Ailanthus. Antonio De Vito

your head.”

      â€œI don’t know what to say, but after all you got a point.”

      Stacie thought that changing scenery could really give her some ideas. Things were getting damn serious and she needed to find a starting point.

      The following evening, Frank, in the company of his wife Shona and Stacie, went to the Empire State Building. At the hundred-second floor there was taking place a gala event organized by the second world war’s veterans committee. There were old soldiers that wore with pride their best uniforms accompanied by their relatives, that followed them sometimes proud, and in some other cases clearly bored. The hall was perfectly staged. American flags and banners were everywhere. It wasn’t missing the usual full buffet. A Captain dead a few weeks before was commemorated in occasion of this evening.

      â€œShona, how is it that you’re so bounded to these memorials?” Stacie broke the ice.

      â€œMy dad died in war. Anyone who had a parent engaged in a war such as the second world war or Vietnam is marked for life. And if your dad doesn’t come back with his legs, I don’t know if you can understand how strong can pain be. These occasions are needed to share emotions and keep the memory alive.”

      â€œYou’re right. Pain is an intimate emotion and I deeply respect every attempt to relieve the sufferance caused from a human loss.”

      Stacie didn’t lose a loved one in war, but what had happened to Sam in Fort Tryon Park was really close to a battle. As if it wasn’t enough Sam had passed away because of a cancer, the only feeling of not having him anymore with her destroyed her, so she really understood Shona’s words.

      While Stacie and Shona were talking sipping an aperitif, two men came close, a veteran who moved slowly forward with his stick accompanied by a man on his forties.

      â€œHello, if I may disturb. You are lawyer Stacie Scott, aren’t you?”

      The man in his 40s clearly showed to know already the answer.

      â€œYes, that’s me. How can I help you?” Stacie was surprised, but the fact that someone recognized her wasn’t new anymore.

      â€œDowntown I read about that tragic murder in Brooklyn. Maybe you could tell us something more. Does the police suspect about anyone?”

      Stacie felt kind of annoyed by both the question and the fact that she didn’t have any clue about how to answer.

      â€œThe Police is working hard. I’m doing my consultancy job on behalf of the District Attorney. I can’t tell you anything, but we’ll do everything possible to put behind bars that psycho.”

      In the meantime, Frank heard the statement and appreciated Stacie’s way to decouple. They had no lead, that was the truth. That couldn’t be shouted out from the rooftops.

      â€œI’m sure of it. The killer has his days numbered. If he would have known that Stacie Scott was going to follow the case, he would have thought of it twice before cutting that man’s throat.”

      â€œYou’re overestimating me. Anyway I get your compliments as an omen. I don’t seem to have heard your name, though.”

      â€œYou can call me Matt.”

      Matt neatly said goodbye and went away in the crowd. Maybe he was the son of that soldier or of a man dead in the second world war. Stacie understood that the interest caused from that murder was stronger than she thought. The fear that a killer was around on the loose was a lot and a second crime would create panic among the public opinion.

      Frank praised Stacie for the way she had answered that man. It was unavoidable, in a public place, to risk to expose themselves with people’s questions. Although, Stacie managed not to lose her temper.

      Between chats and some drinks a couple more hours passed before the evening came to an end and Stacie could go back home.

      -8-

      On 11 November 1995 in New York, as in every other corner of the United States, they were celebrating the armistice day. It was a special year because it was the recurrence of the second world war’s decennial.

      In Fulton Street, west of Flatbush Avenue, was taking place a commemorative evening. About thirty veterans accompanied by their families were meeting in that house for a few years already to remember their missing comrades. Hugs and smiles appeared every time with the same spirit. What permeated from the faces of those soldiers was the gained consciousness that they made it, without never forgetting the past. To organize the armistice day was Tenant J.F. Jordan. His initials stood for John Frencies. He had come back from Europe a few weeks before the others, but he would have carried the signs of that terrible experience in his skin for all of his life.