he could be induced to back those policies most certain to line the
pockets of the few at the expense of the many.
But none of them, in three years, had apparently succeeded in
corrupting Moro. Then, only two years ago, he had suddenly, and
without explanation, renounced his parliamentary seat and returned full
time to private medical practice.
'Has he been informed?' Brunetti asked.
'Who?' Bembo asked, clearly puzzled by Brunetti's question.
'His father.'
Bembo shook his head. 'I don't know. Isn't that the job of the
police?'
Brunetti, exercising great restraint, glanced at his watch
and asked, 'How long ago was the body discovered?' Though he strove
for neutrality, he failed to keep reproach out of his voice.
Bembo bristled. This morning some time.'
'What time?'
'I don't know. Shortly before the police were called.'
'How shortly before?'
'I have no idea. I was called at home.'
'At what time?' Brunetti asked, pencil poised over the page.
Bembo's lips tightened in badly disguised irritation. 'I'm not sure.
About seven, I'd say.'
'Were you already awake?'
'Of course.'
'And was it you who called the police?'
'No, that had already been done by someone here.'
Brunetti uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. 'Comandante, the call
is registered as having come at seven twenty-six. That's about half an
hour after you were called and told the boy was dead.' He paused to
allow the man time to explain, but when Bembo made no attempt to do so,
Brunetti continued, 'Could you suggest an explanation for that?'
'For what?'
'For the delay of a half an hour in informing the authorities of a
suspicious death at the institution you direct.'
'Suspicious?' Bembo demanded.
'Until the medical examiner has determined the cause of death, any
death is suspicious.'
'The boy committed suicide. Anyone can see that.'
'Have you seen him?'
The Comandante did not answer immediately. He sat back in his chair
and considered the man in front of him. Finally he answered, 'Yes. I
have. I came here when they called me and went to see him. He'd
hanged himself.'
'And the delay?' Brunetti asked.
Bembo waved the question away. 'I have no idea. They must have
thought I would call the police, and I was sure they had.'
Letting this pass, Brunetti asked, 'Do you have any idea who called?'
'I just told you I don't know,' Bembo said. 'Surely they must have
given their name.'
'Surely/ Brunetti repeated and returned to the subject. 'But no one
has contacted Dottor Moro?'
Bembo shook his head.
Brunetti got to his feet. 'I'll go and see that someone does.'
Bembo didn't bother to stand. Brunetti paused for a moment, curious to
see if the Comandante would enforce his sense of the loftiness of his
position by glancing down at something on his desk while he waited for
Brunetti to leave. Not so. Bembo sat, empty hands resting on the top
of his desk, eyes on Brunetti, waiting.
Brunetti slipped his notebook into the pocket of his jacket, placed the
pencil carefully on the desk in front of Bembo, and left the
Comandante's office.
Outside Bembo's office, Brunetti moved a few metres away from the door
and pulled out his telefonino. He punched in 12 and was asking for
