The Good Cop

by Peter Steiner

  ‘Ein kleines bier,’ said Bergemann. Willi held up two fingers to the man at the bar, who poured off two beers. They lifted their two glasses toward one another without a word.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the Otto Bruck case,’ said Bergemann finally. He wiped the foam from his mustache with the back of his finger.

  ‘Who is Otto Bruck?’ said Willi.

  ‘When they suspended you, I went through your desk. I found your notes.’

  ‘And there was something there about an Otto Bruck?’

  ‘He’s the one that got you suspended, isn’t he?’

  ‘Is he?’ said Willi.

  ‘And that happened right after the two goons with Milch got indicted. What were their names?’

  ‘Listen, Bergemann. You show up out of the blue one fine day when, as you say, “the sun is out,” and imagine you can get me to tell you what I know and don’t know. I’m not a cop anymore, but I’m not an idiot. I don’t know what you’re up to. But if you don’t stop playing this stupid fishing game immediately, our little visit is over.’

  Bergemann looked stunned. ‘OK,’ he said after a moment. ‘Fair enough.’ He cracked his knuckles. He rubbed his cheeks and his chin, as though he might be searching for a different approach to a difficult story. ‘OK,’ he said again. ‘I overheard Gruber and Reineke talking about Otto Bruck. It was the day you were fired … suspended. And I guessed you were getting close to something or they wouldn’t have suspended you. So I went backwards through the calendar and came upon’ – he pulled a notepad from his pocket and read – ‘Karl Meier and Jürgen Veit. You arrested them and interviewed them at length. There were no interview notes, which was odd. And there were letters of complaint from their lawyer’ – he read his notes again – ‘Stefan Müller. Letters that gave me his version of the interviews. He didn’t mention Bruck by name, but he talked about an “injured party”. Müller works for Bruck. So I figured that’s who he was referring to. I started looking into Bruck a little.’ Bergemann looked at Willi, waiting for him to say something, but Willi remained silent.

  Bergemann continued, ‘Bruck’s employed as a school superintendent. But he’s been suspected of various crimes, some quite serious, that he is supposed to have committed using different names. He has friends in high places, so he has rarely been formally charged and has never been convicted of anything. The couple of times he has been charged, the judge ruled that the evidence was insufficient, even though the evidence looks substantial to me, and so the cases never came to trial.’

  ‘Insufficient?’ said Willi.

  ‘Well, he’s been associated with people who turned up dead. In fact, judging from his connections, activities, and whereabouts back then, I think he was probably involved in’ – the notebook again – ‘the February 21, 1919 assassination of the Bavarian Premier, Kurt Eisner. I also think he may have been involved in blowing up the Bild newspaper offices where the editor was killed. You were on that case, as I recall. So, yes, I think there’s a Bruck case.’

  Willi gave Bergemann a long look. ‘It doesn’t sound like you need any help from me.’

  ‘Here’s the thing, Herr Geismeier … Willi. Gruber’s getting big-time pressure from on high – Reineke and probably even higher. As I say, Bruck’s got high-up friends, and somebody thinks you’re still on Bruck’s case.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Willi. ‘How could I be? I’m suspended.’

  ‘They think you’re still investigating, and they want you stopped.’

  ‘And you came to warn me?’

  Bergemann laughed. ‘Well, yes and no. I did want to warn you, but I mainly came because Gruber told me to. To find out what you’re up to, what you know.’

  ‘So, what are you going to tell him?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I have to tell him something. I’d love it if you could throw me a bone, some harmless bit of news, that would get him off your case. And maybe off mine too.’

  ‘Some harmless bit of news.’

  ‘Gruber’s caught in a bind. He thought being a Nazi would be fun, that he could use Nazis – like Reineke – to get ahead. Now it’s turning out otherwise. Reineke doesn’t trust Gruber anymore. Turns out his wife’s a Jew, so Gruber missed out on getting in the SS. He’s probably never going higher than detective sergeant, and he knows it. Even Wendt has been promoted over him.’

  ‘Robert Wendt, your old partner?’

