Doctored Evidence

Raffi, yes, there is polenta,' but Brunetti could hear that her heart was in the tone and not the words.

'Mamma’ Chiara offered, 'if there are fresh figs for dessert, I'll do the dishes.'

'You have the soul of a merchant,' Paola said, setting down the bowl and going back into the kitchen to get the polenta.

Indeed there were figs, and with them esse, the S-shaped biscuits that a friend of Paola's father still sent them from Burano. And after that, Brunetti had no choice but to repair to bed to sleep for an hour.

When he woke, dry-mouthed and sweating in the stifling heat, he was conscious of Paola beside him. Because she never slept in the afternoon, he knew before he opened his eyes that she would be lying with her head on the pillow, reading. He turned his head and was proven right.

Recognizing the book, he asked, 'Are you still reading the catechism?'

'Yes’ she said, not removing her eyes from the page. 'I'm reading a chapter a day, though it's not called a catechism any more.'

Rather than inquire as to its new title, Brunetti asked, instead, 'And where are you now?'

'On the Sacraments.'

By rote, the words swam up from his youth: 'Baptism, communion, confirmation, marriage, ordination, confession…' and then his voice trailed off. 'There's seven of them, aren't there?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'What's the seventh? I can't remember. It's just gone.' As happened every time he failed to remember something simple and ordinary, he had a moment's panic that this was the same beginning no one had wanted to recognize in his mother.

'Extreme unction’ Paola said, glancing aside at him. 'Perhaps the most subtle of them all.'

Brunetti failed to understand what she meant and asked, 'Why 'subtle'?'

Think about it, Guido. Just at the time a person is approaching death, usually when it's generally agreed that there is little or no hope, the priest arrives.'

'Yes. Exactly. But I still don't understand why that's so subtle.'

'Think about it. In the past, the only people who could read and write were priests.'

Because he was hot and thirsty and because he usually woke up cranky if he slept in the afternoon, Brunetti said, 'Isn't that a bit of an exaggeration?'

'Yes, all right. It is. But priests could, and most people could not, at least not until the last century.'

‘I still don't see where you're going with all of this’ he said.

'Think eschatologically, Guido’ she enjoined, further confusing him.

‘I strive to do so every moment of every day’ he said, having forgotten the meaning of the word but already regretting that he'd snapped at her.

'Death, judgement, heaven and hell’ she said. 'Those are the four last things. And at the point when people are about to encounter the first and know they cannot escape the second, they start to think about the third and the fourth. And there is the priest, all too ready to talk about the fires of hell and the joys of heaven, though I've always been of a mind that people are far more concerned with avoiding the former than with experiencing the latter.'

He lay still, beginning to suspect where this was going.

'So there he was, the local priest – who incidentally often happened to be the notary -and then he no doubt started to talk about the fires of hell that would consume a person in the flesh, unspeakable pain to be prolonged for all eternity.'

She could have been an actress, he thought, so powerfully was her voice a testament to belief in every word she spoke.

'But there exists a way for the good Christian to achieve forgiveness’ switching to the present tense, she went on in her most syrupy voice, 'to free themselves from the fires of hell. Yes, my son, you have but to open your heart to the love of Jesus, your purse to the needs of the poor. You have but to put your name or, if you cannot write, your mark on this paper, and in exchange for your generosity to Holy Mother Church, the gates of heaven themselves will swing open to receive you.'

She let the book fall open on her chest and turned to face him. 'So the last-minute will was signed, leaving this or that, or everything, to the Church.' Her voice turned savage. 'Of course they wanted to get in there when they were sick or dying or out of their minds. What better time to suck them dry?'

She picked the book up again, turned a page, and said in an entirely conversational tone, 'That's why it is the most subtle.'

'Do you say these things to Chiara?' asked an appalled Brunetti.

She turned to him again. 'Of course not. Either she'll realize these things when she's older, or she won't. Please don't forget that I agreed never to interfere in the religious education of the children.'

'And if she doesn't realize these things?' he asked, quotation marks of emphasis around the last three words and expecting Paola to say that she would then be disappointed in her daughter.

'Then her life will probably be a lot more peaceful,' Paola said and returned her attention to the catechism.

Dottor Carlotti's ambulatorio was on the ground floor of a house in Calle Stella, not far from Fondamente Nuove. Brunetti had found the address in his Calli, Canali, e Campielli and recognized it when he saw two women with small children in their arms standing outside the door to the building. Brunetti smiled at the mothers and rang the bell to the right of the door. A grey-haired man of middle age answered, asking, 'Commissario Brunetti?'

When Brunetti nodded, the doctor put out his hand and, half shaking, half pulling, brought Brunetti into the building. He pointed to the door to his office, then stepped outside the door and invited the two women in, explaining that he would be busy for a time and asking them to come into the waiting room where they could at least escape the heat. He led Brunetti through the room so quickly that all Brunetti was aware of was the usual glossy-covered magazines and furniture that looked as if it had been taken from some relative's parlour.

The office was a copy of all the doctors' offices Brunetti had passed through in his life: the paper-covered examining table, the glass-topped counter holding packets of gauze-wrapped bandages, the desk covered with papers and files and boxes of medicine. The single difference from the offices of the doctors of his youth was the computer, which stood to the right of the desk.

He was an invisible man, Dottor Carlotti: look at him once, indeed, look at him five times, and the memory would register nothing save brown eyes behind dark-framed glasses, dry hair of an indeterminate colour retreating from the forehead, and a mouth of average size.

The doctor leaned back against his desk, arms folded, and waved Brunetti towards a chair. But then, as though he realized how unwelcoming his posture was, he went and sat behind his desk. He moved aside some papers, shifted a tube of something to the left, and folded his hands in front of him.

'How may I help you, Commissario?' the doctor asked.

'By telling me about Maria Battestini,' Brunetti began without introduction. 'You found her, didn't you, Dottore?'

Carlotti looked at the surface of his desk, then across at Brunetti. 'Yes. I ordinarily went to see her once a week.'

When it seemed the doctor was going to say nothing more, Brunetti asked, 'Was there an ongoing condition you were treating, Dottore?'

'No, no, nothing like that. She was as healthy as I am, perhaps even more so. Except for her knees.' Then he surprised Brunetti by saying, 'But you probably know that already, if it was Rizzardi who did the autopsy. Probably know more about her health than I do.'

'You know him?'

'Not really. We belong to the same medical associations, so I've spoken to him at dinners or at meetings. But I know his reputation. That's why I say you'd know more about her state of health than I do.' His smile was shy for a man Brunetti guessed must be well into his forties.

Brunetti said, 'Yes, he did the autopsy, and he told me exactly what you've said, that she was extraordinarily healthy for a woman her age.'

The doctor nodded, as if pleased that his opinion of Rizzardi's skill had been confirmed. 'Did he say what killed