The Crocodile Read Free

get promoted, ratcheting upward rank by rank–the same as it is in the police, come to think of it. Arrested and released a couple of times, only to vanish into the fields between Gela and Canicattì, another courier with his sleeves rolled up, busily delivering messages and, when so ordered, death.
    They’d never crossed paths. Di Fede hadn’t been one of the scattered few that they managed to round up on those scorching hot summer nights when they raided houses built in open violation of planning regulations, in out of the way parts of town, bursting into barren rooms littered with wine bottles and dirty magazines, where men sat deciding the fate of who-knows-who, who-knows-where.
    But in the end, someone did manage to lay hands on him, in Germany of all places. And during the long interrogation sessions that finally led him to turn state’s witness, what had emerged? His name, the name of Inspector Giuseppe Lojacono, of the Agrigento major case squad, a golden boy with a glittering career ahead of him. The career might have been gilded, but unfortunately the golden boy lacked political protection.
    Yes, said state’s witness Alfonso Di Fede, that’s right: Lojacono tipped us off, of course he did. He was how we knew everything the major case squad was going to do before they did it. We knew where it was safe to go and where it wasn’t. Can I have another espresso now?
    Who could say where his name had come up, from what nook or cranny of Di Fede’s memory, prompted by what need to cover up someone else’s involvement? In the sleepless nights spent staring at the bedroom ceiling that followed his immediate suspension, Lojacono had puzzled over that one a thousand times.
    The effect on his own life, and on Sonia and Marinella’s lives, had been devastating. No one was willing to speak to them now—some out of fear that the informant’s account was true, others out of fear that it wasn’t. As long as the matter remained in doubt, everyone kept their distance, and there the three of them were left, in the middle of nowhere.
    He’d read the uncertainty in his wife’s and daughter’s eyes immediately. Not that he’d expected unwavering support. He’d seen this sort of thing happen far too often: he knew how rare it was, outside of books and movies, for families to remain steadfast allies in bad times as well as good. But he had hoped he’d at least be given an opportunity to explain, to defend his good name.
    It would have been so much better if there’d actually been a trial. In that case, he would have had a chance to demolish the absurd accusation, revealing it for what it was—little more than vicious slander. But it was the very fact that there was no evidence that led to a dismissal of charges, meaning no lawyers, no courtroom hearings.
    Advisability: that had been the operative term. No disciplinary measures, merely a matter of advisability. Of course, there was a case file; in some dimly lit room somewhere there was a folder with his name on it, full of documents: copies of reports, interviews, judgments. Fragments, relics of a policeman’s life, a life spent in one of the most complicated places on earth. Everything taken apart and archived, for reasons of “advisability.’’
    “You have to understand, Lojacono,” the chief of police had told him, “I’m doing it for the good of the squad; I need your co-workers to feel safe. And for the good of your family, it’s not in anyone’s interest for you to stay here. You’re too exposed. A question of advisability.”
    It had been deemed advisable to move Sonia and Marinella to Palermo. Why run the risk of extortion, or worse? There were families whose members had been killed at the hands of Di Fede and his men; no one could say what some hothead might decide to do to someone who had collaborated with them.
    Marinella had been forced to change schools, lose all her best friends, even the little boy who liked her. Terrible things, at her age. The