The told you, Signora. About the death of the cadet."


"Only about that?" Her glance was as clear and direct as her

question.


"Yes." He could have left it at that, but he felt himself bound


by Vianello's promise. "It should be. But I won't know until I speak

Lo him."


Luigina suddenly took her hand from Vianello's chest. She turned to

the other woman and said, "Giuliano." After she pronounced the name,

she gave a nervous grin that tugged at Brunetti's pity as it pulled at

her mouth.


The younger woman stepped close to her and took her right hand in both

of hers. "It's all right, Luigina. Nothing will happen to

Giuliano."


The woman must have understood what she heard, for the grin expanded

into a smile and she clapped her hands together in undisguised

happiness. She turned towards the back of the house, but before she

could move the younger woman placed a hand on her arm, stopping her.

"But the gentleman needs to speak to Giuliano alone," she began, making

a business of looking at her watch. "And while he's doing that, you

can feed the chickens. It's time for that." Brunetti knew little

about country life, but he did know that chickens didn't get fed in the

middle of the day.


"Chickens?" Luigina asked, confused by the abrupt change of subject.


"You have chickens, Signora?" Vianello asked with great enthusiasm,

stepping forward until he was directly in front of her. "Would you

show them to me?" he asked.


Again, the lopsided smile, at the chance to show her friend the

chickens.


Turning to Pucetti, Vianello said, The Signora's going to show us the

chickens, Pucetti." Without waiting for Pucetti to respond, Vianello

placed a hand on the woman's arm and started to walk with her to the

front door of the house. "How many ... ?" Brunetti heard the

Inspector begin, and then, as if he'd realized that the act of counting

was probably well beyond this woman's powers, he continued seamlessly,

'... times have I wanted to see chickens." He turned to Pucetti.

"Come on, let's go see the chickens."


When they were alone, Brunetti asked the woman, "May I ask who you are,

Signora?"


"I'm Giuliano's aunt."


"And the other signora?" he asked.


"His mother." When Brunetti followed this with no inquiry, she added,

"She was injured some years ago, while Giuliano was still a boy."


"And before that?" Brunetti asked.


"What do you mean? Was she normal?" she demanded, attempting an angry

tone but not fully succeeding.


Brunetti nodded.


"Yes, she was. As normal as I. I'm her sister, Tiziana."


"I thought so he said. "You look very much alike, the two of you."


"She was the beautiful one," she said sadly. "Before." If this

woman's neglected beauty were any indication, then Luigina must indeed

have been a wonder.


"May I ask what happened?"


"You're a policeman, aren't you?"


"Yes."


"Does that mean you can't repeat things?"


"If they're not related to the case I'm investigating, no." Brunetti

failed to tell her that it was more a case of what he chose not to

reveal than what he was forbidden to, but his answer satisfied her.


"Her husband shot her. And then he shot himself," she said. When

Brunetti made no comment, she continued, "He meant to kill her and then

himself. But he failed, at least with Luigina."


"Why did he do it?"


"He thought she was having an affair."


"Was she?"


"No." Her answer left no doubt in Brunetti's mind. "But he was a

jealous man, always. And violent. We all warned her not to marry him,

but she did." After a long pause, she added,


"Love/ as though asked to name the disease that had destroyed her

sister.


"How long ago did this happen?"


"Eight years. Giuliano was ten." The woman suddenly folded her arms

across her stomach, her hands grabbing at the opposite arms as though

seeking security there.


When it occurred to him, the idea so shocked him that he spoke before

he considered how painful the question would be for her. "Where was

Giuliano?"


"No, he wasn't there she answered. "At least he didn't do that to

him."


Brunetti wanted to know the full extent of the damage to the other

woman, but he recognized this as the prurient curiosity it was, and so

he forbore to ask. The evidence in Luigina's behaviour and

asymmetrical face sufficed to indicate what was left: this woman's

vitality was enough to suggest what had been taken.


As they were walking across to the back of the house, Brunetti asked,

"Why did he leave the school?"


"He said .. ." she began but then stopped, and Brunetti sensed that

she was sorry not to be able to explain it to him. The think it would

be better if you asked Giuliano that."


"Was he happy there?"


"No. Never." Her answer was instant and fierce.


"Then why did he go, or why did he stay?"


She stopped and turned to face him, and he noticed that her eyes, which

had at first appeared dark, were in reality flecked with amber and

seemed to glow, even in the dim light of the hall.


"Do you know anything about the family?"


"No. Nothing/ he said, at once regretting that he had failed to ask

Signorina Elettra further to invade their privacy and ferret through

their secrets. All of this would then have been far less surprising,

and he would have known what information to try to get out of her.


Again, she crossed her arms in front of her and turned to |r face him.

"You didn't read about it, then?"


"No, not that I recall." He wondered how he could have missed a case

like this: it must have been a three-day wonder for the press.


"It happened when they were in Sardegna, on the naval base there she

said, as though that would explain it. "And my sister's father-in-law

managed to keep it quiet."


"Who is he, her father-in-law?" Brunetti asked.


"Ammiraglio Giambattista Ruffo," she said.


Brunetti recognized the name instantly: the man known as the "King's

Admiral' for his avowedly monarchist sentiments and opinions. Brunetti

thought Ruffo was Genovese by birth, had a vague memory of having heard

people talk about him for decades. Ruffo had risen through the ranks

of the Navy on merit, keeping his ideas to himself, but once his senior

rank was confirmed and Brunetti thought this had been about fifteen

years ago he had ceased to disguise or equivocate about his belief that

the monarchy should be restored. The attempt on the part of the War

Ministry to silence Ruffo had given him a sort of overnight celebrity,

for he refused to retract any of his statements. The serious

newspapers, if, in fact, any can be said to exist in Italy, quickly

tired of the story, and it was relegated to those weekly magazines

whose covers devote attention week by week to various parts of the

female anatomy.


Given his celebrity, it was nothing short of miraculous that his son's

suicide could have been kept from turning into a media feeding frenzy,

but Brunetti had no memory of the case. "How did he manage to silence

it?" Brunetti asked.


Tn Sardegna, at the naval base, he was in command," she began.


"You mean the Admiral?" Brunetti interrupted to ask.


"Yes. Because it all happened there, the press could be kept out."


"How was it reported?" Brunetti asked, knowing that, given these

conditions, almost anything was possible.


That he had died in an accident, and Luigina had been seriously injured

at the same time."


That's all they said?" he asked, surprised at his own ingenuousness at

thinking this unusual.


"Of course. The Naval police investigated, and a Naval doctor did the

autopsy. Luigina wasn't even badly hurt by the bullet. It hit her in

the arm. But she fell and hit her head. That's what did the

damage."


"Why are you telling me this?" Brunetti asked.


"Because Giuliano doesn't know what really happened."


"Where was he?" Brunetti asked. "When it happened, I mean."


There. But in a different part of the house, with his grandparents."


"And no one's ever told him?"


She shook her head. The don't think so. At least, not until now."


"Why do you say that?" he asked, sensitive to a sudden lessening of

confidence in her tone.


She raised her right hand and rubbed at her temple, just at the

hairline. "I don't know. He asked me about it when he came home this

time. I'm afraid I didn't handle it well. Instead of just telling him

what we've always told him, about the accident, I asked him why he was

asking." She stopped speaking, glancing at the floor, her fingers

still busy at the edge of her hair.


"And?" Brunetti prodded.


"And when he didn't answer me, I told him that he already knew what

happened, that there was a terrible accident and his father was

killed." She stopped again.


"Did he believe you?"


She shrugged the question away like a wilful child refusing to deal

with an unpleasant subject.


Brunetti waited, not repeating the question. Finally she t>aid,

raising her eyes to meet his, I don't know if he did or not." She

stopped, considering how to explain this, then went on, "When he was

younger, he used to ask about it. It was almost like a fever: it would

grow and grow on him until he couldn't do anything except ask me about

it again, no matter how many times I'd told him what happened. And

then he'd be all right for a time, but then it would start again, and

he'd refer to his father or ask questions about him, or about his

grandfather, until he couldn't stand it any more, and then he'd ask

about his father's death." She closed her eyes, letting her hands fall

to her sides. "And I'd tell him the same old lie again. Until I was

sick of hearing it."


She turned away from him and started towards the back of the house

again. Following her, Brunetti risked one last question: "Did he seem

different this time?"


She kept walking, but he saw the sudden rise and fall of her shoulders

as she shrugged the question away. After a few more steps, she stopped

just in front of a door but did not turn to face him. "Every time he

asked, he was calmer for a while after I told him what had happened,

but this time he wasn't. He didn't believe me. He doesn't believe me

any more." She didn't explain why she thought this, and Brunetti

didn't think it necessary to ask: the boy would be a far more reliable

source.


She opened a door that gave on to another long corridor, then stopped

at the second door on the right and knocked. Almost immediately it

opened, and Giuliano Ruffo came out into the corridor. He saw his aunt

and smiled, then turned to Brunetti and recognized him. The smile

disappeared, flared up for a hopeful moment, then died away again.


"Zz'a," he named her. "What is it?" When she didn't answer, the boy

said to Brunetti, "You're the man who came to my room." At Brunetti's

nod, he asked, "What do you want now?"


The same thing I did last time, to talk about Ernesto Moro."


