She answered in Italian, clearly in the affirmative.

Sachs added, “Tell them, reassure them that we don’t suspect them. The killer is an American, a psychotic killer.”

“This Composer I’ve read about.”

“Yes.”

Rania was looking through the fence at the wall of refugees. She said thoughtfully, “And Malek is the second immigrant he’s killed.”

“We saved the first one,” Ercole pointed out. “But, yes, Malek is the second refugee victim.”

“And it’s clear why, of course,” the camp director spat out.

Rossi and Sachs turned to her.

“The Burial Hour.”

Sachs didn’t know what this referred to and said as much, though Rossi was nodding in understanding.

Rania explained, “The title of a speech that a politician in Rome gave at some public forum. It has been widely reprinted. ‘The Burial Hour’ refers to the asylum-seeker problem. Many of the citizens in Italy, Greece, Turkey, Spain, France, feel that they are endangered—they are being buried by the hordes and hordes of migrants pouring into their countries. Like a landslide, crushing them.

“Accordingly, the citizens of the destination countries, like Italy, they are increasingly hostile to the poor souls.” Now she was speaking to Rossi. “There are some who believe that the police, for instance, do not investigate crimes against the immigrants as energetically as they would crimes against citizens or tourists. This Composer may be psychotic but he is also clever. He knows about these attitudes of many people here—many officials—and he believes you won’t work so hard to stop him. So he hunts refugees.”

Rossi said slowly, “Yes, I have heard people say that. But you would be wrong in suggesting we don’t care about the victims. I assure you we will investigate this crime just as carefully as we did the first one. Just as carefully as if the victim were a priest or the prime minister.” He then could not help but smile, it seemed. “Perhaps more diligently than if he were a prime minister.”

Rania clearly did not see the humor. “I do not observe many officers here.” She looked around.

“This is Naples. We have street crime. We have Camorra. There are recent reports of terrorist cells planning operations throughout the EU, including Italy. We are too little butter spread on too much bread.”

She was unmoved by his words. Her eyes again dipped to the sheet, now quite bloody, and she said nothing more.

The Scientific Police van arrived. From it climbed the officer Sachs remembered from the scene where they rescued Ali Maziq from the aqueduct reservoir room.

We’re going to step the grid…

They got to work but after an hour of diligent searching, there seemed precious little to show. The footprints had been obliterated near the victim, though some were recovered near where the car had been parked, behind the line of trees. A few Libyan dinars and a Post-it were recovered from under the body. No phone or prepaid card or wallet. One witness came forward, an NGO worker from a charity based in London that helped in refugee camps around the Mediterranean. He had not seen the actual killing but he had glimpsed the Composer’s face as he paused over the body, after leaving the noose.