The Potter's Field

“Cocò’s a dog, Chief. A really good dog. He found five body parts that had fallen out of the bag and got scattered about, including the head. After which Dr. Pasquano said that as far as he could tell, the corpse seemed complete. And so we were finally able to leave.”

“Did you see the head yourself ?”

“I did, but you couldn’t tell anything from it. The face was gone. It’d been totally obliterated by repeated blows from a hammer or mallet, or some heavy object.”

“They didn’t want him recognized right away.”

“No doubt about it, Chief. ’Cause I also saw the index finger of the right hand, which had been cut off. The whole fingertip had been burnt off.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Of course, Chief. That the victim had a record and could have been identified from his fingerprints. So they took the necessary measures.”

“Was Pasquano able to determine how long ago he was killed?”

“He said two months, at the very least. But he needs to have a better look at him in the autopsy.”

“Do you know when he’ll do that?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“And there was no report of this man’s disappearance over those two months?”

“There are two possibilities, Chief: either it wasn’t reported, or it was.”

Montalbano gave him a look of mock admiration.

“Well put, Fazio! Ever heard of Monsieur de la Palisse?”

“No, Chief. Who was he?”

“A man who fifteen minutes before he died was still alive.”

Fazio immediately got it.

“Come on, Chief! You didn’t let me finish my thought!”

“All right then, go on. For a brief moment I thought you’d been infected by Catarella.”

“What I meant was that it’s possible somebody reported the dead man’s disappearance, but since we don’t know who the dead man is—”

“I get your point. The only thing we can do is wait till tomorrow to see what Pasquano has to tell us.”

Once home, Montalbano was greeted by the telephone, which started ringing as he was trying to unlock the door, fumbling with the keys.

“Ciao, darling, how are you?”

It was Livia, sounding cheerful.

“I’ve had a pretty rough morning. How about you?”

“I’ve been great, for my part. I didn’t go to the office today.”

“Oh, really? Why not?”

“I didn’t feel like it. It was such a beautiful morning. It seemed like a terrible shame to go to work. You should have seen the sun, Salvo. It looked like yours.”

“So what did you do?”

“I went out and had fun.”

“Well, you can allow yourself such luxuries.”

It had slipped out, and Livia didn’t let it slide.

A little while later, still in a bad mood, he settled in to watch some television. On a chair beside his armchair he had set two dishes, one full of green and black olives and salted sardines, the other with cheese, tumazzo and caciocavallo di Ragusa. He poured himself a glass of wine but kept the bottle within reach, just in case. Then he turned on the TV. The first thing that came on was a film set in some Asian country during the monsoon. What? It’s deluging outside and now he has to watch a fake deluge on TV? He changed the channel. Another movie. A woman lay naked on a bed, batting her eyelashes at a young guy undressing and seen from behind. When the kid took off his underpants, the woman’s eyes opened wide and she brought a hand to her mouth, surprised and amazed by what she saw. He changed the channel. The prime minister was explaining why the country’s economy was going to the dogs: the first reason was the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers; the second was the tsunami in the South Seas; the third was the euro; the fourth the Communist opposition that refused to cooperate, and . . . He changed the channel. There was a cardinal talking about the sacred institution of the family. In the first row of the audience were an array of politicians, two of whom had been divorced, another who was living with a minor after leaving his wife and three children, a fourth who maintained an official family and two unofficial families, and a fifth who had never married because, as was well known, he didn’t like women. All nodded gravely in agreement with the cardinal’s words. He changed the channel. The screen filled with the chicken-ass face of Pippo Ragonese, the top honcho newsman of TeleVigàta.