“And captivating, no?”
“Yes.”
Dicanti passed the photograph to Pontiero and to Troi, both of whom leaned over at the same time to get a better look at the killer’s face.
“What scares you more, Padre, physical danger or to look that man directly in the eyes and feel yourself scrutinized, stripped, as if he were a member of a superior race who had broken with all our conventions?”
Fowler stared at the photo a second time. His mouth was slightly open.
“My guess is that you know the answer already.”
“Over the course of my career I’ve had the opportunity to interview three serial killers. All three produced the sensation in me I just described and others, much stronger than both you and I, have felt it, too. But it is a bogus sensation. Never forget one thing: Those men are failures, not prophets. Human waste. They do not deserve the least iota of compassion.”
REPORT ON THE SYNTHETIC PROGESTATIONAL HORMONE 1789
(injectable progestin class) Commercial name: Depo-Covetan Report classification: Confidential, encrypted
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] CC:
[email protected] Subject: CONFIDENTIAL: Report 45 on HPS 1789
Date: March 17, 1997, 11:43 a.m.
Attachment: Inf#45_HPS1789.pdf
Dear Marcus:
Attached you’ll find an advance copy of the report you asked about.
The analysis carried out in the ALFA-area field studies has shown serious irregularities in menstrual fluid, sleep disruption, vertigo, and possible internal hemorrhaging. The report describes serious cases of hypertension, thrombosis, and cardiac disease. There has also been an increase in a specific minor ailment: 1.3% of the patients have developed fibromyalgia, a secondary effect for which tests were not carried out in the previous version.
If you compare the report with that of version 1786, which we are marketing in the United States and Europe, secondary effects have been reduced 3.9%. If our risk analysis isn’t far off, we can estimate a maximum of $53 million dollars will be spent in legal damages. Therefore, we are staying within our guidelines, that is to say, an amount less than 7% of profits.
No, don’t thank me . . . just give me a raise!
By the way, test results have reached the laboratory on the use of 1789 with male patients, with the goal of repressing or eliminating their sexual response. In the program, dosages sufficient to effect chemical castration were administered. From the reports and analyses examined by this laboratory, increases in the volatility of the subject in specific instances can be clearly seen, as can particular anomalies in cerebral activity. Our recommendation is to extend the bounds of the study in order to clarify the percentage of said secondary effect’s appearance. It would be interesting to undertake tests with Omega subjects, such as persons whose mental capabilities are beyond hope, or prisoners on death row.
I would be happy to be in charge of those tests.
So are we going out for lunch this Friday? I’ve found a great little restaurant in the Village that serves absolutely divine bass from Chile.
Regards,
Dr. Lorna Barr
Research Director
THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THIS MESSAGE IS CONFIDENTIAL. ITS CONTENTS ARE INTENDED FOR THE USE OF EMPLOYEES WITH A1 CLASSIFICATION ONLY. IF THE CLASSIFICATION OF THE READER OF THIS MESSAGE DOES NOT CORRESPOND TO THAT GRADE, PLEASE BE AWARE THAT YOU ARE OBLIGATED TO REPORT SAID SECURITY VIOLATION TO YOUR IMMEDIATE SUPERIOR. DISSEMINATION OF ANY OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN ANY OF THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPHS IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. FAILURE TO COMPLY CARRIES SEVERE LEGAL PENALTIES UP TO AND INCLUDING THIRTY-FIVE YEARS IN PRISON OR THE MAXIMUM EQUIVALENT PERMITTED BY LAWS CURRENTLY ENFORCED IN THE UNITED STATES.
UACV HEADQUARTERS
Via Lamarmora, 3 Wednesday, April 6, 2005, 1:25 A.M.
Paola’s harsh language silenced the room. No one said a word. The long day and the early morning hour weighed heavily on everyone and were clearly visible in everyone’s eyes. It was Troi who finally spoke up.
“Tell us what to do, Dicanti.”
Paola hesitated thirty seconds before she answered.
