A Season for the Dead

Eighteen

Why did you do that?"

Sara Farnese was wearing black: casual trousers and a cotton T-shirt.

She looked younger and on her guard. The press mob had yet to arrive at San Clemente but the beggars, Kosovans and Africans, were always there. Without thinking, Costa had handed out some money to a young black boy with wide, haunted eyes, choosing him, as always, at random. Sara had seemed surprised they had not simply barged through the small crowd, ignoring them.

“Family habit,” Costa said. “Twice a day, every day. Just in case.”

“In case what?” she wondered.

“In case… it makes a difference, I guess.” He’d never thought about it much. They were modest sums of money. The idea had been ingrained into them at such an early age. For his father this was, he thought, an act of faith, one more proof, if Nic Costa needed it, that the old man’s communism was a kind of religion in disguise.

He took her by the arm. They halted outside the gateway to the church. “Let me say something. You don’t have to go through with this, Sara. Not here. We could arrange an appointment at the morgue. It may be a waste of time anyway.”

Her green eyes watched him carefully. “Then why was I asked to come here?”

“My boss,” he said instantly, not wanting to lie since he felt sure she would know. “It was his idea. He thinks this is more complex. He thinks we don’t know everything we ought to know.”

She understood Costa’s point immediately. Sara Farnese acknowledged it in silence, then peered inside at the courtyard of San Clemente. “I’ve been here for concerts. Have you?”

“I’m not one for music.”

“What are you for?”

“Looking at paintings. Running. Making sense of things. How many times have you been here before?”

“Three. Four.”

Costa nodded, taking in the information.

She sighed, exasperated. “Is that supposed to be significant too? Are you listening to every word I say and wondering what it’s worth?”

“Not at all. I don’t think anyone understands what’s going on here. Except that it’s obvious there seems to be some link that leads back to you. Who did you come here with, Sara? We may need to know.”

“Really,” she murmured, then pointed up the narrow street of San Giovanni in Laterano. A small electric bus was navigating the cobblestones up the hill, toward the sprawling hospital at the summit.

“Have you heard of Pope Joan? The female pope?”

“I thought that was a myth.”

“Probably. The myth says she gave birth outside a house there, on her way to take the papal crown in the Lateran. The mob killed her and the infant too when it realized what she was. Still, myth or no myth, there was an image on a house nearby, until the sixteenth century, of a woman with her breast bared and a child in her arms. Until it was torn down by the Vatican, along with a portrait of her in Siena.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Perhaps because I thought you’d understand. Pope Joan isn’t real. She never existed. Her story is as apocryphal as that of some of the early martyrs but it doesn’t matter. It’s about faith. It’s about how something can be fiction and true too, after a fashion. In Joan’s case it’s a truth about the place women are supposed to have in the world. How we’re meant to be either harlots or heroines. Virgins or whores. It doesn’t occur to you that there might be other permutations. Some middle way in which, perhaps, we’re both, or neither. Or something else altogether.”

“You sound like my father. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to judge you. I just feel jumpy about everything. About what’s in there and why this is all happening.”

“Show me,” she said, and then they walked into the dark church interior, toward the group that stood around the body, now covered with a sheet.

Falcone watched her arrive. He looked hungry for information. The smell of tobacco hung around him. There was ash on his white shirt now. It was the gray, flecked color of his beard. Luca Rossi shuffled awkwardly on his giant feet, accompanied by some detectives Costa didn’t recognize. Teresa Lupo stood at the edge watching them all, taking in everything. Costa was beginning to appreciate her presence more and more. She was honest. She had some insight too that was lacking in the men.

“Ms. Farnese,” Falcone said, coming toward her, extending a hand. “I’m grateful you came. This won’t take long.” He looked at the pathologist. “Please…”

Teresa bent down and carefully pulled back the sheet, exposing the dead man’s face. Sara Farnese’s slim hand went to her mouth. She closed her eyes and exhaled a quiet, anguished gasp, then sat down heavily on one of the bench seats. Costa was unable to prevent himself from glaring at Falcone. The inspector was relishing this spectacle, as if her grief contained within it some precious intelligence only he could see. And yet Costa was intrigued by some small element of theatricality in her reaction; he found himself wondering whether she was not expecting to see some other body beneath the sheet. Whether he was, in fact, witnessing her relief.

He walked to the small office that led off the nave and came back with some water, sat next to her and gave her the cup. She accepted it gratefully. Falcone and the other cops watched, curious.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. It was impossible to know whether there was some personal bitterness in her gaze.

“Why are you apologizing? I know who he is. Wasn’t that the point of bringing me here?”

Falcone took a step forward. “Of course. His name, please?”

“Jay Gallo. He was an American tour guide.”

“Address?” Falcone asked, indicating to Costa to take a note.

