Justice

There's a kind of stone guest in the raging debate over the Garlasco Murder case, and it's curious that almost no one seems willing to name it openly. The public debate has now proceeded like a discussion between football fans: on one side, those who are absolutely certain of the first defendant's guilt, on the other, those who consider it inevitable that the second is the true culprit. As if there were only two available boxes, and the game simply consisted of moving the "murderer" tag from one name to the other.

But the truly disturbing point is another.

Not the fact, however serious, that a person could have spent ten years in prison innocent. Nor even the opposite risk, that is, that another individual might be swept away by a new, poorly constructed investigative wave, perhaps simply because public opinion demands an alternative culprit to be paraded on prime time.

The real problem is that everyone seems to assume that one of the two must be the culprit. As if it were impossible to contemplate the most devastating possibility of all: that the investigators completely missed the mark in both directions.

What if it was neither?

What if the investigation, both then and now, had simply been a blur? What if investigators had never even come close to understanding what happened in that house? Why is this possibility treated as an unspeakable blasphemy, when in fact it is perfectly compatible with the story?

The feeling that emerges from this whole story, however, is even more atrocious. Much more atrocious. Because it goes beyond the individual case, beyond Alberto Stasi, beyond Andrea Sempio, beyond even the crime itself.

For years, politicians have repeated ritualistic phrases like "we have faith in the judiciary" or "we believe in justice," pronouncing them with that liturgical capital letter that's supposed to evoke balance, rigor, and impartiality. But what the public sees, very often, is something profoundly different. And decidedly less reassuring.

What emerges, observing certain media trials and certain accusatory constructions, is a mechanism in which the search for solid evidence sometimes seems to take second place to the narrative construction of the character to be brought down. Not a rock-solid scientific demonstration, not an impeccable concatenation of objective elements, but a kind of morality tale in which the accused must progressively transform into someone who "inspires guilt."

And so character details, behavioral quirks, social awkwardness, instinctive antipathies, and improvised psychological reconstructions from the crime scene pile up. It doesn't matter if the decisive evidence is missing, flimsy, or contradictory: the key is to create in the observer—and perhaps the judge—that visceral feeling that "someone like that, deep down, must have done something."

And this is the truly terrifying part, because at that point the trial ceases to be an investigation into a specific fact and risks becoming a moral evaluation of the person. It's no longer just the material evidence that's being judged; it's the face, the tone of voice, the way the person reacts to grief, the awkwardness in front of the cameras, the personality perceived as cold, strange, or unpleasant.

In practice, the feeling is that the criminal proceedings are slowly transforming into a gigantic narrative operation, in which the real goal is not to prove "he committed this crime," but to convince everyone that the accused is the kind of human capable of committing it. And once this transformation takes place, the line between justice and elegant lynching becomes frighteningly thin.

I mean, look what's below:

Oh my God. Porn. Violence. Autoeroticism. He was jerking off. Penis. Vagina. Poop. Swearing. Rudeness. And he was watching violent porn—which, by now, we should understand exactly what the average Italian magistrate means by "violent porn," because I personally didn't even know "non-violent" porn existed. I thought ass slaps were simply part of the liturgical ritual, like the sign of the cross or kneeling during consecration.

And then come the infamous "horror notebooks." That is, translated from judicial bureaucracy into everyday Italian: as a kid, he drew monsters, skulls, and things from heavy metal album covers or Iron Maiden albums in his school notebook. At this point, I immediately called home and begged my mother to destroy everything I'd ever drawn in high school, including an innocent watercolor by Jasmine Le Bon, because you never know what the sergeant on duty might think. Maybe the sergeant had internet in 2004, saw two ropes and a whip on a banner ad, and suddenly it all becomes "disturbing BDSM imagery compatible with antisocial impulses."

And it's wonderful to observe the skill with which these "journalists," a typical product of the most obtuse and moralistic of the Po Valley provinces, are constructing this defamatory narrative against Andrea Sempio. They use the exact same narrative technique used years ago against Alberto Stasi: lacking solid evidence, they construct a character. The Weird One. The Deviant One. The Guy Who Looks at Stuff. The Potential Monster. It always works very well with the Italian public, culturally raised on catechism and crime tabloids.

