Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  “Was he?” said Hoffner coolly.

  “He mentioned something about Austria. The Tyrol. ‘The pact,’ he called it.” Fichte looked up eagerly. “He said I should ask you.”

  Hoffner let Fichte sit a moment longer before saying, “Nice big tits on your girl, were there, Hans?” Fichte’s face turned a deep crimson. “Toby always likes to give the big-tit girls to his guests. What would your Lina have to say, eh, Hans?”

  Hoffner regretted having said it the moment it had passed his lips. Fichte’s sudden look of concern hardly helped: not enough to have taken Fichte’s girl, Hoffner needed to make the boy feel small for letting himself off the hook. Hoffner had forgotten just how much of himself he kept locked away. Now he was seeing how easily it all came back. “I’m just teasing you, Hans,” he said to placate. “You’re young. These things happen. She knows that as well as anyone. And if she doesn’t, well, then—she doesn’t have to.”

  Fichte nodded. It was clear that he had been trying to convince himself of the same thing since Bruges. Still, hearing it from Hoffner probably helped.

  An unfamiliar boy poked his head through the doorway. Hoffner had no idea how long the boy had been standing there. He quickly stepped over and took the boy out into the hall. He had no interest in allowing a set of little eyes to get a glimpse of the files on the floor. “What is it?” said Hoffner.

  The boy was particularly small. “The men are waiting in the Press Room, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  Hoffner had completely forgotten about the meeting he had promised. In fact, he had blocked out the entire morning of interruptions: every paper in town had wanted to know where Kvatsch had gotten his story on the “chisel murders.” Clever little title. Just right for Kvatsch. The telephone had started ringing at nine o’clock and had continued unabated until nearly ten-thirty. Hoffner had told them four o’clock. He checked his watch. For newsmen, they were remarkably prompt.

  “I’ll be right down,” he said. The boy headed off, and Hoffner stepped back into the office. “Pack it up, Hans.” He angled his head toward the bit of mirror that was visible through the bookcase. “We’ll need to lock everything in the filing cabinet.” Hoffner ran a hand over his face. His beard was a bit rough. Made him look diligent, he thought. That was all right.

  “Pack it up?” said Fichte. “Why? What did the boy want?”

  Hoffner checked his teeth. “This should take about twenty minutes.” He smoothed back his hair. “That’s when they usually run out of questions.” He straightened his collar. “Or at least get tired of hearing the same answers.”

  “Who? Who gets tired?”

  Hoffner pointed to piles on the floor. “The papers, Hans.”

  The Press Room was just off the front atrium. Präger had set it up during the last weeks of the war, when the flow of reporters into the Alex had gone from a trickle to a torrent. It had all started when the General Staff—unwilling to admit just how badly things were going—decided, in its infinite wisdom, to cease any further release of information: the less people knew, the better off they were. Newspapermen, however, never saw it that way: they had turned to the Kripo as their only alternative. Not that any of the detectives had known what was going on outside of Berlin, but there was always something nice and official about quotes that cited “Kripo sources.” Naturally, once the revolution kicked in—making for genuine news—the Press Room had become the single most important office in the city. Even the General Staff had been known to send over a junior officer incognito, now and then, for a little information.

  It was all very busy and very infuriating, and Präger had reasoned that it was safer to herd the newsmen into a confined space than to have them roaming about the building on their own. The rules were simple: they could come and go as they pleased, as long as they waited patiently in the office for someone to come and get them. More often than not, that wait stretched on for hours. Interest invariably lost out to impatience: the longer they were made to sit, the less frequently they appeared. By all accounts—now that the National Assembly elections had restored a bit of order—the flow had returned to a manageable drip. Then again, the fact that a battle had been waged inside the Alex walls just over a week ago might also have had something to do with it.