“In the Via Trastevere. I don’t know the number. It was a cheap little apartment above the supermarket.”

Falcone paused. “And you knew him… how exactly?”

She sighed and looked at Costa, as if this proved some point. “We were both at Harvard together for a while. When he moved to Rome we renewed our friendship.”

Falcone waited, in vain, for her to go further. Finally, he asked,

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning,” Sara replied icily, “that for a while, a few weeks perhaps four months ago, we slept together. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“I want to know what’s relevant,” Falcone said brusquely. “There are four people dead now. Three of them were your lovers. Where did this Gallo character fit in? Would the others have known him?”

She considered this, appearing to regard it as a reasonable question.

“No. He’d no connection with the university. Stefano never met him. Hugh came a long time after.”

“But you would have mentioned him to other people?”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled. “What was the point? I was with Jay for a couple of weeks and then we agreed to be friends, nothing more. I haven’t seen him in months. He was an entertaining man but there was something lost about him. He drank too much. He was far too intelligent to be engaged in the work he did. He was failing himself and he knew it. However amusing he could be, that kind of thing wears off pretty quickly.”

Falcone gave Costa a significant glance as if to say: See the bitch, see what she’s like. The moment she’s bored, the moment she has doubts, she dumps them. And now one of the names on that list of rejections, maybe a long, long list, is fighting back.

“So what do you think is happening here, Ms. Farnese?” Falcone asked.

“I’ve no idea. What do you mean?”

“Why are your former lovers being killed like this? As if they were martyrs somehow?”

“I can’t begin to guess,” she insisted. “This is as inexplicable to me as it is to you.”

“And yet,” Falcone continued, “you must know the person responsible. This is someone who is familiar with the intimate details of your private life. You see my point?”

“Everybody sees your point.” It was Teresa Lupo who intervened, risking Falcone’s wrath. “It’s the way you ask. May I suggest you get some women detectives in here? You need to strike a balance between duty and prurience.”

“Thanks,” Falcone hissed. “You can take the body out of here now, Doctor. I want an autopsy report by this afternoon.”

The pathologist sighed and called for her team. The wheels squealed across the old stone floor. Sara Farnese watched the covered corpse being lifted gently onto the gurney, watched in silence as it was pushed out into the sun-filled courtyard. They had removed the anchor and the rope, which now lay on the ancient mosaic floor.

“San Clemente,” Sara said. “Why didn’t I realize? He had that anchor around his neck when they found him?”

“As if he were another martyr,” Costa said, watching her like a hawk.

“I told you,” she snapped. “Mostly these stories are apocryphal. In the case of Clemente it certainly is. If the person who did this knows Tertullian—which I assume he does—he knows that too.

Tertullian wrote about Clemente and not once mentioned any kind of martyrdom. It’s a fairy tale that was never even told until the fourth century.”

Costa tried to understand the significance. “Why would it matter? What difference does it make whether he knows this is a sham or not?”

Falcone interrupted, smiling. “Because it’s a question of belief. We look at these acts and think they must be the work of a man with some misplaced sense of religion. In fact…”

Teresa Lupo, now returned to the nave and glowering openly at Falcone, interrupted. “In fact, you don’t have a clue. Spare us cops practicing fake psychology, please. All any of us knows is this: A man who can skin another human being is not a suitable subject for some kind of cheap Freudian analysis, however hard you try. He can surely hold two entirely conflicting rationales in his head simultaneously and never hear them rub up against each other. I told you boys last night. I tell you now. This is a man who is strong, determined and powerful. A man who has some kind of medical knowledge, or has worked in a slaughterhouse. Forget what’s in his head because it’s got some impenetrable logic all of its own and you’d need to be as crazy as he is to understand it. Look for the physical facts.”

“Do you know anyone like that?” Costa asked Sara Farnese.

“No,” she replied, looking at the long-haired woman in the white coat, grateful for her support. “But whoever he is knows Tertullian too. You forgot that.”

“Quite,” the pathologist agreed. “Seems like I’ve got the easy job around here.” She walked away, grabbing for the cigarettes beneath the enclosed suit.

“What else do you want?” Sara asked as Lupo’s team left through the outside gate.

Falcone shuffled on his feet, thinking. “The name and address of everyone you’ve had a relationship with since coming to Rome.”

She shook her head. “That’s not possible. You can’t ask for someone’s entire private life.”

Falcone leaned toward her, so close that their faces almost touched.

“Ms. Farnese,” he said softly. “Everyone you have slept with is a suspect. Everyone you have slept with is a potential victim. We need their names. For their sakes as much as ours. Surely you can see that?”

“Some of them are married men. This is ridiculous. How would you feel if it were you?”

Falcone gave her a disagreeable frown. “Maybe I’d feel glad to be alive.”

