In Your Blood: First Gelsomino Investigation

By Marco Lugli

The small village of Morciano di Leuca on the southern tip of the region of Apulia in Italy is the unusual setting for a ritual murder. Valentina Medici is initially sedated, then dies due to loss of blood from cuts on her wrist. The victim's husband recognizes the same methods that were employed in the murder of his first wife, ten years beforehand. This link with the past is the initial point from where an investigation starts, led by Lecce police Commissario Luigi Gelsomino. Although he doesn't want to to believe it's a serial killing he's willing to change his mind if the evidence makes him. A thriller that unwinds from the seaside sunshine to the foggy northern Italian plains. A riddle wet in the blood spilt by a mysterious sect of young literati, among whom anyone could be guilty and no-one can be completely innocent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marco Lugli
• Release date: Dec 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9791222064833

Marco Lugli

An Italian ecletic artist and businessman, Marco Lugli is a writer and photographer. He is also the owner of a company in the hospitality sector, located in the South of Italy. Activity that is inspirational for his novels featuring Commissario Gelsomino. He lives across Modena, the Ferrari, Maserati and Balsamic Vinegar city and the beautiful Salento area in Apulia.«In Your Blood» is the first novel translated in english.

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This novel is entirely the result of the author's imagination. Names and references to events, places and real people are to be considered incidental or, if real, used fictitiously.

IN YOUR BLOOD

Copyright © 2023 MARCO LUGLI - All rights reserved.

Translated by Clarissa A. Cassels

Cover photo by Marco Lugli

To my future wife, for her to be on her guard.

All you’ll be able to do will be

to watch your blood flow

your useless life draining away, drop by drop.

March 6th, 1994

Correggio

He looked back at his worn scraps of paper, lying side by side on the kitchen table. There were twelve of them. He knew them off by heart, but nevertheless he picked them up one by one. He wanted to be sure. His chest rocked back and forth due to the tension whilst the tips of his thumb and index fingers of both hands clutched onto each sheet. He read them all, reminding himself not to break any of the rules written on those squared scraps. He then collected them together again, leaving yet another sweat mark on the paper. He took his favorite book that opened on its own accord on the most read page, where he hid them, in Silence.¹

He left the house at 11:20, in time to see the faithful exiting San Quirino. She was on the pavement with her guitar slung over her shoulder, greeting friends. Her boyfriend stood beside her, holding her hand. As of every Sunday, they would say their goodbyes, to meet again in the late afternoon. She would go home to prepare food for her mother who would then leave around two in the afternoon, to not miss the raffle at the bowling club.

After following them for several hundred meters and assuring himself that they would follow their usual routine, at ten past two he returned to the house and rang the bell. He smiled at the girl who opened the door, waited for her to reciprocate and tried to print that smile on his memory. He then kicked her between the legs, went into the house and closed the door behind him.

He noticed she ignored the pain of the suffered blow, concentrated instead on showing terror on her face. He also noticed that in the entrance hall, on the low cabinet on which everyone lay their house keys, there was the old rotary dial Siemens S62 phone. He grabbed it with his right hand, holding the handset close between the palm and the body unit. In bringing it upward and hitting it down on the temple of the girl, the three-prong plug broke away from the boss on the wall. He inserted it again, put the phone back in its place, took the girl by the armpits and dragged her into the living room. The interior design resembled that of his grandmother's house; lots of glass and silver ornaments, placed in the middle of pieces of crochet embroidery; furniture in lacquered wood, more old than antique. Lined velvet chairs and brass studs.

The girl moaned; she was regaining consciousness. He ignored her and instead finished studying the room. The curtain of the main window of the living room hid a massive cast iron radiator. He looked at the girl and back at the heater, sighed, then dragged her there, making her sit down with her back against the hot metal. With an effort, he pulled down the cord of the curtain, tied the girl firstly around the ankles, then the wrists, hooking them to the radiator return pipe.

He sat down in front of her. His wallet, tucked into the back pocket of his pants, created a bothering thickness between his buttocks and the floor. He slid it out and opened it, carefully removing the razor blade he had already been keeping in there for the past ten days. He used it to cut a strip of curtain, about forty centimeters in length. He stuck it in her gob, all crumpled up.

