Zen forced his attention back to the floor. But now a new pattern emerged as the red and brown shapes blocked together to form overlapping triangles all pointing across the room at the double doors opposite. These doors were now firmly closed, but they had opened several times since Zen’s arrival, admitting a succession of visitors who had forced their way through the mass of bodies and expectant faces in the corridor outside, sweltering under television lights and waving microphones in front of anyone who appeared.
It was six o’clock in the evening, four hours since the Deputy Public Prosecutor had summoned Zen to his office in the law courts. When he arrived he had been told to wait, and he had been waiting ever since. He was being put in his place, softened up for what was to come. And what was that? ‘When they found a policeman at the pay-off they must have panicked,’ Major Volpi had remarked to Di Leonardo when they arrived together at the scene in a Carabinieri helicopter. Yes, the death of Ruggiero Miletti was Zen’s fault. He was completely innocent, but it was his fault. Even the tiles concurred, for now the arrows had all flipped over and were pointing at him, pointing out the guilty party, the incompetent official, the unworthy son. The pain that tugged at the muscles of his stomach and chest was so intimately hurtful that he knew it was nothing but useless unspent emotion. What he needed was to break down and howl like a child, and it was the effort not to do so that was tearing at him. It was all his fault, his fault, his fault. He had never known the man, but it was his fault. He was condemned by an image which had haunted him for over thirty years: a poor defenceless body lying curled up in a vast flat dismal landscape, a father abandoned to his lonely fate. He must be guilty. There could be no excuse for such a death.
It was almost a relief when the door opposite suddenly opened and Ettore Di Leonardo appeared, immaculate as ever in a dark suit and sober tie.
‘This way!’
The Public Prosecutor called him like a dog as he strode towards the door behind which a continuous threatening murmur could be heard. Zen obediently rose and followed, wondering as a dog perhaps does at his stupidity in not understanding why they were going that way, where their enemies lay in wait.
The gentlemen of the press had had a fairly lean time of it so far. Di Leonardo’s personal secretary had issued a statement shortly after midday, a masterpiece of prolixity that took about five minutes to say that Ruggiero Miletti had been found dead and that another statement would be issued in due course. Since then anyone who had been unwise enough to venture along the corridor had been pounced upon and picked clean. Magistrates, lawyers, various clerks, a court reporter, a telephone repair man, and even a number of ordinary human beings untouched by the grace of public office had been accosted, to no avail. So when the Deputy Public Prosecutor himself suddenly appeared in person the assembled newshounds reacted like a gaggle of novices witnessing an apparition of the Virgin Mary.
Appropriately enough Di Leonardo’s first gesture, a hand raised to still the clamour, looked not unlike a blessing. When complete silence had fallen he then produced a sheet of paper from his pocket, folded it back on itself to remove the crease, smoothed it out a number of times and then read a statement to the effect that inquiries were proceeding, steps being taken, fruitful avenues opening up and concrete results expected within a short space of time. Having done so he folded the sheet of paper again, replaced it in his pocket and made to leave.
The reporters protested vociferously and blocked his path. Di Leonardo looked flabbergasted, as though never before in his experience had the media failed to be satisfied by the reading of a prepared statement. But questions continued to be hurled at him from every side, and eventually, as an extraordinary mark of favour, he consented to answer one or two of them.
The first came from a man in the front row, a crumpled, resilient-looking individual with the look of someone who has been dropped on his head from a great height at some stage in his life.
‘Is it true that the magistrate investigating the Miletti case is to be replaced?’
Di Leonardo glared back in frigid indignation.
‘Certainly not! Dottor Bartocci is and will remain in charge of the investigation into the kidnapping of Ruggiero Miletti.’
‘And into his murder?’ called a younger reporter on the fringes of the group.
‘That is another and quite separate development, whose importance and urgency I need hardly stress. In addition to the kidnapping case, Dottor Bartocci is already handling the murder of Avvocato Valesio. My wish, the wish of all of us, is simply that we may as quickly as possible get to the bottom of the shocking and cold-blooded crime which has stunned and appalled the entire country, and arrest and punish those responsible. In order to avoid placing an impossible burden on the shoulders of my young colleague, it has been decided that the investigation of the events whose tragic outcome was discovered this morning will be directed by Dottor Rosella Foria.’
‘But the murder of Signor Miletti is evidently linked to the other two cases,’ pointed out a well-known interviewer with a television news crew. ‘Why is the same magistrate not investigating all three crimes?’
Di Leonardo smiled wearily and shook his head.
‘You reporters may spin whatever theories you choose. Our task is to weigh the evidence objectively and impartially. At the present juncture there is no evidence to suggest that this crime is necessarily linked to those you have mentioned, or indeed to any others.’
There was a flurry of protest, which Di Leonardo once again stilled with a gesture of benediction.
‘But it is too soon to pronounce on these matters with any certainty,’ he went on smoothly. ‘Should any such evidence come to light in the future we will of course be prepared to review the situation.’
‘You mean Bartocci may lose the other two cases as well?’ asked the crumpled man. There was a ripple of laughter.
A tall woman with the chic, efficient look that spells Milan held up her notebook, and Di Leonardo immediately nodded encouragingly at her. It’s a fix, thought Zen, and he edged back against the wall. Mesmerized by the Public Prosecutor’s performance, no one had yet noticed him, but he had a nasty feeling that this was about to change.
‘The Miletti family have made a statement in which they lay the blame for the murder squarely on the shoulders of the police,’ the woman began. ‘They have named a Commissioner Zen, whom they claim demanded to be present when the ransom money was paid, threatening to wreck the pay-off by a show of force if they did not comply. They further assert that in the course of the pay-off Commissioner Zen’s identity was revealed and that the gang were so incensed that they assaulted him. They conclude that the death of their father was a direct result of the kidnappers’ instructions having been disobeyed, and demand that this official be subjected to the appropriate disciplinary procedures. Have you any comment to make?’
Di Leonardo smiled again. It was a beautiful smile, brimful of wisdom, understanding and compassion.
‘I don’t think I need remind anyone of the tragic blow which the Miletti family, and indeed the whole of Perugia, has suffered today. Far be it from me to criticize comments made in the heat of the moment, which should be understood for what they are, cries of unendurable suffering, a passionate outburst of all-too-comprehensible anguish. I am sure I speak for all of us here when I say that our thoughts are with the Miletti family in this ordeal.’
Di Leonardo paused for a moment, seemingly overcome by emotion. Then he looked up, brisk and businesslike again.
‘Nevertheless the fact remains that disciplinary action against officials who may have exceeded their duties or wilfully abused the position of responsibility with which they have been entrusted is a purely internal matter which will be carried out, should the situation warrant it, by the appropriate authorities at the appropriate time. The views and wishes of private individuals, however comprehensible, cannot be permitted to influence whatever decision may eventually be arrived at.’
‘Do you accept the family’s account of the events surrounding the pay-off?’ another reporter demanded.
‘I have no further comment to make.’
‘But this Zen is still in charge of the case?’
Di Leonardo shook his finger as though admonishing a backward pupil.
‘As I have already explained, Dottor Foria is directing the investigation.’
The crumpled reporter who had started the questioning now sighed theatrically and rubbed his forehead.
‘Let’s see, have I got this right? As far as the police are concerned it’s all one case and the same officer remains in charge, but when it comes to the judiciary it’s a completely unrelated development and a new magistrate has been appointed.’
