The Rage Of The Reviled

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

The young Deputy Commissioner, executioner of Germans and in charge of investigating the man in overalls, was a twenty-four-year-old Neapolitan by birth and maternal descent. He had thick, naturally curly black hair, kept short in military fashion according to the regulations of those years. He was not tall, five feet four, but well proportioned and robust. He had graduated in law at the Federico II of Naples with honors and recommended for pubblication and, if he was brilliant in mind, in spirit he was clean, forged in the family and in college on the basis of classic ethical principles, in essence the precepts of the ten Judeo-Christian commandments.

But because of his young age, however, which had made him suffer a few disillusions for the moment, Vittorio D'Aiazzo was a little immodest. He lived with his father, Amilcare D'Aiazzo lieutenant colonel of the Regi Carabinieri, and with his mother, Mrs Luigia-Antonia a graduated primary school teacher but housewife, in the apartment they owned. It was not located in a prestigious area as the family would have liked, not in Via Caracciolo or on the Riviera di Chiaia, for example, but in the popular Sanità district, in Via San Gregorio Armeno where there were lodgings within the reach of the not generous salaries, at that time, and the meagre savings of a high-ranking officer of the Carabinieri. Vittorio lived alone in the accommodation at the time, apart from a part-time cleaning lady, because his mother had been evacuated to the countryside at the beginning of the war. His father, had crossed the lines at night a couple of weeks earlier, even though he was sixty-one, fifteen years older than his wife, and he had done this because, in reality, he did not want to answer to the occupying Germans and to join his sovereign.

Until then he had served in the 7th Provincial Carabinieri Group of Naples, as head of the Provincial Investigative Coordination Section. The D'Aiazzo couple had two sons. While they were proud of Vittorio, they did not think highly of the other, Emanuele, who had been a lazy person since he was a child. After several failures, he had received the elementary school diploma at fourteen and with the lowest of grades. He had then abandoned his not hard-earned studies at the beginning of the first year of complementary school for introduction to the work-force. His father had resigned himself to enrolling him because, unlike high school13 , it did not require an entrance examination. At sixteen years old, he had run away from home, and could not be traced. He sent news of himself only years later, once he came of age14 , with a single postcard addressed to the mother, sent from Switzerland in May 1940, with a few words of greeting. Since Emanule had not presented himself for the call-up visit, he had been considered a draft dodger and sentenced in absentia to prison by the Military Court of Naples; and when war broke out, he had been considered a deserter.

That son had damaged the image of Lieutenant Colonel D'Aiazzo and he feared that, because of him, he would nor rise through the ranks, despite his many personal merits. Vittorio what’s more, because of his brother, had not been able to follow in his father's footsteps and enter the Carabinieri, as he and his parents would have liked. In those days, in fact, not only those who were personally dishonest, but also those who had ancestors or relatives not absolutely unblemished, could not apply for the Benemerita15 . Disappointed but not completely resigned, Vittorio had graduated and had participated in the public contest for Deputy Commissioner in the Public Security Guards Corps, an entity that required only the personal integrity of the aspirant and not his relatives as well. He had passed the test brilliantly and, at the end of the vocational graduate school which followed, he was the first in the standings with every hope, therefore, of being granted the chosen destination, his Naples, and had been assigned precisely to his home city.

After reading warrant officer Branduardi’s brief report, Deputy Commissioner D'Aiazzo had headed to the holding cells on the ground floor to take a look at the self-styled Gennaro Esposito. He had then gone down into the damp underground archive and had checked if anyone with those personal details had a police record and if his photos, from the front and in profile, corresponded to the physiognomy of the prisoner. He had found several criminal records with the same name and surname, but all of them concerned people who did not look like the alleged murderer. Back in his office, he had the arrested man brought to him.

He had interrogated him with the help of his assistant brigadier Marino Bordin who, sitting at his table, had typed his superior’s questions and the answers from the man being questioned on the office typewriter, an obsolete black Olivetti M1, 1911 model.

Bordin was a sturdy blond Venetian, five feet nine tall. He was forty-five years old, had served in Public Security for a quarter of a century, and had a wife and two children that he had evacuated to a farmhouse in the Neapolitan countryside, sacrificing two thirds of his salary to the farmer hosting them and resigning himself to eat and sleep in the barracks with what was left.

For hours the suspect, without giving in, had said and repeated, in a correct idiom that made one think he had at least attended primary school classes, very strict at that time, that he was an unemployed cook, that he lived as was written on his license, in Vicolo Santa Luciella and that he was on his way home when he had seen the door of the dead woman's house ajar and had heard moans coming from inside. Out of mere altruism he had gone in, asking for permission, had seen the woman on the ground in the entry still moaning. Having noticed a telephone on a wall, he had decided to call an ambulance; but at that very moment the Public Security patrol had entered and had handcuffed him.