  ‘Yeah, well. We took different paths, Robert and I.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘I know you’ll think I’m bullshitting you, Willi, but I have to say this anyway: I owe you a lot. There was a moment not too long ago – you were already gone – when I decided to be a good cop. It was when I realized what a bad cop I had been. Lazy, indifferent, oblivious. I admit it. Going along to get along. I know – everybody knows – that you’re a good cop. Even Gruber and Reineke and Wendt and the others know it. So, once I decided to change my ways, I looked to you to see what exactly being a good cop would mean.’

  He paused. Willi said nothing. Bergemann went on. ‘I also looked at you to see what mistakes you made that I could avoid. Do you want to hear this?’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Willi.

  ‘I think your most serious mistake was your unwillingness to make compromises, to be sociable. You never went to departmental parties, never went for a beer with your colleagues after your shift. You weren’t friendly.’

  ‘I’m still not,’ said Willi.

  Bergemann laughed. ‘You seemed to go out of your way to do stuff to annoy people. You rubbed them the wrong way. It looked like you did it on purpose.’

  ‘Maybe I did.’

  ‘Well, the way I see it, you have to make small compromises so you don’t have to make big ones. For instance, the police and the SA still feud sometimes, but they’re coming together. They’ll merge before long. So I wear the SA uniform sometimes now. I know you’d never do that. But it turns out it’s an effective disguise. Nobody sees you when you’re in uniform. They see a storm trooper, and I remain invisible. Sociability, compromise, those can be disguises too.’

  Willi drank his last sip of beer, set the glass down and turned it, making a wet circle on the coaster. Bergemann couldn’t tell what Willi might be thinking or whether he was thinking at all. Finally, though, after a long silence, Willi looked up and said, ‘I do have something for you, Bergemann. But it’s far from harmless.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ll send it to you,’ said Willi.

  ‘You could give it to me.’

  ‘I’ll send it to you.’

  On Friday afternoon, Bergemann got an envelope. There was no return address. It had been hand delivered; the desk officer couldn’t say by whom. Inside was a letter and, attached with a paper clip, the drawn likenesses of Konrad Milch and Otto Bruck.

  Detective Hans Bergemann,

  Walther Hinzig, a pressman at the newspaper, Das Neue Deutsche Bild, was an eyewitness to the bombing of the newspaper offices in which Erwin Czieslow was killed. Herr Hinzig described both of the bombers to an artist who drew these likenesses from his descriptions. No one in the department knows of the existence of these drawings.

  This information is being delivered to the Munich Post and to the Bavarian state prosecutor at the same time it is being sent to you.

  There followed a brief list of other forensic evidence that had been collected after the bombing that could be found in the department Evidence Room, unless it had been removed. Bergemann copied out the list of forensic evidence for his own use, then took everything to Gruber. Gruber read the letter and looked at the drawings. He reread the letter. ‘Jesus. Which prosecutor? There are twenty prosecutors in that office.’

  ‘Eighteen,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘OK, eighteen,’ said Gruber. ‘So, which prosecutor?’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ said Bergemann. ‘He didn’t tell me this was coming.’

  ‘And he didn’t say anything about giving this to the Post?�
�

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What did you find out about his life these days? Is he still working?’

  ‘He said no. But then this’ – he pointed to the letter – ‘says otherwise.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He lives at Penzigauerstraße 26, third floor, apartment B. There’s a woman.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ Bergemann anticipated the next question. ‘He didn’t let me inside.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Bergemann. All you managed to do was warn him we’re onto him.’

  ‘He knew that already. I told you …’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Gruber. ‘Go see that reporter woman. Sophie whatshername. Threaten her a little. Find out what the Post is doing with this stuff.’

  Bergemann went to the Post as instructed. Security guards at the entrance checked his identification. The receptionist opened the office directory to Sophie’s name. ‘I’m sorry, sir, she’s not in the office.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘Oh, not for some time. She’s away.’

  ‘She still works for the Post, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But she’s on leave.’

  ‘On leave?’

