The rip Read online

  The rip

  Andy Ben

  Translated by Yara Maria Bravo

  “The rip”

  Written By Andy Ben

  Copyright © 2017 Andy Ben

  All rights reserved

  Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

  www.babelcube.com

  Translated by Yara Maria Bravo

  Cover Design © 2017 Andy Ben

  “Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The rip

  The rip

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  AKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Andy Ben

  The rip

  The literary rights are the exclusive property of the author.

  Any reference to real events or real people is purely casual.

  June 2010 - February 2014

  To Ilaria

  Prologue

  The shapes of the buildings, mostly residential apartment blocks, stand out against the small shiny frame. The blocks take off to the sky, starting from a base of colorful shops whose bright signs light up the avenue, while the day heads frantically for its conclusion.

  In the short timespan that Milanese citizens devote to dinner, Buenos Aires Avenue empties, getting ready to greet the nightlife people that pass here to reach the pubs and nightclubs of Como Street.

  In a nearly silent and somewhat surreal context, a woman, dressed in a dark suit, advances resolved, occupying an ever-increasing space in the rectangle surrounding the sidewalk.

  The buzz of the crowd that could be heard until a minute before, the clash of the lowering shutters, the clinking of locks and latches getting closed is now just a far away memory.

  Sitting astride my parked Enduro motorcycle, with a nearby municipal green clock marking 7:40 pm, I continue to observe the woman. She holds a big purse on her left, not big enough to completely hide a packet of documents wrapped in a mid blue paper.

  The woman, with her usual countenance, has almost reached my position.

  I turn back to observe once again that the motorcycle plate is raised horizontally so that it cannot be detected.

  The woman reaches me and takes the alley.

  I lower the visor of my helmet; pull out the starter pedal and with a quick movement I switch on the engine.

  The roar of the two hundred and fifty cubic centimeters’ engine breaks the quiet all around. I shift my torso a bit forward so to lower the bike from its kickstand.

  I watch the alley to my right; the woman has already walked a dozen meters. The shoulder bag from which the documents come out is well in sight. That’s my goal: a simple favor to repay the aid received in a past, never too far away, when I was a junckie.

  Now the distance is the right one.

  I point my prey to settle all dues still hanging on my head and be able to look at my life with hope, sure I will not repeat the mistakes I am paying a heavy price for, including this one.

  I fully open the throttle lever.

  It all happens in a second.

  I reach the woman with my hand stretched out towards her bag: she does not notice me.

  I hook up the bag and feel a slight tear.

  A scream.

  A sharp thud.

  I brake and turn around.

  The woman’s body is lying on the ground a few meters behind me.

  I look down at my hand; it is holding the bag’s strap tightly, I achieved my goal.

  I wish I could stop, help her, but there is no time for that, I cannot be discovered: the woman knows me since I was a little boy, too many questions would need an answer I cannot provide.

  I must finish the task that has been assigned to me. I cannot stop and think.

  Fear seizes me.

  The body is still on the ground, not moving, she is not getting up.

  Oh my god, what have I done!

  Oh my god.

  For a moment which feels endless, I keep staring at her, my mother’s best friend, lying on the sidewalk with her head dangling down towards the road, a dark spot forming underneath it.

  Fear becomes terror.

  Adrenalin rises and shoots to my brain.

  I cannot think clearly any longer.

  I turn towards the road, open the throttle lever and flee, leaving her to her own destiny and irreparably changing mine.

  1

  Another heavy day at work is coming to an end; I cannot wait to get home, take a shower and prepare a succulent dinner that I will eat sitting in front of the TV, all by myself.

  Unfortunately, the multitude of rush-hour drivers seems to have plans very similar to mines. I spent thirty minutes in a long queue to go from the San Giovanni roundabout to the Cologno Monzese entry on the East Freeway. It is the only road I can use, since Fulvio Testi Avenue has been closed down for the construction works on the fifth line of the underground system, to go from my office in Sarca Boulevard to my villa in the outskirts of Cernusco sul Naviglio.

  It’s about fifteen kilometers, and in the summertime when schools are closed and there are definitely less cars around, it takes me about twenty minutes to get home.

  Today it seems to be the exception that confirms the rule, maybe because for once weather forecast were accurate, maybe due to the hundredth strike of the public transportation workers: as always when it rains traffic in Milan and its surroundings goes haywire. I am prepared to spend at least an hour in my car.

  The music that comes from the stereo keeps me cheerful company. This compact car, well below what I could afford, is the only element that clashes with the elegance I like to surround myself with. After all, I never cared for cars, being more interested in motorbikes; so, when I had to buy one, I chose comfort over luxury.