“I know it’s been a long day. Let’s all go home and sleep a few hours. We’ll meet back here at eight-thirty this morning. Our first order of business will be the places where the victims were killed. We are going to comb through the settings, with the hope that the agents Pontiero sent into the field came up with some evidence, no matter how ridiculous that hope is. And Pontiero, call Dante and tell him when we’re meeting.”
“It’ll be a pleasure,” he answered caustically.
Acting as if she hadn’t heard anything, Dicanti walked over to Troi and touched him on the arm.
“I would like to speak with you in private for a minute.”
“Let’s step out to the hall.”
Paola exited the room in front of the older scientist, who, as always, played the part of the gallant, opening the door for her and closing it behind him. Dicanti detested her boss’s deferential manner.
“So tell me.”
“What exactly is Fowler’s role in this investigation? I fail to understand it, and I have no faith whatsoever in his vague explanations for why he is here.”
“Dicanti, have you ever heard the name John Negroponte?”
“I’m really sleepy. Some Italian-American?”
“My God, Paola, get your nose out of the criminology books every once in a while and read a newspaper. Yes, he’s American, but his family was Greek. To cut to the chase, he was recently named national director of intelligence for the U.S. He’s in charge of all the various agencies in the American government: the NSA, the CIA, the DEA, etcetera, etcetera. What I’m trying to say is that this man, who most certainly is a Catholic, is one of the most powerful people in the American government. Well, then, Mr. Negroponte personally called me this morning while we were with Robayra, and we had a nice, long conversation. He informed me that Fowler flew directly from Washington in order to join the investigation. He gave me no choice in the matter. It’s not just a question of the fact that President Bush himself is in Rome and everyone is therefore on guard. These are Negroponte’s exact words: ‘I am sending you one of my closest collaborators, and we’re lucky because he knows this case top to bottom.’ ”
“How did they find out so fast?” asked Paola, who stared at the ground, dumbfounded by the magnitude of what she was hearing.
“Ah, my dear Paola, never underestimate Camilo Cirin for even a moment. When the second victim turned up, he personally called Negroponte. According to what Negroponte told me, they had never even spoken before, and he hadn’t the faintest idea how Cirin got his hands on a phone number that was only in existence for the last two weeks.”
“And how did Negroponte know who to send so quickly?”
“That’s no mystery. Fowler’s friend in VICAP interpreted Karosky’s last words before he fled Saint Matthew as an implicit threat against the persons in the Church, and as such they were communicated to the Vigilanza five years ago. When they found Robayra’s body this morning, Cirin broke his own rule about washing dirty laundry in house. He made some calls and pulled the threads together. He’s a well-connected son of a bitch, with contacts at the highest level. But I guess you are finding that out for yourself, my dear.”
“I have a vague idea,” Dicanti said, with a strong dose of irony.
“He told me, over and over again, that there is a personal interest in this case at the very highest levels of government.”
“Oh, God. We’re not going to have a support team this time, are we?”
“Answer that one on your own.”
Dicanti was silent. If the priority was to keep the matter secret, she would have to work with what she had. Just that.
“You don’t think I’m in a little bit over my head with all this?” In fact, Dicanti was extremely tired and e
ven overwhelmed by the whole situation surrounding the case. She’d never experienced anything like it, and for a long time after she regretted letting those words slip out.
Troi’s fingers stroked his chin. He forced Dicanti to look directly at him.
“We’re all in a little bit over our heads, bambina. But let all of that go. Just focus on the fact that there’s a monster killing people. And your job is hunting monsters.”
Paola smiled. She was grateful and she wanted him again, one last time, right there, even though she knew it was a mistake and it would break her heart. Luckily for her, the feeling was extremely short-lived. She made an effort to recover her composure as quickly as she could. She was hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“I worry that Fowler may stir up things around us during the investigation. He could be an obstacle.”
