“All this butchery, you mean?”
“No, the fact that they left the left upper arm. I wonder why they didn’t cut that off, too, while they were at it.”
“Have you found anything that might lead to a quick identification?”
“Not a fucking thing.”
“Speaking of which, Doctor: and the sex organ?”
“Not doing too badly, thank you very much. Nothing to worry about.”
“No, Doctor, what I mean is: Did they cut off his sex organ as well?”
“If they had, I would have mentioned it.”
“How old was he?”
“About forty.”
“Height?”
“Not less than five foot ten.”
“Non-European?”
“Hardly! One of ours.”
“Fat? Thin?”
“Trim and in excellent shape.”
“Can you tell me anything else?”
“Yes. When he was killed, he hadn’t yet evacuated.”
“Is that important?”
“It certainly is. Because we found something of potential importance in his stomach.”
“Namely?”
“He’d swallowed a bridge.”
Montalbano balked.
“What kind of bridge?”
“The Brooklyn Bridge.”
“What?”
“Has the dessert wine gone to your head, Montalbano? I’m talking about teeth. The bridge may have come loose while he was eating, and he may have swallowed it later by accident.”
The inspector thought about this a moment.
“Couldn’t the bridge have ended up in his stomach while they were mangling his face?”
“No, it would have remained in his mouth or throat. The body can’t swallow after it’s dead. He may have swallowed it during some trauma before he was shot.”
“What did you do with it?
“I sent it immediately to Forensics. You realize, however, that it’ll be months before they can tell us anything about it.”
“Right,” said Montalbano, discouraged.
“And don’t expect them to be able to tell you the name of the victim’s dentist, either.”
“Right,” Montalbano repeated, more disconsolate than ever.
“Want another cannolo?”
“No. Thanks anyway. I’ll be seeing you.”
“You will? I hope not to see you again for a good while,” said the doctor, sinking his teeth into a second cannolo.
But Pasquano had told him something of great importance. The man had been killed by a gunshot at the base of the skull. Execution style. With hands and feet bound, the poor bastard had been forced to kneel, and the executioner had fired a single shot into his brain.
It was as if the Mafia had actually left its signature.
But questions still remained. All of them. Who was he? Why was he killed? Why go to such trouble to make him unidentifiable? Why cut him into so many pieces? Certainly not to facilitate moving the body. There are other ways to do that. Like dissolving the body in acid. And why did they bury the body at
No, it was clear that the killers wanted, after a certain amount of time had passed, for the body to be discovered.
“Ah, Chief Chief! Fazio tol’ me a tell yiz ’at the minute y’ got back I’s asposta tell ’im y’got back.”
“All right, then tell him and send him to my office.”
