Uniform Justice Page 10

  ships in the night, they passed, barely acknowledging the presence of

  the other.

  "Close the door," Patta said, glancing up and then back at the papers

  on his desk. Brunetti turned to do so, certain that Patta's use of the

  word 'please' would provide the clue to what sort of meeting this would

  be. The fact that Brunetti had time to formulate this thought

  destroyed any possibility that it was going to be a pleasant

  interchange of ideas between colleagues. A short delay would be the

  habitual flick of the whip from a carriage driver: aimed to snap the

  air and catch the beast's attention without doing it any harm, it was

  an unconscious assertion of command, not meant to inflict damage. A

  longer delay would demonstrate Patta's irritation without revealing its

  cause. The complete absence of the word, as on this occasion, was

  indicative of either fear or rage: experience had taught Brunetti that

  the first of these was the more dangerous, for fear drove Patta to the

  reckless endangerment of other people's careers in his attempt to

  protect his own. This evaluation was complete long before Brunetti

  turned to approach his superior, and so the sight of a glowering Patta

  did not intimidate him.

  "Yes, sir?" he asked with a serious face, having learned that

  neutrality of expression and tone was expected of him in

  these moments. He waited for Patta to wave him to a chair, consciously

  imitating the behaviour of a non-Alpha male dog.

  "What are you waiting for?" Patta demanded, still without looking at

  him. "Sit down."

  Brunetti did so silently and placed his arms in neat horizontals on the

  arms of the chair. He waited, wondering what scene Patta was going to

  play and how he was going to play it. A minute passed silently. Patta

  continued to read through the file that lay open before him,

  occasionally turning a page.

  Like most Italians, Brunetti respected and approved of beauty. When he

  could, he chose to surround himself with beauty: his wife, the clothes

  he wore, the paintings in his home, even the beauty of thought in the

  books he read: all of these things gave him great pleasure. How, he

  wondered, as he did whenever he encountered Patta after a gap of a week

  or so, how could a man so very handsome be so utterly devoid of the

  qualities usually attributed to beauty? The erect posture was solely

  physical, for the ethical Patta was an eel; the firm jaw bespoke a

  strength of character that was manifested only in stubbornness; and the

  clear dark eyes saw only what they chose to see.

  Caught in this reflection, Brunetti didn't notice when Patta finally

  turned his attention to him, nor did he hear the Vice Questore's first

  words, tuning in only toward the end '... your mistreatment of his

  students'.

  Like a scholar piecing together a coherent meaning from a fragment of

  text, Brunetti realized that the students must be those at the San

  Martino Academy, and the only person capable of using the possessive

  pronoun when speaking of them the Comandante.

  "I chanced into the room of one of them, and we discussed his class

  work. I don't think this can be construed in any way as mistreatment,

  sir."

  "Not only you Patta said, overriding Brunetti and giving no indication

  that he had bothered to listen to his explanation. "One of your

  officers. I was at a dinner last night, and the father of one of the

  boys said your officer was very rough when he questioned his son."

  Patta allowed the full horror of this to sink in before adding, The

  father was at school with General D'Ambrosio."

  "I'm sorry, sir Brunetti said, wondering if the boy would go on to

  complain to his father should he experience rough treatment from the

  enemy in battle, "I'm sure if he had known that, he would have shown

  him more courtesy

  "Don't try being smart with me, Brunetti/ Patta shot back, displaying a

  quicker sensitivity to Brunetti's tone than usual. "I don't want your

  men in there, strong-arming these boys and causing trouble. These are

  the sons of some of the best people in the country and I won't have

  them treated like this."

  Brunetti had always been fascinated by the way the police shuttlecocked

  back and forth between Patta and all the others who might be seen as

  responsible for them: when they solved a case or behaved bravely, they

  were Patta's police, but all cases of mis behaviour incompetence or

  negligence were clearly attributable to their behaving like the police

  of someone else, in this case, Brunetti.

  "I'm not sure there's any question of their being mistreated, sir

  Brunetti said mildly. "I asked an officer to speak to the other

  students and try to find out if the Moro boy had been behaving

  strangely or if he had said anything that would indicate he had been

  thinking about suicide." Before Patta could interrupt, he went on, "I

  thought this would help make it even clearer that the boy had committed

  suicide."

  "Clearer than what?" Patta asked.

  Than the physical evidence, sir Brunetti answered.

