They stepped around the body as they talked, not once mentioning it. Grebo snapped photos while Vlado jotted a note now and then, plotting out the room’s dimensions in case anyone ever asked, which no one ever did. They began talking of food. People in Sarajevo sometimes seemed to talk of nothing else.
“Did you hear about Garovic,” Grebo said. “Eating again on the U.N.’s tab, and they took him to Club Yez. Again.”
Garovic was Lutva Garovic, their boss. Club Yez was Sarajevo’s best restaurant, safe and snug in a deep, brick cellar with a fireplace and a piano player. Every bottle at its bar had the right label, no matter what was really inside, and the kitchen had spices and fresh meat. Deutschemarks only. U.N. people, foreign journalists, and successful smugglers were the only ones who could afford the place, and on any given night they could be found dining together, asking no questions of each other except perhaps whether the special was worth a try.
“His third time this month,” Grebo said, disgusted. “And of course he had to tell me all about it. He was going on and on about this piece of veal. A filet, ‘Pink as a puckered cunt,’ he said, the asshole. And twice as juicy’ All you can do is sit there and listen. Tell him what you really think and you’ll be up on Zuc shooting at Chetniks by the end of the week.”
“Fat chance. If he fires you he’ll have to fill out forms, recruit a replacement, answer questions to higher ups. Aggravation’s not his style.”
“You’re supposed to say he’d never let me go because I’m indispensable, Vlado. Because the department would fall apart without me.”
“As if that would be a tragedy. Besides, why bother sending you to the front when he can make your life miserable down here.”
“That’s for sure, the bastard.”
Two more policemen soon arrived to move the body back to Grebo’s lab. As Vlado and Grebo stepped from the apartment a low, deep thud echoed down from the hills to the north.
Grebo waved his right hand toward the sound. “Speaking of Zuc,” he said. “Busy as always, the poor bastards.”
By the time Vlado got back to the office, the gypsy woman was waiting at his desk with a policeman, just as Damir had promised, although he was nowhere to be seen.
The woman was short, petite, with delicate features and high cheek-bones. She’d obviously spent some time getting ready at her friend’s house, and her face was scrubbed and neatly made up, with bright lipstick carefully applied and her hair perfectly combed. She wore a smart brown skirt and tan blouse. After-murder wear, Vlado thought.
The interview went predictably. She said her husband was a brute, always drinking and gambling. He also dodged army conscription, she mentioned, her eyes flashing with a desperate stab at patriotism. Most people assumed that any official of the new government was swept up in the cause for Bosnian nationalism, and Vlado let them think it, finding it sometimes gave him leverage.
The woman continued. Her husband could’ve worked but never did, always too lazy or drunk. He beat her when he felt like it and yelled at the baby nonstop. They barely had enough to eat. This afternoon he’d slapped her, shaken the baby, then slapped the child as well before stumbling into bed, where he fell into a snoring stupor. She’d seen the hammer, picked it up, walked to the bed. Next thing she knew she was looking down at her sleeping husband, only he wasn’t sleeping anymore, and his head looked like a cherry tart. She picked up the baby and strolled to a neighbor’s, then dropped off the news along with the baby.
Neighbors would have to be interviewed to check parts of her story, but Vlado didn’t doubt it for a moment. He had half a mind to send her back to her son and let the court clerks sort it out in the morning. But a policeman was waiting in the hallway to take her to jail. Tomorrow judges would be presiding again in their unheated courtrooms with their dim dirty hallways, hoping that the day’s trials and hearings would not be interrupted by an explosion. Peacetime procedure marched on.
Vlado sighed, spent a few minutes typing her statement, then asked her to sign it. She read it slowly, hesitated for a moment, then scribbled her name. As Vlado added his signature she asked, “What will happen to my baby?”
Vlado replied without looking up: “An orphanage probably, at least for tonight.”
“How long will he be there?”
