The Safety Net Page 12

  Ten minutes later Mimì was sitting opposite the inspector’s desk again. He’d put on one of Montalbano’s clean shirts and seemed clearly to have revived.

  “So, why did you want me to wait for you?” the inspector began.

  “First of all, to give you a report. And secondly because I need to tell you something about Riccadonna that I didn’t like at all. But I’d rather tell you after I’ve told you what happened this morning.”

  “If you feel up to it . . .”

  “I feel up to it, don’t you worry about that.”

  He paused a moment, took a deep breath, and began.

  “You should know that in my son’s class, there are three nasty boys, three little bullying assholes who—”

  “I know that part already, so you can skip it,” Montalbano interrupted him.

  Augello was taken aback.

  “You know it? Who told you?”

  “Beba told me.”

  Augello looked at him askance but didn’t press the matter.

  “This morning at nine o’clock I went into the school to talk to the principal, to bring to her attention that there have been some instances of bullying in class III B. You have no idea how she reacted! She denied everything, said that her school was a model school, ‘in conformity with all the latest legislation’—those were her exact words—and she took me on a tour of the bathrooms. At some point I got fed up and asked for her permission to go and talk to one of the teachers. Which she granted, specifying that at that moment class III B was having its math lesson with Mr. Puleo.”

  “Did you already know this Puleo?”

  “No, but Salvuzzo had said good things about him. Class III B is on the ground floor, at the far end of the corridor at the other end of which is the main entrance. You follow?”

  “I follow.”

  “Since the principal’s office is on the second floor, I headed downstairs towards the classroom. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two people coming into the school. I knocked on the door, Puleo said to come in, and so I entered the classroom and closed the door.

  “I hadn’t told Salvuzzo I was coming, so he was pleasantly surprised to see me and called out, ‘Ciao, Papa.’ I introduced myself to Puleo, told him the principal had given me permission to come there, and said I needed to talk to him. The teacher said that the class was almost over, and if I would just be so kind as to wait for him outside, in the hallway . . . So I said, fine, and turned around to go out, and at that exact moment, the door opened and two people—”

  “Stop for a second. Were their faces covered?”

  “Yes. They were both wearing the same mask.”

  “Some kind of carnival mask?”

  “No. Puleo did a sketch of it. Counterterrorism’s got it.”

  “How were they dressed?”

  “Almost exactly alike. Greenish sweatshirts, baggy pants, tennis shoes.”

  “And physically what were they like?”

  “One was skinny, about five-foot-eleven, with black curly hair. The other was blond and about three inches shorter.”

  “Were they speaking Italian or dialect?”

  “Italian.”

  “Any particular accent?”

  “Not that I could tell. Maybe Puleo . . .”

  “How old do you think they were?”

  “I’d say both were under thirty.”

  “Go on.”

  “They came in brandishing their pistols, closed the door behind them, and then the taller one said in a very soft but cold and determined voice: ‘Everybody get their hands up and nobody breathe!’ And then something happened.”

  “What?”

  “Two or three students started laughing. They thought it was a game. And so I, since I was already on my way out and just a step away from them, I said: ‘Cut the shit, guys!’ By way of reply the blond dude punched me right in the face and ordered me to go and stand next to Puleo with my hands up.”

  “And wha’d you do?”

  “Well, since I was armed, my natural instinct was to use it. But I controlled myself.”

  “How did you manage to do that?”

  “I thought of all the kids, who at this point were scared out of their wits. If I followed my natural instinct, it could’ve triggered a shoot-out, in a classroom with thirty kids! Can you imagine that? It could have turned into a massacre! Puleo was great. He never once lost his cool, and he kept repeating to his pupils not to get upset, and not to move.”

  “Mimì, let me tell you something, and I mean it with all my heart. Puleo may have been great, but you were even greater. You remained perfectly lucid, you made the right decision. Well done!”

  “I have to confess that it cost me a lot. Not so much for my own sake, but for my son’s.”

  “Because he saw you being humiliated?”

  “Yes. After the guy punched me, I looked over at Salvuzzo. He’d covered his eyes so he couldn’t see, and he was crying . . . Let me think . . . At this point the tall thin guy took a step forward, but staying still close to the door, and said: ‘Now listen up,’ and he gave a little speech.”

  “Do you remember what he said?”

  “How could I forget? While they were talking I made a special effort to concentrate so I could commit their words to memory. They said: ‘We represent order and justice. We will not tolerate disorder, injustice, and abuse of power. Those who do not respect our principles we consider our enemies. If in the future these principles are not respected, we will return, and the fate of our enemies will be the following.’ And at that point they both fired a shot in the air. Then, as all hell broke loose in the class, they opened the door and ran down the corridor and finally out of the school. I shouted to Puleo to look after the kids, and then dashed out in pursuit.”

