard to tell.’

‘Decomposed?’

‘Not completely, but I think he’s been in and out of the water. I guess the body was left when the tide went out, and of course it got covered later when it came in.’

‘That would follow.’ Federico starts to duck under the tape. ‘How was it discovered?’

Valentina hesitates. ‘A man walking by the river found him.’

‘Vagrant? Down-and-out? You get a lot of them around here. They shelter from the wind and use the Tiber as a toilet.’

She still holds back. ‘No. He’s respectable. A foreigner. American.’ Impulsively she starts to take the plunge. ‘He’s sitting in my car.’

‘Great.’ Federico senses an early trip home. ‘You’ve already interviewed him then, taken a statement?’

‘No. And it’s best if I don’t. You should do it, or have someone do it for you.’

Federico senses her awkwardness. ‘Why?’

She stops walking. ‘Look, I hope this can stay between us. I know the man. He’s staying with me at the moment.’

He looks confused. ‘Staying with you?’

‘Yes. He’s a friend. Someone I’ve known for a long time.’

‘Known as in sexually known?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ she snaps.

‘Well, actually it is.’ He points to the body. ‘It seems I’m investigating a murder, and it turns out the corpse was found by the lover of the officer in charge.’

Valentina has no real response.

‘Can we discuss this later?’ She rubs her arms. ‘It’s cold, I’m tired and I need you to examine the scene and interview a key witness. Okay?’

Federico thinks about pressing for more information, but decides to leave it. She’s his boss. Admittedly a very strange one, but nevertheless, still his boss. ‘ Bene.’ He straddles the wall and crabs down the banking.

It’s an area he knows well.

Most people born in the city do. He waits for Valentina to catch him up and sign them through the log point. He points to the nearby bridge. ‘This isn’t just a crime scene,’ he says. ‘You’re standing at the very birthplace of Rome. This is the focal point of the greatest legend in all our history.’

By the time Tom has been interviewed and he and Valentina return to her apartment, it’s already gone six a.m.

Going to bed seems pointless.

Valentina showers and changes for work.

Tom cooks scrambled eggs and brews coffee.

An old paint-splattered radio on the windowsill plays Europop into the brown ears of a dead plant.

The winter sun slowly warms up a spot at the breakfast bar where they both wearily settle and eat, hunched opposite each other.

Valentina is famished. ‘Mmm, good egg!’ she manages between her second and third forkful.

Tom laughs. ‘Me or the scrambled?’

‘ Scusi? ’

‘It’s a joke. There’s an American – or maybe British – expression, in which you call someone a good egg if they’re a really nice person.’

‘Sorry. I think I may have left my sense of humour down by the Tiber.’ She reaches across and touches his hand, ‘Then you too are a good egg.’