there? Reading.’
‘I didn’t ask. But it must be a great deal. The librarian said he’d become a piece of furniture, almost one of the staff.’
‘And he said nothing to them about what was going on?’ she asked.
‘He might not have noticed anything.’
‘So enraptured with the ravings of the Fathers of the Church?’
‘Or his chair might have faced in the other direction.’
She allowed a few seconds to pass and then asked, ‘Could he have been interested or involved in what was happening?’
Brunetti shrugged. ‘Involved would mean sitting and reading the Fathers of the Church for three years, or pretending to read them: I don’t know which is worse. Can you imagine the level of greed that would induce a person to do that?’ Before she could answer, he added, ‘Besides, if he’s been reading the Fathers of the Church seriously, then it’s unlikely he’d be involved in anything like this.’
She looked away from him and at the now-empty screen of her computer for so long that he thought shehad nothing to say, but finally she asked, ‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remarkable,’ she said, then added, making no attempt to hide her own surprise, ‘So do I.’
6
Brunetti paused on the stairs to reflect on the strangeness of their joint assumption that a person who spent his time reading the Fathers of the Church was likely to be honest. There were many reasons why Franchini could have been reading them: interest in rhetoric, history, the minutiae of theological disagreement. Yet both Brunetti and Signorina Elettra had automatically assumed he could not have been involved in the thefts, nor even aware of them, as if the mantle of the Fathers’ presumed sanctity had covered Franchini as well.
Brunetti did not remember what the historical Tertullian had to say about theft, but he could hardly have been made a Father of the Church unless he had condemned it, or what use was the Commandment? Was it the fourth? Coveting came later in the list, he knew, a sin that Brunetti had always seen as the antipasto to Orwell’s Thought Crime. In fact, he thought it quite normal to covet someone else’s wife or goods. Why else were movie stars famousand why else build the Reggia di Caserta, buy a Maserati or a Rolls-Royce unless covetousness and envy were in our bones?
Back at his desk and forgetful of the time difference, he decided to call the office of the History Department of the University of Kansas. He dialled the number and, after five rings, got a recording saying that the offices were open from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. Monday to Friday and please press 1 to leave a message. He switched to English and explained that he was a commissario of the Italian police and would like someone to call him or email him. He gave his name, phone number, and email address, thanked the machine, and hung up. He looked at his watch again and worked out on the fingers of both hands that it was still the middle of the night in Kansas. Always uneasy when reliant upon the combination of technology and office workers, he turned on his computer and found the email address of the Department of History. He wrote a more detailed explanation of his request, gave Nickerson’s name and area of study as well as the name of the person who had signed the letter, and asked for the courtesy of a quick response because this concerned a criminal case.
He read quickly through his emails, finding nothing that interested him, however insistent the demands for responses. He brought up the Questura’s file of people arrested in the last ten years, typed in the name Piero Sartor, then added Pietro, just to be sure. His request brought up two possibilities, one for Piero and one for Pietro. But their ages, the first more than sixty and the other only fifteen, excluded them a priori . For purposes of exclusion, he entered the name of Patrizia Fabbiani, but it was not in their files.
While he was doing this, he thought he might as well
‘I didn’t ask. But it must be a great deal. The librarian said he’d become a piece of furniture, almost one of the staff.’
‘And he said nothing to them about what was going on?’ she asked.
‘He might not have noticed anything.’
‘So enraptured with the ravings of the Fathers of the Church?’
‘Or his chair might have faced in the other direction.’
She allowed a few seconds to pass and then asked, ‘Could he have been interested or involved in what was happening?’
Brunetti shrugged. ‘Involved would mean sitting and reading the Fathers of the Church for three years, or pretending to read them: I don’t know which is worse. Can you imagine the level of greed that would induce a person to do that?’ Before she could answer, he added, ‘Besides, if he’s been reading the Fathers of the Church seriously, then it’s unlikely he’d be involved in anything like this.’
She looked away from him and at the now-empty screen of her computer for so long that he thought shehad nothing to say, but finally she asked, ‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remarkable,’ she said, then added, making no attempt to hide her own surprise, ‘So do I.’
6
Brunetti paused on the stairs to reflect on the strangeness of their joint assumption that a person who spent his time reading the Fathers of the Church was likely to be honest. There were many reasons why Franchini could have been reading them: interest in rhetoric, history, the minutiae of theological disagreement. Yet both Brunetti and Signorina Elettra had automatically assumed he could not have been involved in the thefts, nor even aware of them, as if the mantle of the Fathers’ presumed sanctity had covered Franchini as well.
Brunetti did not remember what the historical Tertullian had to say about theft, but he could hardly have been made a Father of the Church unless he had condemned it, or what use was the Commandment? Was it the fourth? Coveting came later in the list, he knew, a sin that Brunetti had always seen as the antipasto to Orwell’s Thought Crime. In fact, he thought it quite normal to covet someone else’s wife or goods. Why else were movie stars famousand why else build the Reggia di Caserta, buy a Maserati or a Rolls-Royce unless covetousness and envy were in our bones?
Back at his desk and forgetful of the time difference, he decided to call the office of the History Department of the University of Kansas. He dialled the number and, after five rings, got a recording saying that the offices were open from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. Monday to Friday and please press 1 to leave a message. He switched to English and explained that he was a commissario of the Italian police and would like someone to call him or email him. He gave his name, phone number, and email address, thanked the machine, and hung up. He looked at his watch again and worked out on the fingers of both hands that it was still the middle of the night in Kansas. Always uneasy when reliant upon the combination of technology and office workers, he turned on his computer and found the email address of the Department of History. He wrote a more detailed explanation of his request, gave Nickerson’s name and area of study as well as the name of the person who had signed the letter, and asked for the courtesy of a quick response because this concerned a criminal case.
He read quickly through his emails, finding nothing that interested him, however insistent the demands for responses. He brought up the Questura’s file of people arrested in the last ten years, typed in the name Piero Sartor, then added Pietro, just to be sure. His request brought up two possibilities, one for Piero and one for Pietro. But their ages, the first more than sixty and the other only fifteen, excluded them a priori . For purposes of exclusion, he entered the name of Patrizia Fabbiani, but it was not in their files.
While he was doing this, he thought he might as well
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