“The odds are in your favor, Alberto. You already know what we’ll be looking at, and I don’t. That means that if you say six seconds, you have much better odds than I do. Which means I need you to give me a handicap.”

“Like for instance?”

“I say it’s going to be seven seconds. If Italo can hold out for only six seconds or less, then you win. From six and one hundredth of a second to when he finally does faint, which might not happen until ten seconds out, I win.”

Alberto thought it over. “So I win if he passes out at the sixth second?”

“Or before.”

“You’ve got a bet!”

“Okay, but what are the stakes?” asked Rocco.

“Dinner. At the Enoteca Croix de Ville.”

“Appetizer, pasta, entrée, and dessert?”

“And an after-dinner amaro!”

Rocco shook the doctor’s hand. They walked over to Italo while the medical examiner pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He had no intention of calling anyone. He was looking for the stopwatch function, which he was going to start the instant that Pierron laid his eyes on what the doctor had described as something straight out of a splatter film.

“Let’s go!” said the deputy chief, and the three of them trooped into the room.

ITALO LOOKED DOWN AT THE LINOLEUM FLOOR. ATTENTIVELY, Rocco studied the officer’s face, which had already turned pale. In fact, as soon as he had entered the hallway infested by the metallic stench of disinfectant, he’d immediately started showing worrisome signs of heart palpitations. The deputy chief decided he’d been reckless in his betting tactics. Fumagalli opened the door to the morgue and, with a sadistic smile, said: “Be my guests . . .”

“Rocco, I . . .” Italo said under his breath.

“What is it?”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“My ass, you’d prefer not to, Italo. You’re a cop, learn how to do your job!”

They went in. Like a hovering, apprehensive mother, Rocco kept his eyes fixed on his favorite officer. He paid no attention to Alberto, who had in the meantime gone over to pull the plastic sheet off the corpse. The usual stench of rot mixed with alcohol that felt as if it would stick to their clothing forever. They went over to the autopsy gurney. Italo’s eyes widened. The deputy chief attentively observed his partner, while the alert doctor had already started the stopwatch.

One second: Italo Pierron’s pupils enlarged like oil spreading across water. Two seconds: his lips parted ever so slightly. Three seconds: his eyelids started to flutter hysterically. Four seconds: his forehead pearled over with drops of sweat. Five seconds: his eyelids started to lower. Six seconds: his eyeballs rolled upward. Almost seven seconds: Italo dropped to the floor.

“Fuck!” said Alberto as he hit the stopwatch. “Six seconds and fifty-five hundredths, goddamn it to hell!”