“The black man, Antonio, ‘negro’ is offensive,” Rocco corrected him.

“Right you are. The black man. Anyway, he swells up his face like a rubber dinghy.”

“Wow, that’s a right hook. The African can throw a punch, eh?”

“Right. Then . . .”

“And then,” said Italo, taking over, “we have another North African coming to the rescue, this guy here, you see? I think his name is Aziz, and he takes quite a beating from Erik.”

“Erik delivers quite a punch, too, eh?”

“And now here are the convicts hurrying to put down the brawl. And then the guards come in and settle things quickly.”

They went on watching the footage.

“Who’s this third guy attacking the Tunisian?”

“That’s a guy they call the Professor. He’s the mastermind behind the group,” Italo replied.

“There, now we’re on it!” Antonio pointed to the right-hand side of the television set. “You see the people starting to assemble? Back here is the body of Mimmo Cuntrera.”

“And why can’t we see him?”

“Because that’s a blind area.”

Rocco touched his chin. His two days’ growth of beard sizzled at the contact like hot oil in a frying pan. “What about the other video cameras?”

“None of the six video cameras was taping this corner of the courtyard.”

“So, wait: You’re telling me we don’t have any footage of the man falling to the ground?” Rocco asked.

“No.”

The deputy chief stood up.

“It would have been too easy, right?”

The two officers exchanged a glance as if it was somehow their fault.

“So we already know one thing. Whoever killed the guy knows the prison like the back of their hand, as well as the video camera surveillance system. Which means it’s someone who’s been in there for a good long time already.”

SERGIO MOZZICARELLI RETURNED TO HIS WING. HE WAVED hello to the sentinel standing guard. He didn’t feel like staying out in the courtyard. Not after what had happened. Not after what he had seen. He leaned his back against the hallway wall and started considering his fellow prisoners in that wing.

Who could he tell about this?