"What about him?" Giuliano asked neutrally. Brunetti thought the boy

should have been more disturbed to have the police pursuing him to his

home to ask about Ernesto Moro. Suddenly he was conscious of the

awkwardness of their situation, the three of them standing in the

unheated corridor, the woman silent while Brunetti and the boy circled

one another with questions. As if sensing his thoughts, the woman

said, indicating the room behind her nephew, "Shall we go somewhere

warmer to talk?"


If it had been a command, the boy could not have responded more

quickly. He went back inside, leaving the door open for them to

follow. Entering, Brunetti was reminded of the unnatural orderliness

of Giuliano's room at the Academy, but reminded only because here he

saw its antithesis: clothing lay discarded across the bed and on top of

the radiator; compact discs, vulnerable and naked outside of their

boxes, covered the desk; boots and shoes cluttered the floor. The only

thing that surprised him was the absence of the smell of cigarettes,

though he saw an open pack on the desk and another on the table beside

the bed.


Giuliano went to the armchair in front of the window and picked up the

clothing draped over it, then told his aunt that she could sit there.

He tossed the clothing on to the foot of the bed, adding it to a pair

of jeans already there. He nodded his head towards the chair in front

of his desk, indicating to Brunetti that he could sit there, then sat

down in the space he had just made on the bed.


Brunetti began, "Giuliano, I don't know what you've been told or have

read, and I don't care what you might have told anyone. I don't

believe that Ernesto killed himself; I don't believe he was the kind of

boy to do it, and I don't think he had any reason to do it." He

paused, waiting for the boy or his aunt to say something.


Neither did, so he continued, That means either he died in an accident

of some sort or that someone killed him."


"What do you mean, accident?" Giuliano asked.


"A practical juke that went wrong, one he was playing 01 that someone

was playing on him. If that was the case, then I think the people

involved would have panicked and done the first thing that they thought

of: faking a suicide." He stopped there, hoping to provide the boy

with the opportunity to agree, but Giuliano remained silent.


"Or else," Brunetti continued, 'for reasons I don't understand, he was

killed, either deliberately or, again, when something went wrong or got

out of hand. And then the same thing happened: whoever did it tried to

make it look like a suicide."


"But the newspapers say it was suicide," the aunt interrupted.


That doesn't mean anything, Zia," the boy surprised Brunetti by

saying.


Into the silence that radiated from this exchange, Brunetti said, "I'm

afraid he's right, Signora."


The boy put both hands on the surface of the bed and hung his head, as

if examining the jumble of shoes and boots that lay on the floor.

Brunetti watched his hands turn into fists then unfold themselves

again. He looked up, suddenly leaned aside, and picked up the pack of

cigarettes on the table beside him. He held it tight in his right

hand, like a talisman or the hand of a friend, but he made no move to

take a cigarette. He switched the pack to his left hand and finally

took a cigarette from it. Standing, he tossed the pack down on the bed

and came towards Brunetti, who remained motionless.


Giuliano took a disposable plastic cigarette lighter from the desk and

went to the door. Saying nothing, he left the room, closing the door

behind him.


His aunt said, "I've asked him not to smoke in the house."


"Don't you like the smell?" Brunetti asked.


She pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her

sweater and said, holding it up to him, "Quite the


opposite. But Giuliano's father was a heavy smoker, so my sister

associates the smell with him: we both smoke only outside the house not

to upset her."


"Will he come back?" Brunetti asked; he had made no attempt to stop

Giuliano from leaving and was fully convinced that the boy could not be

forced to reveal anything he did not want to.


There's nowhere else he can go his aunt said, though not unkindly.


They sat in silence for a while, until Brunetti asked, "Who runs this

farm?"


"I do. With a man from the village."


"How many cows do you have?"


"Seventeen."


"Is that enough to make a living?" Brunetti asked, curious to learn

how the family managed to survive, though he admitted to himself he

knew so little about farming that the number of cattle could give him

no indication of wealth or the ability to produce it.


There's a trust from Giuliano's grandfather she explained.


"Is he dead?"


"No."


Then how can there be a trust?"


"He set it up when his son died. For Giuliano."


Brunetti asked, "What does it stipulate?" When she didn't answer, he

added, "If you'll permit me to ask."


"I can't stop you asking anything she said tiredly.


After some time, she apparently decided to answer the question.

"Giuliano receives a sum every four months she told him.


A certain hesitation at the end of her statement led Brunetti to ask,

"Are there any conditions?"


"So long as he is actively pursuing a career in the military, he'll

continue to receive it."


"And if he stops?"


"It does, too."


"His time at the Academy?"


That's part of the pursuing."


"And now?" he asked, waving a hand to indicate the unmilitary chaos of

Giuliano's room.


She shrugged, a gesture he was beginning to associate with her, then

answered, "So long as he's still officially on leave, he's considered

..." her voice trailed off.


"Pursuing?" Brunetti ventured and was pleased by her smile.


The door opened then and Giuliano came into the room, bringing with him

the scent of cigarette smoke. He walked back to the bed, and Brunetti

noticed that his shoes left muddy tracks on the tiles of the floor. He

sat, propping his hands on either side, looked at Brunetti and said, "I

don't know what happened."


"Is that the truth or what you decided to tell me while you were

outside?" Brunetti asked mildly.


"It's the truth."


"Do you have any idea at all?" Brunetti asked. The boy gave no sign

that he had even heard the question, so Brunetti asked an even more

hypothetical question: "Or of what might have happened?"


After a long time, head still lowered and eyes still on his shoes, the

boy said, The can't go back there."


Brunetti did not for an instant doubt him: no one who heard him would.

But he was curious about the boy's reasons. "Why?"


"I can't be a soldier."


Why is that, Giuliano?" he asked.


"It's not in me. It just isn't. It all seems so stupid: the orders

and the standing in line and everyone doing the same thing at the same

time. It's stupid."


Brunetti glanced at the boy's aunt, but she sat motionless,


staring at her nephew, ignoring Brunetti. When the boy spoke again,

Brunetti turned his attention back to him. "I didn't want to do it,

but my grandfather said it's what my father would have wanted me to

do." He glanced up at Brunetti, who met his eyes but remained

silent.


That's not true, Giuliano/ his aunt interrupted. "He always hated the

military."


Then why did he join?" Giuliano snapped back, making no attempt to

disguise his anger.


After a long time, as if she'd considered the effect her words were

bound to have, she answered, "For the same reason you did: to make your

grandfather happy."


"He's never happy," Giuliano muttered.


A silence fell on them. Brunetti turned and looked out the window, but

all he saw was the long expanse of muddy fields and, here and there, a

tree trunk.


It was the woman who finally broke the silence. "Your father always

wanted to be an architect, at least that's what your mother told me.

But his father, your grandfather, insisted that he become a soldier."


"Just like all the other Ruffos," Giuliano spat out with undisguised

contempt.


"Yes/ she agreed. "I think that was part of the cause of his

unhappiness."


"He killed himself, didn't he?" Giuliano startled both of the adults

by asking.


Brunetti turned his gaze back to the woman. She looked at him, then at

her nephew, and finally said, "Yes."


"And before, he tried to kill Mamma?"


She nodded.


"Why didn't you ever tell me?" the boy asked, his voice tight and

close to tears.


Tears appeared in her eyes too and began to spill down her face. She

drew her mouth tight, incapable of speech, and shook her head. Finally

she held up her right hand, her palm


facing her nephew, as if asking him to be patient long enough for words

Lo come back lo her. More lime passed and then she said, "I was

afraid."


"Of what?" the boy demanded.


To hurt you she said.


"And a lie wouldn't?" he asked, but in confusion, without anger.


She turned her palm upwards, splaying open her fingers, in a gesture

that spoke of uncertainty and, in a strange way, of hope.


"What happened?" Giuliano asked. When she didn't answer, he added,

"Please tell me, Zia."


Brunetti watched her struggle towards speech. Finally she said, "He

was jealous of your mother and accused her of having an affair." As

the boy showed no curiosity about this, she went on. "He shot her and

then himself."


"Is that why Mamma is the way she is?"


She nodded.


"Why didn't you tell me? I always thought it was a disease you were

afraid to tell me about." He stopped and then, as if carried forward

on the current of his own confessions, added, "That it was something in

the family. And it would happen to me, too."


This broke her, and she started to cry openly, silently, save for an

occasional deep intake of breath.


Brunetti turned his attention to the boy and asked, "Will you tell me

what you think happened, Giuliano?"


The boy looked at Brunetti, at the weeping woman, and then back at

Brunetti. The think they killed him," he finally said.


"Who?"


The others."


"Why?" Brunetti asked, leaving for later the question of who 'they'

were.


"Because of his father and because he tried to help me."


"What did they say about his father?" Brunetti asked.


Thai he was a traitor."


"A traitor to what?"


"La Patria," the boy answered, and never had Brunetti heard the words

spoken with such contempt.


"Because of his report?"


The boy shook his head. "I don't know. They never said. They just

kept telling him his father was a traitor."


When it seemed that Giuliano had reached a halting place, Brunetti

prodded him by asking, "How did he try to help you?"


"One of them started talking about my father. He said he knew what had

happened and that my mother was a whore. That there wasn't any

accident, and that she'd gone crazy when my father killed himself

because it was her fault that he did."


"And what did Moro do?"


"He hit him, the one who said this, Paolo Filippi. He knocked him down

and broke one of his teeth."


Brunetti waited, not wanting to press him, afraid that it would break

the thread of the boy's revelations.


