by Wolf Haas
Over the years, Brenner would be struck by this again and again. This aura that despairing people had. With Knoll, though, the aura quickly evaporated again. After a year of mourning, he married a hairstylist. And needless to say, hair dryer, not good for the aura.
Angelika Lanz had terrible beauty-shop hair, too. You’ve seen it before: dyed and permed a thousand times.
A long, withered shag that had never known nature outside the beauty shop that’d chemically produced it.
And yet, Brenner was unable to detect any of the usual trashiness that Angelika radiated. A beautiful, sad woman. With an aura, Brenner thought to himself. And with a cigarette. And a question.
“Didn’t you used to be a detective?” Shit, Brenner thought. Just don’t nod.
CHAPTER 6
It’s a law: If you don’t have anybody to love, you must search for all eternity until you find somebody. No sooner will you find them, though, than three more will parade past you later that same day. Now to apply this law to the detective: no sooner had Brenner chucked the detective work than every day seemed to present him with a new client.
Brenner didn’t necessarily have the feeling that Junior’s and Angelika’s cases could be settled all that easily, either. And stuck between two chairs like that, well, you know how the saying goes, always the danger that your hemorrhoids will catch a chill.
It wasn’t until the next day, when he got summoned to Junior’s shortly before four, that he noticed how bad Junior looked. There are people who always look bad, for whom it’s a good sign if you can detect violet rings under their eyes. Because that means they didn’t drink through the night for once, and so a little color’s returned to their faces in contrast to the rings. But when a person who places as much importance on health and fitness as the young Rapid Response boss generally does suddenly looks like one of the drug addicts that the EMTs transport to the emergency room, then, needless to say, alarm.
Today’s mustache was not the sharp wedge that you could uncap your beer bottle on. Bomber pilot no more. Droopy, even. A little like that popular philosopher, hold on, what’s his name again, quick, the one with the whip. You know, mustache like a seal, the kind where it gets a little tricky with the food bits. Where you’ve got to smuggle your consommé Cèlestine past the old soup-strainer.
Interesting, though, how often the exterior matches the interior! Because it wasn’t just Junior’s mustache that went droopy overnight, but he was also prattling on rather philosophically today:
“The International Committee of the Red Cross is one of our civilization’s greatest achievements.”
And even if you forget everything else, one thing I’d like to impart on your life’s journey: When a person goes on as sanctimoniously as this, you can always assume that he’s got something to hide. Now, Brenner knew right away, of course, that Junior didn’t want to admit how much of a toll Bimbo’s death was taking on him. Just like Hansi Munz had been unbearably mouthy last night so as not to let anything show, Junior was carrying on sanctimoniously now.
“The mission of the International Committee of the Red Cross is exactly one hundred and thirty-nine years old.”
Needless to say now, Battle of Solferino, senseless bloodbath, Henri Dunant, whole shebang. He really didn’t need to tell Brenner all this. Because Brenner had already heard it ten times a day during EMT training. Understandable, then, that Brenner should meander a bit in his thoughts. All those French names start to sound alike—Henri Dunant, Brigitte Bardot, and, and, and.
“But do you know what’s inextricably linked to the mission of the International Committee of the Red Cross?”
Pay attention to what I’m telling you. Because was I not just talking about the often uncanny link between the philosophical mustache and philosophical talk? Well, incredible: first, thought-digression onto French names—and now, the French experience. Because Brenner was having such a case of déjà vu right now that the plastic seat under his rear practically dematerialized.
All the sudden he was back sitting on one of the wooden chairs at the police academy, where they were always beating you over the head with these old truisms, too. “The executive branch is one of the three pillars of democracy.” Brenner heard this sentence so often at the police academy that he automatically assumed it wasn’t true at the time—a regular contrarian, as it were. And the things he’d go on to experience while still in law enforcement, well, I don’t even want to get started now, or else you might leap right off this bridge of mine.
The use of force by the police, though, always plenty to discuss—and important for you young people to discuss it, too. Just like it’s important for the hamster to gnaw its teeth down on the bars of its cage. The hamster that Brenner’s grandfather gave him when he was a kid always did that, too.
“The International Committee of the Red Cross,” Junior said, startling Brenner, who was still annoyed about how the sound of that damn hamster-rattling used to keep him from falling asleep, “is only conceivable through one-hundred-percent impartiality on the part of the International Committee of the Red Cross. The International Committee of the Red Cross must be neutral. It’s the only way in which we can care for the injured on both sides of war. One-hundred-percent neutrality. Tutti Fratelli was Henri Dunant’s motto. Brothers all.”
“Yeah, yeah, or else the warring parties won’t let us into all the blockade zones.”
“That’s right. Throughout the whole world, Angola, Mozambique, wherever you look. No diplomacy, no nothing. Just one-hundred-percent neutrality.”
As a matter of fact, practically every other day there was a story in the newspapers about how the Red Cross’s neutrality wasn’t exactly a hundred percent. But Brenner decided not to say anything. Sometimes boss-people just need to mechanically recite the sermons that they themselves don’t even believe in. And Brenner thought to himself, Junior just doesn’t want to admit that Bimbo’s death is taking a toll on him.
