Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: The Suspect Witness

The sky above Foggia was beginning to pale into a faint gray, an uncertain dawn that seemed reluctant to light the world below. Andrea Russo stepped out of the botany lab, escorted by an agent who hadn't bothered to introduce himself. The sirens had fallen silent, leaving an unnatural stillness that draped the University of Foggia campus like a shroud. The flashing lights of the police cars, though, still danced across the building facades, turning the concrete walls into a canvas of blue and red shadows—a flickering display that lent the scene an eerie, almost cinematic quality. Andrea felt out of place, like an actor thrust onto the wrong set, handed a script he'd never read or wanted to play. His hands still trembled, a shiver that started in his fingers and rippled up his arms, and the dried blood of Professor Moretti, crusted onto his skin, left a grime he couldn't ignore. He wanted to wash it off, scrub away every trace of that night, but there was no time. Not yet.The agent walked ahead, a middle-aged man with broad shoulders and a uniform that clung too tightly, as if time had made it uncomfortable. He didn't speak, his steps firm and deliberate, crunching on the gravel path. Andrea followed in silence, his crossbody bag thumping against his hip with each stride—a monotonous beat anchoring him to reality. The October wind still blew, weaker now but cold enough to make him pull up his jacket's hood. It wasn't just the chill making him shudder, though. It was the weight of what he'd seen, what had happened. Professor Moretti—his mentor, the man who'd believed in him when he hadn't believed in himself—was dead. And Andrea had found him, hands plunged into his blood, in a lab he no longer recognized.The campus, so familiar by day with its bustle and life, now felt alien. The olive trees along the path swayed gently, their leaves rustling like a whispered judgment. The buildings' dark windows reflected the police lights like blind mirrors. Andrea wondered if someone was watching from behind those panes, a silent witness to his plunge into this nightmare. But there was no one. Just him, the agent, and the memory of Moretti weighing on his conscience. He couldn't shake those wide-open eyes, that blood pooling across the floor like an accusation. What had happened? Who could've done this? And why?"This way," the agent said, breaking the silence with a flat, emotionless voice. He pointed to a side door of the main building—a gray concrete block housing administrative offices and smaller classrooms. Andrea nodded, too exhausted to ask questions, and followed. They entered a narrow hallway lit by buzzing fluorescents, a sound that scraped at his already frayed nerves. The air smelled of disinfectant and old paper, a stark contrast to the earthy comfort of the lab he'd once found soothing. Now, even that memory felt tainted, stained by blood and chaos.They climbed a flight of stairs, the worn linoleum creaking underfoot. Andrea gripped the railing, its cold metal steadying him against the vertigo threatening to pull him under. It wasn't just physical fatigue; it was deeper—a mix of fear, confusion, and a surreal detachment that made him feel like he was floating outside himself. They reached the first floor, and the agent led him to a door with a faded plaque reading "Office 1-B." He opened it without knocking, revealing a sparse room: a scratched wooden desk, two orange plastic chairs, and a window overlooking the parking lot. Andrea paused at the threshold, breath catching. Outside, an ambulance was loading a stretcher draped in a white sheet. He knew who lay beneath it and looked away, his chest tightening as if squeezed by an unseen hand."Sit," the agent said, gesturing to a chair. Andrea obeyed, legs buckling under the weight of exhaustion and fading adrenaline, leaving him hollow. He sank into the seat, the hard plastic groaning beneath him, and dropped his bag to the floor. The agent stood, leaning against the desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him. Andrea felt watched, dissected, like a bug under a magnifying glass. He didn't like it, but he lacked the strength to protest. Not yet.Minutes ticked by in silence, an endless wait. Andrea stared at the floor—white tiles flecked with gray—trying to order his thoughts. What would he say? How could he explain this without sounding crazy or, worse, guilty? He hadn't done anything, he knew that, but the blood on his hands and the notebook on Moretti's table were undeniable facts. Footsteps echoed in the hall, and the door swung open again. A taller man entered, exuding authority. He wore a dark jacket over his uniform, a badge dangling from his neck, swaying slightly as he moved. "Inspector De Luca," he introduced himself, his deep voice devoid of warmth. "And this is Agent Russo. No relation to you, I assume?" he added, a hint of sarcasm Andrea couldn't quite read."No," Andrea replied softly, his voice hoarse as if unused for hours. He cleared his throat, aiming for