Giuliano went on. "That stopped it for a while, but then Filippi began

to threaten Ernesto, and then a bunch of his friends did, too."

Branetti's.attention was riveted by the name Filippi, the third-year

student whose father supplied material to the military.


"What happened?"


The don't know. I didn't hear anything that night, the night he died.

But the next day they all seemed strange worried and happy at the same

time, like kids who have a secret or a secret club."


"Did you say anything? Ask anyone?"


"No."


"Why?"


Giuliano looked straight at Brunetti as he said, "I was


afraid', and Brunetti was struck by how much courage it took for him to

say that.


"And since then?"


Giuliano shook his head again. "I don't know. I stopped going to

classes and stayed in my room most of the time. The only people I

talked to were you and then that policeman who came to the bar, the

nice one."


"What made you leave?"


"One of them, not Filippi, but one of the others, saw me talking to the

policeman, and he remembered him from when he was asking questions at

the Academy, and then Filippi told me if I talked to the police I

better watch out..." His voice trailed off, leaving the sentence

unfinished. He took a deep breath and added, "He said I should be

careful and that talking to the police could drive a person to suicide,

and then he laughed." He waited to see what effect this would have on

Brunetti, and then said, "So I left. I just walked out and came

home."


"And you're not going back his aunt startled them both by interrupting.

She got to her feet, took two steps towards her nephew, and stopped.

Looking across at Brunetti, she said, "No more. Please, no more of

this."


"All right," Brunetti agreed, standing. For a moment, he debated

whether to tell the boy he would have to make a formal statement, but

this was not the time to try to force anything from him, especially not

with his aunt present. In future, they could deny that this

conversation had taken place or they could admit it. Which they chose

to do was irrelevant to Brunetti: what interested him was the

information he had obtained.


As they made their way back to the front hall, he heard the deep,

comforting bass of Vianello's voice, interspersed with a light female

warbling. When Brunetti and the others entered the room, Giuliano's

mother turned to greet them, her face aglow with joy. Vianello stood

in the middle of the room, a


wicker basket full of brown eggs dangling from his right hand.

Giuliano's mother pointed to Vianello and said, "Friend


On the way back to Venice, Brunetti explained that, although they now

had enough to warrant calling the Filippi boy in for questioning, he

would prefer them to dedicate their energies to seeing what they could

find out about his father.


Vianello surprised him by suggesting he take a few hours the next day

to have a look on the Internet to see what he could discover. Brunetti

forbore from comment on his phrase, 'have a look', which sounded to him

like vintage Signorina Elettra, when he considered the relief that

would come to him if someone other than Signorina Elettra, someone to

whom he was less beholden by the heavy demands of past favours, were to

be the one to discover sensitive information.


"How will you do it?" he asked Vianello.


Keeping his eyes on the traffic that filled the roads leading towards

Venice, Vianello said, The same way Signorina Elettra does: see what I

can find and then see what my friends can find."


"Are they the same friends as hers?" Brunetti asked.


At this question, Vianello took his eyes from the road and permitted

himself a quick glance in Brunetti's direction. "I suppose."


Then perhaps it would be faster to ask Signorina Elettra/ a defeated

Brunetti suggested.


He did so the following morning, stepping into her office and asking

her if her military friend was back from Livorno and, if so, whether he

would allow her to have a look at their files. As if she had known

upon rising that the day would cause her to engage the military,

Signorina Elettra wore a dark blue sweater with small buttoned tabs on

the shoulders not unlike epaulettes.


"You wouldn't.happen to be wearing a sword, would you?" Brunetti

asked.


"No, sir she answered, "I find it very inconvenient for daytime wear."

Smiling, she pressed a swift series of keys on her computer, paused a

moment, then said, "He'll start working on it now."


Brunetti went back to his office.


He read two newspapers, calling it work, while he waited for her, then

made a few phone calls, not attempting to justify them as anything

other than maintaining good relations with people who might some day be

asked to provide him with information.


When there had been no sign of Signorina Elettra before lunchtime, he

left the Questura without calling her, though he did call Paola to say

he would not be home for lunch. He went to da Remigio and ate insalata

di mare and coda di rospo in tomato sauce, telling himself that,

because he drank only a quartino of their house white wine and limited

himself to a single grappa, it was a light meal and would entitle him

to have something more substantial that evening.


He looked into Signorina Elettra's office on his way up to his own, but

she was gone. His heart dropped, for he feared that she had left for

the day and he would have to wait until


the following day to learn about Filippi. But she did not disappoint.

At three-thirty, just as he was considering going down to ask Vianello

to have a look on the computer, she came into his office, a few papers

in her hand.


"Filippi?" he asked.


"Isn't that the name of a battle?"


"Yes. It's where Bruto and Cassio were defeated."


"By Marc' Antonio?" she asked, not at all to his surprise.


"And Ottaviano," he added for the sake of correctness. "Who then went

on, if memory serves, to defeat Antonio."


"It serves she said, placing the papers on his desk, adding, "A tricky

lot, soldiers."


He nodded at the papers. "Do they lead you to that conclusion, or does

the battle of Filippi?"


"Both," she answered. She explained that she would be leaving the

Questura in an hour because she had an appointment and left his

office.


There didn't seem to be more than a dozen sheets of paper, but they

contained an adequate summary of both men's rise through the ranks of

the military. After graduating from the San Martino Academy, Filippi

went on to the formal military academy in Mantova, where he proved to

be a mediocre cadet. Filippi finished in the middle of his class,

beginning a career that had little to do with battle or its many

dangers. He had spent his early years as 'resource specialist' in a

tank regiment. Promoted, he had served for three years on the staff of

the military attache to Spain. Promoted again, he was posted as

executive officer in charge of procurement for a regiment of

paratroopers, where he remained until his retirement. Glancing back at

Filippi's first posting, Brunetti's attention was caught by the word,

'tank', and his mind flew instantly to his father and the rage into

which that word would catapult him. For two of the war years, while

the Army staggered under the command of General Cavallero, ex-director

of the Ansaldo armaments complex, Brunetti's


father had driven one of their tanks. More than once he had seen the

men of his battalion blown to fragments as the armour plating shattered

like glass under enemy fire.


Toscano had enjoyed a similarly un-bellicose career. Like Filippi, he

had risen effortlessly through the ranks, as though helped along by

gentle puffs of wind from the cheeks of protecting cherubs. After

years in which he had certainly never been disturbed by the sound of

shots fired in anger, Colonello Toscano had been appointed to serve as

military adviser to Parliament, the position from which he had been

encouraged to retire two years before. He now served as professor of

history and military theory at the San Martino Academy.


Beneath the two pages bearing the letterhead of the Army were two more

containing lists of property owned by Filippi and Toscano and by

members of their families, as well as copies of their most recent bank

statements. Perhaps they both had rich wives; perhaps both came from

wealthy families; perhaps both had been careful with their salaries all

those years. Perhaps.


Years ago, when he first met Paola, Brunetti had limited himself to

phoning her only every few days in the hope of disguising his interest

and in the equally vain hope of maintaining what he then defined as his

male superiority. The memory of this awkward restraint came to him as

he dialled Avisani's number in Palermo.


But Avisani, when he heard Brunetti's voice, was as gracious as Paola

had been, all those years ago. "I've wanted to call you, Guido, but

things are crazy here. No one seems to know who's in charge of the

government."


Brunetti marvelled that a reporter as experienced as he should think

anyone would find this worthy of comment but said only, "I thought I'd

call. And nag."


"It's not necessary," Avisani answered with a laugh. "I've had a trawl

through the files, but the only thing I could come


up with aside from what I told you last time is that both of them,

Filippi and Toscano, own enormous amounts of stock in Edilan-Forma."


"What does "enormous" mean?"


"If you've managed to convert to thinking in Euros, perhaps ten million

each."


Brunetti made a low humming noise of interest then asked, "Any idea how

they acquired it?"


Toscano's really belongs to his wife. At least it's listed in her

name."


"You told me Filippi was married to the President's cousin."


"Yes. He is. But the stock is in his name, not hers. It seems that

he was paid in stock while he was on the board."


Neither spoke for a long time until finally Brunetti broke the silence

by saying, "It would be in both of their interests to see that the

price of the stock didn't drop."


"Exactly," agreed Avisani.


"A parliamentary investigation might have just that effect."


This time it was the journalist who answered with a noise, though his

was more a grunt than a hum.


"Did you check the stock?" Brunetti asked.


"Steady as a rock, well, as a rock that continues to move upward and

that gives out steady dividends."


The phone line was silent, but both of them heard the tumble and roll

of the other's calculations and conclusions. Finally Avisani said,

sounding stressed, "I've got to go, Guido. We might wake up tomorrow

morning with no government."


"It's a pity Tommaso d'Aquino is no longer with us," Brunetti observed

mildly.


Confused, Avisani asked, "What?" then amended it to "Why?"


"He might have added that to his proofs of the existence of God."


Another muffled noise and Avisani was gone.


But how, Brunetti wondered, to penetrate the world of the cadets? He

had long held the view that it was no accident that the Mafia had grown

in the home of the Vatican, for both demanded the same fidelity from

their followers and both punished betrayal with death, either earthly

or eternal. The third in this trinity of twisted loyalty was

undoubtedly the military: perhaps the business of imposing death upon

the enemy made it easy to impose it upon their own.


