by Alex Beer
Outside on the street, Winter took such deep breaths that Emmerich was worried he would hyperventilate.
“A few germs aren’t going to hurt a strong young guy like you,” he tried to calm him.
“You have no idea how bad they can be.”
Emmerich could tell Winter needed a break. “I’ll go back to the commissariat and have a look at the evidence given the latest developments—maybe I can figure something more out about the identity of the other men. You can go home. It’s been a long enough day.”
Winter nodded gratefully. “You should feel free to come over later to sleep. Don’t worry about my grandmother, just ring the bell.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
“By the way . . . ” Winter looked at him shyly. “Nice that you let Frau Czernin keep those things.”
“Like I said: right and just aren’t always the same thing.”
Emmerich ground up and snorted his final tablet. He could feel the heroin’s effects after just a few steps, and his entire being was enveloped in a soft, warm cloud that absorbed all physical and psychological pain. All his cares and fears dissipated. If you really look at it, though, my situation’s not so tragic. I could be much worse off, he thought.
He felt so good, in fact, that he thought for a moment of walking over to where the children had been playing hopscotch to try his luck at the chalk squares. But they’d probably long since gone to bed. Minna was right. The heroin got into your system faster and was more intense when you snorted it. It was almost intoxicating. Too good to be true.
For the first time, Emmerich worried. Should he have informed himself about what he was taking? Were there perhaps side effects or limits on how much you could take?
“Ach, who cares,” he mumbled, motioning with his hand to swat away the troublesome thoughts.
Heroin was being promoted everywhere as a wonder drug. It was even in cough syrup for kids. He should be thankful not skeptical, and enjoy the benevolent view of the world the drug gave him.
And as if to confirm this thought, an advertising pillar appeared before him. Until recently spaces like these had been dominated by conscription orders, war dispatches, and casualty lists, but now the pillars displayed positive things—notices about charity benefit events and theater performances, ads hawking new products. Maybe Winter’s unshakeable optimism wasn’t so totally unwarranted.
Emmerich had reached the commissariat and opened the door.
“Emmerich! Where’ve you been hiding? We missed you yesterday evening.” Hörl’s face betrayed the aftereffects of the carousing.
“I guess it was for the best; otherwise I’d look the way you do.”
“Which would be a marked improvement.”
“Ha,” snapped Emmerich. “Somebody thinks he’s a comedian.”
The overnight man struggled to keep his eyes open.
“What are you doing here anyway? You’re not on duty tonight. Or are you?”
“I’m always on duty.”
Officially, Emmerich’s day had ended hours ago, but he didn’t know where to go. He had no apartment to go home to, no money for a pub or hotel, and he had no desire to be around Winter’s thieving grandmother. The commissariat was the only place left.
Emmerich went into the back room where the file cabinet was with mug shots of missing persons and criminals. He compared one photo after another to the men in Czernin’s photo, trying to imagine away the mustaches and add the changes that came with age. But try as hard as he might, he found no match.
“Let me know if you need help,” Hörl offered when Emmerich returned to the main room. “I don’t really have anything else to do tonight.”
“Thanks a lot. But you should have told me,” Emmerich looked at the big grandfather clock ticking away in an adjoining room, “ . . . a few hours ago.”
He rubbed his burning eyes and yawned. What should he do now? The best thing would be to write the outstanding report for Sander. It was unavoidable anyway. He expanded Winter’s Querner report with a few extra details and then made up a fantastical plan to catch Veit Kolja and added that. At the end of the report he swallowed his pride and asked for an advance against his next paycheck. He thought for a moment about whether he should tack on the latest developments in the murder cases but decided against it. In the end, Sander would end up getting all the credit for that, too.
After he’d finished the report he went back to looking at the photo of the men.
Who were these men, and what was their story? Would more of them die, or would he be able to stop that from happening?
“Damn, old man, you look tired,” said Hörl, whose shift was ending, which seemed to give him new energy. “Don’t you want to go home?”
“Soon. I just need to relax for a minute.”
Emmerich put his head down on the table and closed his eyes. He didn’t notice how uncomfortable it was, or how hard the table was, because Hörl had barely left the room before he was asleep.
27.
What a beautiful morning. How wonderful life could be! Josephine Bauer strolled with a smile on her face across Schlachthaus Bridge toward Prater, letting the autumn sun warm her rosy cheeks.
It was her day off, and she was enjoying every minute of it. She’d gotten up early, bought a candy apple from a street vendor, and bought a ticket from the lotto dealer. She was too worried that her number would be drawn the one day she didn’t play. 7-11-73-42-66. Her birth date, her street address, and her apartment number. One day the orphans who drew five numbers every Tuesday and Friday from a drum holding ninety balls would pull hers. Maybe even soon. Josephine just knew it, which is why she’d bought a full share rather than her usual quarter share.
As she walked past the Hoffourage depot, a six-story building that had been converted after the war from a granary into a carriage works, she let her imagination run wild, picturing what she would do with the winnings. She would definitely open her own pub. A nice small one. Comfy and familiar. Just a few tables, a changing weekly menu, and lots of regulars. If there was any money left over she’d get some new clothes and perhaps a season ticket to the theater.