  I cannot stand those managers that drive a SUV or a fifty thousand euros sedan, feeling the owners of the road and then cry for every little scratch on the body because the insurance does not cover them, and above all because they can no longer show off the perfection of the jewel they drive. I always imagine them as people who look for sexual self-assurance in a fast car that can go from zero to one hundred kilometers per hour in five seconds, thinking that is enough time to satisfy a woman.

  I am a different kind of man.

  Despite my young age, I am a manager, or rather I’m in charge of quality in a well known pharmaceutical and parapharmaceutical company which compensates my work with a five-zeros yearly pay, plus benefits.

  I don’t want to seem too arrogant, you need a good dose of luck to get a job like that, but you must also deserve it. And I think I fully deserve it: after a degree in Economics and Business at Bocconi University, I started from the bottom as production assistant and when an opportunity came I was quick to grasp it, so in a three-year time I got to my current position, with all its pros and cons.

  Suddenly, the car stereo interrupts my thoughts.

  Music has stopped playing and it has been replaced by the friendly as usual voice of Federico Menti – called “Chicco” by his friends and “machine gun” by comedians – relating the news in the hourly radio news bulletin.

  It is the usual whirlwind of political events mixed with simple economics so common nowadays: national financial budget, collusion plotting and corruption, the government which may be forced to step down but
maybe not, the European Union that is keeping a close eye on us, stock exchange brokers who do not trust us, the raising spread between Italian BTP and German Bund, but after all Spain and Greece are worse off than we are.

  “machine gun”, with his usual silver tongue, from which his nickname comes from, rattles off in just a few minutes all that he will say calmly on the half hour television evening news.

  What makes me laugh of the newscast are the previews: five minutes before 8 PM, the preview starts and it should be a summary with a brief comment; when “machine gun” is on they become concentrated news, so much so that you could avoid viewing the rest of the news altogether.

  Music starts playing again and I go back to my thoughts.

  Now my head is full of the darker ones.

  I had asked the HR department for a personal assistant to type my documents, answer the phone and keep my agenda; there is nothing more frustrating than being interrupted by a phone call when you’re concentrating on a task, so I need a filter to stop nuisances.

  After a month of selection procedures, quite hard I suppose, the HR manager gave me three resumes each one with a photo of the candidate.

  Among them, Ms. Marchetti caught my attention: twenty-eight years old, a degree in foreign languages and with a professional and personal background much better than many of my colleagues at executive level. So much so that I immediately asked myself why she would accept this kind of job, underpaid and with no interest whatsoever for such a well prepared and experienced candidate. Nonetheless, when I personally met her for the final interview, I got an excellent impression and I voted for hiring her. I got my answers just a few months later when events started falling down and, despite my will, I started reacting in a way I would have never suspected.

  Ms. Marchetti now rests comfortably below two meters of earth in the main Musocco cemetery

  2

  The ceaseless rain, which keeps falling on the streets of Milan since yesterday, is coming with us in this grey November day to the on-the-spot inspection of the crime scene. While the police car speeds along the long tree-lined avenue which runs along Ravizza Park, I stare entranced at the electric blue lights flashing in the puddles that the car finds along its way and that spurt dark tears when a tire runs over it. It is early morning and the street lamps are still on, yet, despite the time of day and the harsh weather, some sports enthusiast keeps on jogging to stay fit. I believe it was one of them who called 911 about twenty minutes ago, then the policeman who answered the call, having checked that on the other side of the phone there was not some usual mythomaniac, opened a file and sent the papers to the State Police office having jurisdiction on the case: mine.

  I am on duty since yesterday evening and my shift is coming to an end; it is one of those very boring night shifts during which, usually, cops must take care of some family fight, or some hoodlums causing public nuisance; it is one of those shifts that I need to work my way up the ranks and finally deserve to become Chief Inspector: the youngest Chief Inspector in the history of the State Police; one of those shifts which normally do not involve my department, my office, my squad.

  The sharp braking of the police car shakes me from my thoughts and lifts up in the air a cloud of water droplets so thick it looks like fog.

  «Madam Inspector Montorsi, we have arrived.»

  «Inspector Montorsi, inspector! The rank has no gender even though I am a woman.»

  «I am sorry, inspector. But I have placed a bet that in a few months you will not notice anymore.»

  «Wasted money, it will never happen... as usual, news travel fast: what are the crime news reporters doing here?»

  «Someone must have warned them. Should I have them removed?»

  «No, it would be useless. Did superintendent Brezzi arrive yet?»

  «Yes, Ma’am. I think he is waiting for you in the fenced area»

  «Good. I think your shift is over, am I wrong?»

  «You are never wrong. It ended half an hour ago.»

  «Then, leave me here and go home to your family... I have a hunch we will be here for a long while.»

  «All right, Ma’am... and thank you.»

