“Sir, we found Count Livergnani lying on his back on the floor of the living room in his villa. The maid informed us, she’s still in a state of shock. We hurried to the place and found fingerprints all over the crime scene, obvious signs and clues leading to the granddaughter, without the shadow of a doubt. We wanted to be sure, and we located her as she was heading toward the Tiburtina station. We followed her; she sat by herself for more than an hour in the bar, talking to herself, a jumble of disconnected fragments that attracted the attention of one of the waitresses, whose signed statement I have here. Then we understood, with conclusive evidence, that Signora Torri Livergnani intended to throw herself under an arriving regional train that was headed to the Termini station. At that point we were obliged to proceed to the arrest. I hope you see, sir, of course we understand the family’s grief and would like to treat the case with maximum discretion.”
“I understand perfectly,” the lawyer says calmly. “But you see, and you can hear too, that she keeps asking about this imaginary friend Grazia, and when she’s alone she talks to her and she answers, addressing a ‘she’ who isn’t there, as if ‘she’ were the one who had actually committed the crime. What do you say, professor?”
“There will have to be an examination, but it strikes me as a clear case of split personality. If she’s faking, she’s a phenomenal actress — she should win an Oscar.”
“Yes,” the policewoman comments, speaking up, “she should win an Oscar if she’s faking it. While we were leaving the track at the Tiburtina station she spat in the face of a Bulgarian woman, saying it was for what she had done to Maria Grazia, but we found no trace of any Maria Grazia. In the car, as we were bringing her here, she kept asking about this Grazia. Then she became silent for a moment and in a strange voice said, ‘Don’t worry, sister, they won’t separate us.’
“Furthermore, I should add that Signora Torri Livergnani had camped out at the entrance to the Tiburtina station for several nights, and had already been removed once by the transit police, who also checked her documents. That’s it.”
“You can see that this is a very disturbed person, especially with the addition of these details.”
Most of them nod in agreement.
Behind the glass, the woman, left alone, smiles.
“Really, sister? You spat at that Bulgarian whore? I’m proud of you, you were great. Now it looks like we’re going to have some problems, eh, I understand, I’m not stupid, but I’m sure your powerful, wealthy family will get us out of this trouble as soon as possible, filthy rich people like you certainly don’t need a scandal. They’ll give us a hand, right?”
You can be sure of it, Grazia, you can be sure.
Words, Thoughts
by Marcello Fois
From here I can barely glimpse my soul, nor do I know how long my sojourn may be, since death draws near, and life is fleeting.
Translated by Anne Milano Appel
Via Marco Aurelio
I
Six hours later...
They took a break around 6 in the afternoon. Outside the window of the interrogation room a perverse sun warmed the stones of the Colosseum. Marchini was one of those people who endured the heat with a kind of depressed resignation. To Curreli that same heat felt like the overly doting embrace of an unwelcome relative. What can you do, the commissioner said to himself, glancing at his watch: ten after 6, 104 degrees in the shade, who knows what the humidity is... another missed flight.
— Weren’t you supposed to go home? Ginetti said, in fact, coming over with a folder.
— I missed the flight, was all Curreli replied.
Ginetti was all too familiar with the tone of such responses. So he merely handed over the folder without even opening it and said, It was her, I’ll bet my motorcycle on it. Fingerprints everywhere. She tried to wash them off, but you can tell she wasn’t too much of an expert on domestic cleaning.
— Is that it? Curreli asked, seeing Marchini arriving with a cold soft drink in his hand.
— I thought you might need one, Marchini said and handed the can to the commissioner.
— It’s not all, Ginetti said, as Curreli began to feel the coolness of the can radiating from his hand to his wrist. A look of gratitude was the most Marchini could expect from the commissioner for his good deed, and indeed that was all he got.
Curreli nodded to Ginetti to continue. Marchini was fanning himself, holding his arms out from his torso and brandishing them as if he were a Sumo wrestler about to land a blow, or a king penguin ready to leap off the rocks.
— She wasn’t alone, Ginetti informed them.
Marchini seemed surprised, then immediately concealed the fact, seeing that Curreli, by contrast, didn’t bat an eye.
— That’s what I thought, Curreli confirmed, gulping down the contents of the can. What was that stuff? he asked.
Marchini smiled. Chinotto, he replied expectantly.
— I like sour orange, Ginetti remarked.
Curreli made a grimace of disgust. I think sour orange is revolting, he said, but with no particular emphasis.
Marchini tried to make excuses: That was all that was left in the vending machine.
Curreli ignored him and looked at Ginetti.
— The house is full of partial prints that don’t belong to either the family members or the girl. We ruled out all the prints from people in places anyone could have had access to: the mailman, the neighbor...
— I got it, go on, Curreli cut him short.
— Well, in the bathroom and in the girl’s bedroom we found the same type of print... The mailman doesn’t go into the bedroom... right?
Marchini smiled faintly and shook his head. The girl had an accomplice? he finally asked.
Ginetti nodded. As sure as we’re dying of heat today, he said, then asked, What does the girl say?
Curreli seemed to be in a daze. You’re asking me? he said in turn, but he moved toward the interrogation room without waiting for an answer.
Marchini and Ginetti watched Curreli close the door behind him, then looked at one another.
— He’s pissed, Marchini tried to explain. They were expecting him home, had his ticket already bought, but his plane left half an hour ago. Some pretty bad luck, you have to admit... Anyway, the girl hasn’t opened her mouth, hasn’t say boo... Not a word.
— She wasn’t alone. I’ll bet my motorcycle on it, Ginetti insisted. Prints don’t lie, but all these super technicians yank my chain... If you know how to read the prints, I’m telling you, super technology is a jerk-off.
— You need jerking off by any chance, Ginetti? Marchini said.
Ginetti raised the middle finger of his right hand. And walked off toward his office.
Marchini discreetly headed back into the interrogation room. Dr. Vanni, the assistant district attorney, was beginning to reveal signs of how tired she was. A V-shaped sweat stain had spread over Curreli’s chest. Without speaking, Marchini lifted his arm to feel if any cool air was coming out of the air conditioner. It was hopeless: not even a breath.