It felt great to be an independent woman. It had been just fine with Josephine that typhoid had taken her ill-tempered tyrant, Adolf, during the fourth year of the war—it had made her the happiest widow around. The whole world yammered on about the consequences of the war, but she was enjoying all the opportunities and advantages it had opened up for her. It had become socially acceptable for women to work, women’s rights organizations had formed, and it was no longer a scandal to be single and independent.
And that’s exactly what she was—she was in a better situation, able to provide for herself better than all the men she knew. Her wages allowed her to take care of her living expenses without any trouble, and she also had her garden plot, to which she was walking now—it was the one sensible thing that idiot Adolf had ever acquired. The little plot yielded enough fruit and vegetables to fill her up daily, and she was able to sell produce to relatives and acquaintances to bring in a little extra money. At this time of year, she had parsnips, rutabagas, and celery root, and she was looking forward to making a hearty stew.
Josephine crossed Schlachthausbrückenallee and turned right into the extensive grounds of the Wasserwiese park. The former parade ground had been converted into garden plots in 1916 by Kaiser Franz Josef in order to help relieve shortages, though it came to look more like a military exclusion zone than a green paradise. Out of fear of looters, the owners of the plots ringed them with barbed wire fences and metal gates, transforming their properties into impregnable fortresses.
Josephine’s parcel was near the middle of the grounds and thus well protected, but you could never be sure . . . Which is why she exhaled with relief each time she arrived and found her little empire untouched. Like today.
She unlocked the three locks that secured the h
ead-high fence around her plot, put the basket she’d brought down on the little path that separated the garden beds, and pulled out a trowel, a tin can, and a loud-ticking alarm clock. Hungry thieves weren’t the only ones after her vegetables. Voles wanted to feast on them, too. The noise of the clock was supposed to keep away the miserable rodents. Forever. Because she didn’t want to lose a thing.
“Time to say goodbye,” she mumbled, kneeling down and jabbing the trowel into the dirt.
“So it is.”
Josephine grabbed her chest, startled, when she looked up to see a pair of black boots worn by a man she didn’t recognize. She had relocked the gate behind her, she was sure of it, and he couldn’t have climbed over the barbed wire fence.
“H . . . h . . . how did you . . . ?” She couldn’t get anything else out as her voice broke with panic.
“There are ways.” The man showed no emotion. In fact he spoke in the sort of calm tone he might use to strike up a friendly conversation. As she got over her initial shock and stood up to face the intruder, the man kicked her leg so forcefully that she fell back to the ground. “Stay down.” His tone was still friendly, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that she was dealing with a dangerous man.
“Help!” she screamed. “Somebody help me!”
“I’d stop that if I were you.” He reached behind his back and pulled a pistol from the waistband of his pants, which he aimed at her head. “First of all, there’s nobody around. And second, you’ve sealed off your garden so well that nobody could get in to help you anyway.”
“Here,” she said, pushing the basket toward him. “Take whatever you want. I also have a little money saved up. I’ll give it to you.”
“This isn’t about money,” snapped the stranger. “It’s about our country’s honor.”
Josephine Bauer lifted her head and stared at the man with her mouth open. Was she dealing with some poor lunatic who’d lost his mind, not his life, in the war? There were certainly enough people like that running around the city these days. But he didn’t look like one of them. His gaze was untroubled, and he seemed clear of mind.
“Our country’s honor? But . . . but . . . what do I have to do with that?”
“For God, for Kaiser, and for Vaterland,” he said and pulled the trigger.
28.
Must be trouble on the home front.” Hörl’s voice entered Emmerich’s consciousness as if through a thick fog.
“I think they had a fire,” Winter said.
August Emmerich slowly opened his eyes and stared at the wood grain of the table surface. “What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his face.
“Eight,” Winter said. “Our shift just started.”
Emmerich sat up and suppressed a groan. His neck was so stiff he could barely move it, and his lower back was tense with pain.
“If you can somehow manage to find me a proper cup of coffee somewhere, then let me urge you to go do so immediately,” he said to Winter.
“Coffee . . . Where would I possibly get a cup of real coffee?” Winter’s mind raced.
“Forget it.” Emmerich stood up and ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. “I’ll see if I can scare one up myself.”
Without another word, he pulled on his jacket, put on his cap, and went outside, where the autumn sun smiled down at him mockingly. He didn’t actually care about the coffee. What he really needed was pain medicine. He wouldn’t get through the next few days without it.
The nearest pharmacy was one that had already refused to help him a few days before—he could forget that place. He had no choice but to go further afield in search of another one.
Emmerich walked as slowly as a doddering old man. He felt like strangling Winter’s grandmother. The nerve of that old aristocrat.
