Uniform Justice cgb-12 Read online

  Brunetti's reflections were cut off as the boat pulled into a canal

  just after the church of Sant' Eufemia and then drew up at a landing

  spot. Pucetti took the mooring rope, jumped on to the land, and

  slipped the rope through an iron circle in the pavement. He extended a

  hand to Brunetti and steadied him as he stepped from the boat.

  It's up here, isn't it?" Brunetti asked, pointing towards the back of

  the island and the lagoon, just visible in the distance.

  "I don't know, sir Pucetti confessed. "I have to admit I come over

  here only for the Redentore. I don't think I even know where the place

  is." Ordinarily, no confession of the provincialism of his fellow

  Venetians could surprise Brunetti, but Pucetti seemed so very bright

  and open-minded.

  As if sensing his commander's disappointment, Pucetti added, "It's

  always seemed like a foreign country to me, sir. Must be my mother:

  she always talks about it like it's not part of Venice. If they gave

  her the key to a house on the Giudecca, I'm sure she'd give it back."

  Thinking it wiser not to mention that his own mother had often

  expressed the same sentiment and that he agreed with it completely,

  Brunetti said only, "It's back along this canal, near the end," and set

  off in that direction.

  Even at this distance, he could see that the large port one that led

  into the courtyard of the Academy stood open: anyone could walk in or

  out. He turned back to Pucetti. "Find out when the doors were opened

  this morning and if there's any record of people entering or leaving

  the building." Before Pucetti could speak, Brunetti added, "Yes, and

  last night, too, even before we know how long he's been dead. And who

  has keys to the door and when they're closed at night." Pucetti didn't

  have to be told what questions to ask, a welcome relief on a force

  where the ability of the average officer resembled that of Alvise.

  Vianello was already standing just outside the port one He

  acknowledged his superior's arrival with a slight raising of his chin

  and nodded to Pucetti. Deciding to use whatever advantage was to be

  gained by appearing unannounced and in civilian clothes, Brunetti told

  Pucetti to go back down to the boat and wait ten minutes before joining

  them.

  Inside, it was evident that word of the death had already spread,

  though Brunetti could not have explained how he knew this. It might

  have been the sight of small groups of boys and young men standing in

  the courtyard, talking in lowered voices, or it might have been the

  fact that one of them wore white socks with his uniform shoes, sure

  sign that he had dressed so quickly he didn't know what he was doing.

  Then he realized that not one of them was carrying books. Military or

  not, this was a school, and students carried books, unless, that is,

  something of greater urgency had intervened between them and their

  studies.

  One of the boys near the port one broke away from the group he was

  talking to and approached Brunetti and Vianello. "What can I do for

  you?" he asked, though, from the

  tone, he might as well have been demanding what they were doing there.

  Strong-featured and darkly handsome, he was almost as tall as Vianello,

  though he couldn't have been out of his teens. The others followed him

  with their eyes.

  Provoked by the boy's tone, Brunetti said, "I want to speak to the

  person in charge."

  "And who are you?" the boy demanded.

  Brunetti didn't respond but gave the boy a long, steady glance. The

  young man's eyes didn't waver, nor did he move back when Brunetti took

  a small step towards him. He was dressed in the regulation uniform

  dark blue trousers and jacket, white shirt, tie and had two gold

  stripes on the cuffs of his jacket. In the face of Brunetti's silence,

  the boy shifted his weight then put his hands on his hips. He stared

  at Brunetti, refusing to repeat his question.

  "What's he called, the man in charge here?" Brunetti asked, as if the

  other had not spoken. He added, "I don't mean his name, I mean his

  title."

  "Comandante," the boy was surprised into saying.

  "Ah, how grand," Brunetti said. He wasn't sure whether the boy's

  behaviour offended his general belief that youth should display

  deference to age or whether he felt particular irritation at the boy's

  preening belligerence. Turning to Vianello, he said, "Inspector, get

  this boy's name and moved toward the staircase that led to the

  palazzo.

  He climbed the five steps and pushed open the door. The foyer had a

  floor patterned with enormous diamonds made from boards of different

  woods. Booted feet had worn a path to a door in the far wall. Brunetti

  crossed the room, which was unexpectedly empty, and opened the door. A

  hallway led toward the back of the building, its walls covered with

  what he assumed to be regimental flags. Some of them bore the lion of

  San Marco; others carried different animals, all equally aggressive:

  teeth bared, claws unsheathed, hackles raised.

