The Bottom of Your Heart by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

glance.
    â€œNo, Commissa’. Unless I’m mistaken, I don’t see any letters of farewell. But he might have left them somewhere else.”
    Ricciardi noticed that at one corner of the table sat an object that seemed out of place amongst the papers, folders, and books. A small, closed case. He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a gold ring, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, with a large diamond in the center. The commissario moved over to the sunlight pouring in through the window and looked down: the drop had to be more than sixty-five feet. The morgue attendants were loading the pine crate containing the remains of Tullio Iovine del Castello, director of the chair of gynecology at the royal university, into the van. All that remained of him now was a dark stain on the ground and, for Ricciardi’s exclusive personal use, a dolorous image that kept repeating a phrase, in all likelihood senseless.
    Riccardi lifted the ring into the light and saw that there was something engraved on the interior, but the writing was too small. He looked around and, as Maione continued searching for notes that might contain a suicide’s last thoughts, he spotted a magnifying glass next to a roll of blotting paper.
    He picked up the lens and was finally able to read: “Maria Carmela.” He turned to Rispoli: “What is the director’s wife’s name? Her given name, I mean.”
    Rispoli seemed uneasy. Perhaps he didn’t like seeing people rummaging through his boss’s office, or maybe it was something else.
    â€œSignora Iovine del Castello’s first name is Maria Carmela.”
    â€œIn that case,” Maione added, as he went on opening desk drawers, “in a few days it will be her name day. Today is the 8th; the feast of the Madonna del Carmine, Our Lady of Mount Carmel, is the 16th.”
    Ricciardi said: “And this is her name day gift. Her name is engraved in it.”
    Maione, who had just pulled open the last drawer, said: “And here’s another one, Commissa’.”
    He pulled out a case identical to the first. Ricciardi opened it and found an identical ring, with a slightly larger diamond. He held it up to the light and with the aid of the lens, read: “Sisinella.” Bingo, he said to himself. So that’s who you were thinking about when you hit the ground, Mr. Director.
    He turned to look at Rispoli, who was staring at the floor, displaying an incipient bald spot on the top of his head. Nurse Zupo was blushing like a schoolgirl caught smoking in a school bathroom.
    â€œSignorina,” said Ricciardi, “go ahead back to your desk and close the door behind you. We’ll talk again soon.”
    Once the woman had left, he turned to the physician: “Doctor, spare us some pointless effort. Were you aware of some . . . particular friendship on the director’s part?”
    â€œNo, Commissario. I didn’t know anything about any of the director’s friendships. I only spent time with him in his working environment, here at the institute, and I know nothing about his life outside of here.”
    Maione was done searching the desk and had moved on to the bookshelves; the temperature was rising by the minute, and the brigadier huffed and puffed, occasionally mopping his brow.
    â€œDo you know of anyone who might have held any grudges against him? Any reasons to want to do him harm?”
    Rispoli hesitated. His mustache quivered, as if the doctor were about to reply, but then he said nothing.
    Ricciardi said: “I beg of you, Doctor. If we were to discover that you were hiding something from us, we’d have no choice but to report you for failure to cooperate with the law.”
    Rispoli thought quickly. Then he said: “The work we do here is strange, you know, Commissario. We’re physicians and we’re teachers, we have to work with sick people, and what we try to do doesn’t always work out the way we