Viper - Michael Morley [24]
‘They give a reason why they let him go?’
‘Sexual harassment. No specific incident, but several female admin staff went to Personnel and complained about him.’
‘For doing what?’
‘Pestering them. Asking them out.’
‘Since when was that a crime in Italy?’
Massimo laughed. ‘Since it was done by ugly, creepy guys who smelled like sewage. Women complained of his lack of personal hygiene and said they felt he was mentally undressing them. Even when they told him to get lost, he kept coming back.’
‘Anyone have a good word for him?’
‘From what I learned, I don’t think his Mamma would even have a good word for him. Given your comments, Jack, my colleagues in Naples would very much like to meet Creed. And they’d also like to talk to you about him. Do you know where he is?’
A bad feeling stirred inside the profiler. ‘He’s disappeared, Massimo. Hotel receptionist said he headed out to Newark just after it reopened. Maybe he’s back in Naples, maybe he’s on the other side of the world.’
Disappeared. The word resonated with both of them. Disappeared, just like the women had.
Just like killers do.
TWO
Three days later
17
Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio
Chief of Homicide Capitano Sylvia Carmela Tomms stood outside the crime scene in the damp clearing of parkland and blew cigarette smoke high into the evening air.
A local man walking his dog had found blackened human bones and now it seemed like half a forest was being excavated. An age-old murder was the last thing she wanted just before Christmas.
The 35-year-old was one of only a few female captains in the carabinieri, an organization that until the new century hadn’t even admitted women into its ranks. She certainly looked the part. Striking black hair and dark eyes, good cheekbones and trim enough to turn heads whether she was in or out of uniform. She was also multilingual and had her sights set on the top. Sylvia was her German grandmother’s name, chosen for her by her father, a diplomat from Munich working in Italy. Carmela was her Italian mother’s name, a classical musician who’d met her father in Rome. And Tomms, well that was the marital name that she was about to get rid of, as soon as her divorce came through from the no-good Englishman she’d been foolish enough to marry.
The cigarette break was her first since arriving at the scene and cranking up the slow engine of a murder inquiry. It was probably something and nothing. A domestic, no doubt. Angry husband kills unfaithful wife and buries her body in woods. No big deal. Nevertheless, Sylvia was determined that it be investigated every bit as thoroughly as if a rich politician had just been killed. That was her style. Never cut corners.
The site had been taped off, an officer was in place to log visitors and a photographer had just arrived. An exhibits officer was on standby. A medic had pronounced death and the ME was on his way. The CSI had already established a safe corridor down which every man, woman and dog that had a right to be there could freely walk without fear of contaminating anything.
She’d also instructed officers to grid the scene, mark it off in zones with tapes and poles, so that the whole area could be scrupulously searched and accurate notes kept of whatever was found.
The crime-scene photographer began clicking away on the other side of the tape, getting wide shots of the location where forensic scientists were seemingly panning for bone.
Sylvia’s Number Two, Lieutenant Pietro Raimondi, swigged from a small, green plastic bottle of Rocchetta Natura. ‘In case we find skull fragments, you will want an orthodontist. Shall I contact Cavaliere?’
‘No. Talk to Manuela in the office. She told me she found a hot new guy who studied at the UCLA School of Dentistry. Married, but gorgeous and prone to straying.’
‘Remember we are carabinieri!’ teased Raimondi. ‘Our motto is Nei Secoli Fedele.’ He melodramatically