The difficulty in breathing woke her up completely. Facing her, he watched the expression on her face evolve in a few moments: from head pain, to disorientation, to the fear with which he had left her a few minutes earlier. She began staring at him with wide-open eyes, only occasionally lowering them to her mouth when swallowing became difficult, when the urge to retch distracted her from her main interest.

He held out his left hand, passed it through her hair, then turned his palms outward and caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. In a vain attempt to keep as far away from him as possible, she twisted her head onto her right shoulder, squinting and turning the neck backwards. The jugular vein exposed itself to his gaze, pulsing in anguish. He slit it open with a quick gesture, precise, painless, holding the cutting edge between the fingers of the right hand like an artist's brush.

And then, just like an artist, he then stayed on for a while to watch his work.

Paolo Bernini’s Notes

I’ve written some pages through the years to remember the thoughts and emotions of some moments of my life. Today I collected them. They are all here in front of me, ready to be used. I don’t have a diary, only many scribbled sheets of paper that I have found in the drawers and gathered them in a single large file. They tell the prologue of an entirely real story, believe me, that still may happen.

If you are reading these lines, it means that the tale has come to its end. Maybe this also means that to tell it I have terminated my last literary fatigue. Or maybe, a hypothesis that I consider more likely, that in some recent or remote age this material ends up in the hands of a writer colleague who, with a bit of copying and pasting, some patching, the adding of an ending, hopefully real, wrapped and editorial production. In this moment in which everything is still potential energy, therefore, I cannot guarantee how the following pages will turn out to be.

Neither who the author may be.

I can only confess that if someone has told you that killing is always wrong, that person has no idea what he is talking about.

Paolo Bernini

September 4th, 2015

Gallipoli, 6:13 pm

Mrs. Fontana, in the report I must state everything that they stole.

Miss, please. Or Ispettore, if you prefer. You choose, but not Mrs.

Miss, can you make me a list?

Pretty much everything except the phone and panties. Documents, cards, keys, purse, clothes, towel.

The towel?

Yes, it was on the sand and everything was on it. They made a bundle and carted it off.

I would need a precise list.

Yeah, I figured - I’ve already prepared it. There you are, with all the card numbers and documents. There is also a photo where you see the purse. I didn’t add the money, we won’t find it anyway.

All right, then I’ll copy the data from here. Listen, so you found yourself topless on the beach, if I understand correctly?

Topless?

You said ‘everything except the phone and the panties’...

It was a euphemism. I was wearing a one-piece swimming costume. And fortunately I was not going to take a bath but only a walk on the seafront, so at least I had the phone with me. I called a friend who brought me a pair of flip flops and a sarong, just to get to her home.

Okay, then I’ll write: ‘wearing a swimming costume and with phone’.

Look, it's not important what I have left, but what they took away.

Ispettore, you lot tell me that it is better to be precise in our work, right? Keys, purse, you can’t even get into your house, then.

No, that I can do. My friend has the spare keys since I only come here for the holidays.

Oh yeah, and you were telling me you work in...

Modena. Modena Police Corps.

Have you proceeded in blocking the cards and changing the locks?

The cards yes, I did it right away. As for the lock, I’ll call someone on Monday. As it’s Friday night, I‘m not going to find anyone to do the job. Fortunately, there is my Modena address in the documents.

Okay. Look, we’ve written down here the description of the facts, as well as the list of objects, now I’m going to print the report, make you sign it, and we're done. We hope to find something.

I’m not counting on it too much, but ok. You have my number. Do I sign here?

September 7th, 2015

Salve, 7:50 am

Luigi Gelsomino made himself comfortable on the chair across from the desk as he licked a plastic spoon. He had left very early from Lecce. Staying concentrated would have required an effort that he did not feel like making.

All right Maresciallo, talk to me.

You needed it huh, Commissario? That coffee?

Yeah. Can you repeat your name, please?

Maresciallo Renna. Aldo Renna.

It doesn't sound as cool as Bond, James Bond, but it will have to do. Go ahead, Renna.

The Maresciallo tried to smile, without success. Not as composed as Renna was Officer Colazzo standing behind him, who looked at him with an amused and cheeky air.

So, Commissario, at 6:32 pm two days ago, on September 5th, the fire brigade at Lecce received this phone call.

He clicked with the mouse and two speakers to the sides of the screen began to buzz.

Fire station. Hello? How can we help?

It's happened again...

Hello? Can you hear me?

Yes, I can hear you.

What has happened again?

My wife...

