“Beatrice has done her typically solid job,” Spiro said.

“Yes. She’s good.”

The prosecutor seemed to sway slightly as he stared at the writing. “What is that word?”

“Bacteria, sir.”

“I can hardly make it out. Write more carefully.” Then he scanned the photographs. Spiro mused, “So we have this American psycho who has come here on vacation to prey outside his usual hunting grounds. What patterns can we see?”

“Patterns?” Ercole said, smiling. He mopped a bit more water and rose.

The lean man, with the most intense black eyes that Ercole had ever seen, turned slowly. “I’m sorry?” Though Spiro was shorter, Ercole felt he was looking up into the prosecutor’s eyes.

“Well, sir, I am not sure about that.”

“‘Not sure, not sure.’ Tell me what you mean.” His voice boomed. “I’m quite curious. You’re not sure about something? What might you not be sure about?”

Ercole was no longer smiling. Blushing, he swallowed. “Well, sir, with respect, how can there be any patterns? He’s picking his victims at random.”

“Explain.”

“Well, it’s obvious. He finds a victim in New York City, a businessman apparently, according to the Europol report. Then he flees to Italy and selects, it seems, a foreigner of limited means at a rural bus stop.” He gave a laugh. “I see no pattern there.”

“‘See no pattern, see no pattern.’” Spiro tasted the words as if trying a suspect wine. He paced slowly, studying the chart.

Ercole gulped once more and looked to Rossi, who tossed an amused glance toward both men.

“What do you do with the fact, Forestry Officer—”

“Benelli.”

“—that the kidnapper’s car was parked by the desolate roadside and the kidnapper was waiting in the bushes? Does that not suggest design?”

“It’s not clear when the kidnapper arrived. It might have been before or after the victim did. I would suggest, at best, there’s a design to kidnap a victim, but not necessarily this victim. So, pattern? I’m not sure I see one.”

Spiro glanced at his watch, a large gold model. Ercole could not detect the brand. He said to Rossi, “I have a meeting upstairs, with another inspector. Let me know about any videos. Oh, and Forestry Officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your name is Ercole, right?”

“It is.”

At last, he recognizes me. And he is going to concede my observation about patterns. Ercole felt victorious.

“From mythology.”

His name was the Italian version of “Hercules,” the Roman god.

“My father enjoyed ancient lore and—”

“You are familiar with the twelve labors that Hercules was required to complete?”

“Yes, yes!” Ercole laughed. “As an act of penance, in the service of King Eurystheus.”

“You’re falling behind in yours.”

“My…”

“Your labors.”

Silence.

Looking away from the man’s fierce eyes, Ercole said, “I’m sorry, sir?”

Spiro pointed. “You missed some water there. You wouldn’t want it to seep under the tile, now, would you? The gods would not be pleased.”

Ercole glanced down. Tight-lipped for a moment, and furious that he could not control the reddening of his face. “I will get right to it, sir.”