Day of the Dead by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page B

home, with me. But these things happen.”
    Ricciardi was unwilling to dismiss the death of a child so glibly.
    â€œThey shouldn’t happen, though, should they, Padre? It’s up to us, to keep them from happening.”
    The priest smiled a melancholy smile. Never once during their conversation had he moved his hands, which rested on his belly, fingers knit.
    â€œNo, indeed. There are a great many things that ought not to happen but still do. What does the state do for these children? I’ll tell you, Commissario: nothing. Nothing at all. It’s all left to us, to the Church, or to the charity of the few wealthy people who still have a conscience. In twenty years, I must have lost at least ten or twelve of these boys. They’ve fallen off trolleys, drowned in the sea in the summertime, or been run over by a cart or a carriage. Or else killed by a fever or an infection, caught by eating who knows what, or cutting themselves in any of a number of ways. And the minute a place is vacated, there are a hundred more to bring in off the streets. We can only do what we’re able, and that never changes. Perhaps that’s why I seem resigned to you, my dear
commissario.”
    Another silence ensued. Even though Ricciardi instinctively disliked that man, he had to admit that his reasoning was impeccable; he even felt irrationally at fault, as a representative of a government that was doing little or nothing for these children. For some reason, his thoughts turned to the dog that had followed him that morning, the young dead boy’s last friend.
    â€œPadre, if the child does in fact turn out to be Matteo Diotallevi, I’ll have to ask you some more questions. But what we need to do first is proceed to the identification, so you’ll need to come with us to take a look at the body, at the Ospedale dei Pellegrini.”
    This time, it was the priest’s turn to be thrown.
    â€œThe hospital? But didn’t you say the boy was dead when you found him? Perhaps you meant to say the cemetery.”
    â€œNo, the corpse is at the hospital. I asked the medical examiner to examine the body, to determine exactly what caused the boy’s death. I see that it’s still raining out; Maione, call down and have them bring up a car.”
    The brigadier shook his head regretfully.
    â€œNo, Commissa’. Both cars have been sent to the garage to get spruced up for the Duce; I told you yesterday. Seems we’re going to have to go on foot this time, too.”
    And he looked down sadly at his boots: polished and gleaming, but not for long.

X
    The walk to the hospital wasn’t long, but the rain made it unpleasant. As Don Antonio walked, he kept the hem of his tunic lifted with one hand and held his hat to his head with the other, taking care not to stumble into any of the numerous puddles of unknowable depth that had formed on the sidewalks. Maione had the same problem, and he muttered curses under his breath, so that they would not reach the priest’s ear, while trying to hold up the umbrella to shelter Ricciardi, who, as usual, seemed indifferent to the water drenching his uncovered hair.
    They finally reached their destination and stood dripping in a waiting room, where they were met by Dr. Modo. The physician was dropping on his feet, his face creased with wrinkles and stubbled with in a day’s growth of whiskers. Ricciardi felt a stab of remorse for having forced him to take on that extra, no doubt draining task, which would probably turn out to have been pointless.
    â€œAh, there you are,” said the doctor. “I would have called you later, I’m waiting for the results on some tests that I’ve ordered from the lab. And after that, with your permission, I’d like to head home and get at least twenty-four hours of sleep. Who is this gentleman with you?”
    Maione hid a smile: Modo never missed a chance to display his nonconformist views, especially his