a calm voice.
'So you wouldn't have to decide?'
Brunetti bowed his head but turned the motion into a nod. 'In part,
yes, but it's also for you and your family.'
To spare us embarrassment?' Moro asked with heavy emphasis on the last
word.
'No/ Brunetti asked, worn down by Moro's contempt. To spare you
danger.'
'What danger?' Moro asked, as though he were really curious.
The danger that would come to all of you if this went to trial.'
'I don't understand.'
'Because the report you suppressed would have to be produced as
evidence, or at least you would have to testify as to its existence and
contents. To justify Filippi's behaviour and his father's anger. Or
fear, or whatever it was.'
Moro put a hand to his forehead in what seemed to Brunetti an
artificial gesture. 'My report?' he finally asked.
'Yes. About military procurement.'
Moro took his hand away. There is no report, Commissario. At least
not about the Army or procurement or whatever it is they're afraid I've
done. I abandoned that when they shot my wife.'
Brunetti was amazed to hear Moro speak so calmly, as though it were a
truth universally acknowledged that his wife had been shot
deliberately.
The doctor went on. The started doing research on their spending and
where the money went as soon as I was appointed to the committee. It
was obvious where all the money was going; their arrogance makes them
very sloppy bookkeepers, so their trail was very easy to follow, even
for a doctor. But then they shot my wife.'
'You say that as though there's no question Brunetti said.
Moro looked across at him and said in a cold voice. There's no
question. I was called even before she reached the hospital. And so I
agreed to abandon my research. The suggestion was made at the time
that I retire from politics. And I did. I obeyed them,
Commissario.'
'You knew they shot her?' Brunetti asked, though he had no idea who
'they' were, at least no idea so clear that a specific name could be
attached.
'Of course,' Moro said, his voice slipping back towards sarcasm. T'd
done at least that much research.'
'But then why arrange the separation from your wife?' Brunetti
asked.
To be sure they left her alone.'
'And your daughter?' Brunetti asked with sudden curiosity.
'In a safe place was the only answer Moro was willing to provide.
Then why put your son there, at the Academy?' Brunetti asked, but as
he did it came to him that perhaps Moro had thought it would be best to
hide the boy in plain sight. The people who shot his wife might think
twice about creating bad publicity for the Academy; or perhaps he had
hoped to fool them.
Moro's face moved in something that might once have been a smile.
'Because I couldn't stop him, Commissario. It was the greatest failure
of my life that Ernesto wanted to be a soldier. But that's all he ever
wanted to be, ever since he was a little boy. And nothing I could ever
do or say could change it.'
'But why would they kill him?' Brunetti asked.
When Moro eventually spoke, Brunetti had the sense that he was
relieved, at long last, to be able to talk about this. 'Because they
are stupid and didn't believe that it was so easy to stop me. That I
was a coward and wouldn't oppose them.' He sat thinking for a long
time and added, 'Or perhaps Ernesto was less of a coward than I am. He
knew I had once planned to write a report, and perhaps he threatened
them with it.'
Though his office was cool, Brunetti saw that sweat stood on Moro's
brow and was slowly sliding down his chin. Moro wiped at it with the
back of his hand. Then he said, 'I'll never know.'
The two men sat for a long time, the only motion Moro's occasional
attempt to wipe the sweat from his face. When, finally, his face was
dry again, Brunetti asked, 'What do you want me to do, Dottore?'
Moro raised his head and looked at Brunetti with eyes that had grown
even sadder in the last half-hour. 'You want me to make the decision
