it was a suit that, like Donatini's, spoke so eloquently of wealth and
power that it might as well have been a uniform. He was perhaps
Brunetti's age but looked a decade younger, the result of either
natural animal grace or hours in a gym. He had dark eyes and the long,
straight nose that was mirrored on the face of his son.
Donatini, staking a claim to the proceedings, waved Brunetti to a seat
at the opposite end of the rectangular table and Vianello to a chair
across from the father and son. Thus he himself faced Brunetti, while
the other two looked at Vianello.
'I won't waste your time, Commissario,' Donatini said. 'My client has
volunteered to talk to you about the unfortunate events at the Academy/
The lawyer looked to his side, where the cadet sat, and the boy gave a
solemn nod.
Brunetti gave what he thought was a rather gracious one.
'It would seem that my client knows something about the death of Cadet
Moro.'
T'd be very eager to hear what that is,' Brunetti said with a curiosity
he allowed to be tempered with politesse.
'My client was .. .' Donatini began, only to be stopped by Brunetti,
who held up a hand, but gently and not very high, to suggest a moment's
pause. 'If you don't mind, Avvocato, I'd like to record what your
client has to say.'
This time it was the lawyer who responded with politesse, which he
conveyed by the merest inclination of his head.
Brunetti reached forward, conscious as he did so of how
often he had done the same thing, and switched on the microphone. He
gave the date, his name and rank, and identified all of the people in
the room.
'My client .. .' Donatini began again, and again Brunetti saw fit to
stop him with a raised hand.
'I think it would be better, Avvocato Brunetti said, leaning forward to
switch off the microphone, 'if your client were to speak for himself.'
Before the lawyer could object or question this, Brunetti went on with
an easy smile, 'That might give a greater appearance of openness on his
part, and it would certainly then be easier for him to clarify anything
that might seem confusing.' Brunetti smiled, aware of how elegant had
been his implication that he reserved the right to question the boy as
he spoke.
Donatini looked at Maggiore Filippi, who until now had remained
motionless and silent. 'Well, Maggiore?' he asked politely.
The Maggiore nodded, a gesture his son responded to with what appeared
to be an involuntary half-salute.
Brunetti smiled across at the boy and turned the microphone on again.
'Would you tell me your name, please?' he asked.
'Paolo Filippi.' He spoke clearly and louder than he had spoken the
last time, presumably for the benefit of the microphone.
'And are you a third-year student at the San Martino Military Academy
in Venice?'
'Yes.'
'Could you tell me what happened at the Academy on the night of
November third of this year?'
'You mean about Ernesto?' the boy asked.
'Yes, I'm asking specifically about anything concerning the death of
Ernesto Moro, also a cadet at the Academy.'
The boy was silent for so long that Brunetti finally asked, 'Did you
know Ernesto Moro?'
'Yes?'
'Was he a friend of yours?'
The boy shrugged that possibility away, but before Brunetti could
remind him about the microphone and the need to speak, Paolo said, 'No,
we weren't friends.'
'What was the reason for that?'
The boy's surprise was obvious. 'He was a year younger than me. In a
different class.'
'Was there anything else about Ernesto Moro that prevented him from
being a friend of yours?'
The boy thought about this and finally answered, 'No.'
'Could you tell me about what happened that night?'