  For a moment, he thought that Patta was about to say, "Good." Surely

  his face grew less tense and he, too, let out a deep breath. But all

  he said was, "Very well. Then let's file it

  as suicide and let the school begin to get back to normal."

  "Good idea, sir said Brunetti, then, as if the idea had just occurred

  to him, "But what do we do if the boy's parents aren't satisfied?"

  "What do you mean, "aren't satisfied?"

  "Well, the father has a history of causing trouble," Brunetti began,

  shaking his head as if thinking of the shocking scepticism towards

  public institutions demonstrated in the Moro Report. "And so I

  wouldn't want to be responsible for a report about his son's death that

  left anything open to question."

  "Do you think there's a chance of that?"

  "Probably not, sir," Brunetti answered. "But I wouldn't want to leave

  something undone that a person as difficult as Moro could point to and

  ask questions about. He'd be sure to make it look bad for us. And

  he's certainly a person who gets his fair share of public attention."

  Brunetti stopped himself from saying more.

  Patta gave all of this some thought and finally asked, "What do you

  suggest?"

  Brunetti feigned surprise that he should be asked such a thing. He

  started to speak, stopped, and then went on, giving every evidence that

  he'd never considered this possibility. "I suppose I'd try to find out

  whether he took drugs or showed signs of depression."

  Patta appeared to consider all of this and then said, "It would be

  easier for them to bear it if they were certain, I suppose."

  "Who, sir?"

  "His parents."

  Brunetti risked a question. "Do you know them?"

  The father, yes," Patta said.

  Because this was still not followed by an attack on the man, Brunetti

  dared to ask, Then do you think we should go ahead like this, sir?"

  Patta sat up straighter and moved a heavy Byzantine coin he used as a

  paperweight from one side
of his desk to the other. "If it doesn't

  take too much time, all right." How typically Patta was this answer:

  having commissioned the investigation, he had simultaneously assured

  that any delay would be laid at the feet of someone else.

  "Yes, sir," Brunetti said and got to his feet. Patta turned his

  attention to a thin file on his desk and Brunetti let himself out.

  In the small outer office, he found Signorina Elettra at her desk, head

  bent over what appeared to be a catalogue. He looked closer and saw a

  double-page spread of computer screens.

  She glanced up and smiled.

  "Didn't you just buy one of those?" he asked, pointing to the screen

  to her right.

  "Yes, but they've just come out with new ones, perfectly flat screens,

  as thin as a pizza. Look," she said, pointing a scarlet fingernail at

  one of the photos in the catalogue. Though he found her simile

  surreal, he had to agree it seemed accurate enough.

  He read the first two lines of print and, seeing too many numbers and

  initials, to make no mention of a word he thought was 'gigabytes' he

  sped to the bottom where the price was given. That's a month's

  salary," he said, in astonishment, aware that there was more than a

  little disapproval in his tone.

  "Closer to two," she added, 'if you get the larger LCD screen."

  "Are you really going to order it?" he asked.

  "I've no choice, I'm afraid."

  "Why?"

  "I've already promised this one she began, indicating her all-but-new

  computer screen as though it were a bag of old clothing she was asking

  the cleaning lady to dispose of, 'to Vianello."

  Brunetti decided to let it go. There seems to be some connection

  between the Vice-Questore and Dottor Moro/ he began. "Do you think you

  could find out more about that?"

  She had returned her attention to the catalogue. "Nothing easier, sir

  she said, and turned a page.

  Venice, like every other city in the country, was feeling the

  consequences of the government's refusal to adopt an immigration policy

  that was related in any sane way to the realities of immigration. Among

  the consequences which did not affect Brunetti directly were the

  thousands of illegal immigrants who profited from the easygoing Italian

  policy and who then, in possession of Italian documents legitimizing

  their presence on the continent, passed to northern countries where

  they would be able to work with some protection under the law. There

  was also the resulting irritation on the part of other governments at

  the ease with which the Italians washed their hands of the problem by

  passing it on to them.

  Venice, and Brunetti, had begun to feel the consequences in their own

  way: the number of pickpocketings had skyrocketed; shoplifting was a

  problem for even the smallest merchants; and no householder any longer

  felt that his home was safe from robbery. Since most of these cases

  passed through the Questura, Brunetti registered the increase, but he

  felt it lightly, as a person with a mild cold might discover that ins

  temperature has increased a degree or two without feeling any real

  symptoms. If this increase in petty crime produced any symptoms for

  Brunetti himself, it was in the amount of paperwork he was obliged to

  initial and, presumably, read.

