those of the murderer, or were those of the person or persons who had delivered and stacked the wood. The initial blow had broken her elbow and must have hurt like the dickens, according to Falchi.
“The first blow was the hardest and also the one that resulted in her heart attack. The other blows, some ten at least, were struck by someone standing over her, most of them landing on the right side of the body and none of them, oddly enough, directed at her head. There was very little blood, as only a few of the blows broke the skin. We found a small pool of blood near the stack of firewood; but most of it was on the steps, from the excision of her clitoris. There were also light smears of blood on the floor between the firewood and the steps, caused by the killer dragging the body. I should also add that the subsequent blows, after the one that broke her elbow, were superficial, and of surprisingly little force.”
“What do you mean?” Cenni had asked, surprised at her conclusion, considering the extensive bruising on Baudler’s upper body.
“Yes, I was surprised as well. From the number of blows and the mutilation, you’d think her assailant was outraged and that the blows would have been more frantic, but that’s not the case. Given the same injuries without the heart attack, my guess is she’d be in the hospital today and not the morgue.”
When Cenni asked if a woman could have inflicted the first blow, Falchi said:
“Of course. Countrywomen in Umbria are often as strong as the men. How often do you see a woman in her eighties walking a mile uphill carrying two huge baskets of groceries? You or I would give up before we made it halfway to the top. Sure, it could be a woman, or one of those wily little men, half your size, who hang out in the café playing briscola. I imagine the German wasn’t expecting the attack, which is why she was so defenseless.”
And before he could ask, she’d added that she had no idea what was behind the mutilation, although her guess was that it had been easier to perform with the body in a half-sitting position, which may have explained the reason it had been dragged to the steps. She did have one supposition: she explained that, in some cultures, one of the many reasons for performing a clitoridectomy was the belief that an unmodified clitoris could lead to masturbation or lesbianism.
Elena had listened silently while Cenni had reviewed the postmortem’s finding with her, jumping in just once to add that the pruning shears had also been found, stuck in a clay planting pot, but they’d been cleaned first. No evidence of prints or clinging flesh. When he had finished going over Falchi’s findings, Elena hesitated a moment, then spoke up.
“What about the letters? I didn’t find them in the house, and they’re not in the folders of evidence that the cara-binieri gave us.”
“What letters?” Cenni asked, puzzled.
She froze, and Cenni knew that she’d let someone’s cat out of the bag, probably Piero’s.
“Tell me, Elena,” he said, holding her gaze.
“Piero didn’t tell you?”
“No. You tell me.”
She sighed. “I may be misremembering, but a few months ago Piero told me that the carabinieri had had a number of complaints from Baudler about anonymous letters; one of them actually suggested she should have her clitoris removed, ‘Just like that African bitch you’re living with’—I’m quoting from the letter,” she added. “Shortly afterward, Piero told me that the local police knew who was sending the letters and put a stop to it. The usual jerks with nothing better to do, Piero said.”
“So you think Piero just forgot?” he asked, searching her face.
“Don’t, Alex. Piero and I are married. If you think he should have told you, talk to him yourself. Just keep me out of it, please.” She rose from the purple sofa and walked into the kitchen. “The carabinieri left some bottled water in the fridge. The only thing they didn’t trash,
“The first blow was the hardest and also the one that resulted in her heart attack. The other blows, some ten at least, were struck by someone standing over her, most of them landing on the right side of the body and none of them, oddly enough, directed at her head. There was very little blood, as only a few of the blows broke the skin. We found a small pool of blood near the stack of firewood; but most of it was on the steps, from the excision of her clitoris. There were also light smears of blood on the floor between the firewood and the steps, caused by the killer dragging the body. I should also add that the subsequent blows, after the one that broke her elbow, were superficial, and of surprisingly little force.”
“What do you mean?” Cenni had asked, surprised at her conclusion, considering the extensive bruising on Baudler’s upper body.
“Yes, I was surprised as well. From the number of blows and the mutilation, you’d think her assailant was outraged and that the blows would have been more frantic, but that’s not the case. Given the same injuries without the heart attack, my guess is she’d be in the hospital today and not the morgue.”
When Cenni asked if a woman could have inflicted the first blow, Falchi said:
“Of course. Countrywomen in Umbria are often as strong as the men. How often do you see a woman in her eighties walking a mile uphill carrying two huge baskets of groceries? You or I would give up before we made it halfway to the top. Sure, it could be a woman, or one of those wily little men, half your size, who hang out in the café playing briscola. I imagine the German wasn’t expecting the attack, which is why she was so defenseless.”
And before he could ask, she’d added that she had no idea what was behind the mutilation, although her guess was that it had been easier to perform with the body in a half-sitting position, which may have explained the reason it had been dragged to the steps. She did have one supposition: she explained that, in some cultures, one of the many reasons for performing a clitoridectomy was the belief that an unmodified clitoris could lead to masturbation or lesbianism.
Elena had listened silently while Cenni had reviewed the postmortem’s finding with her, jumping in just once to add that the pruning shears had also been found, stuck in a clay planting pot, but they’d been cleaned first. No evidence of prints or clinging flesh. When he had finished going over Falchi’s findings, Elena hesitated a moment, then spoke up.
“What about the letters? I didn’t find them in the house, and they’re not in the folders of evidence that the cara-binieri gave us.”
“What letters?” Cenni asked, puzzled.
She froze, and Cenni knew that she’d let someone’s cat out of the bag, probably Piero’s.
“Tell me, Elena,” he said, holding her gaze.
“Piero didn’t tell you?”
“No. You tell me.”
She sighed. “I may be misremembering, but a few months ago Piero told me that the carabinieri had had a number of complaints from Baudler about anonymous letters; one of them actually suggested she should have her clitoris removed, ‘Just like that African bitch you’re living with’—I’m quoting from the letter,” she added. “Shortly afterward, Piero told me that the local police knew who was sending the letters and put a stop to it. The usual jerks with nothing better to do, Piero said.”
“So you think Piero just forgot?” he asked, searching her face.
“Don’t, Alex. Piero and I are married. If you think he should have told you, talk to him yourself. Just keep me out of it, please.” She rose from the purple sofa and walked into the kitchen. “The carabinieri left some bottled water in the fridge. The only thing they didn’t trash,
Similar Books
