The Whisperer Page 19

  Goran knew how to be patient, but he was aware that that didn’t always work with Roche. So he tried to take the initiative, to get him off his back.

  “Do you want me to tell you one thing that’s driving me mad?”

  “Anything to get me out of this impasse, please.”

  “I haven’t mentioned it till now…the tears.”

  “And?”

  “There were at least five liters around the corpse of the second girl. However, tears are saline, that’s why they tend to dry straightaway. But these didn’t. I wondered why—”

  “And why, if I may ask?”

  “They’re artificial: they precisely reproduce the chemical composition of human tears, but it’s a trick. That’s why they don’t dry…do you know how tears are re-created artificially?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s the point: Albert does. And he did it, he devoted some time to it. Do you know what that means?”

  “You tell me.”

  Roche sat back in his armchair, staring into the void.

  “What can we expect, in your view?”

  “Frankly, I fear the worst is yet to come.”

  Mila went down into the basement of the Institute of Legal Medicine. She had acquired some figurines of famous footballers—or at least that was what they had told her when they had sold them to her. That little gesture was part of a farewell ritual. In the morgue, Chang had reassembled Billy Moore’s corpse to bury it again beneath the stone angel.

  The pathologist was completing the post-mortem, and had X-rayed the fractures. The boards were exposed on a light panel which Boris was standing next to. Mila wasn’t surprised to find him there.

  When he became aware of her, he felt the need to justify himself. “I came by to see if there was any news.”

  “And is there?” asked Mila, going along with his story so as not to make him feel embarrassed. Boris was clearly there for personal reasons.

  Chang broke off his work to answer the question from Mila.

  “The body had dropped a long way. From the seriousness and number of fractures that I have found on the skeleton, we may deduce that death was almost instantaneous.”

  That “almost” contained hope and, at the same time, anguish.

  “Obviously no one can say whether Billy jumped, or whether he was pushed…”

  “Obviously.”

  Mila noticed that on the chair there was a brochure for a company of funeral directors, certainly not a service supplied by the police. It must have been Boris’s idea: paying his own money to ensure that Billy received a decent burial. On a shelf were Billy’s skates, perfectly polished, and the tape recorder, a birthday present from which the boy was never separated.

  “Maybe Chang has worked out where the death occurred,” said Boris.

  And the medical examiner walked towards some enlarged photographs of the boarding school.

  “Bodies fall freely, and gain weight along with their velocity: it’s an effect of the force of gravity. In the end it’s as if you’re being squashed against the ground by an invisible hand. So, if we combine the data concerning the age of the victim—readings of bone calcification—with those of the extent of the fractures, we can estimate the height from which the fall occurred. In this case, more than forty feet. Thus, taking into consideration the average elevation of the building and the inclination of the ground, we may assert with almost one hundred percent certainty that the child fell from the tower, at this point here…do you see?”

  Another “almost” mixed in among Chang’s words as he pointed to the exact spot in the photograph. At that moment an assistant appeared at the doorway.

  “Dr. Vross, you’re wanted…”

  For a moment Mila couldn’t connect the medical examiner with his real name. Plainly none of his subordinates dared to call him Chang.

  “Excuse me,” he said, leaving them on their own.

  “I have to go too,” said Mila, and Boris nodded.

  As she left, she passed close to the shelf with Billy’s skates and tape recorder on it, and set down the figurines she had bought. Boris noticed.

  “His voice is on it…”

  “What?” she asked, not understanding.

  Boris nodded at the tape recorder, and repeated: “Billy’s voice. His made-up news reports…”

  He smiled. But it was a sad smile.

  “Have you managed to listen to them?”

  Boris nodded. “Yes, only the first bit, then I couldn’t go any further…”

  “I understand…” Mila said simply.

  “The tape is almost perfectly preserved, do you know that? The acids produced by the”—he couldn’t bring himself to say it—“decomposition process haven’t damaged it. Chang says that’s pretty rare. Maybe it depended on the nature of the ground he was buried in. There were no batteries, I put them in myself.”

  Mila pretended to be surprised, to ease Boris’s tension. “So the tape recorder works.”

  “Of course it does. It’s Japanese!”

  They both laughed.

  “Do you want to listen to the whole thing with me?”

  Mila thought for a moment before replying. She didn’t really want to. There are things that should be allowed to rest in peace, she thought. But in this case it was Boris who needed to listen, and she didn’t want to tell him he couldn’t.

  “OK, then, turn it on.”

  Boris walked over to the tape recorder, pressed play and, in that cold morgue, Billy Moore came back to life.

  “…We’re in the legendary Wembley Stadium, sports listeners! The match is one that will go down in the history of the game: England v. Germany!”

  He had a lively voice, with a sibilant “s” on which his sentences frequently stumbled. His words contained the sound of a smile, and Mila thought she could actually see Billy, young and carefree, trying to give the world some of his distinctive joy.

  Mila and Boris smiled with him.