He sat for a long time, dividing his gaze between the wall of his

office and the facade of San Lorenzo, but on neither surface saw he any

way to penetrate the code that reigned at San Martino. Finally he

picked up the phone and called Pucetti. When the officer answered,

Brunetti asked, "How old is Filippi?"


"Eighteen, sir


"Good."


"Why?"


"We can talk to him alone."


"Won't he want a lawyer?"


"Not if he thinks he's smarter than we are."


"And how will you make him think that?"


"I'll send Alvise and Riverre to bring him in."


Brunetti was very pleased by the fact that Pucetti refrained from

laughter or comment, seeing in his discretion sign of both the young

man's intelligence and his charity.


When Brunetti went downstairs an hour later, he found Paolo Filippi in

the interview room, sitting at the head of the rectangular table,

facing the door. The young man sat straight in the chair, his spine at

least ten centimetres from the back, his hands carefully folded on the

desk in front of him, like a general who has summoned his staff and

waits impatiently for them to arrive. He wore his uniform and had

placed his cap, neatly folded gloves carefully set on its crown, to

his


right. He looked at Brunetti when he and Vianello came in but said

nothing to acknowledge their presence. Brunetti recognized him

instantly as the boy whose ankle he had so delighted in kicking, and he

saw that the recognition was mutual.


Taking his cue from Filippi's silence, Brunetti walked to one side of

the table, Vianello to the other. Brunetti carried a thick blue file,

which he placed in front of him as he sat down. Ignoring the boy, he

reached out and turned on the microphone, then gave the date and the

names of the three people present in the room. He turned to face the

boy and, in a voice he made sound as formulaic as possible, asked

Filippi if he wanted a lawyer to be present, hoping that to the young

man's ears it would sound like the sort of offer a brave man would

spurn.


"Of course not," the boy said, striving for the tone of bored

superiority used by mediocre actors in bad war movies. Brunetti gave

silent thanks for the arrogance of the young.


Quickly, using the same formulaic tone, Brunetti disposed of the

standard questions about name, age, place of residence, and then asked

the boy what he did.


"I'm a student, of course Filippi answered, as though it were

unthinkable that someone his age, from his background, could be

anything other than this.


"At the San Martino Academy?" Brunetti asked.


"You know that," the boy said.


"I'm sorry, but that's not an answer Brunetti said calmly.


In a sulky voice, the boy said, "Yes."


"In what year are you?" Brunetti asked, though he knew the answer and

believed the information to be irrelevant. He wanted to see if Filippi

had learned to answer questions without dispute.


Third."


"Have you spent all three years at the Academy?" Brunetti asked.


"Of course."


"Is it part of your family tradition?"


"What, the Academy?"


"Yes."


"Of course it is. The Academy and then the Army."


"Is your father in the Army, then?"


"He was. He's retired."


"When was that?"


"Three years ago."


"Do you have any idea why your father retired?"


Irritated, the boy asked, "Who do you want to know about, me or my

father? If you want to know about him, then why don't you bring him in

and ask him?"


"In due course Brunetti said calmly, then repeated, "Do you have any

idea why your father retired?"


"Why does anyone retire?" the boy shot back angrily. "He had enough

years and he wanted to do something else."


"Serve on the board of Edilan-Forma?"


The boy waved away the possibility with his hand. The don't know what

he wanted. You'll have to ask him."


As if it followed in logical sequence, Brunetti asked, "Did you know

Ernesto Moro?"


The boy who killed himself?" Filippi asked, Brunetti thought

unnecessarily.


"Yes."


"Yes, I knew him, though he was a year below me."


"Did you take any classes together?"


"No."


"Did you participate in sports together?"


"No."


"Did you have friends in common?"


"No."


"How many students are there at the Academy?" Brunetti asked.


The question puzzled Filippi, who turned to take a quick


look at the silent Vianello, as if the other man might know why this

question was being asked.


When nothing was forthcoming from Vianello, the boy said, "No. Why?"


"It's a small school, fewer than a hundred students


"If you knew that, why did you ask me?" Brunetti was glad to see that

the boy was irritated at having been asked a question to which the

police obviously already knew the answer.


Ignoring Filippi's question, Brunetti said, "I understand it's a good

school."


"Yes. It's very hard to get in."


"And very expensive Brunetti observed neutrally.


"Of course," Filippi said with no attempt to disguise his pride.


"Is preference given to the sons of former students?"


"I should hope so Filippi said.


"Why is that?"


"Because then the right people get in."


"And who are they?" Brunetti asked with mild curiosity, conscious as

he spoke that, if his own son were to use the phrase, 'the right

people', in that same tone, he would feel himself to have failed as a

parent.


"Who?" Filippi demanded.


"The right people."


The sons of officers, of course the boy answered.


"Of course Brunetti repeated. He opened the file and glanced at the

top sheet of paper, which had nothing to do with Filippi or Moro. He

looked at Filippi, back at the paper, then again at the boy. "Do you

remember where you were the night that Cadet Moro was .. ." he began,

deliberately hesitating after the last word before correcting it to,

'died?"


"In my room, I assume the boy answered.


"You assume?"


"Where else would I be?"


Brunetti permitted himself to look across at Vianello, who gave the

most minimal of no cis Brunetti slowly turned the page over and

glanced at the next.


"Was anyone in the room with you?"


"No." The answer was immediate.


"Where was your roommate?"


Filippi reached out and adjusted the folded gloves until they ran

directly from the centre of the peak to the back of the cap. "He must

have been there the boy finally said.


"I see Brunetti said. As if unable to resist the impulse, he glanced

across at Vianello. The Inspector gave another slight nod. Brunetti

looked again at the paper and, from memory, asked, "His name's Davide

Cappellini, isn't it?"


Filippi, suppressing any sign of surprise, answered, "Yes."


"Is he a close friend of yours?" Brunetti asked.


"I suppose so Filippi said with the petulance that only teenagers can

express.


"Only that?"


"Only what?"


That you suppose it. That you aren't sure."


"Of course I'm sure. What else would he be if we've shared a room for

two years?"


"Exactly/ Brunetti permitted himself to observe and bent his attention

to the papers again. After what he realized was a long time, he asked,

"Do you do things together?" Then, before Filippi could ask who he

meant, Brunetti clarified, "You and your roommate, Cadet Cappellini?"


"What do you mean?"


"Do things together Brunetti repeated. "Study? Sports? Other

things?"


"What other things?" Filippi demanded suspiciously.


"Hunting?" Vianello surprised them both by suggesting.


Almost as if he had forgotten the presence of the other policeman,

Filippi whipped his head towards Vianello and demanded, his voice

slipping up an octave, "What?"


"Fishing? Hunting?" Vianello asked with innocent curiosity, then

added, "Soccer?"


Filippi reached a hand in the direction of the gloves but stopped

himself and folded both hands together on the desk in front of him. "I

want to have a lawyer here with me," he said.


Mildly, as though Filippi had asked for a glass of water, Brunetti

said, "Of course," leaned forward, gave the time, and said into the

microphone that the interview was being broken off.


When he said that he didn't know a lawyer, the boy was left alone in a

room and allowed to call his father. A few minutes later he came out

and said that his father would be there with a lawyer in about an hour.

Brunetti called an officer to take the boy back to the room where he

had been questioned and told Filippi that he would be left there,

undisturbed, until his father arrived. Politely, Brunetti asked if he

would like anything to eat or drink, but the boy refused. In the

manner of his refusal, Brunetti saw generations of B movie actors

spurning the handkerchief offered by the commander of the firing

squad.


As soon as the boy was led away, Brunetti told Vianello to wait for

Major Filippi and the lawyer and to delay them as long as he could

before letting them see the boy.


Calling to Pucetti, he told him to go down and wait at the launch, that

he'd be down in a moment.


"Where are you going?" interrupted a puzzled Vianello.


"Back to the Academy. I want to talk to the Cappellini boy before they

get to him Brunetti said. "Let them talk to the boy


alone as long as they want. If you have to, let them take him away.

Jusl see that it all takes as long as possible. Do anything you can to

delay them." He was gone even before Vianello could make any

acknowledgement.


The launch stood before the Questura, the pilot gunning the engine in

response to Pucetti's excitement. Pucetti had already untied the

moorings and stood on the dock, holding the boat close to the pier.

Brunetti jumped on board, followed a second later by Pucetti, who lost

his footing on the already moving boat and had to steady himself with a

hand on Brunetti's shoulder. Full throttle, the launch sped out into

the Bacino, straight across, then turned into the open mouth of the

Canale della Giudecca. The pilot, warned by Pucetti, used the flashing

blue light but not the siren.


The first thrill of excitement was followed almost immediately by

Brunetti's embarrassment that, in the midst of death and deceit, he

could still revel in the simple joy of speed. He knew this was no

schoolboy holiday, no cops and robbers chase, but still his heart

soared with delight at the rush of wind and the rhythmic thump of the

prow against the waves.


He glanced at Pucetti and was relieved to see his own feelings

reflected on the younger man's face. They seemed to flash by other

boats. Brunetti saw heads turn and follow their swift passage up the

canal. Too soon, however, the pilot pulled into the Rio diSant'

Eufemia, slipped the motor into reverse, and glided silently to the

left-hand side of the f canal. As he and Pucetti jumped off, Brunetti

wondered if he f had been rash to bring this sweet-tempered young man

with him instead of someone like Alvise who, if equally decent, at

least had the professional advantage of looking like a thug.


