Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  Rattled by Volker’s ferocity, the officers scattered like ants. Berg frowned. “It might have helped if they left in some order, sir. Their shoeprints could have very well obliterated those of the culprit.”

  Volker turned his anger on Berg. “First of all, that is Kolb’s concern and not yours. Secondly, the Professor can certainly distinguish what is a standard-issue police-shoe print and what is not!”

  “I stand corrected. May I take a look at the body, sir?”

  Volker stalked off, stopping abruptly at the edge of the corpse. Berg followed and stood next to him.

  She was very young and very pretty despite the death pallor. An oval face framed petite features, except for large blue eyes fixed in their gaze. Copious black hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed her face as if she were modeling for a Pre-Raphaelite painter. She was trim, but lacking in chest. Her shapely smooth legs were bent at the knees, and peeked from under the hem of her evening dress. Volker was correct. Her attire was expensive. The dress was flowing and modern, made of black chiffon and of a length designed to show off ankles. A feathered fan lay ten feet from the body. Berg bent down and picked it up, running his finger across the soft plumes that had been dyed sable black. He held it up to Volker.

  “I’ll keep this if you don’t mind.”

  Volker shrugged. Berg stowed the fan in his coat pocket, then took out a pad and pencil and began to note details—the position of the body, where it was found, what was around it. He looked at the ground for shoeprints, but there was nothing but mud and detritus. “Kolb will take a photograph of the body?”

  “I certainly hope the equipment is for something.”

  “She isn’t wearing a coat,” Berg noted.

  “And?”

  “Surely she would not have gone out last night without a coat.”

  “Surely.”

  “And only one shoe.” Berg exhaled. “Perhaps we have a killer who collects coats and shoes.” He thought a moment. “One stocking is still on, the other of course is around her neck. Has anyone checked for undergarments?”

  “A garter is holding up the lone stocking. As far as bloomers or underpants, there are none. And yes, she was violated.” Volker’s expression was flat. “Up close, one can smell it.”

  “Does she look at all familiar to you, sir?” Berg asked. “You are better acquainted with high society.”

  Volker answered without hesitation. “No, she does not.”

  “Sir?”

  Berg and Volker turned toward the sound. It was Storf. His nose and cheeks were red. He rubbed his bare hands together and blew on his fingers. “An officer just reported that a call has come into the station on the 22222 emergency line. It seems a gentleman—Herr Anton Gross—has reported his wife missing.”

  Volker checked his pocket watch. It was heading toward nine. “And he has just discovered she’s gone?”

  Storf went on, reading from a notepad. “It seems that Frau Gross is usually up by eight. According to her husband, she is punctual. But yesterday she was not feeling well. Herr Gross thought she was sleeping late.”

  “Meaning they have separate bedrooms,” Berg said. “And quite a large apartment if they can afford separate sleeping quarters.”

  “I was told that the family business is jewelry.” Storf sneered. “I’m sure he did quite well during the Great Inflation.”

  As if it were the man’s fault that stones held value while the Mark became worthless. But wasn’t that the essence of the German mentality? It was much easier to point a finger than to internally dissect. Progressivism was synonymous with Kommunismus and anti-Order, and anything was better than disorder.

  Volker threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed the glowing embers under his heel. “You have an address, Storf?”

  “Right here, sir.” Storf handed him a slip of paper.

  Volker glanced at the information, stowed the paper in his pocket, and straightened his cravat. To Berg, he said, “Ulrich and Georg can clean up this mess. You come with me. Together, we will talk to him. Leave your scooter for the others. We’ll take my car.” The Kommissar pointed to his cigarette stub on the grass. “Take care of that for me, will you, Ulrich?” He started toward his car, talking over his shoulder. “No sense littering our beautiful parks, hmm?”

  Storf bent down, picked up the stub, and called out, “Of course not, sir.” To Berg, he whispered, “Bastard.”

  “Ulrich, make sure Professor Kolb takes several pictures of the body and checks thoroughly for anything that might have been left behind by the culprit, including shoeprints and clothing. And I think a woman like her would carry a compact, but I didn’t notice a bag.”

