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“I found almost none at all,” the doctor said. “That is why I suspect it.”
“Doctor,” Koelliker said warningly.
“I am quite serious,” the doctor said. “Potassium largely dissipates in a few hours, leaving no trace, except possibly—possibly—a slightly elevated level in the blood. Ideal for murder, really. I’m astonished it isn’t used more often.” He smiled. “Of course, perhaps it is! Who would know?”
Captain Koelliker was suddenly tired. Very, very tired. “So your proof is that there is no real proof,” he said.
“Yes, exactly,” the doctor said. “But look at it as a problem in logic. First, we suspect foul play. Second, we find this small puncture wound. So perhaps there was foul play.” He tapped the tiny spot again with his gloved finger. “But third, we find no trace of anything in the blood that shouldn’t be there. If our suspicion is correct, what does this mean?”
“Tell me,” Koelliker said, fighting his impatience.
The doctor raised a hand and waved it, and spoke in a lower, confiding tone. “Very briefly, I considered that perhaps he was using heroin. But there is no trace, not of any narcotic—and to think of this large man, contorting to inject himself here— No, Capitano, I think not.” He spread his arms. “Logically, we must conclude that someone else caused the wound, that something in the wound caused death, and that, because there is no trace, that something is most likely potassium. You see?”
Koelliker nodded. He saw. He just wasn’t sure what to do about what he was seeing. “But you are convinced that this injection was the cause of death?”
The doctor shrugged. “In a court of law, I would be a fool to say so. But only for your ears, Capitano—just for your ears—I believe the death was caused by an injection of potassium.”
Koelliker looked at the doctor for a long moment. The doctor began to look uncomfortable, and the captain realized he was letting his fatigue and irritation get the best of him. He straightened,
looked at the body one last time. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. He turned from the table and its contents and quickly left the room.
34
Three days into the restoration of the fresco, the project seemed to be going well, at least as far as Father Matteo could tell. While it was true that Campinelli had asked that he be left alone as much as possible—the Stanza di Eliodoro was temporarily blocked off from public view—Father Matteo had hoped that the blockade would not include him. Not merely because, as curator, he felt he had a duty to inspect now and then but additionally because he was fascinated by this strange new technique and longed to see it in operation.
But Signor Campinelli had very respectfully requested that Father Matteo, too, keep his distance. “The fumes,” Campinelli told Father Matteo. “From the chemicals we must use, the special steam solution—they can be toxic.”
In order to keep these fumes from spreading through the museo—and even upstairs to the Holy Father’s apartments—and possibly causing harm, Campinelli and his assistant had constructed a heavy plastic curtain around their work area. Additionally, they put a large fan in the window to suck out the fumes. It screened their work, and it was very noisy, but it was effective. And so, somewhat frustratingly, the work of restoration was hidden from Father Matteo and anyone else who happened to pass by. It was possible to see only the very top of the scaffolding that had been constructed—necessary, since the fresco was over the top of the arch that held the window, high above the floor.
Father Matteo accepted with good grace and stayed away, for the most part. But he could not help pausing by the doorway and sticking his head inside for a peek, no more than three or four times a day. And if Campinelli was not completely engrossed in his work, he would often come and chat with Father Matteo for a few minutes. The strange and sullen German woman stayed with the work, avoiding Father Matteo as if afraid she might catch some disease from exposure to a Jesuit.
Other than that, the restoration appeared to be going smoothly. Campinelli and Katrina worked long hours, made no disturbance, and said or did nothing that might hint that there were any problems with the work. They kept to themselves, showing up early each morning and working until well after dark, and neither Campinelli nor the woman was ever seen anywhere else in Vatican City, except right there at work in the Stanza di Eliodoro.
Father Matteo was quite surprised therefore, when, on the afternoon of the third day, Captain Koelliker came to see him and inquired what he might have noticed about Signor Campinelli. “Noticed, Capitano? What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean, has he betrayed any signs, however small, that seemed out of place?”
Astonished, Father Matteo simply blinked for a moment. “I—I cannot imagine what you might mean,” he said at last. “What kind of thing would I have noticed?”
“Anything unusual,” Koelliker said with absolutely no expression on his face. “Anything that seems inconsistent or unusual. Anything at all.”
Father Matteo shook his head, still baffled.
Koelliker sighed. He did not want to give away any hint of what he was looking for, certainly not to someone as innocent and unworldly as Father Matteo. So he merely made his words more precise and said, “Perhaps some hint that Signor Campinelli might not be what he claims to be.”
Father Matteo was dumbfounded. “He—Signor Campinelli? You ask if he, he might be . . . what. Something else?”
“I do ask.”
“But that’s—I have never even . . . He seems to be extremely clever, very competent, and a rather nice person as well.”
Koelliker just looked at him, clearly expecting something more substantial.
Father Matteo spread his hands in bewilderment. “But that’s it, that’s all of it, Capitano,” he said. “What else might there be? Because—exactly what are you suggesting? That Signor Campinelli might be . . . what?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing at all, Father,” Koelliker said. “I have reason to suspect that we may have a small problem. It seems possible that Signor Campinelli might be involved.”
“But why, Capitano? Merely because he is new here?”
