The lean man, with the most intense black eyes that Ercole had ever seen, turned slowly. “I’m sorry?” Though Spiro was shorter, Ercole felt he was looking up into the prosecutor’s eyes.
“Well, sir, I am not sure about that.”
“‘Not sure, not sure.’ Tell me what you mean.” His voice boomed. “I’m quite curious. You’re not sure about something? What might you not be sure about?”
Ercole was no longer smiling. Blushing, he swallowed. “Well, sir, with respect, how can there be any patterns? He’s picking his victims at random.”
“Explain.”
“Well, it’s obvious. He finds a victim in New York City, a businessman apparently, according to the Europol report. Then he flees to Italy and selects, it seems, a foreigner of limited means at a rural bus stop.” He gave a laugh. “I see no pattern there.”
“‘See no pattern, see no pattern.’” Spiro tasted the words as if trying a suspect wine. He paced slowly, studying the chart.
Ercole gulped once more and looked to Rossi, who tossed an amused glance toward both men.
“What do you do with the fact, Forestry Officer—”
“Benelli.”
“—that the kidnapper’s car was parked by the desolate roadside and the kidnapper was waiting in the bushes? Does that not suggest design?”
“It’s not clear when the kidnapper arrived. It might have been before or after the victim did. I would suggest, at best, there’s a design to kidnap a victim, but not necessarily this victim. So, pattern? I’m not sure I see one.”
Spiro glanced at his watch, a large gold model. Ercole could not detect the brand. He said to Rossi, “I have a meeting upstairs, with another inspector. Let me know about any videos. Oh, and Forestry Officer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your name is Ercole, right?”
“It is.”
At last, he recognizes me. And he is going to concede my observation about patterns. Ercole felt victorious.
“From mythology.”
His name was the Italian version of “Hercules,” the Roman god.
“My father enjoyed ancient lore and—”
“You are familiar with the twelve labors that Hercules was required to complete?”
“Yes, yes!” Ercole laughed. “As an act of penance, in the service of King Eurystheus.”
“You’re falling behind in yours.”
“My…”
“Your labors.”
Silence.
Looking away from the man’s fierce eyes, Ercole said, “I’m sorry, sir?”
Spiro pointed. “You missed some water there. You wouldn’t want it to seep under the tile, now, would you? The gods would not be pleased.”
Ercole glanced down. Tight-lipped for a moment, and furious that he could not control the reddening of his face. “I will get right to it, sir.”
As Spiro left, Ercole dropped to his knees. He happened to glance up and see just outside the doorway Rossi’s protégé Silvio De Carlo, looking in. The handsome officer would have witnessed the entire dressing-down—and the order to complete mopping, the implication being that Ercole was not even a competent janitor, let alone investigator. His face a blank mask, De Carlo moved on.
Ercole said to Rossi, “What have I done, Inspector? I was merely stating what seemed logical from the facts. I could see no pattern. A crime in New York, a crime in the hills of Campania.”
“Ah, you committed the crime of blinders.”
“Blinders. What is that?”
“It’s a subtle psychological condition that inexperienced investigators fall victim to. You had already—on the basis of very preliminary evidence—reached the conclusion that this was a random crime. But by embracing that theory you will be disinclined to expand your investigative horizons and consider that the Composer might have acted out of design to target these particular people and that we can discover a pattern to his acts that will help us apprehend him.
“Is it possible to see a pattern at this point? Of course not. Does Prosecutor Spiro think it likely? Of course not. But there is no one I know with a mind that is more expansive than his. He will take in all the facts, making no judgment, long after others have drawn conclusions. Often, he is right and the others are not.”
“Open mind.”
“Yes. Open mind. The most important asset an investigator can have. So, we will not vote on patterns or no patterns at this point.”
“I’ll remember that, Inspector. Thank you.”
Ercole glanced down at the puddle on the tile floor once more. He’d used all the paper towels. He stepped outside and strode past De Carlo, who was texting on his mobile. My God, the man is completely in vogue, from hair coiffure to polished shoes. Ercole ignored his glance and continued down the hall to the men’s room to fetch more towels.
As he was returning, he noted Daniela Canton up the hall, finishing a conversation with her fellow officer, the blond, Giacomo Schiller. After he had walked away Ercole hid the paper towels behind his back and, after a hesitation, approached. “Excuse me. May I ask a question?”
“Yes, of course, Officer…”
“Call me Ercole, please.”
She nodded.
He asked, “Prosecutor Spiro.” A whisper. “Is he always so stern?”
“No, no, no,” she said.
“Ah.”
“Usually he is far less polite than he was in there.”
Ercole lifted an eyebrow. “You heard him?”
“We all did.”
Ercole closed his eyes momentarily. Oh, my. “And he can be worse? Is that true?”
“Oh, yes. He’s formidable. A smart man, there’s no doubt. But he tolerates no errors—in fact or in judgment—by others. Be careful not to anger him.” She lowered her voice. “Did you see that book in his pocket? The leather one.”
“Yes.”
“He’s never without it. People say it’s a notebook in which he writes down the names of people who have crossed him or are incompetent and will damage his future.”
Ercole recalled seeing the prosecutor on RAI television not long ago, smoothly fielding questions about his plans for a career in politics.
“He wrote down something just now, as he was leaving!”
She was uncomfortable. “Perhaps it was just a coincidence.” Her beautiful blue eyes scanned his face. “In any event, be careful, Officer.”
“I will. Thank you. You are very kind and I—”
“Ercole!” a voice shouted from up the hall.
Gasping, he turned to see Inspector Massimo Rossi storming from the situation room. It was odd, and unnerving, to see the otherwise placid man so agitated.
Had the Postal Police reported that the Composer uploaded a video?
Had someone found the body of the Libyan?
“Excuse me.” He turned from Daniela.
“Ercole,” she said.
He paused and looked back.
She pointed at the floor. He had dropped the paper towels.
“Oh.” He bent and retrieved them then ran up the hall to Rossi.
The inspector said, “It seems the information you requested from America about the kidnapping has arrived.”
Ercole was confused; the expression on Rossi’s face was even more troubled than a moment ago. “And isn’t that good for us, sir?”
“It most certainly is not. Come with me.”
Chapter 14