steadiness. "No relation.""Good," De Luca said, settling against the desk with a fluid motion. He pulled a notebook and pen from his jacket's inner pocket, placing them on the scratched wood with a practiced air. "So, Andrea Russo, student in Agricultural Sciences and Technologies, right? Tell us everything. From the start. Leave nothing out."Andrea nodded, taking a deep breath. The moment had come, no more delays. He had to speak, to explain. But as he opened his mouth, a cold, sharp question pierced his mind: What if they don't believe me?Andrea stared at the desk before him, the wood's scratched grain like lines on a map he couldn't navigate. Inspector De Luca watched, waiting, pen poised above his notebook like a blade ready to strike. Agent Russo, seated beside him, tapped an irregular rhythm on the chair's armrest, grating on Andrea's nerves. The room felt small, stifling, the fluorescent buzz overhead amplifying the silence before his words. He inhaled deeply, trying to quiet the heartbeat thundering in his ears, and began."I was in the lab," he said, voice unsteady, searching for its rhythm. "I'm there most afternoons, for my thesis. I work—worked—with Professor Moretti. He's my advisor. Tonight, I stayed late, maybe nine-thirty, I'm not sure. My phone was dead, so I didn't check the time. I was finishing up a slide under the microscope when I heard a noise. A thud. I thought it was the wind, or maybe a cat, but then it came again, louder. I went to check and… I found him. He was there, on the floor, with all that blood."He paused, the memory crashing back with brutal clarity. He shut his eyes briefly, trying to banish Moretti slumped against the shelf, but it didn't work. When he opened them, De Luca was staring, eyes narrowed as if peering beyond his words. "A noise, you say," the inspector said, voice flat but tinged with skepticism. "What kind?"Andrea hesitated, grasping for precision. "I don't know," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "Heavy, like something fell. Or someone. It was… sudden. Made me jump.""Someone," De Luca echoed, jotting a quick note. "And you didn't see anyone? No movement, no shadow?""No," Andrea said, shaking his head. "I was alone. At least, I think so." The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he regretted the uncertainty instantly. He didn't want to sound unsure, not now."You think," De Luca said, raising an eyebrow. The word hung there, heavy as an accusation. "You don't sound very certain, Russo."Andrea stiffened, heat rising to his face. "I was scared," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I wasn't thinking about checking every corner. I saw the professor and… I called you. That's all I did." He stopped, breath quickening as the moment replayed. His hands on Moretti's chest, warm blood seeping through his fingers, the crash of shattering vials. It was too vivid, too real.Agent Russo leaned forward, breaking the silence that followed. "And the lab?" he asked, his tone softer than De Luca's but laced with a curiosity that put Andrea on edge. "You said it was a mess. Did you touch anything? Move anything?""No," Andrea said, too quickly. Then he corrected himself, needing accuracy. "I mean, yes, I touched the professor. Put a hand on his chest to see if he was breathing, then his neck, for a pulse. There was nothing. And I knocked over a box of vials by accident when I pulled back. But I didn't move anything on purpose. I was… I was panicking."De Luca exchanged a quick glance with Russo, a fleeting signal Andrea caught. He didn't like it, that unspoken trade of thoughts he couldn't decode. "I see," De Luca said, tapping his pen on the notebook in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "And tell me, Russo, how long had you been working with Moretti?"Andrea relaxed slightly, relieved by an easier question. "About a year," he replied. "He was my thesis advisor. Been guiding me since I started the vine project last year. He's… he was a good professor. Tough, but fair. Taught me a lot.""Tough," De Luca repeated, as if tasting the word. The pen stilled, and he fixed Andrea with an intensity that unnerved him. "Any friction between you? Arguments, maybe? A tough professor can be hard to handle, right?"Andrea's eyes widened, startled by the turn. "No," he said, shaking his head firmly. "Never. We got along. He trusted me, let me work alone. Always pushed me forward. I don't see what this has to do with anything.""You'll see soon enough," De Luca said, his tone ominous. He stood, setting the notebook down with a slow gesture, and left the room without another word. Andrea sat alone with Agent Russo, silence stretching taut between them. Russo watched him, twirling his pen in a hypnotic motion. Andrea felt judged, every breath scrutinized, every blink weighed. He hated it but didn't know how to escape the sensation.Minutes dragged on, an eternity in that stifling space. Andrea wondered what De Luca was doing, what was unfolding outside. Muffled voices drifted from the hall, footsteps and radio static. The forensics