What do I think? I have some practical advice for survival.

1. First, throw away those copies of Fifty Shades of Grey. Seriously. Buy Story of O instead. If you're going to be labeled a maniac, at least do it with a modicum of literary dignity. Getting in trouble for Sir Stephen still has a certain decadent elegance; getting in trouble for the story of a hardware store clerk tortured by her billionaire boyfriend with a helicopter is simply humiliating.
2. If you love violent scenes, perhaps literary rapes, keep Mafarka the Futurist at home. They'll still accuse you of consuming violent pornography, but at least Filippo Tommaso Marinetti was acquitted a century ago of charges of outrage against decency, morality, and probably even Euclidean geometry, so there's a favorable precedent. And let's face it, there's a difference between masturbating and going zangtmb flapflapflap OOOOOHGGH in front of YouPorn. The stylish masturbator is another anthropological category. Just add a little QultVra, and suddenly private vice becomes European decadentism.
3. Also remember that "incels" weren't invented by Americans. They already existed here long before. We called them "losers." It was a much more effective, Italian, concise, and almost artisanal definition: individuals professionally unfit for sex. Therefore, don't frequent incel forums, which then make you look like "internet radicalized." Just be a traditional Italian loser. It's a historically recognized and culturally integrated category.
4. If you really must frequent desperate forums, at least write something like, "I drilled all the housewives in Garlasco until the oil came out." You'll still get in trouble, you'll still look like a loser, but then you'll be labeled a "predator" with industrial ambitions, and maybe even sponsored by ENI. These are details. But details make for style.
5. Or you'll directly confuse the astute investigators and television editorialists by saying things like "that bitch was OPEC" or "she ran a fleet of ghost oil tankers." Then journalists won't know whether to include you in crime reporting, energy geopolitics, or a NATO dossier. And at least, for a few minutes, the circus will short-circuit.

Here, it was a short survival manual for the Po Valley provincial judiciary.

I know full well what question is buzzing around your head like a radioactive mosquito from the Po Valley. I get it. The vexed question, the one that has fueled TV talk shows, discount-store criminologists, and Facebook investigators for years, is always the same:

“That's all fine. But then who killed Chiara? Which of the two?”

And here's where I'd like to do something scandalous, almost revolutionary in the contemporary Italian debate: try to be serious. Seriously. Not "serious" in the TV sense of the word, meaning a guy with glasses speaking very slowly in front of a flashing blue graphic with the word "DNA" written on it. Serious in the mathematical sense of the word. Let's use probabilities. Let's try to construct a story that's not only possible, but plausible. And maybe even probable.

My theory? Very simple. So simple that it's offensive to the criminal entertainment industry.

It was neither. You haven't caught the real culprit, and you probably never will. At the very least, he's in Sarkazzistan today. Or in some morgue, having overdosed.

Someone leaves the house and leaves the door open, or ajar. Perhaps out of distraction, perhaps thinking, "Oh well, she's still inside anyway." Anyone who grew up in the small towns of the Po Valley knows only too well how common this scene is. Doors ajar. Gates half-open. People coming in from the back. Neighbors walking by. Statistical frequency? Very high.

A passing thief—perhaps a drug addict, perhaps someone cycling around looking for bargains—sees the door. He realizes it's a middle-class house. He decides to break in and steal. How common is this? Very high, too. In certain areas of the Po Valley, "house burglary" is almost a local specialty, like Culatello or Lambrusco.

The guy enters. He finds the girl in the house. She screams. He reacts the way desperate criminals, addicts, first-time criminals, and panicked people react when they're surprised: with sudden, stupid, animalistic violence. Statistical frequency? Medium-high, unfortunately. The girl dies. He flees. Maybe on a bicycle, maybe on that never-before-identified bicycle. And if we're talking about occasional criminals, addicts, illegal immigrants, or transient criminals, the probability that they'll disappear into thin air after an event like this is far from negligible.

End.

