The Good Cop

by Peter Steiner

  ‘They took me off the case, Herr Wolf, so I’m not working on it any longer. Detective Sergeant Gruber is in charge of it, if you need to talk to someone.’ Willi was mostly on desk duty these days or working home break-ins, store robberies, that sort of thing. ‘How is Fräulein …’ He couldn’t remember her name.

  ‘Auerbach. Sophie Auerbach,’ said Maximilian. ‘She’s doing well. She’s mostly recovered from her injuries.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. Look, I’m sorry no one has been in touch, Herr Wolf. Someone should have been. But, frankly, the case had gone cold, even while I was still on it. And now it’s been almost two years, if I remember correctly. I still show the drawings around, when it’s … appropriate. Neither one of the men you drew is in our files as far as anyone can tell. And other than your drawings, there was nothing to go on. As far as I can tell, there still isn’t.’

  ‘Does Detective Gruber have the drawings?’ said Maximilian. ‘I remember, you weren’t going to show them to him.’

  ‘No, that’s right. I never did. And … I don’t want to.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ said Maximilian. ‘Can we go somewhere more private?’ People were passing nearby. ‘I want to show you something.’

  They went into an interview room. Willi closed the door. Maximilian took that day’s Post from his pocket and handed it to Willi.

  ‘I don’t have a lot of time,’ said Willi. ‘What with yesterday’s events and all. What am I looking for here?’

  ‘Look at the drawings on page two.’

  Willi opened the paper and looked. Then he recognized the drawing of Konrad and looked again. ‘Where was this?’ he said. ‘Is this from the march?’

  ‘The Putsch, yeah. Just below Residenzstraße and the Feldherrnhalle.’

  ‘So he was there.’

  ‘Marching with the brownshirts.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  Maximilian pointed at the bruise. ‘Yeah. He did this. He didn’t like me drawing him. He doesn’t know who I am, or that I have any connection to the bombing. He just didn’t like being drawn.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Willi. ‘Except you drew for the Bild and now draw for the Post, so, unless he’s an idiot, it won’t be too hard for him to make the connection and find you.’ Willi looked at Maximilian without speaking. Then his eyes darted around the room in that odd way he had when he was thinking. He walked to the end of the room, turned around and walked back.

  ‘You recognize that you’ve put yourself into a … situation, Herr Wolf? I mean, first of all, you’ve inserted yourself right in the middle of an ongoing police investigation. And you’ve put yourself in danger.’

  ‘Is there an ongoing police investigation, Herr Geismeier? You said yourself you’ve reached a dead end. As far as I can see nothing is going on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a dead end. I’d call it stalled. In any case, that doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Well, now I’ve brought you this.’ He tapped the newspaper with the back of his hand. ‘That could be the very thing to get the investigation going again, couldn’t it?’

  ‘I wish you had just brought it to me instead of … this.’ Willi took the paper from Maximilian and looked at it again. ‘This guy – we don’t even know his name – now knows all about you: who you are, where you work, and that you’re interested in him.’

  ‘Konrad,’ said Maximilian.

  ‘What?’

  ‘His name is Konrad. The guys that pulled him off me called him Konrad. I don’t know his last name.’

  ‘Well, that’s just great. So, what did you think you were doing putting this in the paper? Why didn’t you just bring it to me?’

  ‘And what would you have done with it that you couldn’t do with the first drawing?’

  ‘Knowing more about who he is, where he has been, who he’s connected to, we could have resumed our search for Konrad and probably found him. So,’ said Willi, ‘why put it in the paper?’

  ‘So that he’ll come looking for me,’ said Maximilian.

  ‘Probably he won’t just smack you in the face next time. If he didn’t like you drawing him he’s not going to like you putting your drawing in the paper, that’s for sure. This guy’s a killer, Herr Wolf, and you just hung a big fat bullseye on your back.’