“Wait, please, wait a moment.” A woman wearing a red scarf on her head, fingerless gloves, and several layers of skirts on top of each other reached for Emmerich’s hand and looked without asking at his palm. “Oh, no, no, no. Not good. Not good at all.” Emmerich pulled away angrily and limped off, but the old lady wouldn’t be so easily deterred. She walked along with him, her skirts rustling. “Can I look into your future, gracious sir?” she pleaded in the typical Bohemian accent that could be heard on every street corner at the moment. “For a few crowns I can give you all the information you’ll need to avoid the great tragedies that are written on your palm.”
“Get out of here.” Emmerich was in no mood to chat. “You’re too late. The great tragedy has already happened.”
“More coming. More tragedy’s coming.”
Emmerich rolled his eyes and sped up despite the pain. He’d had enough of crazy old ladies.
The woman was right about one thing, though: more tragedy did come. When he finally reached the pharmacy a note in the window said it was closed indefinitely. The note didn’t say why, but Emmerich could guess—shortages of supplies. You couldn’t sell something you didn’t have.
What should he do now? He had no energy and no time to wander the surrounding streets in the hope of finding an open pharmacy. After quickly weighing his options he decided to try Wiesegger again. Their last interaction hadn’t been so unpleasant at all, so perhaps the medical examiner would help this time.
He walked to the next tram stop, got rid of the fortune-teller before she could ask him for money a second time, and rode to Spitalgasse.
Along the way he looked at the people on the street. You never know, maybe I’ll see the man with the scar again, he thought. “Who is he, and what does he want from me?” he said aloud, earning an annoyed glance from a elegantly dressed young woman. There was a fine line between normality and life as a crazy old man.
When he finally made it to the medical examiner’s complex, he realized it was calmer than usual. No hectic activity, no agitated students, no corpses being shifted here and there. Was Death taking a breather?
Since he found the door to the institute locked and nobody responded to his calls, he shielded his eyes and peered through the window.
“There’s nobody in there but the dead,” said a young man who rushed past him while studying a folder. “Professor Hirschkron is at a conference and Professor Meixner is still out sick,” he explained without looking up.
“What about Wiesegger?”
“You just missed him. He had to go to a crime scene. A woman was shot.”
Emmerich cursed silently to himself. This day was starting out great. “Wait! I have a few questions!” he called after the young man, but he was gone.
“More tragedy’s coming,” he muttered, and since there was nothing else to do he headed back to the commissariat.
“Must have gone an awful long way for that coffee,” said Hörl when Emmerich entered.
“And unfortunately without success. But perhaps we can find one along the way, Winter.”
“Along the way to where?” his assistant wanted to know.
“The war archive. We have to find out who these other men are, and the easiest way to do that is to figure out what company they were serving in.”
Winter quickly threw on his jacket. “Why didn’t you come to our place?” he asked. “You really didn’t have to sleep here.”
“A different bed every night, that seems to be my curse. I’m already curious to see where I end up tonight.” Emmerich groaned. The pain in his leg had grown stronger.
“Everything okay with you?” Winter looked at his boss with a worried look.
“Fine.” Emmerich grimaced and shooed him aside. “My back’s just stiff from sleeping awkwardly.” Hopefully his assistant would know not to ask any more questions.
They left the commissariat silently, walked through the streets, passing long lines, wounded veterans begging, and elegant women strolling through the city in their finery. They passed beautifully decorated shopwindows, playing children, and shouting
newspaper boys. But Emmerich barely cast a glance at anyone or anything. He just trudged along, one step after the next, gritting his teeth, trying to block out any thoughts.
“We have to go in here,” said Winter when Emmerich nearly walked by the war archive.
“Ah . . . like I said . . . ” he mumbled, willing his way up the steps and across the marble lobby before bracing himself on the inquiries desk to take the weight off his leg.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” they heard a voice calling after Emmerich rang the reception bell several times. Shortly thereafter a little round man came shuffling around the corner. He had very little hair left on his head but he did have a spectacular Kaiser Wilhelm mustache that was parted in the middle and turned up at the ends in an exhibition that left the former German regent in the dust. “What can I do for the gentlemen?” he asked, visibly indignant.
Emmerich looked at the man so angrily that Winter hurriedly took the initiative.
“Grüß Gott, we’re from the police detective corps and need any information you can provide about the soldiers in this photo.” He showed him his badge and took the photo from Emmerich and put it on the desk. “Names, ranks, deployments, etc, etc . . . ”
The bureaucrat put a pince-nez on his nose and took down a few notes. “It could take a while.”
“We’ll wait.” Emmerich crossed his arms and looked around for someplace to sit.
“Whatever you’d like, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With these words he disappeared through the same swing door through which he’d entered.
“It can’t be so difficult to dig up a bit of information.” Emmerich sat down on a narrow wooden bench next to the inquiries desk, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes.
A full hour later Emmerich rang the reception bell anew. “What a state of affairs! No wonder we lost the war,” he snarled when the bureaucrat came shuffling out again.
“Maybe you are unaware, but a lot has happened in the last few years. The monarchy fell and we have to organize and administer all the files of the dissolved Royal and Imperial army units. And when I say all, I mean all,” the man justified himself, dabbing at his bare head with a handkerchief.