Day Of Confession

20

Rome , 6:45 p.m.

Roscani walked around the car. Outside, beyond the police barricades, faces stared at him, wondering who he was, if he was anyone of importance.

A second body had been found in the bushes just off the sidewalk twenty feet behind the Alfa. Shot twice. Once in the heart, once above the left eye. An elderly man with no identification.

Roscani had left it to Castelletti and Scala, the other ispettori capi from homicide. His principal interest was the Alfa Romeo. Its windshield cracked, its front end was smashed into the truck it had hit full on, just missing the gas tank behind the driver's door.

Pio's body had still been there when he arrived. He'd studied it without touching, had it photographed and videotaped, and then it was taken away, the same as had been done with the body in the bushes.

There should have been a third body, but there wasn't. The American, Harry Addison, had been riding with Pio, coming back into the city from the farmhouse location where they had recovered the Spanish-made Llama pistol. But Harry Addison was gone. So was the pistol, the ignition keys still in the trunk lock, as if someone had known exactly where the gun was and where to find it.

Inside the Alfa, what appeared to be the murder weapon, Pio's own 9mm Beretta, lay on the backseat on the driver's side, as if it had been casually tossed there. Bloodstains were on the passenger side, on top of the seat by the door, just below the headrest. Shoe prints were in the carpet beneath it – not terribly distinct, but there just the same. Fingerprints were everywhere.

Tech crews were dusting, taking samples, marking them, putting them in evidence bags. Police photographers were on the scene as well. Two of them. One taking photographs with a Leica, the other making a video record with a modified Sony Hi-8.

And then there was the truck – a large Mercedes delivery vehicle reported stolen earlier that afternoon, its driver long gone.

Ispettore Capo Otello Roscani got behind the wheel of his dark blue Fiat and drove slowly around the barricades and past the faces watching him. The glare of police work lights illuminated the scene like a movie set, filling in the darkness for the faces and providing additional light for media cameras, which were there in frenzy.

'Ispettore Capo!'

'Ispettore Capo!'

Voices shouted. Men and women. Who did this? Does it have to do with the murder of Cardinal Parma? Who was killed? Who was suspected? And why?

Roscani saw it all, heard it all. But it didn't matter. His mind was focused on Pio and what had happened in the moments immediately preceding his death. Gianni Pio was not a man to make mistakes, but late this afternoon he had, somehow letting himself be compromised.

At this point – without an autopsy, without lab reports – questions were all Roscani had. Questions and sadness. Gianni Pio was godfather to his children and had been his friend and partner for more than twenty years. And now, as he headed back across Rome toward the Garbatella section, where Pio lived – going to see Pio's wife and his children, where Roscani knew his own wife already was, giving what little comfort she could – Otello Roscani tried to keep his personal feelings at a distance. As a policeman he had to, and out of respect for Pio he had to, because they would only get in the way of what had become his primary objective.

The finding of Harry Addison.