The Potter's Field

When he arrived and asked for Pasquano, an assistant replied that the doctor was still busy and had given instructions to have the inspector wait for him in his office.

The first thing Montalbano noticed on Pasquano’s desk, between the papers and photographs of murder victims, was a cardboard pastry-shop tray full of giant cannoli and a bottle of Pantelleria raisin wine and a glass beside it. Pasquano had a notorious sweet tooth. The inspector bent down to smell the cannoli: fresh as could be. So he poured himself a bit of the sweet wine into the glass, grabbed a cannolo and started scarfing it down while contemplating the landscape through the open window.

The sun lit up the colors in the valley, making them stand out sharply against the blue sea in the distance. God, or whoever was acting in his stead, had assumed the guise of a naïf painter here. On the horizon, a flock of seagulls frolicked about, pretending to squabble among themselves in a parade of nosedives, veers, and pull-ups that looked exactly like an aerobatics show. He watched their maneuvers, spellbound.

Having finished the first cannolo, he took another.

“I see you’ve helped yourself,” said Pasquano, coming in and grabbing one himself.

They ate in religious silence, the corners of their mouths smeared with ricotta cream. Which, by the rules, must be removed with a slow, circular movement of the tongue.

4

“So, what can you tell me, Doctor?” the inspector asked after they had drunk a bit of sweet wine, passing the only available glass back and forth.

“About what? The international situation? My hemorrhoids?”

“About the body in the bag.”

“Oh, that? It was a long and aggravating process. First I had to complete the puzzle.”

“The puzzle?”

“I had to piece the body back together, my friend. It had been dismembered, remember?”

“I do,” Montalbano replied, grinning.

“You find that amusing?”

“No, I find the verb you use amusing.”

“Dismember? You don’t like the rhyme with ‘remember’ ? Try to remember the man you dismembered . . . ,” the doctor sang. “If you prefer, I could use some other verb, like dice, quarter, butcher...”

“Let’s just say ‘chopped up.’ Into how many pieces?”

“Quite a few. They didn’t spare any effort in their butchery. They used a hatchet and a large, very sharp cleaver. First they killed him, and then—”

“How?”

“A single gunshot at the base of the skull.”

“When?”

“Let’s say two months ago, maximum. Then, as I was saying, they burned off his fingertips. After which they got down to work. With saintly patience they cut off all his fingers and toes and both ears, then smashed up his face to where it was unrecognizable, pulled out all his teeth, which we were unable to find, chopped off his head, hands, both legs all the way up to the groin, the right arm and forearm, but only the left forearm. Strange, isn’t it?”

“All this butchery, you mean?”

“No, the fact that they left the left upper arm. I wonder why they didn’t cut that off, too, while they were at it.”

“Have you found anything that might lead to a quick identification?”

“Not a fucking thing.”

“Speaking of which, Doctor: and the sex organ?”

“Not doing too badly, thank you very much. Nothing to worry about.”

“No, Doctor, what I mean is: Did they cut off his sex organ as well?”

“If they had, I would have mentioned it.”

“How old was he?”

“About forty.”

“Height?”

“Not less than five foot ten.”

“Non-European?”

“Hardly! One of ours.”

“Fat? Thin?”

“Trim and in excellent shape.”

“Can you tell me anything else?”

“Yes. When he was killed, he hadn’t yet evacuated.”

“Is that important?”

“It certainly is. Because we found something of potential importance in his stomach.”

“Namely?”

“He’d swallowed a bridge.”

Montalbano balked.

“What kind of bridge?”

“The Brooklyn Bridge.”

“What?”

“Has the dessert wine gone to your head, Montalbano? I’m talking about teeth. The bridge may have come loose while he was eating, and he may have swallowed it later by accident.”

The inspector thought about this a moment.

“Couldn’t the bridge have ended up in his stomach while they were mangling his face?”

“No, it would have remained in his mouth or throat. The body can’t swallow after it’s dead. He may have swallowed it during some trauma before he was shot.”

“What did you do with it?

“I sent it immediately to Forensics. You realize, however, that it’ll be months before they can tell us anything about it.”

“Right,” said Montalbano, discouraged.

“And don’t expect them to be able to tell you the name of the victim’s dentist, either.”

“Right,” Montalbano repeated, more disconsolate than ever.

“Want another cannolo?”

“No. Thanks anyway. I’ll be seeing you.”

“You will? I hope not to see you again for a good while,” said the doctor, sinking his teeth into a second cannolo.

But Pasquano had told him something of great importance. The man had been killed by a gunshot at the base of the skull. Execution style. With hands and feet bound, the poor bastard had been forced to kneel, and the executioner had fired a single shot into his brain.