"I want to frighten this kid," Brunetti said as they started up the

Riva towards the school.


"Nothing easier, sir," Pucetti replied.


As they walked across the courtyard, Brunetti sensed some sort of

motion or disturbance to his right, where Pucetti was. Without

breaking his stride, he took a quick glance at him and was so surprised

that he almost stopped. Somehow, Pucetti's shoulders had thickened,

and he had adopted the stride of a boxer or roustabout. His head

jutted forward on a neck that, to Brunetti, looked suddenly thicker.

Pucetti's hands were curled, almost as if poised for the command that

they be turned into fists, and his steps were, each one, a command that

the earth dare not resist his passage.


Pucetti's eyes roved around the courtyard, his attention turning with

predatory haste from one cadet to another. His mouth looked hungry,

and his eyes had lost all trace of the warmth and humour which usually

filled them.


Brunetti automatically slowed his pace, allowing Pucetti to cut ahead,

like a cruise ship in the Antarctic that moves aside to allow an ice

breaker to slip in front of it. The few cadets in the courtyard fell

silent as they passed.


Pucetti took the steps to the dormitory two at a time, Brunetti

following at a slower pace. At the door to Filippi's room, Pucetti

raised his fist and banged on it twice, then quickly twice again. From

the end of the corridor, Brunetti heard the yelp from inside and then

saw Pucetti open the door and shove it back on its hinges so that it

banged against the wall.


When Brunetti got to the door, Pucetti was standing just inside, his

hands raised almost to the level of his waist; his shoulders looked, if

this were possible, even thicker.


A thin blonde boy with acne-pitted cheeks was on the top bunk, half

sitting, half lying, but pressed back against the wall, his feet pulled

towards him, as though he were afraid to leave them hanging in the air

so close to Pucetti's teeth. As Brunetti came in, Cappellini raised a

hand, but he used it to wave Brunetti closer, not to tell him to

stop.


"What do you want?" the boy asked, unable to disguise his terror.


At the question, Pucetti turned his head slowly to Brunetti and raised

his chin, as if asking if Brunetti wanted him to climb up on the bed

and hurl the boy down.


"No, Pucetti/ Brunetti said in a voice generally used to dogs.


Pucetti lowered his hands, but not by much, and turned his head back to

face the boy on the bed. He kicked the door shut with his heel.


Into the reverberating silence, Brunetti asked, "Cappellini?"


"Yes, sir."


"Where were you on the night Cadet Moro was killed?"


Before he thought, the boy blurted out, "I didn't do it," voice high

and himself too frightened to realize what he'd just admitted. "I

didn't touch him."


"But you know," Brunetti said in a firm voice, as if repeating what

he'd already been told by someone else.


"Yes. But I didn't have anything to do with it," the boy said. He

pushed himself farther back on the bed, but his shoulders and back were

flat against the wall, and there was no place for him to go, no way he

could escape.


"Who was it?" Brunetti added, stopping himself from suggesting

Filippi's name. When the boy hesitated, he demanded, Tell me."


Cappellini hesitated, calculating whether this current danger were

worse than the one he lived with. Obviously he decided in Brunetti's

favour, for he said, "Filippi. It was his idea, all of it."


At the admission, Pucetti lowered his hands, and Brunetti sensed a

general relaxing of his body as he allowed the menace of his presence

to slip away. He had no doubt that, were he to take his eyes off

Cappellini, he would see that Pucetti had managed to return to his

normal size.


The boy calmed down, at least minimally. He allowed


himself to slip down lower on the bed, extended his legs and let one of

his feet hang off the side. "He hated him, Filippi. I don't know why,

but he always did, and he told us all that we had to hate him, too,

that he was a traitor. His family was a family of traitors." When he

saw that Brunetti made no response to this, Cappellini added, "That's

what he told us. The father, too. Moro."


"Do you know why he said that?" Brunetti asked in a voice he allowed

to grow soft.


"No, sir. It's what he told us."


Much as Brunetti wanted to know who the others were, he was aware that

it would break the rhythm, so he asked, instead, "Did Moro complain or

fight back?" Seeing Cappellini's hesitation, he added, When Filippi

called him a traitor?"


Cappellini seemed surprised by the question. "Of course. They had a

couple of arguments, and one time Moro hit him, but somebody stopped

it, pulled them apart." Cappellini ran his right hand through his

hair, then propped himself up on both hands, letting his head sink down

between his shoulders. There was a long pause. Pucetti and Brunetti

might just as easily have been two stones.


"What happened that night?" Brunetti finally prodded him.


"Filippi came in late. I don't know whether he had permission or he

used his key," Cappellini explained casually, as if he expected them to

know about this. The don't know who he was with; it might have been

his father. He always seemed angrier, somehow, when he came back from

seeing his father. Anyway, when he came in here .. ." Cappellini

paused and waved his hand at the space in front of him, the same space

now filled by the motionless bodies of the two policemen. "He started

talking about Moro and what a traitor he was. I'd been asleep and I

didn't want to hear it, so I told him to shut up."


He stopped speaking for so long that Brunetti was finally prompted to

ask, "And then what happened?"


"He hit me. He came over here to the side of the bed and reached up

and hit me. Not really hard, you understand. Just sort of punched me

on the shoulder to show me how mad he was. And he kept saying what a

shit Moro was and what a traitor."


Brunetti hoped the boy would continue. He did. "And then he left,

just turned and walked out of the room and went down the hall, maybe to

get Maselli and Zanchi. I don't know." The boy stopped and stared at

the floor.


"And then what happened?"


Cappellini looked up and across at Brunetti. "I don't know. I fell

asleep again."


"What happened, Davide?" Pucetti asked.


With no warning, Cappellini started to cry, or at least tears started

to roll down his cheeks. Making no attempt to brush them away he spoke

through them. "He came back later. I don't know how long it was, but

I woke up when he came in. And I knew something was wrong. Just by

the way he walked in. He wasn't trying to wake me up or anything.

Just the opposite, maybe. But something woke me up, as if there was

energy all over the place. I sat up and turned on the light. And

there he was, looking like he'd just seen something awful. I asked him

what was wrong, but he told me it was nothing and to go back to sleep.

But I knew something was wrong."


The tears slid down his face, as if independent of his eyes. He didn't

sniff, and he still made no attempt to wipe them away. They ran down

his cheeks and fell on to his shirt, darkening it.


"I suppose I went back to sleep, and the next thing I knew, people were

running down the halls shouting and making a lot of noise. That's what

woke me up. Then Zanchi came in and woke Filippi up and told him

something. They didn't speak to me, but Zanchi gave me a look, and I

knew I couldn't say anything."


He stopped again, and the two policemen watched his tears fall. He

nodded at Pucetti. Then you all came and started asking questions, and

I did what everyone else did, said I didn't know anything." Pucetti

made a sympathetic patting gesture in the air with his right hand. The

boy raised a hand and wiped away the tears on the right side of his

face, ignoring the others. "It's what I had to do." He used the

inside of his elbow to wipe all of the tears away; when his face

emerged, he said, "And then it was too late to say anything. To

anybody."


The boy looked at Pucetti, then back at Brunetti, then down at his

hands, clasped in his lap. Brunetti glanced at Pucetti, but neither of

them risked saying anything.


Beyond the door, footsteps went by, then came back after a minute or so

but did not stop. Finally Brunetti asked, "What do the other boys

say?"


Cappellini shrugged away the question.


"Do they know, Davide?" Pucetti asked.


Again, that shrug, but then he said, "I don't know. No one talks about

it. It's almost as if it never happened. None of the teachers talks

about it either."


The thought there was some sort of ceremony Pucetti said.


"Yes, but it was stupid. They read prayers and things. But no one

said anything."


"How has Filippi behaved since then?" Brunetti asked.


It was as if the boy hadn't considered it before. He raised his head,

and both Brunetti and Pucetti could see how surprised he was by his own

answer. "Just the same. Just the same as ever. As if nothing's

happened."


"Has he said anything to you about it?" Pucetti asked.


"No, not really. But the next day, that is, the day they found him,

when all of you came here to the school and started asking questions,

he said he hoped I realized what happened to traitors."


"What do you think he meant by that?" Brunetti asked.


With the first sign of spirit the boy had shown since the two men came

into his room, Cappellini shot back, That's a stupid question."


"Yes, I suppose it is," Brunetti admitted. "Where are the other two?"

he asked. "Zanchi and Maselli."


Their room is down to the right. The third door


"Are you all right, Davide?" Pucetti asked.


The boy nodded once, then again, leaving his head hanging down, looking

at his hands.


Brunetti signalled to Pucetti that they should leave. The boy didn't

look up when they moved, nor when they opened the door. Outside, in

the corridor, Pucetti asked, "Now what?"


"Do you remember how old they are, Zanchi and Maselli?" Brunetti said

by way of answer.


Pucetti shook his head, a gesture Brunetti interpreted to mean they

were both underage and thus obliged to have a lawyer or parent present

when they were questioned, at least if what they said were to have any

legal weight at all.


