The Ouroboros Mystery

Giorgia preferred concrete facts to beliefs. Fact-gathering, fact-sifting, fact-checking: these were all her own particular cup of tea. Interviews were not enjoyable for her. There was too much to process, all at once. There were feelings to be considered, and she couldn’t be bothered with that. So, instead of talking, she liked to sit back and wait for salient details. She could then go about the methodical process of testing whether a piece of information could reliably be put into the ‘fiction’ or ‘fact’ pile.

It was this alone that made her a good detective. When she’d first arrived on the scene, other officers had flatly refused to work with her. Talking to witnesses, family members, victims and suspects, she lacked all sense of tact to the point that occasionally she’d be physically attacked (sometimes by her fellow officer).

It was Fiorella who’d recognized her strength. Now the two women were a team. Fiorella had put it simply: “I do the fronting, you do the facts.” And it worked. They solved more cases a year than any other team in the precinct. Not that they were ever recognized for that, but Giorgia knew where to find the statistics. She liked to keep score.

On this occasion, she was working happily away at one of her favorite tasks: alibi testing. Who was lying? It was an interesting game. It never failed to surprise her (she herself was consititutionally incapable of being dishonest) how many people will lie, even when the truth would ultimately be in their favour.

Already, she had determined that three people had lied.

Dr. Rossa, Enrico’s ex-wife, had said she’d arrived at Caselle airport in Torino at one o’clock in the afternoon, driven straight home and spent the rest of the day relaxing there. In fact, she’d been at the museum on Friday night at seven o’clock, summoned by a text from Enrico. She said she’d briefly gone in and left when she realized he wasn’t there. But could they believe her?

Ahmed Ali, otherwise known as Khaled, had claimed he’d gone to the hookah bar Kemet at eight-thirty on Friday night and spent several hours there. Although the bar owner had initially confirmed this, it hadn’t taken much pressure to make him admit he was covering for his friend. Khaled had shown up for five minutes then left. And this was something he did quite often. Where had he really been?

Greta Hertz’s testimony had her going home with a headache and sleeping most of the afternoon. She’d produced a receipt from the pharmacy near her work where she’d bought aspirin on her way home, and one from the supermarket near her home. But there was no proof she had actually been at her apartment. Giorgia wrote a big question mark next to her name.

Valentino Brano’s alibi—being at a conference in Milan—seemed solid. Other attendees had confirmed that he’d hosted a talk, sat in the audience and been at the dinner. Even so, there were several unaccounted-for hours between the conference and the dinner (when he claimed he was napping in his hotel). She’d need to check their camera footage to make sure he hadn’t left the hotel.

As for Lucia’s testimony, well…it was hard to know what to do with that. But the facts did seem to suggest she was telling the truth.

***

Fiorella read the transcript of Lucia’s statement whilst massaging her temples.

“It stinks,” she muttered, “It stinks to high heaven!”

[TRANSCRIPT]

F.M.: You said that you think you may have killed Dr. Marconi. Can you elaborate?

L.L..: Well, I don’t remember killing him but I woke up next to him and he was dead.

F.M.: OK. Let’s go back a bit. In your previous account, you said you were at the museum until five o’clock, then you went to the gym ‘Zero Excuses’ and then got home at about six-fifteen. Is that right?

LL: Yes, as far as that goes I’m sure that’s right. I had my protein shake as soon as I got home and that’s the last thing I remember. I think I must have blacked out at that point.

FM: And the next thing you remember…were you still at home?

LL: No I wasn’t! That’s the strange thing. I was in the museum. And I was lying right next to Enrico.

FM: He was dead?

LL: Y-yes. I think so. It was dark but there was some light coming from the window. He was so cold, and naked. I was still in my gym gear. Trackpants and T-shirt.

FM: Where were you exactly?

LL: We were in a storage room opposite the pot burial hall.

FM: Did you know what time it was?

LL: It was about ten o’clock at night because when I managed to find the door I looked at my watch and it said ten-fifteen.

FM: So you found your way out of the store room. And then?

LL: I saw my hands. They had blood on them. I was in shock. I washed my hands in the bathroom.

FM: You didn’t think of calling the police?

LL: No.

FM: Did you call anyone?

LL: Yes. I called Valentino. I told him I thought I’d killed Enrico. He told me to go home. He asked me if I’d touched anything. I told him my fingerprints would be on the storeroom door. He told me not to worry and that he would take care of it.

FM: Do you have any idea why you would have killed Enrico?

LL: Valentino said he’d probably tried to attack me. There was a text message, you see. It said “Please come to my office. Urgent.” At 7p.m. Valentino thought it was probably an ambush: he’d probably tried to lure me to his office when no one was there. He’d come on to me and I struck out in self defence.

FM: Had Dr. Marconi ever made passes at you in the past?

LL: Well, no. He’d been friendly but always professional. I trusted him.

FM: At the time you saw Dr. Marconi’s body, what position was he in?

LL: What do you mean?

FM: Was he lying on his back, for example? Or was he sitting up?

LL: He was lying on his back. Looking straight up at the ceiling.

FM: So after you washed your hands, what did you do?

