with his shoulder.
Blume followed, expecting to find himself in a claustrophobic hole. In-stead, the office was roomy. It had space for two bookshelves, and Cantore’s desk was the size and shape of a ping-pong table. It was piled with papers and books, and someone, presumably Cantore himself, had been using plastic petri dishes for ashtrays.
Blume sat down on a chair so low that his eyes were just level with the surface of Cantore’s overflowing desk. Cantore busied himself stacking the piles of paper, cups, and ashtrays into even higher mountains. With a final grunt of satisfaction, he positioned himself carefully in the center of the frame, sat, and glowered down his paper canyon at Blume.
“Clemente case,” said Cantore. “I hear you’re off it. Pity. I was looking forward to more dog hairs.”
“That’s what must be so good about your job, Professor,” said Blume.
“A dog hair this week, who knows what trea sures next week will bring.”
Cantore clapped his hands twice, either celebrating Blume’s sarcasm or marking the end to the opening formalities. “I think I remember you now. Awkward foreign bastard,” he said.
“I’m investigating a new case,” said Blume.
“There was tons of evidence!” shouted Cantore. “Not in your new case. I’m talking about the Clemente case. Positively tons of it. Either the killer was an idiot…”
Blume waited. “Or?” he said eventually.
“Or nothing. The killer was just an idiot,” said Cantore, and burst out laughing. “So what we have here”- Cantore thumped at the desk as if indicating a photograph, but Blume couldn’t see anything-“is a bar of soap with a great big perfect thumbprint, three fingerprints. The same prints were found on the body, on the wall, on the bathroom mirror, in the wardrobe, on the front door, on a box of shopping, everywhere we looked.”
“And they belong to Clemente’s killer?”
“Not all the victim’s friends were cooperative in giving their prints, and we’ve still got some unaccounted for, but, yes, let’s say they belong to the killer.”
“But you got no result from the AFIS database,” said Blume.
“I sent them to Guendalina-you know Guendalina?”
“No.”
“Nice girl, Guendalina. She manages the AFIS database. Always helpful. Lovely woman. Really very…” Cantore lowered his voice so suddenly that Blume missed the rest. Then, returning to full volume, he continued:
“So anyway, I told Wendy-that is to say, Guendalina-what the case was, and she told me she had heard it was very important, and was being much talked about up there in the corridors of corruption.”
“And?” prompted Blume.
“She got nothing. But you know this.”
Blume asked, “Why did you call me?”
Cantore hoisted two plastic bags above his head with an air of triumph. One contained a torn pink booklet that Blume recognized as an old-fashioned driver’s license, the other a green and red credit card. “Enrico Brocca’s driver’s license.” He glanced up at his other hand. “And his credit card,” he added. “Your new case.”
Blume looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“We got prints on them,” explained Cantore.
“You’re only getting around to that now?”
“No, we got these print ages ago. Level two friction ridge identification, but the print on the license is excellent.”
“Great,” said Blume. “And you ran them through the AFIS database?”
“Yes. But we got no match,” said Cantore, settling back in his chair, and disappearing for a moment behind the papers.
Blume leaned forward to bring him back into view. He did not understand what Cantore was saying. He asked, “No match? I already knew there was no match on the AFIS. If there had been, we’d have arrested someone by now.”
“Well, if it interests you, the no-match will become a definite match when the AFIS database is updated.” Cantore smiled revealing a row of square teeth the color of tea.
“I’m not following you anymore,” said Blume.
He heard a click, a shuffle sound behind him, and turned around to see Principe entering the room.
“The prints from the Brocca murder scene go into the database, obviously, though we can’t associate them with a name,” continued Cantore. “Filippo, I’ll get someone to bring you a chair.”
“It’s all right Alessandro, I can stand,” said Principe from behind Blume. “I see you’ve almost finished explaining it to him.”
“I have finished,” said Cantore.
“No you haven’t,” said Blume. “The no-match on the driver’s license…”
“And on the credit card,” chimed in Cantore.
“And on the credit card,” said Blume. “They are no-matches. What the hell good is that?”
“I didn’t say they were a no-match,” boomed Cantore. “What would I call you all the way down here to say that for? What I said was they don’t match on the AFIS, because the AFIS has not been updated to include them.”
Principe stepped from behind Blume until he was on his left side.
Blume stared down the desk at Cantore, who had stopped speaking and was looking at Principe with a “you- explain-it-to-him” sort of look.
Principe explained: “What he means, Alec, is that there will be a match as soon as the AFIS database has been updated with the fingerprints from the Clemente crime scene. The reason is that the unidentified fingerprints from Clemente’s house and the unidentified fingerprints on Enrico Brocca’s credit card and license are one and the same. The same person did both killings.”
Blume eased himself around to face Principe. “You knew this?”
“The connection between the two cases, yes. Now you have to use it.”
Cantore bellowed some clarification from behind the desk, “It depends on which time frame you choose to use, Inspector Bellun. It is self-evident that Public Minister Principe and I knew of the connection before you. But we have not known about it for long.”
“Alessandro, it’s Commissioner, not Inspector, and Blume with an M. Let’s use first names and ‘tu’ here.”
“If you say so,” said Cantore.
“Dottor Cantore informed me of the match two nights ago,” Principe told Blume. “I got the road rage case assigned to me, then put you on it. I could not be explicit over the phone.”
Cantore suddenly heaved himself out of his chair. “I am not interested in hearing these details,” he said. “I just thought you should know about the fingerprint match.”
Principe said, “I appreciate it. Do you mind not mentioning it to anyone for a day or two?”
“Why would I mention it ever again?” said Cantore. “In fact, I don’t even see why I should be here. I have too much to do as it is. You’re welcome to use the office, though.”
Cantore passed Principe and gave him a friendly thump on the back, then stood before Blume, a massive form filling his entire field of vision. An enormous doughy white hand emerged from the bulk. “Commissioner Bellum…”
They shook hands and he left.
As soon as Cantore had slammed the door, Principe said, “I was not able to be forthcoming on the phone. There were people in my office.” He gave Blume an appraising look.
“I thought I detected something in your tone,” said Blume.
“That was for appearances.”
“I understand that now… It’s a busy place, the Prosecutor’s Office, especially in Rome. Where were you before you got transferred here? Foggia?”
“Foggia, that’s right,” said Principe. He took a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket, and prepared to read.
“Any interesting cases when you were there?” asked Blume.