  “The temperature is mild, and even though it’s late autumn, no rain is forecast. The teams are already lined up in the center circle to hear the national anthems…The terraces are packed with fans! What a sight, ladies and gentlemen! We will shortly witness a great football clash! But first the list of players who will be taking part in today’s— Oh my Lord, I am sorry and I repent with all my heart for my sins, because by sinning I have deserved your punishment, and much more because I have offended you, who are infinitely good and worthy of love beyond all things.”

  Mila and Boris looked at one another uncomprehendingly. The voice that had been superimposed over the first recording was much feebler.

  “It’s a prayer.”

  “But that’s not Billy…”

  “ …I propose with your holy assistance never to offend you again, and to shun all opportunities for sin. Lord of mercy, forgive me.”

  “That’s fine.”

  A man’s voice.

  “ What do you want to say to me?”

  “ I have said many bad words recently. And three days ago I stole some biscuits from the larder, but Jonathan ate them with me…And also…also I copied my maths homework.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “That must be Father Rolf,” said Mila.

  “…”

  “Think very carefully, Ron.”

  The name chilled the silence in the room. And Ronald Dermis, too, returned to his childhood.

  “ Actually…there is something…”

  “And do you want to talk to me about it?”

  “…No.”

  “If you don’t talk to me, how can I give you absolution?”

  “…I don’t know.”

  “You know what happened to Billy, don’t you, Ron?”

  “God took him away.”

  “It wasn’t God, Ron. You know who it was?”

  “He fell. He fell from the tower.”

  “But you were with him…”

  “…Yes.”

  “Whose idea was it
to go up there?”

  “…Someone had hidden his skates in the tower.”

  “Was it you?”

  “…Yes.”

  “And did you push him as well?”

  “…”

  “No one will punish you if you tell us what happened. That is a promise.”

  “He told me to.”

  “Who’s he? Billy? Did Billy ask you to push him?”

  “No.”

  “So was it one of the other boys?”

  “No.”

  “Who, then?”

  “…”

  “Ron.”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, answer me. This person you’re talking about doesn’t exist, does he? He’s just a figment of your imagination…”

  “No.”

  “There’s no one else here. Just me and your companions.”

  “He only comes for me.”

  “Listen to me, Ron: I want you to say you’re very sorry for what happened to Billy.”

  “…I’m very sorry for what happened to Billy.”

  “I hope you mean that…At any rate, this will remain a secret between me, you and the Lord.”

  “OK.”

  “You mustn’t speak of it to anyone else.”

  “OK.”

  “I absolve you of your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  17.

  We’re looking for an individual by the name of Ronald Dermis,” Roche announced to the packed audience, speaking into flashes and microphones. “He is about thirty-six years old. Brown hair, brown eyes, light complexion.”

  He showed an image based on the photograph in which he had posed with his companions, showing a hypothetical adult Ron. He held the image up as the flashes went off.

  “We have reason to believe that this man was involved in the abduction of the missing girls. Anyone who knows him, who has any information about him or who has had contact with him over the last thirty years is requested to inform the police. Thank you.”

  The last word set off a chorus of questions and pleas from the journalists. “Mr. Roche!…Chief Inspector!…A question!…”

  Roche ignored them, leaving the room by a back door.

  It had been an inevitable move. They had to set alarm bells ringing.

  Boris and Mila’s discovery had been followed by two feverish hours. The situation was clear now.

  Father Rolf had recorded Ron’s confession on Billy’s tape recorder. Then he had buried it with him, like someone planting a seed knowing that it will sooner or later bear fruit, in the hope that the truth would one day redeem everyone. The one who, in spite of his innocent years, had committed this terrible crime. The one who had been its victim. And the one who had taken the trouble to bury it under six feet of earth.

  …At any rate, this will remain a secret between me, you and the Lord…

  Goran said, “How did Albert know about all this? Father Rolf and Ron were the only ones who were aware of the secret. So the only possible explanation is that Ron and Albert are one and the same person.”

  Perhaps the decision to involve Alexander Bermann also needed to be read in that context. The criminologist couldn’t remember who it was who had told him that their serial killer had chosen a pedophile because he had probably been abused as a child. Perhaps it had been Sarah Rosa. But Stern had immediately dismissed the hypothesis, and Gavila had agreed with him. Now he had to admit that he might have been wrong.

  “The preferred victims of pedophiles are orphans and stray children, because they have no one to defend them.”

  Goran was angry with himself for not having reached that answer sooner. And yet he had all the pieces of the puzzle in front of his eyes from the start. Instead he had allowed himself to be seduced by the idea that Albert was a subtle strategist.

  “Serial killers are telling us a story with what they do: the story of their inner conflict,” he constantly repeated to his students.

  So why had he been misled by a different hypothesis?

  “He used my pride to trick me. I could only see that he was trying to challenge us. And I liked thinking we faced an adversary who was trying to be smarter than me.”

  After watching Roche’s press conference on television, the criminologist had once again assembled the team in the laundry room at the orphanage, where Anneke’s body had been found. It struck him as the most suitable place to relaunch the investigation. His brief mea culpa had served to dispel all doubts about the idea that they were still a team and not just a laboratory for Dr. Gavila’s experiments.

