The words thrill me. If the gendarmes’ version of events is in doubt, then we’re even closer to Simon’s freedom.
For almost a minute, Corvi says nothing. He keeps studying the pages before him. During that entire silence, Mignatto stares at the promoter of justice.
Finally Corvi pulls a sheet from the pile. “Ah,” he says. “Here it is. Yes, I was right. The weapon was a Beretta 950.”
From the bench comes a sound of disbelief.
“When did the gendarmes find it?” the lead judge asks.
Corvi looks up. “As far as I know, they didn’t. This isn’t an evidence inventory; it’s a firearm registration.” He lifts the paper in the air. “A Beretta 950 was the weapon Ugolino Nogara registered with the state.”
Mignatto turns to me breathlessly. “Nogara had a gun? ”
I falter. “Not that I know of.”
“Signore,” the old judge says hoarsely, “you’re telling us the man was shot with his own rifle?”
“Not a rifle,” Corvi says. “A handgun.”
“You mean a military pistol?”
Corvi shuffles his papers again and raises a manufacturer’s stock photograph. It shows a small black weapon in a man’s outstretched hand. The Beretta is shorter than the man’s palm and fingers combined.
“How is that possible?” the presiding judge asks.
Very few Italians own guns like these.
“Italian permits are overwhelmingly for hunting weapons,” Corvi says, lifting a second page. “Nogara’s permit was for a self-defense handgun. That’s another reason the identification is fairly sure.”
I think of the notation in Ugo’s medical file. Fears being followed, harmed. I jot a note on the legal pad in front of Mignatto: Can you ask when he applied for the permit?
Before Mignatto can respond, the lead judge reads my mind.
“The date on the application,” Corvi replies, “is July twenty-fifth.”
Michael was beaten up in the airport only one week earlier. Ugo must’ve decided to arm himself after finding the photo of Michael in his mailbox.
“So you’re suggesting,” the young judge says, “that someone took Nogara’s handgun, killed him with it, and then did what with the weapon?”
Corvi raises his hands in the air. “That’s for your police to establish. All I can tell you is the forensic analysis and the database results.”
Mignatto is moving sheets of paper across the defense table. When he finds the list of deponents, he scans the column of names again, as if to reassure himself that no gendarmes will be called today.
“You mentioned a second piece of evidence you were called to analyze,” the lead judge says, glancing down at his own notes. “What was it?”
Corvi nods. “Your police found a human hair in the deceased’s car. They sent it to us for identification.”
Mignatto begins to object. Simon was in Ugo’s car many times. The hair proves nothing. But for once, the judges ignore him. The car tugs at their imaginations. Ugo wouldn’t have carried a gun into a meeting of priests at Castel Gandolfo, so the car’s broken window looms larger.
“Where was the hair found?” the judge asks.
“By the driver’s seat.”