  10

  “Hold on a second. Were they only armed with pistols?”

  “Pistols is all I saw.”

  “What kind?”

  “Run-of-the-mill Berettas.”

  “Which you couldn’t really say are the favorite weapons of terrorists.”

  “And in fact the counterterrorism guys are completely befuddled. So, as I was saying, I started chasing after them. I could have tried to stop them while they were still at the end of the hallway, but I didn’t. It was too dangerous.”

  “For whom?”

  “Those two shots they fired had stirred up a lot of commotion. There were about ten people in the hallway, between students and teachers. If the two gunmen had opened fire, they would certainly have killed somebody.”

  “You did exactly the right thing.”

  “But as soon as I came out into the schoolyard and realized it was empty, I yelled: ‘Stop! Police!’ The two guys, who in the meanwhile had almost reached the gate, then turned around and shot at me, so I fell to the ground and returned fire. They started backpedaling, shooting all the while, and finally went out the gate and got into a car that was waiting for them with its doors open. I stood up and was able to get the license plate number. Which I immediately communicated to Montelusa Central and the carabinieri. And that’s about it.”

  “Did they still have their masks on when they were shooting at you?”

  “They never once took them off.”

  “So nobody ever saw their faces?”

  “One guy did. The custodian at the entrance to the school. Because the taller guy, when he came in, told him they were scouting the place in preparation for shooting a scene from the TV movie there, and that they had the administration’s permission. They probably were hiding their masks under their sweatshirts.”

  “They didn’t ask him where class III B was?”

  “No.”

  “Did the custodian say anything else?”

  “Yes. He said that the blond guy had a scar on his forehead over his left eye.”

>   “Who was it that called our station?”

  “Puleo, as soon as he heard the shots being fired in the schoolyard.”

  “Tell me a little about Riccadonna . . .”

  “He’s a complete asshole. And I feel personally insulted by what he said to me after I told him the whole story.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He said he was going to ask the commissioner to keep me out of this investigation.”

  The inspector did a double take.

  “Why?”

  “He said, and I quote: ‘For your shamefully submissive attitude in the face of the two aggressors.’”

  “Let me get this straight. He’s blaming you for not reacting to being punched?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Two big tears rolled down Augello’s cheeks. Which he wiped away in rage with one hand and then said in a quavering voice:

  “And God knows what it cost me to hold myself back . . . With my son there covering his eyes in shame . . .”

  Montalbano felt a stifling rage rising up inside him but controlled himself.

  “Mimì, you have my word that Riccadonna will be forced to apologize to you. And for now you should stop thinking about it. Take my advice. Just go home now and rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  Mimì rose wearily to his feet.

  “Don’t forget that there’s a press conference at the commissioner’s office at noon tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you. Have a good night.”

  After Mimì went out, the hunger the inspector had been ignoring for the past two days attacked him like a mad dog. He glanced at his watch: almost ten. He realized that a few remaining members of the film crew might still be tarrying at Enzo’s; on the other hand, he really didn’t feel like fasting all night. It was worth a try.

  “Montalbano here, Enzo. Are there still people there?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “Is there still time for me to come by and get something to eat?”

  “The restaurant’s closed, Inspector, but if you want to come and sit down at our table, we made a wonderful fish soup with the leftovers from the day.”

  “I’ll be there in a flash,” said Montalbano.

  * * *

  The first thing he did upon entering his office the following morning was to call the commissioner.

  “Good morning, sir. I wanted to let you know that I came back from my leave yesterday evening to make myself totally available to the force. I also wanted to ask you if I could come and talk to you before the press conference at noon.”

  “I appreciate your conscientiousness, Montalbano. You can consider yourself exempted from attending, since—”

  “Thank you, but I absolutely have to talk to you.”

  “But is it something concerning what happened yesterday?”

  “Yes, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “Then come to my office at eleven.”

  “Thank you.”

  Moments later, Fazio walked in.

  “Were you able to get some rest?”

  “Enough. But I didn’t get home until past midnight.”

  “Why? Where were you?”

  “Out gathering information on Mr. Puleo, the teacher.”

  “And what can you tell me?”

  “Giuseppe Puleo . . .”

  He stopped and looked at Montalbano.

  “Can I have a look at my notes?”

  “Sure, just so long as you don’t launch into a full account of Puleo’s family tree.”

  “Okay.”

  With a satisfied air, Fazio pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and started reading.

  “Puleo, first name Giuseppe, forty-eight years old, born in Montelusa. Been teaching mathematics for the past five years at the Pirandello School. Married with three children, all males, and all good kids. He’s widely admired as a serious, balanced, reserved person, and as far as we are concerned, he has no police record, no 41 bis, and no friends of 41 bis in his family.”

