I decided I was finished. I’d done my part and it never had anything to do with me anyway. I left the accordion case sitting on the floor and walked out of the castle.
[Silence—duration 5 seconds]
AGENT #3553: What of the little girl on the bench?
REZNÍCKOVÁ: She was gone. No sign of her.
AGENT #3553: Weren’t you curious where she went?
REZNÍCKOVÁ: I imagine her parents had found her. Maybe they’d been at the nearby lookout tower or maybe wandering the rose garden. I had my own problems.
AGENT #3553: You’re saying you never saw her except outside on the bench atop the hill. That you did not encounter the little girl in the maze.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: There was no one there but me. Me and my reflections. Eliška and the Eliškas.
[Silence—duration 4 seconds]
AGENT #3553: Comrade Reznícková, it’s in your best interest to give up this foolish story about some samizdat and tell us what really happened on Petřín. With the little girl. We might find our way to understanding what caused you to do what you did.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
AGENT #3553: We never arrested any man named Vokov. We never followed any man named Vokov. There never was any Vokov. Nor was there any samizdat called The Defenestrator. Certainly not in the accordion case.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: Then I suspect it’s as I’ve been saying all along. We’re talking about two different accordion cases. That’s the only explanation for what you’re telling me. Vokov is a real person. I sat across the table from him, just as I’m doing with you now. Except him I could see because no one had broken my glasses.
AGENT #3553: What kind of name do you imagine Vokov to be? Slovakian? Moravian? Russian?
REZNÍCKOVÁ: I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.
AGENT #3553: It’s a made-up name for a man who doesn’t exist. We listened because in our experience, all lies eventually lead to the truth. We’re prepared to allow you to identify the accordion case now. Perhaps it’s necessary to show you the gravity of the situation. Maybe then you’ll stop indulging in this fantasy.
[Chair squeaks across floor, footsteps, opening of a door, closing of a door.]
[Silence—duration 9 minutes]
[Door opens, door closes, footsteps approach. A thump. Sounds like something being dropped upon the desk. Chair squeaks across floor.]
[Silence—duration 2 seconds]
AGENT #3553: Please describe, if you would, the object I have just placed upon the table.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: Lo and behold, the long-awaited accordion case.
AGENT #3553: Details would be helpful.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: It’s brown. It’s squarish. That’s all I can see without my glasses.
AGENT #3553: Ah, thank you for the reminder. We’d nearly forgotten—the reading glasses retrieved from your apartment. Perhaps they will help. Please put them on and describe the accordion case.
[Silence—duration 7 seconds]
REZNÍCKOVÁ: It’s brown. It’s squarish. Upholstered in leather. It’s got a handle. One corner is dented.
AGENT #3553: Please describe the object sitting to the immediate left of the accordion case.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: Keys. A key ring with keys.
AGENT #3553: We found them in your flat.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: That’s impossible. I’ve never seen them.
AGENT #3553: Please open the case if you would.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: I don’t know which key—
AGENT #3553: We’re confident you’ll find it eventually.
[Jingling of keys—duration 4 seconds]
[Metallic snapping sound of locks on accordion case being simultaneously released—less than 1 second]
REZNÍCKOVÁ: Fine, I got it opened, but that doesn’t —[unintelligible].
[Sound of REZNÍCKOVÁ screaming—duration 3 seconds]
AGENT #3553: Could you please describe the contents of the case?
[Screaming/gasping—duration 4 seconds]
AGENT #3553: No? We’ll describe them for you. Inside the case is a severed right hand measuring approximately 9.5 centimeters from the point of severance at the lunate to the tip of the index finger. The size and shape is consistent with that of a child six to eight years of age.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: Close it! Jesus fucking [unintelligible]
AGENT #3553: Blood tests and other forensic data link this detached appendage to the corpse of a female child identified as Dusana Malinová, six years of age, whose body was discovered on the morning of September 22 inside the Zrcadlové Bludiště. Do you wish to describe the knife?
REZNÍCKOVÁ: Oh my Jesus. Jesus oh my lord.
AGENT #3553: Then allow me—inside the accordion case, just to the left of the girl’s severed hand, is a cutting or hacking implement commonly referred to as a butcher’s knife. Blunted end one inch in thickness, blade end sharpened to less than a millimeter.
[Sobbing—female—continuous]
Blood samples taken from the blade match those of the deceased9. Fingerprints lifted from the wooden handle match those of the interview subject. All of this is detailed in report 752a covering the Incident at the Zrcadlové Bludiště.10 Does what I said in any way contradict what you see before you?
