by Eric Flint
Byron looked up. Gotthilf could see anger blazing in his eyes like a beacon. “C’mon,” was all he said. “This has to go to the captain.”
* * *
An hour later Gotthilf was standing in the office of Mayor Otto Gericke. He stood to the left of Captain Reilly, with Byron standing on the other side. Reilly had just handed the scraps to the mayor.
Gotthilf had no problem recalling the contents of the scraps. He suspected that they were burned into his memory so strongly that he would be able to recall them the moment before he drew his last breath.
First, the raggedy-edged newspaper scrap. It was a short article that looked to be from the Magdeburg Times-Journal.
A woman was found most vilely murdered two days ago in an alleyway off of Kristinstrasse in Greater Magdeburg. Her name was Margrethe Döhren, a woman of good repute who resided in Greater Magdeburg. She is survived by her sister, Esther Frey.
The word “good” had been crossed out.
The second scrap was actually about a half-page from a pocket Bible. It had been very neatly trimmed out of the Bible, apparently with a very sharp knife. A block of text from the book of Job had been outlined in black.
Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning. Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day: Because it shut not up the doors of my womb, nor hid trouble from mine eyes.
The mayor laid the scraps down on his desk, and folded his hands together before him, interlacing his fingers. “So why have you brought this to me?”
Gotthilf watched out of the corner of his eye as Captain Reilly turned his head and said, “Lieutenant Chieske, would you address that, please?”
“Mayor, it is better than nine chances out of ten that those…” he pointed at the scraps, “…were sent to us by the killer.”
The mayor’s brows drew down, and his face took on a look of distaste. “Why? And again, why are you bringing this to me?”
Byron sighed. “Because, Mayor, the killer is seriously sick in the mind. The mutilation of Fräulein Döhren’s corpse alone proves that. This is just another symptom. It’s a message at three levels.”
The mayor spread the two fragments out before him. “How so?”
Byron lifted a hand with all fingers but the index folded down. “One: crossing out the word ‘good’ in the newspaper article is telling us that the killer thinks there is some question as to the character and morals of the victim.”
The second finger raised to stand along the index. “Two: the inclusion of the Bible page with that passage circled is a taunt to the Polizei and yet could be evidence of a sort if we can combine it with other facts.”
The ring finger now stood along the first two. “Three: although the killer may not recognize it, the sending of these scraps is a call for help. At some point, somewhere in his mind, he wants to be caught.”
Mayor Gericke nodded, then pursed his lips for a moment. “All right. I understand what you are saying. But for the third time, why are you bringing this to me? Just do what you have to do to catch this…” his mouth twisted in disgust “…this murderer.”
“The problem, Mayor,” Captain Reilly picked up, “is that we don’t have enough information to identify and capture the killer yet. And our experience from the up-time tells us that this is likely just going to be the first of several murders. This has all the earmarks of being what was called up-time a ‘serial killer’ on the loose. So first of all, this is a heads-up warning for you, so that you won’t be surprised if other similar murders occur.”
The up-timers used a term—blind-sided—that Gotthilf thought was appropriate to the situation. No leader, and especially no politician, liked to be caught unaware of anything happening in their realm of responsibility.
“Second, the use of the Bible page does open up another possible line of investigation. We may need one of the pastors in Magdeburg to talk to us about this.”
That, Gotthilf thought to himself, opened a political door that the detectives didn’t want to barge through without some help from the mayor in first figuring out who to talk to. Lutheran pastors in Lutheran provinces were usually influential people in their own right. Lutheran pastors in the very capitol of the USE really needed to be approached carefully, and Gericke’s assistance or direction would help.
“Third, this not being a ‘normal’ murder, but a mutilation of a woman, it could attract attention from the Committees of Correspondence.”
No one wanted the CoC to get stirred up about this, Gotthilf thought. No one.
* * *
It was another two days before Gotthilf and his partner finally caught up with Demetrious. They found him where Schmidt had said he would be, near the junction of the Navy Yard road and the Canal Road. A tall thin man in worn clothing, slightly stoop-shouldered, that Gotthilf took to be the man they were looking for had a table set up and was moving his upside-down cups around on the surface of it, watched closely by a group of the ship-workers on the way home for the evening. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of shoving back and forth among the workers, and more than a little laughter.
Just as they arrived at the edge of the crowd, a burly worker who was standing across the table from the thimblerigger reached out and tapped one of the cups with a finger.
“Are you sure?” Gotthilf heard Demetrious ask in a melodious accent.
“Yah. Show me,” the man said.
Demetrious shrugged and lifted the cup from the table, exposing…nothing.
The crowd exploded in shouts and laughter. The loser just shook his head, smiling. “Come on, boys,” he said in a loud voice. “Time for a beer.”
They marched off together, chattering among themselves and vowing that next time one of them was going to find the ball under the cups.
