Kolb pulled out his own rubber gloves from his pocket and let his fingers gently caress the hollow.
“Any number of objects could have made that indentation,” Gebhardt said.
“It is not a hammer,” Kolb said. “The hollow is too broad. And such a delicate skull would have shattered under the blow of metal.”
Gebhardt said, “And it is not a paddle, either. The hollow is too small. Nor does it look like a buckle from a belt. It is very regular in its circumference.”
Berg interjected, “You think that a mother did this to her own child as overzealous punishment?”
“I’ve seen it before, Inspektor,” Gebhardt answered. “Parents who don’t realize how fragile a child is. Usually it’s a father with the strap, and the victim is a boy. But I have seen mothers who have killed their small children . . . sometimes by accident, sometimes by temper. In those cases, though, I also see multiple welts on the legs, arms, stomach, and buttocks. Generally it is not a single whack to the head.”
Berg said, “Since the mother was murdered, I think it is safe to assume that she was not responsible for her daughter’s death.”
“Exactly,” Gebhardt said. “Then I thought about the woman’s husband. Men can beat their wives quite harshly.”
“She is a widow,” Berg said.
“Yes, yes . . .” Gebhardt said. “That definitely rules out her husband.”
Kolb said, “My guess is that it came from behind, someone smashing her with a walking stick.”
Berg raised an eyebrow. “Was she also strangled?”
Gebhardt studied the body. “Her neck is intact. There are no ligature marks.”
Kolb said, “Let’s measure the size of the depression, shall we?”
Gebhardt took out a pair of calipers, measured the diameter, and gave him the exact figure in centimeters. Kolb pulled off his rubber gloves and stroked his beard.
“It’s not the same size as the last one,” Berg pointed out. “He used a different walking stick?”
“Not necessarily,” Kolb answered. “A grown woman has harder bones. The stick would meet with more resistance. A child’s skull is more delicate and thinner. In a child a dent made by the same instrument and with the same amount of force would be wider and deeper.”
Berg looked pained. “Did she suffer?”
Kolb answered, “I would think that the whack would have put her out instantaneously.”
Gebhardt concurred.
“Herr Doktor,” Klaus, the Diener, said, “I have prepared the cadaver.”
“Good, good!” Gebhardt exclaimed. “Let’s have a look, shall we, gentlemen?”
At the sight of the naked woman, Berg involuntarily averted his eyes. When he brought them back to the corpse, he blinked several times before he could look at it objectively. Once this had been a living being named Edith Mayrhofer. Now she was a slab of dead tissue, the light gone from eyes that had been pale blue like those of her daughter. The skin had turned waxen and gray, the face creased by wrinkles even in death. Her hair was curly—tawny in color and streaked with white—except for the big, molasses-colored blotch on the right side of her forehead. The wound had oozed blood and brains.
Berg looked down at her neck. It was discolored, but it was hard to see if there were any signs of asphyxiation. “Was she strangled?”
Gebhardt peered through his spectacles and studied the skin of the neck. “As far as I can tell, there are no finger- or thumbprints, so nothing was done by hands. What do you think, Josef?”
Kolb examined the neck. “I concur. Nor do I see any ligature marks.”
Berg sighed. This was not what he wanted to hear. The first woman had been slain by strangulation. Regina Gottlieb had been attacked, bashed over the head, and strangled. These latest victims had died from blunt-instrument wounds.
Did the murderer figure that it was easier to kill by bashing his prey in the head with a walking stick? Had he changed his method, or was this a different killer?
Could it be possible that none of the murders were related?
“Was she raped?” Berg asked.
“At this moment, I’d say no. I swabbed her internally for semen and put the samples on several glass slides. I checked under a microscope, Inspektor, and there was no sign of spermatozoa. Of course, one has to consider that the fiend may have failed to complete the act. I haven’t done an exam of her privates. I will check for bruising and tears, but short of that . . .”
Berg said, “The first woman had had sex, the second no . . . Regina Gottlieb yes, but these two no . . .”
