The husband of the fashion designer murdered in their home on Via Settala speaks out; she was one of eight women killed between the 1960s and 1970s for whom justice has never been served.
“I was always at the district attorney’s office; Dr. Alessandrini was handling the case—he was later murdered by terrorists.I was always at the police headquarters. I was always at the newspaper offices, starting with yours on Via Solferino. For weeks, for months. For years… I formed a strong bond with some of the investigators… I was given the unusual opportunity to read all the testimonies, in case I could spot anything amiss…”. As if that weren’t enough,the man—at the time the husband of Valentina Masneri, one of the eight women murdered between the 1960s and 1970s and for whom justice was never served—launched a counter-investigation. “I wasn’t alone; friends were helping me. Before long, we realized we were being spied on.” By whom, he doesn’t say. In keeping with this interview, which he didn’t want to start but which he carried on for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
He has withdrawn into his own private life, far away—not just geographically (a five-hour drive)—from Milan, where, on the afternoon of March 18, 1975,a killer repeatedly stabbed Valentina, a 25-year-old fashion designer, in the back. At 5:55 p.m., a flight to Frankfurt was waiting for her at Linate Airport; she was supposed to show some sketches to clients. The crime scene was the spacious and elegant apartment at 57 Via Settala.An unsolved murder that, according to thestudy by criminologist Franco Posa—which we have been reporting on since the beginning of the year—may have been committed by the same perpetrator as the other crimes, thus pointing to a serial killer.
“The vast time gap since the events,” repeated attorney Valter Biscotti, one of Italy’s leading criminal defense lawyers and an expert on cold cases, “may notbe an insurmountable obstacle given thepoweroftoday’s technology, starting with DNA analysis.” Provided—and the lawyer is taking steps in this direction on behalf of the family—that the case files are made available, and in the hope that the evidence is well preserved.
Valentina’s husband prefers to remain anonymous, a common trait in this reexamination of the murders (Olimpia Drusin’s only son made the same choice).The impression, during our phone conversation—with hisslow pace, careful attention, and thoughtful pauses before speaking—is that he has, or has had, a clear idea, but one he does not wish to share. After all, he says, the case is not closed, and if anyone knows anything and is willing to talk, they must be sought out at the courthouse and the police station. He suggests—though again without elaborating—to “go a few kilometers outside Milan.” He considers the possibility of a connection between Valentina’s death and Nino Sindona,the criminal’s son, to be unfounded. It is true that years earlier they had been friends, but a friendship like any other. The vulgarity of a question—justified by speculation that Valentina had a secret life—is met with an immediate negative response.
Predictable, setting aside the gossip that, when no murderer is identified, morbidly fixates on speculating about the victim, insistingon findingan explanation—if not an original sin—in her. Mom and Dad Masneri lived near the Central Station, one block from Via Settala; the relationships between daughter and parents (and those between the two of them and her husband, and by extension, Valentina’s relationships with colleagues, neighbors, and acquaintances) were excellent, without any lingering issues. A very modern woman even in her aesthetic choices—from her furnishings to the clothes she wore—a traveler, cultured, creative, and joyful, according to what her mother recounted in 1975,Valentina had a natural inclination not to look away fromthe less fortunate, from those who called for help, and not so much or not only because she also championed lost causes. The man who was her husband—himself with a well-established and solid professional career—whom the Corriere tracked down days after tracing her last known address in the city (in the area of the old Fairgrounds), abandoned thirty years ago, says that Valentina “opened the door to the wrong person.” As for who that might have been, he adds nothing further.
And he offers no explanation for the following sentence: “During the counter-investigation, we happened to be in Padua. In a building where, just a few days earlier, someone had died.” Nor does the man make any reference to a circumstance thatwas discussed, namely that he had confessed that a police officer friend, at some point, had advised him to drop the matter, “since we can no longer investigate this murder.” Perhaps a historical falsehood. Perhaps, in the depths of despair, a truth renounced.