Battaglia rose to stand, joints aching. Too many days spent kneeling on the ground. Too many years of this work, perhaps. A little extra weight that should have been shed long ago.

“Hurry up with that evidence.”

The forensics team were crouched over the ground, silent white shadows trained to catch details that were invisible to others. They took photographs, collected evidence, and filed everything away. This was where the DNA chain of custody began. It would reach completion a few hours later in a lab at the Forensic Medicine Institute back in the city, sixty miles away.

The arrival of the police had attracted a handful of curious bystanders. A gaggle of tourists and locals lingered beneath the wooden sign that pointed the way to Travenì, the nearest settlement. It was only two and a half miles away. It was easy to tell the locals apart; they all had wild, ruddy complexions and none of that neat ski-slope tan. Their skin had been roughened by the extreme temperatures, and hewn raw by the wind.

“We found the clothes,” someone shouted from the forest.

Superintendent Battaglia’s first thought was that it looked like a scarecrow.

The figure jutting out through the brambles looked incongruous in the undergrowth. It was made of sticks and rope, a few leafy branches, and blood-soaked clothes.

The head had been formed by stuffing the victim’s undershirt with leaves and straw, and placing two crimson berries for eyes. His jacket and trousers hung limp over the wooden skeleton, and his watch had been fastened to a branch that served as a wrist. His shirt was stiff with dried blood. It was hard to tell what color it had been before.

An officer approached them.

“The trail ends at some rocks about a hundred meters north of here,” he reported.

The killer knew how to get around. He was a local and knew this place well.

Battaglia picked up the microphone once more, eyes roaming over the clearing where the translucent body lay gathering the snowflakes that had just begun to fall. Someone was covering the body up with a tarpaulin.

“The effigy is a representation of the killer. He stood here contemplating his work, and wanted us to know . . .”

A sudden noise interrupted this analysis. The superintendent turned to watch the scene, perplexed. A man was making his way through the clearing, past the police cars and toward the woods, his feet sinking into the marshy ground every few steps. His tailored blazer flapped in the wind, his shirt was stained with mud and sleet, and there was nothing to shield him from the bitter cold. He looked defiant, but also flushed with fatigue. Or perhaps it was discomfort and embarrassment.

When the superintendent realized who it might be, the only word for it was:

“Shit.”

-3-

-3-

Massimo was shin-deep in the bog.