“What are you thinking?” Gebhardt asked.
“I’m trying to establish a pattern where there is none,” Berg thought out loud. “The first murder—the slaying of Anna Gross—appeared at the time to be a crime of passion. She did have semen inside of her.”
“I thought her husband did it because she had made a cuckold out of him,” Gebhardt said.
“That was one theory, yes. But her husband was lynched before all the facts came out.” Berg didn’t elaborate. “The second slaying was Marlena Druer . . . perhaps that was a crime of passion. We found something in her room that could have been a love letter. But she wasn’t raped.”
Berg stopped and collected his thoughts.
“The third murder was clearly a rape/murder. In these most recent slayings there was no rape.” He paused. “Either we’re dealing with different killers or . . . perhaps the thrill of murder has taken the place of the thrill of sex.”
“Lustmord,” Kolb said. “And in this crime, he has gone even further to satisfy the urge: the killing of a child. Who knows what he’ll do in the future to fulfill his desires?”
Berg shook his head in revulsion. “How can this be? The killing of a little child?”
“I suspect she wasn’t the intended target,” the pathologist suggested. “Perhaps the murderer didn’t even notice her until he had captured her mother.”
Kolb said, “Or perhaps she signifies a potential woman and that is what he detests. Kill it before it can kill. Freud has a theory that women secretly desire to destroy men because of penis envy. And they do this by sending them off to die in war. Men, on the other hand, are jealous of women because they are the ultimate creators of life. They get retribution by symbolically killing them over and over in the sex act.”
“I have heard that before,” Gebhardt said. “I don’t know if I believe it.”
“I agree with Herr Doktor Gebhardt,” Berg stated. “There are many reasons to have sex other than to satisfy a lust for murder.”
“But often the two are intertwined. Both acts involve an element of losing control.”
Gebhardt said, “I lose control when I stub my toe, Josef. That doesn’t mean I rape and murder.”
“Of course not! Murderers don’t materialize from the ether,” Kolb said. “But you cannot deny, Jakob, that creation and destruction are the two primary driving forces in the world.”
“No, I would not deny that.”
Berg nodded as if Kolb had said something profound. He didn’t understand all the excitement about Freud, how this Viennese Jew got so famous by stating the obvious.
FORTY-ONE
At three in the morning, Berg fell into a nightmarish stupor and woke up with a start two hours later, finally crawling out of bed at six. Too tired to heat up water for a bath, he sponged off his body using a pail of icy water from the tap, washing his head and hair until his scalp was numb, rinsing away dirt and flecks of blood, watching it all swirl down the drain of the kitchen sink. He opened a new box of Sisu shaving blades and tore at his face with the razor, unmindful of the nicks, enjoying the bite of pain. He splashed his face with water, then slipped into long underwear, followed by long woolen pants and a thick cable-knit sweater. His feet were wrapped in double socks and stuffed into cracked leather boots.
Warm externally although his head and hands were still cold, his cheeks were still stinging from his careless shaving. Electricity prov
ided a weak overhead light in the dining area, too dim to disturb Joachim as he lay on the sofa, legs dangling over the edge. Quietly and carefully, Berg opened the hatch of the stove, raked the coals, and adjusted the draft. Moments later, the radiator sputtered to life, bringing up a dull, wet heat that dissipated too quickly. With the stove tended, he started a pot of coffee. It took a few minutes before the water boiled and percolated through the grounds, but as soon as it did, the rich aroma filled the small room. Berg leaned over and breathed deeply, allowing the warm air to infuse his nose and lungs.
He took his steaming mug and peered out of the window, his eyes surveying a deserted street in a city still shrouded in darkness. There wasn’t even a promise of light; the skies were overcast without a star in sight. He sipped the hot coffee until his mouth burned. His second cup was for taste rather than heat. He had just finished his breakfast of a roll, butter, and marmalade when he heard Joachim stirring. He glanced up to see his son nearly fall off the couch before his feet caught up with his body. He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Six-thirty. Go back to sleep.”
