‘We need translations of these reports, Ercole.’
He looked them over, shuffled through them. ‘How does this connect to the Composer?’
‘It doesn’t. Like I said, it’s another case.’
‘Another...?’ The officer chewed his lip. He read more carefully. ‘Yes, yes, the American student. This is not one of Massimo Rossi’s cases. It’s being run by Ispettore Laura Martelli.’ He nodded at the Questura.
Rhyme said nothing more and Sachs added, ‘We’ve been asked by a State Department official to review the evidence. The defendant’s lawyer’s convinced the boy is innocent.’
Ercole sipped his orange juice, which — like most non-coffee beverages in Italy, Rhyme had observed — had been served without ice. And Coca-Cola always came with lemon. The Forestry officer said, ‘Oh, but, no. I cannot do this. I am sorry.’ As if they’d missed something blatantly obvious. ‘You do not see. This would be un conflitto d’interesse. A—’
Rhyme said, ‘Not really.’
‘No. How is that possible?’
‘It would be, no, it might be a conflict of interest if you were working for the Police of State directly. But you are, technically, still a Forestry officer, isn’t that right?’
‘Signor Rhyme, Capitano Rhyme, that is not a defense that will be very persuasive at my trial. Or will stop Prosecutor Spiro from beating me half to death if he finds out. Wait... who is the procuratore?’ He flipped through the pages. And closed his eyes. ‘Mamma mia! Spiro is the prosecutor. No, no, no. I cannot do this! If he finds out, he will beat me fully to death!’
‘You’re exaggerating,’ Rhyme reassured, though he admitted to himself that Dante Spiro seemed fully capable of a blow or two.
Difficult, vindictive, cold as ice...
‘Besides, we’re simply asking you to translate. We could hire someone but it will take too long. We want to look over the evidence quickly, give our assessment and get back to the Composer. There’s no reason for Dante to find out.’
Sachs added, ‘This is very likely a case of an innocent American student in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.’
He muttered, ‘Ah, we had a case like that a few years ago. In Perugia. It did not go well for anybody.’
Rhyme nodded to the file. ‘And the evidence may very well prove Soames is guilty. In which case we will have done the prosecution and the government a service. At no charge.’
Sachs: ‘Please. Just translation. What’s the harm in that?’
With a resigned look on his face, Ercole pulled the papers forward and, with a glance around, as if Spiro were hiding in the shadows nearby, began to read.
Rhyme said, ‘Make a chart, a mini chart.’
Sachs dug into her computer bag and pulled out a yellow legal pad. She uncapped a fine-pointed marker and looked toward Ercole. ‘You dictate and I’ll write.’
‘I am still an accessory to a crime,’ he whispered.
Rhyme only smiled.
When she had finished writing, they looked the pad over. Rhyme reflected: Solid work. He would have liked to have samples of the trace from the deck or roof area where the smoking station was located, and from the site of the attack itself. But this was good for starters.
Sachs glanced at the remaining pages of notes in Italian Ercole was staring at, the official report. ‘Go on,’ she insisted kindly. ‘Please. I want to hear the accounts.’
Ercole apparently hoped he’d be let off the hook by simply translating the forensics. Reciting the witnesses’ and suspect’s statements seemed perhaps, in the young officer’s mind, to move his crime into a different category, misdemeanor to felony.
Reading, he said, ‘Natalia Garelli, twenty-one, attends the University of Naples. She hosted a party in her flat for fellow students and friends. The victim, Frieda S., arrived at ten p.m. Alone. She remembered drinking and talking with some people — mostly Natalia or her boyfriend — but was a bit shy. She too is a student, just arrived from Holland. She vaguely recalls around eleven or midnight the defendant approaching her and talking. They both had glasses of wine at the table where they were sitting — this is downstairs — and Garry kept refilling her glass. Then they embraced and... limonarono... I do not know.’
‘Made out?’ Sachs suggested.
‘Sì. Made out.’ He read more. ‘It was crowded so they went to the roof. Then Frieda has no memory until four in the morning, waking on the roof of the adjacent building and realizing she’d been assaulted. She was still quite drugged but managed to get to the wall separating the two rooftops. She climbed over, fell and was calling for help. Natalia, the hostess, heard her cries and got her downstairs into the apartment. Natalia’s boyfriend, Dev, called the police.
‘Investigators checked the door to the roof of the adjoining building but it was locked and did not appear to have been opened recently. Natalia told police that she suspected Serbian roommates living downstairs in that building — they’d been crude and drank a lot — but the police verified they were out of town. And dismissed anyone else in that building as suspects.
‘A few witnesses on the roof — at the table for smoking, the smoking station — saw Garry and Frieda together briefly, walking to an alcove on the roof, where there was a bench, but that is out of sight of the smoking station. Between about one a.m. and two, only they were upstairs. At two a.m. Garry walked down the stairs to the apartment proper and left. Several witnesses reported that he seemed distressed. No one noticed that Frieda was missing. People assumed she’d left earlier. The next day there was an anonymous call — a woman, calling from a pay phone at a tabaccaio near Naples University. After she heard about the attack, she wanted to call the police and report that she believed she’d seen Garry mixing something into Frieda’s drink.’
‘And no idea of her identity at all?’ Rhyme asked.
‘No.’ Ercole continued, ‘The call allowed the inspector to get a warrant to search his flat. That led to the discovery of traces of the date-rape drug on the jacket he’d worn the night of the party and the other articles of clothing.’
Sachs asked, ‘Garry’s story?’
‘He admits that he and Frieda were drinking wine downstairs. And, again, making out. They went upstairs for more privacy. There were people at the smoking station, so they went around the corner to a deserted area and sat down and did more making out. But she grew tired and bored and less interested. About one thirty, he was tired too and he went downstairs and left the party. She was on the bench on the roof, drowsing, when he did.’
‘Tired too,’ Sachs suggested, ‘because he took a sip of her wine, which was spiked. His DNA was on her glass.’
‘Suggesting he didn’t know about the roofie!’ Ercole said, enthusiastic for just a moment, lost in the case. Then he went back to being guilty and nervous.
Rhyme said, ‘One problem with the government’s case: The DNA found in Frieda’s vagina. It wasn’t Garry’s.’ He looked at Ercole uncertainly. He wondered if the graphic aspects of the crime would trouble a young officer who’d never worked an assault before, much less a rape.
The Italian officer glanced at Rhyme and caught his concern. ‘Capitano Rhyme, last month I ran an undercover operation to arrest men passing off inferior bull semen as that from prize animals. I surreptitiously videoed the collection process. I am someone who has made bull porn, so such matters are not bothering to me, if that’s your question.’