“They forced me to give priority to Luparello, the same way, exactly, as when he was alive. So even in death the guy has to come before everyone else? I suppose he’s first in line at the cemetery, too?”
“Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Just an advance notice of what I’m going to send you in writing. Absolutely nothing: the dear departed died of natural causes.”
“Such as?”
“To put it in unscientific terms, his heart burst, literally. In every other respect he was healthy, you know. It was only his pump that didn’t work, and that’s what screwed him, even though they made a valiant attempt to repair it.”
“Any other marks on the body?”
“What sort of marks?”
“I don’t know, bruises, injections . . .”
“As I said, nothing. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. And anyway, I asked and obtained permission for my colleague Capuano, his regular doctor, to take part in the autopsy.”
“Covering your ass, eh Doc?”
“What did you say?”
“Something stupid, I’m sorry. Did he have any other ailments?”
“Why are you starting over from the top? There was nothing wrong with him, just a little high blood pressure. He treated it with a diuretic, took a pill every Thursday and Sunday, first thing in the morning.”
“So on Sunday, when he died, he had taken it.”
“So what? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? That his diuretic pill had been poisoned? You think we’re still living in the days of the Borgias? Or have you started reading remaindered mystery novels?
If he’d been poisoned, don’t you think I would have noticed?”
“Had he dined that evening?”
“No, he hadn’t.”
“Can you tell me at what time he died?”
“You’re going to drive me crazy with questions like that. You must be watching too many American movies, you know, where as soon as the cop asks what time the crime took place, the coroner tells him the murderer finished his work at six-thirty-two P.M., give or take a few seconds, thirty-six days ago. You saw with your own eyes that rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, didn’t you? You felt how hot it was in that car, didn’t you?”
“So?”
“So it’s safe to say the deceased left this world between seven and nine o’clock the evening before he was found.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else. Oh yes, I almost forgot: Mr. Luparello died, of course, but he did manage to do it first—
to have sex, that is. Traces of semen were found around his lower body.”
~
“Mr. Commissioner? Montalbano here. I wanted to let you know I just spoke with Dr. Pasquano on the phone. The autopsy’s been done.”
“Save your breath, Montalbano. I know everything already: around two o’clock I got a call from Jacomuzzi, who was there and filled me in. Wonderful, eh?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“It’s wonderful, that is, that someone in this fine province of ours should decide to die a natural death and thereby set a good example. Don’t you think? Another two or three deaths like Luparello’s and we’ll start catching up with the rest of Italy. Have you spoken to Lo Bianco?”
“Not yet.”
“Please do so at once. Tell him there are no more problems as far as we’re concerned. They can get on with the funeral whenever they like, if the judge gives the go-ahead. Listen, Montalbano—I forgot to mention it this morning—my wife has invented a fantastic new recipe for baby octopus. Can you make it Friday evening?”
~
“Montalbano? This is Lo Bianco. I wanted to bring you up to date on things. Early this afternoon I got a phone call from Dr. Jacomuzzi.”
“He told me the autopsy revealed nothing abnormal,” the judge continued. “So I authorized burial.
Do you have any objection?”
“None.”
“Can I therefore consider the case closed?”
“Think I could have two more days?”