  “Thieves?” Storf suggested.

  “I don’t doubt it. My first suspect would be the delivery boy. Go through his items carefully.”

  “Yes, Axel. You’d better go,” Storf said. “The dictator needs his henchman.”

  “Indeed he does.” Berg had to trot about a hundred feet to catch up with Volker. “And you’re sure you want me with you, sir?”

  “Meaning?” Volker was walking at a very fast clip.

  “Perhaps the man would respond better if the questioning was done by someone of his class without interference from me.”

  “Ah. I see.” Volker slowed his pace as he neared his black Mercedes. “A good point, Inspektor, but still I want you to come. If someone is going to offend, better you than I.”

  FIVE

  It was eminently logical that the body found was that of Frau Gross, because the address given to the police was not more than ten minutes from the park, the numbers corresponding to a four-story, apricot-colored building on Widenmayer Strasse. Perhaps the woman was coming home from a secret tryst in Schwabing and decided for discretion’s sake to shortcut through the Garten. Or perhaps she was murdered in her home and dumped in one of the many thickets there because it was the closest and best place to hide the evidence. Theories sifted through Berg’s mind as he and Volker headed toward the car.

  Berg was even more mystified by the Kommissar’s decision to drive when it would have been simpler to go by foot. It wasn’t like Martin Volker to be inefficient, so there must be other considerations at play. The Mercedes belonged to Volker and not to the police, so perhaps Volker wanted to establish parity with Gross by displaying wealth.

  After they had parked and walked a block to the building, a doorman escorted them to a pair of etched-brass elevator doors. The lift, which was manned by a uniformed, white-gloved operator, was painfully slow and jerked with each yank of the pulleys. Finally, it stopped on the fourth floor and the operator opened the folding doors of the wrought-iron cage. Herr Gross laid claim to the entire floor. Volker and Berg got out, and the Kommissar waited until the man had gone and the elevator needle was pointing to three before proceeding to the Grosses’ door. Volker lifted the iron knocker and gave the rich reddish-brown mahogany door several loud raps. It was answered by a butler—uniformed and staid—with bland features and thinning white hair.

  “Yes?”

  “We are the police.” Volker gave him a calling card. “I believe Herr Gross is expecting us.”

  “Ah, yes. One moment.”

  The butler was about to close the door and have them wait outside, but Volker would have none of that. He pushed his way in and, in doing so, pushed the butler aside.

  “I beg your pardon, sir!” the butler said stiffly.

  Volker turned his steely eyes on the servant. “We haven’t got all day, man.” The eyes narrowed. “Get your master.”

  Several silent moments ticked away. Then the butler folded. “Very well.”

  As he started to walk away, Volker called out. The butler turned around just quickly enough to catch Volker’s coat. “You can hang it up for me, thank you.”

  It was all the butler could do to hold his temper, especially after Volker added in sotto voce, “Tyrolean help just isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Berg
answered as if it were a legitimate statement.

  Volker laughed. He took off his hat and told Berg to do the same. “Come. Let’s look around.”

  “We haven’t been officially invited in, sir.”

  “Nouveau riche Kosmopolit,” Volker scoffed. “What does he know about protocol?”

  “But . . .” It was useless. The Kommissar was already several steps ahead, his formerly immaculately polished shoes clomping against the white marble, leaving behind flecks of mud. Berg had no choice but to follow. They both stopped at the entrance to the great room and took in deep breaths of admiration. Fifteen feet high, the walnut ceiling was coffered and carved. The floor had been laid out with black and white marble tiles arranged in a diamond pattern, although much of it was covered by intricately woven Persian rugs.

  Volker dared to step inside.

  The decor was elegant and in the most current of fashion, the highly polished furniture modern, sleek, and pure in form. Everything in the room was of top quality, but especially impressive were an elegant rosewood bombé chest and a Macassar ebony table whose centerpiece was a Lalique vase holding fresh calla lilies. The items could have been lifted from the Decorative Arts and Industrial Expo held in Paris several years earlier, displays that featured innovative design at its finest. Mixed in with the modern furnishings were several choice pieces from the Empire period to give the setting a sense of history and balance.