  THE DETECTIVE SERGEANT

  With Hermann Gruber’s promotion to detective sergeant, the dynamics in the squad changed. A reorganization had been ordered from the top, with Gruber put in charge of the squad which up to now had been under Captain Reineke’s direct supervision. Reineke, who was seen by higher ups as ‘reliable’, that is favorable to the NSDAP, had also been promoted, and now oversaw multiple detective squads. The reorganized squad under Gruber included seven detectives, four of whom – including Gruber – were also NSDAP storm troopers. Willi did not have a partner and had been shunted onto make-work cases, which Reineke thought would keep him busy and diminish the possibility that he might get up to mischief.

  During his brief tenure as a detective, Gruber’s main purpose had been advancing his own career, which he had done by concealing the willful incompetence and growing malfeasance of police higher-ups favorable to Hitler. Gruber had only ever investigated a crime in order to discover how to cover it up. For Willi, being without a partner and dealing with make-work meant to him that he could investigate crimes as he saw fit. As long as he kept his closure rate high – which he did by solving petty crimes and misdemeanors – nobody seemed to bother him, and he could continue to investigate crimes he had been ordered to stay away from. Which he did.

  Willi knocked on Gruber’s office door. ‘Come in, Geismeier,’ said Hermann. ‘What is it?’ Hermann took his cues from his mentor Captain Reineke, and, with his promotion, had taken on all the officiousness and pomp that he imagined went with the position of detective sergeant. He wore the brown uniform with his pants tucked into polished knee-high boots. His brown tie was snugged up as tight as it would go and hung squarely across his thickening belly. The overcoat, belts, holster, and pistol hung nearby. The sight of Willi’s shirttail half out and tie poorly knotted caused Hermann to scowl. ‘What do you want, Geismeier?’

  ‘Have you seen this, Sergeant?’ said Willi, handing Hermann the Post.

  ‘The Munich Pest.’ Gruber laughed at his own cleverness. ‘Of course not, Geismeier. Nobody reads the goddamn Pest.’

  ‘We should know our enemy, don’t you think, sir?’

  ‘What is it you want me to look at?’

  ‘Page two. The pictures.’ Willi watched Hermann’s eyes as they scanned down the page and lingered a moment too long on Konrad Milch.

  ‘What about them?’ said Hermann.

  ‘I’m looking into an assault complaint,’ said Willi. ‘That guy in the picture. He fits the description of the assailant in a mugging.’

  ‘Which guy?’ said Hermann, although, besides Hitler and Göring, there was only one individual depicted.

  ‘That one.’ Willi leaned over and tapped the picture. ‘There’s probably nothing to it, but …’

  ‘If you think there’s nothing to it, then why are you looking into it?’

  ‘Leaving no stone unturned, Sergeant. Crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s.’

  ‘OK, OK. Keep looking, Geismeier. And if you find anything, be sure to let me know. But for heaven’s sake, don’t waste department time on vague leads like this.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Willi.

  ‘What else are you working on right now?’ said Gruber, realizing suddenly he had no idea what Willi was up to. Willi started listing cases by name and then going into too much detail. Gruber cut him off. ‘OK, fine, fine,’ he said. ‘Just keep me up to date, Geismeier.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Willi.

  ‘Dismissed,’ said Detective Sergeant Gruber, but by then he was talking to Willi’s back.

  HONORING THE DEAD

  The ruling Bavarian triu
mvirate had been duped and nearly unseated by Hitler’s revolt. One shot fired into the ceiling of a beer hall and a series of brazen and, in retrospect, transparent lies had been sufficient to bamboozle the Bavarian State Commissioner, the commanding general of the Reichswehr in Bavaria, and the head of the State Police into joining forces with someone who, on reflection, they could all agree was deranged. They had to do something to regain their authority and the respect of the Bavarian people.

  Consequently, State Commissioner von Kahr issued a proclamation that was published in all the newspapers and posted on kiosks all over the city. He condemned in the strongest terms the deceit of the triumvirate by ‘ambitious comrades’ – meaning Hitler and Ludendorff – which had resulted in disorder, lawlessness, and ‘a scene of disgusting violence.’