team, likely, scouring the lab for evidence. Evidence of what? Who killed Moretti? Or something tied to him? He shook his head, pushing the thought away. He hadn't done anything. He was just a witness, wasn't he?The door opened again, and De Luca returned, a plastic evidence bag in hand. He set it on the table with a slow, almost theatrical flourish, and Andrea's stomach knotted. Inside was a notebook—hardcover, like the ones he used for notes. But not just any notebook: scrawled across the cover in bold, messy black marker was his name, "Andrea Russo." His heart leapt to his throat, breath stalling for a moment."Ring any bells?" De Luca asked, crossing his arms and pinning him with a gaze that seemed to bore through him.Andrea stared, mind racing for an explanation. "It's mine," he said, voice trembling. "I use it for my thesis. But I don't get it… it should be in my bag. I left it there, by the microscope. I didn't take it to Moretti's table.""Interesting," De Luca said, voice low and cutting. "Because we found it on Moretti's table, less than a meter from his body. Open, with pages torn out. Care to explain how it got there?"Andrea's eyes widened, panic surging like a tide. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't put it there. I don't know how it happened.""I don't know," De Luca repeated, his tone sharp as a blade sinking slowly. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring at Andrea with an intensity that left him exposed, raw. The evidence bag with the notebook sat between them, a mundane object turned silent weapon. Andrea couldn't tear his eyes from the black cover, his name in sprawling, chaotic letters tying him to the crime scene in a way he couldn't grasp. "You know, Russo," De Luca went on, "for a witness, you're giving a lot of vague answers. You were alone, saw nothing, know nothing. Yet your notebook's right there at a murder scene. Doesn't that strike you as odd?""Yes, it's odd," Andrea shot back, voice rising for the first time. Heat flushed his face, a mix of frustration and fear trembling in his hands. "But I don't know what to tell you. I didn't do anything. I walked in, found him dead, and called you. I don't know why my notebook was there, but I didn't put it there!" The words burst out in a rush, nearly a shout, and he regretted the edge instantly. He didn't want to sound desperate, didn't want to give them more reason to doubt. But De Luca's half-smile, cold and unfeeling, made him want to scream.The inspector leaned back, crossing his arms. "Calm down, Russo," he said, voice icy but controlled, shrinking Andrea further. "We're not accusing you of anything. Not yet. We're just trying to understand. But you've got to admit, it's a hell of a coincidence. A dead professor, a trashed lab, and your notebook right by the body. That's not the kind of thing that just happens."Andrea shook his head, groping for sense in what he heard. "It's not a coincidence," he said, more to himself than De Luca. "Someone must've put it there. I don't know who, I don't know why, but it wasn't me." He stopped, breath ragged, running a hand over his face. His fingers still shook, the dried blood under his nails a reminder he couldn't scrub away that night.Agent Russo cleared his throat, breaking his silence. "Let's back up," he said, voice softer but cautious. "You said the notebook was in your bag, right? And you left it by the microscope?""Yes," Andrea said, nodding. "Always. I don't carry it around the lab. It stays in my bag, and the bag stays at my table. It's a rule Moretti drilled into me: keep everything organized, don't leave stuff lying around. He was… he was obsessed with order.""Interesting," De Luca said, scribbling a note. "So Moretti was methodical. Yet the lab was a wreck when you got there. And your notebook, supposed to be in your bag, ends up on his table. How do you explain that?""I can't," Andrea said, frustration boiling over. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. It doesn't make sense. Someone must've taken it from my bag and put it there. I don't know when, I don't know how, but it wasn't me."De Luca stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Russo. "Take him out for a minute," he said, voice low but firm. "I need to talk to forensics."Agent Russo stood, motioning Andrea to follow. "Come on," he said, tone brooking no argument. Andrea rose, legs leaden, and trailed him into the hall. The air was cooler, the fluorescent buzz replaced by muffled voices and distant steps. He leaned against the wall, rough concrete at his back, and closed his eyes briefly. He needed to breathe, to think, but his mind was a tangle of images and questions. The notebook. The blood. Moretti's eyes. It all swirled into a chaos he couldn't unravel.Russo lingered nearby, hands in pockets, gaze on the floor. "Not a great spot to be in," he said after a while, breaking the quiet. "But if you're telling the truth, you've got nothing to worry about.""If I'm telling the truth?" Andrea snapped, eyes flying open. "I am telling the truth. I didn't do anything. Why don't you believe