  The first door on the right had only a number above it, as

  did the second and third. As he walked by the last of them, a young

  boy, certainly not more than fifteen, came out into the hall. He was

  surprised to see Brunetti, who nodded calmly and asked, "Where's the

  office of the Comandante?"

  His tone or his manner sparked a Pavlovian response in the boy, who

  jumped to attention and snapped out a salute. "Up one flight, sir.

  Third door on the left."

  Brunetti resisted the temptation to say, "At ease." With a neutral,

  Thank you', he went back toward the staircase.

  At the top, he followed the boy's instructions and stopped at the third

  door on the left. com andante giulio be mbo read a sign next to the

  door.

  Brunetti knocked, paused and waited for an answer, and knocked again.

  He thought he'd take advantage of the absence of the Comandante to have

  a look at his office, and so he turned the handle and entered. It is

  difficult to say who was more startled, Brunetti or the man who stood

  in front of one of the windows, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon," Brunetti said. "One of the students told me

  to come up and wait for you in your office. I had no idea you were

  here." He turned towards the door and then back again, as if confused

  as to whether he should remain or leave.

  The man in front of the window was facing Brunetti, and the light that

  shone in from behind him made it almost impossible for Brunetti to

  distinguish anything about him. He could see, however, that he wore a

  uniform different from that of the boys, lighter and with no stripe

  down the side of the trousers. The rows of medals on his chest were

  more than a hand span wide.

  The man set the papers on his desk, making no attempt to approach

  Brunetti. "And you are?" he asked, managing to sound bored with the

  question.

  "Commissario Guide Brunetti, sir," he said. "I've been sent to

  investigate the report of a death here." This was not strictly true,

/>   for Brunetti had sent himself to investigate, but he saw

  no reason why the Comandante should be told this. He stepped forward

  and extended his hand quite naturally, as though he were too dull to

  have registered the coolness emanating from the other man.

  After a pause long enough to indicate who was in charge, Bembo stepped

  forward and extended his hand. His grip was firm and gave every

  indication that the Comandante was restraining himself from exerting

  his full force out of consideration for what it would do to Brunetti's

  hand.

  "Ah, yes," Bembo said, 'a commissa rio He allowed a pause to extend

  the statement and then went on, "I'm surprised my friend Vice-Questore

  Patta didn't think to call me to tell me you were coming."

  Brunetti wondered if the reference to his superior, who was unlikely to

  appear in his office for at least another hour, was meant to make him

  rug humbly at his forelock while telling Bembo he would do everything

  in his power to see that he was not disturbed by the investigation.

  "I'm sure he will as soon as I give him my preliminary report,

  Comandante/ Brunetti said.

  "Of course," Bembo said and moved around his desk to take his chair. He

  waved what was no doubt a gracious hand to Brunetti, who seated

  himself. Brunetti wanted to see how eager Bembo was to have the

  investigation begin. From the way the Comandante moved small objects

  around on the top of his desk, pulled together a stack of papers and

  tapped them into line, it seemed that he felt no unseemly haste.

  Brunetti remained silent.

  "It's all very unfortunate, this Bembo finally said.

  Brunetti thought it best to nod.

  "It's the first time we've had a suicide at the Academy/ Bembo went

  on.

  "Yes, it must be shocking. How old was the boy?" Brunetti asked. He

  pulled a notebook from the pocket of his jacket and bent the covers

  back when he found an empty page. He

  patted his pockets then, with an embarrassed smile, leaned forward and

  reached for a pencil that lay on the Comandante's desk. "If I may, sir

  he said.

  Bembo didn't bother to acknowledge the request. "Seventeen, I

  believe," he said.

  "And his name, sir?" Brunetti asked.

  "Ernesto Moro/ Bembo replied.

  Brunetti's start of surprise at the mention of one of the city's most

  famous names was entirely involuntary.

  "Yes/ Bembo said, "Fernando's son."

  Before his retirement from political life, Dottor Fernando Moro had for

  some years served as a Member of Parliament, one of the few men

  universally acknowledged to have filled that position honestly and

  honourably. The wags of Venice insisted that Moro had been moved from

  various committees because his honesty proved inconvenient to his

  colleagues: the instant it became evident that he was immune to the

  temptations of money and power, his incredulous fellow parliamentarians

  found reason to reassign him. His career was often cited as evidence

  of the survival of hope in the face of experience, for each chairman

  who found Moro appointed to his committee was certain that, this time,

  he could be induced to back those policies most certain to line the

  pockets of the few at the expense of the many.