REZNÍCKOVÁ: My God. You’re him.
AGENT #3553: Your Right Hand of God manuscript is clearly evidence of a disturbed mind. We believe writing it provided you a dress rehearsal. A fantasy acting out of a child murder very similar to that which all evidence points to you committing on Friday night. As we cannot conclude that this was your only foray into violence, however, it is our recommendation that open homicide files with any similarities to the murder of Dusana Malinová be thoroughly investigated.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: You’re Vokov. The beard is gone, you’ve a haircut. But you’re him. Oh my God. Let me out of here—
AGENT #3553: Why you would return to the scene of your crime Sunday morning is an open question, but it’s not an uncommon occurrence among criminals, and you’re clearly delusional. This would explain your claims of having spoken with the girl on the bench two days after you’d killed her. It would explain this Vokov figure and the fact that you’ve somehow conflated your interviewer with a character completely of your own imagining.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: Why would you do this to me?
AGENT #3553: Given what you’ve told us and what we’ve read of your manuscript, we don’t believe you are mentally competent to offer a confession. Testimony in your current condition is unreliable. It’s our recommendation that you be taken to the mental health facility for a thorough evaluation. The interview is to be suspended indefinitely pending their recommendation.
REZNÍCKOVÁ: You can’t do this. Please. [sobbing]
AGENT #3553: We thank you for your cooperation. We will prepare your confession in hopes of revisiting the matter when your health improves.
[Tape concludes]
Eliška Reznícková and the Incident at Zrcadlové Bludiště—Summary of Subsequent Events and Concluding Recommendations
Subsequent to the interview transcribed herein, Eliška Reznícková was admitted to the Bohnice Psychiatric Hospital (see attached document 7a) on September 27, 1984. The admitting physician diagnosed Reznícková with acute paranoid schizophrenia and prescribed heavy doses of thorazine (her file also notes that, like many patients, Reznícková spent much of her time there in a caged bed).
Records show Reznícková’s condition steadily deteriorated while at Bohnice. She held fast to her belief that AGENT #3553 was the same person she had met calling himself Vokov, and also said she believed he was the Right Hand of God killer of legend. While at Bohnice, she further came to believe that demons were communicating with her. Reznícková became particularly fixated on a figure she called Madimi, a demon she said took the form a little girl. She claimed this entity was sending her secret messages through books and paintings.
By her final year of treatment she had withdrawn c
ompletely, ceasing all form of communication with staff or other patients. More than four years after being admitted to Bohnice, on December 12, 1988, Eliška Reznícková died as the result of injuries sustained in fall from the clock tower of the asylum. Though most windows throughout the facility were barred to prevent such occurrences, the incident report (see attached 7b) notes she had surreptitiously gained access to this area by entering a wing of the hospital normally restricted to staff. There was no evidence reported by the hospital that would suggest foul play, and her death was ruled a suicide.
No further action was taken by the StB in the case of the Incident at Zrcadlové Bludiště. The investigation into the young girl’s death was closed without officially being declared solved.
After a thorough consideration of the Zrcadlové Bludiště Incident, we have concluded that pursuing legal action against any state official or former member of the StB for actions taken against Eliška Reznícková would not be in keeping with the goals of the Office for the Documentation and Investigation of the Crimes of Communism (ÚDV). Though the fate suffered by Reznícková is regrettable to say the least, further pursuit of the matter is hampered by several factors.
AGENT #3553—This is the only individual associated with State Security who appears in the files surrounding this case. He not only authorized Reznícková’s institutionalization at Bohnice, but apparently transported her there himself, as his agent ID is the only one appearing on the intake records. Without ascertaining his identity, further avenues of inquiry into the matter are unlikely to yield desirable results. At present, we are unable to find any other case files related to Agent #3553 and must assume they have been destroyed, as it is highly improbable an officer assigned to carry out an important murder investigation would have worked no prior cases of note (nor, indeed, of any description whatsoever).
Eliška Reznícková’s mental state—Statements made during the interview lead one to believe that the police may have had grounds for ordering that Reznícková undergo psychiatric evaluation. A thorough search of government records reveals no evidence of a male figure in his mid-forties by the name Vokov (though, of course, such a figure could have given Reznícková a false name). More problematically, no evidence has been found to corroborate the existence of a samizdat newspaper called The Defenestrator.
