Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Frank spoke as if all the tiles of the mosaic were coming together before his eyes. ‘Roby Stricker was a fixture of the nightlife scene in Monte Carlo and all along the coast. He knew everyone who was anyone. So he knew his killer too, although he probably couldn’t remember his name just then. That’s understandable. But he knew who he was and what he did for a living.’

Frank paused to give the two men in front of him time to digest his words. Then he started to speak again, slower, articulating carefully. ‘Visualize the room. Stricker is lying on the floor, dying, his left arm broken. From that position – and I checked this myself – he could see himself in the mirrored wall of the bathroom through the open door. He was able to write what he wanted everyone to know by looking at his own image reflected backward, and besides that, he was a lefty using his right hand. It’s not unusual that he would write backwards but, unfortunately, he died without completing the message.’

He grabbed the arms of the two men who were staring at him in silence and pulled them to the mirror in front of the director’s booth. He pointed to the red light reflected in reverse on the shiny surface. ‘He didn’t misspell Ryan as “RIAN”, as we first assumed. He was trying to write “ON AIR”, the signal of a radio broadcast. We found a squiggly line at the beginning and we thought it didn’t make sense, just a mark he couldn’t control. But it did make sense. Stricker died before he could finish the O !’

‘You mean…?’

Morelli sounded like he was having trouble believing his own ears. Bikjalo held his face, deathly pale, in his hands. All that was visible were his incredulous eyes. The pressure of his fingers opened them wider, accentuating his expression of shock.

‘We’ve been living with the Devil without smelling the stench of hell.’ Frank held up the box in his hand. ‘You’ll see. When we strip down this gadget, you’ll find that it’s an ordinary, obsolete radio transistor. We’d never have found it because it works on a frequency we didn’t even consider. None of us would have thought of such an archaic system. And you’ll see that there’s also a timer or something that turns it on at the desired time. And the phone signal wasn’t found because this thing was in place before the switchboard to which we connected for interception. The technicians will be able to tell us the details, though we no longer need them. No One broadcast phone calls recorded ahead of time to the one person who knew how to ask the questions and answer them, because he already knew what they were .’

Frank rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the photo of the Robert Fulton record sleeve.

‘And here’s the proof of how superficial I was. In our mad desire to ask questions, we often end up chasing ambiguous theories and forget to look at the obvious. The brain of a child always remains the brain of a child, even when it’s in the body of a young man.’

He raised his voice suddenly to call through the open door. ‘Pierrot!’ Rain Boy’s head peeped cautiously over the wooden partition that divided the secretary’s desk from the computer station. ‘Come here a moment, please.’

The boy walked over with his bug-eyed look and loping gait. He took in Frank’s urgent words without understanding. The policeman’s tone of voice frightened him. He fearfully approached the three men as if expecting to be scolded.

‘Do you remember this record?’ Frank showed him the picture.

Pierrot nodded as he usually did when asked a question.

‘Remember how I asked you if this record was in the room, and you said no? And I also told you not to talk to anyone about it, that it had to be a secret between the two of us? Now, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth.’ Frank gave Pierrot a moment to comprehend what he was saying. ‘Did you tell anybody about this record?’ Pierrot lowered his eyes to the ground and stood there in silence. Frank repeated the question. ‘Did you tell anybody about it, Pierrot, anybody at all?’

‘Yes.’ Pierrot’s voice seemed to come from some underground place, from below his feet where he was staring.

Frank laid a hand on his head.

‘Who?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone, I swear.’ The boy raised his face. His eyes were full of tears. He stopped and turned to the three men in bewilderment. ‘OnlyJean-Loup…’

Frank looked at Bikjalo and Morelli with a mixture of triumph and sorrow. ‘Gentlemen, whether you like it or not, No One is Jean-Loup Verdier!’

The room stood still in the silence of eternity.

Behind the glass of the director’s booth, they could see Luisella Berrino, the show’s deejay, in front of the mike as if it were a window open to the world. Outside, the sun was shining again, the trees dazzling green after the rain. The boats bobbed up and down in the marina. In the city beyond, people were smiling and talking, listening to music, going about their work and daily chores; couples were making love, children studying. But in that room, the air seemed to have disappeared, the sunlight but a precious memory lost for ever.

Morelli was the first to recover. He reached for his mobile phone with shaking hands and called headquarters.

‘Hello. It’s Morelli. Code Eleven, repeat, Code Eleven. Location Beausoleil, home of Jean-Loup Verdier. Inform Roncaille and tell him the subject is No One. Got it? He’ll know what to do. And put me on to the car on duty in front of the house. Now!’

Bikjalo slumped into a chair in front of one of the computer stations. He looked 100 years older. He was probably thinking of all the time he had spent alone with Jean-Loup Verdier without ever suspecting that he was a killer of such inhuman ferocity. As he paced back and forth, Frank had to give Bikjalo the benefit of the doubt and prayed that the manager wasn’t merely thinking how much this would damage his radio station .

At last contact was made with the police car.

‘Morelli here. Who is this and who’s with you?’ He got an answer and looked relieved, probably because he realized that the officers were able to cope with an emergency. ‘Is Verdier at home?’

The muscle in his jaw flexed as he waited for the answer. ‘Sorel’s inside with him? Are you sure?’ Another pause. Another answer on the other end. ‘It doesn’t matter. Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. Make no reply. Jean-Loup Verdier is No One. Repeat: Make no reply. Jean-Loup Verdier is No One. Obviously, he is extremely dangerous. Make some excuse and call Sorel out. Leave the subject alone but keep him from leaving the house for any reason. Spread out to cover all exits, but without making it seem like something’s up. We’re on our way with reinforcements. Do nothing until we arrive. Understand? Nothing.’

Morelli ended the call. Frank was chomping at the bit.

‘Let’s go.’

In three steps they were out of the room and heading towards the main exit, Raquel clicked open the door. As they left, they could hear Pierrot’s excited voice from behind the glass door of the office next to the entrance. Frank had a sudden thought and his heart sank.

No, he thought, stupid boy, not now. Don’t tell me we’ve lost because of your kind hearted idiocy.

He pushed open the glass door and stood in the doorway, horrified. Pierrot was next to the table sobbing into the phone with tears running down his round face.

‘They’re saying you’re a bad man, Jean-Loup. Tell me it’s not true. Please tell me it’s not true.’

Frank reached him in one step and grabbed the phone from his hands. ‘Hello, Jean-Loup. It’s Frank. Can you hear me?’

There was a moment of silence on the other end and then Frank heard the click and the line went dead. Pierrot was sitting on a chair, still sobbing. Frank spun around to Morelli.