He let the sheets of paper drift into the valley between himself and his apparently comatose wife and opened Industrial Illness at the index.
He read until nearly six, when he set down the book and went into the kitchen, made himself caffe latte, and took it back into the bedroom. He sat, sipping at his coffee and watching the light on the paintings on the far wall.
'Paola’ he said soon after the bells had rung seven. And then again, ‘Paola.'
She must have responded to something in his voice rather than to her name, for she replied in an entirely natural voice. 'If you bring me coffee, I'll listen to you.'
For the fourth time, he got out of bed. He made a larger pot of coffee and brought two cups back to the bedroom with him. He found her sitting up, her glasses slipped down to the end of her nose, Tassini's book open on her knees.
He handed her a cup. She took it, sipped, and smiled her thanks. She patted the bed beside her and he sat. They drank some coffee. After a time, she pushed her glasses up onto her head. She said, 'I have no idea what you're doing, Guido. Reading something like this half the night.' With her free hand, she shut the book and tossed it on to the bed.
'I think I know what the numbers mean,' he said. 'He knew the laws that deal with pollution and he listed them in the proper legal way, only without the spaces between the dates and numbers.'
He expected Paola to ask what the laws were, but she surprised him by saying, 'How would he know the numbers of the laws?' In her tone, he detected more than a little of the scorn the educated reserve for those who aspire to their knowledge.
'I have no idea,' Brunetti confessed.
'Did he study law?'
'I don't know,' Brunetti said, realizing how little he knew about Tassini's past; the man had passed too quickly from suspect to victim.
'His mother-in-law said he wanted to be a night-watchman so he could sit there and read all night’ he told Paola.
With a smile, she said, 'I wouldn't be surprised if there was a time when my mother might have said the same thing about you, Guido,' but she leaned over and squeezed his hand to show she was only kidding. He hoped.
He got to his feet and took her empty cup. 'I think I'll go to the Questura’ he said, thinking that he would pick up the newspapers on the way and see how the story was being reported.
She nodded and reached for the book she kept on her night table. She put on her glasses and opened it. Brunetti picked up Tassini's book and went back out to the kitchen to put their cups in the sink.
On his way to the Questura, Brunetti bought the Corriere and the Gazzettino and unfolded them on his desk as soon as he got to his office. The death had taken place early enough the previous day for reporters to have had a full day to sniff around the factory, the hospital, and then around Tassini's home. There was a photo of Tassini, taken years ago, and one of the De Cal factory with three carabinieri standing in front of it: Brunetti had no idea that they had become involved. According to the accounts in both papers, Tassini's body had been discovered by a co-worker when he arrived at the factory to adjust the temperature of the new gettate that had spent the night in the furnaces. The man's body was lying in front of one of the furnaces, in a temperature estimated to be in excess of one hundred degrees.
The police had questioned Tassini's co-workers and family, but an official investigation would begin only after the results of the autopsy. Tassini, who was thirty-six, had worked at De Cal's factory for six years and left a wife and two children.
As soon as Brunetti finished reading the article, he dialled the telefonino of the medico legate, Ettore Rizzardi. The doctor answered with a laconic 'Si.'
'It's Guido,' Brunetti began.
Before he could continue, Rizzardi said, 'You are not going to believe this, but he died of a heart attack.'
'What? He wasn't forty yet.'
'Well, it wasn't that kind of a heart attack’ Rizzardi said, surprising Brunetti, who had not known there was more than one type.
"Then what kind was it?'
'From dehydration,' Rizzardi said and went on, 'He was lying there most of the night. The temperature did it. That idiot Venturi didn't bother to measure it, but the men at the fornace told me when I called. That is, they told me what it would have been if the temperature inside was about 1,400 and the door was open.'
'How much is that?' Brunetti asked.
'One hundred and fifty-seven’ Rizzardi answered, 'but that's just outside the door. Down on the floor, it wouldn't be as hot, but still hot enough to kill him.'
'What happens?'
'You sweat. It's worse than any sauna you can think of, Guido. You sweat and sweat until there's no more sweat to come out. And while it's coming out, it takes all the minerals with it. And once there are no more minerals, especially sodium and potassium, the heart goes into arrhythmia, and then you have a heart attack.'
'And then you die’ Brunetti completed.
'That's right. And then you die.'
'Any signs of violence?' Brunetti asked.
'There was a mark on his head, a bruise. The skin was broken, but there was no dirt in it and no traces of what he might have hit.'
'Or of what might have hit him?' Brunetti suggested.
'Or of what he came into contact with, Guido’ Rizzardi said in a firm voice. 'It bled for a while, until he died.'
Brunetti had already had Bocchese tell him that any sign of human tissue on the door to the furnace would have been destroyed by the fire, so he did not bother to ask.
'Anything else?' Brunetti asked.
'No’ Rizzardi said, 'nothing that you could think was suspicious.'
'Did you do it?' Brunetti asked, suddenly curious as to why Rizzardi knew so much about the state of Tassini's body.
'I offered to help my colleague, Dottor Venturi, with the autopsy. I told him I was curious because I'd never seen anything like this’ Rizzardi said in his dispassionate, professional voice.
But then his tone changed and he said, 'You know, it's true, Guido. I'd never seen anything like this: just read about it. You should have seen his lungs. I couldn't have imagined. Breathing in that heat: it made them produce so much liquid. I've seen it with smoke, of course,, but I had no idea that heat itself could do the same thing.'
'But it was a heart attack?' Brunetti asked, unwilling to hear more of Rizzardi's professional enthusiasm.
'Yes. That's what Venturi put on the death certificate.'
'What would you have put?' Brunetti asked, hoping Rizzardi would confirm his own suspicions.
'Heart attack, Guido. Heart attack. That's what the man died of, a heart attack.'
'One more thing, Ettore: is there a list of what was in his pockets?'
'Wait a minute’ the doctor said. 'I had the list here a minute ago.' Brunetti heard a click as the doctor set the phone down on his desk, then the rustling of papers. A moment later, he was back. 'A set of keys, a wallet with identification and thirty Euros, a handkerchief, and three Euros and eighty-seven cents. That's it.'
Brunetti thanked him and hung up.
20
After his conversation with Rizzardi, Brunetti decided to go down to the Archive and make copies of the laws Tassini's notes had referred to. Back in his office, Brunetti read through them. The 1973 law established limits for waste water that flowed into the laguna, the sewers, even the sea. It also established time limits within which the glass manufacturers had to install water purifiers and then established the agency that would inspect those purifiers. The law of 1982 imposed even stricter limits on the water system and addressed the acids that Assunta had mentioned. As Brunetti read of the limits and restrictions, he could not silence the small voice that asked him what had gone on before that and what had flowed into the laguna before these laws were passed?