Guido Pagliarino - The Rage Of The Reviled

"How come your domicile in the area of Paestum is not indicated on your driving permit?"

"I had a room in the barracks, with another sergeant major who was a bachelor as well, I didn’t have any place outside: I never considered the barracks my home and I never thought of having the address in Naples removed. I just had it changed on the identity card and the military driving permit because it was mandatory, apart from the fact that on the civil license I would often have to have the Department of Motor Vehicles change my address, since they moved me every few years. Whereas the military card and license were done again directly in the new department; and then, after all, I came back to Naples to see mamma every time I went on leave."

"You should know that we’ll go to Vicolo Santa Maria to check if your mother really lives there and if other people know you."

"... and I thank you, Commissioner, because that is exactly where mamma lives and you will have confirmation about me from her and the neighbours as well. But please, I beg you with all my heart: don’t frighten mamma. Tell her, please, that I have asked you to say hello to her since I couldn’t come in person because of service reasons."

"If we find your mother, we won't scare her and we’ll talk to her as you wish." At this point, however, the Deputy Commissioner had started on him again: "Earlier you tried to make me believe that you had an appointment with Demaggi and then you admitted that it was not true. So tell me: if that was the first time you saw her, how did you know that the woman was a prostitute?"

Unperturbed he replied: "I heard your patrol chief talking about it with his colleagues when they were with the deceased."

"I'll check. Now tell me one more thing" – D'Aiazzo had left the question for last, to fire it when the man was very tired – "Why were you wearing wool gloves at this time of year? So as not to leave prints, right?"

"... no, Mr. Commissioner," the other wasn’t worried, "the reason is simple, I’ve been wearing them for some time now, I also had them when I was in service, with the captain’s permission. I suffer from pain in my fingers and also in my left palm."

"Hm..."

"... yes I do, because of the humidity in the kitchens over many years, what with steam from pots and water where we washed the cauldrons, as the lieutenant doctor explained to me, and he was the one who told me to wear gloves."

The man was exhausted and the two policemen were physical wrecks; the Deputy Commissioner had ordered Brigadier Bordin to escort the alleged sergeant major Gennaro Esposito to the holding cell.

Vittorio D'Aiazzo had not been able to form a concrete idea with just the information he had collected: to his mind it could possibly be both an accident and a murder must, the latter not necessarily perpetrated by the man arrested; however, if he were guilty, the motive could be competition between black marketers if the self-styled Esposito’s identity and in particular his position in the Army were not confirmed, otherwise a different motive would come into play.

Moreover, if the anatomopathologist established that it was an assassination, and even though he had not confessed, he would be transferred to the Prison of Poggioreale as a suspect. As well as that, the Deputy Commissioner would have to write a report containing both the medical examiner’s conclusions and the details that D'Aiazzo himself had collected during the interrogation, and send it to the Office of the Public Prosecutor. Based on his report, the investigating judge would decide whether to open proceedings against the suspect or release him for lack of evidence.

It was almost eight in the morning and the young officer was about to finish his shift; but just the same, before going home he still intended to order the warrant officer to go to Vicolo Santa Luciella to check if the suspect’s mother really lived there and, in this case, if she recognized her son in the photo on the license and confirmed that he really was a sergeant major in the artillery. But the Deputy Commissioner did not plan to wait for the man to return and he would hear the report the following day. At any rate, it would be two or three days at least before the anatomopathologist’s report arrived in his office, during which time the detained man would remain in the holding cell.

After having taken the suspect back to the cell, Bordin had gone back to D'Aiazzo. As he entered the office he had said to him: "Mr. Commissioner, in my opinion that Esposito, or so he claims, was sent by the camorra to kill Demaggi for two possible reasons: either because of competition on the black market, or because that filthy whore no longer wanted to pay the kickback ..."

"... Marino, the woman is dead and you don’t insult the deceased," the young superior had reprimanded him, "and in any case I’m not convinced that the suspect is a murderer."

"Forgive me if I take the liberty, but I think... well, that you are always too good: if we gave him a few blows in the stomach with sandbags ..."

"... that don’t leave a mark?"

"Just to be prudent; and be sure that that delinquent sayts he is guilty and a camorrista to boot, and who knows what else. But like this..."

"... instead like this I didn’t risk making an innocent person confess, apart from the fact that if I saw you hitting someone with a sack ... do you understand me, Marino?"

"Yeah...."

"If anything, it will be the investigating judge who makes him admit that he is guilty, provided the doctor doesn’t tell us that it was an accident, and then I can archive the case and free that man."

"Yes, maybe, but speaking in general terms you, Mr Commissioner, are perhaps the only one here who doesn’t give people being interrogated a few slaps. The late Dr. Perati I served with before you made everyone confess."

With the fervor of age, and not without that pinch of presumption that he always had, the Deputy Commissioner had instinctively let slip in the Neapolitan dialect that he used at home: "Tu si' 'nu fésso. 21"

"What?!" The non-commissioned officer had turned red with rage.

His superior had partially corrected himself: "All right, Marino, I take back the idiot, but you are wrong to speak disrespectfully to me just because I am half your age. Be careful, because if it happens again I will punish you."

Bordin had thought it wise to apologize, albeit through gritted teeth: "Forgive me, Mr. Commissioner, I was just saying, I didn’t want to criticize you."

If, over time, Vittorio D'Aiazzo would fully acquire humility thanks to the metaphorical slaps of life, at the time he still wanted to have the last word: "Alright, but from now on think about what you say, before saying what you think."

The man had thought it wise to stand stiffly to attention: "Signorsì."

"At ease, and don’t be mortified," his superior had softened the tone, with compassion finally prevailing. He had continued: "You said that Perati made everyone confess: of course, I know that very well, they’d told me that when I arrived here; but do you remember who killed him?"

"Yes sir, the mother of a habitual thief..."

"... thief that Perati had accused of stabbing a baker in the hand, to rob him, and that he had indeed made him confess, but how? Tying him belly up on a table and whipping him with his belt; and two days later, do you remember? the suspect died of internal bleeding."

"Excuse me, may I speak to you freely but with all due respect?"

"You can."

"I believed that Dr. Perati had been right because he had not been reproached by superiors."

"Then you don’t know that the matter had been buried by order of the federal of Naples 22, because Perati was extremely fascist and a bootlicker; and yet, in the mind of the dead man’s mother the thing had not been buried at all, and what’s more, a couple of weeks after her son’s death, she had learned that he was innocent of both the wounding and the theft, and you knew this, didn't you?"