Day of the Dead by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

fault lies with this man and the others like him, arms akimbo, hands on hips, eyes flashing and jaws jutting, that it is they who spread hunger and death in the name of nonexistent ideals.
    I’ve seen plenty of dead people, child. And I still see them, every day. Today it’s you on this table, with the skin of your chest held up over your face by a couple of forceps, and these few little white bones splayed out. Tomorrow it could be anyone else. It could be your mother, who doesn’t even know you’re dead, or one of the brothers or sisters you’ve never even met.
    Tell me, child: are you happy about Mussolini’s visit? Are you as eager as everyone else to kiss his shiny boots, to get a nod of approval from that massive bovine head? Do you think too that we’ll conquer the world together, and that Mussolini will restore the legacy of power and wealth that others took from you?
    He picked up a large pair of surgical shears and started cutting through the ribs, on either side of the sternum. The ribs were soft and yielding, like those of a lamb. It broke his heart.
    No, he murmured. You don’t care about the Duce’s visit anymore. Nothing matters to you; not now, my little one.
    And he went on cutting, not realizing that his eyes were red with tears.

IX
    Â 
    Â 
    Tuesday, October 27th
    Â 
    It was around nine in the morning when they finally learned who the child was, or at least who he could be.
Ricciardi had been in the office for almost two hours. He’d expected to find a note from the hospital waiting for him upon his arrival, or a woman sobbing and screaming at the foot of the stairs leading up to the sentry post, but there was no one. He started working on the report he’d have to file concerning the discovery of the body, but there was a sense of disquiet growing inside him: it wasn’t possible that no one had noticed the child’s disappearance.
    The feeling of anguish was heightened by the fact that the dog he’d seen where the boy’s body had been found was following him: he’d noticed it outside his apartment, on the other side of the street, sitting in the rain, one ear cocked. He’d set out for headquarters with the dog trailing behind him, some thirty feet back, on the opposite sidewalk. He’d stop and the dog would stop, too. He’d start walking again, and the dog would start again, too. In the end, he’d decided to simply ignore it, and he hadn’t looked back again. When he got to headquarters the dog was gone, but it had left him swathed in a sense of some unfinished business.
    That feeling vanished, in fact, a couple of hours later, when Maione appeared in the door and politely cleared his throat.
    â€œCommissa’, there’s a priest here to see you who says that he might be able to identify the little boy from Capodimonte.
Prego
, go right in, Don . . . ?”
    A priest walked into the room. He was a nervous, pudgy man, of average height, his ragged tunic buttoned up the front and a round hat in his hand. He was wiping a mixture of sweat and rain from his brow.
    â€œDon Antonio Mansi, parish priest of Santa Maria del Soccorso at Santa Teresa.”
    He spoke in a dolorous tone, as if he felt sorry for someone, probably himself. Ricciardi took an immediate dislike to the man.
    â€œ
Prego
, Padre, come in. My name is Ricciardi. Have a seat. Maione, you stay too. Tell me, what can we do for you today?”
    â€œAs I was telling your warrant officer here . . . ”
    Maione corrected him. He was punctilious about his rank.
    â€œIt’s brigadier, Don Antonio. Brigadier Raffaele Maione, at your service.”
    â€œForgive me, of course, Brigadier Maione; in any case, I have reason to believe that this child, so regrettably deceased, the one who was found at Capodimonte, is one of mine.”
    â€œOne of yours?” Ricciardi asked. “What do you mean by that?”
    The priest had taken a seat with