The Fifth Gospel(184)

            “Yes.”

            “How close were the two men standing during the questioning?”

            Falcone scowls. He finds the question unintelligible.

            “An arm’s length from each other?” the judge clarifies. “Across a table?”

            “An arm’s length.”

            “So Bracco had a good look at Father Andreou?”

            “Yes.”

            “You told us the killer disposed of the evidence against him. Since an exhaustive search hasn’t turned up those items, are you considering the possibility that they were removed from the crime scene?”

            “That is our operating theory at this point, yes.”

            “But how could Father Andreou have removed them with Bracco interviewing him only an arm’s length away?”

            Falcone’s expression sours. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubs the bottom of his nose. “Andreou would have concealed them.”

            The judge lifts a photo. “This was taken at Castel Gandolfo by one of your own men, correct?”

            “Yes.”

            “It shows Father Andreou on the night of Doctor Nogara’s murder. Do you see what he’s wearing?”

            “A cassock,” Falcone says.

            The judge nods. “Commander, are you familiar with what a priest wears under his cassock?”

            Falcone clears his throat. “Trousers.”

            “Correct. That’s why cassocks often have no pockets, just slits leading to the pants. Do you know why I mention this?”

            Falcone stares grimly ahead. “No.”

            “At the risk of sounding indecent,” the judge says, “it’s very uncomfortable to wear pants under a wool cassock in the summer. So some priests simply don’t.”

            The judge raises a second picture, showing Simon squatting near Ugo’s body. The bottom hem of his cassock has risen, showing inches of black calf socks underneath. He isn’t wearing pants under his cassock.

            “Commander,” the judge says, “do you see the concern I’m raising?”

            I feel a burst of relief. There’s no place for him to have hidden anything. When Simon collected his own phone and passport from his greca in the mud, this is why he carried them in his hands all the way home. He had nowhere else to put them.

            Falcone continues to stare at the judge. But this time, the judge refuses to bend. The gendarme chief will have to respond.

            “The concern is moot,” Falcone says finally.

            “Why?”

            Falcone signals one of the gendarmes at the door, who exits the courtroom and returns with a TV on a cart. “Because,” Falcone says, “of what was captured on surveillance.”

            Mignatto stands. “Objection. The defense hasn’t seen this evidence yet. It was submitted only an hour ago.”

            The presiding judge nods in agreement. “Sustained,” he says. “The tribunal will recess for—”

            But he freezes midsentence, staring at something behind me.

            I turn. In the first row of chairs, Archbishop Nowak has risen to his feet. In his slow, quiet voice he says, “Let this be shown.”