only known to a few other servers. Secret servers. Those other servers, however, were less secret than mine. They were the next step in the chain. Once one of these less secret servers downloaded a movie from my server, they in turn, passed the movie on to another set of computers that would let anyone download.”
The Ispettore looked incredulous. “I don’t understand.”
“It is complicated.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” Davide rubbed his chin. “This is mere child’s play. Exactly what I’ve been saying all along.” He smiled. “You are unfortunately still a child. No one would kill because of movies being downloaded. Even pirated DVD’s on the streets are no killing matter. You are clearly mistaken. You are telling me that someone would kill your whole family because you are playing around with movies. I don’t believe it for a moment even.” The Ispettore shook his head. Dorian could feel the Ispettore’s look of pity wash over him. The detective clearly thought Dorian was delusional.
Dorian had to convince the man. “Killing for this makes no sense, I know. Believe me, I know that. I don’t understand it either. I would never imagine…” Dorian trailed off. It didn’t make any sense whatsoever. If only he’d known, he’d never have even considered putting the server in his parent’s house when he’d left for Harvard. He wasn’t crazy, was he? But where were the warnings? No one ever said to turn the server off. There were never any threats. How come no one told him just to turn it off? That would have been so much easier than killing. And his family would still be alive.
“We’ll leave it at that. Enough. Is there anything else?” The Ispettore dismissed Dorian with a wave, walked back around his desk and sat down.
“What?” Dorian bit the inside of his lip. “Of course you’re right. It is ridiculous. But what else is there? I don’t know anything.” He paused. The guy didn’t even care. All this and he didn’t care. “And the server is the only item missing,” Dorian pleaded.
“Opportunism. Computers are light and valuable. Often the only item stolen.”
“But from a closet? You said any item could be significant. They didn’t take the laptops.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Casso, I am running out of time.” The Ispettore looked at his watch. “We are looking for real reasons. Possible motives. And you playing around with computers doesn’t qualify. Please let me know if there is anything else.”
Fuck. “I have nothing else.” What a prick. Child’s play? “If you are not interested, what can I do?” Dorian wanted to storm out. But he at least needed to find his own clues. Maybe he could discover something himself. “Can I at least see my parent’s apartment?”
“I’m sorry. That will have to wait until we have finished our investigation.”
“Which is when?”
“I think in this case we are speaking of months. As you know, it is complicated.”
“That’s my apartment now. I have a right to go there.”
“I’m sorry. Police procedure.”
“Aren’t you done in there?”
“Thank you for coming. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“Thank you,” Dorian answered, sucking on his teeth. He stood up, walking out without shaking the outstretched hand of the Ispettore. He stepped over the yellowish splatter of his vomit. Do things your way, he thought. He desperately wanted it all to stop, to simply disappear in a hole somewhere forever.
Dorian squinted up at his parent’s building, sweat dribbling down his forehead in the sweltering sun. Dry trees lined the street on either side, shading the pavement in a few spots, but little stopped the heat. In front of him he faced an open doorway wide enough to fit a car and leading into a cool entryway and stairwell. His gaze shifted to the keys in his hand: cool, heavy and secure. Why had it been so hard to convince the imbeciles at the police to allow him in? What did they need the scene for anyway? They’d done all the forensics there was to do. But still they’d tried everything, the Ispettore even telling him it was in his own interests. Ridiculous. Closure wasn’t important for him, they explained. It would be bad for his psychological state.
But there had been no choice on this. He had to see. Without a doubt this fucking atrocity was linked to his stupid movie downloading somehow. And maybe, possibly, if he went in there, he’d see something that would explain. Maybe if he went home, he’d see Mamma and Babbo and everything would be like a few weeks ago.
No, his rational brain interjected. There was no re-doing this. It had really happened. His feelings protested the reality: everything had to be ok. He would simply go upstairs and Mamma would make everything good again.
Dorian struggled to step forward. Now that he was here he didn’t feel like walking through the entrance gate into the cool shade and up the stairs. He pushed himself into motion. He could find no sign of the portiere, doorman. The man must have been at lunch.
