Rumors of human remains found in a tank of lye in the woods have been around for days, but Sofri’s grotesque murder, which carries the stamp of the mafias, stirs fear and disgust in a town where, despite the divisions of the contrade, much of the population still believed they were free of the influence of criminal networks. Maybe it’s also the nature of a fortress town, where, as Giovanni said, anyone outside the walls is viewed as an enemy, but these few dozen citizens have taken an unprecedented step: to come forward after years of silence to look for answers to the whereabouts of missing loved ones who have gone white shotgun as a result of mafia incursion into the north.
The Commissario receives the families with cordiality. They crowd into his private office and stand humbly on the clean blue carpeting before the authority of flags and certificates. The slim, superior chief of police expresses empathy for their suffering, and then shares some vital information not yet available to the public. The forensic laboratory in Rome, he reports, has determined that the contents in the tank were not human after all, but rather the remains of cows, like the white Chianina cows we had seen on the road to Falassi’s dump site. Disappointed, they have to acknowledge it is common practice for farmers to dispose of the bodies of animals by dissolving them in lye. They accept the Commissario’s condolences for their collective losses, and his wish that they might find some comfort in this news.
Cecilia tells the press that during the ordeal it was her Catholic faith that kept her alive. She now counts eating good food and sleeping in a bed as great blessings. She talks about the power of God’s grace to restore her to her family, and how the upcoming August Palio will bring renewal to the troubled people of Siena.
But after the euphoria comes depression. She is confused about hours and dates. She has an overwhelming fear of going into the city, specifically to the church of Santa Maria di Provenzano where she was snatched — chloroformed, in the traditional way of kidnappings — and quickly carried out, like another fainting victim, to the ambulance that abducted her to Calabria. The offer of a visit to the Oca district, once a haven of security, triggers a panic attack because she insists, irrationally, that we will have to pass that church.
Imprisonment in Calabria has made her panicky inside rooms. Either she shuts down or paces, repeating, “I have to take a walk. I have to get out of here.” She only feels good when she can see the horizon. She takes long walks, past ordinary households and blazing fields of broom and red poppies, observing like a visitor the way people in this part of the world spend their time — tending to aviaries, constructing stone walls. Often I am with her. Sometimes we sleep outside on the chaises by the pool, like schoolgirls on a sleepover. Our pace is gentle; our talk is about small things: chores that need to be done to keep the abbey running and supplied with food and clean laundry. We assume the comfortable roles of providing for men, as if they need more care in the aftermath than we do. But always, underneath, is the deep tone of parting — just when we have begun.
Dennis Rizzio rolls in like a tank, using every threat of prosecution in the legal arsenal to put the squeeze play on Nicosa. He finally agrees to provide information on ’Ndrangheta’s drug routes into the United States in exchange for immunity on the cocaine smuggling charges. In the court of Rizzio, Nicosa’s defiance of the Puppet in Giovanni’s hospital room on behalf of his son was an act of renunciation that absolved him of moral sin. It is win-win for Rizzio. Tasked to infiltrate the mafias, he busted their trade network and came up with a four-star informant. To his credit, the big guy made a big point with SAC Robert Galloway of my role. By the time I receive the call from Donnato that they need my deposition in the conspiracy trial of former FBI deputy director Peter Abbott, I am ready to go home.
Sterling and I say our good-byes to Chris at the Walkabout, with a toast to Muriel Barrett in absentia. Metropolitan Police Inspector Reilly picked her up at her partner Sheila’s cottage in Surrey, and mediated a deal between the British anti-mafia task force and the Italian authorities in which the “sodden old cow,” as Chris put it, would cooperate in providing information on ’Ndrangheta’s bank of cocaine. Muriel will not be prosecuted in Italy as long as she never returns to that country. Banishment somehow seems an appropriate punishment for a crime that happened in a medieval town. The worst part is that her cloud paintings will most likely end up for sale beside the stale cakes in the deranged landlady’s half-dark mercato.
When the bar is littered with empty shot glasses and drained pints, a text comes in on my cell with a link to photographs. The source is Proibito. Untraceable. The photographs show Falassi’s dump site, where we discovered the vat of lye. Instead of an orderly crime scene, marked with tape, tents set up to protect the evidence, and someone standing guard, everything has been torched. Nothing is left of the water tower, the shack, and the half-burned house but piles of charred timber and curled metal. A deliberately set circle of fire has reduced every bit of organic matter to charcoal.
The human remains are lost, never to be identified. Whatever evidence the Chef might have left that could lead to his bosses — records of payment, bank statements or weapons — is gone. Every trace of Falassi’s crimes has been systematically eradicated.
Chris, Sterling, and I huddle around the tiny screen.
“Who did this? The police or the mafias?” “Flip a coin.”
“How long ago?”
“Hard to tell. We could go down there …” “Something still might be recoverable.” “I’m gonna bet,” Sterling says, “that no bone fragments, nothing from the vat, ever made it to the lab in Rome. The story that it was animal remains is a flat-out lie.” Chris leans on the bar. “Whoever did this had knowledge, access, and means. So did whoever sent Ana the pictures. Who do you think that could be?” I have been balancing the cell phone in my palm as if the weight of it could give me the answer. “Let me take a shot.” I punch in a number. Inspector Martini answers. Her voice is noncommittal.
“Are you at work?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Just wanted you to know I’m going home soon.” “Oh,” she says. “That’s too bad. I hope you enjoyed your time in Italy.” “It’s hard to leave such a beautiful country. But luckily I have pictures to remind me.” “I’m glad you will go with good memories,” she replies. “Thanks for all your help. Kisses to your daughter.” “Prègo.”
The two men are watching as I click off the phone.
“It was her. Martini sent the photos. She must have been at the site with the police when they ‘found out’ it was torched.” Chris and Sterling nod, not at all surprised.
“I knew the Commissario was dirty,” I say. “Now he’s succeeded in obliterating the entire investigation. Not only has he wiped out the evidence, but also he’s got Falassi, the only witness, and he could be dead by now, who knows?” “He doesn’t have Falassi, love,” says Chris. “We do.” • •