“Procuratore,” he began.

“Silenzio!”

They were interrupted by a voice that called urgently from behind the yellow tape. “Procuratore Spiro!”

He turned, noted that the man addressing him was a reporter, one of several at the police tape line. Since the crime had occurred outside the chain-link fence, the reporters could get closer to the action than if it had happened inside. “Niente domande!” He gestured with his hand abruptly.

As if he hadn’t spoken, the reporter, a young man in a dusty, rumpled suit coat and tight jeans, moved closer and lobbed questions to him.

At which Spiro stopped, completely still, and turned to the reporter. He asked something in Italian, apparently seeking clarification.

Ercole translated in a whisper. “The reporter is asking the prosecutor’s response to a rumor that he is being praised in Rome for his foresight in asking two renowned American forensic detectives to come to Italy to help solve the crime.”

Spiro replied, according to Ercole, that he was unaware of such rumors.

The young officer continued. It seemed that Spiro had put aside his ego and was considering what was best for the citizens of Italy, in protecting them from this psychotic killer. “Other, lesser, prosecutors would have been too territorial to bring such investigators here from overseas but not Spiro. He knew it was important to use Americans to get into the mind of a killer from their own country.”

Spiro answered several more questions.

Ercole said, “They ask was it true that he himself deduced that the killer would strike here and nearly made it in time to catch the Composer. He answers that yes, that is true.”

Spiro then made what seemed to be a brief statement, which the reporters scribbled down.

He strode to Amelia Sachs and, shocking her, put his arm around her shoulder and gazed at the cameras. “You will smile,” he whispered harshly to her.

She did.

Ercole stepped forward too but Spiro whispered a harsh, “Scappa!”

The young officer backed away.

When the reporter had turned, to jockey through the crowd for pictures of the body, Spiro regarded Sachs and said, “You have a temporary—and limited—reprieve. And your appearing at scenes? I would not object to that. Though you will not talk to the press.” He started away.

“Wait!” she snapped.

Spiro paused and turned, his face reflecting an expression that said he was not used to people addressing him in this tone.

Sachs said, “What you said? About disability? That was beneath you.”

Their eyes locked, and neither moved a muscle for long seconds. Then it seemed he might, only might, have given her a minuscule nod of concession, before continuing on to Massimo Rossi.

He nearly crashed the Mercedes.

So upset was Stefan, about the disaster at the camp, that his eyes had filled with tears and he’d nearly missed a turn as he fled into the hills above Capodichino.

He parked, climbed from the car and sagged to the cool earth. In his mind, he was picturing the blood pouring out of the man’s neck, making a shape like a bell in the sandy ground outside the camp. The man who would now never be the downbeat for his new composition.