Had this really not occurred to her until now? Vlado thought back on the times he’d had to tell spouses and friends of murdered loved ones. There were almost always tears and awkward pauses, and he was always tempted to run away, to flee the grief as soon as possible, though instead he had to pay close attention, to check for false grief or lack of surprise. This was worse, somehow. News of death brought finality, an imperative to move on. The news for this woman promised only a long, indefinite slide into despair.
He glanced off to the side, fixing on a clock on a far wall which hadn’t worked for months, then slowly turned to meet her stare. Her eyes were filled with tears, but so far none had spilled.
“He’ll be there at least until your trial, unless you have family who will take him, of course.” She’d already mentioned she was an orphan.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “There is only me.”
They both knew that few people would be likely to take on an extra mouth to feed under these conditions. And who, for that matter, would want a gypsy baby.
“When the trial comes, you will be convicted. Your statement assures that. Even without it the evidence would be overwhelming. But if your neighbors can back up your story about your husband, who knows?” He shrugged. “Perhaps a judge will show restraint. You may be lucky. The sentence could be light.”
“And that would mean?”
“Three years, maybe more. Probably nothing less.”
She said nothing. A single tear had fallen across her right cheek, and she wiped it away. She stared straight ahead, jaws rigid, then gave a small nod. He stood, escorting her to the hallway, where the waiting policeman slept in a folding chair, bundled against the cold. His mouth was agape, exhaling peaceful sighs of vapor into the dark corridor. Vlado jostled him, and in a few moments he and the woman were gone, their footsteps echoing down the stairwell.
Grebo’s mass of hair bobbed around the corner.
“Just finishing up,” he said, briskly wiping his hands on a towel, the sharp reek of chemicals accompanying him like a separate presence. “It looks like twenty-six blows, give or take a few. Quite a bashing for such a little thing. The famous gypsy anger, Exhibit A. Listen, I’ve got a bottle of some homemade slivovitz for a little after-curfew drink if you can wait a minute or two.”
Vlado sagged with the thought of making conversation. He preferred sleep and silence.
“No thanks,” he answered. “I’m a little done in. Have one for me, though.”
“That you can count on. See you tomorrow then if there’s any action. I’ll leave the report on your desk. No surprises, though. The man had enough alcohol in his blood to light a stove.”
There was hardly a sound outside as Vlado stepped toward the doors of the downstairs exit. It was only a few minutes before curfew, so the streets would be empty except for military police and a few prostitutes desperate for one last transaction. If the phones were working when he got home, he would call to see how Damir was doing. It was cloudy, but the rain had stopped. Sniper fire had popped throughout the day like bacon in a skillet, but overall it had been another quiet afternoon, even down by the river. Maybe it would last for the rest of the month.
Then, just before Vlado pushed open the door there was a gunshot—loud, sharp, perhaps only a few blocks away
Sniper fire at night inspired an altogether different behavior. Nobody scattered unless the Serbs fired off a flare. There were no street-lights, and the darkness encouraged a tame version of defiance and bravado, a little flirting with the local brand of fatalism that Damir had displayed so recklessly that afternoon.
So it was that Vlado’s response to the gunshot was to light a cigarette as he stood on the po
rch, inhaling deeply to brighten the orange pinprick of light.
Here I am, if you’re interested, the cigarette said. But I’m betting you’re too lazy.
He strolled down the steps and toward the bridge, the streets quiet again except for the rasp of his soles against wet grit. He crossed, gazing at the dimness of the water below, the white flecks of foam and ripples barely visible in the filtered moonlight. He passed under a banner strung across the bridge, as if for a holiday parade, which warned, CAUTION. SNIPER! Turning left off the bridge, he headed another block toward the corner that would take him out of the line of fire, telling himself not to rush, not to panic. Then he asked himself, Who are we fooling here, and he quickened his pace. A dark form lay ahead on the sidewalk.
He stopped.
It was a lump, curled, man-size.
It was a body.