  There were several groupings of sofas and chairs allowing for simultaneous conversations. In a stone hearth, a fire roared behind an etched-glass screen. Burgundy velvet drapery framed six tall multipaned windows. But most of the wall space was taken up by modern artwork that most certainly would have been denounced by the Workers Party as degenerate: canvases by artists associated with the Blaue Reiter group—Franz Marc, August Macke, and Wassily Kandinsky. There were many paintings, drawings, and sketches by the Expressionists as well: works by Egon Schiele, George Grosz, Gabriella Munter, Paul Klee, Georges Braque, and Lyonel Feininger.

  “Avant-garde but still German,” Volker noted. “That way no one can accuse him of being too Kosmopolit.”

  “Braque and Klee are Swiss,” Berg said. “Schiele is Austrian; Grosz, Kandinsky, and Feininger are Jewish; plus Kandinsky was born in Russia.”

  “Anyone who speaks the mother tongue is either German or wishing to be German,” Volker said. “Just ask Hitler.”

  “Have his citizenship papers come through yet?”

  “Now how would I know that?” Volker said.

  “You know everything, sir.”

  Volker raised his eyebrows. “Axel, you make me blush.”

  Berg walked over to one of the windows. He stared outward—a panoramic view of the Isar, of Bogenhausen and beyond. The clouds were breaking, and Berg could feel the sun’s muted warmth through the glass. This, combined with the intense heat from the fireplace, made him feel swaddled in his overcoat. While deciding whether or not to remove it, he heard a throat clear and turned around.

  Presumably he was looking at Herr Gross, a delicate but handsome man with pale skin and intelligent dark eyes. Spectacles rested on a slender, prominent nose. His long, bony fingers massaged one another with worry. He was thin but tall, perhaps over six feet. He nodded first to Volker, then to Berg.

  “Anton Gross, here. I have arranged for tea. As it is quite warm, perhaps you will be more comfortable without your heavy overcoat. Haslinger will hang it up for you.”

  That was Berg’s cue to take off his coat. He handed it to Haslinger, the butler. The man took the outer garment, turned on his heels, and left, his eyes still smoldering from Volker’s previous superior attitude.

  “Do sit.” Gross perched on the edge of a stiff sofa covered in ruby satin. Volker selected one of two tapestry-upholstered side chairs, likewise sitting with a straight spine. Berg chose the chair’s twin. The two policemen faced Gross, waiting for him to speak.

  “I am quite alarmed. It is not like Anna to leave the house without a proper escort. These are . . . troubling times. There are many street hooligans.”

  “Indeed,” Volker said. “It’s what happens when the unemployment rate soars.”

  “Yes, of course. But the reason behind it doesn’t change the facts. There are way too many of them . . . the hooligans. It is frightening enough for a man, let alone a young woman.”

  “And you’re sure that no one accompanied her?” Berg asked.

  “She never told me she intended to leave the house. Besides, who could have escorted her other than I?”

  An unknown lover? Aloud, Berg said, “Her father or a brother, perhaps?”

  Gross waved them off. “No.”

  Berg looked around the great room. There were many objets d’art placed on the tables and on the mantel: Tiffany vases blown from iridescent blue or gold Favril glass, decorative Galle bowls made from layers of cameo glass, a zoological garden of Daum pate-de-vert animals. Yet there wasn’t a personal photograph in sight. “Would you have a picture of your wife, Herr Gross?”

  “A photograph, you mean?”

  “Yes, a photograph.”

  Again Gross massaged his hand. “I have a wedding photograph of her by my bedside. But that is quite old . . . five years.”

  “That will do.”

  “I shall fetch it for you.” But before he could stand, Haslinger appeared, wheeling a cart that held a Baroque silver tea service with matching spoons and forks, porcelain plates, cups, and saucers, and a platter filled with biscuits, small cakes, and cookies.