  The corpse of the second girl had been removed some time before, the marble basin had been drained of its tears. All that remained was the halogen lamps and the generator hum. Soon they would be taken away too.

  Goran had requested the presence of Father Timothy. The priest arrived breathless and in a clear state of agitation: even though there was nothing in the room that recalled the crime scene, he still felt terribly ill at ease.

  “There’s no sign of Father Rolf,” the young priest began. “And I really think that—”

  “Father Rolf must be dead by now,” Goran interrupted him curtly. “Otherwise we would have heard from him after Roche’s appeal.”

  Father Timothy looked shocked. “So what can I do for you?”

  Goran took a moment to choose his words. Then, turning towards everyone, he said, “It might seem unusual to you, I know…but I would like us to say a prayer.”

  Rosa couldn’t conceal her astonishment. Nor could Boris, who immediately exchanged a glance with her. Mila was baffled. Not so Stern, who was very religious. He was the first to welcome Goran’s suggestion. He placed himself at the center of the room and held his arms out by his side to take the hands of the others and form a circle. Mila was the next to approach. Rosa followed her unwillingly. Boris was the most reluctant, but he couldn’t refuse Dr. Gavila’s request. Father Timothy nodded, serene at last, before taking his place among them. Goran didn’t know how to pray, and perhaps there weren’t even any prayers appropriate to the occasion. But he tried anyway, in a sad voice.

  “In recent times we have witnessed terrible things. What has happened here is unspeakable. I don’t know if a God exists. But I have always wished it so. I know for certain that evil exists. Because evil can be demonstrated. Good can only be witnessed. But this isn’t enough for us, who need concrete proof…” Goran paused. “If there were a God I would like to ask him…Why did Billy Moore have to die? Where did Ronald Dermis’s hatred come from? What happened to him during those years? How did he learn to kill? What led him to choose evil? And why does He not put an end to all this horror?”

  Goran’s questions hung in the silence that surrounded them.

  “When you wish, Father…” said the irreproachable Stern after a while.

  And Father Timothy took control of the little gathering. He clasped his hands together and began to intone a sacred hymn. His voice—confident and beautiful—took possession of the echoing space, and began to swirl around it. Mila closed her eyes and allowed herself to be transported by his words. They were in Latin, but their meaning would have been obvious even to the deafest of men. With that chant, Father Timothy was bringing peace to where there had been chaos, cleansing everything of the defilement of evil.

  The letter was addressed to the Department of Behavioral Sciences. It would have been classified as the work of a pathological liar had the handwriting not shown some similarities with a piece of homework that Ronald Dermis had done as a child.

  It had been written on the page of an exercise book, with a perfectly normal ballpoint pen. The sender hadn’t worried about leaving fingerprints on the page.

  Apparently Albert had no need of contrivances.

  for those who are hunting me billy was a bastard. a BASTARD! and i was right to kill him i hated him he would have hurt us because he would have had a family and we wouldn’t what was done to me was worse and
NOBODY came to save me NOBODY. i have always been here in front of your eyes and you didn’t see me then HE came. HE understood me. HE taught me it was you who wanted me like this you didn’t see me now do you see me? worse for you in the end it will all be your fault i am what i am. NOBODY can prevent all this NOBODY.

  RONALD

  Goran had made a copy of the letter so that he could study it more closely. He would spend that night at home, with Tommy. He really wanted an evening with his son. There were days when he didn’t see him at all.

  He stepped into the apartment and immediately heard him coming.

  “How was it, Dad?”

  Goran grabbed him and pulled him up in a hearty hug.

  “I can’t complain. What about you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  They were magic words. His son had learned to use them when the two of them had been left alone. As if to say that Goran had no reason to worry, because he was “fine.” He didn’t miss Mum. They were learning not to miss her.

  But that was also as far as it went. The subject was closed with those simple words. Everything was reconciled. There, we’ve remembered how much it hurts to be without her. Now we can get on with our lives.

  And that was what happened.

  Goran had brought a bag that Tommy impatiently explored.

  “Oh wow! Chinese food!”

  “I thought you might like to vary Signora Runa’s menu a bit.”

  Tommy pulled a disgusted face. “I hate her meatballs! She puts too much mint in them, they taste of toothpaste!”

  Goran laughed: the boy was actually right.

  “OK, off you go and wash your hands.”

  Tommy ran to the bathroom. When he came back he started to get things ready. Goran had moved lots of the kitchen equipment down from shelves higher than the boy could reach: he wanted to make him feel he was part of their new family arrangement. Doing things together meant that they now had to look after one another, so neither of them could give up. Neither of them was allowed to yield to sadness.

  Tommy picked up a plate, on which he put the fried wontons and sweet and sour sauce, while his father poured Cantonese rice into two bowls. They also had chopsticks and, instead of fried ice-cream Goran had bought a tub of chocolate and vanilla.