He stooped for a closer look and smelled sweaty wool and something metallic. A widening pool of black liquid oozed toward his feet, warm to the touch, a bit sticky. It seemed to be coming from the head. Vlado reached down to an arm, grasping the wrist to check for a pulse, finding none, but noticing a heavy, expensive watch. Nice cufflinks, too, and the coat had the feel of a rich cashmere. A well dressed man, as far as one could tell in the dark.
He’d probably been killed by the gunshot a few moments ago, doubtless from someone perched in a window across the river, some asshole with a nightscope and nothing better to do. Vlado angrily tossed his cigarette away, watching the small trail of sparks arch through the night as it fell.
For a moment he felt paralyzed. In all these months of war and four years as an investigator, he had never been the one to discover a body. Always he’d been summoned, until this moment. In a matter of hours he had seen one man shot and a second one needlessly risk his life. And now this, a body at his feet with no one else in sight. It was deeply unsettling, but there was also the undeniable hint of a thrill, because for a moment only he and the killer knew. Perhaps the sniper was watching him even now, had listened to Vlado’s footsteps and watched the flung cigarette floating end over end, while knowing exactly what terrible knowledge was unfolding down on the corner.
But the sniper had not bargained on the arrival of a professional, someone to whom this would be not just an ordeal but a revelation to learn from, a jittery taste of the odd intimacy between killer and victim.
Vlado straightened and walked around the corner into a sheltered street until he reached the next block. He looked both ways, and to the left he could barely make out a guard in front of the Interior Ministry fifty yards away.
“You,” he shouted, his voice loud but somehow weak at the same time. There was no movement. Was the man dozing? Dead?
Finally the guard turned, shouting back gruffly, “It is after curfew. You must come here for questioning. Slowly, please.”
Vlado heard the click of a gun’s safety.
“I’m a policeman,” he shouted back, feeling the tone of authority return to his voice. “Detective Inspector Petric. There’s a man who’s been shot over here by the river. Come and help me. Now.”
The soldier—or was he military police? Hard to tell in the dark, they all carried the same weapons—strolled over at a leisurely pace. But his nonchalance stiffened when Vlado led him into the field of fire by the river, and as they prepared to lift the body he glanced repeatedly toward the wall of darkness on the hillside across the water.
“Help me move him,” Vlado said. “You take the arms.” Let him rub against that mess of a head, Vlado thought. “I’ll take the legs.”
The guard gasped, and Vlado didn’t need to ask why.
Vlado figured they might as well haul the body to the porch of the police building. Grebo could write it up and call the hospital, save the boys at the morgue a few minutes of paperwork. They’d owe him one.
“Why are we crossing the river,” the guard whispered urgently, sounding alarmed as they moved onto the bridge, the water gurgling below.
“Relax. We’re taking him to police headquarters. It’s only a few more yards.”
As soon as they reached the porch, the soldier dropped the dead man’s arms. He was already worried he’d be missed at his post. He looked down, brushing the front of his uniform and checking for bloodstains, then began to ease away.
“Hold on a minute,” Vlado said. He ordered the young man to fetch Grebo from upstairs.
The porch was sheltered from fire, so Vlado drew out his lighter for a better look.
Good God. Right in the face. A bigger mess than the gypsy’s husband. Still, there was something vaguely familiar in what remained of the jawline, in the bulk and shape of the body.
Grebo pushed through the door, followed by the soldier.
“Christ, Vlado. Knew you should have stayed for a drink. How close were you?”
“Not very. I think I heard the shot as I was coming out the door. He was over the river, a block down.”
“And you brought him back here?” A hint of irritation in the voice.
“Figured we might as well handle him, or that you could at least take a look,” Vlado said, feeling stupid now, sheepish.
Grebo shrugged, exhaling through his nose, fumes of plum brandy misting into the night, then pulled a penlight from a shirt pocket and flicked the beam toward the ruined face. Vlado looked away this time, focusing on Grebo, and saw his eyebrows arch in surprise.