  The ritual began. Volker and Berg took one lump, Gross two. Volker and Berg each took a single piece of Mandelbrot—an almond biscotto—and a thin slice of poppy-seed cake. Gross selected a single petit four frosted with pink icing.

  “Anything else, Herr Gross?” Haslinger asked.

  “Yes,” Gross answered. “Would you please bring the police Anna’s wedding photograph from my bed stand.”

  “Certainly, Herr Gross.”

  The butler left; the men ate and drank in silence. Politeness dictated that Berg eat at least half of the cake. It wasn’t hard because the pastry was delicious—full of butter and Mohn and eggs. After several minutes of eating, Berg placed his cake plate on the tea cart and balanced teacup and saucer on his knee. He took out his pad and pencil. “I thank you for the refreshments, Herr Gross. Now, if I may . . . a few questions.”

  The man nodded.

  “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

  “At eight o’clock last night.” Gross sipped his tea. “I brought her up a cup of hot cocoa and several poppy-seed cookies. She wasn’t feeling well.”

  “And if I may ask, in what way was she ill?”

  Herr Gross’s cheeks took on a rosy glow. “She was sick to her stomach.”

  “With child?” Volker said neutrally.

  Gross nodded. “Five months, though you could scarcely tell by looking at her.” This was said with pride. “She had a beautiful figure and was meticulous about her weight. So meticulous that the doctor thought it was unwise for her to be so careful.” He smiled, showing straight teeth. “That’s why I was plying her with cocoa and cookies.”

  Berg took a final sip, then placed his empty cup and saucer on the cart. He was glad to get rid of the china without breaking or dropping something. “And you haven’t seen her since eight o’clock last night.”

  “No . . . We have . . . since the beginning of her condition, we have maintained . . . privacy.”

  “I understand,” Berg said.

  Haslinger was back, a silver frame in his hand. Herr Gross took the picture, gave it an idle glance, then offered it to Volker. The Kommissar’s eyes betrayed nothing. He handed the photograph to Berg.

  She had been so radiant in her white gown and veil. How sad was it that this woman—more like this girl—had been reduced so cruelly to lifeless flesh. Berg caught Volker’s nod. Of course, the bastard wanted him to break the news. The day had started poorly: It wasn’t getting better.
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br />   “Herr Gross . . .” Berg glanced at Haslinger, waiting for the servant to excuse himself. Finally, the butler got the hint. “Sir. There is no easy way to tell you this. We found a woman’s body in the Englischer Garten this morning. This was reported to us not more than two hours ago. After looking at this photograph, I have reason to think that it is . . . was . . . your wife.”

  Gross’s stare was a mixture of vacancy and stark confusion. After several false starts, he said, “Are you telling me that my wife is dead?”

  “I . . . Yes, that is what I fear . . . after looking at this picture.” He cleared his throat and looked to Volker for corroboration. None came. “Yes. It is she, yes.”

  “Are you sure?” Gross’s eyes beseeched Berg’s. “Could you be wrong?”

  “I . . .” Berg blew out air. “I don’t believe so, no.”

  Carefully, Gross stood up and placed his china on the cart. Then he paced for several moments. Abruptly, he stopped and mustered some strength. “Well, I’d like to see that for myself!”

  Volker stepped in. “Of course, Herr Gross. We will take you there straightaway. But first, may we ask you a few questions? Just routine protocol, sir.”

  “Yes, of course.” Gross’s eyes were wet, his mind a thousand miles away.

  “Assuming the worst, sir, do you know of anyone who’d want to harm your wife?”

  “No!” Adamant. “Of course not!”

  “I’m sorry, Herr Gross,” Volker said. “But I had to ask.”

  Gross bit down on his lower lip. “May I see her now?”

  “Please bear with me one more minute. You said it was her habit to get up around eight. But you waited until nine to disturb her because she wasn’t feeling well last night.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And she went to sleep around . . .”

  “About eight.”

  Berg said, “And you heard nothing in the middle of the night to suggest that she might have gone out?”

  “Nothing.”

  Volker said, “But it is possible that you, being in another room, did not hear her movements.”