Ok, can you calm down and tell me what has happened to your wife.

This is the police, isn’t it?

No actually it isn’t, it’s the fire station. Don’t worry, if necessary we’ll notify the appropriate authorities, but you need to tell me now: where are you calling from? And what exactly has happened?

She's dead.

Are you telling me that your wife is dead?

Yes. I think so... Yes...

Are you in danger? Can we have your name, please?

It’s Bernini; my name’s Bernini.

All right Mr. Bernini. Now try to calm down Mr. Bernini. Tell me whether you are in danger and where you are calling from.

I'm in the middle of her blood...

Try to calm down, Mr. Bernini. Where are you calling from?

From the B&B Capperi, in Morciano.

Bed & Breakfast Capperi In Morciano di Leuca? Can you confirm that for me?

Yes, that’s right.

All right, Mr. Bernini, just stay where you are. A Carabinieri patrol is on its way.

A car rushed off from Salve police station at 18:50 and went to the site.

Twenty minutes later?

Commissario, there are six officers here with two cars. There were only two officers on shift at the time and they were in Presicce on a callout.

Gelsomino thought of the big white building he had entered a few minutes earlier. Spread over three floors, from the outside it took a while to convince himself it was the Carabinieri police station of such a small town.

Six people? But there must be about thirty rooms here...

If you were from the North, Commissario, I would even try to explain why. But since you come from Lecce, what’s the point of it?

Gelsomino smiled. He was very attached to his province, but knew he wasn’t the most representative of its sons.

Go on.

"We arrived at the bed & breakfast called ‘Capperi’ at about seven pm."

We?

Renna thumbed at his colleague who was still standing behind him.

Officer Colazzo and I. We rang the bell, waited a bit, then the door clicked open. He hadn’t said anything on the intercom so we had to knock on the doors of the rooms on the ground floor. One of the guests told us that his room was on the first floor so we went up.

The Commissario looked at the Maresciallo.

Were you properly equipped with SOC clothing?

More or less. Not many things like this happen around here.

I can imagine.

He pointed with his eyes at a sign of yellowed cardboard, hanging on the wall with tape. It broadly showed the types of blood stains that could be found at a crime scene.

So you entered, and...?

And Bernini was sitting on the sofa on the ground floor. Near the intercom.

But didn’t you say that you were on the ground floor and then you went up to the apartment? How is it that you found him on the ground floor if you had already climbed the stairs?

Excuse me, Commissario, I am not explaining myself very well... The apartment consists of two rooms on two floors. The entrance to the apartment is actually the first floor.

I get it, go on then.

He was on the couch near the entrance. From there you can clearly see the stairs leading to the bedroom. On the steps and from the base of the staircase to the couch you could see the footsteps of bloody shoe-prints.

Did you go up?

Yes I did; I went up alone. Firstly I slipped on the overshoes. I also filmed my feet with the phone, so that my movements could have been retraced afterwards. As well as that I got Colazzo to take a video of my movements from where he was below. Damn, even if the stairs were full of prints someone had to go in and check if she was still alive.

You’ve been watching CSI, I see.

Did I do anything wrong, Commissario?

You could’ve done worse, I suppose. What can I say? It was brilliantly amateurish...

Renna bowed his head sheepishly to hide a grimace of embarrassment. He collected himself and then continued.

When I got to the top step I took even more care because the blood had already spread there from the floor. The corpse was on the bed, in a bathrobe, belly down. The veins of her right arm had been cut and the arm was hanging down on one side, very close to the top of the ladder. You'll see, the room is set out in a strange way.

Gelsomino shook his head slightly.

What do you mean, strange?

Well; there is no door as such, only a low wall, so from the step you can easily see the whole scene. So I stretched across to feel her pulse without having to put my foot onto the floor of the room. There was no pulse, the arm wasn’t cold but it wasn’t that warm either, so I realized that there was nothing to do and I went downstairs. I got Bernini to remove his shoes, put them in a bag and then got him to leave the apartment.

Barefoot?

Oh Commissario, what was I supposed to do?

You could have carried him, Maresciallo.

What?

Gelsomino struggled not to laugh.

Are these the photographs of the scene?

Yes they are; forensics arrived - it must have been gone nine by then and they took them.

Where did forensics come from?

They were the ones from Lecce.

Ok. I’ve got the picture. What can you tell me about this Bernini?