  To consolidate the triumvirate’s power among the people, but particularly among the police and the army, von Kahr announced a day of mourning and a grand public ceremony on Odeon Square to honor the fallen heroes. Photos of the four dead policemen stood by the stairs of the Feldherrnhalle on easels draped in black bunting. Large black wreaths with ribbons of blue and white, the Bavarian colors, leaned against the easels. In a show of solidarity, high state and police officials stood in rows beside and behind the podium. Behind them was a full military band.

  A cavalry detachment in full parade regalia rode onto the square and stationed themselves around the perimeter. Steam poured from the horses’ nostrils; the crash of their iron shoes echoed across the square. The horses stamped their feet and shook and nodded their heads causing the ostrich plumes both they and their riders wore to be tossed this way and that.

  A thousand Reichswehr troops marched onto the square in columns of four. They were followed by policemen, also in columns of four. Behind the ranks of police and army stood more city officials and members of the public.

  Wearing mourning dress, Gustav Ritter von Kahr stepped to the podium. He spoke about the need for law and order in these difficult and trying times of inflation and poverty and an imminent Bolshevik threat. There was, he said, plenty to object to about the Socialist regime in Berlin. They were allowing the French to run roughshod in the Ruhr and to abuse the German nation. They were making common cause with the Bolsheviks. Changes had to be made. But they had to be made in an orderly and lawful fashion and by the powers that be. ‘We are under martial law,’ he reminded the crowd, ‘which means that political changes will come about only as the ruling Bavarian triumvirate determines that such changes are good for the Bavarian State.’

  Colonel Hans Ritter von Seisser, the head of the State Police, spoke next. He told the crowd that the organizers of the riot who were responsible for the loss of life had been caught and were in prison awaiting trial. There were good people on both sides, he said, and he and his colleagues – he gestured toward von Kahr and von Lossow – promised that political differences would never disturb the peace again. The Bavarian State was secure and would remain secure as long as he drew breath.

  Willi felt uncomfortable walking home. He mistrusted all ceremony, and the more pomp there was the more he mistrusted it. Willi hadn’t worn his uniform in over a year. He was unaccustomed to the feel of the boots, the tight pants, heavy coat and high collar, all the leather belts, the tall leather hat with the chinstrap. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a shop window and it stopped him short. Willi took off the hat and held it under his arm. He pretended to be looking at the watches displayed in the shop window. A uniform – police, army, it doesn’t matter – is a kind of disguise. Whoever you might think you are disappears under the uniform. You become the authority your uniform represents. You are loved, hated, admired, feared, not because of anything about you but because of the uniform you wear.

  Willi looked up and saw a man inside the shop watching him. The man looked down and busied himself with something on the counter. Willi looked at the sign on the window: ROSENSTERN – SCHMUCK UND UHREN.

  Willi opened the door which rang a bell inside. ‘May I help the gentleman?’ said the man at the counter.

  ‘Are you the proprietor?’ said Willi.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man, avoiding Willi’s eyes.

  ‘Herr Rosenstern?’ said Willi.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man, shifting uneasily.

  ‘I’m interested in buying a new watch,’ said Willi.

  ‘Does the gentleman have anything in particular in mind?’ Franz Rosenstern said.

  ‘Something modern, easy to read,’ said Willi. He didn’t really know how to shop for watches.

  Rosenstern started lining up watches on the counter for Willi to see and compare. ‘These are all German watches,’ he said. ‘This one is made right here in Munich.’ He held the watch toward Willi.

  ‘I’ve heard the Americans make good watches,’ said Willi. ‘Do you have any American watches?’

  Was this a trick question? ‘I have some, yes. But German watches are far superior.’ Franz Rosenstern was afraid. And why wouldn’t he be? The week before, his shop window had been painted with a swastika and the word ‘Jude’ by a band of young men, while two policemen, wearing the same uniform Willi now wore, watched from across the street. Every question Willi posed, every word he spoke seemed a threat in Franz Rosenstern’s eyes. And there was nothing Willi could say that would make it otherwise.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Herr Rosenstern. I can see these are fine watches. I will think about it.’

