By My Hand by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

replied:
    â€œSeniore, I’ve reviewed all the documentation on the cases still under way. As you know, Centurion Garofalo was in charge of monitoring small-scale fishing on the city coastline, an area that extends from the port to the island of Nisida. There are reports on inspection up to this month, as required, including the quantities of fish and an inspection of the fishing areas. Detailed lists of the equipment on the individual boats, minutes of the meetings of the district commission. Human error aside, I found no irregularities awaiting report.”
    Ricciardi broke in, as a fascinated Maione watched the movement of the mustache on Platoon Leader Criscuolo’s upper lip, a mustache that seemed to move independently of the lip itself.
    â€œExcuse me, but what does ‘irregularities awaiting report’ mean?”
    Spasiano explained:
    â€œAs you may know, the legion performs a number of duties, among them, monitoring fishing. There are large fishing boats, the ones with crews consisting of many men, which, because of their size, operate here in the port, at specially designated wharves. Then there are the smaller boats, which is to say boats owned and operated by families, which dock at the beaches of the
borghi
, near Castel dell’Ovo, in Mergellina, in Bagnoli, and so on. Centurion Garofalo was assigned to inspect these small fishing boats. The platoon leader, who worked with him, has checked to see that the centurion didn’t have any pending investigations, irregularities detected that had yet to be reported. It’s important to be timely, to avoid giving those who have committed some violation the time to rectify it and thus elude further inquiry.”
    Ricciardi nodded, pensively.
    â€œI understand. And had Centurion Garofalo recently reported any major irregularities, as a result of which major proceedings would have been undertaken against anyone?”
    Spasiano tipped his head in Criscuolo’s direction, passing him the ball. The mustache leaped and dived on the motionless lip, like a cat’s whiskers.
    â€œNo, Signore. Little things, the kind of things you see all the time: non-regulation nets, minor incursions into private waters. Slight infractions. The centurion was highly respected and feared for his strictness; the fishermen knew it and toed the line.”
    Ricciardi turned and spoke once again to Spasiano.
    â€œThe Signor Consul, earlier, made some reference to Garofalo’s promotion to centurion: to be exact, to the way in which that promotion was obtained. What can you tell me about that?”
    The Seniore was caught off guard. He looked at Criscuolo, who, apart from a vibration that ran through his mustache, didn’t move a muscle. He reddened, opened his mouth, and snapped it shut. Ricciardi decided to lend him a hand.
    â€œThe Signor Consul told me that I could ask you for any information that I might find useful. If there are problems, we can just go speak with him.”
    Maione smiled warmly. Ricciardi’s ability to slip into the cracks of a given bureaucracy was unequaled. Spasiano blinked and gave in immediately.
    â€œGarofalo was the deputy platoon leader. The corresponding rank in the army is second lieutenant. This means that he worked with a superior officer, an officer assigned to a specific area: a sector to be monitored, in other words.”
    He stopped, looking down at the toes of his boots. Ricciardi and Maione waited. Criscuolo moved a sheet of paper on the dead man’s desk. From outside came the mournful sound of a siren, carried by the stiffening wind. Spasiano went on with his story.
    â€œThis officer was the platoon leader Antonio Lomunno. One of the youngest men to hold that rank, ready to be awarded another promotion. The inspection area he was assigned to was smuggling, a terrible problem especially where tobacco and spices are concerned, and with coffee in particular. They were a hardworking team, and