She had no answer. Costa touched her arm gently, wondering again about this strange chasm there seemed to be in her life. “Sara. It’s important. We can get some women detectives you can talk to. Everything will remain confidential.”

“You honestly believe that? Please…”

He couldn’t argue. They all knew that everything leaked from the department in the end. He couldn’t begin to guess what names existed inside Sara Farnese’s head but it would be impossible to promise them privacy once they entered the files in the Questura Centrale.

There was too much media interest already and too much money riding on any scraps of information that could be secretly gleaned from the files.

“We require this for your sake too,” Falcone said forcefully.

“Whoever this man is knows everything about you. Perhaps he’s trying to impress you with these acts. Perhaps they are warnings. But one thing I’m sure of. At some stage he will realize they’re not having the desired effect and he will hold you to blame. At that point his next victim will surely be you, the source of his sorrows.”

She stared at him. “Whoever this is, I am not the source of his sorrows. This is not my doing.”

“As he sees it… I should have put it that way,” Falcone said, in the closest to an apology his pride would allow. “Who do you know in the Vatican?” He threw the question at her idly, as if it were unimportant. Costa cursed himself. He had told Falcone of his concerns about what had happened in the library that morning. He had no idea his vague doubts would translate into direct questions so quickly.

“What?”

“There were phone calls, between Rinaldi and someone in the Vatican. There were indications that Rinaldi believed he was under some kind of surveillance when he entered the Reading Room, either electronically or from some person in the room. In your line of work you must know many people. It’s important we have their names.”

“I’ve no special relationship with anyone in the Vatican.” Her face was pale and hard, a mask.

“Without some honesty…” Falcone shrugged. “I fear this will go on. I can’t see any reason why the killer should stop here. We need names. All of them.” He looked intently into her eyes. “We need to know everything about your life.”

“Go to hell,” she whispered sharply.

Falcone smiled. Costa recognized the moment. Falcone enjoyed breaking people. He believed this was the point of victory. “Ms. Farnese. I can insist on your cooperation. I can take steps if it is not forthcoming. I can call you into protective custody—”

“Sir,” Costa interrupted, gaining the full blast of Falcone’s furious gaze. “This is happening too quickly. If we give Ms. Farnese time. If I get one of the women detectives to help us back at the station.”

“If…” Falcone said sourly.

Costa took him to one side so she couldn’t hear. “Please. If you push her she’ll say nothing. Let me talk to her somewhere else. Somewhere she can think it through.”

Falcone’s hard features froze for a moment. Then he nodded at Costa.

“Maybe she needs one person she can trust. Maybe… There’s a lot of reporters out there now. Take her out on your own. Go have a coffee somewhere and think about this. Bring her in by the back door in an hour.”

“Okay.” Costa was puzzled. There was something else and Falcone was uncharacteristically reluctant to say it.

“Sir?”

“You’re right,” the inspector said, smiling. “I’ve an idea. Act a little, kid. Those reporters think they’ve got some scarlet woman in their sights here. Let’s play them along. When you go outside stay close to her. Make it look like… there’s perhaps something between you.”

“You’re asking me to…” Costa began to say, furious.

“I’m telling you to send out a message. I want this lunatic to see you and think he knows who’s chasing her tail now. We could spend months following him around like this. It would make it a lot easier if he comes to us. Comes to you, to be precise.”

“Sir…”

“Don’t worry, kid.” Falcone was beaming. “We’ll be waiting. You do have faith in your own police force now, don’t you?”

Costa walked off without answering. He beckoned her to follow to the door.

Outside, the media had arrived in force. A mob five yards deep thronged the gateway into the courtyard, held back by uniformed men trying to keep the line intact. The moment they saw her the questions came: screamed out of the heaving mass, unintelligible in the babble of frantic voices. Costa threw an arm around her and they braved the mob, moving through the cameras and the thrusting microphones, pushing forward.

She kept her eyes down. He held his arm tight around her shoulders and stared, unbending at the cameras, finding time to smile once or twice, time too to look at her, fondly, with an affection he didn’t find hard to feign.

He remembered her story. About the female pope being torn to pieces not far from here, and how it was all untrue, and maybe that wasn’t the point anyway. Costa stomped his way through the pack with all the finesse he once used in a bad-tempered rugby match, holding her safe, feeling her slender, fragile body and, after a while, an arm clinging to his waist.

Then they reached the car, he made space with a few deftly aimed jabs of his elbow, and they were free.

He looked at her, pale and frightened in the passenger seat, and thought of the faces he had made into that sea of cameras, the way he had acquiesced so easily, so willingly, to Falcone’s idea.

She turned to him, puzzled, hurt. “What’s happening, Nic? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ll fix this. Somehow.”

She stared out of the window, out into the hot, airless day. Nic Costa watched and felt he was swimming in a sea of lies.