Beatrice walked into the office. She addressed them, struggling through English. “I am having the results of the tests that have been run. Primo, the soil samples you have gave to me, Ercole, from Garry Soames’s apartment, near the break-in. There is not some distinctive profile. If we are locationing some other spot, other shoes, we can link them but now, there is not a thing helpful.”
A nod toward Sachs. Now, rather than trying English, Beatrice spoke to Ercole. He translated, “She is mentioning the trace in the Milan warehouse. Yes, there was soil that could be associated with the soil here in Campania. Because of Vesuvius, of course, we have a great deal of unique volcanic residue. But there is much commerce between Milan and Naples—trucks drive there daily. So the presence of Neapolitan dirt in Milan does not necessarily mean much.
“But the other trace didn’t have any particular connection with Campania or Naples, and is typical of what you would find in a warehouse: diesel fuel, regular petrol…” He asked her to repeat something, which she did. Then he asked her once more. She frowned and repeated slowly, “Molybdenum disulfide and Teflon fluoropolymer.”
He glared her way and said something in Italian. A brief exchange ensued and she said something heatedly. Ercole replied, “How would I know what those are?” Then to the others: “She says it is a grease intended for heavy outdoor equipment, lifters, conveyor belts. And there was jet fuel again. Typical too for warehouses—where the trucks drive to and from airport cargo areas.”
Massimo Rossi took a call. Rhyme could see immediately his dismay.
“Cristo!” the inspector muttered. “The Composer has struck again. And at Capodichino, the camp, once more.”
“Another murder?”
“No, a kidnapping. He’s left another noose.”
Rhyme said, “Have the Postal Police start monitoring the streaming sites. It’s just a matter of time until he uploads a new composition.”
Then a look toward Sachs. She nodded. “Ercole?”
Sighing, the Forestry officer dug his keys from his pocket, dropped them into her palm, and they jogged out the door.
Chapter 45
Amelia Sachs braked the Mégane to a hard stop toward the back of the Capodichino Reception Center, guided to the crime scene by the phalanx of Flying Squad cars, lights flashing. The Composer had snatched this victim from the west side of the camp, opposite from where he had slashed to death Malek Dadi.
She and Ercole Benelli climbed from the small car and strode to a uniformed officer who was directing an underling to string yellow police tape around the perimeter. He seemed not the least surprised to see an American detective with a useless NYPD badge on her hip and a Beretta in her waistband, accompanied by a tall young officer in Forestry Corps grays. Apparently Rossi or Spiro had explained who they were and by what authority they were present.
After a brief conversation with the officer, in Italian, Ercole said to her, “He is saying that the victim was outside the fence, about there.”
Sachs followed his finger and saw another improvised gate.
“The kidnapper approached from those bushes and there was a scuffle. In this case, though, he was able to get the hood over the victim’s head and vanished. But more interesting and more helpful to us, I think: Someone came to the aid of the victim and fought with the Composer.”
Ah, Sachs thought. Transfer of evidence.
“Was it a guard? Police? The person who fought?”
“No. It was the victim’s wife.”
“Wife?”
“Sì. They were walking along those trees, the two of them. The Composer hit her, knocked her down. But she rose again and began fighting him. Her name is Fatima Jabril. The man taken was Khaled. They were recent arrivals.”
The Scientific Police van arrived and the two officers exited the vehicle and began to robe. She recognized them from the prior scenes. They exchanged greetings.
Sachs too pulled on a Tyvek jumpsuit, booties and cap and gloves. Though there was no formal division of labor, the woman SP officer asked, through Ercole, if Sachs would work the main scene—where the struggle had occurred—while they took the secondary scene: the far side of a stand of magnolia and vegetation, where the Composer had parked his car and, presumably, lain in wait for the victim.
“Sì,” Sachs said. “Perfetto.”
The woman smiled.
For a half hour, Sachs walked the grid, using the Italian number cards to mark spots for photography and collection of trace, including the trademark noose. She made one particularly good find in a bush beside a spot where people had clearly grappled: a Converse Con shoe—a low-top model.
When she was finished, the SP officers entered the scene and collected the trace, the noose and the shoe and then photographed and videoed around the numbers.
Outside the perimeter, Sachs stripped off the Tyvek and took the bottled water Ercole offered. “Thanks.”
“Prego.”
“I want to talk to the victim’s wife,” she said and downed the water, then wiped her face with her sleeve. Did it ever cool off here?
They went to the front of the camp, where—as she’d seen before—buses waited in line to discharge more refugees. They walked through the gate, and an armed soldier led them to a large trailer on which was a sign that read: Direttore.
Inside the cluttered office, which was—thank you—air-conditioned, a tired-looking brunette sat behind a desk, piled high with papers. She directed them to a door in the back. Sachs knocked and identified herself. She heard, “Come in.”
She and Ercole entered and nodded to Rania Tasso. She was sitting with a dark-complexioned woman and an adorable child, a girl of about two years old. As the woman glanced at Ercole, her eyes widened and she quickly grabbed a cloth that rested on a chair beside her and covered her head.
Rania said, “This is Fatima Jabril.” She added, “She’s comfortable being uncovered before kaafir women, like me and you, but not before men.”
“Should I leave?” Ercole asked.
“No,” Rania said. “You can stay.”
Sachs’s impression from this exchange was that Rania was respectful of others’ customs and beliefs but also insistent that they accept the protocols of their new home.
“Sit, please.”
Fatima was attractive, with a long, narrow face—swollen and marred by a small bandage—and close-set dark eyes. She wore a long-sleeve, high-necked tunic and jeans, though her nails were polished bright red and she wore modest makeup. Her attention kept returning to her daughter and her eyes, otherwise piercing, softened when she looked at the girl. She asked something urgently in Arabic. Rania said to Sachs and Ercole, “She speaks some English but Arabic is better. She is, of course, worried about her husband. Have you learned anything?”
“No,” Sachs said. “But since the kidnapping was successful, we don’t think the man has hurt him, yet. Khaled is his name, right?”
“Yes.” From Fatima herself.
Rania asked, “You say not killed him yet?”
“Correct.”
Rania considered this, then translated for Fatima