A very banal story. So banal as to be unbearable for the modern brain, which can only accept Netflix-style plots with seven layers of psychological conspiracy and a childhood trauma hidden behind every drawer.

And in fact, this hypothesis, which is probably the most plausible of all, is almost never considered. Why? Hollywood.

Hollywood taught us that if nothing was stolen, then it couldn't have been stolen. And why? Mystery. But since American TV shows say so, then it must be true. If Lieutenant Columbo claims it and Derrick confirms it, we now have consolidated transatlantic jurisprudence.

It's a shame that in the real world, a thief caught unawares can easily escape without taking anything. In fact, that's exactly what happens when a robbery goes wrong. But this scenario is too uncinematic. No one wants to hear that a murder can arise from a miserable concatenation of stupidity, panic, and chance. No. There must be a Monster. A psychological motive. A ritual. Symbolism. Chat rooms. Violent porn. Horror diaries.

And that's not all. Hollywood has also taught us that the absence of signs of forced entry automatically implies that the victim knew the killer. And why? Who knows. Because that's how it works in American procedurals. The idea that someone could simply have left a door open seems too provincial, too Italian, too real to be considered scientifically worthy.

Yet anyone who has actually lived in the provinces knows very well that the most plausible scene is not the erotic-existential conspiracy constructed by talk shows, but something much sadder: a door left ajar, an opportunistic thief, five minutes of panic, and a girl dead from an idiotic chain of ordinary events.

Still under the heading “Hollywood Has Devastated the Public Perception of Criminology,” there is this other extraordinary gem: if a murder is very violent—such as hitting someone with a hammer, repeatedly hitting them, etc.—then it must necessarily be a crime of passion.

Why?

And what the fuck do I know.

Really. No one ever seems to explain where this kind of metaphysical dogma comes from. But it's repeated with such certainty that it's now treated like a law of physics, like gravity or the second law of thermodynamics. Violent murder equals emotional involvement. The end. Theme song. Advertisement.

Naturally, this theory is always supported by hordes of blonde TV criminologists, dressed in full black leather like Düsseldorf tax dominatrixes, nodding gravely before the cameras as 3D renderings of the crime scene play, accompanied by disturbing music straight from a Discovery Channel documentary. And since they speak slowly and use words like "overkill," "repressed anger," and "relational dynamics," suddenly it all seems scientific.

Anyway, whenever the killer can't get a gun to kill you from afar, coldly, then he uses improvised weapons, SO it was a crime of passion. Why? Mystery. But Hollywood says so, so it must be true.

It might make sense in the US, where it's probably easier to find a Glock than a hammer, but not in Italy. In Italy, the average criminal doesn't have John Wick's arsenal: he grabs the first heavy object he finds while doing something stupid and desperate.

But no: if he uses a hammer, then suddenly there's "emotional involvement," "overkill," "relational dynamics." He can't simply be a terrified burglar who found a hammer in a house where, incredibly, there was a hammer.

Tell that to the RIS. And to the criminologist in full leather.

But I know that, deep down, you don't really care. Because the questions you're asking are different.

“But was Andrea Sempio drilling Chiara, yes or no?”
Well, given the traces of DNA under the fingernails, I'd say the probability is high. Maybe not at that exact moment, but DNA under long fingernails stays there for a while. It's not exactly alien technology.

“But did Alberto Stasi have murky sexual secrets and an embarrassing browser history?”
And who doesn't have them? Seriously. In 2026, the real statistical anomaly would be finding someone with an internet history consistent with a Carabinieri officer.

“But by drilling Chiara, did Sempio find oil?”
I don't know. Ask OPEC. I believe that legally the first driller has rights to the field, so perhaps the issue is more complex than it seems. International arbitration might be necessary.

And no, I'm not exaggerating. The real point is precisely this: the attention paid to this trial is morbid. Not judicial. Morbid.

And that's why these defamatory, pornographic novels built around the defendants work so well: because, ultimately, almost no one really cares about understanding who killed Chiara Poggi.

What you really want to know is who drilled it, how much, how, in what location, with what imagination, how many people were there, and possibly whether an oil field was also identified during the operation.

That's all.

I, on the other hand, use xhamster.