Death Brings Gold. Nicola Rocca

line of people queuing to show their affection to their tearful friend. Then, when the man was alone, Walker approached him.

      â€œMy condolences, Umberto,” he said, taking and squeezing his cold hands.

      Visconti forced himself to smile. He blinked his eyes a couple of times in an attempt to clear the tears that were clouding his vision. Losing a parent, even if they have reached the farthest edge of old age, always breaks your heart. Umberto knew that pain; he had already experienced it.

      â€œThank you very much, David,” he said, hugging him.

      David never liked these moments of sadness, but he didn’t want to be the first to separate from the embrace. He was hoping Umberto would do it. While waiting for that gesture that never seemed to come, he stood still and felt sorry for the other man’s sobs. Because Umberto Visconti, as well as being the medical examiner that worked with him, in time had also become a valuable friend. And for David, a friend’s pain was also his pain.

      Finally, David felt Umberto detach from their embrace -his lips moving close to his ear. His breath was warm and his skin smelled like aftershave.

      â€œThanks again for coming, my friend.”

      In the last weeks they hadn’t met or called each other much. Visconti was often unreachable because he had to look after his mother during the last stage of her life; Walker, on the other hand, was busy hunting down a guy who liked to rape, rob and kill high-class prostitutes. In the end he managed to catch him and close the case, even though a bullet cost him a couple of days in hospital. At least, he had arrived on time at the funeral. His shoulder was hurting like fuck, but he was there.

      â€œI had to, Umberto,” he replied, in the most comforting voice he could offer.

      The two men stood staring at each other.

      â€œI’m really sorry, Umby,” he said, regretting almost immediately the banality of those words.

      The other man stared at him, and Walker had never seen such a sad look on his friend’s face. He was nodding his head and looked like he was suffering from one of those awful tics that come with old age.

      â€œShe was a good woman,” he said. “I’m not saying it because she was my mother. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

      David nodded repeatedly, and for a moment it looked like the other man had passed that annoying nervous tic onto him...

      â€œI’m sure,” he replied. Not that he had ever met Umberto’s mother – he had seen her only once – but he was convinced it was true. He had been working with Umberto Visconti for some time and over the years he had found in him a good person. Polite, refined, and professional. The kind of person that must have been brought up in a respectable, principled family.

      â€œShe suffered so much …” Umberto said, muffling the phrase with an expression of anguish.

      â€œI’m sorry,” the other repeated, almost under his breath.

      â€œShe didn’t deserve all that suffering, David.”

      This time the Inspector didn’t reply. He thought that no one deserved such a terrible ordeal of pain. No one. He kept the thought to himself.

      â€œShe was torn apart by that terrible disease, David. It was as if… as if someone had decided to measure out her pain little by little. To eradicate her from this life with brief painful jabs.”

      The man paused, then he continued with a voice-which although calm, also carried an edge of anger.

      â€œI hope I won’t go like she did. I hope that one day I won’t end up like my mother. A slow agony. I hope that when my time comes, it will be something quick, fast, and painless. I couldn’t bear to be trapped inside the prison of a long illness. Because being ill is like being in jail.. The fact that you are bedridden, that you are not self sufficient anymore, that you have to depend on others … That is, all of this is the same as serving a life sentence for a crime committed. Actually, it’s worse, far worse …”

      He stopped. He took a breath and stared in the direction of the ground under which his mother had just been buried. A tear ran down his cheek.

      â€œâ€¦ Because the only crime attributable to my mother is that she was victim of that damned cancer. That’s why I hope that when my time comes …”

      â€œDon’t think about it now, Umberto,” the Inspector said, bringing the other’s words to an end. “You’ve got an entire life ahead of you. You must think about overcoming this test. The love for your job will save you, you’ll see. It was the same for me, too.”

      David thought he had been convincing, but his friend replied with bitter resignation.

      â€œDo you think so?”

      The question hung between them, illuminated by the headstones candles. David didn’t bother replying. And what could he have said to his friend to console him? More pointless words?

      â€œI think not,” continued Visconti. “Now I am alone. My life will never be the same again.”

      David understood that the recent loss of a loved one takes away one’s will to go on, to pick yourself up again, to move forward. To live. He had known it too. But he also knew that time would set things right again. In these circumstances, the passing of time is the only remedy to heal the wounds that everyone carries in their hearts.

      â€œBe strong, Umberto,” he said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll see, it’ll get better. I, too, have gone through this.”

      Visconti gave a hint of a smile; in an attempt to reassure his friend-who was trying to comfort him-that his words were appreciated.

      But inside he knew now that his mother was dead, depriving him of the last love he had left, his life was going to change radically.

      David did get one thing right, though, when he said: the love for his job was going to save him.

      That was true. Even if Walker and Visconti didn’t see it the same way.

      CHAPTER 2

      He was pleased with himself for deciding not to drive his car to the church. First of all because, due to the traffic, he never would have made it on time to the service; and then because he also would have had to do some walking. He kept seeing Umberto’s dismayed face and it reminded him of his own similar pain. He, too, had lost both his parents. And although his mother had been gone now for five years, her memory was more vivid than ever.

      This thought veiled his eyes with melancholy, while the stinging cold continued to vehemently stab his face. He slowed his pace to a halt and the echoing of his footsteps seemed to continue for another second before stopping. He slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, searching for the package.

      When he found it, he opened it and extracted a Marlboro. He brought it to his lips and rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other. He returned the package to his pocket and resumed walking, taking deep draws from the still unlit cigarette. He had always liked smoking. His only vice, and he clung to it dearly.

      Then, his mother’s face instantly appeared.

      It was the face of a woman with only a few days left to live. Ashen, framed by dishevelled hair that time and illness had turned grey. Her eyes were lifeless, sad, and were struggling to see.

      Alzheimer’s and a metastatic carcinoma were taking her away. That poor woman had been unable to utter a word for days and, according to the doctors, her brain couldn’t understand what was going on around her anymore.

      The day before she was gone forever, she made a sort of recovery; a moment of clarity. She had her eyes wide open and was trying to keep her head – which until then