just as I walk in, as Iâm putting on my lab coat, and she says to me: Dr. Modo, you need to run straight over to the general hospital at the royal university, because Commissario Ricciardi and Brigadier Maione are there. They need you right away.â
Maione confirmed: âThatâs exactly right. And where are we, in fact? At the general hospital.â
Modo stared at him, dumbfounded: âAnd it doesnât occur to you that if some poor wretch gets a phone call of that sort he might naturally assume that youâd been involved in, I donât know, a car crash, for instance? Which might after all be a good thing, because then youâd stop calling me all the time. Then I got here, I asked what ward you were in, and they told me: downstairs in Gynecology. And if I wasnât worried before, I started worrying then.â
Ricciardi smirked: âBruno, you even kid around first thing in the morning, and with this heat. Weâre here for work. Just like you.â
Modo mopped his brow: âI suffer from the heat more than you do. Look at you, natty as always. But of course, I was forgetting, youâre a reptile with ice in your veins, you never sweat. To sweat you have to have blood and a heart to pump it. Not you, you just make me run back and forth at all hours. Well, so what have we here?â
Maione gestured, as he moved to one side, toward the corpse on the ground. The photographer was done and was putting his equipment away in his bag. The doctor knelt down and began his inspection. Once again, as he watched him work, Ricciardi admired the delicacy and respect with which he performed his examination: as if those poor remains, crumpled on the ground, were still a living body deserving of care.
Suddenly Modo turned around, visibly shocked: he had turned the corpseâs head so that the face was fully in the light.
âWhy, this is . . . this is Iovine, the director of the ward.â
Ricciardi nodded: âYes, thatâs what they told us. Did you know him?â
âOf course I knew him. Weâre practically the same age, I think he might have been a year or two older than me.â
Maione commented, under his breath: âDamn, I would have guessed he was younger.â
Modo shot him a venomous glance.
âYou worry about yourself, Brigadieâ, because that gut of yours is going to send you to an early grave, is what itâs going to do. We went to medical school about the same time, and occasionally weâd run into each other when heâd come in to do some consultation at the hospital where I was working. Weâd say hello, no personal relationship. He was a . . . well, letâs just say that he struck me as an ambassador, always standing straight as a board, a bit of a know-it-all. It didnât make me want to be friends with him, is the truth of the matter. Still, poor guy. What an ugly way to go.â
He continued his examination for a few more minutes, then he stood up, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Ricciardi walked over to him.
âWell, Bruno? What can you tell us?â
Modo pushed his hat back off his head in a typical gesture, and scratched his forehead.
âWell, it seems pretty clear. He fell from high up, very high up. Iâd guess the top floor, if not the roof. Heâs broken to bits, even his spinal column, you can see that his pelvis is out of alignment, in at least one place if not two. He landed on his head, and he died on impact. But there is one thing that puzzles me: one of his fingernails is broken. Surgeons take special care of their hands, and in fact his are very nicely groomed. But he has a broken nail, on the ring finger of his right hand. Iâll have to look more closely, Iâll know after the autopsy, but Iâd guess that he tried to grab something. Did he jump, or was he pushed?â
âWe still donât know anything. I wanted to wait for you before going upstairs to look