He unfailingly presented the picture of a man much like many others, led astray by his lusts, then dominated by fear. Who could fail to feel some sympathy or compassion for a man such as this?
And so it went for two hours, Santomauro maintaining his innocent complicity in these crimes, insisting that his only motivation had been concern for his family and a desire to spare them from the shame and scandal of his secret life. As Brunetti listened, he heard Santomauro become more and more convinced of the truth of what he was saying. And at that, Brunetti called off the questioning, sickened by the man and his posturing.
By the evening, Santomauro’s lawyer was with him, and the next morning, bail was set and he was released, though Malfatti, a confessed killer, remained in jail. Santomauro resigned his presidency of the Lega della Moralità that same day, and the remaining members of the board of directors called for a thorough investigation of his mismanagement and misconduct. So it was at a certain level of society, Brunetti mused: sodomy became misconduct, and murder mismanagement.
That afternoon, Brunetti walked down to Via Garibaldi and rang the bell of the Mascari apartment. The widow asked who it was, and he gave his name and rank.
The apartment was unchanged. The shutters still kept out the sun, though they seemed to trap the heat inside. Signora Mascari was thinner, her attention more withdrawn.
‘It’s very kind of you to see me, Signora,’ Brunetti began when they were seated, facing one another. ‘I’ve come to tell you that all suspicion has been removed from your husband. He was not involved in any wrongdoing; he was a blameless victim of a vicious crime.’
‘I knew that, Commissario. I knew that from the beginning.’
‘I’m sorry there had to exist even a minute’s suspicion about your husband.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Commissario.’
‘I still regret it. But the men responsible for his death have been found.’
‘Yes, I know. I read it in the papers,’ she said, paused, and then added, ‘I don’t think it makes any difference.’
‘They will be punished, Signora. I can promise you that.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be of any help. Not to me and not to Leonardo.’ When Brunetti began to object, she cut him off and said, ‘Commissario, the papers can print as much as they want about what really happened, but all people are ever going to remember about Leonardo is the story that appeared when his body was first discovered, that he was found wearing a dress and was believed to be a transvestite. And a whore.’
‘But it will become clear that was not true, Signora.’
‘Once mud has been thrown, Commissario, it cannot ever be fully washed off. People like to think badly of other people; the worse it is, the happier it makes them. Years from now, when people hear Leonardo’s name, they will remember the dress, and they will think whatever dirty thoughts they want to think.’
Brunetti knew she was right. ‘I’m sorry, Signora.’ There was nothing else he could say.
She leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. ‘No one can apologize for human nature, Commissario. But I thank you for your sympathy.’ She took her hand away. ‘Is there anything else?’
Knowing dismissal when he heard it, Brunetti said there was not and took his leave of her there, leaving her in the darkened house.
That night, a tremendous thunderstorm swept across the city, tearing off roof tiles, hurling pots of geraniums to the ground, uprooting trees in the public gardens. It rained down wildly for three solid hours, filling storm gutters and sweeping bags of garbage into the canals. When the rain stopped, a sudden chill swept behind it, creeping into bedrooms and forcing sleepers to huddle together for warmth. Brunetti, alone, was forced to get up at about four and pull a blanket from the closet. He slept until almost nine, decided then that he would not go to the Questura until after lunch, and forced himself to go back to sleep. He got up well after ten, made himself coffee, and took a long shower, glad of the hot water for the first time in months. He was standing on the terrace, dressed, hair still damp, with a second coffee in his hand when he heard a sound from the apartment behind him. He turned, cup to his lips, and saw Paola. And then Chiara, and then Raffaele.
‘Ciao, Papà,’ Chiara cried with wild glee, hurling herself towards him.
‘What happened?’ he asked, holding her close but seeing only her mother.
Chiara pulled herself back and grinned up at him. ‘Look at my face, Papà.’
He did, and had never seen a lovelier. He noticed that she had been out in the sun.
‘Oh, Papà, don’t you see?’
‘Don’t I see what, darling?’
‘I’ve got measles and they threw us out.’
Though the chill of early autumn remained in the city, that night Brunetti needed no blanket.
DONNA LEON
