El Globo’s editor in chief was a bit perplexed after he hung up. He had no idea how that rebellious, difficult young reporter had managed to snag what was probably the most difficult interview on the planet for the paper. He attributed it to a tremendous piece of luck. He felt a pang of jealousy and wanted to crawl back inside his skin.
He’d always wanted to visit the Oval Office.
UACV HEADQUARTERS
Via Lamarmora, 3 Saturday, April 9, 2005, 1:25 P.M.
Paola walked into Troi’s office without so much as a knock, but she did not like what she found there, or rather whom she found. Camilo Cirin sat facing the UACV’s director, and he chose that moment to stand up and walk out of the office, without giving Dicanti so much as a glance. She did her best to block his exit.
“Listen, Cirin—”
The chief of the Vatican Vigilanza deftly stepped around her and disappeared down the hall.
“Sit down, Dicanti,” Troi said, still seated on the other side of his desk.
“I want to protest the criminal actions of that man’s subordinate—”
“Basta, Ispettore. The inspector general has already given me a very useful summary of the events that transpired at the Hotel Raphael.”
Paola’s jaw dropped. As soon as they’d delivered the Spanish journalist into a cab headed for Bolonia, they headed directly to UACV headquarters to give their side of the story to Troi. The situation was no doubt complicated, but Paola still believed that Troi would back them up on the rescue of the journalist. She decided to talk to him alone, although naturally the last thing she’d expect was that her boss wouldn’t even want to hear her version.
“He must have told you that Dante attacked an unarmed journalist.”
“What he told me was that there was a difference of opinion, which was resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. It seems that Inspector Dante was trying to calm a potential witness who was a bit out of sorts, when you two attacked him. Dante is in the hospital as we speak.”
“That’s absurd! It’s not what happened at all.”
“Cirin also informed me that he was no longer going to work with us on this case.” Troi raised his voice several notches. “He was very disturbed by your attitude, which was hostile and aggressive toward Dante and the sovereignty of our neighboring country. Something which I myself can testify to, let it be said in passing. You will go back to your usual assignments, and Fowler will return to Washington. From here on out, only the Corpo di Vigilanza has the job of protecting the cardinals. For our part, we will immediately hand over the disc Karosky sent us, as well as the one which we recovered from the Spanish journalist, to the Vatican. And then we will forget it ever existed.”
“And Pontiero, what about him? I still remember the look you had on your face during the autopsy. Was that faked too? Who will see that there’s justice for him?”
“That’s no longer our responsibility.”
Dicanti felt so deceived and fed up she was physically sick. She was unable to recognize the man sitting in front of her, and whatever small ties of affection she might have felt for him were long gone. She asked herself with some sadness if that was why he had withdrawn his support so quickly. Perhaps it was the bitter finale to last night’s confrontation.
“This is because of me, Carlo?”
“Sorry?”
“Because of what happened last night. I didn’t think you were capable of this.”
“Please, Ispettore, no delusions of grandeur. My only interest in this case is in giving the Vatican whatever they need as efficiently as possible, something I’ve observed you’ve been unable to do.”
Thirty-four years of living and Paola had never witnessed such a discrepancy between a person’s words and the look on his face. She couldn’t hold back.
“You’re a useless pig, Carlo. Seriously. It doesn’t surprise me that everyone laughs at you behind your back. How did you end up this way?”
Troi turned red to the tips of his ears, but he managed to repress the explosion of anger that was making his lips tremble. Instead of letting rage get the better of him, he abruptly channeled it into a cold, measured verbal slap.
“At least I ended up somewhere, Ispettore. Be so kind as to leave your badge and your gun on my desk. You are suspended from your job and your salary for the next month, until I’ve had the opportunity to review your case carefully. Go home.”
Paola opened her mouth but nothing came out. In the movies the hero always encounters the devastating turn of phrase that foreshadows his triumphant return, a phrase by which the tyrant strips away each and every one of his privileges. But in real life, she was speechless. She dropped her badge and her pistol on the desk and stormed out of Troi’s office without looking back.
Fowler was waiting for her in the hallway. He had escorts: two policemen. Paola figured he had already received the fateful phone call.
“So this is how it ends,” Dicanti said.
A smile lit up the priest’s face.
“A pleasure knowing you, Dottoressa. These gentlemen have the sad duty of accompanying me to my hotel so I can collect my belongings before I head out to the airport.”
Paola grabbed his arm, her fingers pressing the sleeve.
“Padre, can’t you call someone? Just to get them to put this off.”
“I’m afraid not.” Fowler shook his head. “But I look forward to the day when I can invite you out for a good cup of coffee.”
Without saying another word, he got up and walked quickly down the hallway, followed by the two policemen.
Paola held out. She was in her apartment before tears got the better of her.
THE SAINT MATTHEW INSTITUTE
Sachem Pike, Maryland December 1999
Transcription of Interview #115 Between
Patient No. 3643 and Doctor Canice Conroy
[. . .]
Dr. Conroy: I see you have brought a book with you. Enigmas and Curiosities. Any tricky ones?