  Hoffner recognized most of the eleven faces in the room, although the men’s clothes were probably a better indication of which papers had sent them. Those still in long woolen overcoats had come from the likes of the Lokalanzeiger or the Morgenpost or the Volkszeitung, men with no time to waste: people were waiting for their copy. Removing a coat could send the wrong message. They paced defiantly at the back of the room. Others had been sent by the 8-Uhr Abendblatt or the Nacht-Ausgabe, Mosse’s and Sherl’s knockoffs of the BZ. For years the two papers had been trying to compete with Ullstein’s gold mine, but neither had ever won the kind of following that the BZ continued to enjoy. The wrinkled suits and brown socks of these staff writers were proof enough of their second-class status. Sadly, these were men who were always getting scooped by Gottlob Kvatsch. For them, an appearance at the Alex was a kind of humiliation: they had missed it again. They stood off to the side, careful not to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. The final group was made up of men who looked more like stockbrokers than journalists. They were all very well put together—creases and all—and worked for papers such as the Vossische Zeitung or the Berliner Tageblatt. These were men who reported to the cultural elite, to the Westend highbrows. They sat aloof in the few chairs that were scattered about the room. Chances were, they would see the story for what it was: a bit of tabloid fodder. That, however, would not stop them from publishing it.

  “Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he continued to the rostrum at the front of the room. Those who were sitting stood. The rest bunched up across from him. “I’m Detective Inspector Hoffner—two effs. I understand you have questions about an article that appeared in this morning’s BZ.”

  For exactly twenty-two minutes the men asked and Hoffner answered. Fichte stood at the back of the room, marveling at the effortlessness with which Hoffner deflected even the most detailed of questions. It was clear that his Kriminal-Kommissar understood the essential rule of the press conference: that journalists in crowds are never as effective as when alone, probably another reason why Präger had set up the room in the first place. In this game of cat and mouse, each of the men had to be careful not to ask anything too leading lest one of his rivals learn more from the question than from the answer. Hoffner was playing them off each other to perfection. They learned that there were victims—four or five, the number was unclear just yet. That there was knife work—again, there was too little of it to make it a signature piece of the case. And that, thus far, the victims were women—old, young, there was nothing to specify at this point.

  Frustrated by the vagueness of the answers, one of the woolen overcoats finally broke down and asked about the locations of the murder sites. He had heard that the women were being killed in one place before being brought to the various sites. Was there any truth to that?

  Hoffner had anticipated the question. He was about to answer when a single “Yes” came from the doorway. Everyone, including Hoffner, turned to see Oberkommissar Braun enter the room.

  “That is, in fact, true,” continued Braun as he moved to Hoffner at the rostrum.

  Hoffner did everything he could to keep from biting through his tongue. He sensed an immediate shift in the level of interest in the room. Nonetheless, he turned back to the men as if he had been expecting Braun all along. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is Chief Inspector Braun. He is also involved with the case.” Hoffner looked at Braun. “So glad you could take the time out for us, Chief Inspector.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hoffner noticed that Fichte had been joined by Kommissar Walther Hermannsohn.

  Braun said, “The Polpo always has time for the truth, Herr Inspector.”

  A second bombshell landed as the men’s interest gave way to tension. None of them
had considered the possibility of Polpo involvement. Braun was working his magic.

  The frustrated overcoat decided to push his luck: “The Polpo?” he said. “Are we to take it, then, that this is a political case, Herr Chief Inspector?”

  Braun offered a cold smile. “In the aftermath of revolution, everything has a political side, mein Herr.” To a man, the pens started moving briskly across the pads. Braun continued, “One can never be too careful, especially with a maniac on the loose.”

  The pens stopped. No one had mentioned the word “maniac.” Even Kvatsch had managed to keep it to just this side of lurid.

  “You say a maniac,” piped in one of the stockbrokers, all traces of indifference now gone. “Can we assume he has designs on the entire city?”

  Hoffner cut in quickly: “As of now, everything is localized. Let me say, gentlemen, that there has still been no clear evidence of any transporting of victims, despite any information the Chief Inspector might, or might not, have seen.” Hoffner lied, but he needed to do something to muddy Braun’s performance.

