Death Brings Gold

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CHAPTER 11

The man cursed in hatred against the gaming machine. It was the third time in a row that it had given him one short of a Royal Flush. It was as if it was making fun of him, giving him the illusion of a win that would never come. But he knew these stupid devices well. They would spin, spin and spin. They would deceive ,deceive and deceive. And, after teasing one for so long with the promise of a prize without delivering, the eventual super jackpot would be served on a silver platter. And Caio Merli knew that moment was close, it was only a matter of investing some more banknotes.

He took his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He opened it and with disappointment found he only had a tenner. In that moment he realised the money-hungry bitch machine had already sucked from him a hundred and forty Euros. He pulled the banknote out and flattened it with his hands, trying to make it more appetising for the poker machine’s mouth. Next, he put it near the slot, which was flashing as if to signal that it was waiting for the note.

The jaws of the machine swallowed the note, which was also Caio Merli’s last chance to break the bank. The sound of the paper being quickly sucked in, followed by the polyphonic jingle of the machine, was the signal the credit had been accepted.

Now, Caio was ready to play; it was all or nothing.

He kept the button pushed until the bet reached the maximum amount allowed. In doing so, he would only have two hands to play.

He hit the red button with his fingertips and the card symbols began spinning vigorously. Then, on the second turn, they started to slow down, stopping on a combination that came to nothing.

“Fuck!” the man cursed.

He was about to push the red button again, when a short metallic cascade told him that one of the machines to his right had decided to pay a small amount. He shot a distracted glance at a man in a green cap, who didn’t notice, as he was preoccupied collecting his few coins. He stood there staring at the lucky man longer than he would have liked it. Then, with a sense of disgust, he turned his eyes and concentration to the screen and with determination pushed the button that activated the movement of the cards, as though the outcome might depend on the force with which he pressed ‘start’. The combination of cards and the legend ‘INSERT COIN’ told him that his chances of winning were exhausted. Just like his money.

Of all the decisions available to him, he was certainly not abandoning such a warm machine. He knew too well that it was only a question of ten or so more Euros for the machine to spit out a nice payoff.

He looked around and verified that there were only two other people in the small room.

He tilted the stool forward, placing it against the poker machine keyboard, to indicate that he was reserving the machine. He entered the door leading to the bar area of the place. He exchanged a glance with a well dressed man reading a newspaper, who sipped coffee. When he neared the bar he made eye contact with the barman.

“I’ll be back soon, I’m going to take some money out,” he said, giving a hint of a smile.

“I’ll be here,” replied the barman, while drying a glass.

It took him less than five minutes, the ATM was about two hundred metres from ‘Bar Santo’.

When the barman saw him return, he light-heartedly welcomed him back.

“You’ve come back sooner than soon.”

“I can’t miss the jackpot. I feel it, the machine is hot.”

The man behind the counter smiled, a sly smile, as if to say it was always -more or less- a substantial jackpot for him, whenever someone put a banknote in one of his machines.

“Good luck!”

Caio Merli didn’t get the meaning of that smile, or if he did , he didn’t show it.

“Thank you, Anselmo,” he replied, without giving too much weight to those words.

His mind was elsewhere. He was already dreaming about the metallic sound of that cascading roll of Euros. He was thinking about how he was going to spend that substantial little lump. Perhaps he could…

Something familiar stopped those thoughts. And for a millisecond even his heartbeat stopped. He felt dizzy: he recognised the sound of that cascading reel of money. His anger exploded inside him, so much that his blood pressure shot to the stars. He blinked his eyes in an attempt to awaken from that nightmare.

Yes, the nightmare where the fucking son of a bitch in the green cap waits for the moment you go to replenish your stock of Euros to move in on your machine. The one you reserved by tilting the stool forward. The hot one. The one that was still spitting into its tray metal coins that had the weight, form, size and value of one euro each.

“Are you a fucking idiot?”

The man with the cap didn’t hear him, or pretended not to.

“OI!” continued Caio approaching him, his hands were trembling with anger and itching for a fight. “I’m talking to you, Green Cap”.

The man turned.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked calmly.

Caio moved closer, his mouth just a couple of inches from the man’s face.

“That money is mine,” he said, with the confidence of someone who firmly believes he is right.

“Yours?” asked the man, an idiotic smile on his lips. “But I’ve just won it.”

Caio took a step back, not only to have a better view of the dickhead’s face, but also to let the man see his anger.

“Look, man,” he started, hitting the centre of the man’s chest with his knobby index finger. “If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve found it. You saw perfectly well that I was playing at that machine. And you also saw perfectly well that I had reserved it…”

“Reserved?” Green Cap interrupted. “And since when can you reserve a machine?”

Again, that fucking annoying little smile. This man and the way he behaved was unleashing that inner force that would lead Caio to punch him until he smashed the bastard’s face. Nevertheless, he tried to remain calm, although it was not in his nature.

“Hey, stranger. Around here when someone tilts the stool forward against the machine board, it means that the machine is reserved.”

