Valducci doesn’t knock on her office door or even manage a good morning as he bursts in. ‘I’m told you have something of a cause célèbre.’ He tosses a manila file on her desk and enjoys watching it slide. ‘I’d very much like to hear about it. In person. From you. I prefer it that way — it’s much better than getting it second-hand from the animals who gather around the water cooler.’
Louisa takes off her glasses. She slowly spins her desk chair and vows not to lose her temper. ‘I’m not sure I would call it a cause célèbre, but the patient is certainly interesting.’ She opens the file he dropped and sees inside a copy of medical notes she’s made. ‘As it says in here: our admission is an Italian woman, identity so far unknown, mid to late twenties, well nourished.’
‘This I know.’ He pats his mouth to stifle a fake yawn and settles into a seat opposite her.
‘And as you are also apparently aware, she’s exhibiting as DID. Dissociative identity—’
‘I know what DID is,’ he snaps. ‘Or to be more specific, what it isn’t.’ He shows his teeth, in what he mistakenly believes is an enigmatic smile. ‘Better doctors than you have made fools of themselves with this little acronym.’ He melodramatically puts his hand to his forehead. ‘And my, isn’t it strange that patients with DID are so often involved in criminal activity? Crimes they conveniently blame on one of their many other personalities. Stranger still if you ask me that none of those other personalities turn up at the police station and confess, or rat on the offending alter, as you so ridiculously call them.’
Louisa tries to ignore his goading. ‘Our patient is presenting classic symptoms. She’s writing and drawing in different personalities. Speaking in multiple voices and tones, as though she were different people of different ages. Her mood swings are extreme — from timid to violent.’
He waves a hand dismissively. ‘Fakery! This is all rubbish and you know it. Have you run diagnostic tests for borderline personality disorder?’
‘Of course we’ve run tests — and we’re running more. You don’t need to tell me how to do my job. We’ve taken more blood and urine samples than an Olympic doping committee, and before you ask, no, there is no chance of amphetamine-induced psychoses, if that’s what you’re fishing for.’
He’s amused by her anger.
Pleased that he has roused it so fully.
‘There’s nothing wrong with fishing, Louisa. When you have but a small crack in the ice of the mind, fishing is the best thing you can do.’
She is bursting to tell him not to be so stupid and so pompous.
He stands and folds his arms autocratically. ‘And while we’re angling away, we should make sure we also run endocrine function tests to rule out hyperadrenalism, pernicious anaemia and thyroid disorders.’ He takes her silence as a sign of his intellectual victory. ‘Given the delusionary symptoms, don’t dismiss the possibility of schizophrenia. It’s tricky to diagnose—’
Louisa’s out of her chair before he can finish. ‘Schizophrenia? She’s no more schizophrenic than you or I. With all respect, can I remind you that I am a qualified neuropsychiatrist? At least credit me with some expert judgement.’
Snapping point. He just loves it when he gets people here. ‘Not in this country.’ He wags a finger at her, ‘Your qualification is an American one, and as you know, we don’t follow the outdated bible of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders quite as slavishly as your American mentors do.’
Louisa shakes her head at him. Boss or no boss, he’s a sentence away from getting a slapped face. She worked damned hard to get qualified, and even in Rome, ten years at Johns Hopkins should stand for something.
The administrator picks his file up off her desk. ‘Blood tests, urine tests, tox tests: I want more doing — and all of them completed — before you even mention DID again. Do I make myself clear?’
If looks could kill, he’d be no more than a plasma stain up Louisa’s office wall. ‘Perfectly.’
‘These beds are expensive. If she’s fit, I want her out on the street and off my budget as quick as possible. Let the police work out what to do with her.’
Before Louisa can explode, her door bangs shut and he’s gone.
27
Valentina Morassi’s start to the day isn’t going much better than Louisa’s.
She planned to take this week off as holiday, but the incident in Cosmedin has scuppered any hopes of spending much time with Tom.
She forces herself to leave him naked in bed, sleeping off the wonderfully numbing effects of another night of excessive sex and the great bottle of Barolo they shared after getting home from a local restaurant.
Dozens of doubts and hundreds of hopes jangle like wind chimes in her mind as she drives from the apartment to the office.
Federico is already at his desk, and he looks even worse than she feels. Wife problems, he calls it, solved by half a bottle of brandy and a night on the couch. It’s not something Valentina wants to discuss.
Love is meant to bloom, not wither and die.
He gets his act together after several long slugs of tar-black espresso and a sneaky cigarette in a toilet cubicle. ‘I’m going to the labs to see what they’ve done with that bloodstained robe we got from the crazy woman. You want to come?’
Valentina certainly does.
It’s not long before Federico soon regrets asking her. All the way to the offices of the Raggruppamento Carabinieri per la Investigazioni Scientifiche, she pushes him for progress reports on every aspect of the inquiry.
‘Please stop busting my balls,’ he pleads as they’re ushered through reception and climb some stairs. ‘It all takes time. You need to learn that in Rome things move at a certain pace.’
‘Snail’s pace — and it’s not fast enough,’ says Valentina. ‘I want to bury this case quickly. I’ve got a feeling that if it hangs around, it’s going to cause us all kinds of problems.’
Federico doesn’t fight her.
He leads the way down corridors with walls as brown as tobacco. They finally reach a door to a small office filled by a very fat middle-aged man in a white coat. He’s sitting on a swivel chair that’s way too small for him. Valentina notices that he has a telephone tucked between his left shoulder and ear and a dried waterfall of croissant crumbs down the front of the black T-shirt he’s ill-advisedly wearing beneath his lab coat.
Federico does the introductions with a wave of his hand. ‘Professore Enrico Ferrari, this is my boss, Capitano Valentina Morassi.’
‘Buongiorno. I am charmed to meet you, Capitano.’ He looks at his friend. ‘And I must confess, I am somewhat surprised. I have never known Federico to venture out this early in the day.’
Valentina shakes his hand and resists obvious remarks about him not looking like any Ferrari she’s ever seen. ‘I believe you have the clothing and weapon recovered from the case in Cosmedin?’
‘I have.’ He struggles off his chair and brushes some of the crumbs from his chest. ‘The sword is actually in this locked cabinet over here. We are going to take some more photographs of it this morning. An amazing object.’
He opens the top drawer of a three-box cabinet and lifts out a heavy chunk of metal wrapped in brown paper. ‘It’s been finger-printed already and there are several latents on it, but we don’t have any direct matches as yet.’ He places it on his desk and moves papers, a stapler and laptop to one side so he can unwrap it. ‘It’s very old.’