  He folded the page up again and put it back in his pocket.

  “Mimì told me,” said Montalbano, “that Puleo was exemplary in his behavior during the disruption in his classroom and never once lost his cool. I would like to talk to this schoolteacher, and to the custodian who saw the culprits’ faces. I would also like to go and have a look at the school early this afternoon.”

  “The school is closed by court injunction. But, if you want, I can ask both of them to come by around twelve-thirty.”

  “Okay. Go and call them right away.”

  As Fazio was leaving, Augello came in.

  In his hand he was holding a transparent plastic bag containing the shirt that Montalbano had lent him the previous evening. All nice and clean and ironed and good as new. He set it down on the desk.

  “There was no need to make work for Beba. You could have just given it back to me the way it was.”

  “Actually the poor thing had to work double-time, because when she hung it out to dry after the first washing, a pigeon made a point of shitting on it, and so she had to wash it again by hand and then dry it with a hair dryer. Anyway, here it is.”

  Montalbano took it and put it in a drawer of his desk.

  “I’ve been exempted,” he said, “from attending the press conference.”

  “Well, I haven’t, unfortunately,” said Augello.

  “But the commissioner’ll be expecting me at eleven, and I want to talk to him about this Riccadonna business.”

  “Thanks. I had trouble falling asleep last night,” Augello continued. “I kept thinking about the little speech the taller guy made.”

  “And did you draw any conclusions?”

  “Yes. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that what he said seemed to concern everything and nothing at the same time. He might have been referring to class III B, or I A, or even to city hall, the local fish business, or the problem of the homeless. And just to stay on the subject of school, what kind of injustice and abuse of power could he be talking about?”

  The only injustices that came into the inspector’s mind were small potatoes: an undeserved bad grade, a bad recommendation, excessive favoritism, but nothing that might cause such pandemonium.

  “On the other hand,” Mimì resumed, “those two guys’ only purpose was to scare everybody to death. They certainly didn’t want to kill the teacher or any of the students. It was basically all smoke and mirrors.”

  Montalbano looked at him, and sat there for a moment without opening his mouth. Then he began:

  “No, Mimì, you’re not taking into account the fact that the school incident breaks down into two parts. Let’s try to clearly define what we’re talking about. You’re right about the first part, but the second part involved not so much smoke and mirrors but a couple of real-life gunshots, which changes the picture entirely. When they shot their guns in the schoolyard, were they shooting in the air or aiming at you?”

  “They were aiming at me. I was lucky they didn’t hit me.”

  “You see?” Montalbano continued. “The second part adds to the gravity of the first. Let me give you another example. Something you yourself said. You didn’t react to being punched because you were mathematically certain that those guys would have responded by firing their guns. To conclude, what I mean is that what they did was a genuine act of violence. You were able to avert the worst, and you did it to protect the kids in the classroom; but you weren’t able to do the same in the schoolyard. So my question is: What happened in that classroom to trigger such a reaction?”

  “You’re absolutely right. Except that your division of the event into two parts implies that the first part was planned and the second part unforeseen. And the unforeseen element is me. Because if I hadn’t been there, the extreme violence you mention would not
have broken out.”

  “Now you’re right where I want you. What you’ve just said completely rules out the hypothesis that those two guys might be terrorists. Because that is almost certainly what they’ll be talking about at the press conference today.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because terrorists act completely differently from the way those two young men did. Terrorists shoot and kill first, then lay claim to their butchery with their slogans. Those two came into a classroom, made their little speech, then fired two symbolic shots into the air, to underscore what they’d just said. According to their plans, the whole matter was to have ended there.”

  “And so?”

  “And so nothing, at least for now. There’s only one thing I feel I can say for certain at the moment, which is that their incursion into the school has a number of inconsistencies about it, if we’re supposed to be considering it an act of terrorism.”

  “So what do you think it was, then?”

  “I tend to think it was some kind of violent attempt at intimidation.”

  “Which would make a huge difference,” commented Augello.

  * * *

  Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi’s face had the shattered look of someone who’d lost a lot of sleep. And in a strange, unprecedented turn, he was almost cordial with Montalbano. He held out his hand, sat him down, and said:

  “I really appreciate your decision to cut your vacation short to return to service.”

  What was happening to the man? He must be scared to death to be behaving so lamblike.

  “Though I am often forced to criticize you for your methods, I have to admit that your presence reassures me. You, naturally, will now take over the investigation, while remaining of course in close contact with the counterterrorism unit.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Commissioner.”

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  “My second-in-command, Domenico Augello, told me that Prosecutor Riccadonna intends to . . .”

  Bonetti-Alderighi raised his hand. The inspector trailed off.

  “I already know everything. Are you in agreement with Riccadonna?” asked the commissioner.