LITMIR.BIZ

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told me to wear gloves."

      The man was exhausted and the two policemen were physical wrecks; the Deputy Commissioner had ordered Brigadier Bordin to escort the alleged sergeant major Gennaro Esposito to the holding cell.

      Vittorio D'Aiazzo had not been able to form a concrete idea with just the information he had collected: to his mind it could possibly be both an accident and a murder must, the latter not necessarily perpetrated by the man arrested; however, if he were guilty, the motive could be competition between black marketers if the self-styled Esposito’s identity and in particular his position in the Army were not confirmed, otherwise a different motive would come into play.

      Moreover, if the anatomopathologist established that it was an assassination, and even though he had not confessed, he would be transferred to the Prison of Poggioreale as a suspect. As well as that, the Deputy Commissioner would have to write a report containing both the medical examiner’s conclusions and the details that D'Aiazzo himself had collected during the interrogation, and send it to the Office of the Public Prosecutor. Based on his report, the investigating judge would decide whether to open proceedings against the suspect or release him for lack of evidence.

      It was almost eight in the morning and the young officer was about to finish his shift; but just the same, before going home he still intended to order the warrant officer to go to Vicolo Santa Luciella to check if the suspect’s mother really lived there and, in this case, if she recognized her son in the photo on the license and confirmed that he really was a sergeant major in the artillery. But the Deputy Commissioner did not plan to wait for the man to return and he would hear the report the following day. At any rate, it would be two or three days at least before the anatomopathologist’s report arrived in his office, during which time the detained man would remain in the holding cell.

      After having taken the suspect back to the cell, Bordin had gone back to D'Aiazzo. As he entered the office he had said to him: "Mr. Commissioner, in my opinion that Esposito, or so he claims, was sent by the camorra to kill Demaggi for two possible reasons: either because of competition on the black market, or because that filthy whore no longer wanted to pay the kickback ..."

      "... Marino, the woman is dead and you don’t insult the deceased," the young superior had reprimanded him, "and in any case I’m not convinced that the suspect is a murderer."

      "Forgive me if I take the liberty, but I think... well, that you are always too good: if we gave him a few blows in the stomach with sandbags ..."

      "... that don’t leave a mark?"

      "Just to be prudent; and be sure that that delinquent sayts he is guilty and a camorrista to boot, and who knows what else. But like this..."

      "... instead like this I didn’t risk making an innocent person confess, apart from the fact that if I saw you hitting someone with a sack ... do you understand me, Marino?"

      "Yeah...."

      "If anything, it will be the investigating judge who makes him admit that he is guilty, provided the doctor doesn’t tell us that it was an accident, and then I can archive the case and free that man."

      "Yes, maybe, but speaking in general terms you, Mr Commissioner, are perhaps the only one here who doesn’t give people being interrogated a few slaps. The late Dr. Perati I served with before you made everyone confess."

      With the fervor of age, and not without that pinch of presumption that he always had, the Deputy Commissioner had instinctively let slip in the Neapolitan dialect that he used at home: "Tu si' 'nu fésso.²¹ "

      "What?!" The non-commissioned officer had turned red with rage.

      His superior had partially corrected himself: "All right, Marino, I take back the idiot, but you are wrong to speak disrespectfully to me just because I am half your age. Be careful, because if it happens again I will punish you."

      Bordin had thought it wise to apologize, albeit through gritted teeth: "Forgive me, Mr. Commissioner, I was just saying, I didn’t want to criticize you."

      If, over time, Vittorio D'Aiazzo would fully acquire humility thanks to the metaphorical slaps of life, at the time he still wanted to have the last word: "Alright, but from now on think about what you say, before saying what you think."

      The man had thought it wise to stand stiffly to attention: "Signorsì."

      "At ease, and don’t be mortified," his superior had softened the tone, with compassion finally prevailing. He had continued: "You said that Perati made everyone confess: of course, I know that very well, they’d told me that when I arrived here; but do you remember who killed him?"

      "Yes sir, the mother of a habitual thief..."

      "... thief that Perati had accused of stabbing a baker in the hand, to rob him, and that he had indeed made him confess, but how? Tying him belly up on a table and whipping him with his belt; and two days later, do you remember? the suspect died of internal bleeding."

      "Excuse me, may I speak to you freely but with all due respect?"

      "You can."

      "I believed that Dr. Perati had been right because he had not been reproached by superiors."

      "Then you don’t know that the matter had been buried by order of the federal of Naples²² , because Perati was extremely fascist and a bootlicker; and yet, in the mind of the dead man’s mother the thing had not been buried at all, and what’s more, a couple of weeks after her son’s death, she had learned that he was innocent of both the wounding and the theft, and you knew this, didn't you?"

      "I knew that the baker had recognized the real culprit in the street and had reported it to one of our patrols, who had stopped him and brought him here."

      "Yes, and the dead man’s mother had been made aware of it by a friend of her son’s, who heard the truth going around, and you know what? It had not been too unjust, after all, that the woman had come to us asking to speak to Perati, with the excuse of having revelations to make to him, and once she was in front of him she had pulled out a small meat knife from her breast and let go a slash that had gone into his heart; and I’m almost sorry that she was blocked immediately afterwards and that she is now awaiting trial, because I fear she will be sentenced to death for premeditated murder."

      "Let’s hope they grant her mental semi-infermity," Bordin had agreed.

      "Let's hope so; but apart from that, you can go to the vehicles depot for me now with this service sheet... here: it’s my authorization to pick up a car with driver. Then go and check is Esposito is known in Vicolo Santa Lucia." He had also given him the suspect’s license: "Show this photo to the mother, that’s if she exists, and to the neighbors as well, and gather as much as you can on him."

      "Yes, sir! On the way back though, Commissioner, maybe I could go to my room to sleep because I’ve already completed my hours of service for today."

      "Duty and sacrifice is our motto," he had responded smiling.

      Since Police Headquarters knew that the social temperature in the city was climbing and an uprising was quite likely, the brigadier had decided to go by the radio room to get some news on the situation outside before going to the garage. As soon as he had heard it, he had returned to his direct superior and told him that patrol trucks had communicated that isolated gun battles had begun. He concluded asking: "Sir, do I really have to go there today, or can I wait for tomorrow, when maybe things will have calmed down?"

      Before D'Aiazzo had decided, the rumble of the diesel engines of vehicles had started to come up along Via Medina where Naples Police Headquarters were located, and still are, and were going past the main entrance of the building in column, as they had done every day for two weeks. It was a motorized platoon of German grenadiers going to relieve another one, of the same battalion, sent to guard a corridor on the top floor of Castel Sant'Elmo, a mighty bulwark that stands on the Vomero hill at 820 feet above sea level overlooking the Gulf and the city. Two non-communicating rooms opened onto that corridor and, at that time, were used as the armory of the fortress. One of them was a large room with conventional weapons and ammunition

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