No. 3643: Beginner’s stuff.
Dr. Conroy: All right, then. Tell me one.
No. 3643: They’re too simple, really. I don’t think you will like them.
Dr. Conroy: But I like riddles.
No. 3643: OK. If a man digs a hole in one hour and two men dig two holes in two hours, how long will it take a man to dig half a hole?
Dr. Conroy: That’s easy. Half an hour.
No. 3643: [laughter]
Dr. Conroy: What are you laughing at? It’s half an hour. One hour, one hole. Half an hour, half a hole.
No. 3643: Doctor, half holes do not exist. A hole is always a hole. [laughs again]
Dr. Conroy: Are you trying to tell me something, Victor?
No. 3643: Of course, Doctor. Of course.
Dr. Conroy: You are not a hole, Victor. You are not irredeemably condemned to being what you are.
No. 3643: But I am, Doctor Conroy. And I have you to thank for showing me the right road.
Dr. Conroy: What road?
No. 3643: I fought for so long to resist being who I am, trying to be something I’m not. But thanks to you, I’ve become who I am. Isn’t that what you wanted?
Dr. Conroy: It’s not possible. I couldn’t have gone so wrong with you.
No. 3643: Doctor, you weren’t wrong. You made me see the light. You made me understand that to open a heavy door, you need a strong hand.
Dr. Conroy: Is that you? The strong hand?
No. 3643: [more laughter] No, Doctor. I’m the key.
DICANTI FAMILY APARTMENT
Via della Croce, 12 Saturday, April 9, 2005, 11:46 P.M.
For a long time the door to her room was shut. Paola was inside, completely distraught. Her mother was away, visiting friends in Ostia for the weekend, a little piece of luck that greatly relieved Paola. She was at her lowest, and wouldn’t have been able to hide it from her mother. If she’d seen the condition her daughter was in, Signora Dicanti would have tried to cheer her up, which would only have made matters worse. Paola ne
eded to be alone as she plunged into the failure and desperation she felt inside. She didn’t want anyone barging in on her.
She lay down on the bed, without bothering to remove her clothes. Noise from the street below and the faint light of an April afternoon both found their way into her room. That steady hum provided the background as she incessantly relived her conversation with Troi and the events of the last few days. Finally, she drifted off to sleep. Nearly nine hours after collapsing in exhaustion on her bed, the aroma of fresh coffee turned up in her dream, forcing her to open her eyes.
“Mamma, you’ve come back so soon—”
“You’re right, I did come back quickly. But I’m not who you think.” The voice was firm, polite, speaking a forceful but slightly hesitant Italian: the voice of Anthony Fowler.
Paola opened her eyes all the way and, without realizing what she was doing, threw both her arms around his neck.
“Careful, careful. You’ll spill the coffee.”
Paola let go of him unwillingly. Fowler was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her with a mischievous smile. In one hand he held a cup he had taken from the kitchen.
“How did you get in here? And how did you manage to escape from the police? They were putting you on a plane to Washington—”
“Calm down. One question at a time.” Fowler laughed. “As to how I managed to slip out of the hands of two fat and poorly trained public servants, I simply ask you not to insult my intelligence. As to how I got into the apartment, the answer is easy: a lock picker.”
“I see now. CIA basic training, right?”
“More or less. Sorry for the intrusion, but I knocked several times and nobody answered. I thought you might be in danger. When I saw you sleeping so peacefully, I decided to make good on my promise to invite you to a cup of coffee.”
Paola stood up, lifting the cup out of Fowler’s hand. The only light in the bedroom came from the lamps on the street, which threw monumental shadows across the high ceiling. Fowler looked around the room in the half-light. On one wall hung her degrees: high school, university, the FBI Academy. Swimming medals too, and even a few oil paintings that must have been done at least thirteen years ago. Once more Fowler felt just how vulnerable this intelligent, energetic woman was; a woman who moved into the future borne down by her past. A woman who, in large part, had never abandoned her earliest childhood. Fowler glanced over the walls around the bed, trying to ascertain the line of sight of the person who slept there. At the endpoint of the imaginary line he drew from the pillow to the wall was a framed photograph of Paola in a hospital room, sitting with her father.
“It’s good coffee. My mother’s coffee is undrinkable.”
“Just a question of an even flame, Dottoressa.”
“So why did you come back?”
“Various reasons. Because I didn’t want to leave you stranded in the wilderness. To stop that nut job from going about his business. And because I suspect that there is much more here than meets the eye. I feel like we have been used, you and me, by everybody. Furthermore, I suspect you have a very personal motive for wanting to keep at it.”
Paola frowned.
“You’re right. Pontiero was a friend and a coworker. Right now what I want is to bring his killer to justice. But I really doubt we can do anything about it. Without my badge and everything that comes with it, we are just two little clouds. The least little breeze and we will be blown away. And besides, they are probably looking for you.”
“Quite possible, actually. I gave the two cops the slip in Fiumicino. But I doubt Troi would go so far as to issue an order for my capture and arrest. With the hullabaloo going on in the city now, it wouldn’t do him any good, and how could he justify it, anyway? Most likely he’s going to let me remain at large.”
