The Ouroboros Mystery

Lucia’s lawyer, a thin and energetic young woman with a shock of curly black hair, glared at Fiorella.

“I don’t see the point of this interview at all. My client has been very frank with you so far. You seem to be suggesting she’s lying.”

“I’m not suggesting she was lying, but there may have been details that she left out,” Fiorella smiled ingratiatingly.

The lawyer pursed her lips and talked to Lucia.

“You’re not obliged to answer any questions, OK?”

Lucia nodded, but she looked confused.

“I honestly don’t mind talking to you. After all, I know I’m going to prison for a long time. But the truth is—I told you last time—that I don’t remember it very clearly. I was out of it.”

“I just have a couple of questions that could be important. They might set you free. If you can’t remember, you can’t. But let’s try anyway. OK?”

“OK.”

“First of all, when you say you were ‘out of it’, is that something that’s happened to you before?”

Lucia nodded sadly.

“Yes. Now and then I have an attack. I come to and there’s a big hole in my memory.”

“Do you know what causes it?”

“I don’t have an exact diagnosis but it’s something that can happen with brain damage. I had a car accident five years ago and was quite badly injured. The blackouts are a relatively recent development but the doctor said that can happen with the brain sometimes—symptoms show up later on.”

“I see. OK, that’s interesting. And these attacks…do they generally happen at about the same time?”

“Yes, it’s funny you say that actually. They tend to be in the evening. I suppose that’s when I’m tired from my day.”

“The second question I have is where you live exactly?”

“Oh, in an apartment block right next to the museum. It’s only a few steps between the entrance to our building and the museum door.”

“OK. And where is the gym?”

“Just down the street—a ten-minute walk.”

“OK, so just so I understand the timeline, this is what happened on Friday evening. You left work at five o’clock, walked ten minutes to the gym, worked out for…how long?”

“An hour.”

“OK, and then you showered at the gym?”

“No, I went straight home. Our apartment is so close that I prefer to change and shower at home.”

“OK, so you got home at about 6.10, had a shower?”

“No, I had my protein smoothie first. I don’t think I had a shower because I was still in my gym things when I came to later that night.”

“Was the smoothie already prepared, or did you make it on the spot?”

“Already prepared. I always make them in the mornings.”

“And do you remember anything after that?”

Lucia frowned and closed her eyes, trying to recall. Then she shook her head.

“I’m sorry I can’t. I know I got a text from Enrico asking me to come to the museum at seven o’clock, so I must have gone. But I don’t remember going there at all.”

“Very interesting. Thank you Lucia, that’s all for now.”

***

An owlish-looking man peered out of the doorway and regarded Fiorella suspiciously. Everyone in the building seemed suspicious. Few of them even knew any of their neighbors’ names.

He had a receding hairline compensated for by a thick white mane that fell down to his neck and gave the impression of being fastidious about his grooming. His cheek was clean shaven, his shirt was crisply ironed and buttoned up right to the Adam’s apple, his trousers were neatly pressed and his shoes shone. He seemed absurdly well turned out for someone who was relaxing at home.

“Yes?” he said.

“Good morning. My name is Comissario Muti. I’d like to ask you about last Friday evening.”

His eyes, magnified by thick lenses, widened considerably.

“Last Friday evening? Why? Am I a suspect for some sort of crime?”

“No, no,” she smiled reassuringly. “I’m just collecting information. There’s a chance you may have seen something that could be useful to us. Were you here on Friday in the evening between six and eight o’clock?”

“Yes,” he said seriously, then lapsed into silence.

“Right. So…did you notice anyone coming and going along the corridor?”

“At what time?”

“Well, as I said, between six and eight.”

He nodded.

