Free Papal Decree by Luis Miguel Rocha

about the crime. The rest was pretty clear. Zafer had come of his own free will, received a beating, and an injection of prussic acid ended his suffering.
    Some plainclothes police wandered through the area busy with tasks that would make no sense to outsiders. Others were just talking together, anticipating the end of a long day of work.
    ‘Rafael Santini?’ called out a man in a tan suit with a cigarette in his mouth.
    Rafael was brought back from the world of possibilities and speculations he’d been absorbed in and got up.
    ‘That’s me. Are you Inspector Gavache?’
    ‘Yeah.’ He extended his hand.
    ‘Jacopo Sebastiani,’ the other interjected.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ Gavache asked, greeting him hostilely.
    ‘We’re friends of the victim,’ Rafael put in before Jacopo answered.
    Gavache looked at them with displeasure. He didn’t try to hide the fact he was there to keep an eye on them.
    ‘Tell me,’ he said to Rafael, who was obviously the leader, ‘who’s Yaman Zafer?’ He took a drag on his cigarette.
    ‘He’s not of interest to the Vatican. We’re here personally, as friends of the dead man.’
    Gavache looked at them again. First one, and then the other, doing justice to his role as an inspector. ‘Well,’ he finally said. Cigarette smoke formed a cloud around the three of them. ‘Friendship is a wonderful thing. Did you know him a long time?’
    ‘Twenty years. He was a respected archaeologist at the University of London. Maybe you know some of his publications,’ Rafael told him. He had to give him something. Gavache was no fool.
    ‘I don’t like reading,’ the French inspector replied. ‘Life’s already a big enough book to waste time with that. Did he archaeologize something for the Vatican?’
    ‘He did some work under the sponsorship of the Holy Father,’ Rafael confirmed. ‘Some excavations in Rome and Orvieto.’ He couldn’t tell him everything. ‘Can we help with anything?’ Rafael offered. He felt he was losing him.
    ‘No. If you don’t mind my saying so, friends are a distraction in cases like this,’ he said disdainfully. ‘Jean-Paul,’ he called out to someone, who came up from behind. Gaunt and tall with veins sticking out on his neck. If you didn’t know him, you would think he was starving.
    ‘Here, Inspector.’
    ‘Escort these gentlemen to the city. We don’t need them here. Merci beaucoup. ’ He turned his back, lifting his cigarette to his mouth again.
    ‘Follow me, s’il vous plaît, ’ Jean-Paul said.
    At that moment Rafael looked at Gavache, who was brandishing some photographs a technician had given him.
    ‘Was this your plan?’ Jacopo protested, sticking his hands in his pocket to fight the cold. ‘A waste of time.’
    ‘The devil is in the details,’ Rafael replied, continuing to watch Gavache.
    They went outside to Jean-Paul’s vehicle.
    ‘Do you have the results of the autopsy yet, Inspector?’ Rafael asked. He needed information.
    ‘Yes and no. Yes, we have them, and, no, I’m not an inspector. Your friend was badly beaten and injected with cyanide. A quick death.’
    As they descended some iron stairs, their heavy shoes made them ring with every step.
    ‘Any suspects?’
    ‘No, no one. Everything’s clean. Not even a hair fiber. Everything else is shit, I’d say. Whoever did this chose the place well.’
    ‘You’re not going to find anything,’ Rafael said.
    ‘Father Rafael,’ he heard a voice call out. There was a woman at the door of the warehouse.
    Rafael looked.
    ‘Inspector Gavache would like a word with you, if you don’t mind.’
    Rafael went up three steps and entered what was formerly an office.
    Gavache was busy discussing something with two of his men. His nasal voice rose above those of the others. He caught sight of the Italian priest.
    ‘Ah, Father. Do you mind if I call you that?’ He handed him some photographs. ‘Do you know him?’
    Rafael looked at the three photographs. Each was of