Demetrious carefully lined his three cups up on the table. From what Gotthilf could tell, they were carved from wood, with a small hollow made in the bottom of each. The old man reached out and placed a small ball in the hollow base of the center cup with care. Then he straightened and put his hands behind his back. His head turned and tilted to look at them, much like a bird’s would, and the gleam in his eye was also birdlike. Gotthilf suddenly had a feeling much like he thought a bug would have when caught in the gimlet gaze of a raven. Then Demetrious smiled, and the feeling passed.
“Good evening, my friends,” the old man said. “Would you care to partake in a game of chance?”
Byron snorted. “Not hardly. Gotthilf, here you see one of the oldest scams in the book. There are pictures from five hundred years before now that show men fleecing the unwary with this very setup.” He waved a hand at the cups on the table.
The old man’s smile grew wider. “Oh, the history of the game goes back much farther than that, friend,” he said. “Me, I have no doubt that when Christ entered to cleanse the temple, he probably ran into someone playing the game at the very gates.”
Byron laughed, and replied, “You’re probably right, Herr Demetrious.”
Demetrious tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Ah, it is good to know that one’s reputation abounds. But please, will you not try a game with me? Perhaps you, meine Herr?” He looked at Gotthilf.
Byron looked over and said, for all the world as if the old man was not right there, “Gotthilf, there is no such thing as a random game of chance with this man. He is in total control of the game at all times. If you win, it’s because he gives it to you. If you lose, it’s because it’s all in his hands. It’s all illusion. It’s sleight of hand.”
Demetrious’ grin grew wide enough to almost split his face. “It is true; I have some small skill at the game.”
Byron snorted again. “You’re old enough you probably invented the game. It wouldn’t surprise me if it wasn’t your big feet that Jesus tripped on as he entered the temple that day.”
Gotthilf looked at Byron in surprise. For some reason, the normally l
aconic up-timer was bantering with Demetrious. He’d have to dig an explanation for that out of Byron later.
Demetrious laughed. “You flatter me, my friend. I am neither so old nor so renowned.”
“Maybe so,” Byron said. He pulled out his badge wallet, and flipped it open to show the snarling lion mask. “But that’s not why I’m here tonight. Lieutenant Byron Chieske of the Magdeburg Polizei. My partner, Sergeant Gotthilf Hoch.”
Gotthilf had his badge out a moment later.
Demetrious looked at the wallets carefully, smile gone. He raised his eyes to their faces, hands behind his back again. “I have done nothing wrong,” he said calmly.
Byron looked over at Gotthilf. “We didn’t say you had,” Gotthilf said as he put his badge away. “But the word from the streets is that from time to time you may hear things that no one else in Magdeburg hears.”
“Ah,” Demetrious said. He looked away from them for a moment, then returned his gaze. “And what if I do?”
Gotthilf placed his hands on the gaming table. “Any word, any breath, any hint of a thought that has anything to do with the death and mutilation of Margrethe Döhren, you bring or send to us.” He leaned forward. “Anything. At. All.”
The old man looked at them both, first at Gotthilf, then at Byron, then back to Gotthilf. At length he gave a small sigh. “A very nasty business, that.”
Gotthilf straightened but said nothing. Byron stood as if he were a statue. Tension built.
“All right,” the old man said at last. “I will do so if you will keep my name out of the stories. I would not have the other fishes in the channels I swim in turning on me.”
“Agreed.” Gotthilf nodded.
Demetrious picked up his cups and stowed them in jacket pockets, then picked up his table and made it collapse into an easily carried form. When he was done, he looked at them one last time. “I cannot guarantee word. I cannot hear what is not said. And even if there is word, it may take a while to find.”
“Understood.”
The old man turned and carried his table away from them.
Byron blew breath from his lips.
“Think he can help us?” Gotthilf asked.
Byron shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll keep looking on our own.”
“Yah.”
The two started back to the station. Gotthilf looked up at Byron as they strode along. “So what’s a thimblerig?”
“Well, they used to call it the shell game…”
August 1635
Gotthilf was approaching the police station building when he heard his name.
“Yo, Gotthilf!”
He looked up to see Byron standing by a horse and wagon waiting in front of the building. Byron was beckoning, so he broke into a trot for the last few yards. Byron was already climbing up in the wagon when he arrived. The up-timer reached a hand down, which Gotthilf grasped and allowed his partner to give him a pull up to the seats on the wagon bed.
“Hope you didn’t eat much breakfast this morning,” Byron said with a twist to his mouth. “We’ve got another body.”
Gotthilf’s stomach suddenly got a hollow feeling.
“Another woman?”
“Yep.”
The red-haired driver clucked to his horse and got her moving. The wagon rumbled down Kristinstrasse away from the police station, gravel crunching under the wheels. Gotthilf turned to his partner.
“So, what do we know?”
Byron shrugged. “Only that there’s a dead female victim. Word got to the station about five minutes ago. Doc Schlegel will meet us there.”
