By My Hand Read Free

afternoon. But at this time of day he’s always at home.”
    Maione intervened.
    â€œA minute ago, you said that the
zampognaro
called for you. What do you mean by that?”
    â€œThe two
zampognari
had gone upstairs to play the novena, for the third day. They came back down right away; one wasn’t talking and he’s still not talking even now. He’s over there, you can see him, sitting in that chair, so pale he looks like a dead man himself. The other one, who’s older, he came to get me, and he said, ‘Signor Doorman, hurry upstairs, something awful has happened.’ I would have believed anything, except that I’d go upstairs and find . . . what I found.”
    Ricciardi nodded, lost in thought. Then he said:
    â€œAll right then. Let’s go take a look. Ferro, you can walk the brigadier and me upstairs. Cesarano, you keep an eye on the two
zampognari
and don’t move from there; we’ll talk to them afterward. And you, Camarda, I want you to stand guard at the front entrance. I don’t want to see anyone go into the building, not even the people who live here, until I say so. Let’s go.”

II
    F erro walked ahead of Ricciardi and Maione, leading the way into the building. The lobby was spacious and clean, reasonably warm and well lit; it was clear that the building aspired to a certain tone, as did many in this new neighborhood growing at the foot of the hill. Ricciardi addressed the man.
    â€œHow many people live in this building?”
    â€œThere are three families, Commissa’. The Garofalos, the ones . . . well, where I’m taking you now, the Marras, a childless couple who are out at this time of day because they both work, and the accountant Finelli on the top floor, a widower with five children who all go to their grandmother’s, not far from here, when he’s at the bank where he works.”
    Maione puffed as he heaved his 265 pounds up the stairs:
    â€œSo in other words, at this time of day there’s no one else in the building but the Garofalos, is that it? And they don’t have any children?”
    â€œA little girl, Brigadie’. Her name is Benedetta and she’s at school with her aunt, who’s a nun. The aunt comes to get her every morning. That’s lucky: if not, then she, too . . .”
    He stopped on the last step, just before the third-floor landing, without turning the corner, his eyes fixed on the large window overlooking the courtyard.
    â€œYou’ll have to forgive me: I just can’t do it. I just can’t see all that blood again.”
    Ricciardi and Maione walked past him. In the half light, they were able to make out two doors, one closed and the other one left ajar, from which there came a shaft of a white light. They could glimpse a section of wall, flowered wallpaper, half a hanging mirror, a console table with a vase, and a framed photograph. They stopped, then Maione, according to a well-established routine, turned away, facing the stairs. The first encounter with the crime scene was always and exclusively the commissario’s prerogative.
    Ricciardi took a step forward, opening the door to the apartment a crack more. The light came from inside, the chilly December afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows in the other rooms. At first he saw nothing; then he realized that what he had at first taken for a decorative floral pattern on the wallpaper was actually an array of blood spatters. He leaned forward, taking care as to where he put his feet. On the floor there was a broad dark stain, in the middle of which was the head of a woman whose body lay behind the door.
    The commissario understood immediately that all the blood he saw, the blood that had terrified the doorman and spattered and stained the carpet and the wallpaper, had sprayed from the woman’s throat when it had been sliced open by a single blow from a razor-sharp blade. He observed the