“He was taped down and the noose went over the beams. It was tied to that.” He pointed out a body-builder’s circular weight, sitting on the floor, in a large evidence bag. Another bag held the noose.

“Qual è il peso?” Ercole asked.

Rossi replied, “Ten kilos.”

About twenty-five pounds. Maziq was going to be strangled by a water bucket that would have weighed roughly the same, Sachs guessed.

Rossi clicked his tongue. “But what is so devious. Look there.”

On the ledge where a number card sat was a piece of meat.

Sachs understood.

Ercole asked, “Ratti?”

“Sì. Exactly. Il Compositore set the meat up as a block to prevent the weight from rolling, and then rats sensed it and began to eat. So the victim had time, perhaps much time, to contemplate his impending death.”

“Did anyone see the Composer arrive or leave?” Ercole asked.

“No. There is a pushcart outside. We think he covered the unconscious victim in blankets and wheeled him here from the square nearby. He would look like any other merchant. We are conducting a canvass but even though the Quartieri Spagnoli is a small area, there are so many people, so many businesses and shops that nobody would pay him any mind.” Rossi’s shrug translated into the hopelessness of the efforts.

Then he brightened. “But now, let us go upstairs. You might wish to meet the man whose life you saved. For his part, I know he wishes a word or two with you.”

Khaled Jabril sat in an ambulance. He appeared groggy and had a bandage on his neck but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

The medics spoke to Rossi and Ercole in Italian, and Ercole paraphrased to Sachs. “Mostly he is disoriented. From the chloroform or other drugs used to keep him submissive.”

Khaled gazed at Sachs. “You are the one who saved me?” His Libyan accent was pronounced but she understood him.

“And Officer Benelli here,” Sachs said. “Your English is good.”

“I have some, yes,” the man said. “I studied in Tripoli. University. My Italian is not good. I believe I was told my wife is all right. They told me she was struck by the man who did this. I have no memory of that.”

“She’s fine. I’ve spoken to her since the attack.”

“And my daughter? Muna?”

“She’s good. They’re together.”

The medic spoke to Ercole and he translated. “They will meet you at the hospital. A car is bringing them from the camp.”

“Thank you.” Then Khaled was crying. “I would have died if not for you. May God bless you forever, praise be to Him. You are the most brilliant police ever on earth!”

Sachs and Ercole shared a brief glance. She didn’t tell Khaled that the deduction as to his location was not so profound. The paper she had stumbled upon on the Composer’s desk in the farmhouse near the fertilizer farm was a list of names of his victims—Maziq, Dadi and Khaled Jabril—and the places where they were to be stashed for the video. Sachs didn’t quite believe it could be so obvious.