Uniform Justice by Donna Leon Page A

class work. I don’t think this can be construed in any way as mistreatment, sir.’
    ‘Not only you,’ Patta said, overriding Brunetti and giving no indication that he had bothered to listen to his explanation. ‘One of your officers. I was at a dinner last night, and the father of one of the boys said your officer was very rough when he questioned his son.’ Patta allowed the full horror of this to sink in before adding, ‘The father was at school with General D’Ambrosio.’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Brunetti said, wondering if the boy would go on to complain to his father should he experience rough treatment from the enemy in battle, ‘I’m sure if he had known that, he would have shown him more courtesy.’
    ‘Don’t try being smart with me, Brunetti,’ Patta shot back, displaying a quicker sensitivity to Brunetti’s tone than usual. ‘I don’t want your men in there, strong-arming these boys and causing trouble. These are the sons of some of the best people in the country and I won’t have them treated like this.’
    Brunetti had always been fascinated by the way the police shuttlecocked back and forth between Patta and all the others who might be seen as responsible for them: when they solved a case or behaved bravely, they were Patta’s police, but all cases of misbehaviour, incompetence or negligence were clearly attributable to their behaving like the police of someone else, in this case, Brunetti.
    ‘I’m not sure there’s any question of their being mistreated, sir,’ Brunetti said mildly. ‘I asked an officer to speak to the other students and try to find out if the Moro boy had been behaving strangely or if he had said anything that would indicate he had been thinking about suicide.’ Before Patta could interrupt, he went on , ‘I thought this would help make it even clearer that the boy had committed suicide.’
    ‘Clearer than what?’ Patta asked.
    ‘Than the physical evidence, sir,’ Brunetti answered.
    For a moment, he thought that Patta was about to say, ‘Good.’ Surely his face grew less tense and he, too, let out a deep breath. But all he said was, ‘Very well. Then let’s file it as suicide and let the school begin to get back to normal.’
    ‘Good idea, sir,’ said Brunetti, then, as if the idea had just occurred to him, ‘But what do we do if the boy’s parents aren’t satisfied?’
    ‘What do you mean, “aren’t satisfied”?’
    ‘Well, the father has a history of causing trouble,’ Brunetti began, shaking his head as if thinking of the shocking scepticism towards public institutions demonstrated in the Moro Report. ‘And so I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a report about his son’s death that left anything open to question.’
    ‘Do you think there’s a chance of that?’
    ‘Probably not, sir,’ Brunetti answered. ‘But I wouldn’t want to leave something undone that a person as difficult as Moro could point to and ask questions about. He’d be sure to make it look bad for us. And he’s certainly a person who gets his fair share of public attention.’ Brunetti stopped himself from saying more.
    Patta gave all of this some thought and finally asked, ‘What do you suggest?’
    Brunetti feigned surprise that he should be asked such a thing. He started to speak, stopped, and then went on, giving every evidence that he’d never considered this possibility. ‘I suppose I’d try to find out whether he took drugs or showed signs of depression.’
    Patta appeared to consider all of this and then said, ‘It would be easier for them to bear it if they were certain, I suppose.’
    ‘Who, sir?’
    ‘His parents.’
    Brunetti risked a question. ‘Do you know them?’
    ‘The father, yes,’ Patta said.
    Because this was still not followed by an attack on the man, Brunetti dared to ask, ‘Then do you think we should go ahead like this, sir?’
    Patta sat up straighter and moved a heavy Byzantine coin he used as a paperweight from one side of his