“This one’s no sniper,” Grebo said, leaning closer, squinting now. “Whoever did this was close.”
“Close enough to be on the same side of the river?”
“Close enough to be stepping on his toes.”
Vlado let that sink in, then announced what Grebo already knew:
“I guess he’s our customer then.”
“Looks that way.”
Now it would be necessary to work, and a mixture of weariness and distaste came over Vlado, though not without a stirring of his slumbering curiosity. His mind shifted into the rote workings of an investigator fresh on a crime scene, and his first thought was a question: Why kill someone in a known sniper zone, unless you wanted it to look like a sniper had done it? That would imply a plan, something more than blind emotion at work, perhaps even something elaborate for a change. It had possibilities, he told himself.
He thought of the guard, who’d already disappeared back to his post without a word and would now have to be questioned, to find out if he’d seen or heard anyone nearby a few minutes earlier. Same thing for the whores at Skenderia, if any had been on duty at this hour. They would have been just across the river from the shooting, skulking next to the sandbagged walls that kept them out of the line of fire but still handy to the French and Egyptian soldiers. Perhaps they’d heard something before or after, though God knows they couldn’t have seen a thing in this darkness.
Already he’d made mistakes. He thought with disgust of how he and the guard had trampled all over the murder scene, stepping in the blood, then dragging the main piece of evidence down the street and over a bridge. He realized with mild alarm how much he’d let himself begin to slip, despite all his precautions. There was no excuse for it. He made a note to himself to bathe and shave tonight the minute he was home, no matter how cold the water, even if he had to head out in the morning with a load of empty jugs to stand in line for a fresh supply.
For now, he’d have to return with a flashlight to the spot where he’d found the body and search the scene—carefully, though, flicking the light sparingly lest he attract the attention of a real sniper—looking for the pool of blood and whatever else might be around.
But first things first. The victim needed to be identified.
Vlado reached behind the body and pulled out the man’s wallet. It seemed full, about seventy D-marks in all, a small fortune these days. There had certainly been no robbery.
“Give me a light,” he said to Grebo, who turned his penlight toward the wallet. The narrow beam landed on the identification photo, that of a brown-eyed man in his mid-t
o-late forties, coal-black hair. Vlado recognized him at once.
“ Esmir Vitas,” he said, without bothering to read the fine print, and his stomach made a small leap.
“Vitas,” Grebo said. “Sounds familiar.”
“It should. He’s chief of the Interior Ministry’s special police. Or was.” He looked up at Grebo. “I’d say he’s our customer all right.”
CHAPTER 3
“He’s not ours,” Lutva Garovic announced the next morning, striding across the office as soon as Vlado arrived.
Garovic was chief of detectives, a bureaucrat whose instincts had never failed him except when it came to actually getting things done. He had survived Tito’s death, departmental shakeups, Party purges, the disintegration of Yugoslavia, and the first two years of the war, and he would doubtless still be bossing unimportant people years later no matter who ended up ruling the city. Three decades of meandering in bureaucracy’s midstream had taught him that the only way to stay afloat in shifting currents was to swim neither too hard nor too fast. He had mastered the art of treading water, prospering by never aspiring to anything greater than the glory of whoever happened to be issuing his orders. When communism fell out of fashion, he was among the first to stop using Party buzzwords. If it ever made a comeback, he’d quickly learn to say them again.
No realm of state machinery was beyond such talents. Garovic had been a personnel manager at the state-run brewery, an “intergovernmental liaison” at the municipal waterworks, a midlevel administrator at the Ministry of Housing, and a functionary of vague but supremely self-important duties at the Ministry of Justice. That was the beauty of the state having its fingers in so many enterprises. With the right combination of blandly mediocre qualifications one could work almost anywhere.
A few months after the war began he had materialized one morning in the glass-caged office of the chief of detectives. His predecessor, a gruff but competent Zijad Imamovic, had fought in the defense of the city only to be killed by a mortar shell, blown all over the walls of a building near the front line.
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