face. Blonde bristles along her upper lip and freckles on the back of her hands. “It’s not unheard of for mothers to murder their children.” Her lipstick was a bright red and ran over the edge of the lips at the corners of her mouth.
Trotti said, “It’s abnormal.”
“We are all abnormal at some time or another, signore.” She turned to give him a blank stare.
Trotti held out his hand. “Commissario Trotti, Squadra Mobile.”
They shook hands; her grasp was firm. “Dottoressa Silvan.” She added, “Stefanella Silvan.”
“And this is Brigadiere Ciuffi.”
The two women exchanged brief—almost conspiratorial—smiles.
“And now?”
“And now, Commissario?”
Trotti asked, “What’s going to happen to the child?”
She shrugged. “With a bit of luck he should grow into a healthy young boy. Nothing wrong with him that food and warmth can’t solve. And love. Above all, love.”
Ciuffi bit her lower lip. “But there will be problems?”
“Not necessarily. There’s a risk of pneumonia and we’ve put him on antibiotics. But he’s tough, our Ivan.”
“And who’s going to look after him?”
“Look after him? You don’t think we’re doing a good enough job?”
He shook his head. “But once he leaves here. Will he go back to his mother?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Very unlikely. Probably he will be sent to the Institute—and then I imagine he will be adopted.”
“Adopted,” Trotti repeated and he turned back to look at the sleeping baby.
“I am sure there are a lot of loving people who would like to look after Ivan.”
Trotti frowned. “How many days did he spend like that?”
“At least a couple.” Although her face was prematurely wrinkled she had a nice smile. “Have faith in the human body. It clings to life.” Her pale eyes looked at Trotti playfully. “We all cling to life—it’s all we have.”
“He will be adopted, you say.”
“In his way, he has been lucky. If it hadn’t been for Commissario Merenda, we would never have found the child. And that other nice policeman.”
“Nice policeman?” Trotti looked at her and laughed. “Not a contradiction?”
She raised a hand to the side of her head. “The policeman with hair over his ears—and none on top.” She added, “And with a suede jacket. An old suede jacket.”
“Pisanelli.”
“That’s right. He was concerned. He was very good with the mother.” She gave Trotti a shrewd glance. “I think Signor Pisanelli understands female psychology.” She moved towards the incubator and looked down at the sleeping child. “A lucky boy, aren’t you, Ivan?”
“Ivan would have been a lot luckier if his mother hadn’t dumped him in the middle of the field.”
“Perhaps she had no choice.”
“She had the choice long before the child was ever conceived.”
“Have you ever carried a child in your belly, Commissario?”
He shrugged. “It’d be a bit difficult.”
“Then I don’t think you’re in a position to judge a woman. Do you?”
Ciuffi was still smiling.
22: Police Woman
T HE SUN HAD risen above the veil of mist that hung over the city.
“Are you coming with me to see Signor Vardin?”
“But you haven’t looked at the dossier yet, Commissario.”
“The dossier?”
The policewoman allowed a brief smile to flicker across her lips. The serge uniform suited her. She wore just a hint of lipstick. “You told me you wanted to know how Vardin was involved with the AVIS transfusion center.” She took the folder from under her arm. “I was working on it until late last night. By myself.”
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
The young face hesitated between amusement and irritation. The eyes looked tired, weary. “When I wanted to give it to you in the Questura, you said you were coming to the hospital.”
“Poor bastard,” Trotti said.
“Pisanelli? There’s nothing poor about him—just lazy.” She pursed her lips.
“A poor child, Ivan—being left like that by
Trotti said, “It’s abnormal.”
“We are all abnormal at some time or another, signore.” She turned to give him a blank stare.
Trotti held out his hand. “Commissario Trotti, Squadra Mobile.”
They shook hands; her grasp was firm. “Dottoressa Silvan.” She added, “Stefanella Silvan.”
“And this is Brigadiere Ciuffi.”
The two women exchanged brief—almost conspiratorial—smiles.
“And now?”
“And now, Commissario?”
Trotti asked, “What’s going to happen to the child?”
She shrugged. “With a bit of luck he should grow into a healthy young boy. Nothing wrong with him that food and warmth can’t solve. And love. Above all, love.”
Ciuffi bit her lower lip. “But there will be problems?”
“Not necessarily. There’s a risk of pneumonia and we’ve put him on antibiotics. But he’s tough, our Ivan.”
“And who’s going to look after him?”
“Look after him? You don’t think we’re doing a good enough job?”
He shook his head. “But once he leaves here. Will he go back to his mother?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Very unlikely. Probably he will be sent to the Institute—and then I imagine he will be adopted.”
“Adopted,” Trotti repeated and he turned back to look at the sleeping baby.
“I am sure there are a lot of loving people who would like to look after Ivan.”
Trotti frowned. “How many days did he spend like that?”
“At least a couple.” Although her face was prematurely wrinkled she had a nice smile. “Have faith in the human body. It clings to life.” Her pale eyes looked at Trotti playfully. “We all cling to life—it’s all we have.”
“He will be adopted, you say.”
“In his way, he has been lucky. If it hadn’t been for Commissario Merenda, we would never have found the child. And that other nice policeman.”
“Nice policeman?” Trotti looked at her and laughed. “Not a contradiction?”
She raised a hand to the side of her head. “The policeman with hair over his ears—and none on top.” She added, “And with a suede jacket. An old suede jacket.”
“Pisanelli.”
“That’s right. He was concerned. He was very good with the mother.” She gave Trotti a shrewd glance. “I think Signor Pisanelli understands female psychology.” She moved towards the incubator and looked down at the sleeping child. “A lucky boy, aren’t you, Ivan?”
“Ivan would have been a lot luckier if his mother hadn’t dumped him in the middle of the field.”
“Perhaps she had no choice.”
“She had the choice long before the child was ever conceived.”
“Have you ever carried a child in your belly, Commissario?”
He shrugged. “It’d be a bit difficult.”
“Then I don’t think you’re in a position to judge a woman. Do you?”
Ciuffi was still smiling.
22: Police Woman
T HE SUN HAD risen above the veil of mist that hung over the city.
“Are you coming with me to see Signor Vardin?”
“But you haven’t looked at the dossier yet, Commissario.”
“The dossier?”
The policewoman allowed a brief smile to flicker across her lips. The serge uniform suited her. She wore just a hint of lipstick. “You told me you wanted to know how Vardin was involved with the AVIS transfusion center.” She took the folder from under her arm. “I was working on it until late last night. By myself.”
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
The young face hesitated between amusement and irritation. The eyes looked tired, weary. “When I wanted to give it to you in the Questura, you said you were coming to the hospital.”
“Poor bastard,” Trotti said.
“Pisanelli? There’s nothing poor about him—just lazy.” She pursed her lips.
“A poor child, Ivan—being left like that by
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