Schiavone picked up a metal pitcher, poured a black liquid into a plastic cup, and the aroma of coffee wafted into his nostrils. It was black, piping hot, and, not least, excellent. He left the kitchen and followed the signs to the showers.

“Excuse me . . . the locker room?” he asked a guard.

“Ah, certainly . . . that way.”

He went down the stairs and opened a double door that led into an enormous room lined with dozens of metal lockers. Two guards were undressing; another one was already in the shower murdering a song by Lucio Dalla. Rocco thought he recognized Mauro Marini’s voice. He looked at two other guards who were stripping off their uniforms. “No, let’s face it, the Sanremo Music Festival isn’t in his future,” said the younger guard.

“Wait, is that Marini?” Rocco asked.

“Yup,” commented the other man, disconsolately.

“Marini, you sound like a walrus in heat!”

The other man stuck his head out of the shower. “Ah, Dottore, it’s you! My shift is over, I’m going home.”

“That doesn’t authorize you to massacre our eardrums!” shouted one of the younger guards.

“Can I take a shower, too?” asked Rocco.

“Be my guest. If you like, there’s shower foam and deodorant in my locker. It’s the first on your left.”

“Thanks!”

Marini’s locker had the usual deplorable calendar featuring a girl with big tits sitting on a motorcycle, but these days those photos were there more out of a sense of duty than any real desire. Change of clothes hanging up, a pair of clogs, talc shower foam.

Rocco pulled it out and started getting undressed. By this point, Marini had moved on to covers of Queen.

“After Queen, the next item in the repertory is Rigoletto.”

“We’re climbing the ladder, aren’t we?”

“No matter how high you go, you’ll still be able to hear Verdi turning over in his grave!”

As if he’d taken the suggestion, Marini went on to the work of the Swan of Busseto, specifically Rigoletto. “Cortigiani vil razza dannata, per qual prezzo vendeste il mio beneeee . . .”

The two young guards closed their lockers and left the locker room, hands over their ears. Rocco stepped into the shower.

After a hellish night, the shower felt like a pleasant massage. He ran the water over his hair, shoulders, face, and ears.

Marini shouted a series of guttural sounds.

“I don’t understand!” responded Rocco, doing his best to overcome the auditory blur of the rushing water.

“Toltt!”

Rocco turned off the faucet and stuck his face through the shower curtain. “Marini, I don’t understand!”

The man was drying his intimate parts with a rough violence that only made Rocco fear the worst. “Soon Tolotta will be here. He’s the one I wanted you to meet . . . my colleague from Wing 3 where we first found the corpse. I’ll turn you over to him.”