Lack of demonstrable political motivation—Crimes possibly committed by either the authorities pursuant to the Zrcadlové Bludiště Incident or Reznícková herself don’t appear to be politically or ideologically motivated. Though no documents exist to confirm our hypothesis, this case was likely handled by State Security rather than the city’s police force because a) the magnitude of the crime and b) the fear that child murder rumors might cause panic among the citizens of the Czechoslovak capital or harm Czechoslovakia’s international reputation. And while Reznícková’s treatment at the hands of the StB was certainly less than desirable, there remains no evidence that she was tortured or her basic human rights were otherwise violated (the destruction of her eye glasses notwithstanding). Any pursuant legal claims would then fall outside the realm of those normally handled by the Office for the Documentation and Investigation of the Crimes of Communism (ÚDV).
We therefore regret that at present, the ÚDV will be unable to contribute further efforts related to the StB’s handling of Eliška Reznícková and the Incident at the Zrcadlové Bludiště. We have flagged AGENT #3553 as an operative in need of further pursuit, and in the eventuality that his identity comes to light, the case may be reopened.
Sadly, until such time, any role Reznícková may or may not have played in the death of the young girl will remain as unclear as it was in 1984.
Office for the Documentation and Investigation of the Crimes of Communism (ÚDV)
170 34 Poštovní úřad
Praha 7
Poštovní schránka 21/ÚDV
PART TWO
CHAPTER 6
My face still felt stuck in a weird grimace and my stomach was churning something awful as I lurched off the subway. The air tasted like sweat and metal, and the walls enclosing the Florenc station escalator reflected a green industrial half-light that did terrible things to the human physiognomy. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was following me, just as I had ten or thirty times since leaving Malá Strana, my suit hanging heavy and dripping over my frame. Why I’d thought to remove my shoes but not my jacket before taking the plunge I don’t know. In retrospect, there were a lot of things I would have done differently had I been thinking.
The escalator spit me into daylight.
Outside the station, people streamed from a dingy supermarket adjacent to the entrance while trams painted cream-yellow and red shuddered by on the street opposite. A group of anarcho-squatter kids with ropy dreads and pincushioned faces sat shipwrecked on the sidewalk. One of the girls had a pet rat, its white head poking out of the pocket of her army jacket, pink nose twitching, while behind them a high fence rimmed with razor wire enclosed a flea market encampment where Vietnamese sold trademark infraction apparel.
I should’ve called the police the moment the curator had fallen from the window. I knew this. Even after I’d left the scene, I could’ve grabbed one of the bored cops in black paramilitary gear hanging out by the Charles Bridge. No matter how often I told myself that surely the woman who poked her head out the window on Kampa Island had called the police, I was nagged by the possibility she hadn’t. And what would she tell them? She probably had no idea what I was doing in the canal, didn’t see the curator fall in. Of course all of this occurred to me too late. At the time, all I wanted was to get away from the little gnome houses and tangled little streets and knots of unfamiliar faces and their polyglot cacophony. Go somewhere I could reason everything out, put it together in a way that made sense. Now that I was almost back to the Hotel Dalibor, I realized such a place likely didn’t exist.
I was half-amazed to find a payphone at the end of the block, but maybe it had been given historical landmark status in our cellular age. The local emergency number was even stickered on the unit. I dug some coins out of my pocket and picked up a blue handset practically writhing with graffiti. No surface was safe in this city.
I’d leave an anonymous tip. Tell the police what happened and hang up. No sooner had I slotted the coins than my chest cavity rattled in the onset of a major cardiac event. I dropped the payphone, hand shooting to my heart. Instead I felt the contours of my shirtpocketed cell phone quivering with an incoming call. I’d left the thing on vibrate/scare-the-fuck-out-of-me mode. Glad at least the plunge in the canal hadn’t killed it. I took the phone out and glanced at the caller ID.
BOB HANNAH
Of course.
With everything that happened at the gallery, I’d forgotten that I’d called, left a message. This right before I tried to impersonate him with lethal ineptitude. Being other people is harder, more dangerous, than you might think. Even with that realization it took a good two seconds to understand why I had a sudden urge to curl up in a little ball on the sidewalk, squeeze my eyes closed, and scream obscenities.
Bob Hannah’s business card.
The curator had it in his pocket.
The payphone receiver swayed on its cord, proscribing tighter and tighter circles while the cell buzzed in my palm like some polymer cicada. I wondered if it was possible to lift prints from a business card after it had been underwater. What else had I touched? The handrail going up the stairs. A doorknob maybe. Coins in the donation box. I’d kicked the curator’s glasses. Shoe prints—could they get shoe prints?
Complication Page 9