Perhaps he thought that would protect him. Bad piece of work. Involved in dope and prostitution rings around Termini. Not a man to mourn. It was the same story as the others. Well, similar. LaMarca’s teenage boyfriend got kidnapped on the way home from the cinema. He managed to claw his way out of some lockup near Clodio this morning and went straight to us. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened. Someone called LaMarca. A ransom perhaps. He went out—”
“Commissario,” Peroni cut in. “I thought you said Bramante was in jail until three months ago. Maybe he could have kidnapped this kid and killed LaMarca. But the others?”
Messina pulled out a prison file and thrust it in front of them.
“Pay attention. I told you Giorgio Bramante was a model prisoner. He had all the parole he wanted. They even let him out from time to time to do odd jobs for people. Nothing illegal in that. Nothing that wasn’t by the book. When Vignola disappeared, Bramante was on emotional leave to visit his sick mother. Here in Rome. When Guerino died, he was on a free weekend. Plenty of time to do what he did. Same with Raul Bellucci.”
“These people had changed their names,” Teresa pointed out. “How the hell would he know how to find them?”
“That’s for you to discover,” Messina answered, then stuffed the pages back into the briefcase. “One more thing. The boy’s mother gave a T-shirt to some weird little church in Prati. They have a collection of memorabilia that appeals to psychics. She told them that soon after Alessio went missing, and Ludo Torchia was pronounced dead, she found it at home. With a fresh bloodstain on it. As if the two events were connected. The church collects that kind of thing apparently.”
Teresa scowled. “Leave me out of this. I’m a scientist. I don’t do witchcraft. Maybe someone had a nosebleed?”
“They didn’t,” Messina said flatly. “This T-shirt has gained a few more bloodstains over the years, not that we found that out until this morning. The church warden tried to keep it all quiet. But he’s a precise man. He made a note of the date each fresh bloodstain appeared. Any guesses?”
They looked at one another and stayed silent.
“The first happened just after Sandro Vignola went missing. Then, following each death, a day, two at the most, the warden finds another stain on Alessio Bramante’s shirt. It’s no big deal. The place scarcely has any security. Anyone could get in there, open the case, and pour something on the shirt. It doesn’t take magic. This morning…”
He paused to look out the window. They were moving into the Viale Aventino at last. It couldn’t be far away.
“…the church had a visitor. A man on his own, with a physical description that matches Bramante. This was around seven-thirty. Afterwards there were several fresh stains. Big stains this time, ones they couldn’t keep quiet. And some writing. That’s what brings us here. Not, unfortunately, before the caretaker had got in there first. Rosa Prabakaran is talking to her.”
Peroni’s face lit up with fury. “You’ve got a junior officer straight out of school on something like this? Aren’t there any grown-ups around?”
Messina gave him a cold managerial stare. He didn’t appreciate the interruption.
“She’s got nothing to worry about. You people, however…”
Even Falcone looked lost for a clue at that moment.
“He’s got two left on his list,” Messina continued implacably. “Dino Abati. God knows what he calls himself these days or where he’s living. And the police officer Bramante blames for stopping him beating the truth out of Ludo Torchia fourteen years ago. I hope you like the emergency quarters in the Questura, by the way, Leo. You’ll be staying there, all four of you, until this is over.”
“Oh no,” Peroni declared, waving his hand. “I’m just a man on the street these days. Don’t lay this at my door.”
“It’s already there,”
“Commissario,” Peroni cut in. “I thought you said Bramante was in jail until three months ago. Maybe he could have kidnapped this kid and killed LaMarca. But the others?”
Messina pulled out a prison file and thrust it in front of them.
“Pay attention. I told you Giorgio Bramante was a model prisoner. He had all the parole he wanted. They even let him out from time to time to do odd jobs for people. Nothing illegal in that. Nothing that wasn’t by the book. When Vignola disappeared, Bramante was on emotional leave to visit his sick mother. Here in Rome. When Guerino died, he was on a free weekend. Plenty of time to do what he did. Same with Raul Bellucci.”
“These people had changed their names,” Teresa pointed out. “How the hell would he know how to find them?”
“That’s for you to discover,” Messina answered, then stuffed the pages back into the briefcase. “One more thing. The boy’s mother gave a T-shirt to some weird little church in Prati. They have a collection of memorabilia that appeals to psychics. She told them that soon after Alessio went missing, and Ludo Torchia was pronounced dead, she found it at home. With a fresh bloodstain on it. As if the two events were connected. The church collects that kind of thing apparently.”
Teresa scowled. “Leave me out of this. I’m a scientist. I don’t do witchcraft. Maybe someone had a nosebleed?”
“They didn’t,” Messina said flatly. “This T-shirt has gained a few more bloodstains over the years, not that we found that out until this morning. The church warden tried to keep it all quiet. But he’s a precise man. He made a note of the date each fresh bloodstain appeared. Any guesses?”
They looked at one another and stayed silent.
“The first happened just after Sandro Vignola went missing. Then, following each death, a day, two at the most, the warden finds another stain on Alessio Bramante’s shirt. It’s no big deal. The place scarcely has any security. Anyone could get in there, open the case, and pour something on the shirt. It doesn’t take magic. This morning…”
He paused to look out the window. They were moving into the Viale Aventino at last. It couldn’t be far away.
“…the church had a visitor. A man on his own, with a physical description that matches Bramante. This was around seven-thirty. Afterwards there were several fresh stains. Big stains this time, ones they couldn’t keep quiet. And some writing. That’s what brings us here. Not, unfortunately, before the caretaker had got in there first. Rosa Prabakaran is talking to her.”
Peroni’s face lit up with fury. “You’ve got a junior officer straight out of school on something like this? Aren’t there any grown-ups around?”
Messina gave him a cold managerial stare. He didn’t appreciate the interruption.
“She’s got nothing to worry about. You people, however…”
Even Falcone looked lost for a clue at that moment.
“He’s got two left on his list,” Messina continued implacably. “Dino Abati. God knows what he calls himself these days or where he’s living. And the police officer Bramante blames for stopping him beating the truth out of Ludo Torchia fourteen years ago. I hope you like the emergency quarters in the Questura, by the way, Leo. You’ll be staying there, all four of you, until this is over.”
“Oh no,” Peroni declared, waving his hand. “I’m just a man on the street these days. Don’t lay this at my door.”
“It’s already there,”
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