Brunetti saw then the futility of having rushed here to speak to this

boy; he regretted the folly of having given in to his impulse to follow

the scent laid down by Filippi. There was virtually no hope that

Cappellini could be led to repeat what he had just said. Once he spoke

to cooler heads, once his family got to him, once a lawyer explained to

them the inescapable consequences of an involvement with the judicial

system, the boy was certain to deny it all. Much as Brunetti longed to

be able to use the information, he had to admit that no sane person

would admit to having had knowledge of a crime and not going to the

police; much less would they allow their child to do so.


It struck him that, in similar circumstances, he would be reluctant to

allow his own children to become involved. Surely, in his role as

police officer, he would offer them the protection of the state, but as

a father he knew that their only hope of emerging unscathed from a

brush with the


magistratura would be his own position and, more importantly, their

grandfather's wealth.


He turned away from the boys' room. "Let's go back," he told a

surprised Pucetti.


On the way back to the Questura, Brunetti explained to Pucetti the laws

regarding statements from underage witnesses. If what Cappellini told

them was true and Brunetti's bones told him it was then he bore some

legal responsibility for his failure to tell the police what he knew.

This, however, was only negligence; the actions of Zanchi and Maselli

if they were involved and of Filippi, were active and criminal and, in

the case of Filippi, subject to the full weight of the law. But until

Cappellini confirmed his statement in the presence of a lawyer, his

story had no legal weight whatsoever.


Their only hope, he thought, was to attempt the same strategy with

Filippi as had worked with his roommate: pretend to have full knowledge

of the events leading to Moro's death and hope that, by asking

questions about the small details that still remained unexplained, they

could lead the boy to a full explanation of just what had happened.


Holding the mooring rope, Pucetti jumped on to the Questura dock and

hauled the boat up to the side of the pier.


Brunetti thanked the pilot and followed Pucetti into the building.

Silent, they went back to the interrogation rooms, where they found

Vianello standing in the corridor.


They still here?" asked Brunetti.


"Yes/ Vianello said, glancing at his watch, then at the closed door.

"Been in there more than an hour."


"Hear anything?" Pucetti asked.


Vianello shook his head. "Not a word. I went in a half-hour ago to

ask them if they wanted anything to drink, but the lawyer told me to

get out."


"How'd the boy look?" Brunetti asked.


"Worried."


The father?"


The same."


"Who's the lawyer?"


"Donatini," Vianello said in a studiedly neutral voice.


"Oh, my," Brunetti answered, finding it interesting that the most

famous criminal lawyer in the city should be chosen by Maggiore Filippi

to represent his son.


"He say anything?" Brunetti asked.


Vianello shook his head.


The three men stood in the corridor for a few minutes until Brunetti,

tiring of it, told Vianello he could go back to his office and himself

went up to his own. There he waited until, almost an hour later,

Pucetti phoned and told him that Avvocato Donatini said his client was

ready to talk to him.


Brunetti called Vianello and told him he'd meet him at the

interrogation room but deliberately made no haste in going downstairs.

Vianello was there when he arrived. Brunetti nodded, and Vianello

opened the door and stood back, allowing his superior to pass into the

room before him.


Donatini stood and extended his hand to Brunetti, who shook it briefly.

He smiled his cool smile, and Brunetti noticed that he had had

extensive dental work since last they met. The Pavarotti-style caps on

his upper front teeth had


been replaced with new ones that better corresponded to the proportions

of his face. The rest was the same as ever: skin, suit, tie, shoes all

joining in a hallelujah to wealth and success and power. The lawyer

gave Vianello a curt nod but did not offer his hand. The Filippis,

father and son, looked up at the policemen but did not acknowledge

their arrival with even a nod. The father wore civilian clothes, but

it was a suit that, like Donatini's, spoke so eloquently of wealth and

power that it might as well have been a uniform. He was perhaps

Brunetti's age but looked a decade younger, the result of either

natural animal grace or hours in a gym. He had dark eyes and the long,

straight nose that was mirrored on the face of his son.


Donatini, staking a claim to the proceedings, waved Brunetti to a seat

at the opposite end of the rectangular table and Vianello to a chair

across from the father and son. Thus he himself faced Brunetti, while

the other two looked at Vianello.


"I won't waste your time, Commissario," Donatini said. "My client has

volunteered to talk to you about the unfortunate events at the Academy/

The lawyer looked to his side, where the cadet sat, and the boy gave a

solemn nod.


Brunetti gave what he thought was a rather gracious one.


"It would seem that my client knows something about the death of Cadet

Moro."


T'd be very eager to hear what that is," Brunetti said with a curiosity

he allowed to be tempered with politesse.


"My client was .. ." Donatini began, only to be stopped by Brunetti,

who held up a hand, but gently and not very high, to suggest a moment's

pause. "If you don't mind, Avvocato, I'd like to record what your

client has to say."


This time it was the lawyer who responded with politesse, which he

conveyed by the merest inclination of his head.


Brunetti reached forward, conscious as he did so of how


often he had done the same thing, and switched on the microphone. He

gave the date, his name and rank, and identified all of the people in

the room.


"My client .. ." Donatini began again, and again Brunetti saw fit to

stop him with a raised hand.


"I think it would be better, Avvocato Brunetti said, leaning forward to

switch off the microphone, 'if your client were to speak for himself."

Before the lawyer could object or question this, Brunetti went on with

an easy smile, "That might give a greater appearance of openness on his

part, and it would certainly then be easier for him to clarify anything

that might seem confusing." Brunetti smiled, aware of how elegant had

been his implication that he reserved the right to question the boy as

he spoke.


Donatini looked at Maggiore Filippi, who until now had remained

motionless and silent. "Well, Maggiore?" he asked politely.


The Maggiore nodded, a gesture his son responded to with what appeared

to be an involuntary half-salute.


Brunetti smiled across at the boy and turned the microphone on again.


"Would you tell me your name, please?" he asked.


"Paolo Filippi." He spoke clearly and louder than he had spoken the

last time, presumably for the benefit of the microphone.


"And are you a third-year student at the San Martino Military Academy

in Venice?"


"Yes."


"Could you tell me what happened at the Academy on the night of

November third of this year?"


"You mean about Ernesto?" the boy asked.


"Yes, I'm asking specifically about anything concerning the death of

Ernesto Moro, also a cadet at the Academy."


The boy was silent for so long that Brunetti finally asked, "Did you

know Ernesto Moro?"


"Yes?"


"Was he a friend of yours?"


The boy shrugged that possibility away, but before Brunetti could

remind him about the microphone and the need to speak, Paolo said, "No,

we weren't friends."


"What was the reason for that?"


The boy's surprise was obvious. "He was a year younger than me. In a

different class."


"Was there anything else about Ernesto Moro that prevented him from

being a friend of yours?"


The boy thought about this and finally answered, "No."


"Could you tell me about what happened that night?"


When the boy did not answer for a long time, his father turned

minimally towards him and gave a slight nod.


He leaned towards his father and whispered something, the last words of

which, 'have to?" Brunetti couldn't help but overhear.


"Yes/ the Maggiore said in a firm voice.


The boy turned back to Brunetti. "It's very difficult," he said, his

voice uneven.


"Just tell me what happened, Paolo/ Brunetti said, thinking of his own

son and the confessions he had-made over the years, though he was sure

none of them could compare in magnitude to what this boy might have to

say.


"I was the boy began, coughed nervously, and began again. "I was with

him that night."


Brunetti thought it best to say nothing and so did nothing more than

look encouragingly.


The boy glanced up to the top of the table at Donatini, who gave an

avuncular nod.


"I was with him he repeated.


Where?"


"In the showers the boy said. Usually, it took them a long time to get

to the confession. Most people had to build up to it with a long set

of details and circumstances, all of which


would make what finally happened seem inevitable, at least to

themselves. "We were there the boy said and then stopped.


Brunetti looked at Donatini, who drew his lips together and shook his

head.


The silence went on so long that at last Donatini was driven to say,

Tell him, Paolo."


The boy cleared his throat, looked at Brunetti, started to glance at

his father but stifled the gesture and looked back at Brunetti. "We

did things he said, and stopped.


For a moment that seemed all he was going to say, but then he added, To

one another."


Brunetti said, "I see. Go on, Paolo."


"A lot of us do it the boy said in a voice so soft Brunetti doubted the

microphone would pick it up. "I know it's not right, not really, but

nobody gets hurt, and everybody does it. Really."


Brunetti said nothing, and the boy added, "We have girls. But at home.

And so it's .. . it's hard .. . and .. ." His voice stopped.


Brunetti avoided the eyes of the boy's father and turned to Donatini.

"Am I to understand that these boys engaged in sexual acts with one

another?" He thought he might as well be as clear as he could and

hoped he was right.


"Masturbation, yes Donatini said.


It had been decades since Brunetti had been as young as this boy, but

he still failed to understand the strength of Paolo's embarrassment.

They were boys in late adolescence, living among other boys. Their

behaviour didn't surprise him: the boy's reaction did.


Tell me more about it Brunetti said, hoping that whatever he heard

would help this to make sense to him.


"Ernesto was strange Paolo said. "It wasn't enough for him to, well,

just to do what we do. He always wanted to do other things."


M5


Brunetti kept his eyes on the boy, hoping with his attention to spur

him on to explain.


That night, he told me that... well, he told me he'd read about

something in a magazine. Or a newspaper." Paolo stopped and Brunetti

watched him worry at this detail. Finally he said, "I don't know where

he read it, but he said he wanted to do it that way." He stopped.


