Drawing Conclusions by Donna Leon Page A

take Niccolini some time to register what Brunetti was saying, and then he said only, ‘She called me this morning. That’s why I’m here.’
    ‘What did she tell you?’ Brunetti asked.
    Niccolini’s hands, almost against his will, began to pull at one another. The sound, rough and dry, was strangely loud. ‘That she’d gone down to tell Mamma she was home and to get her post. And when she went in, she found … her.’
    He cleared his throat and suddenly pulled his hands apart and stuffed them under his thighs, like a schoolboy during a difficult exam. ‘On the floor. She said she knew when she looked at her that she was dead.’
    The doctor took a deep breath, looked off to Brunetti’s right, and then went on. ‘She said that when it was all over and they’d taken her away – my mother – she decided to wait to call me. Then she did. This morning, that is.’
    ‘I see.’
    The doctor shook his head, as if Brunetti had asked a question. ‘She said that I should call you – the police. And when I did, they – I mean you – I mean the person I spoke to at the Questura – he said that I had to call the hospital to find out anything.’ He pulled out his hands and folded them in his lap, where they remained motionless. He studied them, then said, ‘So I called here. But they wouldn’t tell me anything about it. All they did was tell me to come here.’ Then headded, ‘That’s why I was surprised when you called me.’
    Brunetti nodded, as if to suggest that the police were not involved, all the while considering how very intent Niccolini was on distancing the police from his mother’s death. But what citizen would not do the same? Brunetti tried to free his head of suspicion and of a bureaucracy capable of inviting this man to this place at this time, and said, ‘I apologize for the confusion, Dottore. In these circumstances, it must be doubly painful.’
    Silence fell between them. Niccolini returned his attention to his hands, and Brunetti decided it would be wiser to say nothing. The circumstances, the location, the awfulness in course in the other room – all of these things oppressed them and weakened their desire to speak.
    It was not too long, though Brunetti had no idea of how much time elapsed, before Rizzardi, having changed from his lab jacket into his usual suit and tie, appeared at the door. ‘Ah, Guido,’ he said when he saw Brunetti. ‘I wanted to …’ he began, but then noticed the other man, and Brunetti watched him realize that this had to be a relative of the woman whose autopsy he had just finished. Seamlessly, he turned his attention to him and said, ‘I’m Ettore Rizzardi, medico legale .’ He went over and extended his hand. ‘I’m sorry to see you here, Signore.’ Brunetti had seen him do it countless times, but each time it was new, as though the doctor had only this moment discovered human grief and wanted to do his best to comfort it.
    Niccolini got to his feet and clung to Rizzardi’s hand. Brunetti saw Rizzardi’s lips tighten at the force of the other man’s grip. In response, the pathologist moved closer and put his left hand on the man’s shoulder. Niccolini relaxed a bit, then gasped for air, tightened his lips and bent his head back. He took a few deep breaths through his nose, then slowly released Rizzardi’s hand. ‘What was it?’ he asked, almost begged.
    Rizzardi seemed not at all disturbed by Niccolini’s tone. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we went to my office,’ the pathologist said calmly.
    Brunetti followed them towards Rizzardi’s office, at the end of the corridor on the left. Halfway there, Niccolini stopped and Brunetti heard the veterinarian say, ‘I think I have to go outside. I don’t want to be in here.’ It was obvious to Brunetti that Niccolini was having trouble breathing, so he moved past Rizzardi and led the other two men through the various halls and courtyards, back to the main entrance and out into the campo , where he