Uniform Justice cgb-12 Page 7

  Montecitorio. But we represented different parties, so we didn't work

  together."

  "Committees?"

  "No, we worked on different ones."

  "What about his reputation?"

  "What about it?"

  Brunetti restrained the sigh that seeped up from his chest and answered

  neutrally, "As a politician. What did people think of him?"

  Perulli uncrossed his long legs and immediately recrossed them the

  opposite way. He lowered his head and raised his hand to his right

  eyebrow and rubbed at it a few times, something he had always done when

  he considered an idea or had to think about his response. Seeing

  Perulli's face from this new angle, Brunetti noticed that something was

  different about the angle of his cheekbones, which seemed sharper and

  more clearly defined than they had been when he was a student. His

  voice, when he finally spoke, was mild. "I'd say people generally

  thought he was honest." He lowered his hand and tried a small smile,

  "Perhaps too honest." He enlarged the smile, that same engaging smile

  that girls, then women, had proven unable to resist.

  "What does that mean?" Brunetti asked, striving to fight against the

  anger he felt growing in response to the sniggling tone of Perulli's

  answers.

  Perulli didn't answer immediately, and as he thought about what to say

  or how to say it, he pursed his lips into a tight little circle a few

  times, a gesture Brunetti had never noticed in him before. Finally he

  said, "I suppose it means that he was sometimes difficult to work

  with."

  That told Brunetti nothing, so he asked again, "What does that mean?"

  Perulli couldn't restrain a quick gleam of anger as he looked across at

  Brunetti, but when he spoke his voice was calm, almost too calm. To

  the people who disagreed with him, it meant that it was impossible to

  persuade him to look at things from a different point of view."

  "Meaning their point of view?" Brunetti asked neutrally.

  Perulli did not rise to the bait and, instead, said only, "From any

  point of view different from the one he had decided on."

  "Did you ever have this experience with him?"

  Perulli shook the idea away with a negative motion of his head. "I

  told you, we never worked on the same committees."

  "What committees did he work on?" Brunetti asked.

  Perulli put his head back against the top of his chair and closed his

  eyes, and Brunetti could not stop himself from thinking that the

  gesture was consciously posed to show the energy Perulli was willing to

  expend in order to answer the question.

  After what seemed an inordinately long time, Perulli said, "As far as I

  can remember, he was on the committee that examined the Post Office,

  and one that had something to do with farming, and a third one .. ." He

  broke off and glanced at Brunetti with a very small, private smile,

  then he continued, "I don't really remember what that one was. Maybe

  the mission in Albania, all that humanitarian aid stuff, or maybe the

  one about farmers' pensions. I can't be sure."

  "And what did these committees do?"

  What all of them do Perulli said, his voice honestly surprised that a

  citizen should need to ask. They study the problem."

  "And then?"

  "Make recommendations."

  "To whom?"

  To the government, of course."

  "And then what happens to their recommendations?"

  They're examined and studied, and a decision is made. And if it's

  necessary, a law is passed or the existing law is changed."

  "As simple as that, eh?" Brunetti said.

  Perulli's smile didn't have time to blossom fully before the frost of

  Brunetti's tone blighted that smile.

  "You can joke if you want, Guido, but it's not easy, running a country

  like this."

  "You really think you run it?"

  "Not I, personally," Perulli said in a tone that suggested some regret

  at this fact. "Of course not."

  "All of you together, then? The people in Parliament?"

  "If not we, then who?" Perulli demanded, voice rising to something

  that resembled indignation but was closer to anger.

  "Indeed," Brunetti said simply. After a long pause, he went on, his

  voice perfectly normal, "Do you know anything else about these

  committees, perhaps who else served on them?"

  Deprived of an immediate target for his displeasure by Brunetti's

  sudden change of subject, Perulli hesitated before he answered. "I'm

  not sure there's much to be said about any one of them. They aren't

  important, and usually new members or those who aren't well connected

  get appointed to them."

  The see Brunetti said neutrally. "Do you know any of the other people

  who served on these committees?"

  He was afraid he had pushed Perulli too far and that the man might

  dismiss his question or refuse to give him any more time, but after a

  moment the parliamentarian answered, "I know one or two of them, but

  not at all well."

  "Could you talk to them?"

  "About what?" Perulli asked, immediately suspicious.

  "Moro."

  "No." His answer was immediate.

  "Why not?" Brunetti asked, though he was sure he knew the answer.

