Beastly Things by Donna Leon Page B

alcoholics or addicts, but Rizzardi said there were no signs this guy was a drinker or used drugs.’
    ‘So it just happened to him?’
    Brunetti nodded, recalling the thick neck and the arching torso of the dead man.
    ‘Could I see the photo?’ Vezzani asked.
    Brunetti gave it to him.
    ‘You said Pucetti did this?’ Vezzani asked, picking up the photo to take a closer look.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ve heard about him,’ Vezzani said; then, in a different tone, ‘God, I’d like to have a few like him around here.’
    ‘That bad?’
    Vezzani shrugged.
    ‘Or you don’t want to say?’ Brunetti asked.
    Vezzani gave a humourless laugh. ‘If I saw a job opening for a street patrolman in Caltanissetta, I’d be tempted, I tell you.’
    ‘Why?’
    Vezzani rubbed at his right cheek with the palm of his hand: his beard was so heavy that, by this time of day, Brunetti could hear a grating noise. ‘Because so little happens, combined with the fact that, when it does, there’s so little we can do.’ Then, as if the subject were too annoying, Vezzani got quickly to his feet, taking the photo with him. ‘Let me take this downstairs and show it to the boys. See if anyone recognizes him.’ At Brunetti’s nod, he left the room.
    Brunetti got to his feet and walked over to a bulletin board on which were pinned notices bearing the seal of the Ministry of the Interior. He read a few of them and found they were the same memos and reports that flowed into and out of his own office. Perhaps he should put theirs in suitcases, take them to the railway station, and leave them unattended for a few minutes or until they were stolen. There seemed no other way they would ever be disposed of effectively. Should he propose it to Patta? he wondered. He stood and looked at them, inventing his conversation with Patta.
    Vezzani came quickly into the room. ‘He’s a veterinarian,’ he said.
    As if he were channelling the voice of the young woman in the shoe shop, Brunetti said, ‘Likes animals and knows something about dogs.’ Then he asked, ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘One of our men. He’d seen him at his son’s school.’ Vezzani came farther into the room. ‘There was some sort of special day when parents were invited to the school and told the kids about their jobs or their professions. He said they do it every year, and last year this guy talked about being a vet and taking care of animals.’
    ‘Is he sure?’ Brunetti asked.
    Vezzani nodded.
    ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘He didn’t remember, said he heard only the last part of his talk. But only parents are invited, so if he talked at the school, they’ve got to know who he is.’
    ‘Which school is it?’
    ‘San Giovanni Bosco. I can call them,’ Vezzani said, moving towards his desk. ‘Or we can go and talk to them.’
    Brunetti’s answer was immediate. ‘I don’t want to show up there in a police car, especially if his kid’s still enrolled there. People always talk, and it’s no way for him to find out about his father.’
    Vezzani agreed, and Vianello, who had children in school and, like the others, worked in a potentially dangerous profession, nodded.
    The call was quickly made, and after being passed to two different offices, Vezzani learned the dead man’s name. Dottor Andrea Nava, his son still at the school, though there had been some family trouble and the father hadn’t come to the most recent parent meeting. Yes, he had been there last year and had talked about household pets and how best to take care of them. He’d suggested that the children bring their pets with them, and he’d used them as examples. The children had enjoyed his talk more than any of the others, and it was a real pity Dr Nava hadn’t been able to come back this year.
    Vezzani wrote down the address and phone number listed in the boy’s contact information, thanked the person speaking without explaining why the police were looking for the doctor, and hung up.
    ‘Well?’ Vezzani