  ‘Maternity leave,’ said the receptionist flashing a happy smile. ‘She’s having a baby!’

  SUSPENSION

  Otto Bruck knew he couldn’t just kill Willi. You kill a Munich cop, even an asshole like Willi Geismeier, and the entire police force will rise up against you. Otto had pulled strings behind the scenes to get Willi fired for insubordination, thinking that then he could deal with him as he wanted to. And he had almost succeeded. After all, insubordination was ridiculously easy to prove when it came to Detective Geismeier. Between them, Gruber and Reineke had page after page of instances. But Willi, it turned out, also had friends in high places. So an indefinite suspension was the best Bruck and his friends could manage.

  There was no trial, but Willi was entitled to a formal suspension ceremony, and for some reason he wanted that. The ceremony took place in Reineke’s office. Willi was not in uniform, but he had pinned all his commendation ribbons to his rumpled suit jacket. Reineke read aloud instance after instance of misbehavior, getting angrier and angrier as he read. Then he announced that Detective Willi Geismeier was herewith suspended from the Munich police force until further notice while his case was reviewed.

  Willi stood at attention. ‘Goddamn it, Geismeier,’ said Reineke when he was finished, ‘I hope you’re satisfied. You’ve undermined investigation after investigation, interfered with others, and in the process ruined your own career, what could have been a perfectly good police career. What do you have to say for yourself?’

  ‘Will that be all, Captain?’ said Willi.

  ‘What?’ said Reineke. He needed to be sure due process was followed, and Geismeier wasn’t even going to make that easy. More than a few higher-ups were in the room, Major Gleiwitz among them, who had not at all been on board with Willi’s suspension. Yes, he freely admitted, Detective Geismeier was difficult. He had unconventional methods, and he flouted regulations. But he was a skillful investigator and he still cleared far more cases than other detectives. ‘I mean, look at him: he has more decorations than all the other detectives, and most of his superiors as well.’

  ‘You have the right to speak, Detective Geismeier,’ said Reineke, one eye on Major Gleiwitz. ‘You are guaranteed the right to speak.’

  ‘Will that be all, Captain?’ said Willi again.

  ‘All right, Geismeier. Have it your way.’ He snapped to attention. ‘Dismissed!’ he said, his voice trembling with rage.

  Willi saluted, did an about face, and walked out of the office.

  ‘I warned you about Bruck,’ said Major Gleiwitz later, when he and Willi were together. ‘You should never have messed with that man.’

  ‘Yes, sir, you warned me,’ said Willi.

  ‘This could cost you your career. Is it worth it?’

  ‘Time will tell, sir. It’s out of my hands now.’

  ‘What have you got on Bruck anyway, Geismeier?’

  Willi remained silent.

  ‘OK, fine, I understand. But, whatever it is, it’s somebody else’s case now.’

  Again Willi said nothing.

  ‘You’ve done a lot of good police work, Geismeier. And you did a damn fine job for my mother, and my goddamn idiot brother. She thanks you, and I thank you. My brother should thank you too, but that’s another story.’ The two men shook hands.

  So Willi Geismeier was gone. Or was he? Otto Bruck hadn’t counted on the loyalty of cops to one another. Even those who didn’t like Willi didn’t like seeing him screwed over for political reasons, and that was plainly what had just gone on. In this new political police force, this sort of thing was happening more and more. Every cop imagined he could be the next one it happened to. Willi Geismeier may have been a jerk, but at least he was their jerk.

  Otto Bruck learned about the drawing of him from one of the Bavarian state prosecutors. When he saw it he was startled by the likeness. ‘That’s me, all right. Jesus. What happens now?’

  ‘It’s too late to bury it,’ said the prosecutor. ‘An investigating judge will look at it and decide whether to bring charges. But even if they do, this doesn’t prove anything. It’s not something I’d worry too much about.’

  Stefan Müller, Otto’s lawyer, said the same thing. ‘Don’t worry. It’s a drawing by someone who wasn’t there, made from a description by an addled old man. As a piece of evidence, it’s useless. As long as there isn’t other corroborating evidence.’