Renna took a notepad from his desk, licked his finger and started flicking through the pages.

"Paolo Bernini is a writer from Carpi, in the province of Modena. I can’t say how famous he is. He lives in Morciano, or rather lived, with his wife who had this B&B called Capperi, it must be a couple of years since they opened. A few rooms and a couple of holiday apartments. No reported problems or warnings. The neighbors say they’re nice people."

What do we know about her?

Valentina Medici; she is also from Carpi. She was an architect, but from what I understand she was mainly busy with the B&B. We are trying to identify all her customers. Her architect clients, I mean, to see if there's someone we know. You know how it is, with the construction industry you can never be safe.

The autopsy?

They’ve had the body since yesterday morning. That’s all I can say.

Did they take her to Lecce?

No, they didn’t; they took her to Bari, to the Institute of Legal Medicine.

Ah, to Dr. Frisco, very good. Where is he?

Who, this Frisco? I do not know. I don’t even know who he is.

No; not him - the husband, Bernini.

Ah - well, he’s at home - actually no, he isn’t; he’s in one of the apartments they rent out in that building. The guests have all gone.

Strange. Not one morbid busybody that wants to remain at the crime scene?

It was Mrs. Bernini who cooked and prepared breakfast, so...

I was kidding, Maresciallo. If they hadn’t left on their own accord you would have sent them off, wouldn’t you?

Of course, Commissario.

Exactly. So, this is what we’ll do; I want Bernini here today after lunch.

Okay, I’ll send him a summons.

No, nothing formal, but I need to talk to him as soon as possible.

Ok, I'll simply ask him if he can drop in, then.

Yes… Maybe… Look, Maresciallo, there isn’t a police station in Morciano, is there?

No, there isn’t Commissario. Why are you asking?

Because I wouldn’t mind having my investigating office nearer to where it all happened. Old street cop habits.

Well, there used to be an old Carabinieri station there. It’s not manned anymore, although we still store old stuff there and the telephone line is still connected. We can easily tidy the place up a bit.

I would need two or three desks, each with a telephone and a computer, is that possible?

I think so. Is someone else coming from Lecce?

Well, I will need someone to give me a hand, yes. But I don’t think it’s necessary to get someone to come from Lecce, as long as you’re available.

Renna's eyes widened in surprise.

Me? Is that allowed?

Let's make a phone call to the top and ask. If you don’t mind working with a police Commissario, that is.

Me? No, of course not.

Fine, then. Oh, one more thing; I'm not going to go back and forth from Lecce, at least in these early days. Can you help me find a place to sleep?

You could sleep at Bernini’s B&B.

What? Are you pulling my leg?

No, sorry. This time it’s me who’s kidding, Commissario.

Gelsomino looked at him sternly.

Maresciallo... Go and talk to Bernini. Meanwhile, I’ll make a phone call.

Gelsomino waited for Renna to go out into the hallway, then from his cell phone he dialed his wife's number. He had been married for twenty-five years and telling her that he would be staying away from home for a few days would not be a problem.

Hey. Yes, I’ve arrived. I haven’t yet seen anyone except the Maresciallo who’s going to give me a hand. But yeah, he seems fine. Perhaps a little simple-minded, but ok. You know, I don’t mind folks here in the countryside. I mock them a bit but deep down I envy them. And you? Ah ok. All right. Yes, in fact that's why I called you. At least these first few nights, until I’ve formed an idea of the people and how things went. You think you can sleep without me? Funny... Try to, if you can.

Someone knocked at the door.

Someone’s at the door, I’ll have to ring off… yes, me too. Have a nice day.

It was Colazzo, the other officer.

Commissario, would you like a coffee? Do you need anything?

I'm fine, thank you. Actually - no. Come here a moment, please. Renna made me listen to a recording of Bernini’s phone call. It was here, somewhere on the screen but now I don’t know where to get it...

The screensaver has started running, so now you need the password… There it is. Done. If it happens again, you need to type ‘Bari shit’.²

Of course. I could have guessed that myself.

Renna returned half an hour later. He crossed paths with Colazzo in the hallway.

Is the Commissario still there?

Yes; he’s in the office.

What do you think?

Colazzo lifted his chin in resignation and Renna passed on. Before entering the room where Gelsomino was, he hoped that the coffee had helped to make him less irascible.

I’ve booked a room at the hotel in the main street. There’s a place across the street that does food. Would that suit you?

