ALESSANDRO MARTINELLI, AFTER A LONG CAREER IN LAW enforcement administration, had arrived at age fifty-four as the warden of the house of detention of Varallo, and he was sitting with both arms folded across his chest. In his office, as spartan as his attire, his only indulgence was the photographs of his three children, framed and enjoying pride of place on his desk. That aside, the room might as well have been a monk’s cell. “I don’t know,” he was saying as he shook his head. “I can’t say anything for sure . . . I’d prefer to have you talk to the doctor first . . .”

Sitting across from him was Judge Baldi in an elegant leather jacket, and Officer Italo Pierron stood next to the door.

“What’s the doctor’s name?” asked Baldi.

“He’s the health-services director. His name is Crocitti,” the warden replied.

THEY WALKED DOWN A DOZEN OR SO CORRIDORS, STRIDING past iron doors that opened and closed behind them in a symphony of screeches, squeals, and metallic thumps. The walls were painted the usual drab bureaucratic green. At last, they reached the courtyard. There were actually two courtyards, separated by a high masonry wall. “The roofed yard is for the prisoners in solitary confinement. This larger, open-air yard is for the other prisoners.” The warden was leading his visitors on a tour. Next to a small recess in the wall, not far from the entrance to Wing 3, were two prison guards and the prison doctor, Crocitti, bending over a white sheet from beneath which extended a pair of legs.

“A pleasure, I’m Baldi, from the Aosta prosecutor’s office.”

Crocitti stood up. Six feet and two inches of skinniness and gray hair, and a lifeless gaze behind his eyeglasses. “Crocitti’s the name . . .”

Baldi looked at the corpse without a flicker of emotion in his gaze. “What do we have here?”

“Myocardial infarction,” the doctor replied. “Fulminating heart attack killed him instantly. He must just have overexerted himself in the brawl.”

“Domenico Cuntrera didn’t die of a heart attack!” shouted Judge Baldi, so loudly that the doctor and both prison guards jumped in fright. Italo remained dutifully motionless while the prison warden gazed in embarrassment in the opposite direction. “I issued the warrant for this Cuntrera’s arrest. He’s a Mafioso who was running a loan-sharking operation, involved up to his elbows in the kidnapping of a young woman . . . Someone like that doesn’t die of a heart attack. I want an autopsy.”

“Yes, Dottore, and in fact an autopsy is automatic and mandatory. We’ll take him to Vercelli and—”

“You can go to Vercelli on your summer vacation! This body is coming back to Aosta!” the judge shouted again.

“But . . .” the prison warden tried objecting. “We report to the Vercelli court and—”

“Listen carefully, Martinelli. This man belongs to me. I’ll talk to the prosecuting magistrate in Vercelli. Italo! Alert Fumagalli. I want him to do the autopsy.”