  The stockbroker continued, “But there is at least one occurrence of a victim being moved to a separate site? Is that true, Inspector?”

  Hoffner waited for Braun to step in, but Braun said nothing: like the men in the room, he looked to Hoffner. “One case,” said Hoffner coolly. The lie was taking on a life of its own. “But there’s nothing to indicate a pattern.”

  “Does that mean that that killing could have taken place anywhere?” the stockbroker pressed.

  “As I said,” answered Hoffner, “everything is localized.” And with just a hint of contempt, he added, “No need to worry, mein Herr. Your readers in the west are safe.”

  The man was not satisfied. “Is that a promise, Herr Inspector?”

  Hoffner was getting tired of this. He was also unsure how much longer he could stand next to the conveniently quiet Oberkommissar Braun without driving something sharp into the man’s chest. “He’ll be in our custody long before he figures out what’s beyond the Tiergarten.”

  “And for those of us in the east,” cut in one of the brown socks, “it wasn’t so pressing?” The man had a point. “A maniac in Charlottenburg is reason to step things up, but a killer in the Mitte district was acceptable? Are our readers less important to the Kripo, Herr Inspector?”

  Hoffner sensed how much Braun was enjoying this. “Of course not.” Hoffner knew he had to end this, now. “We’re in the process of following several very positive leads that should have this man off the streets before he has a chance to do any more harm, in any district of the city.”

  A man at the back spoke up. Hoffner had not seen him until now. His clothes were out of keeping with the rest of the group. “And is the Polpo as certain as the Kripo about these leads?” the man asked. The question was transparent. It was the surest way to challenge Hoffner’s sincerity.

  Hoffner gazed at the man. He made sure to remember the face.

  “This,” said Braun, suddenly eager to chime in, “is a Kripo investigation.” It was as if he had been waiting for the question. “I can’t comment on any specific leads. But let me say that, while the Polpo has kept itself apprised of all criminal cases since the revolution, it is our policy never to interfere with an ongoing Kripo investigation. The Polpo has the greatest confidence in Inspector Hoffner and the entire Kripo staff to follow whatever leads it may or may not have, so as to bring this unfortunate and unpleasant business to a swift conclusion. Only if it should prove to be more than a criminal case would the Polpo then step in.”

  Hoffner was impressed. In a matter of two minutes, Braun had managed to disclose crucial and damning elements of the case, foster panic, and undermine Hoffner’s credibility, and all while distancing himself and the Polpo from any kind of connection to the case. It had been masterful, and clearly orchestrated. Hoffner had no choice but to thank him for it.

  “Always good to hear, Chief Inspector,” said Hoffner. He turned to the room. “And I believe, gentlemen, that’s all we have for you at this time.” Hoffner motioned for Braun to lead them out; Braun acquiesced. There was a flurry of questions, but Hoffner ignored them. From the back of the room, he saw Hermannsohn follow Fichte to the door.

  “Prick” was the first word out of Hoffner’s mouth as he and Fichte stepped back into his office.

  Hoffner had refused to give Braun the satisfaction of a confrontation. He had thanked him again for his words of confidence, and had then headed upstairs. Fichte had been smart to say nothing.

  “And how he enjoys it,” Hoffner continued. He moved over to the filing cabinet. He stared at it, his mind elsewhere. “There are things going on here I’m just not seeing.” He unlocked and opened the drawer. “I’m getting tired of that, Hans.”

  Fichte closed the door. “Then I suppose we have no choice but to look at what we do see.”

  A week ago, Hoffner would have taken Fichte’s contribution as little more than a parroting of what he had heard. Now the boy was actually speaking sense: not wanting to impress, Fichte was focusing.

  Hoffner had the first of the papers in his hand. “Everything in here deals with what was happening at Sint-Walburga after Wouters went missing, yes? Logs, doctors’ reports, visitors?”

  “Primarily.”