“At 18.05 Mrs. Teobaldi from number 57 walked towards the elevator with her chihuahua. She waited for the elevator for 90 seconds, then got in. At 18.10 Ms. Leonardi appeared in the corridor—she’d taken the stairs—and went to her apartment. At 18.15 the man in number 54 opened his door and put a note on the mat outside his door. At 18.20 Mrs. Teobaldi and the chihuahua came back to the corridor. At 18.28 Mr. Brano came up the elevator with his suitcase. At 18.32 there was a loud noise outside on the street, I went to the window and looked down—a Fiat had bumped into a motorbike. The police took four minutes and twenty seconds to arrive…”

Fiorella stared at him, amazed.

“In all my years in the police force Signore…”

“Olivone.”

“Signore Olivone, I have never met as perfect a witness as you.”

He bowed his head slightly.

“Would you mind telling me…” she said in awe, “Were you really standing at the peephole for thirty-two minutes?”

“Forty minutes and five seconds,” he corrected. I started watching at 17.52.”

“Do you do that often?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Right. Well…by any chance did you see Lucia, Ms. Leonardi, leave the apartment again?”

“No, I didn’t,” he said.

Five minutes later, Fiorella was walking out of the apartment building in a semi-daze. It was incredible! And yet everything suggested it was true…

Her gaze floated over the street. The pale winter light shone down on a dumpster. A woman in sweats was rummaging about looking for resaleable treasure. Inspired, Fiorella walked over to her with a renewed sense of purpose.

***

“Giorgia, listen to me,” said Fiorella. “I want you to check something. Do you know how to find passenger lists for trains?”

“In theory,” said Giorgia cautiously.

“OK, well do it. For Friday evening. Every Frecciarossa, outward bound, departing from Porta Nuova and Porta Susa. Got it?”

“OK. What name am I looking for?”

“Here’s the list.”

“Where are you going?” Giorgia said, surprised to see her boss in such a rush.

“Just going to visit Greta,” she said. “I have a hunch, that’s all,” said Fiorella.

***

Greta Hertz stood in the middle of her living room in the center of a circle of candles. Her hair was long, brushed out with an almost electrified look as the soft light made its edges glow. She wore a white dress and a wreath of white lilies-of-the-valley. On her finger was an ouroboros ring, glittering in the slight and trembling candle light.

In a low, rich voice she pronounced the incantation she’d memorized for this occasion, the Spell for Going Out into the Day and Living After Death. It was a fare-thee-well, a billet-doux, a list of instructions for the deceased. In this case, for Doctor Enrico Marconi.

Tears slid down her cheeks and the surface of her face was like a dark rock glimmering with the movement of candle-lit rain. Her eyes were caves, distinguished by pinpoints of candle light.

Fiorella watched respectfully, as Greta continued the spell, oblivious of their presence and consumed by the emotion and sublimity of the ritual.

When the incantation was finished, Greta sank to the floor, on her knees, depleted.

She looked up at the policewomen looking suddenly very old and weak. She said, almost hopefully, “You know?”

Fiorella nodded.

“I think so. But I need you to tell me what happened, in your own words.”

Greta nodded, got to her feet and walked to the photograph of Enrico placed on a shelf just beyond the candle circle.

“When I got the text message, at 10 o’clock, I knew something was wrong. Oh, I’m not saying I’m telepathic or anything like that, but my body knew somehow that he’d gone. He’d never have let anyone else use his phone like that. He was too careful to lose it anywhere…I couldn’t figure out what had happened.

“I was…worried. I called him but there was no answer. I decided to visit him at home. I knew he’d been having some trouble with his heart lately; that was why he was going to Dresden. It was more or less a sinecure there—he’d have plenty of time for independent research.

“He wasn’t at home. I thought, on the off-chance, that he’d be at the museum. When I got there I noticed at once that something was off—the lights were on, for one thing, and the store room door was open. It was horrendous.”

She lapsed into silence and stared down at the photograph, trying to reconcile the image of the living man with that of the cold body on the store-room floor.

“So, why did you do it?” Fiorella asked quietly.

“I’m not sure. I just thought it was right. I’d always thought we were close in a previous reincarnation. I’d studied the methods in books so often that I knew what to do. I manipulated his body into position and carried him to the pot. It seemed like the right thing to do at that moment. It seemed like what he would have wanted.”

