Vincenzo Rossi told the fat poliziotto that the first thing he knew he’s lying on the floor with the biggest headache he’d ever had. They sat facing each other in Rossi’s office located in a transept off the cathedral’s sanctuary. The office was so small their knees touched. The policeman’s blue uniform coat gaped open, his belly sloshing over his belt, his blue tie food-stained. In one hand he held a pad, in the other, a pencil. He seemed to be writing down every word Rossi said.
“You were sleeping, no?” the fat poliziotto said.
Rossi caught the accusation; his eyes fill with tears. “Thirty-three years I been a guard here at the Duomo and never—not once, did I sleep on the job.” He felt like adding, “you fat slob.” He pointed to his head. “How you think I got this lump? You think I hit myself? And then I tied up my own hands behind my back?” He massaged the tender red circles around his wrists where the wire had cut into his skin. If the porter who’d come in to clean shortly after midnight hadn’t found him on the floor, dazed and trussed up, he might have lain there until morning.
The cop gazed at Rossi’s head and reached forward to touch the small bandage behind Rossi’s left ear. The doctor who’d been called wanted to take him to the hospital for observation but Rossi refused. He was still on duty and would stay until Dominic relieved him.
“Hmm,” was the fat cop’s comment. He wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue and scribbled in his pad, then snapped it shut. “What were you doing?”
“Reading.” Rossi glanced at the torn and wrinkled pages of Corriere della Sera that littered the floor.
“So you didn’t hear them come in.”
Rossi shook his head and winced as pain shot from his eyeballs to the back of his skull. The cop was probably trying to trick him. He quickly added, “I don’t know if was ‘them’ or ‘him’ or maybe even ‘her.’” He got up, squeezed himself between the cop’s chair and the wall, and started for the door. He had answered all the questions he was going to.
The fat cop said, “Hey, where you going?”
“I gotta talk to His Eminence.”
“You were sleeping, no?” the fat poliziotto said.
Rossi caught the accusation; his eyes fill with tears. “Thirty-three years I been a guard here at the Duomo and never—not once, did I sleep on the job.” He felt like adding, “you fat slob.” He pointed to his head. “How you think I got this lump? You think I hit myself? And then I tied up my own hands behind my back?” He massaged the tender red circles around his wrists where the wire had cut into his skin. If the porter who’d come in to clean shortly after midnight hadn’t found him on the floor, dazed and trussed up, he might have lain there until morning.
The cop gazed at Rossi’s head and reached forward to touch the small bandage behind Rossi’s left ear. The doctor who’d been called wanted to take him to the hospital for observation but Rossi refused. He was still on duty and would stay until Dominic relieved him.
“Hmm,” was the fat cop’s comment. He wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue and scribbled in his pad, then snapped it shut. “What were you doing?”
“Reading.” Rossi glanced at the torn and wrinkled pages of Corriere della Sera that littered the floor.
“So you didn’t hear them come in.”
Rossi shook his head and winced as pain shot from his eyeballs to the back of his skull. The cop was probably trying to trick him. He quickly added, “I don’t know if was ‘them’ or ‘him’ or maybe even ‘her.’” He got up, squeezed himself between the cop’s chair and the wall, and started for the door. He had answered all the questions he was going to.
The fat cop said, “Hey, where you going?”
“I gotta talk to His Eminence.”