  “Nothing about his behavior immediately after the arrest, or about his first few months in the asylum?” Fichte shook his head. “Which means reading through them won’t help us understand him any better than we already do.”

  “Well, no,” said Fichte, unwilling to concede the point entirely. “We took them because we thought they’d lead us to whoever planned the escape.”

  “I’m not questioning why you took them, Hans. I’m just making sure I know what we have. Finding the people who helped him only matters once we’ve got Wouters in hand.”

  Fichte thought a moment and nodded. He was about to answer, when his eyes lit up. “There was something else,” he said as he moved to the cabinet and began to rummage through the papers. “Van Acker mentioned a few things he’d put together himself—interviews, a few last year, two or three the year before, and some drawings.” Fichte found the packet. “Here it is.”

  “Drawings,” said Hoffner. He took the packet, placed it on the desk, and began to leaf through as Fichte drew up to his side. “When it’s a case that revolves around designs and patterns, Hans, you might want to mention drawings a little earlier on.” Hoffner stopped when they came to the sheets with Wouters’s scribblings.

  There were four pages, each one filled with perhaps twenty lines of intricately drawn lace patterns. The sketches were all the same size, but what was most striking was the patterning of the rows themselves. Each one was made up of seven drawings of exactly the same design; the next row, another design and another set of replicas. Had Hoffner simply been glancing at them, he might have thought that each line was an exercise in perfecting the single designs. He quickly realized, however, that with each subsequent rendering, Wouters was bringing something new to the original drawing. The shapes, the lines, the contours might have been identical, but Hoffner knew there was something different in each one. He stood over the pages and stared, trying to find it, until, almost twenty minutes in, he saw the deviation. It was in the stroke of the pen. Each replica began at a different point of the design and moved through the lines of the pattern on its own distinct course: identical sketches, yet each one uniquely drawn. He had no idea what it meant.

  “It’s in how he draws it,” he said out loud as he began to flip through the pages. He was hoping to find something resembling the diameter-cut. There was nothing.

  The sudden break in silence momentarily startled Fichte. “An exercise, you mean?”

  “Maybe.” Hoffner stared a moment longer. “I don’t know.” He then took the pages and grabbed his coat. “Friday night,” he said as he slipped his arm through the sleeve. “The only place that handles this kind of lace and that stays open past six is KaDeWe, yes?”

/>   “The shops I tried wouldn’t be open this late,” said Fichte. “KaDeWe. Maybe Tietz. But KaDeWe definitely.”

  “Good,” said Hoffner as he grabbed his hat. “Then I’m guessing our friend there is going to be able to tell us more about Herr Wouters than you, I, van Acker, or any doctor ever could.”

  KaDeWe was packed. The revolution was now a distant memory, and capitalism had wasted no time in calling its faithful back to the teat. If any of the store’s clientele had seen this morning’s BZ, they were showing little concern. After all, there was a special on scarves, and someone had heard that a bit of perfume from Paris had finally made its way through. They were in the west, deep in the west. No one killed in the west.

  Hoffner and Fichte sidestepped their way through the crowds and over to the glove counter, where, for some reason, things were less frantic. A placard on top of the glass explained:

  We regret any inconvenience, however this department will be closing at five-thirty this evening. All inquiries may be taken up at the information desk. Thank you for your patience.

  Hoffner checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. He moved across the aisle to lady’s handkerchiefs, where a line of three or four women was waiting for the clerk. Hoffner stepped up to the glass. “The gentleman who handles the gloves,” he said bluntly. “Herr Taubmann. Where does he change before leaving the store?”

  The clerk turned slowly at the interruption as the woman started talking quietly among themselves. “Mein Herr,” he said through two stiff lips, “as you can see, there are other customers waiting—”

  Hoffner pulled out his badge; he had no time for this tonight. “My apologies. Where can I find him?”

  The man’s sneer became a weak smile. “Is there something the matter, mein Herr?” The man was doing his best not to rattle the ladies. “Surely this is a mistake?”