no desire
to start again.’
‘He’s addicted to tobacco, Major Fowler.’
‘Father Fowler, Doctor Dicanti. I am . . . retired.’
‘Wait a second. How do you know my name, or the inspector’s?
Pontiero muttered.
The criminologist smiled. She found herself both curious and
entertained. ‘Maurizio, I suspect that Padre Fowler is not as retired
as he says he is.’
Fowler returned Dicanti’s smile, but with a hint of sadness.
‘I’ve recently gone back into active service, it’s true. And strangely
enough, the reason for that is the work I did in civilian life.’ He grew
quiet, waving his hand to push away the smoke.
‘So tell us, if you’re so clever, who and where the son of a bitch is
who did what you see here to a cardinal of the Holy Mother Church,
so that we can all go home to bed.’
The priest remained silent, as unflappable as his white collar. Paola
suspected the man was simply too hardened to fall for Pontiero’s
little act. There was no doubt life had thrown some terrible experiences at him, as witnessed by the creases on his skin, or that his eyes
had confronted worse things than a small-time policeman and his
smelly tobacco.
‘Enough, Maurizio. And kill the cigarette.’
Pontiero angrily threw the butt away.
‘OK, Padre Fowler,’ Paola said as she shuffled the photographs
on the table, her eyes bearing down on the priest. ‘You’ve made it
clear that, for now, you’re in charge. You know something I don’t
– something I need to know. But you’re in my neck of the woods,
on my turf. It’s up to you where we go from here.’
‘What about starting off with a profile?’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘Because in this case there’s no need to create a profile in order to
find out who the killer is – I can tell you that. In this case we need
a profile in order to know where to find him. And those are two
different things.’
‘Is this an exam, padre? Do you want to know exactly how good
the person sitting opposite you is? Are you going to be the judge of
my deductive capacities, like Troi?’
‘I think that at this moment the only person judging you is you
yourself.’
Paola took a deep breath and mustered every bit of self-control
to keep herself from shouting. Fowler had put his finger right in the
wound. But just when she thought she was about to lose it, her boss
showed up in the doorway. He stood there, not moving, carefully
studying the priest, who looked back at him intently. Finally, the
two greeted each other with nods of the head.
‘Padre Fowler.’
‘Direttore Troi.’
‘I was informed of your arrival by – shall we say? – an unusual
channel. It goes without saying your presence here is an imposition,
but I recognise that you could be of some use to us, if my sources
aren’t lying.’
‘They aren’t.’
‘Then please go on.’
From her earliest childhood Paola had had the discomforting sensation that she was a late arrival to a world that had already begun,
and at that instant the feeling returned. She was fed up with the fact
that everyone seemed to have information that she didn’t. She could
ask Troi for an explanation later, when she got the chance, but right
now she decided to turn the situation to her advantage. ‘Padre Fowler has told Pontiero and myself that he knows the
identity of the killer, but it seems he wants a free psychological
profile before he reveals the man’s name. It’s my personal opinion
that we’re losing precious time here, but I’ve decided to play along
with his game.’
She leapt to her feet, surprising the three men watching her. She walked over to the blackboard that took up almost all of the back of
the room and started to write.
‘The killer is a white male, between the ages of 8 and 6. He’s of
medium height, strong and intelligent. His studies took him as far
as university, and he has a gift for languages. He’s left-handed; he
received a strict religious education and endured difficulties or abuse
in his early life. He’s
to start again.’
‘He’s addicted to tobacco, Major Fowler.’
‘Father Fowler, Doctor Dicanti. I am . . . retired.’
‘Wait a second. How do you know my name, or the inspector’s?
Pontiero muttered.
The criminologist smiled. She found herself both curious and
entertained. ‘Maurizio, I suspect that Padre Fowler is not as retired
as he says he is.’
Fowler returned Dicanti’s smile, but with a hint of sadness.
‘I’ve recently gone back into active service, it’s true. And strangely
enough, the reason for that is the work I did in civilian life.’ He grew
quiet, waving his hand to push away the smoke.
‘So tell us, if you’re so clever, who and where the son of a bitch is
who did what you see here to a cardinal of the Holy Mother Church,
so that we can all go home to bed.’
The priest remained silent, as unflappable as his white collar. Paola
suspected the man was simply too hardened to fall for Pontiero’s
little act. There was no doubt life had thrown some terrible experiences at him, as witnessed by the creases on his skin, or that his eyes
had confronted worse things than a small-time policeman and his
smelly tobacco.
‘Enough, Maurizio. And kill the cigarette.’
Pontiero angrily threw the butt away.
‘OK, Padre Fowler,’ Paola said as she shuffled the photographs
on the table, her eyes bearing down on the priest. ‘You’ve made it
clear that, for now, you’re in charge. You know something I don’t
– something I need to know. But you’re in my neck of the woods,
on my turf. It’s up to you where we go from here.’
‘What about starting off with a profile?’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘Because in this case there’s no need to create a profile in order to
find out who the killer is – I can tell you that. In this case we need
a profile in order to know where to find him. And those are two
different things.’
‘Is this an exam, padre? Do you want to know exactly how good
the person sitting opposite you is? Are you going to be the judge of
my deductive capacities, like Troi?’
‘I think that at this moment the only person judging you is you
yourself.’
Paola took a deep breath and mustered every bit of self-control
to keep herself from shouting. Fowler had put his finger right in the
wound. But just when she thought she was about to lose it, her boss
showed up in the doorway. He stood there, not moving, carefully
studying the priest, who looked back at him intently. Finally, the
two greeted each other with nods of the head.
‘Padre Fowler.’
‘Direttore Troi.’
‘I was informed of your arrival by – shall we say? – an unusual
channel. It goes without saying your presence here is an imposition,
but I recognise that you could be of some use to us, if my sources
aren’t lying.’
‘They aren’t.’
‘Then please go on.’
From her earliest childhood Paola had had the discomforting sensation that she was a late arrival to a world that had already begun,
and at that instant the feeling returned. She was fed up with the fact
that everyone seemed to have information that she didn’t. She could
ask Troi for an explanation later, when she got the chance, but right
now she decided to turn the situation to her advantage. ‘Padre Fowler has told Pontiero and myself that he knows the
identity of the killer, but it seems he wants a free psychological
profile before he reveals the man’s name. It’s my personal opinion
that we’re losing precious time here, but I’ve decided to play along
with his game.’
She leapt to her feet, surprising the three men watching her. She walked over to the blackboard that took up almost all of the back of
the room and started to write.
‘The killer is a white male, between the ages of 8 and 6. He’s of
medium height, strong and intelligent. His studies took him as far
as university, and he has a gift for languages. He’s left-handed; he
received a strict religious education and endured difficulties or abuse
in his early life. He’s
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