“Why are you up so early, Papa?”
“It was a busy night. I think it’s going to be a busier day.”
Again Joachim rubbed his eyes as he tottered to the dining table. “I heard it was awful . . . the rioting. Mama was worried.”
“I called her. She knew I was safe.”
“Still, she worries. She said—” He stopped himself.
Berg offered Joachim a cup of coffee with milk and sugar. “What did she say?”
Joachim took the liquid and sipped greedily. “Thank you.”
“What did your mother say?” Berg asked again.
“Nothing important. She just gets upset when the city is in a mess and she doesn’t know what you’re doing.”
“The city is always in a mess.”
“Last night was exceptional.”
“That is true,” Berg concurred. “And today we all suffer the aftermath of that hyena’s actions.”
“It isn’t Hitler’s fault that some of his followers are goons.”
“The leader sets the tone,” Berg said. “The Austrian is a thug and he attracts thugs. You should have seen what his Brownshirts did to Gärtnerplatz. It was beyond shameful!”
The boy nodded solemnly. “What were you doing there?”
“Protecting our citizens . . . all of our citizens, and that includes the poor, the Gypsies, and the Jews.” Joachim made a face that Berg ignored. “I’m sure they will be talking about the riots in school. Don’t let those crazy-headed teachers of yours convince you that it wasn’t Hitler’s fault. It was!”
“I am glad you’re fine, that’s all.” Joachim looked down. “What about the two new murders, Papa? I heard the little girl was around Monika’s age.”
Berg winced. “We’re making progress. We might have made more progress if the Nazis hadn’t torn up the city.” He poured himself the last dregs of coffee. Tossing the grounds in the garbage bin, he rinsed the pot and made a fresh brew, the new aroma giving Britta a reason to wake up. “I promise we’ll get him.”
“Get who?”
His wife’s voice. She wore a faded pink robe with old slippers on her feet, her big toe poking through the leather of the fleece. Her strawberry-blond hair was tousled and tangled. She raked the cowlicks down with her fingers. Berg poured her a fresh cup of coffee.
“The monster,” Berg answered.
“Which monster? Hitler or the murderer?”
“I was referring to the murderer,” Berg said. “I cannot single-handedly get rid of the Austrian scourge. We need to be unified for that.”
“Then you might as well just hand him the chancellorship. We can’t even unify our own city, let alone the country. We are not a people! We are a series of nomadic tribes constantly at war with one another.”
“It’s not like that, Mama,” Joachim spoke up. “Look . . . I know you don’t like Herr Hitler, but he knows the problems that face us. And he’s working hard to bring the German race back to glory—”
“Oh, stop, Joachim! You’re too intelligent for that nonsense.” Britta took out a blue-and-white Watto cigarette tin, lit up two smokes, and gave one to her husband. “Besides, it’s too early in the morning for propaganda.”
“Thank you.” Berg inhaled the smoke and looked at his wife. “Since when have you become such a detractor of the Austrian?”
“I’m sick of his tactics. If the ass can’t control his thugs, how can he control a nation?”
“Sometimes you need to get the people’s attention first,” Joachim blurted out.
“Who have you been talking to?” Britta rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother answering that—I know. Uwe Kanstinger, right?”
“I’m old enough to form my own opinions, Mother,” Joachim huffed.
“If it’s not Uwe, it’s his older sister, right?” Britta sniffed. “Don’t deny it. I’ve seen you two talking.”
“I talk to lots of people.” Joachim snorted.
To Berg, Britta said, “That girl’s crazy. She’s in love with the Austrian. She has his picture on the wall.”
“Then she’s not only crazy, she’s an idiot,” Berg said.
“Now who is being intolerant!” Joachim protested. “How would you know without talking to her? She happens to be very intelligent.”
“She’s a whore, Joachim.”
The boy slammed his coffee cup onto the table. “That’s not true! You shouldn’t say things like that! It’s wrong, Mother! You’re wrong!” He got up and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door and waking his sister. Monika, still half-asleep, moaned in protest. Joachim snapped at his sister. Then the two of them began to fight.