  It was a period in which there was very little violent crime in the

  houses or on the streets of Venice, and so Patta, no doubt feeling

  withdrawal symptoms after his name had not appeared in the Gazzettino

  for more than a week, ordered Brunetti, and requested Signorina

  Elettra, to prepare a report providing statistics which would show the

  high clear-up rate of the Venetian police. The report, he stipulated,

  was to show that the perpetrators of most crimes were found and

  arrested and that, during the last year, there had been a consequent

  decrease in crime within the city.

  "But that's nonsense," Brunetti said, when Signorina Elettra informed

  him of their task.

  "No more nonsensical than any other statistic we're provided with she

  said.

  His patience short because of the time he knew he'd waste in preparing

  this report, he asked curtly, "Like what?"

  "Like the statistics about road fatalities," she said, smiling, patient

  in the face of his annoyance.

  "What about them?" he asked, not really interested, yet doubtful that

  anything so well documented could be altered.

  "If you die a week or more after you're injured in an accident, you

  didn't die because of the accident," she said, almost with pride. "At

  least, not statistically."

  "Does that mean the hospitals kill you?" he asked, aiming towards

  irony.

  "That's certainly often enough the case, sir," she said with every

  appearance of patience. "I'm not sure just how they list these deaths,

  but they aren't counted as traffic fatalities."

  Not for an instant did it occur to Brunetti to doubt her. Her

  idea, however, sent his mind tumbling back to the report they had to

  prepare. "Do you think we could use this technique ourselves?"

  "You mean, if someone who is murdered takes a week to die, they weren't

  murdered?" she asked. "Or if a theft is reported after more than a

  week, then nothing was stolen?" He nodded, and Signorina Elettra

  devoted herself to considering the possibility. Finally she answered,

  "I'm sure the Vice-Questore would be delighted, though I'm afraid there

  would be certain difficulties if we were questioned about it."

  He drew his imagination away from these angel flights of mathematics

  and back to the grim truth of the report they had to write. "Do you

  think we can do it and get the results he wants?"

  Her voice grew serious. "I think what he wants won't be hard to give

  him. All we have to do is exercise caution about the number of crimes

  reported."

  "What does that mean?"

  "That we count only those where people came down here or went to the

  Carabinieri to fill out a formal den uncia

  "What will that achieve?"

  "I've told you before, Commissario. People don't bother to report

  crimes, least of all pick-pocketing or burglary. So when they phone to

  report it but then don't bother to come down here to fill out the

  papers, the crime hasn't been reported." She paused for a moment,

  allowing Brunetti, who knew just how Jesuitical her reasoning could be,

  to prepare himself for the consequences towards which this must lead

  her. "And if there is no official den uncia which, in a certain sense,

  means the act never occurred then I see no reason why we should have to

  include them in our calculations."

  "What percentage would you estimate people don't bother to report?" he

  asked.

  "I have no way of knowing, sir," she said. "After all, it's

  philosophically impossible to prove a negative." There

  followed another pause, and then she said, "I'd guess a bit more than

  half."

  "Are or aren't reported?" a surprised Brunetti asked.

  "Aren't."

  This time it was Brunetti who paused for a long time before he sai
d,

  That's very lucky for us, isn't it?"

  "Indeed," was her response, then she asked, "Would you like me to take

  care of it, sir? He wants it for the newspapers, and they want to be

  able to say that Venice is a happy island, virtually free from crime,

  so no one is likely to question my numbers or my accounting."

  "It is, though, isn't it?" he asked.

  "What, a happy island?"

  "Yes."

  "In comparison with the rest of the country, yes, I think so."

  "How long do you think it will stay like that?"

  Signorina Elettra shrugged. As Brunetti was turning to leave her

  office, she opened her desk drawer and took a few sheets of paper from

  it. "I didn't forget about Dottor Moro, sir," she said as she handed

  it to him.

  He thanked her and left her office. As he walked up the stairs, he saw

  that it explained the reason for Patta's familiarity with Dr. Fernando

  Moro. There was nothing unusual: Signora Patta's mother had been a

  patient of Moro's since he had returned to the practice of medicine.

  Signorina Elettra had not managed to provide copies of her medical

  records, but she had supplied the dates of her visits to Dottor Moro,

  twenty-seven in all during the last two years. At the bottom,

  Signorina Elettra had added, in her own hand: "Breast cancer." He

  checked the date of the last appointment: little more than two months