“It would be, no, it might be a conflict of interest if you were working for the Police of State directly. But you are, technically, still a Forestry officer, isn’t that right?”
“Signor Rhyme, Capitano Rhyme, that is not a defense that will be very persuasive at my trial. Or will stop Prosecutor Spiro from beating me half to death if he finds out. Wait…who is the procuratore?” He flipped through the pages. And closed his eyes. “Mamma mia! Spiro is the prosecutor. No, no, no. I cannot do this! If he finds out, he will beat me fully to death!”
“You’re exaggerating,” Rhyme reassured, though he admitted to himself that Dante Spiro seemed fully capable of a blow or two.
Difficult, vindictive, cold as ice…
“Besides, we’re simply asking you to translate. We could hire someone but it will take too long. We want to look over the evidence quickly, give our assessment and get back to the Composer. There’s no reason for Dante to find out.”
Sachs added, “This is very likely a case of an innocent American student in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Ercole muttered, “Ah, we had a case like that a few years ago. In Perugia. It did not go well for anybody.”
Rhyme nodded to the file. “And the evidence may very well prove Soames is guilty. In which case we will have done the prosecution and the government a service. At no charge.”
Sachs: “Please. Just translation. What’s the harm in that?”
With a resigned look on his face, Ercole pulled the papers forward and, with a glance around, as if Spiro were hiding in the shadows nearby, began to read.
Rhyme said, “Make a chart, a mini chart.”
Sachs dug into her computer bag and pulled out a yellow legal pad. She uncapped a fine-point marker and looked toward Ercole. “You dictate and I’ll write.”
“I am still an accessory to a crime,” he whispered.
Rhyme only smiled.
Garry Soames Investigation—Sexual Assault
—Location of attack. —Via Carlo Cattaneo, 18, top floor apartment (of Natalia Garelli) and roof (party Victim attended).
—Via Carlo Cattaneo, 20, roof (site of attack).
—Examination of Victim. Frieda S. —She had experienced minor vaginal bleeding from forceful penetration.
—Garry’s DNA on her neck and cheek. Sweat or saliva, not semen.
—Within Victim’s vagina: —Cyclomethicone, polydimethylsiloxane (PDMS), silicone, dimethicone copolyol, and tocopheryl acetate (vitamin E acetate). Silicone-based lubricant. Probably from Comfort-Sure condoms. No match with condoms in Garry’s apartment or on person when arrested.
—Unidentified DNA from single source in vagina (sweat or saliva, not semen—from attacker applying condom to penis, most likely). No match in Europol, Interpol or CODIS (U.S.), Italian databases. Samples taken from 14 of 29 men present at party reveal no match. Presently scheduling additional tests. Samples will be taken from Victim’s prior sexual partners.
—In Victim’s blood, traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid, similar to Rohypnol, a date-rape drug.
—No condom discovered. —Thorough search of neighborhood, trash containers and sewers, five-block radius.
—Location of Implicating Evidence: Garry’s apartment, bedroom. —Jacket worn to party. —Contains small traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
—Victim’s hair. Head hair, not pubic.
—Victim’s DNA, saliva.
—Additional items of clothing: shirts, underwear, socks. —Contain small traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
—Two wineglasses on ledge, near the scene of the rape. —Garry’s DNA on both glasses.
—Frieda’s DNA on one. Residue contained traces of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
—Crime Scene: Roof of Via Carlo Cattaneo, 20 (Next door to Garelli’s). —Pebbles on roof disturbed, where Victim was assaulted.
—Hair of Victim.
—Saliva of Victim.
—No other evidence found.
—Roof deck of Natalia Garelli’s flat (the smoking station). —Five wineglasses. —No trace of gamma hydroxybutyric acid.
—Eight prints, no hits on any national or international databases.
—No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
—Two butts of marijuana cigarettes, burned down to 8mm stubs. —No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
—Seven small plates, traces of food, sweets. —Thirteen prints; two match hostess of party; no hits on any national or international databases.
—No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
—Wine bottle on deck table near party. —Pinot Nero.
—No trace of gamma hydroxybutyric acid in remaining wine.
—Six fingerprints—hostess of party and two female guests, Natalia’s boyfriend, Dev Nath.
—No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
—27 cigarette butts in ashtray and on deck. —Four prints matched hostess of party and her boyfriend.
—16 other prints at smoking station. One positive, individual arrested on drug charge six months ago, Puglia. Said individual had left party before the assault. —No other hits in any national or international databases.
—No DNA hits in any national or international databases.
When she had finished writing, they looked the pad over. Rhyme reflected: Solid work. He would have liked to have samples of the trace from the deck or roof area where the smoking station was located, and from the site of the attack itself. But this was good for starters.
Sachs glanced at the remaining pages of notes in Italian Ercole was staring at, the official report. “Go on,” she insisted kindly. “Please. I want to hear the accounts.”
Ercole apparently hoped he’d be let off the hook by simply translating the forensics. Reciting the witnesses’ and suspect’s statements seemed perhaps, in the young officer’s mind, to move his crime into a different category, misdemeanor to felony.
Reading, he said, “Natalia Garelli, twenty-one, attends the University of Naples. She hosted a party in her flat for fellow students and friends. The victim, Frieda S., arrived at ten p.m. Alone. She remembered drinking and talking with some people—mostly Natalia or her boyfriend—but was a bit shy. She too is a student, just arrived from Holland. She vaguely recalls around eleven or midnight the defendant approaching her and talking. They both had glasses of wine at the table where they were sitting—this is downstairs—and Garry kept refilling her glass. Then they embraced and…limonarono…I do not know.”
“Made out?” Sachs suggested.