The worn steps felt the same. The banister, the landings where he used to slip as he raced around the corner, his shoes gliding on the slick surface. Home. It sounded like home. It smelled like home. Even the touch of the wall, it all meant ‘home’. ‘Attention!’ his brain insisted, this was the wrong time to be lulled into a false sense of security.
He arrived at the landing, turning to the right towards the heavy steel front door. Instinctively, he reached out with the keys.
Wait. He took in the familiar scene, methodically if reluctantly: the lacquered brown metal door; the two gleaming locks; the massive metal frame; the dull red colored walls with a few white plaster chips here and there from the odd piece of furniture or new appliance being dragged by. A pastiche of yellow-black tape jarred the scene. POLICE SEAL: SEVERE PENALTIES. They should have removed that, thought Dorian. That’s what they’d promised. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t care; he had to force himself and go in.
He sliced the tape with the serrated edge of the long spindly key, like opening a shipping box. What remained was the simple matter of unlocking and opening the door. But.
Images flashed through his mind. Blood. Screams. Twisted bodies.
No. Not real.
But still. Too much. Much too much.
He turned away. Better not see what was in there. The police were right, those sorry useless bastards. He had to admit they were right. This was no place to be. Certainly not now. He leaned against the wall, his hands too weak to wipe away his tears. He needed time.
A new picture came. He saw a very young version of himself, sitting at what must have been a tiny table. The memory brought a smile through the tears. He remembered how his sister had dressed him up in her clothes and then invited him to a tea party. She had put a bonnet on his head, and given him a skirt and called him Auntie.
“Here’s how you hold the tea,” she’d explained, sticking her pinky way out in the air as she lifted what must have been a tiny cup. Towering above them both, were their two parents, sitting on much too small chairs, laughing and holding their mini tea cups with their pinkies stuck at attention. “See Mamma and Babbo, Doriana can drink her tea like a civilized person,” little Federica had said.
“I’m not Doriana,” Dorian had replied.
“Yes you are,” Federica had retorted.
“No I’m not.”
“Of course you aren’t,” his mother had said. “That’s just your role for this little tea party, darling.”
“Oh. Ok,” he’d replied, wiping the back of his hand across his face. “But I’m not a girl.” He’d given her a disgusted look. “Right?”
“Only in your role of Auntie.”
“Is that like theater?”
“It is darling.”
“Ok.” A devilish idea had popped into his head. “Federica, I can’t believe you didn’t tidy all the dishes. It was very rude of you to invite me here without cleaning your place first.” Little Dorian had fallen off his tiny chair laughing, but not before Federica had pulled the tea cup out of his hands.
The memory cracked.
They’re dead. His chest shook. Here he was
, IRL, In Real Life. No more drinking tea, didn’t matter what kind of fucking tea cups. Or couldn’t they just tell the silly story again and laugh long and hard about it, like they’d done so many times before. No, from now on it was only him. IR fucking L.
He screwed his face together, the tears coming faster, his thin frame leaned against the red wall, his body shaking hard and fast. Too much. How would he possibly survive, not with all this shit happening and totally alone in the world. No way.
His sobs echoed in the corner of the stairwell. Finally, he forced himself to lift his hands even though they felt like a stack of bricks. He wiped the tears on his shirt and turned again to the door. It had to be now; there was no turning back. He needed to see what had happened. Standing outside and looking away would never help anything. He’d never find anything out.
He turned the keys in the locks, every muscle straining with fear. He pushed and pulled until the door slid open on silent hinges.
Soapbox
“This studio has come so far. We are now producing the premier movies in Hollywood,” Mel said, looking over the slight man from Variety magazine, hunched in a wrinkled suit. Mel loved the view of the studio lot, miniature streets from all over the world. “We’ve found the secret formula that turns out quality movies. And when I say quality, I mean printing money. Our production pipeline is second to none. We use a stable of producers and directors to vet the scripts, then bring