me?"Russo shrugged, more weary than dismissive. "It's not about believing you. It's about evidence. And that notebook doesn't help."Anger flared in Andrea's chest, but he swallowed it. He couldn't lose it, not now. "I don't get it," he said, voice steadier but taut. "Who could've put it there? Why? It doesn't make sense.""Don't know," Russo said. "But we'll find out. That's our job."Minutes stretched on, an endless wait. Andrea wondered what De Luca was telling forensics, what they were finding in the lab. Each second weighed on him, a ticking clock counting down to a truth he didn't want to face. When the door opened again, De Luca emerged with a file in hand, his expression harder than before, if that was possible. "Back inside," he said, avoiding Andrea's eyes.Andrea followed, dread growing with each step. They sat again, and De Luca opened the file, pulling out a Polaroid. It was a crime scene shot, angled to show the notebook on Moretti's table beside a spreading pool of blood. "Look close," De Luca said, sliding it toward him. "This is where we found it. And here." He pointed to a detail: a red smear on the notebook's edge. Blood.Nausea surged in Andrea's gut, bile burning his throat. "I don't understand," he mumbled, voice strained. "I didn't touch it. I wasn't near the table when I found him.""Yet the blood's there," De Luca said, calm but relentless. "And your hands were bloody when we arrived. You said so yourself—you touched the body. Maybe you touched the notebook too, huh?""No!" Andrea protested, voice rising. "I didn't! I'm telling you the truth! I don't know how that blood got there, but I didn't put it there!"He leaned forward, gripping the table's edge, knuckles white with strain. His breathing came in gasps, filling the stifling room, and for a moment he thought he'd collapse under the weight of it all. But he couldn't. He had to make them hear, make them believe.De Luca watched, unfazed, his face a mask of calm hiding unknown thoughts. "The truth," he said, leaning back with a slow, almost lazy motion. "You know, Russo, in cases like this, truth is the first thing we chase. And right now, we've got a dead professor, a trashed lab, and you—the only one there—with a notebook tying you to the scene. Not a good look, you get that?"Andrea stared, incredulous, the inspector's words echoing distortedly in his head. "Are you saying I'm a suspect?" he asked, voice quaking despite his effort to steady it. "You think I killed him?""I'm not saying anything," De Luca replied, raising his hands in a gesture meant to reassure but feeling menacing instead. "I'm just trying to figure it out. But you've got to admit, it doesn't look like a coincidence. And in a murder, coincidences don't exist." He paused, letting the words settle like dust on an open wound, then leaned in again. "Let's hypothesize. You're there, late, alone with Moretti. Maybe an argument flares up, things go wrong. You snap, it gets ugly. The notebook? You leave it behind in a panic. Could happen, right?""No!" Andrea shouted, slamming a hand on the table. The sound rang out, startling him, but he pressed on. "That's not how it went! There was no argument, I wasn't with him! I got there and he was already dead! I don't know why you won't believe me!""Easy," Russo said, raising a hand to calm him. "No one's accusing you. We're just running through possibilities.""Possibilities?" Andrea echoed, voice cracking. "There's no possibility! I didn't do anything! Don't you see? Someone's trying to frame me or something. That notebook shouldn't be there, and the blood—I don't know how it got on it!"De Luca studied him for a long stretch, eyes narrowed as if weighing every word, every move. Then he picked up the Polaroid, turning it between his fingers, inspecting it closely. "You know what, Russo?" he said, voice low and deliberate. "The blood on the notebook's fresh, per forensics. Fresh like what was on your hands when we got there. And there's a print—partial—on the edge. Not analyzed yet, but I bet it'll be interesting to see whose it is."Andrea felt the blood drain from his face, a chill creeping down his spine. "A print?" he whispered, mind racing. "It… it can't be mine. I didn't touch it. I swear.""We'll see," De Luca said, setting the photo down. "Forensics is on it—prints, blood, fibers. If you're innocent like you say, you've got nothing to fear, right?""Right," Andrea said, but the word rang hollow, empty of conviction. He didn't feel innocent, not then. He felt caged, an animal in a tightening net. "I didn't do anything," he repeated, more to himself than them. "I don't know what's happening.""I get that you're scared," Russo said, gentler than De Luca. "And it's a tough spot. But give us more. Something to work with. Did you see anyone on campus? Hear anything odd before you went in? Anything."Andrea shook his head, digging for memories. "Just the noises," he said. "The rustling, the thud. But no one was there. The campus was empty. It was late—everyone was gone.""And Moretti?" De Luca asked. "Did you know he'd be there?""No," Andrea