his was just then finishing medical school and was in search of a government job. But Rizzardi, with fifteen years’ experience as a pathologist, had been appointed instead, and ever since then he and Patta had conducted guerrilla warfare against one another.
‘I’ll look forward to reading it, then,’ Brunetti said.
‘Oh, you won’t be able to understand a word of it. Don’t even try, Guido. If you have any questions, call me and I’ll explain it to you.’
‘What about his clothing?’ Brunetti asked, though he knew this was none of Rizzardi’s responsibility.
‘He was wearing jeans, Levi’s. And he had one Reebok, size eleven.’ Before Brunetti could say anything, Rizzardi continued, ‘I know, I know. That doesn’t mean he’s American. You can buy Levi’s and Reeboks anywhere today. But his underwear was. I’ve sent it over to the lab boys, and they can tell you more, but the labels were in English and said “Made in USA”.’ The doctor’s voice changed, and he displayed a curiosity that was unusual for him. ‘Have your boys heard anything from the hotels? Any idea of who he was?’
‘I haven’t heard anything, so I guess they’re still calling.’
‘I hope you find out who he is so you can send him home. It’s no good thing, to die in a strange country.’
‘Thanks, Ettore. I’ll do my best to find out who he is. And send him home.’
He set the phone down. An American; He had carried no wallet, no passport, no identification, no money aside from those few coins. All of that pointed to a street crime, one that had gone horribly wrong and ended in death instead of robbery. And the thief had a knife and had used it with either luck or skill. Street criminals in Venice had some luck, but they seldom had any skill. They grabbed and ran. In any other city, this might be taken for a mugging that had gone wrongs but here in Venice this sort of thing simply didn’t happen. Skill or luck? And if it was skill, whose skill was it and why was it necessary that skill be employed?
He called down to the main office and asked if they had had any luck with the hotels. The first-and second- class hotels had only one missing guest, a man in his fifties who had not returned to the Gabriele Sandwirth the previous night. The men had begun to check the smaller hotels, one of which had an American man who had checked out the previous night but whose description didn’t fit.
It was possible, Brunetti realized, that he could have been renting an apartment in the city; in that case, days could pass before he was reported missing, or he simply might not be missed.
He called the lab and asked to speak to Enzo Bocchese, the Chief Technician. When he came on the phone, Brunetti asked, ‘Bocchese, have you got anything on the things in his pockets?’ It wasn’t necessary to specify whose pockets.
‘We used the infra-red on the ticket. It was so soaked that I didn’t think we’d be able to get anything. But we did.’
Bocchese; terribly proud of his technology and the things he could do with it, always needed to be prompted, and then praised. ‘Good. I don’t know how you do it, but you always manage to find something.’ Would that this were even close to the truth. ‘Where was it from?’
‘Vicenza. Round trip to Venice. Bought yesterday arid cancelled for the trip from Vicenza. I’ve got a man coming from the station to see if he can tell us anything, from the cancellation, about what train it was, but I’m not sure he can.’
‘What class was it, first or second?’
‘Second.’
‘Anything else? Socks? Belt?’
‘Rizzardi tell you about the clothes?’
‘Yes. He thinks the underwear is American.’
‘It is. No question. The belt — he could have bought that anywhere. Black leather with a brass buckle. The socks are synthetic. Made in Taiwan or Korea. Sold everywhere.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Good work, Bocchese, but I think we don’t need more than the ticket to be sure.’
‘Sure of what, Commissario?’
‘That he’s American.’
‘Why?’ the technician asked.
‘Because that’s where the Americans are,’ Brunetti replied. Any Italian in the area knew of the base in Vicenza, Caserma Something-or-Other, the base where thousands of American soldiers and their families lived, even now, so many years after the end of the war. If he was right, this would certainly raise the spectre of terrorism, and there were certain to be questions of jurisdiction. The Americans had their own police out there, and the instant someone so much as whispered ‘terrorism’, there could well be NATO and possibly Interpol. Or even the CIA, at the thought of which Brunetti grimaced, thinking of how Patta would bask in the exposure, the celebrity that would follow upon their arrival. Brunetti had no idea of what acts of terrorism were supposed to feel like, but this didn’t feel like one to him. A knife was too ordinary a weapon; it didn’t call attention to the crime. And there had been no call to claim the murder. Surely, that might still come, but it would be too late, too convenient.
‘Of course, of course,’ Bocchese said. ‘I should have thought of that.’ He paused long enough for Brunetti to say something, but when he didn’t, Bocchese asked, ‘Anything else, sir?’
‘Yes. After you speak to the man from the railways, let me know if he can tell you anything about the train he might have taken.’
‘I doubt he can, sir. It’s just an indentation in the ticket. We can’t pull up anything that might identify a train. But I’ll call you if he can tell us. Anything else?’
‘No, nothing. And thanks, Bocchese.’
After they hung up, Brunetti sat at his desk and stared at his wall, considering the information and the possibilities. A young man, in perfect physical shape, comes to Venice on a round-trip ticket from a city where there is an American military base. He had American dental work, and he carried American coins in his pocket.
Brunetti reached for the phone and dialled the operator. ‘See if you can get me the American military base in Vicenza.’
* * * *
3
As he waited for the call to be put through, Brunetti found the image of that young face, eyes splayed open in death, came back into his memory. It could have been any one of the faces he had seen in the photos of the American soldiers in the Gulf War: fresh, clean-shaven, innocent, glowing with that extraordinary health that so characterized Americans. But the face of the young American on the embankment had been strangely solemn, set apart from his fellows by the mystery of death.
‘Brunetti,’ he said, answering the buzzing intercom.
‘They’re very hard to find, those Americans,’ the operator said. ‘There’s no listing in the Vicenza phone book for American base, or for NATO, or for the United States. But I found one tinder Military Police. Wait just one minute, sir, and I’ll put the call through.’
How strange, Brunetti thought, that a presence so strong should be all but unfindable in the phone book. He listened to the usual clicks of a long-distance call, heard it ring at the other end, and then a male voice said, ‘MP station, may I help you, sir or madam?’
‘Good afternoon,’ Brunetti said in English. ‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti of the Venice police. I’d like to speak to the person in charge of the police there.’
‘May I ask what this is in connection with, sir?’
‘It’s a police matter. May I speak to the person in charge?’
‘Just one moment, sir.’
There was a long pause, the sound of muffled voices at the other end, then a different voice spoke. ‘This is Sergeant Frolich. May I help you?’
‘Good afternoon, Sergeant. This is Commissario Brunetti of the Venice police. I’d like to speak to your superior officer or to whoever is in charge.’
‘Could you tell me what this is in connection with, sir?’
‘As I explained to your colleague,’ Brunetti said, keeping his voice level, ‘this is a police matter, and I’d like to speak to your superior officer.’ How long would he have to go on repeating the same formula?