Gotthilf turned forward again, watching the people moving down the broad street. Kristinstrasse was one of the major boulevards in the new city. It started in Old Magdeburg at the west end of Hans Richter Square, pierced the city wall through a new gate that Otto Gericke had forced the Old Magdeburg city council to agree to, crossed the canal that surrounded three sides of the old city, and headed due west through the mixed residential and light industrial area that had built up away from the river. There was usually a lot of traffic on the street during the day, and today was no exception. Pedestrians, light wagons hauling parts or supplies to the factories along the river, newsies—mostly women—hawking newspapers, even Committees of Correspondence members—again often or mostly women—handing out broadsides with savage political cartoons or bad poetry; it was a regular stew of people before him.
The wagon turned into a side street and traveled past two more cross-streets before it pulled up at the mouth of an alley. Byron looked at a wagon nearby, and said, “Doc beat us here. C’mon.”
The two detectives hopped down from their wagon. Gotthilf nodded to the patrol sergeant and foot patroller who stood at the mouth of the alley as he moved past them. They were keeping the growing crowd of curious or concerned or downright nosy onlookers from tromping all over the crime scene, although that was starting to be more of a challenge as the number of bodies standing and craning their heads increased.
Byron didn’t say anything, just went and stood well to one side where Dr. Schlegel could see him. The coroner stood beside the corpse, bent over to look at it closely. As with the first scene, the hard-packed dirt in the alley prevented the creation of much in the way of footprints, so he wasn’t contaminating evidence just by standing there. He took a metal probe from a pocket and gently moved the victim’s collar a bit. Gotthilf could see dark stripes on the neck.
The police photographer, Nathaniel Crüger, showed up with his assistant just as the coroner stood and joined the detectives. They all retreated a few more steps to get out of the photographer’s way.
“Talk to me, Doc,” Byron muttered, eyes on the corpse.
“Another unfortunate like the Döhren woman. I’m getting too much practice in studying ligature marks, I’m afraid. It’s almost identical in occurrence: killed sometime after dark; appears to have been strangled, probably from behind from the looks of the ligature marks on the throat; body and clothing carefully arranged; and her eyes were removed, probably after she was placed here.”
“Scheisse!” Gotthilf said in disgust at the thought of another wanton mutilation.
“Agreed,” the coroner said.
Byron didn’t say anything, but Gotthilf heard him inhale slowly, then expel all the air in a forceful sigh.
This was not a good thing, Gotthilf thought. Murders happened when a city was as large as Greater Magdeburg was; even murders of women. But this kind of violence—this kind of systematic and senseless mutilation—this was unheard of. And there was a thought that now filled his heart with dread.
He looked over at Byron. “So, do we have a serial killer?”
Byron was silent for a long moment, jaw muscles twitching as he clenched his teeth. Finally, he said, “Looks like. We’ll have to wait for Dr. Schlegel’s autopsy and coroner’s report to be sure.” He nodded to the coroner, “but I’d put ten bucks on it right now.”
“No bet.”
The three of them stood in silence and watched as the photographer took his pictures of the crime scene.
Afterwards, after the preliminary examinations were complete and the coroner’s attendants were taking the body to their wagon, Byron talked to the coroner and Gotthilf stood at the mouth of the alley and looked at the people. Mostly women, he noticed, but that didn’t surprise him. The word would have spread very quickly, he was sure. “I just wish things would spread back to us that quickly,” he muttered.
He noticed that Daniel Kierstede was one of the patrolmen that had been called in to help block off the alley and keep the crowd out of the investigators’ way. When Kierstede looked his way, he jerked his head at him. Kierstede stepped over to where Gotthilf was standing, all the while keeping his eyes on the crowd.
“Did you find her?” Gotthilf asked.
“Not this time.” Kierstede sounded thankful, for which Gotthilf couldn’t blame him.
“Any clue as to who she is?”
Kierstede
shook his head. “Not from any of us.”
* * *
Gotthilf looked up as the messenger approached his desk. He had headed for Byron’s desk first, but had veered for Gotthilf as soon as he saw that Byron’s chair was empty. He handed an envelope to Gotthilf and headed for his next stop, riffling through the other envelopes he was carrying.
After reading the short note inside the envelope, Gotthilf grabbed his jacket and headed for the captain’s office.
Bill Reilly, captain of the Magdeburg Polizei, was an up-timer, just like Byron Chieske, one of the three and a half thousand or so residents of Grantville, West Virginia, who had suddenly found themselves transported from the year 2000 to 1631 into the region of Germany known as Thuringia. The effects of that event—miraculous or otherwise—had been almost immediately felt, and were continuing to spread.
One of those effects had been the rebirth of Magdeburg after the Sack of 1631. And one of the effects of that effect had been the creation of the Magdeburg Polizei in early 1635, with the two up-timers seconded from the Grantville army troops by General Frank Jackson to be the Polizei’s first leaders. And just as the population of Magdeburg itself was something of a mongrel, so was its police force. The captain, even more so than Byron, was responsible for finding and hiring men to be patrolmen in the melting pot of societies and cultures that was Magdeburg. Gotthilf had seen him dealing with those issues, and competing for good men with the industries and the army. He had a great deal of respect for Captain Reilly.
The captain looked up from his conversation with Byron when Gotthilf appeared in the doorway to his office. He said nothing, but his raised eyebrows did ask a question.