  ‘I assure you, sir, that my prices are fair and as low as you will find,’ said Franz. ‘Please, sir …’ he said, but he didn’t finish the sentence. The bell rang as Willi opened the door and left.

  It being Saturday, precinct headquarters was empty except for the duty officer. Willi went to his locker, took off the uniform, and put on the clothes he kept there – battered shoes, pants that needed pressing, a shirt, jacket, and a plaid tie. He tried without success to scrape a small stain – it looked like mustard – from the tie. He hung the uniform in the locker and vowed to himself not to wear it again.

  THE SHOW

  The Appelbaum Gallery was a large, well-lit space on the second floor overlooking the English Garden to the north. It was two days before the vernissage for Maximilian’s exhibition. Aaron Appelbaum had come back from Berlin to oversee the installation of Maximilian’s first show. Thirty of Maximilian’s drawings, selected by Maximilian and Aaron, and now matted and framed, were leaning against the gleaming white walls ready to be hung. Two gallery assistants had suspended hanger cables from the wooden railing near the ceiling and were waiting for instructions from Aaron.

  Aaron had placed the drawings in the order he wanted them. He had a practiced eye and put drawings side by side so they would complement and enhance one another, sometimes stylistically, sometimes thematically. That was how a drawing of a young couple on a park bench ended up beside a drawing of two soldiers with their heads together looking along the barrel of a machine gun. Aaron walked around the room one last time, occasionally telling an assistant to move this drawing or to reverse those two, wanting to get the arrangement just right. ‘All right,’ he said after a while. ‘Let’s start hanging.’

  Because of his newspaper work, Maximilian had become known in Munich. And, this being his first show, Aaron was hopeful that the opening would attract a large and enthusiastic crowd. Just to be sure, he had had posters put up on kiosks and advertising columns around the city. He had bought space in the arts pages in various newspapers.

  By six o’clock, Friday, though, Aaron was pacing nervously, making certain there was enough wine, enough glasses, that the drawings were all where they should be, that the labels were correct, and worrying that no one would show up. It had been snowing steadily for the whole day, and the forecast was for more snow. He walked around nudging a drawing here and there. But there was really nothing more to be done.

  He needn’t have worried. By the time Maximilian and Sophie arrived fifteen minutes early, as they had promised, there were already q
uite a few people circling through the gallery looking at drawings, leaning in, then stepping back, murmuring to one another.

  ‘These are really quite wonderful, Herr Wolf,’ said a tall, elderly man with white hair and a white mustache. His wife nodded in agreement. ‘The newspaper doesn’t do them justice.’ The man then went to Aaron, who spoke to one of the assistants who scurried over and stuck a red dot by a drawing to indicate that it had been sold.

  By six, visitors were pouring in, and by six-thirty the room was full of people looking at the drawings and talking animatedly about what they were seeing. A steady stream congratulated Aaron on this wonderful show and Maximilian on his outstanding work. Maximilian was surprised to see the detective Willi Geismeier across the room. Willi was standing not far from the portrait of Konrad. Willi gave Maximilian a faint smile and a nod and then disappeared from view as the crowd closed in front of him.

  At nine o’clock, when the event was supposed to end, the room was still full of people. Finally, at ten-thirty people were mostly gone. The gallery assistants showed the last of them out. There were red dots everywhere; most of the drawings had been sold.

  Aaron Appelbaum pronounced the show a great success. ‘It’s a remarkable result for a first show,’ he said. Several influential art writers had come, as well as curators from museums in Munich, Cologne, and Berlin. ‘A wonderful success,’ said Aaron again. ‘Well deserved. I think we should think about a show in Berlin.’ He shook hands with Maximilian and they raised wine glasses to one another. ‘Congratulations,’ said Aaron.

  The weather forecast had been wrong. The snow had stopped and it had gotten colder. The streetlights had haloes around them. Maximilian wrapped his scarf tighter and pulled his overcoat close around his neck. The fresh snow glistened in the moonlight. Tristanstraße was a fifteen-minute walk, ten if you walked through the English Garden. Sophie took his arm. The snow crunched under their feet as they turned into the park.