“Could be. And he could also be of great use. The man was enlisted in the Air Force and is a consummate marksman. Among his other . . . talents. Not to mention the fact that he has a thorough knowledge of our suspect and is a priest. He’ll be useful to you in moving around in a world you’re not accustomed to, in the same way Dante will. Think about it like this: our Vatican colleague will open the doors for you, and Fowler, the minds.”
“Dante is an insufferable asshole.”
“I know. And also a necessary evil. All of our suspect’s potential victims are in his country. Although we’re only a few feet away from him, it’s his territory.”
“It’s still Italy, which is ours. What they did with Portini was illegal, acting without us. An obstruction of justice.”
The cynic in Troi shrugged his shoulders.
“What would we have gained by reporting it? We would have made new enemies, that’s all. Forget about politics and whether they do something embarrassing. Right now we need Dante. As you already know, he’s part of your team.”
“You’re the boss.”
“And you’re my favorite ispettore. Anyway, I’m going home to rest awhile. Tomorrow morning I’ll be in the laboratory, running tests on every last fiber they bring me. I’ll let you build your castles in the air.”
Troi was already walking down the hallway when he suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned around and gave her a piercing look.
“One more little thing. Negroponte wants us to catch this son of a bitch. He asked me as a personal favor. You follow? Don’t for a second doubt that I’ll be overjoyed to see he owes us one.”
DICANTI FAMILY APARTMENT
Via della Croce, 12 Wednesday, April 6, 2005, 1:59 A.M.
“Keep the change.”
“Molto generoso. Thanks for the big tip.”
Paola ignored the driver’s attempt at humor. It was the kind of crass remark you became accustomed to in the city, where even the cabdriver insulted you when his tip was a mere sixty cents. In lira that would have been . . . Enough. More than enough. Definitely. And to top it off, the cretin had his foot on the accelerator before she was even out of the cab. A gentleman would have waited until she was inside the door to her house. Two in the morning and the street was deserted, for God’s sake.
It was already warm by that time of the year, but Paola shivered as she opened the front door. Was that a shadow at the end of the street? No, it was just her imagination. She was certain of it.
She pulled the door closed quickly behind her, thinking herself ridiculous for being so overcome with fear. She hurried up the three flights to her apartment, the wooden stairs groaning with every step. And yet she barely heard it: the blood was pounding in her ears and she was gasping for air when she arrived at her door. But once she had arrived, she stopped, riveted to the spot.
The door to the apartment was half-open.
Slowly, carefully, she opened her jacket and slipped her right hand under the arm of her coat. She pulled her pistol out of its holster and went into a crouch, her elbow at a sharp angle to her body. She pushed the door open with one hand as she stepped slowly into the apartment. The hallway light was on. She took one cautious step toward the interior and then moved away from the door, pointing the pistol at empty space.
Nothing.
“Paola?”
“Mamma?”
“Come on in. I’m in the kitchen.”
Paola took a deep breath and holstered the gun. It was the first time in her life she had taken a pistol out in a real situation. She had done it at the FBI Academy but . . . This case was definitely making her too nervous.
Lucrezia Dicanti was in the kitchen, spreading butter on biscuits. The buzzer on the microwave went off, and with the door open, she removed two steaming cups of milk. She placed them on a small Formica table. Paola took a look around the room. Her heart was still pounding. Everything was where it should be: the little plastic pig with the wooden spoons in its back, the brightly colored wall paint that they themselves had put on, the lingering aroma of oregano in the air. She supposed her mother had made cannolis, and she also suspected that her mother had eaten all of them, which was why she was offering her cookies.
“Have a few. I can put more butter on if you want.”
“Heavens, Mamma, you nearly scared me to death. Could you tell me why you left the door open?”
She was almost shouting. Her mother looked at her, concern written across her face. She removed a paper towel from the pocket of her dressing gown and used it to brush the tips of her fingers, removing the last traces of butter.
“I was up, listening to everything going on from the terrace. All of Rome is spinning around, mad with suspense about the next pope. The radio talks about nothing else. I decided to stay up for you, and then I saw you get out of the taxi. I’m sorry.”