“Oh, really?” The man was laughing openly. “That’s truly a good one,” he added, before turning away to resume playing.

Caio was now blind with rage; this man had driven him to the very depths of his anger.

“Get your paws off my money, you dirty bastard,” he cursed, while grabbing him from behind and wrapping his hands around his neck.

Green Cap started waving his arms around, in an attempt to free himself. But, considering his diminutive size, it would have been impossible for the little man to free himself from Caio Merli’s ferocious clutches.

Luckily for Green Cap, there was a man – a recent arrival – that jumped in and was rewarded with an involuntary elbow from Caio for his efforts.

The scuffle continued for a few more seconds, then six-foot tall Anselmo’s face peeked out from the entrance to the room.

“Hey, what the hell is going on here?” His rough voice echoed in the game room.

Caio turned, slightly releasing the grasp around the neck of the man who had stolen his win.

“This fucking idiot took my machine,” he said, tugging him. “And my money too.”

“What are you talking about?” jumped in the little fellow in the green cap. “That money was mine, I won it. Besides, if there’s a fucking idiot between us, that would be…”

The shove he received stopped his sentence and sent him crashing onto the machine. Caio moved closer again, and slapped his face a couple of times, until two strong arms grabbed him from behind.

“You know I don’t want any trouble in my bar,” Anselmo admonished him.

“I swear I’m going to kill you, asshole!” Caio shouted at Green Cap, trying to kick him. “Let me go!” he ordered the barman, who was keeping both his arms immobilised in a strong embrace.

“I’ll do it only when you calm down,” the barman’s voice left no space for an answer.

Caio wrestled for a few more seconds, then he decided to surrender to the grasp of the two strong arms.

“Okay. I’m calm now,” he said, although he was still fuming with rage inside.

“Good. Now you two sit here at the table and tell me word for word what happened,” ordered Anselmo.

CHAPTER 12

Raffaele Ghezzi’s death was a mess, the Chief Inspector thought. There were those damn traces of glue under the victim’s tongue. And the murder weapon was still a mystery.

David Walker read the autopsy report for the umpteenth time, paying special attention to the parts that he had highlighted. When he reached the end, he remained there engrossed in his own thoughts.

Making an angry grunt, he lifted the office phone receiver and dialled Dr Visconti’s number.

The phone rang three times, then the Medical Examiner answered.

“Hi Umberto, it’s Walker.”

“Inspector, good to hear from you. I bet you need something.”

“Correct,” admitted David.

“Shoot,” Visconti encouraged him.

“I’ve just finished reading the appraisal regarding Ghezzi.”

“Good.”

“Actually, I dare say that I devoured it more than read it.”

On the other end he heard an amused snicker.

“So, the victim died by strangulation.”

“Without a shadow of a doubt.”

“But the murder weapon still remains a mystery.”

An eternal moment of silence.

“Well, I made my observations, David.”

“And now I’ll give you mine,” replied Walker. “Couldn’t the killer have used the necktie that was found on the victim’s body? That is, I mean, could it be consistent with the marks that you’ve found on the victim’s neck?”

The doctor thought about it for a moment.

“It could be. Yes, I wouldn’t exclude it.”

“Excellent,” replied Walker. “Besides, I read about some marks with little squares stamped on the neck …”

“Yes,” Visconti interrupted him. “Those squares are the pattern on the surface of the ligature strip or, as you have assumed, of the necktie used for the strangulation.”

“It’s exactly with reference to this matter that I wanted some clarification.”

“That’s why I’m here, David.”

“I spoke with Carobbio, from Forensics. He confirmed that the necktie found on Ghezzi’s body had some small squares tone-on-tone. The surface of the fabric, I mean.”

“Well, then I’d say there’s no doubt, David. It must be the murder weapon. If you want, we could confirm that, by comparing the pattern of that necktie with the marks on the victim’s neck.”

Walker waited for a few seconds before expressing his thoughts.

“Let’s do it, Umberto. Although… I was also convinced that it was that necktie …”

“But?” the medical examiner asked.

“But Carobbio excluded it. Categorically.”

“Sorry, but why?”

“He said the necktie was too neat, too clean and ironed to be the one used to strangle a man. In his words: it looked like it came from a drycleaner’s.”

“So he discouraged you.”

“Absolutely.”

After an embarrassing silence, it was Visconti who came forward.

“As for the rest of the picture, is it clear to you?”

“To tell the truth, I wanted to ask you something else.”

“I’m all ears.”

“What can you tell me about his wrists? I couldn’t find anything in my report.”

“The wrists?” asked Visconti, worried.

“Yes. As soon as I arrived at the scene, I noticed some reddish bruises around the victim’s wrists.”

“Ah, those,” said the doctor. “Yes, I saw them. I didn’t attach any importance to them because certainly they didn’t cause his death. It’s very likely that the victim had been tied with something metallic before he was killed. Chains? Handcuffs?”

Walker remained silent.

“David, are you still there?” Visconti prompted him.