"To do what?" Brunetti finally asked. "What way?" For an instant, he

took his eyes from the boy and saw his father, sitting with his head

lowered, looking down at the table as if he were willing himself not to

be in the room where his son had to admit this to a policeman.


"He said the thing he read said it made it better, better than

anything," the boy went on. "But it meant he had to put something

around his neck and choke himself a little bit when he ... well, when

he did it. And that's what he wanted me there for, to be sure that

nothing went wrong, when it happened."


The boy gave an enormous sigh, pulling air into his lungs, preparing

himself for the final leap. "I told him he was crazy, but he wouldn't

listen." He brought his hands together and folded them primly on the

table.


"He had the stuff there in the bathroom, and he showed me the rope. It

was where it was ... I mean, where it was after, when they found him.

It was long, so he could sort of crouch on the floor in there and

pretend to fall over. And that would make him choke. And that's why

it was so good. The choking, or something. Or that's what he said."


Silence. From beyond the wall, everyone in the room could hear a low

humming noise: computer? tape recorder? It hardly mattered.


Brunetti remained absolutely silent.


The boy began again. "So he did it. I mean, he had this bag and put

it over his head and over the rope. And then he started laughing and

tried to say something, but I couldn't


understand what he said. I remember he pointed at me and laughed

again, then he started to ... and after a while, he crouched down and

sort of fell over to the side."


The boy's face grew suddenly red and Brunetti watched his hands grip at

one another. But he went on, unable to stop himself from telling it

all until it was finished. "He kicked a few times and his hands

started to wave around. And then he started to scream or something and

kick real hard. I tried to grab him, but he kicked me so hard he

knocked me out of the shower. But I went back and I tried to untie the

rope, but the plastic bag was tied over it, so I couldn't get to the

rope, and when I did, I couldn't untie the knot because he was yanking

around so much. And then, and then, he stopped kicking, but when I got

to him it was too late, and I think he was dead."


The boy wiped at his face, which was covered with sweat.


"And then what did you do, Paolo?" Brunetti asked.


The don't know. For the first minute, I just was there, next to him. I

never saw a dead person before, but I don't remember what I did." He

glanced up, then immediately down. As Brunetti watched, his father

reached out and placed his left hand on top of his son's clenched

hands. He squeezed them once and left his hand there.


Encouraged by that pressure, Paolo went on. "I guess I panicked. I

thought it was my fault because I hadn't been able to save him or stop

him. Maybe I could have, but I didn't."


"What did you do, Paolo?" Brunetti repeated.


"I wasn't thinking much, but I didn't want them to find him like that.

People would know what happened."


"And so?" Brunetti prodded.


The don't know where I got the idea, but I thought if it looked like a

suicide, well, it would be bad, but it wouldn't be as bad as ... as the

other." This time, Brunetti didn't press, hoping that the boy would

continue by himself.


"So I tried to make it look like he hanged himself. I knew I had to

pull him up and leave him there." Brunetti's eyes fell to


their clasped hands; the father's knuckles were white. "So that's what

I did. And I left him there." The boy opened his mouth and pulled air

into his lungs as though he'd been running for kilometres.


"And the plastic bag?" Brunetti asked when his breathing had grown

calmer.


"I took it with me and threw it away. I don't remember where. In the

garbage somewhere." "And then what did you do?"


"I don't remember much. I think I went back to my room." "Did anyone

see you?" "I don't know." "Your roommate?"


"I don't remember he said. "Maybe. I don't remember how I got back to

my room."


What's the next thing you do remember, Paolo?" "The next morning,

Zanchi woke me up and told me what had happened. And then it was too

late to do anything." "Why are you telling me this now?" Brunetti

asked. The boy shook his head. He separated his hands and grabbed at

his father's with his right. Finally in a soft voice, he said, "I'm

afraid." "Of what?"


"Of what will happen. Of what it could look like."


"What's that?"


That I didn't want to help him, that I let it happen to him because I

didn't like him."


"Did people think you didn't like him?"


That's what he told me to do," Paolo said, turning minimally away from

his father, as if fearful of what he would see on his face, but not

letting go of his hand. That's what Ernesto told me to do. So people

wouldn't know about the other thing."


That you were, well ... ?"


"Yes. All of \is do it, but we usually do it with different


guys. Ernesto just wanted to do it with me. And I was ashamed of

that."


The boy turned to his father. "Papa, do I have to say any more?"


The Maggiore, instead of answering his son, looked across the table at

Brunetti. Instead of replying, Brunetti leaned forward, gave the time,

and said that the interview was over.


Silently, all five of them got to their feet. Donatini, who was

closest to the door, went and opened it. The Maggiore wrapped his

right arm around his son's shoulders. Brunetti pushed his chair under

the table, nodded to Vianello that they would leave now, and moved

towards the door. He was just a step from the door when he heard a

noise behind him, but it was only Vianello, who had stumbled against

his chair.


Seeing that Vianello was all right, Brunetti took a final glance at the

father and son, who were facing one another. And as he watched he saw

Paolo, who had his father's complete attention, close his right eye in

a single wink of triumphant, sly satisfaction. In the same instant,

the father's right hand came up and gave the boy an approving punch on

the right biceps.


Vianello hadn't seen it; he had been facing away from that millisecond

of comp licit understanding between father and son. Brunetti turned

towards the door and passed in front of a silent Donatini. In the

hall, he waited until Vianello emerged, followed by the two Filippis

and their lawyer.


Brunetti closed the door of the interrogation room, moving slowly to

give himself time to think.


Donatini spoke first. "It's your decision, Commissario, about what to

do with this information." Brunetti was entirely unresponsive, didn't

even bother to acknowledge that the lawyer had spoken.


In the face of Brunetti's silence, the Maggiore spoke. "It might be

better if that dead boy's family were left with the memory of him that

they have," he said solemnly, and Brunetti was shamed to realize that,

had he not seen the momentary flash of triumph between him and his son,

he would have been moved by the man's concern for Ernesto's family. He

was swept by a desire to strike the man across the mouth but instead

turned away from all of them and started


down the corridor. From behind him, the boy called out, "Do you want

me to sign anything?" and then a moment later, intentionally delayed,

"Commissario?"


Brunetti kept walking, ignoring them all, bent on getting back to his

office, like an animal that has to return to its cave in order to feel

safe from its enemies. He closed the door behind him, knowing that

Vianello, however confused by his superior's behaviour, would leave him

alone until called.


"Check and mate and game at an end he said aloud, so much the victim of

the energy surging in him that he could not move. Clenching his hands

and closing his eyes didn't help at all: he was left with the image of

that wink, that sustaining punch. Even if Vianello had seen it, he

realized, it would make no difference for them, nor for Moro. Filippi's

story was credible, the entire performance perfectly pitched. He

cringed at the memory of how he had been moved by the boy's

embarrassment, how he had superimposed upon his halting account what he

imagined would be his own son's response in the same circumstances and

seen fear and remorse where there had been only low cunning.


Part of him longed to hear Vianello's voice at the door so that he

could tell him how they had been duped. But there would be no purpose,

he realized, and so he was glad that the Inspector stayed away. His

own rashness in going off to talk to Cappellini had given the Filippis

time to concoct their story; not just to concoct it but to work on it

and to put into it all of the ingredients that were sure to appeal to

the sentimentalism of anyone who heard it. What cliche did they leave

untouched? Boys will be boys. My shame is greater than my guilt. Oh,

spare from further pain the suffering mother of the lad.


Brunetti turned and kicked the door, but the noise and the jolt of pain

in his back changed nothing. He confronted the fact that anything he

did would have the same effect: nothing would change, regardless of how

much pain was endured.


He looked at his watch and saw that he'd lost all track of tone while

questioning the boy, though the darkness outside should have told him

how late it was. He'd given no orders but there was certainly no

reason to hold FilipVaTvSnello must surely have let him go. He wanted

desperately not to see any of them when he left, so he forced hfrnse f

to s and there eyes closed and head leaning back against the door for

another five minutes, and then he went downstairs


could Tee "Tde Wm r id ^ ffiCerS' r 0m' thought he could see light

coming from the door as he went silently outside he turned to the right

-d ^ St.


presenTed h I" VaP rett SUdd6 my ^^the ^action presented by the many

people on board at this hour


One was just pulling away as he arrived at the imbarcadero


;:0a:iewwhaited forHthe next he had ten Az


people who arrived, most of them Venetian by the look of them. When it

came, he boarded the boat, crossed to the far sule and stood at the

rail, back turned to the g'ryo the city When at last he arrived at the

door to his apartment he paused, hoping that some remnant of humanity

wAd' be


Pao "8H r I" inSide' ^ if ^ ^ he ^ a son liS creatd hinT, HPmSe *,*? ^

*** Without having *** aparLent **"** ** *** *"* let hims^ ^ the


1 will not buy you a telefomno because they create a race of spineless

weaklings; it would make you even more


rejoTedt thl^H ^ ^ ** ^ ^oTa -yTnd


S^S^S*8 ng Ur ^ ^^ She *" her


Her voice came from the direction of the kitchen but


HTkn'wTat inStead' dr ^ hall to--dkolaSud; He knew that years of lying

awake for the sound of the footsteps of returning children would alert

her to ^arrival


S Shee did" d dUb rat t WOULD S n -- -AnA ' She did, and they talked.

Rather, he talked and she


listened. After a long time, when he had explained everything and

named the choices open to him, he asked, "Well?"