  When the Post took a look at everything they had on Bruck and the bombing, their editors and lawyers came to the same conclusion, albeit reluctantly. ‘Bruck’s a murderous swine; we know that. But we need more before this is a story.’ And the investigating judge reacted similarly. ‘It’s not enough to build a case on,’ he said.

  ‘I think Geismeier’s tipped his hand,’ said Stefan Müller. ‘He can’t have anything else, or it would have come out now.’

  Otto gave Müller a look that caused him to pause.

  ‘Can he?’ said Müller.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Bruck, waving the question aside. Something else had just occurred to him. ‘He must have had this drawing for years, right?’

  ‘Yes. Since right after the bombing, I would think.’

  ‘So why now? Why hold on to it all this time and then release it now?’

  ‘Because he’s scared of you now,’ said Müller. ‘You got him suspended. He’s afraid of what’s next.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not it. There’s something else. Something’s missing here.’

  ‘Maybe he kept it as a kind of ace in the hole.’

  ‘But why release it now, at this moment? Maybe he was protecting someone by not releasing the picture.’

  ‘Besides himself?’ said Müller. ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? Who’s he protecting?’ said Otto.

  ‘You figure that out,’ said Müller, ‘and we’ve got him.’

  MARIA CHRISTINE

  Maria Christine Wolf was born just after midnight. It was a warm night, the second day of June 1929, and she lay in a large painted bed that looked more like a sleigh than a bed, in a farmhouse in Bad Stauffenheim, a farming village two hours southeast of Munich. The birth went smoothly. Maria Christine was pink and plump and in full voice. Sophie was exhausted and happy.

  Maximilian and his parents, August and Ingeborg Wolf, whose house it was, were in the room. The room and its furnishings, not just the bed, were brightly painted as was often the case in farmhouses in upper Bavaria. The ceiling beams and supporting posts were entwined with painted garlands of red, blue, and yellow flowers. Red-cheeked peasants in costumes and jolly birds and animals danced across the doors, up and down the giant armoire, and across the shutters framing the windows.

  Sophie had been certain she would never bring child
ren into this world, until it had dawned on her that the arduous and dangerous work she had been doing had been dedicated to a future generation that existed only in her imagination. Maximilian was delighted when Sophie said she wanted a child, because, he said, he was a child himself, and now he would have someone to play with. Although neither Sophie nor Maximilian believed in God, they gave their child a name that sounded, each time you said it, like a small prayer of hope and celebration, an incantation, affirmation of something they knew was not there, but might, through some miracle, come into being. They never gave her a nickname; they never called her anything but Maria Christine.

  The plan was that Sophie and Maria Christine would stay in Bad Stauffenheim for the summer. Maximilian would come for long weekends. He was busy with Aaron Appelbaum putting together a show of drawings and small paintings for the London gallery. ‘If this is successful,’ said Aaron, ‘then next year we’ll try New York.’

  Two uniformed policemen showed up at the Post asking to see Sophie Auerbach. They were told she was away. They asked where she was. The receptionist explained that she was on leave. They asked again where she was. When the receptionist declined to tell them, they demanded to speak with the editor.

  Franz Ortner, the editor, asked why they needed that information. They said they had a warrant for Sophie Auerbach’s arrest and that Ortner had a legal obligation to give them her address. He gave them the address in Bad Stauffenheim. As soon as the policemen left, Ortner called Sophie to let her know that the police were coming. It took a while for the call to go through.

  Meanwhile, his assistant tracked down Maximilian. Maximilian ran to the station as soon as he heard and took the next train to Salzburg. He was glad he had a compartment to himself; he did not want to share his terror with strangers. He gazed from the window as the city seemed to trickle away. Large buildings gave way to smaller ones which gave way to open space and trees heavy with new leaves. Telephone lines swooped past, roads converged and then darted away. The yellow wheat fields turned suddenly to green peas or alfalfa and then back again or to cows or to a village, snow-covered mountains in the distance. The world moved past, shifting this way and that, filled with indecipherable meaning, like a sped-up life, like silent music.