Rodolfo Berzetti was having one now—just not a natural one. He had a good two seconds to gape at me and wonder what was happening. And then it had already happened. And then he slumped to the floor. And then it was over.
I watched as everything that was Rodolfo Berzetti trickled away back to the recycle bin. Then he was gone. His eyes glazed over, and his bowels emptied, and I decided that was my cue to leave.
I did.
* * *
—
Your credentials are impeccable,” Enzo Minutti said. He raised his eyes from the beautifully printed CV and put them on the man to whom the pages belonged. As a senior member of the Vatican Personnel Office, Minutti interviewed many people seeking employment, and even so, this man impressed. He was pleasant, carried himself well, and seemed very well qualified. “The testimonials and the photographs of your work are quite compelling, Signor Campinelli.”
“Grazie,” Campinelli said. “Mille grazie, Signor Minutti.” Beautifully dressed, average height, shaggy brown hair, Campinelli was a man in his thirties, a little young to be applying for such a prestigious position but clearly quite gifted.
Minutti shrugged. His qualifications would do him no good this time. “Unfortunately, we already have on staff a very good restorer. I cannot offer you employment at this time. Very sorry, Signor Campinelli.”
“Oh,” said Campinelli, quite clearly crestfallen. “That’s—I had so hoped. It was, if I may say, the dream of a lifetime—to be here, at the center of God’s Holy City—and with one of the greatest collections in the world!”
“Yes, I’m sure, I completely understand,” Minutti said. “But unfortunately—” He lifted a hand to indicate that he was helpless in this matter. “I will certainly keep your résumé on file, Signor Campinelli. And if anything should ever—”
He was interrupted by the harsh braying of the telephone on his desk. Somewhat annoyed to be interrupted, he frowned and picked up the receiver. “Pronto, Minutti,” he said.
What he heard must have surprised him, for he blinked rapidly several times. “What? . . . But that is terrible! When did that happen? . . . I see . . . Yes, I see . . . What’s that? . . . Yes, I understand, but— Well, of course, but these skills are not found at the market— No, I don’t see—Well, normally it can take several weeks—”
Minutti lifted his eyes to Campinelli, still sitting across from him in a dejected slump. “But actually, as it happens, I believe I can promise an immediate solution. Yes, immediate. Ciao, Father.”
He hung up the phone and looked at Campinelli, who was still looking like a boy whose puppy had died. “Signor Campinelli?” he said.
Campinelli lifted his eyes to see Minutti regarding him with a broad smile. “Yes, Signor Minutti?”
Minutti’s smile got wider. “Buona fortuna,” he said.
* * *
—
Captain Christian Koelliker was unhappy. Not merely because he had a dead body to deal with—that had happened before, and, the captain assumed, it would probably happen again. At least this body was neat, except for the Scheisse, the result of the customary loosened bowels. And it was quite apparent what had caused the death. A simple heart attack, no reason to suspect foul play, no art treasures missing—nothing at all out of the ordinary.
And yet . . .
Captain Koelliker was an officer of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, and like all police officers he was always suspicious. Also like most police officers, he trusted his instincts. Right now, his instincts were telling him that all was not as it seemed. If this was true—if this apparently accidental death was not accidental—it could mean a threat to the Pope, however peripheral, and this he would never permit.
And so even though there was no factual reason to do so, he bent over to examine the body again. It lay where it had fallen, on its side. The man’s glasses lay a few feet away, one lens shattered. The corpse had that unsettling expression of surprise and horror on the face. That didn’t affect Captain Koelliker. He’d seen it before. Most people were surprised, and horrified, when death came for them
.
Koelliker squatted by the body. A tiny paintbrush was on the floor three inches from the outstretched hand. He touched the bristles; still wet. Glancing up at the painting, the captain could see the spot where the brush had been plied—there, at the bottom of the canvas.
So Berzetti had been working on that small spot at the bottom of the painting. A heart attack hit, and he fell, dead nearly instantly. All very logical; Berzetti had been bent nearly double to get at that particular spot on the canvas. He was a fat man. The extra strain from the pressure of bending over could easily trigger a heart attack. It all made perfect sense.
Except . . .
Koelliker frowned. Something tugged at his subconscious, a nagging little thing he couldn’t quite grasp. He stood again and took a step back, looking over the scene. Bent over, heart attack, boom—Berzetti falls and dies. Perfectly natural and sensible.
But then why hadn’t he fallen face forward? Perhaps even into the canvas he was working on? Why had he instead fallen almost backward, away from the canvas? And the glasses—the frames said they were quite expensive. Would a high-quality lens shatter if dropped from only a couple of feet up?
There was almost certainly an explanation. Perhaps a number of them. And nothing about it truly screamed “foul.” But it bothered Captain Koelliker nonetheless.
“Has the family been notified?” he said over his shoulder.