Brimstone

{ 69 }

The cellar of the carabinieri barracks looked more like the dungeon it had once been than a basement, and as D'Agosta followed Colonnello Esposito and Pendergast through the winding tunnels of undressed stone, streaked with cobwebs and lime, he was half surprised to find no skeletons chained to the walls.

The colonnello paused at an iron door, opened it. "As you'll see, alas, we have yet to join the twenty-first century," he said as he gestured for them to enter.

D'Agosta stepped into a room wall-to-wall with filing cabinets and open shelves. Fascicles of documents sat on the shelves, tied up in twine. Some were so old and moldy they must have dated back centuries. An officer in a neat uniform of blue and white, with a smart red stripe down the outside of the slacks, stood and saluted crisply.

"Basta," said the colonnello in a tired voice, then gestured at some old wooden chairs arranged around a long table. "Please sit."

As they seated themselves, the colonnello spoke to the younger officer, who in turn produced a dozen folders and laid them on the table. "Here are the summaries of the homicides that fell within your requirements: unsolved murders over the last year in which the victim was found burned. I have been through them myself and found nothing of the slightest interest. I am much more concerned about what happened up at La Verna this morning."

Pendergast took the first folder, opened it, slid out the case summary. "I regret that more than I can say."

"I regret it even more. Things were tranquil here until you arrived-and then . " He opened his hands and smiled wanly.

"We are almost there, Colonnello."

"Then let us pray you get there, wherever 'there' may be, as soon as possible."

Pendergast began reading through the case summaries, passing each to D'Agosta as he completed it. The only sound was the gentle whisper of forced air, carried into the basement by shiny aluminum ducts that snaked along the vaulted ceilings in a futile attempt to bring fresh air into these depths. D'Agosta looked at each case and its associated photograph, struggling to comprehend the Italian, able to get the gist but no more. Occasionally he jotted down a note-more to have something to report to Hayward on their next call than for his own recollection.

In less than an hour, they'd gone through them all.

Pendergast turned to D'Agosta. "Anything?"

"Nothing stood out."

"Let us take a second pass."

The colonnello glanced at his watch, lit a cigarette.

"There's no need for you to stay," said Pendergast.

Esposito waved his hand. "I am quite content to be buried down here, out of reach, my cell phone dead. It is not so pleasant upstairs, with the Procuratore della Repubblica calling every half hour-thanks again, I fear, to you " He looked around. "All that's lacking is an espresso machine." He turned to the officer. "Caffè per tutti."

"Sissignore."

D'Agosta heaved a sigh and began leafing again through the barely comprehensible files. This time he paused at a black-and-white photo of a man lying in what looked like an abandoned building. The corpse lay curled in a cracked cement corner, very badly burned. It was a typical police photo, sordid, vile.

But there was something else. Something wrong.

Pendergast instantly detected his interest. "Yes?"

D'Agosta slid the photo over. Pendergast scrutinized it for a few seconds. Then his eyebrows shot up. "Yes, I do see."

"What is it?" asked the colonnello , reluctantly leaning forward.

"This man. You see the small pool of blood there, underneath him? He was burned and then shot."

"And so?"

"Usually victims are shot, then burned, to conceal evidence. Have you ever heard of burning a man first and then shooting him?"

"Frequently. To extract information."

"Not over half the body. Torture burning is localized."

Esposito peered at the photo. "That means nothing. A maniac, perhaps."

"May we see the complete file?"

The colonnello shrugged, rose, shuffled to a distant cabinet, then returned with a fat bundle of documents. He put it on the table, cut the twine with his pocketknife.

Pendergast looked through the documents, pulled one out, began to summarize in English: "Carlo Vanni, aged sixty-nine, retired farmer, body found in a ruined casa colonica in the mountains near Abetone. There was no physical evidence recovered at the site, no fingerprints, fibers, shell casings, prints, tracks." He glanced up. "This does not look like the work of a maniac to me."

A slow smile gathered on the colonnello 's face. "Even among the carabinieri, incompetence has been known to occur. Just because no evidence was recovered does not mean there was no evidence to recover."

Pendergast flipped the page. "A single shot to the heart. And what's this? Some droplets of molten aluminum recovered by the medico legale , burned deep into the man's flesh."

He flipped another page.

"Now, this is even more intriguing. Several years before his murder, Vanni was accused of molesting children in the local community. He got off on a technicality. The police theorized that the murder was simple vengeance, and it appears they did not try very hard to find the killer."

The colonnello stubbed out his cigarette. "Allora. A revenge killing, someone from the community. The killer wanted to make this pedophile suffer for what he had done. Hence the burning, then the shot to the heart. It explains everything."

"It would seem so."

A long silence.

"And yet," said Pendergast, almost to himself, "it's too perfect. If you wanted to kill someone, Colonnello, but it made no difference who it was, who would you choose? A man exactly like this: guilty of a heinous crime but never punished for it. A man with no family, no important connections, no job. The police aren't going to exert themselves to find the killer, and the townspeople will do all they can to hinder the investigation."

"That is too clever, Agent Pendergast. Never in my life have I dealt with a criminal who would be capable of such sophisticated planning. And why kill someone at random? It is like something out of Dostoevsky."

"We are not dealing with an ordinary criminal, and our killer had a very specific reason to kill." Pendergast laid the file down and gazed at D'Agosta. "Vincent?"

"Worth pursuing."

"May I have a copy of the report of the medico legale ?" Pendergast asked.

The colonnello murmured to the officer, who had just returned with the coffee. The man took the folder to a photocopy machine, returning with the copy a moment later.

The colonnello handed it to Pendergast, then lit a cigarette, his face creased with irritation. "I hope you are not going to ask me for an exhumation order."

"I'm afraid we are."

Esposito sighed, smoke dribbling out of his nostrils. "Mio Dio. This is all I need. You realize how long this will take? At least a year."

"Unacceptable."

The colonnello nodded. "That's Italy." A thin smile worked itself into his face. "Of course . "

"Of course what?"

"You could always go the unofficial route."

"You mean, grave robbing?"

"We prefer to call it il controllo preliminare . If you find something, then you do the paperwork."

Pendergast rose. "Thank you, Colonnello."

"For what? I said nothing." And he made a mock bow. "Besides, the place is out of my jurisdiction. A satisfactory arrangement for all concerned-save perhaps Carlo Vanni."

As they were leaving, the colonnello called after them. "Do not forget to pack panini and a good bottle of Chianti. The night, I fear, will be long and chilly."