Free These Dark Things by Jan Weiss Page A

Germany? Can we tie Gambini to the Teresa Steiner murder?”
    “Not yet,” Natalia said. “Not enough evidence so far.”
    Or ever, she thought. Gambini was too smart and kept himself too far removed from the actual deeds.
    Colonel Donati’s phone rang. “I have to take this. Report to me as soon as you have something, okay?”
    In the hall, Natalia ran into Carabiniere Doppo. After a long engagement, he was going to marry his fiancée, who was from a small village south of Rome. Natalia congratulated him. The long engagement was a requirement—not from either family, but from the powers that be—to make sure Angelina’s family was not connected to the Camorra or another of the secret criminal societies. Carabinieri were not free to pick and choose spouses like ordinary citizens. There had been too many cases of the criminal brotherhood using their pretty daughters as lures to infiltrate the force through unwary lovers. The same waiting period applied as well for the handful of women serving on the force.
    What would she do if her superiors told her she was no longer free to pick and choose her friends?
    Pino and Giulio were waiting for her at her desk.
    “What?” she said.
    “Brother Benito, that novice monk? Gambini’s nephew.”
    “Jesus!”
    “His mother’s best friend? Gina Falcone.”
    “The bone cleaner.”

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    6
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    It had been years since she or Pino had stepped into a church, much less attended one. Natalia looked closely at the confessional as they passed. She had only gone to confession a dozen times, the last more than twenty years ago when she’d been thirteen. She loved the red velvet curtain, the privacy of the small dark space, and wanted to tell the priest something dramatic that would require painful penance. She thought it a grownup thing to do. Coveting her girlfriend’s boyfriend, however, barely qualified for Hail Marys, much less genuflection. Tired of the daily diet of religion and mandatory chapel attendance at her church school, she refused to attend Sunday services any more. Despite pressure from teachers and clergy, her parents respected her decision.
    “How does it feel?” she said to Pino.
    “Strange. But familiar at the same time.”
    “Yeah, me too.”
    It was dark and cool. Sunlight pressed through the stained glass. Natalia took out her notepad and pen as they made their way to the front of the nave. Jesuit Father Pacelli met them in the small side chapel and led them through toward the living quarters next door. The confessor to this small population of monks, he lived in their community. Pino had been taught by Jesuits at university and felt comfortable with them. They and the school had been a part of the city since the fifteen hundreds.
    To attract converts back then, Jesuit evangelizers had adopted local devotional practices. They organized processions and pilgrimages and went out to preach in pairs, using the piazzas as their pulpits. Crowds had gathered, listened, and followed them down into the underground burial chambers of the ossario. Over drink and food, the Jesuits preached and the locals listened and were swayed.
    Despite the rumor of concubinage and sexual misconduct, the Jesuits had always been the most decent of orders. Members took their vows of poverty seriously; witness Father Pacelli’s worn trousers and his dog-eared sweater, mended more than once at the elbows. How different from the majority of clerics, who patronized fancy tailors for their trim black outfits and elaborate robes: like the princes of the Church, they were well cared for by housekeepers and assistants. No sign of such coddling here. In the kitchen, a novitiate cooked greens for a soup. Another washed dishes. The linoleum and tablecloth were worn and stained. A faucet dripped badly above a deep sink.
    Natalia said, “We appreciate your arranging for us to talk to Benito.”
    “Of course,” Pacelli responded, brushing back his sandy hair. “Such a terrible thing,