‘Curious for one of them to come here.’ The group was a rival to the Camorra.
‘It is, yes, sir.’
‘Can you follow up on that too?’
Daniela said, ‘I’ll try.’ She turned to Ercole and seemed suddenly to remember him, eyeing his gray Forestry Corps uniform. ‘Yes, from last night.’
‘Ercole.’ So her smile a moment ago was not one of recognition.
‘Daniela.’
He didn’t dare offer his hand again. Just a cool-guy nod. A nod worthy of Silvio De Carlo.
Silence for a moment.
Ercole blurted, ‘You would like a water?’
And as if she didn’t know what mineral water might be, he gestured toward the inspector’s San Pellegrino, which stood open on the edge of the table.
And struck it, sending the liter bottle cartwheeling to the floor. Being carbonated, it spurted most of the contents across the pale tile in seconds.
‘Oh, no, oh, I’m so sorry...’
Rossi gave a chuckle. Daniela tilted a perplexed look toward Ercole, who crouched and began mopping furiously with paper towels he pulled from a roll in the corner of the room.
‘I...’ the blushing man stammered. ‘What have I done? I’m sorry, Inspector. Did I get any on you, Officer Canton?’
Daniela said, ‘It’s no harm.’
Ercole continued to mop.
Daniela left the situation room.
As Ercole’s eyes followed her, from his kneeling position on the floor, he noted someone else appear in the doorway. It was Dante Spiro, the prosecutor.
The man was looking past Ercole, as if the young officer were not even present. He greeted Rossi and examined the board. He absently slipped into his side pocket the leather book Ercole recognized from last night. He put away a pen too. He’d been jotting something in the volume.
Today Spiro wore black slacks and a tight brown jacket with a yellow pocket square, a white shirt. No tie. He set a briefcase on a desk in the corner, which apparently he had commandeered as his own, and Ercole guessed he would be a frequent visitor. The man’s office — Procura della Repubblica Presso il Tribunale di Napoli — was on the Via Costantino Grimaldi, across the street from the criminal courts. It was not far from the Questura here, a ten-minute drive.
‘Prosecutor Spiro,’ he said, still mopping.
A glance at Ercole, then a frown, wondering, clearly, who he was.
‘Anything more, Massimo?’ Spiro asked Rossi.
‘Beatrice’s run the evidence. Ercole has written it up, along with his and my notes.’ A nod at the paper on the easel.
‘Who?’
Rossi gestured toward Ercole, who was dropping a soaked paper towel into the trash bin.
‘The Forestry officer from last night.’
‘Oh.’ It was clear that Spiro had mistaken him for a janitor.
‘Sir, I am pleased to see you again.’ Ercole smiled but lost the grin when Spiro ignored him once more.
‘What of the phone card?’ Spiro asked.
‘Postal said they should have information within the hour. And they are still monitoring the websites for video uploads. There has been nothing yet. And Ercole anticipates we should hear more from the Americans soon.’
‘Does he now?’ Spiro asked wryly. He took a cheroot from his pocket and slipped the end into his mouth. He did not light the stick. He gazed at the board.
‘Beatrice has done her typically solid job,’ Spiro said.
‘Yes. She’s good.’
The prosecutor seemed to sway slightly as he stared at the writing. ‘What is that word?’
‘Bacteria, sir.’
‘I can hardly make it out. Write more carefully.’ Then he scanned the photographs. Spiro mused, ‘So we have this American psycho who has come here on vacation to prey outside his usual hunting grounds. What patterns can we see?’
‘Patterns?’ Ercole said, smiling. He mopped a bit more water and rose.
The lean man, with the most intense black eyes that Ercole had ever seen, turned slowly. ‘I’m sorry?’ Though Spiro was shorter, Ercole felt he was looking up into the prosecutor’s eyes.
‘Well, sir, I am not sure about that.’
‘“Not sure, not sure.” Tell me what you mean.’ His voice boomed. ‘I’m quite curious. You’re not sure about something? What might you not be sure about?’
Ercole was no longer smiling. Blushing, he swallowed. ‘Well, sir, with respect, how can there be any patterns? He’s picking his victims at random.’
‘Explain.’
‘Well, it’s obvious. He finds a victim in New York City, a businessman apparently, according to the Europol report. Then he flees to Italy and selects, it seems, a foreigner of limited means at a rural bus stop.’ He gave a laugh. ‘I see no pattern there.’
‘“See no pattern, see no pattern.”’ Spiro tasted the words as if trying a suspect wine. He paced slowly, studying the chart.
Ercole gulped once more and looked to Rossi, who tossed an amused glance toward both men.
‘What do you do with the fact, Forestry Officer—’
‘Benelli.’
‘— that the kidnapper’s car was parked by the desolate roadside and the kidnapper was waiting in the bushes? Does that not suggest design?’
‘It’s not clear when the kidnapper arrived. It might have been before or after the victim did. I would suggest, at best, there’s a design to kidnap a victim, but not necessarily this victim. So, pattern? I’m not sure I see one.’
Spiro glanced at his watch, a large gold model. Ercole could not detect the brand. He said to Rossi, ‘I have a meeting upstairs, with another inspector. Let me know about any videos. Oh, and Forestry Officer?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your name is Ercole, right?’
‘It is.’
At last, he recognizes me. And he is going to concede my observation about patterns. Ercole felt victorious.
‘From mythology.’
His name was the Italian version of ‘Hercules,’ the Roman god.
‘My father enjoyed ancient lore and—’
‘You are familiar with the twelve labors that Hercules was required to complete?’
‘Yes, yes!’ Ercole laughed. ‘As an act of penance, in the service of King Eurystheus.’
‘You’re falling behind in yours.’
‘My...’
‘Your labors.’
Silence.
Looking away from the man’s fierce eyes, Ercole said, ‘I’m sorry, sir?’
Spiro pointed. ‘You missed some water there. You wouldn’t want it to seep under the tile, now, would you? The gods would not be pleased.’
Ercole glanced down. Tight-lipped for a moment, and furious that he could not control the reddening of his face. ‘I will get right to it, sir.’
As Spiro left, Ercole dropped to his knees. He happened to glance up and see just outside the doorway Rossi’s protégé Silvio De Carlo, looking in. The handsome officer would have witnessed the entire dressing-down — and the order to complete mopping, the implication being that Ercole was not even a competent janitor, let alone investigator. His face a blank mask, De Carlo moved on.
Ercole said to Rossi, ‘What have I done, Inspector? I was merely stating what seemed logical from the facts. I could see no pattern. A crime in New York, a crime in the hills of Campania.’
‘Ah, you committed the crime of blinders.’
‘Blinders. What is that?’
‘It’s a subtle psychological condition that inexperienced investigators fall victim to. You had already — on the basis of very preliminary evidence — reached the conclusion that this was a random crime. But by embracing that theory you will be disinclined to expand your investigative horizons and consider that the Composer might have acted out of design to target these particular people and that we can discover a pattern to his acts that will help us apprehend him.