replied. "I hadn't seen him since the afternoon. He said he'd head home after six, like always. I don't know why he was still there.""Maybe he had a reason," De Luca said, jotting a note. "Or someone kept him there. Someone who knew the lab, who knew where to find your notebook."Andrea stared, the implication seeping in like slow poison. "You're saying someone did it on purpose? Put my notebook there to… frame me?""I'm not saying anything," De Luca repeated, but his eyes said otherwise. "Just thinking out loud. It's a possibility, isn't it?"Andrea didn't answer, heart pounding. It was possible, yes—but who? Why? He had no enemies, not that he knew of. He wasn't the type to stand out, to stir grudges. Yet the notebook was there, and the blood linked him to a murder he didn't commit. He ran a hand over his face, fighting the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He had to think, to understand. But every thought bred more questions, more doubts.De Luca snapped the file shut, the sharp sound of paper on desk like a full stop to the grueling exchange. "For now, you're a witness," he said, standing and tucking the notebook into his jacket. "But don't go far, Russo. We might need you again. And if you remember anything—anything—call me." He pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the table, a handwritten number in black ink stark against the white.Andrea took it with shaky hands, nodding mechanically. "Okay," he murmured, voice a whisper. He had no strength left, not after hours of questions, suspicious stares, and veiled accusations that had hollowed him out. Agent Russo stood too, nodding toward the door. "You can go," he said, tone neutral but tinged with the same fatigue Andrea felt.He rose slowly, legs wobbly, and grabbed his bag from the floor. The room spun, edges blurred by exhaustion and fading adrenaline, leaving him empty. He stepped into the hall, Russo's footsteps fading the other way. The office door clicked shut behind him, and he paused, leaning against the wall, the cold concrete seeping through his jacket. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, to sort the chaos in his mind. But there was no order—just questions piling up, each heavier than the last.When he finally left the building, the sun was rising over the campus, painting the sky a pale pink against the gray of the night before. The wind had died, leaving a mocking stillness. He walked to the dorm, steps slow and unsteady, bag weighing on his shoulder like a burden. The campus stirred awake: early students crossed the path, distant voices from a starting lecture, a scooter buzzing down the main road. But to Andrea, it was all remote, as if a thick, clouded pane separated him from the world.He reached the dorm—a low, boxy building with cracked walls and grimy windows. He climbed to the second floor, footsteps echoing in the quiet hall. Opening his room's door—a cramped cell with a single bed, a cluttered desk, and a faulty wardrobe—he locked it behind him with a reflex twist of the key and collapsed onto the bed, jacket still on. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, and he lay there, staring at the mold-streaked ceiling.He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come. Instead, images flooded in: Moretti's face, eyes wide and vacant; blood spreading across the floor; the notebook on the table, his name scrawled like a shouted charge. He wasn't just a witness, he knew that. He was a suspect. De Luca hadn't said it outright, but it was in every word, every look. And the notebook—that damned notebook—was the key. Who'd put it there? Why?He rolled onto his side, clutching the pillow. He had no answers, only doubts. Was someone framing him? Or was it a fluke, a cruel twist landing him in the wrong place at the wrong time? He thought of Moretti—his rare smile, his gruff voice pushing him harder. He couldn't have died like that, not by someone Andrea knew. But then who? And what did he have to do with it?He sat up abruptly, unable to stay still, and shuffled to the sink in the corner. Turning on the tap, he scrubbed his hands, scouring the dried blood from his skin. The water ran red, then pink, then clear, but the filth lingered. He caught his reflection—pale, dark-ringed eyes—and didn't recognize himself. He wasn't just Andrea Russo, the shy student lost in plants anymore. He was something else, something he didn't want to be.He returned to the bed and sat, pulling De Luca's card from his pocket. He stared at it, then set it on the desk. He wouldn't call, not yet. He had nothing to say, nothing to add. But one thing he knew: he couldn't sit idle. He had to figure out what happened, who killed Moretti, and why his notebook was there. Not for the police, but for himself. If he didn't, that shadow of doubt would trail him forever, turning him into something he wasn't.He lay back, closing his eyes. This time, sleep came—a heavy darkness wrapping him like a cloak. But even there, Moretti's face haunted him, and the sense that something far bigger was about to engulf him never let go.