  "Because, when you called, you said you wanted to ask me some

  questions. You didn't say you wanted me to start doing your job for

  you." As he spoke, Perulli's voice grew more heated. He looked at

  Brunetti, who said nothing, and that silence seemed to be enough to

  unleash even more of Perulli's anger. "I don't know why you want to

  know about Moro, but it's a good thing someone's going to take a closer

  look at him." Red spots the size of golf balls flashed into being on

  his cheeks.

  "Why?" Brunetti asked.

  Again, Perulli uncrossed his legs, but this time he leaned forward,

  towards Brunetti, the forefinger of his right hand jabbing the space

  between them. "Because he's a sanctimonious bastard, always talking

  about fraud and dishonesty and .. ." Here Perulli's voice changed,

  deepening and dragging out the final syllables of words in a way

  Brunetti realized was very much like Moro's. "Our responsibility to

  the citizen," he went on, the imitation suddenly becoming sarcastic

  exaggeration. "We can't continue to treat our offices, this

  Parliament, as though it were a trough and we a herd of pigs," Perulli

  intoned. It was clear to Brunetti that he was again quoting Moro.

  Brunetti thought the other man would go on: Augusto had never known

  when a joke had gone on long enough. But Perulli surprised him by

  lapsing into silence, though he

  couldn't resist the temptation to goad Brunetti by saying, "If he's

  done something, it's no surprise to me: he's no different from any one

  of us."

  "With your front trotters in the trough?" Brunetti asked mildly.

  He might just as well have slapped the other man across the face.

  Perulli lurched forward, his right hand aiming for Bj Brunetti's

  throat, but he had forgotten the low table between "I them. It caught

  Perulli just below the knees and sent him sprawling across and then

  beyond i
t.

  Brunetti had risen to his feet while Perulli was clattering across the

  table. Seeing him on the floor, stunned, he started to reach down to

  help him to his feet but then stopped himself. Curious, he stepped to

  one side and bent over to look closer. Perulli's hair had fallen

  forward, and Brunetti could see the little round, puckered scar just

  behind the left ear. Gratified to have detected the cause of Perulli's

  youthful appearance, he stood and waited, and when he saw Perulli pull

  his knees up under him and place his hands flat on the floor on either

  side of him, Brunetti turned and left the apartment.

  When he got outside and looked at his watch, Brunetti was surprised to

  see that it was almost five. He found himself very hungry and

  geographically halfway between work and home. He didn't know what he'd

  find to eat at home, and by the time he got there and had something, it

  would be too late to bother to go back to the Questura. He sent the

  feet of memory up towards San Marco, recalling every bar or trattoria

  he knew on the way, then, at the thought of what he would encounter in

  that direction, he re plotted the trip via Campo Sant' Angelo and back

  through Campo San Fantin. Knowing it was absurd and aware that he had

  himself chosen to forgo lunch, he was assaulted by a wave of self-pity:

  he was doing his job as best he knew how, and he found himself hungry

  at a time when it would be impossible to get a meal. He remembered

  then one of the few stories his father ever told about the war, though

  he recalled it in a garbled fashion, for it had never been told the

  same way twice. At some point, marching across Lower Saxony in the

  days just after the end of the war, his father and two companions had

  been

  befriended by a stray dog that emerged from under a bombed house to

  follow them. The next day, they ate the dog. Over the course of

  decades, this story had taken on talismanic powers for Brunetti, and he

  found himself unable to keep his mind from it whenever anyone talked

  about food in a way he thought too precious, as though it were a

  fashion accessory rather than a basic need. All he had to do was hear

  one of Paola's friends go on about her delicate digestion and how she

  couldn't even bear to buy vegetables that had been displayed next to

  garlic, and the story came to mind. He remembered, years ago, sitting

  across the table from a man who told the other guests how impossible it

  was for him to eat any meat that had not come from his own butcher,

  that he could taste the difference in quality instantly. When the man

  finished the story, and after he had received the required accolade for

  his delicacy of palate, Brunetti had told the story of the dog.

  He cut through to Campo San Fantin and stopped in a bar for two

  tramezzini and a glass of white wine. While he was there, an

  attractive dark-haired woman came in for a coffee wearing a tight

  leopard-patterned coat and an outrageous black hat that looked like a

  black pizza balanced on a skullcap. He studied her for a moment as she

  sipped at her coffee; indeed, he joined every man in the bar in

  studying her. All of them, he concluded, joined with him in giving

  thanks that she had come in to lift their hearts and brighten their

  day.