The Deputy Commissioner had kept at it and shortly after 7 am he had finally obtained a new detail, that the man visited the prostitute regularly and that he had gone into her house, because he was expected, to have some quick s*x so he could leave early and get to his own house before the curfew. When asked, he had specified that he had made the appointment by phone from a bar, as he had done many other times. When asked to recite Demaggi’s telephone number, he had said that he no longer remembered it and, when D'Aiazzo showed his skeptiscism, he had justified the amnesia because he was in a state of mental turmoil due to the situation. Otherwise he had not changed his version reiterating that, once he went in the door left ajar especially for him following the phone call, he had seen the woman on the ground and had immediately decided to call for help from the telephone in the apartment, but then the patrol had arrived and had detained him.

Just like the the patrol officers, the Deputy Commissioner could not believe that the man was a client of the pricey hooker, taking into account his cheap shabby clothing and no money in his pockets. Considering that the door had ostensibly been left open for him, he had conjectured that he was an accomplice in the black market. He had therefore accused him of killng her because of some argument: "Confess and I’ll let you go to sleep!"

"It isn’t true, it was definitely an accident that took place before I went inside," the other had denied.

"If you weren't an accomplice at loggerheads, then you were sent to kill her by a competitor," the officer had pressed.

"Commissioner I’m telling you again that it is not true!" the man had become angry, abandoning the docile attitude he had kept until then.

Without being asked, Brigadier Bordin had snapped: "Busòn!16 Be respectful to the commissioner or I'll kick you where you like to get it!"

The Deputy Commissioner did not allow bad manners and had reprimanded him: "Marino, keep the kicks and the insults to yourself." He had resumed: "Gennaro, provided that Gennaro Esposito is really your name, and you can be sure that we’ll check at the Registry Office tomorrow ... no, this morning, seeing the time, listen up: I too, like you, would like to finish this, so I'll make you a proposal," – the man had visibly raised his attention threshold, half-opening his mouth as his pupils dilated a little – "if you confess guilty to homicide, which means that you killed going beyond the intention you had ..."

"... I know."

"Then listen: you could tell me for example that you had no money and that the victim didn’t want to concede herself on credit, so in an irrepressible impulse of anger you pushed her, without wanting to kill her but, unfortunately, she fell and was fatally injured; well, you know what I mean: in this way you don’t end up in front of the firing squad17 , you just get a little jail time. Instead, if I write in my report for the investigating judge that I suspect you’re the hitman for some camorra blackmarketer who wanted to eliminate her, or a direct competitor of the woman on the black market who wanted to take her out once and for all, you are already good and shot."

Even though he was more tired than the Deputy Commissioner, the man had not confessed: "Not only will I repeat yet again that I am not a murderer and, as far as I know, the woman died from an accident which took place before I entered her apartment, but now I’m also telling you that I am a sergeant major gunner and that I crossed the lines and arrived in Naples yesterday evening."

"Hmm... tell me more."

"I am also a cook, I was serving as kitchen manager in the officers' club of the 3rd battalion, 1st Coastal Artillery Regiment, stationed five miles north of Paestum, in the province of Salerno."

"I know where Paestum is... okay, assuming that you’ve told me the truth now, it’s in your own interest that we check your military identity, so tell me about the school for cadet non-commissioned officers you come from and which course." In reality, that verification would probably have been impossible in the chaos following the armistice and D'Aiazzo knew it, but he had counted on the fact that if the other lied to him, he would give himself away.

The man had not turned a hair: "My career started with an apprenticeship: at twenty-eight, after I lost my job of assistant cook in a trattoria ..."

"... what did you do?"

"...nothing wrong! The restaurant had closed because, as the owners said, the final consequences of the crisis of '29 had arrived."

"Okay, go on."

"I had looked for work elsewhere but found nothing: no one was hiring, if anything they were firing. Then, so as not to weigh on my mother who had been widowed and worked hard doing the cleaning in shops and sewing and embroidering at home for strangers, I enlisted as a volunteer in the end, hoping to work my way up and become a non-commissioned office. I had been discharged from the service six years earlier, with honor, with the rank of corporal, which was recognized at the reaffirmation. And since I had already been in kitchens during the draft, after a refresher course on certain regulations, they had sent me in front of the pots again, apart from the periodic shooting exercises with the artillery, rifle and pistol. That’s how it was right through my military career, first as a corporal, then as a sergeant and, finally, as a non-commissioned officer18 : sergeant major manager of the kitchen of the officers' club.

After the armistice and the landing of our former enemies19 on our coasts, I was left in the lurch with my fellow soldiers in the hope of not running into Anglo-Americans or Germans. I hid, eating fruit and vegetables I took from vegetable gardens and, the few times someone put me up in a farmhouse, bread, milk and eggs as well. But farmers, or at least the ones I met, are not generous people, and they all asked me for compensation, first in money, and little by little I gave them what I had left of the last salary, then when the money ran out I had to leave my watch: it was steel, but a good brand; and to the last purucchio20 I gave my medal of San Genna' on a little chain, both in 18 carat gold, a gift from my parents for my First Communion, in exchange for the old shirt and the work overalls I’m still wearing. I got myself into plain clothes and threw away the military dog-tag and the military documents too, because they are not only another color for us career people but they say that we are in fact military and our rank as well..."