Perfect.

I’ve also seen Bernini. He’s coming here at four.

And what do we do until then?

Don’t you want to rest a bit after lunch?

Maresciallo, the sooner we finish here the sooner I will rest again in my bed. Now - I have been listening again to the recording of the phone call, here on your computer. There's this thing he says at the beginning... listen to this.

Fire station. Hello? How can we help?

It's happened again...

Hello? Can you hear me?

Yes, I can hear you.

What has happened again?

Then he doesn’t answer. Any idea what he meant?

Do you mean when he says that it’s happened again? No, I have no idea, however, on a website I read that he was a widower, maybe that’s it.

On a website?

When they told me that a Commissario was arriving from Lecce I didn’t feel it was right for me to question him so I googled him.

I see. Find out some further information from sources that we can verify, please. Meanwhile I’m going to the B&B to have a look at the room where the victim was found. I’ll find Bernini there, won’t I?

"No - actually you won’t; when I said he had moved to another apartment there in the Capperi I was wrong. At the entrance there’s a sign saying that you could find him at the Hotel Lido Venere or down on the sea at the Posto Vecchio. So I called him and he told me he didn’t feel like staying at the B&B. He also said that today he was going to bring a list of clothes and things he would need to take from his home, as soon as possible."

Well, I’m going. Ah, we’ll also need to talk to forensics and I particularly need their report. Talk to them to see when they think they can send something.

He stood up, picked up the Capperi keys and went out.

Renna wondered if it had been a good idea of the Commissario’s to have entrusted him with helping him in the case.

In a street behind the Castle of Morciano, a beautiful private building inhabited by a sort of hermit who concedes to having visits only once a year, stood the B&B Capperi, easily identifiable by a small wooden sign. The Commissario looked at that name with the two exclamation points at the end, and hinted a smile. The front of the B&B, renovated to expose the original tuff, contrasted a bit with the rundown surrounding buildings.

As soon he crossed the doorstep, Gelsomino was pleasantly impressed by the clean lines and the charm of the vaulted ceilings beneath which a reception area had been renovated. He went on, leaving to his right an old wooden table which he assumed had probably once been used for gambling, and to his left a white brick sofa with beige cushions. On both pieces of furniture and on the floor the dust that had settled over the past two days was already noticeable. He took a few more steps towards the center of the room. On the right wall, behind the reception desk, a frame containing a white sheet of paper of Valentina Medici’s professional qualification stood out from the yellow tuff background. The touch of a woman architect was evident throughout the whole room.

At the end, a corridor led to a small courtyard. Thanks to the map of the building that he had found in the dossier and to the names Intra and Fore visible above the beams, Gelsomino identified the two doors overlooking the courtyard as the entrances to a room and to one of the rented apartments. A gate protected the stairs that lead to the basement cellar. To access Bernini’s apartment, it was necessary to make a few more steps into the courtyard and up a flight of stairs. On the balcony of the first floor there were two entrances: the apartment flats of Addai and the Acquai, which was the one that had been inhabited by the Bernini spouses.

Gelsomino gazed at the name on the door and smiled again. Like the others, it was painted by hand on a terracotta tile pasted onto the lintel. They were all terms of southern Salento: ‘Inside’ - ‘Outside’ - ‘That Way’ - ‘This Way,’ The other two rooms, according to the plan, were called Susu and Sutta: ‘Over’ and ‘Under’. The idea pleased him very much. It made him think of the serenity that must have reigned in that place until a few hours before.

Okay, he whispered to himself. Acquai. This way.

He put on the overshoes and the latex gloves that he had kept in his pocket and went on in. He stopped a step inside the door, switching the light on. From the folder he was carrying, he drew out the pictures taken by forensics and the report containing the first visual observations made upon arrival at the crime scene.

On the floor, clearly visible footprints walked from the stairway that lead to the upper floor, which was positioned along the right wall. The tracks came up exactly next to him, at the intercom. From there they headed to the nearby couch which, like the intercom, had signs of blood in the shape of palms of hands and fingers.

He imagined the scene. Renna and Colazzo ring the bell. Bernini comes down from the bedroom, where his wife’s corpse is. Where he must have dirtied his hands and feet with her blood. He opens the B&B main door by pressing the button on the intercom and sits on the couch. Renna then would make him remove his shoes to put them in an evidence bag to be examined. This