  The classic white and red striped tape fences the crime scene. Three officers keep at bay the only bystander who, called by someone, hurried here at this time of day to steal some pictures and publish the usual wretched article on the pages of the most famous Milan’s newspaper.

  Mario Brezzi walks towards me, while I spot within the fenced area the coroner who stepped down from an ambulance that got here a few moments after us.

  The soil is soaked wet and slippery due to the rain that fell unceasingly all through the night. Here and there, puddles similar to little lakes cover the ground, mud and morass dominate the scene, staining of dark brown the faded green of the grass.

  «Mario, what happened then?»

  Brezzi, gentle and quite as usual, never forgets to greet his interlocutors.

  «Good morning, madam inspector»

  «This business of the madam inspector is becoming a paltry never-ending story!»

  «Giulia, you know we are just kidding around...»

  «Did you place a bet too?»

  «Yes... and I know you will never give up»

  I smile at him.

  Brezzi has been a superintended for quite some time now. He is married and has two children, he looks and behaves in a way that puts him at least ten years below his real age, which is by now reaching fifty. He is about 1,70 meters tall, with brown eyes. He is a man I would define as pleasant and attractive.

  «Getting back to business... it’s a girl... in her early thirties, no more. We found her personal effects and, as soon we get back to the station, we will look into it. At first sight, it seems a theft turned bad: the victim has her purse and we found 170 euros in the wallet, but no credit cards or store cards or anything else that can help us deter...»

  I interrupt him «Identity?»

  «I was getting to that... unknown at the moment. We did not find any documents in her purse and nothing in her wallet that can help us determine her identity. The body was not touched waiting for the coroner, we will check later if she has documents on her.»

  «How did she die?»

  «I think it’s best if the doctor tells us that. But, at first sight, I think there can be little doubt.»

  While talking we have reached the crime scene, just a few steps away from the road where the police car left me and where the ambulance with the lights on is parked.

  Blue lights flash on top of the body lying on the mud, dressed in a suit that before the rain should have been of a color close to beige.

  She certainly is a nice-looking woman, blond and young looking, although the makeup ruined by the water and the grimace on her face have transformed her in a dreadful figure.

  Mascara is running from her eyes along her cheeks, making her resemble a sad Pierrot, whose tears drop down towards the mouth; the blurred lipstick paints a mocking Joker mask, but the most shocking part of this snapshot is the pool of blood, now diluted with water, over which the woman is lying and that flows from a gash that starts under her left ear and ends on her throat.

  That figure, at the same time young and grotesque, has hypnotized me. The coroner starts talking to me, waking me from my torpidity.

  «Ms. Montorsi, I will need further examinations to determine the time of death: rain and cold weather have certainly altered body temperature. My assistants are already working on it, although with this weather I doubt they shall find anything but water and mud.»

  «Cause of death? Are there any signs of a struggle... well, something we could start investigating on?»

  «Regarding that too, I will can more precise only after the autopsy. Yet, I believe the trauma in her throat is the main suspect: we must only determine if she chocked or bled to dead. If you are into gruesome details, I can assure you it was a long and painful death. At the moment I cannot say anything else for sure.»

&nbs
p; «Thank you anyway, please do all you can and be quick.»

  I walk a few steps away from the crime scene and Mario catches up with me.

  «Do you think they will assign you the case?»

  «I don’t know, Mario. But I am the higher ranking officer on duty... I will talk to Chief Rossi and with the Public Prosecutor. Where’s the witness who made the call?»

  «The two officers that were first on sight brought him to the station for the usual questioning.»

  «First and foremost, he must explain me what is Carlo Scala doing here... by the way, when he is done taking pictures take him also to the station, maybe his camera has picked up something we missed.»

  «All right, Giulia. I stay here and tidy things up.»

  Morning light starts to increase and become sufficiently intense for the street lamps to turn off.

  One by one, along the pathway that crosses the park, artificial lights turn off in sequence, leaving the landscape and the blond woman plunged in the dim light of dawn.

  I get a few meters away from the scene, along the boulevard to observe the situation from a different angle.

  The dead body is under a maple tree that grows on the border of the pathway, and it can be noted only if coming from the side I am on, but it was well lit by the street lamp on the other side of the passage, that was on until a few moments ago.

  From this distance, there can be no doubts it is a female body lying under the tree.

  I beckon an officer to come near me, so that he can take notes and pictures from were I am standing. In the meanwhile, I look with a smile when another officer puts Carlo Scala under arrest, while he keeps screaming something regarding freedom of the press.

  Scala tries resisting a little, but in the end, he gives up and gets on the police car that will take him to the station.

  The officer arrives, puts himself at my orders and I explain him what I need him to do.

  The daylight gets more and more intense and it starts raining again. I stand there a few more minutes looking at the scene, until a second ambulance reaches the scene with the stretcher-bearers that must take the woman’s dead body to the morgue.