Paola instantly felt bad and apologized to her mother.
“Calm down, young lady. Have a cookie.”
“Thanks, Mamma.”
The younger woman sat down next to her mother, whose eyes never strayed from her daughter. From when Paola was a little girl, Lucrezia had been adept at perceiving her trials and tribulations and how best to advise her about them. But now her daughter’s head was spinning with a problem that was too heavy, too complex, too too much. She didn’t even know if such an expression existed.
“It’s something on your job?”
“You know I can’t talk about it.”
“I know, and I also know that when you have that face, which looks like someone stepped on your corns, you’re going to go through the whole night tossing and turning. Sure you don’t want to tell me anything?”
Paola stared at the glass of milk on the table, ladling spoon after spoon of sugar into it as she spoke.
“It’s just . . . It’s another case, Mamma, but this one comes complete with crazy people. I feel like this damned glass of milk, which someone keeps spooning sugar into. The sugar never dissolves, it just makes the glass overflow.”
Lucrezia tenderly put her open hand over the glass, and Paola poured a spoonful of sugar into her mother’s hand.
“Sometimes it helps if you share.”
“I can’t, Mamma. Sorry.”
“That’s all right, my little dove. I understand. Do you want another cookie? I know you haven’t eaten a thing.” Her mother knew when it was wise to change the subject.
“No, Mamma, these are more than enough. My breadbasket is already bigger than the Coliseum.”
“My daughter happens to have a very pretty ass.”
“Right. Which explains why I’m still single.”
“No, Paola. You are still single because you have a bad temper. You are pretty, you take care of yourself, you go to the gym. . . . It’s just a matter of time before you meet a man who isn’t scared off by your loud voice and your nasty faces.”
“I don’t believe that’s ever going to happen, Mamma.”
“And why not? What about your boss, the charming one?”
“He’s married. And he’s old enough to be my father.”
“You love to exaggerate. Bring him to me, and you’ll see I don’t tur
n him off. Besides, in today’s world, being married isn’t as important as it used to be.”
If you only knew, Paola thought to herself. “You really believe that, Mamma?”
“I’m convinced. Madonna but he has such lovely hands! I’d like to dance between the sheets with that one. . . .”
“Mamma! Sometimes you really shock me!”
“Since your father left us ten years ago, not a single day has passed without memories of him. Still, I don’t think I’m like those Sicilian widows, dressed in black head to toe, pouring our their hearts at their husband’s graves. Go on, have another and we’ll go to bed.”
Paola dipped another cookie in her milk, mentally calculating the calories and feeling very guilty. Lucky for her, the sensation was a fleeting one.
CORRESPONDENCE FROM CARDINAL FRANCIS CASEY TO MRS. EDWINA MACDOUGAL
Boston
February 23, 1999
Dear Mrs. MacDougal,
In response to your letter of February 17th of this year, I want to state my concern [. . .] I respect and regret your sadness and that of your son Harry. I am conscious of the tremendous anguish and tremendous suffering he has gone through. I agree with you that when a man of God falls into sin as Father Karosky did, it shakes a person’s faith to its foundations. I acknowledge my error. I should never have reassigned Father Karosky . . . Perhaps on the third occasion when the faithful, such as yourself, came to me with their complaints, I ought to have taken a different road [. . .] I was poorly advised by the psychiatrists who reviewed his case; those like Doctor Dressler, who put his professional reputation on the line when he asserted that Karosky was fit for the ministry. I went along [. . .]
I can only hope that the generous compensation we have agreed to with your lawyer has brought a measure of satisfaction to all parties [. . .] It is more than we can afford [. . .] Without, however, of course attempting to mitigate your pain with money, if I may permit myself to advise you not to speak of the case, for everyone’s good [. . .] our Holy Mother Church has already suffered terrible calumnies at the hands of the wicked and the Satanic media [. . .] For the benefit of our small community, for that of your son, and for you yourself, let us act as if this had never occurred.