“And your bosses, Padre?”
“Officially, I’m in Langley. Unofficially, they have yet to object to my sticking around here a little while longer.”
“At last some good news.”
“The tricky thing for us now is getting into the Vatican, because Cirin will be on the lookout.”
“I don’t see how we can protect the cardinals if they are on the inside and we’re out.”
“I think we ought to start at the beginning. Go back over the whole imbroglio from the outset, because it’s clear something has sailed right over our heads.”
“How are we going to do that? I don’t have the necessary papers. The Karosky file is sitting at UACV.”
Fowler’s lips curled into a roguish smile.
“God sometimes grants us small miracles.”
His hand pointed in the direction of Paola’s desk, at the other end of the room. Paola turned on the small desk lamp, which cast its light over the unwieldy pile of manila envelopes that was the Karosky dossier.
“Let me propose a joint venture. You concentrate on what you do best: a psychological profile of the killer. A definitive one, with all the facts we presently have at our disposal. I, meanwhile, will keep bringing you fresh coffee.”
Paola finished off the first cup. She wanted to take a closer look at the priest’s face, but he was sitting outside the cone of light cast by the desk lamp. And suddenly she was struck by the vague feeling that had overwhelmed her in the hallway at Saint Martha’s, a premonition she’d ignored, putting it off until a later date. Now, after the long list of events that followed the death of Cardoso, she was more than ever convinced that her intuition had been on target. She turned her computer on, picked up a blank profile from among the papers on her desk, and started to fill it out compulsively, consulting the dossier from time to time.
“Let’s have another pot of coffee, Padre. I want to see if a theory of mine holds up.”
PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE OF A SERIAL KILLER
Patient: KAROSKY, Victor
Profile created by Doctor Paola Dicanti
Current location of patient: In absentia
Date of entry: April 10, 2005
Age: 44
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 187 lbs.
Description: Brown hair, gray eyes, healthy complexion, highly intelligent (IQ of 125)
Family history: Victor Karosky was born into a lower-middle-class family of immigrants dominated by a mother with profound problems relating to reality, owing to the influence of religion. The family emigrated from Poland, and from early on the lack of stability is evident in all family members. The father presents a typical portrait of irregular work history, alcoholism, and bad behavior, to which can be added the aggravation of repeated, periodic sexual abuse (intended as punishment) when the subject reaches adolescence. The mother was at all times aware of the abuse and incest committed by her husband, although it seems she acted as if she was not. An older brother escaped from the family household on account of the sexual abuse. A younger brother was left to die, after a long illness brought on by meningitis. The subject is locked into a closet, incommunicado, for long periods of time, after the “discovery” by his mother of the father’s sexual abuse. When he is freed, the father has abandoned the household, and it is the mother who imposes her personality, in this case impressing upon the subject the Catholic teaching of fear of damnation, which is doubtless caused by sexual excess (always as defined by the mother). She dresses him in her clothes and even goes so far as to threaten him with castration. This produces a grave distortion of reality in the subject, equivalent to a serious conflict of unintegrated sexuality. The first signs of rage and antisocial personality start to appear, with a intense structure of agitated response. He attacks a schoolmate, and is sent to a reformatory. Upon leaving, his record is wiped clean, and at nineteen years old he decides to enter a seminary. They are unaware of any previous psychological counseling he may have undergone, and they accept his application.
Adult history: Indications of unintegrated sexual conflict are confirmed at nineteen years old, shortly after the death of his mother, when he engages a minor in heavy petting, an act that little by litt
le becomes more frequent and extended. The ecclesiastical authorities in the seminary make no punitive response on their part to his sexual aggression, which becomes more refined when the subject is responsible for his own congregation. According to his file, there are at least 89 documented cases of sexual aggression against minors, of which 39 consist of sodomy with full penetration, and the remainder, petting or forcing masturbation and/or fellatio on the victim. The compendium of interviews with the subject allows us to deduce that, however strange it may seem, he was a priest fully convinced of his ministry. In cases of pederasty among priests, it is possible to identify their sexual drive as the motive for their entrance into the ministry, somewhat like a fox entering the hen house. But in Karosky’s case the motives behind his vows are very different. His mother pushed him in this direction, even going so far as to use force. After the incident when he attacked a parishioner, the Karosky scandal could no longer be kept under wraps and the subject at last arrived at the Saint Matthew Institute, a rehabilitation center for Catholic priests with problems. There we find a Karosky very closely identified with the Bible, specifically the Old Testament. An episode of sudden violence against an Institute employee takes place just a few days after his arrival. From this incident we are able to deduce an overwhelming cognitive dissonance between the subject’s sexual compulsion and his religious convictions. When the two collide, they produce a violent crisis, as in the case of the attack on the medical technician.
Recent history: The subject presents a portrait of rage, reflected in his displaced aggression. He has committed various crimes, in which elevated levels of sexual sadism are manifested, including ritual symbols and insertional necrophilia.
Profile of notable characteristics, manifested in his actions: