“And if he doesn’t confess?”

Cavallini shrugged. “It’s still a very strong case. He has no alibi.”

“No?” I said weakly, sitting down to hear the rest.

“No. The night of the murder, where is he? Out for a walk. In that weather. You remember that evening, the rain? And where did he walk? Around. Along the Riva, then he’s not sure where. Who walks like that in Venice? Tourists.”

“No one saw him?”

“No one. Then the cine. Except the ticket girl doesn’t remember.”

“That doesn’t necessarily—”

“No, not necessarily,” he said, looking at me. “So, you act the defense? Good. We need to think of everything. But no one sees him, that’s the point. So, his word only. Next, his profession? He works on one of the delivery boats from the Stazione Marittima. Not just to Venice, also the outer islands. So, familiar with the lagoon.” He paused. “Even in fog.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “And after the murder, what does he do? We have witnesses to this, his behavior. Drunk, in the bar he goes to. With the newspaper. He keeps reading it and drinking. ‘For once, justice,’ he says—we have a witness to this. ‘What are you talking about?’ the witness says. ‘He deserved it, he deserved it,’ the boy says, ‘a toast to justice.’ And then what? Tears. Unstable, you see. More than one saw this.”

“The newspaper,” I said, almost to myself. “So this was after the body was found? Not before?”

Cavallini looked at me, uncomfortable for a second, weighing this, then decided to ignore it. “Yes, after it was found. Celebrating.”

“But why would he do that, draw attention that way? Why would he be happy they found the body? Wouldn’t it be better for him if they never found it?”

Cavallini sat back, a twitch of annoyance in the corner of his mouth. “Nevertheless, that is what he said. A toast to justice. Of course, really to himself. We have witnesses to this,” he said again, then paused. “It’s not always the logic that rules the head in these cases. A boy who blames himself, then who kills—you’re surprised he gives himself away?”

“It just doesn’t make sense.”

“But it will. Don’t worry. We will make a case.”

I looked up at him. Held together by nothing except his will. But convincing, a solution to everything, delivered by Cavallini to a grateful force.

“You’re troubled?” he said.

I shrugged, not knowing what to say, swirling again. A case any defense lawyer could pick apart, but would he? Who was the defense? What were trials like here? It wasn’t America. Maybe a different set of priorities, with Carlo Moretti, whoever he was, satisfying all of them. Gianni’s killer.

“But why?” Cavallini said. “It was you yourself who suggested the motive. You said it would be someone exactly like him. And it is.”

“It’s just—” I stopped, my heart sinking. Someone exactly like him. You yourself suggested it.

He waited, frowning a little, surprised now at my reluctance. And why should I be?

“It’s just—you know, to prove it in court, you’ll have to prove that Gianni did betray them. An informer, all of that. It’ll have to come out.”

“Ah,” Cavallini said, “I see. But Signor Miller, it’s a case of his murder.”

“But can you prove it? About Gianni?” What I’d wanted in the first place, just to know.

“Well, as to that, we only have to prove that Moretti believed it. A doctor prescribes medicine, the boy delivers it, his father is betrayed. Because he is followed? Perhaps not. But he believes it, so he acts.” He paused. “Dr. Maglione’s reputation need not be in question. Only Moretti questioned it.”

He met my eyes, an explanation that was also a bargain. Perfect in every way. Justice done. A family’s honor held intact. A promotion for him. A kindness to Giulia, to my mother. Gianni a victim, like Paolo.

“Yes,” I said, thinking, “and what if he was wrong—if we were wrong?”

“How do you mean?”

“For the sake of argument,” I said, getting up, “what if Gianni didn’t do it? It explains the gap. He treats Moretti, he releases Moretti, nothing happens. A week—longer, ten days. He prescribes medicine. Why? If he wanted to betray Moretti, why not do it earlier? Why wait? What if the son is wrong? What if Gianni never meant the father harm?”

Cavallini got up and walked back behind the desk. “Then he killed him for nothing.” Another pause. “Signor Miller, I am confused. Do you think Dr. Maglione was innocent? After all, it was you—” He let the words drift, his eyes simply curious, the way they’d been at the water entrance, asking about the boat.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “But if we can’t prove it, then it’s very difficult to prove the motive.”

“Well, that’s for the lawyers,” he said, dismissing this. “And you forget there is still the confession. Would that satisfy you?” He smiled again, a kind of tease. “It was like this in Germany? Always the proof?”

“Not always,” I said. “But in capital cases—” I stopped. “What happens in Italy? To the boy, if he’s guilty.”

“Execution.”

I looked down, suddenly winded, the air rushing out of me. Execution how? Hanging? Shooting? An innocent boy. Worse than murder. I caught my breath, aware of Cavallini’s stare. “Then we have to be sure.”

“Don’t worry, Signor Miller. We will be. Ah, again,” he said as the telephone rang. “All morning it’s like this. Excuse me.” A complaint he’d make later to his long-faced wife. A man of importance.

I picked up Moretti’s blue hospital folder and glanced at the form while Cavallini talked. A fake name, but presumably him. Date of admission, release, address, and personal information, also presumably fake. An attached chart with what looked to be blood pressure and temperature readings. Diagnosis and report, in longhand, Gianni’s familiar signature on the bottom, the attending nurse, blood type, everything except what had happened. Iniezione antitetanica. Injection against tetanus? Well, there would be.

“Still looking for the proof?” Cavallini said, hanging up.

“This is him? How did you know the name?”

“The boy told us,” he said, almost amused.

“What’s ferita puntura—bullet wound?”

“No, ferita da pallottola. Puntura is puncture. It’s very close.”

But not the same. Not reported. I held the folder for a few seconds, taking this in. You don’t report someone you know. And he hadn’t. Unless he had lied to Giulia.

“A bullet would have to be reported to the police, you know,” Cavallini said. “Even now. It’s the law.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Usually it’s a question of the medical license. Then, under the Germans, who knows?”

“So he would have reported it to his friends in the SS. But if he told the SS, why falsify the police report? It came to the same thing in those days, didn’t it?”

Cavallini nodded stiffly, not sure whether to be offended. “If it was a bullet,” he said.

“It had to be. How else would he know Moretti was a partisan? What does the son say?”

“This is important?”

“If he knew it was a bullet wound and knew Gianni didn’t report it, he’d think Gianni was helping.” Plant any doubt, some confused opening Moretti’s son might use. “Why would he think Gianni betrayed him?”

“He didn’t. Until you and Rosa suggested it,” Cavallini said calmly, not even raising his voice, no louder than a door closing. I felt blood draining from my face.

Cavallini sighed. “Signor Miller, how you worry. What if? What if? Why not a simple answer? A man betrays, his victim is avenged. It has happened a million times before. What do you want to prove? That the boy is innocent?”

I looked up. The inescapable other question—then who is guilty? I dropped the folder on the desk and walked over to the window. Below in the Rio San Lorenzo a freight boat passed, loaded with bottles. Maybe a boat just like young Moretti’s. Someone who knew the lagoon, even in fog.