  Cheered by having seen her, he left the bar and walked back to the

  Quesrura. As he entered his office, he saw a folder lying on his desk,

  and when he opened it he was astonished to discover the autopsy report

  on Ernesto Moro. His immediate reaction was to wonder what Venturi was

  up to, what manoeuvre or power play he might be involved in and against

  whom. His speed in having performed the autopsy could be explained

  only as an attempt to win Brunetti's favour, and that favour could be

  of use to the pathologist only

  if he were planning to move against some rival or perceived rival

  either in the police or the medical system.

  Brunetti refused to speculate further about Venturi's motives and

  directed his attention to the report. Ernesto Moro had been in

  excellent health at the time of his death, entirely free of any sign of

  disease, not a single cavity in his teeth, though there was evidence of

  previous orthodontic work. His left leg had been broken in the past,

  perhaps as long as ten years ago, but had healed completely; tonsils

  and appendix were still present.

  The cause of death was strangulation. There was no way to judge how

  far his body had fallen before the noose had tightened around his

  throat, but it had not been sufficient to break his neck, so the boy

  had strangled to death. It had not been, Venturi stated, a quick

  process: the rope had caused extensive bruising of the front and right

  side of his neck. This suggested that his last moments had been spent

  in instinctive convulsions against the tightening cord. There followed

  the exact dimensions of the shower stall in which his body had been

  found and the possible extension of arms as long as his. Brunetti

  thought of those sweeping marks on the wall of the shower.

  From the evidence of the food in the boy's stomach, it was likely that

  he had died some time between midnight and three in the morning. There

  was no evidence of drug use, and it seemed that he had consumed only a

  moderate amount of wine with his last meal, probably no more than one

  glass and certainly not enough to cloud his judgement in any way.

  Brunetti put the papers back in the folder and left it lying open on

  his desk. The report said everything just as it said nothing. He

  tried to subtract the knowledge that Signora Moro had been shot and

  view her son's death as a separate event. The obvious possible motives

  were thus some disappointment the boy had suffered or the desire to pay

  someone back for a perceived injury. Once the mother was

  put back into the equation, the possible motives expanded

  exponentially. Instead of being viewed as the prime mover in the

  action, the boy became a means and some other person the mover.

  Following this filament of vague speculation, Brunetti saw " that the

  mother's survival suggested she was not the prime | target, which left

  Moro himself. But even that, he realized, led nowhere: until he had an

  idea of what Moro might be a target of, or for whom, all speculation

  was as flimsy as the jumbled bits and pieces of information upon which

  he chose to base it.

  The arrival of Signorina Elettra put an end to his fragmentary musings.

  "You saw that?" she asked as she came in, nodding towards the autopsy

  report.

  "Yes. What do you make of it?"

  "I can't understand it, why a boy like that would kill himself. It

  doesn't make any sense at all."

  "It's not so unusual, I'm afraid, kids killing themselves."

  His remark seemed to cause her pain. She stopped in front of his desk,

  another folder in one hand. "But why?"

  "I spoke to one of the cadets over there. He said there was no way to

  be sure about the future, or that there even would be one for them."

  "That's nonsense," she snapped angrily. "Of course there's always a


  future."

  "I'm just repeating what he told me."

  "A cadet?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  She was silent for a long time, then finally said, I went out with one

  of them for a while."

  Immediately curious, Brunetti asked, "When you were a student?"

  Her mouth moved in a sly smile: "Not last week, certainly." Then she

  went on, "Yes, when I was eighteen." She looked down at the floor in a

  moment's reflection and then said, "No, as a matter of fact, I was only

  sixteen. That explains it."

  He knew a set-up line when he heard it. "Explains what?"

  "How I could have put up with him

  Brunetti half rose in his chair and gestured towards the other. "Have

  a seat, please." She swept one hand behind her as she sat,

  straightening her skirt, then placed the folder flat on her lap.

  "What did you have to put up with?" he asked, puzzled by the idea of

  Signorina Elettra as a person capable of enduring anything she didn't

  wish to.

  "I was going to say that he was a Fascist and that they all were, and

  probably still are today, but it might not be true of all of them. So

  I'll say only that he was a Fascist, and a bully, and a snob and that

  most of his friends were, too." From long experience of her, Brunetti

  could sense when Signorina Elettra was doing no more than practising

  verbal solfeggi and when she was preparing to launch into an aria; he