The dead can't suffer," was all she said, an answer that confused him

at first.


Familiar with her habits of thought, he considered the remark for some

time and finally asked, "And the living can?"


She nodded.


"Filippi and his father he said, then added, 'who should. And Moro and

his wife


"And daughter, and mother Paola added, 'who shouldn't."


"Is this a contest of numbers?" he asked soberly.


She flicked this away with a quick motion of her hand. "No, no, not at

all. But I think it matters, not only because of the number of people

who will be affected but for the amount of good it would do


"Neither choice will do anyone any good he insisted.


Then which will do less harm?"


"He's dead Brunetti said, 'no matter what the official verdict is."


This isn't about the official verdict, Guido


Then what is it about?"


"It's about what you tell them The way she spoke, she made it sound

self-evident. He had shied away from accepting that, had almost

succeeded in preventing himself from thinking about it, yet the instant

the words fell from her lips, he realized that it was the only thing

any of this was about.


"You mean what Filippi did?"


"A man has the right to know who killed his child


"You make that sound so simple. Like something from the Bible."


"It's not in the Bible, to the best of my knowledge. But it is simple.

And true Her tone was a stranger to uncertainty.


"And what if he does something about it?"


"Like what? Kill Filippi? Or his father?"


Brunetti nodded.


"From what I know of him and what you've said, I doubt that he's the

kind of man who would do something like that." Before he could say

that one never knew, she said, "But you never know, do you?"


Once again, Brunetti had the strange sensation of being adrift in time.

He looked at his watch and was stunned to see that it was almost ten.

"Have the kids eaten?"


"I sent them out to get a pizza when I heard you come in."


He had gradually, as he told her the story of his meeting with the

Filippis and their lawyer, sunk lower and lower on the sofa until he

was now lying with his head on a pillow. "I think I'm hungry he

said.


"Yes/ Paola agreed. The, too. Stay here for a while and I'll make

some pasta." She got to her feet and went to the door. "What will you

do?" she asked.


Till have to speak to him Brunetti said.


He did so the next day, at four in the afternoon, a time chosen by

Dottor Moro, who had insisted on coming to the Questura rather than

have Brunetti come to his home. The doctor was on time to the minute,

and Brunetti stood up when a uniformed officer ushered him into his

office. Brunetti came around his desk and extended his hand. They

exchanged strained courtesies and then, as soon as he was seated, Moro

asked, "What is it you want, Commissario?" His voice was level and

calm, devoid of curiosity or, for that fact, interest. Events had

washed him clean of such things.


Brunetti, who had retreated behind his desk more out of habit than

choice, began by saying, There are some things I think you should know,

Dottore." He paused, waiting for the doctor to respond, perhaps with

sarcasm, perhaps with anger. But Moro said nothing.


"There are certain facts regarding the death of your son that


I think..." Brunetti began, then flailed to a stop. He looked at the

wall behind Moro's head, then began again. That is, I've learned some

things and want you to know them."


"Why?"


"Because they might help you decide."


"Decide what?" Moro asked tiredly.


"How to proceed."


Moro shifted to one side in the chair and crossed his legs. "I have no

idea what you're talking about, Commissario. I don't think there are

any decisions I can make, not now."


"About your son, I think."


Brunetti saw something flash into Moro's eyes.


"No decision can affect my son," he said, making no attempt to disguise

his anger. And then, to hammer the message home, he added, "He's

dead."


Brunetti felt the moral heat of what Moro had just said sweep over him.

Again, he looked away, then back at the doctor, and again he spoke.

I've come into the possession of new information, and I think you

should be aware of what it is." Without giving Moro a chance to

comment, he went on. "Paolo Filippi, who is a student at the Academy,

maintains that your son died by accident and that, to avoid

embarrassment for him, and for you, he arranged it to look like

suicide."


Brunetti waited for Moro to ask if that would not also be an

embarrassment, but Instead the doctor said, "Nothing my boy did would

embarrass me."


"He maintains your son died as the result of homosexual activity."

Brunetti waited for the other man to respond.


"Even though I'm a doctor Moro said, "I have no idea of what that can

mean."


That your son died in an attempt to increase his sexual excitement by

near-strangulation."


"Autoerotic asphyxiation Moro said with clinical detachment.


Brunetti nodded.


"Why should that embarrass me?" the doctor said calmly.


After a long silence, Brunetti realized that Moro was not going to

prompt him, so he said, "I don't think what he told me is true. I

think he killed your son because his father had persuaded him that

Ernesto was a spy or a traitor of some sort. It was his influence,

perhaps even his encouragement, that led the boy to do what he did."


Still Moro said nothing, though his eyes had widened in surprise.


In the face of the other man's silence, the best Brunetti could do was

say, "I wanted you to know what story Filippi will give if we pursue

the case."


"And what is this decision you've called me in here to make,

Commissario?"


"Whether you want us to bring a charge of involuntary manslaughter

against Filippi."


Moro studied Brunetti's face for some time before he said, "If you

think he killed Ernesto, Commissario, then involuntary manslaughter is

not much of a charge, is it?" Before Brunetti could reply, Moro added,

"Besides, this should be your decision, Commissario. Not mine." His

voice was as cool as his expression.


"I wanted to give you the choice," Brunetti said in what he thought was

a calm voice.


"So you wouldn't have to decide?"


Brunetti bowed his head but turned the motion into a nod. "In part,

yes, but it's also for you and your family."


To spare us embarrassment?" Moro asked with heavy emphasis on the last

word.


"No/ Brunetti asked, worn down by Moro's contempt. To spare you

danger."


"What danger?" Moro asked, as though he were really curious.


The danger that would come to all of you if this went to trial."


"I don't understand."


"Because the report you suppressed would have to be produced as

evidence, or at least you would have to testify as to its existence and

contents. To justify Filippi's behaviour and his father's anger. Or

fear, or whatever it was."


Moro put a hand to his forehead in what seemed to Brunetti an

artificial gesture. "My report?" he finally asked.


"Yes. About military procurement."


Moro took his hand away. There is no report, Commissario. At least

not about the Army or procurement or whatever it is they're afraid I've

done. I abandoned that when they shot my wife."


Brunetti was amazed to hear Moro speak so calmly, as though it were a

truth universally acknowledged that his wife had been shot

deliberately.


The doctor went on. The started doing research on their spending and

where the money went as soon as I was appointed to the committee. It

was obvious where all the money was going; their arrogance makes them

very sloppy bookkeepers, so their trail was very easy to follow, even

for a doctor. But then they shot my wife."


"You say that as though there's no question Brunetti said.


Moro looked across at him and said in a cold voice. There's no

question. I was called even before she reached the hospital. And so I

agreed to abandon my research. The suggestion was made at the time

that I retire from politics. And I did. I obeyed them,

Commissario."


"You knew they shot her?" Brunetti asked, though he had no idea who

'they' were, at least no idea so clear that a specific name could be

attached.


"Of course," Moro said, his voice slipping back towards sarcasm. T'd

done at least that much research."


"But then why arrange the separation from your wife?" Brunetti

asked.


To be sure they left her alone."


"And your daughter?" Brunetti asked with sudden curiosity.


"In a safe place was the only answer Moro was willing to provide.


Then why put your son there, at the Academy?" Brunetti asked, but as

he did it came to him that perhaps Moro had thought it would be best to

hide the boy in plain sight. The people who shot his wife might think

twice about creating bad publicity for the Academy; or perhaps he had

hoped to fool them.


Moro's face moved in something that might once have been a smile.

"Because I couldn't stop him, Commissario. It was the greatest failure

of my life that Ernesto wanted to be a soldier. But that's all he ever

wanted to be, ever since he was a little boy. And nothing I could ever

do or say could change it."


"But why would they kill him?" Brunetti asked.


When Moro eventually spoke, Brunetti had the sense that he was

relieved, at long last, to be able to talk about this. "Because they

are stupid and didn't believe that it was so easy to stop me. That I

was a coward and wouldn't oppose them." He sat thinking for a long

time and added, "Or perhaps Ernesto was less of a coward than I am. He

knew I had once planned to write a report, and perhaps he threatened

them with it."


Though his office was cool, Brunetti saw that sweat stood on Moro's

brow and was slowly sliding down his chin. Moro wiped at it with the

back of his hand. Then he said, "I'll never know."


The two men sat for a long time, the only motion Moro's occasional

attempt to wipe the sweat from his face. When, finally, his face was

dry again, Brunetti asked, "What do you want me to do, Dottore?"


Moro raised his head and looked at Brunetti with eyes that had grown

even sadder in the last half-hour. "You want me to make the decision

for you?"


"No. Not really. Or not only. To make it for yourself. And for your

family."


"You'll do whatever I say?" Moro asked.


"Yes."


"Regardless of the law or justice?" Moro's emphasis, a very unkind

emphasis, was on the last word.


"Yes."


"Why? Don't you care about justice?" Moro's anger was undisguised

now.


Brunetti had no taste for this, not any longer. "There's no justice

here, Dottore," he said, frightened to realize that he meant not only

for this man and his family, but for this city, and this country, and

their lives.


Then let it be," Moro said, exhausted. "Let him be."


Everything that was decent in Brunetti urged him to say something that

would comfort this man, but the words, though summoned, failed to come.

He thought of Moro's daughter and then of his own. He thought of his

own son, of Filippi's son, and of Moro's, and then the words came:

"Poor boy."


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