Against journalism that has become a mere chronicle of other people’s investigations: whether by a public prosecutor’s office or the intelligence services

There is no hooded witness, no microphone chasing the suspect, no telephone tap leaked from a still-secret investigation. And yet that article – a feature, a behind-the-scenes piece, a reasoned news report intended for a weekly magazine – without meaning to be, is the first post-war journalistic investigation. It was 16 April 1950 when Tommaso Besozzi published in L’Europeo a shadowy account of the murder of Salvatore Giuliano: doubts upon doubts, witness statements, and yet more doubts, until the official version was dismantled. Thirty years later, Joe Marrazzo would recount the life and misdeeds of Raffaele Cutolo, entrusting the RAI cameras with the voice of the Camorra boss himself and those of his friends and associates. Interviews, such as those in Sergio Zavoli’s La notte della Repubblica, in which the protagonists spoke live on air, without intermediaries, answering (or failing to answer at all) the journalist’s questions. Here too, there were no chases, no hooded figures, no fragments of police reports of dubious origin. Rather, it was a reconstruction of pieces of Italian history free from the logic of criminal trials, where the focus is on criminal acts rather than all the facts, contexts and emotions. A far nobler and more ambitious endeavour, certainly more conducive to the search for historical truth.

And yet. And yet, at some point, investigative journalism transformed – first gradually, then completely – into reporting on other people’s investigations: those of the public prosecutor’s offices at best; and those of the intelligence services thereafter. With no possibility of verification, no possibility of critical analysis, and a very high risk of unwittingly becoming conduits for misdirection. Anyone who has covered court cases has on their list the contact details of a few informants, a few shadowy sources, and ambiguous witnesses. These contacts must be handled with great caution, or not handled at all; at best, they should be treated like an anonymous letter—to be read and discarded if thorough verification is not possible. Yet at some point these sources gained the upper hand, and there is no other explanation for the proliferation of private agencies dealing in information gathered illegally—information that is not necessarily true, certainly biased—which then ends up in newspapers or on television programmes. To many, this even seemed like a positive development, given the proliferation of useless press releases – local news sections and small websites are full of them – which lack even the essential details (who, how, where, when, why) in the name of a theoretical presumption of innocence. Investigative bodies, in their official communications, must exercise restraint in their language and adopt a stylistic approach that acknowledges the partial nature of the news being disseminated; but journalists must ensure verification, conduct independent in-depth research, consult defence lawyers, listen to witnesses and, why not, refute details that are out of context or even incorrect. Sometimes it is enough to draw on one’s personal archives, at other times on one’s memory, and at still other times on professional curiosity.

An example? It is contained in the case files of the investigation into the attack on Sigfrido Ranucci: a bug we might call “Corrado”. It is a name that appears in the wiretaps between the perpetrators of the crime, and which was discussed for days. Until Domani revealed the mystery: Corrado does not exist; it is a transcription error. Well, any court reporter has come across similar errors, only discovered during the trial when an expert examined the telephone or ambient recordings. The transcript produced by the police officer (carabiniere, finance police officer) had already caused very serious damage – perhaps even the arrest of the suspect. And these are by no means rare cases; quite the contrary. ‘Corrado’ serves as a reminder that investigative material circulating prior to trials is raw material, to be used with great care and due objectivity. In short, it is not proof of a revealed truth.

Consider, for example, the investigation into the murder of Chiara Poggi and the audio recording of Alberto Stasi calling the emergency services: the legend of the cold, icy-eyed blond (whose eyes were, quite simply, light blue) arose from the interpretation of his tone of voice. The story of recent months will tell a different tale. In the meantime, the daily dissection of clues, photos, images, voice recordings and wiretaps has definitively destroyed any remaining faith in the justice system, leaving future generations with the disarming realisation that, as Besozzi put it in his headline, ‘the only thing that is certain is that he is dead’.