  But none of them, in three years, had apparently succeeded in

  corrupting Moro. Then, only two years ago, he had suddenly, and

  without explanation, renounced his parliamentary seat and returned full

  time to private medical practice.

  "Has he been informed?" Brunetti asked.

  "Who?" Bembo asked, clearly puzzled by Brunetti's question.

  "His father."

  Bembo shook his head. "I don't know. Isn't that the job of the

  police?"

  Brunetti, exercising great restraint, glanced at his watch

  and asked, "How long ago was the body discovered?" Though he strove

  for neutrality, he failed to keep reproach out of his voice.

  Bembo bristled. This morning some time."

  "What time?"

  "I don't know. Shortly before the police were called."

  "How shortly before?"

  "I have no idea. I was called at home."

  "At what time?" Brunetti asked, pencil poised over the page.

  Bembo's lips tightened in badly disguised irritation. "I'm not sure.

  About seven, I'd say."

  "Were you already awake?"

  "Of course."

  "And was it you who called the police?"

  "No, that had already been done by someone here."

  Brunetti uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "Comandante, the call

  is registered as having come at seven twenty-six. That's about half an

  hour after you were called and told the boy was dead." He paused to

  allow the man time to explain, but when Bembo made no attempt to do so,

  Brunetti continued, "Could you suggest an explanation for that?"

  "For what?"

  "For the delay of a half an hour in informing the authorities of a

  suspicious death at the institution you direct."

  "Suspicious?" Bembo demanded.

  "Until the medical examiner has determined the cause of death, any

  death is suspicious."

  "The boy committed suicide. Anyone can see that."

  "Have you seen him?"

  The Comandante did not answer immediately. He sat back in his chair

  and considered the man in front of him. Finally he answered, "Yes. I

  have. I came here when they called me and went to see him. He'd

  hanged himself."

  "And the delay?" Brunetti asked.

  Bembo waved the question away. "I have no idea. They must have

  thought I would call the police, and I was sure they had."

  Letting this pass, Brunetti asked, "Do you have any idea who called?"

  "I just told you I don't know," Bembo said. "Surely they must have

  given their name."

  "Surely/ Brunetti repeated and returned to the subject. "But no one

  has contacted Dottor Moro?"

  Bembo shook his head.

  Brunetti got to his feet. "I'll go and see that someone does."

  Bembo didn't bother to stand. Brunetti paused for a moment, curious to

  see if the Comandante would enforce his sense of the loftiness of his

  position by glancing down at something on his desk while he waited for

  Brunetti to leave. Not so. Bembo sat, empty hands resting on the top

  of his desk, eyes on Brunetti, waiting.

  Brunetti slipped his notebook into the pocket of his jacket, placed the

  pencil carefully on the desk in front of Bembo, and left the

  Comandante's office.

  Outside Bembo's office, Brunetti moved a few metres away from the door

  and pulled out his telefonino. He punched in 12 and was asking for

  Moro's number when his attention was caught by loud male voices coming

  up the stairway.

  "Where's my son?" a loud voice demanded. A softer voice replied, but

  the other voice insisted, "Where is he?" Saying nothing, Brunetti

  broke the connection and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  As he approached the stairs, the voices grew even louder. I want to

  know where he is," the original voice shouted, refusing to be placated

  by whatever it was that was said to him.

  When Brunetti started down th
e flight of stairs, he saw at the bottom a

  man of about his own age and size and recognized him instantly, having

  both seen his photo in the papers and been presented to him at official

  functions. Moro's face was blade-thin, his cheekbones high and tilted

  at a Slavic angle. His eyes and complexion were dark and in sharp

  contrast to his hair, which was white and thick. He i?

  stood face to face with a younger man dressed in the same dark blue

  uniform worn by the boys in the courtyard.

  "Dottor Moro/ Brunetti said, continuing down the steps in their

  direction.

  The doctor turned and looked up at Brunetti but gave no sign of

  recognition. His mouth was open and he appeared to breathe only with

  difficulty. Brunetti recognized the effect of shock and mounting anger

  at the opposition the young man was giving him.

  "I'm Brunetti, sir. Police/ he said. When Moro made no response,

  Brunetti turned to the other man and said, "Where's the boy?"

  At this reinforcement of the demand, the young man gave in. "In the

  bathroom. Upstairs/ he said, but grudgingly, as if neither man had the

  right to ask anything of him.

  "Where?" Brunetti asked.

  Vianello called from the staircase above them, waving back towards