LL: Then I knew I could get out the back way because there’s a door that you can push a bar that unlocks it, but when it closes it’s still locked. So I managed to get out of the building and then I walked home. And there’s something else…

FM: Yes?

LL: On my arm that night, when I took my T-shirt off, I noticed that I had a fake tattoo on my arm. In the shape of an ouroboros. I have no idea how it got there.

“So what do you think?” Fiorella asked.

“The evidence seems to back her story up,” Giorgia shrugged. “Forensics checked the storeroom door handle. They found traces of Enrico’s blood. There were a few hairs belonging to Lucia, a footprint matching her sneakers outside the back door.”

“Right. But do you think it happened like that, he ambushed her and she struck out in defence?”

“No,” said Giorgia with conviction.“

“Because that wasn’t where the murder actually happened.” Fiorella concluded

“Exactly. Forensics found that the murder happened in Enrico’s apartment. There were traces of blood in the living room. And in the rubbish bin was the back of the tattoo transfer.”

“So someone killed him at his own apartment and then took him to the museum. Do you think Lucia was up to doing that?”

“No I don’t,” said Giorgia, again with conviction.

“There’s one thing I want to know now,” said Fiorella. “Have we spoken to the cleaning staff? Who was on duty that night?”

“Well that’s interesting,” said Giorgia. “Because, you know how Dr. Rossa saw a cleaner when she was there at 7 o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“The cleaner officially on duty, Semira, says she finished at six-thirty that night. None of the other cleaners were there.”

“So the one Dr. Rossa saw was an imposter?”

“Seems like.”

***

“You wanted to see me Dr. Hertz?”

Fiorella had stepped into the foyer. The receptionist had told her that Greta Hertz had arrived. She looked flustered—red-cheeked, with stray wisps of blond hair flying out.

“Yes. I came straight over. You see, I found something in my desk drawer at work. It’s horrible.”

She thrust out a hand that held a bag and something heavy inside it.

“What is it?” Fiorella asked, taking it.

“A limestone pestle from the Old Kingdom. I’m afraid it may have been the murder weapon.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, it’s got blood on it. And there was a note.” She thrust out a hand.

Fiorella took the note and read it. All in capitals, someone had written in black marker pen the following:

YOU’RE NEXT, WITCH

“They were in your desk drawer? Did you check the drawer yesterday?”

“Yes. They must have been put there early this morning. It’s disgraceful. Utterly disgraceful! Are you any closer to finding this wretch?”

“Well, yes, we are working hard on the case Dr. Hertz. It certainly is distressing. We take this very seriously. By the way, there’s something I wanted to ask you about. You are in a coven I believe?”

“I--” she looked at a loss for words.

“Or, if you prefer, you are involved in Stregheria? Your alter ego is Fae I believe?”

“Well yes, I am in the Stregheria group. But I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“I believe you purchased a tattoo transfer featuring an ouroboros design?”

“Yes, I purchased several in fact. And a jello mold and a ring.”

“Very good. Are you aware that one such transfer was applied to the dead body of the victim?”

“No, I wasn’t,” she said grimly. “How awful. This whole thing is awful.”

“Indeed. Now I want you to tell me something honestly. On Friday morning, when Dr. Marconi called you into his office, was he making a romantic proposition to you?”

“No! Certainly not.”

“In that case, can you please tell me what he wanted to talk to you about?”

The Austrian woman sighed.

“If you must know, he was planning to accept a position in a university in Dresden. He wanted me to take over the directorship. I said I would be honored. That was it. On Monday I was going to sign a preliminary contract.”

“Oh, I see,” said Fiorella.

“Yes.”

***

Giorgia, aside from sorting facts, was good at one other thing: stalking. She knew how to be completely invisible in plain sight in most urban settings. Even in a farm or a forest she probably could have passed for a fence post or unusually tall, slim mushroom. And she could drive fast and well.

On this occasion she was following Khaled Ali (formerly known as Ahmed). It was evening and he had just slipped into Kemet bar, chatted with the bar owner. They seemed to have an argument. There was plenty of gesticulation. It wasn’t exactly like Italian gesticulation but the meaning was clear enough. When Khaled left, he had a face like thunder.

He got into his car, slammed the door and set off across the city.

He left the center of town, crossed a bridge over the Dora and led her into Barriera di Milano, a poor immigrant district. He stopped outside a notorious nightclub, Spanx, where a man had been beaten to death two nights ago. It was a well known spot for members of the Albanian mafia.

Her eyes wide and luminous as a cat’s, Giorgia watched him get out of his car, hiding something bulky under his coat. Scanning both sides of the street, he scurried into the club looking as innocent as a child who has just raided a jar of jam in the middle of the night.

“Well, well, well,” she said and sprang out of her Fiat Panda. She strode into the club, flashing her ID at the bouncer and made a beeline for Khaled.

“I’d like a word with you Mr. Ali,” she said, holding onto his arm and whispering in his ear.

Immediately, he twisted away and something landed on the floor with a thud.

Bending down, Giorgia retrieved a fist-sized hippopotamus in a bright-green stone. Straightening, holding the item in her hand, she started chasing the fast retreating figure of Khaled. In the background, a group of men in black leather jackets chuckled softly to themselves.