Sachs mounted an earphone and hit a call button, then slipped the live cell back into her hip pocket, sitting just above her switchblade knife.

“Sachs. The scene?”

“Beyond contaminated. Must be fifty people surrounding the body.”

“Hell.”

She turned to Ercole. “We have to get those people away. Clear the scene. Clear the whole area.”

“Sì. I will do that. I will try. Look at all of them.”

He stepped away from her and spoke to some of the Police of State officers, who at first paid little attention to him. She heard him mention the names “Rossi” and then “Spiro.” And the men grew wary and attentive and began clearing the crowd in earnest. Some men and women, apparently soldiers with the army, assisted.

Sachs told Rhyme she’d call him back, she had to secure the scene, and disconnected.

“Find out who’s in charge.”

“Yes.”

Pulling on gloves and donning rubber bands—even though it was pointless, given the trampled ground—she crouched, then lifted the corner of the sheet. She studied the victim.

He was a young, dark-complexioned man, eyes half-open. He lay in a thick pool of blood. A half-dozen cuts were prominent in his neck. He was in stocking feet. She laid the sheet back.

Ercole had a conversation with several officers and he and one of them walked up to Sachs. He was, she recognized, with the Police of State.

Ercole said, “This is Officer Bubbico. He was the first on the scene when the workers called about the death.”

“Ask him who the victim is.”

Bubbico offered his hand and Sachs shook it. He said, “I speak English. I studied in America. Many years ago. But I can speak all right.”

But before he could say any more, a female voice sounded behind her. In Italian.

Sachs turned to see someone approaching quickly. A short woman with a pretty but severe face, a mass of thick auburn hair tied into a ponytail with a black ribbon. She was slim but seemed in fighting shape. She wore a dusty khaki blouse and a gray skirt, long, and had a lanyard around her neck, a clattering radio on her hip.

Her demeanor, more than the laminated credentials, spoke of authority.

The woman grimaced at the sight of the corpse.

Sachs asked, “You’re connected to the camp?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were still on the covered body. “I am Rania Tasso.” Sachs noted that her badge said Ministero dell’Interno. “The director.” Her English revealed a slight accent.

Sachs and Ercole introduced themselves.

“Orribile,” she muttered. “This is our first murder. We’ve had robbery and fights but no rapes, no murders. This is horrible.” The last word was solidly anglicized, with the “h” pronounced.

A moment later Massimo Rossi arrived and strode close, nodding to Ercole and Sachs. He identified himself to Rania and, after a few words in Italian, they both switched to English. The inspector asked the camp director and Bubbico what had occurred.

Rania said, “The guards are still looking for witnesses but one worker, a cook, saw the killer crouching over the body and setting the noose on the ground. Then he fled to those bushes and trees. He got into a dark car and sped away. I asked what kind of car, but the cook did not have any thought.”