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Chapter Two
The police arrived with a speed that astonished the Italian bystanders as much as it scandalized the Americans. To Venetians, half an hour did not seem a long time for the police to organize a boat and a squad of technicians and officers and reach Campo Santo Stefano, but by that time most of the Americans had drifted away in exasperation, telling one another that they would meet back at the hotel. No one bothered to keep an eye on the crime scene, so by the time the police finally did arrive, most of the bags had disappeared from the sheets, even from the one on which the body lay. Some of those who stole the dead man's bags left red footprints on his sheet; one set disappeared towards Rialto in a bloody trail.
The first officer on the scene, Alvise, approached the small crowd that still stood near the dead man and ordered them to move back. He walked over to the man's body and stood, looking down at him as if confused as to what to do now that he could see the victim. Finally, a lab technician asked him to move aside while he set up a wooden stanchion, and then another, and then another until they ringed the sheet. From one of the boxes the technicians had brought to the scene he took a roll of red and white striped tape and ran it through slots in the tops of the wooden stanchions until a clear demarcation had been created between the body and the rest of the world.
Alvise went over to a man who was standing by the steps of the church and demanded, 'Who are you?'
'Riccardo Lombardi,' the man answered. He was tall, about fifty, well-dressed, the sort of person who sat behind a desk and gave orders, or so thought Alvise.
'What are you doing here?'
Surprised at the policeman's tone, the man answered, 'I was walking by, and I saw this crowd, so I stopped.'
'Did you see who did it?'
'Did what?'
It occurred to Alvise only then that he had no idea what had been done, only that the Questura had received a call, saying that a black man was dead in Campo Santo Stefano. 'Can you show me some identification?' Alvise demanded.
The man took out his wallet and extracted his carta d'identità. Silently, he handed it to Alvise, who glanced at it before handing it back. 'Did you see anything?' he asked in the same voice.
'I told you, officer. I was walking by, and I saw these people standing around here, so I stopped to look. Nothing more.'
'All right. You can go,' Alvise said in a tone that suggested the man really had no choice. Alvise turned away from him and went back to the crime team, where the photographers were already packing up their equipment.
'Find anything?' he asked one of the technicians.
Santini, who was on his knees, running his gloved hands over the paving stones in search of shell casings, looked up at Alvise and said, 'A dead man,' before returning to his search.
Not deterred by the answer, Alvise pulled out a notebook from the inside pocket of his uniform parka. He flipped it open, took out a pen, and wrote 'Campo Santo Stefano'. He studied what he had written, glanced at his watch, added '20.58', capped the pen, and returned both notebook and pen to his pocket.
From his right, he heard a familiar voice ask, 'What's going on, Alvise?'
Alvise raised a languid hand in something that resembled a salute and said, 'I'm not sure, Commissario. We had a call, saying there was a dead man here, so we came over.'
His superior, Commissario Guido Brunetti, said, 'I can see that, Alvise. What happened to cause the man to be dead?'
'I don't know, sir. We're waiting for the doctor to get here.'
'Who's coming?' Brunetti asked.
'Who's coming where, sir?' Alvise asked, utterly at a loss.
'Which doctor is coming? Do you know?'
'I don't know, sir. I was in such a hurry to get the team here that I told them at the Questura to call and have one of the doctors sent.'
Brunetti's question was answered by the arrival of Dottor Ettore Rizzardi, medico legale of the city of Venice.
'Ciao, Guido,' Rizzardi said, shifting his bag to his left hand and offering his right. 'What have we got?'
'A dead man,' Brunetti said. 'I got the call at home, saying someone had been killed here, but nothing more than that. I just got here myself.'
'Better have a look, then,' Rizzardi said, turning towards the taped-off area. 'You speak to anyone?' he asked Brunetti.
'No. Nothing.' Talking to Alvise never counted.
Rizzardi bent ...
'The reader comes to look forward to Paola's elegant Venetian lunches as much as Brunetti does...The plot of Blood From A Stone both stands up to and complements the cast.... Comfort reading of the highest order.' TLS
On a cold Venetian night shortly before Christmas, a street vendor is killed in Campo Santo Stefano. The closest witnesses to the event are the tourists who had been browsing the man's wares before his death - fake handbags of every designer label. The dead man had been working as a vú cumprá, one of the many Black Africans purveying goods out of hours, trading without work permits.
When Commissario Brunetti arrives on the scene, his response is that of everybody involved: why would anyone kill an illegal immigrant? They have few social connections and little money; in-fighting is the obvious answer. But once Brunetti begins to investigate this unfamiliar Venetian underworld, he discovers that matters of great value are at stake...
'Comissario Guido Brunetti, Donna Leon's exquisitely civilized and unflappable Venetian policeman. It's the ingenious way that she knits up-to-date plots with the history of the city that pleases... No one writes about the grey areas of life better.' Guardian
'Leon writes with great literary panache and evocative power about the world's most beautiful and mysterious city.' Spectator
'Donna Leon has a wonderful feel for the hidden evils that lie below the façade of the the magical city, and Brunetti, sturdy family man and cynic, is an endearing guide into the machinations of Italian society.' The Times
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