smile, ‘I’d like to know the cause of death.’
‘You said you were a friend, right?’
Brunetti nodded.
‘Then you have no right to know. No one but the immediate family can be told.’
As if the doctor hadn’t spoken, Brunetti asked, ‘When will the autopsy be performed, Dottore?’
‘The what?’ Carraro asked, emphasizing the patent absurdity of Brunetti’s question. When Brunetti made no response, Carraro turned on his heel and started to walk away, his swagger bespeaking his professional contempt for the layman and his stupidity.
‘When will the autopsy be held?’ Brunetti repeated, this time omitting Carraro’s title.
The doctor wheeled around, not without a hint of the melodramatic in his gesture, and walked quickly back towards Brunetti. ‘There will be whatever the medical direction of this hospital decides, Signore. And I hardly think you’ll be asked to take any part in that decision.’ Brunetti was not interested in the heat of Carraro’s anger, only in what could have caused it.
He pulled out his wallet and took his warrant card from it. He held it by a corner and extended it toward Carraro, careful to hold it at such a height that the other man had to tilt his head far back to see it. The doctor grabbed the card, lowered it, and studied it with some attention.
‘When will the autopsy be held, Dottore?’
Carraro kept his head lowered over Brunetti’s warrant card, as if reading the words there could make them change or take on some new significance. He turned it over and looked at the back, found it as empty of useful information as his mind of the proper response. At last, he looked up at Brunetti and asked, the arrogance in his voice replaced by suspicion, ‘Who called you?’
‘I don’t think it’s important why we’re here,’ Brunetti began, deliberately using the plural and hoping to suggest a hospital filled with policemen requisitioning records, X-rays, and patient charts, questioning nurses and other patients, all bent on discovering the cause of Franco Rossi’s death. ‘Isn’t it enough to know that we are?’
Carraro handed the card back to Brunetti and said, ‘We don’t have an X-ray machine down here, so when we saw his arms, we sent him to Radiology and then Orthopaedics. It was the obvious thing to do. Any doctor would have done the same thing.’ Any doctor in the Ospedale Civile, Brunetti reflected, but said nothing.
‘Were they broken?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Of course they were, both of them, the right in two places. We sent him up there to have them set and cast. There was nothing else we could do. It was standard procedure. As soon as that was taken care of, they could have sent him somewhere else.’
‘Neurology, for example?’ Brunetti asked.
By way of answer, Carraro did no more than shrug his shoulders.
‘I’m sorry, Dottore,’ Brunetti said with oily sarcasm, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hear your answer.’
‘Yes, they could have.’
‘Did you observe any damage that would suggest he should be sent to Neurology? Did you make mention of it on your records?’
‘I think so,’ Carraro said evasively.
‘You think so or you know so?’ Brunetti demanded.
‘I know so,’ Carraro finally admitted.
‘Did you make note of damage to the head? As if from a fall?’ Brunetti asked.
Carraro nodded. ‘It’s on the chart.’
‘But you sent him to Orthopaedics?’
Carraro’s face coloured again with sudden anger. What would it be, Brunetti wondered, to have your health in the hands of this man? ‘The arms were broken. I wanted to get them attended to before he went into shock, so I sent him to Orthopaedics. It was their responsibility to send him to Neurology.’
‘And?’
Under Brunetti’s eyes, the doctor was replaced by the bureaucrat, retreating at the thought that any suspicion of negligence was more likely to fall
‘You said you were a friend, right?’
Brunetti nodded.
‘Then you have no right to know. No one but the immediate family can be told.’
As if the doctor hadn’t spoken, Brunetti asked, ‘When will the autopsy be performed, Dottore?’
‘The what?’ Carraro asked, emphasizing the patent absurdity of Brunetti’s question. When Brunetti made no response, Carraro turned on his heel and started to walk away, his swagger bespeaking his professional contempt for the layman and his stupidity.
‘When will the autopsy be held?’ Brunetti repeated, this time omitting Carraro’s title.
The doctor wheeled around, not without a hint of the melodramatic in his gesture, and walked quickly back towards Brunetti. ‘There will be whatever the medical direction of this hospital decides, Signore. And I hardly think you’ll be asked to take any part in that decision.’ Brunetti was not interested in the heat of Carraro’s anger, only in what could have caused it.
He pulled out his wallet and took his warrant card from it. He held it by a corner and extended it toward Carraro, careful to hold it at such a height that the other man had to tilt his head far back to see it. The doctor grabbed the card, lowered it, and studied it with some attention.
‘When will the autopsy be held, Dottore?’
Carraro kept his head lowered over Brunetti’s warrant card, as if reading the words there could make them change or take on some new significance. He turned it over and looked at the back, found it as empty of useful information as his mind of the proper response. At last, he looked up at Brunetti and asked, the arrogance in his voice replaced by suspicion, ‘Who called you?’
‘I don’t think it’s important why we’re here,’ Brunetti began, deliberately using the plural and hoping to suggest a hospital filled with policemen requisitioning records, X-rays, and patient charts, questioning nurses and other patients, all bent on discovering the cause of Franco Rossi’s death. ‘Isn’t it enough to know that we are?’
Carraro handed the card back to Brunetti and said, ‘We don’t have an X-ray machine down here, so when we saw his arms, we sent him to Radiology and then Orthopaedics. It was the obvious thing to do. Any doctor would have done the same thing.’ Any doctor in the Ospedale Civile, Brunetti reflected, but said nothing.
‘Were they broken?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Of course they were, both of them, the right in two places. We sent him up there to have them set and cast. There was nothing else we could do. It was standard procedure. As soon as that was taken care of, they could have sent him somewhere else.’
‘Neurology, for example?’ Brunetti asked.
By way of answer, Carraro did no more than shrug his shoulders.
‘I’m sorry, Dottore,’ Brunetti said with oily sarcasm, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hear your answer.’
‘Yes, they could have.’
‘Did you observe any damage that would suggest he should be sent to Neurology? Did you make mention of it on your records?’
‘I think so,’ Carraro said evasively.
‘You think so or you know so?’ Brunetti demanded.
‘I know so,’ Carraro finally admitted.
‘Did you make note of damage to the head? As if from a fall?’ Brunetti asked.
Carraro nodded. ‘It’s on the chart.’
‘But you sent him to Orthopaedics?’
Carraro’s face coloured again with sudden anger. What would it be, Brunetti wondered, to have your health in the hands of this man? ‘The arms were broken. I wanted to get them attended to before he went into shock, so I sent him to Orthopaedics. It was their responsibility to send him to Neurology.’
‘And?’
Under Brunetti’s eyes, the doctor was replaced by the bureaucrat, retreating at the thought that any suspicion of negligence was more likely to fall
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