Free The Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

up.
    â€œRight. The doctor has a good point. I’m sorry we got here late, we could have secured the crime scene ourselves.” He walked over to the man, who was putting on a lab coat and a pair of gloves. “Hello, doctor. I’m Lieutenant Giuseppe Lojacono, and this is Corporal Aragona, from the Pizzofalcone precinct house.”
    The doctor looked them up and down, still frowning.
    â€œPizzofalcone, eh? New blood. Well, let’s hope it works. Certainly, you’d be hard put to do worse than the guys you’re replacing. I’m Lucio Marchitelli, medical examiner. I’m the lucky guy who usually gets called in this part of town.”
    Lojacono looked around. It was a strange place: the room was enormous, with two balconies—one whose shutters were open—and two entrances. A table, four chairs. An olive-green leather armchair. A long wall adorned with a single piece of furniture made of dark wood, a built-in cabinet with five deep shelves filled, in row after row, by just one kind of object: glass spheres, with fake snow inside.
    The uniformed cop who had been talking to the doctor came over, giving Lojacano something that half-resembled a military salute: “Officer Gennaro Cuomo, lieutenant. We were the first to arrive, from police headquarters. At your orders.”
    Lojacono was looking at the floor. The body, facedown, was that of a middle-aged woman, her pink dressing gown hiked up slightly on her legs. A pair of socks, a slipper on one foot, another slipper a few inches away. The face was gray, and it rested on one cheek. The eye that was visible, half-open to the panorama of life’s end, was expressionless. The mouth gaped partly open. A face with regular features, Lojacono thought; but her body was plump, the ankles swollen, the legs stout.
    Not far from the body was an overturned tray,
caffe latte
, cookies. A broken mug.
    He turned back to look at the corpse: on the back of the head, a dark stain, a patch of blood. The carpet the woman was lying on was stained as well, near the head.
    â€œWho found the body?”
    Cuomo quickly replied: “The Bulgarian housekeeper, and her name is . . .” he consulted a sheet of paper, carefully sounding out the words: “Ivanova Nikolaeva, Mayya; her Christian name is the last one. A girl, really, she’s in the next room crying, she says she doesn’t want to see. The victim was named Cecilia De Santis, married name Festa; her husband is Arturo Festa, a notary. The housekeeper says that he’s not home and she has no idea where he is.”
    Lojacono spoke to Aragona.
    â€œTalk to the housekeeper. Get her to give you the notary’s office number, a cell phone, some way of getting in touch with him. I want to know where he is.”
    The officer headed toward the apartment’s interior, glad to have a specific job to do. Lojacono focused on the doctor, who had, in the meanwhile, been joined by an assistant who was jotting down notes on a pad while the medical examiner danced his minuet about the corpse.
    â€œNow then, Matte’, first of all, tell the city morgue attendants, when they get here, that they’ll have to wait a while, because we’re going to log clothing and everything else as evidence here, that way we can avoid contamination during transport. Are you ready? Okay: start writing.”
    Extracting instruments from a leather bag he’d set on the floor, he began reciting his litany. His hands moved strips of cloth, inserted thermometers, pushed limbs aside with slight movements; the dead woman cooperated with docility, like a doll, like a mannequin. Lojacono listened, carefully registering the information: he knew how important these first facts could be.
    â€œRoom temperature taken in proximity to the cadaver: 20° C. The radiators are on, but they’re turned down low. The cadaver is prone, with the head rotated to the left, the right hemiface pressed against the