Kruger Park

“Mafia murders—like the ones in Ravenna—gnaw at your soul,” said Bill Barry, the Roma Consulate, grimacing as he put down his scotch. He checked Gannon’s reaction before he continued. Noticing Gannon’s lack of expression and  his untouched scotch, Bill plowed on. “I know you saw the bodies, the aftermath of the shoot-out. I commend you for bravely speaking to the Italian police. Must have ground you down like a second trauma. They are the most emotionally-charged police in Europe. They should have waited for a translator.”

“It did feel like we were interrogated,” said Gannon, the owner of SoftWaters, with a solemnity of a priest in a confessional. “Checking if we were partners in the murders.” He twisted his hands in his lap rethinking the horrendous moments. “In Italy?” Geesh.”

Nodding, Bill said, “I’ve sent my best to confirm the deceased’s identities. They won’t be in the morgue for long. Contacting Aretha’s mother in long-term care is a non-starter?”

“Best not to involve her,” said Gannon. “I feel badly for Aretha’s two kids. Bart’s seventeen and Marcello’s four, from what I remember.”

“I guess we can call it a night to a terrible day,” Bill said as he finished his scotch.

“The kids?”

“They are stuck in the custody of Servizi di Protezione dell’infanzia, Child Protective Services. Their Human Resources Department moves slowly. With no relative except their mother, Natalie, I’m afraid it will be some time.” Bill clasped his hands and looked at the papers on his desk. “Not much we can do.”

Gannon scratched his forearm as if fending off demons clinging to his skin. “That’s shit.”