‘Protecting their woman?’ Brunetti asked, making no attempt to disguise his sarcasm.
‘No,’ Ambrogiani said. ‘They were black. The men who killed him were black.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Two of them got twelve years. One of them was found innocent and released.’
‘Who tried them, them or us?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Luckily for them, we did.’
‘Why luckily?’
‘Because they were tried in a civil court. The sentences are much lighter. And the charge was manslaughter. He provoked them, beat on their car and shouted at them. So the judges ruled that they had been responding to a threat.’
‘How many of them were there?’
‘Three soldiers and a civilian.’
‘Some threat.’ Brunetti said.
‘The judges ruled that it was. And took it into consideration. The Americans would have sent them away for twenty, thirty years. Military justice is nothing to joke with. Besides, they were black.’
‘Does that still matter?’
A shrug. A raised eyebrow. Another shrug. ‘The Americans will tell you it doesn’t.’ Ambrogiani took another sip of water. ‘How long will you be here?’
‘Today. Tomorrow. Are there other things like this?’
‘Occasionally. Usually they handle crime on the base, handle it themselves, unless it gets too big or it breaks an Italian law. Then we get a part of it.’
‘Like the principal?’ Brunetti asked, remembering a case that had made national headlines a few years ago, something about the principal of their grammar school being accused and convicted of child abuse, the details of which were very cloudy in his memory.
‘Yes, like him. But usually they handle things themselves.’
‘Not this time,’ Brunetti said simply.
‘No, not this time. Since he was killed in Venice, he’s yours, it’s all yours. But they’ll want to keep their hand in.’
‘Why?’
‘Public relations,’ Ambrogiani said, using the English words. ‘And things are changing. They probably suspect they aren’t going to be here much longer, not here, and not anywhere in Europe, so they don’t want anything to happen that might make their stay even shorter. They don’t want any bad publicity.’
‘It looks like a mugging,’ Brunetti said.
Ambrogiani gave Brunetti a long, level stare. ‘When was the last time someone was killed in a mugging in Venice?’
If Ambrogiani could ask the question like that, he knew the answer.
‘Honour?’ Brunetti suggested as a motive.
Ambrogiani smiled again. ‘If you kill someone for honour, you don’t do it a hundred kilometres from home. You do it in the bedroom, or the bar, but you don’t go to Venice to do it. If it had happened here, it could have been sex or money. But it didn’t happen here, so it seems that the reason has to be something else.’
‘A murder out of place?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, out of place,’ Ambrogiani repeated, obviously liking the phrase. ‘And therefore more interesting.’
* * * *
7
The Maggiore pushed the slim file towards Brunetti with the tip of his blunt finger and poured himself another glass of mineral water. ‘Here’s what they gave us. There’s a translation if you need it.’
Brunetti shook his head and opened the file. On the front cover, in red letters, was printed, ‘Foster, Michael b. 09/28/64, SSN 651341054’. He opened it and saw, clipped to the inside of the front cover, a Xerox copy of a photograph. The dead man was unrecognizable. These sharp contours of black and white had nothing to do with the yellowing face of death that Brunetti had seen on the bank of the canal yesterday. Inside the folder were two typewritten pages stating that Sergeant Foster worked for the Office of Public Health, that he had once been given a ticket for going through a STOP sign on the base, that he had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant one year ago, and that his family lived in Biddeford Pool, Maine.
The second page contained the summary of an interview conducted with an Italian civilian who worked in the Office of Public Health and who attested that Foster got on well with his colleagues, worked very hard at his job, and was polite and friendly with the Italian civilians who worked in the office.
‘Not very much, is there?’ Brunetti asked, closing the file and pushing it back towards the Maggiore. ‘The perfect soldier. Hardworking. Obedient. Friendly.’
‘But someone put a knife in his ribs.’
Brunetti remembered Doctor Peters and asked, ‘No woman?’
‘Not that we know of,’ Ambrogiani answered. ‘But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t. He was young, spoke passable Italian, so It’s possible.’ Ambrogiani paused for a moment and added, ‘Unless he used what’s for sale in front of the train station.’
‘Is that where they are?’
Ambrogiani nodded. ‘What about Venice?’
Brunetti shook his head. ‘Not since the government closed the brothels. There are a few, but they work the hotels and don’t cause us any trouble.’
‘Here we have them in front of the station, but I think times are bad for some of them. There are too many women today who are willing to give it away,’ Ambrogiani volunteered, then added, ‘for love.’
Brunetti’s daughter had just turned thirteen, so he didn’t want to think about what young women would give away for love. ‘Can I talk to the Americans?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I think so,’ Ambrogiani answered then reached for the phone. ‘We’ll tell them you’re the Chief of Police
