Black Run by Antonio Manzini Page A

joint with a homemade filter sitting in his ashtray. He went back, slipped it into his pocket, and finally left his office.
    The streets were deserted. The cloudy gray sky promised more snow to come, and the black lava rock mountains seemed ready to swallow the landscape all around them. Italo Pierron drove, eyes on the road, while Rocco was on his cell phone.

    â€œAnd yet it’s not that hard, D’Intino! Listen to me carefully.” Rocco spoke slowly and clearly, as if he were addressing a none-too-bright child. “Find out whether, in the city or province of Aosta, especially in Val d’Ayas, there have been any missing-persons reports, people who didn’t come home, you see what I mean? Not just since yesterday; let’s say in the past month.” Rocco rolled his eyes. Then, with infinite patience, he repeated the concept: “D’Intino, listen: for the past month. Is that clear? Over and out.”
    He punched the OFF button and looked at Italo, whose eyes were glued to the road ahead. “Tell me, is D’Intino playing with me or is he really that dumb?”
    Italo smiled.
    â€œWhere’s he from?”
    â€œHe’s Abruzzese. From the province of Chieti.”
    â€œDoesn’t he have any pull down there? No connections? Couldn’t he go back down there and stop busting our balls?”
    â€œI don’t know, Dottore.”
    â€œEveryone in Italy has a connection. I had to wind up with the one brain-damaged mental defective who doesn’t even have a relative or friend who can pull some strings for him.”
    They left the car in a parking space at the hospital, even though a security guard had told them not to because that was the chief physician’s spot. Schiavone did nothing more than pull out his badge and shut up the zealous functionary of the Health Ministry.
    They walked downstairs and past the laboratories until they finally reached the double glass doors where Fumagalli worked. The morgue.
    â€œDottor Schiavone?” asked Italo in a faint voice.

    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œDo you mind if I wait here for you?”
    â€œNo. You come on in with me and enjoy the show. Didn’t you choose to be a policeman?”
    â€œActually, no, I didn’t. But it’s a long story.” He dropped his head and followed his boss.
    There was no need to take off his coat, because the autopsy room was more or less the same temperature as outside. Under Fumagalli’s lab coat Schiavone could see a turtleneck sweater. He wore latex gloves and a sort of green apron spattered with brown splotches. “And to think I complain about my shitty job!” Rocco said to him.
    As usual, Fumagalli didn’t bother to say hello, limiting himself to waving his hand in the two policemen’s direction and leading them to the second room, which was a small waiting room. There the doctor gave both policemen a surgical mask, plastic shoe covers, and a strange paper smock.
    â€œAll right, the two of you come with me.”
    In the middle of the room was a nice big autopsy table, and on top of the table lay the corpse, mercifully covered with a white cloth.
    In the room you could hear a faucet drip, along with the continuous hum of the recycling air vents, which were spreading a mixture of ferocious stenches as they circulated the air in the morgue. Disinfectant, rust, rotten meat, hard-boiled eggs. Italo Pierron felt as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus, bent over and clapped his hands to his mouth, then hurried away to lose the breakfast that had just come surging up his esophagus.
    â€œAll right, now that we’re alone,” said Rocco with a smile, “have you had a chance to work on him?”

    â€œI’ve tried to reassemble all the pieces. I’ve done easier jigsaw puzzles,” the doctor replied, and uncovered the corpse.
    â€œFuck!” came out of the deputy police chief’s mouth, clear and loud and straight