“Quiet!” Berg shouted. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”
The arguing quieted to hostile whispers, eventually stopping altogether.
“Now I finally know what I suspected.” Britta bit her lip. “That disgusting little bitch!”
“He’s banging her?”
“You heard how he defends her! What do you think?”
“She’s what . . . nineteen . . . twenty? Is she crazy? He’s just a boy!”
“Obviously not to her.” Britta stared at her husband. “And since when has a difference in age prevented a man and a woman from banging?”
Berg didn’t answer. Not that it mattered anymore. It was over, as permanent as only death can be.
“You have to talk to him,” Britta said. “He needs to know how to prevent an accident. Thank God the boy was baptized Lutheran and can do something about it.”
“I don’t believe we’re having this conversation.” Berg shook his head in dismay. “He just turned fifteen.”
“Maybe if you spent more time at home and less time on the streets, you’d be aware of what’s happening in the lives of your children!” She turned her back to him and marched into the bedroom, the slammed door signaling that the discussion was over.
Left alone at the table, Berg again peered out the window, noting that the sky had lightened from charcoal to pewter.
A new day had dawned.
• • •
THE MORNING PAPERS—all except the Völkischer Beobachter—had printed the requisite host of columns and opinions, everything from finger-pointing, blaming, and recriminations to hand-wringing, self-flagellation, and a call for self-examination. How did this happen? Why did this happen? Hadn’t the city learned a lesson from the first putsch (that answer was self-evident), and what was to be done with Hitler now?
This time the Austrian had been wilier, absenting himself from the public as soon as the rioting and mayhem broke out. He had learned from the mistakes of ’23 and mastered the art of delegation, transmitting his wishes to subordinates who carried out the orders. Thus, the blame rested not on the bastard’s shoulders directly, but on his minions, on the thugs and hooligans who Hitler claimed had “misinterpreted” his words. As the arrested and detained goons were paraded th
rough the jails and holding pens on their way to the courthouses, the young Brownshirts remained defiant, laughing and joking, each one eagerly awaiting his turn to fart in the face of authority.
Any newspaper space not dedicated to the riots was taken up by the murders of Edith Mayrhofer and her little daughter, Johanna. The Völkischer Beobachter ran screaming headlines on the front page, hoping that a new phoenix of protests would rise from the ashes of yesterday’s riots. Normally Berg wouldn’t be interested in reading the trashy tabloid, but this morning he was looking at the front page simply because the paper had been foisted on him by the Kommissar.
Volker looked tired and dyspeptic. Although impeccably dressed, he was disheveled, his face needing one more go with a razor. He paced back and forth as he ranted.
“The paper has a lot of public support for its position.”
“That’s very bad.”
“We can’t control Hitler right now.”
“That’s very bad as well—”
“But what we can do is stop giving him ammunition to rile up his audience. I want a head on a plate and I want it now! Arrest someone!”
“We tried that with Anton Gross, Herr Kommissar. It didn’t work. We need to get the real culprit.”
“So do it!”
“I’m trying. I keep running into distractions. And now Müller and Storf are out of commission.”
“So pull in Kalmer and Messersmit.”
“If I need to do so, I will. Sir, there are things I could do that might help the case . . . if I were allowed to do them.”
Volker stopped pacing. “Tell me!”
“I’m trying to verify information—”
“Berg, what do you have?” Volker fired at him.
“Not much individually, sir, but when these little facts are strung together, patterns start to emerge.”
Finally, Volker sat at his desk and clasped his hands in his lap. “Go on.”
Berg remained standing because he hadn’t been invited to sit down. “So far I’m tracking down a calling card given to Anna Gross. The name on the card is Robert Schick. Anna’s chambermaid believed that this man had visited Anna Gross several times when her husband wasn’t around. She also thinks that Schick is a Russian Kommunist. So I started looking for him.
Straight into Darkness Page 33