Fiorella left her sitting in the living room, with the candles winking out one by one.

***

“Did you find the name of the passenger?” Fiorella asked.

“Nope, but I did find another that I thought you’d be interested in,” said Giorgia. She pointed to a name highlighted in bright yellow.

“Enrico Marconi!” Fiorella whistled.

“What do you think of that?” asked Giorgia. “Pretty bold, no? Using the name of your intended murder victim?”

“And the CCTV footage?”

“Got it. It’s definitely him, both times.”

“OK, let’s get him.”

Valentino Brano, by some sixth sense, must have known the net was closing in because they caught him only five minutes before he was due to board a train for Geneva.

Valentino Brano wanted the directorship for himself, especially with the EU millions due to roll in the following year. Brano resented the fact that Marconi was intending to promote Greta Hertz. He was also jealous of Lucia’s success in the department. He planned to frame her for the Director’s death, thereby ridding himself of two thorns in his side.

The evidence that had finally got him was CCTV footage showing Brano disembarking a Frecciarossa train from Milan on Friday, 5.00pm. He wore a hat, dark glasses and a scarf and carried a dark-green suitcase with yellow piping, the same suitcase that Vita had found rummaging around in the dumpster, the one with blood on the lining.

Brano took a taxi to Enrico Marconi’s apartment. They had a drink together. The coroner reported that Marconi had been drugged with Rohypnol, which suggests that Brano drugged his coffee and waited until he was drowsy before bashing him on the head with a marble pestle. Brano applied the tattoo to Marconi’s arm, put him in the suitcase. Disguised in his hat, glasses and scarf, Brano took the suitcase out of the apartment, and loaded it into Marconi’s car.

At the museum, he wheeled Enrico in the storage room and dumped him on the floor. He then went next door to get Lucia. He was relying on the fact that she was a creature of routine and was likely to have drunk the protein smoothie that he’d spiked with Rohypnol earlier in the morning. He’d drugged her several times previously, gaslighting her into believing that she had a condition connected to historic brain damage. Sure enough, she was out cold. He packed her into the suitcase and wheeled her into the museum store room.

He laid her out on the floor next to Enrico and used Marconi’s cellphone to text Theodora and Lucia, in order to suggest that the museum director is still alive. Then he hears footsteps—Khaled coming to steal the amulets. He stays as quiet as possible but covers Lucia’s mouth with chloroform-soaked cloth to make sure she doesn’t wake up too soon.

Theodora comes, looks for Enrico, then leaves. Khaled leaves. At that point Brano can breath easy. He leaves Lucia in the store room, throws the suitcase in the dumpster and returning to Porta Nuova station, where he catches the 8 o’clock fast train back to Milan (again under the name of Enrico Marconi). From there he goes to the dinner and meets his fellow conference goers, giving the impression that he’d never left town.

At five-to-ten Lucia called him and told him she’d woken up next to Enrico and that she thought she’d killed him. He tells her to go home--he’ll take care of it.

He had taken Marconi’s cellphone with him and used it to send a text to Greta at ten o’clock. Perhaps he was tired, maybe he was drunk, but he got the tone wrong and it tipped Greta off. She found Enrico and arranged the strange burial.

Brano checked out of his hotel room and drove back to Turin, stopping at the museum on his way home. Why? He wanted to leave the phone there so the police would think Marconi had been killed at night.

Imagine his consternation when he saw the body was gone. When he realized it was in the pot, it must have seemed like some supernatural event! No wonder he forgot about the phone and left it in the niche in the hall!

***

“So, did Greta end up accepting the directorship?” Claudia asked, exhaling a lungful of smoke into the crisp wintry air and watching the coots in the Po.

“Yes,” said Fiorella. “She considered it a way to honor Enrico’s memory. She’d always loved him, you see.”

“Yes,” murmured Claudia.

They both sighed at the exquisite sadness of the Egyptologist’s fate.