But then Junior took Brenner by surprise when suddenly he got concrete: “You took the GED, you must know what happened in 1934.”
What’s this all about? At first Junior’s line of questioning just provoked Brenner. Are we back in school or something? Am I going to get quizzed on dates?
But when you get worked up, the body emits certain substances, and with these substances, your memory functions better.
“Civil war in Austria,” Brenner answered, like a shot from a pistol.
But instead of Junior praising him, he looked about as dismayed as if the answer had been false. It wasn’t Brenner’s answer that troubled him, though. It was the implications of it: “In the civil war, we, in Vienna, lost our neutrality. The Fascists dissolved the Red Cross. And so we weren’t able to look after our wounded workers. That was a dreadful mistake. That was madness.”
“Workers have got their own unions again these days. In fact, Pro Med’s got—”
“That’s what’s madness!” Junior snarled at Brenner. Actually, I’d have to call it flying off the handlebar. Because, in his rage, his mustache, which Junior had let droop so philosophically at first, was now standing at pert attention again. And it wouldn’t surprise me if the roots of the hairs weren’t stimulated by the adrenaline, kind of like with fertilizer. “That’s exactly what’s so mad! That’s the sheer madness of it, Brenner!”
The workers wouldn’t have lived to see today anyway, Brenner thought.
And then, quite softly, Junior said: “And our organization won’t survive for long, either, not if Pro Med continues like it has been.”
Brenner didn’t say anything.
“Say something.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I lost two of my most capable men yesterday, and that’s all you can come up with?”
Nice and slowly, he was starting to turn aggressive. Philosophical at first, but now a bit more aggressive, nice and slow. Brenner knew that he’d reveal in his own sweet time what he’d actually been wanting to say all al
ong.
“The one killed. And the other arrested.” Junior sighed and took off his glasses. He wore such odd reading glasses—they didn’t go with the muscled physique at all. About as little as the silver chain that he always wore on his right wrist. But if you’re going to look at it that way, then, the whole desk was out of place. Junior was rumored to still go out on calls, but by himself, the lone medic. And then, needless to say, no reading glasses, no, only sunglasses.
“That’s all you can come up with?” he muttered again from behind the hand that he was using to massage the bridge of his nose with.
“Maybe it wasn’t Lanz at all. I could see if I can find anything out.”
Junior shook his head, exasperated: “Are you listening to me at all, Brenner?”
“You’ve got no doubts that Lanz did it?” Brenner said, playing dumb a little, because he was curious to see if Junior would get even more concrete with his suspicions about Pro Med.
“I know he didn’t do it,” Junior said to the ceiling again, as if he were reconnecting with his higher power. “But at this very moment, I couldn’t care less about old Lanz. This here isn’t about Lanz. It’s about the survival of our entire organization!”
“It almost sounds as if you believe it was Pro Med that’s behind Bimbo’s—” Junior gave him such a strange look that Brenner immediately corrected himself—“behind paramedic Big’s murder.”
“It’s okay, you can say ‘Bimbo.’ ” He stole a brief look up at the ceiling, but evidently there was nothing up there at the moment, because he didn’t say anything else.
“But why Bimbo, then?”
“Think back a few weeks.”
Brenner preferred to keep mum, though.
“I can’t permit myself to tell you even half of what I know. You know who Stenzl was, though, the man who got shot right before Bimbo’s eyes.”
“The boss at the blood bank.”
“And the brother of Pro Med’s chief.”
How am I supposed to know that, Brenner thought. The murder of Stenzl and his girlfriend two weeks ago interested him about as much as any other story in the newspaper. He only caught what Bimbo and Munz had played up afterward. How Bimbo had managed to entangle himself in the nurses’ rooms of every hospital ward, like he was some kind of Hollywood celebrity.
“Yeah, sure,” Brenner said.
“What you don’t know, though, is about the problems that Pro Med’s been having with the blood bank. How Pro Med’s Stenzl forced his own brother out of the company, but then didn’t count on him taking over the blood bank.”
Brenner didn’t say anything.
“You know that Bimbo was the key witness, though. So you can put two and two together.”
“Did you help get his brother installed at the blood bank after he got squeezed out of Pro Med?”
Once when he was in the fourth grade at Puntigam Elementary School, Brenner was rocking back and forth in his chair when it slipped right out from under him, and he hit the back of his head so hard on the desk behind him that he was unconscious for five minutes.
And he’d never forget the worried look on his teacher’s face when he came to. Needless to say, big surprise now that, thirty-seven years later, he’d see that same worried look again.
“Things just aren’t the same anymore in this city,” Junior said, “since Pro Med brought politics into play. A single EMS organization can’t survive in this city on donors alone. And two organizations—the city can’t handle it. So politics comes into play.”
“Pro Med does have its sponsors, though. You hardly see a Pro Med vehicle without the Watzek Concrete logo on it.”
“I know, and the terminally ill believe they’re getting picked up by a concrete mixer instead of an ambulance.”
“That’s the privatized economy for you. It’s got its own laws.”
“Privatized economy, don’t make me laugh! I’ll give you three guesses as to how Watzek is getting so many public construction contracts right now.”
Brenner shrugged his shoulders: “That’s how it goes when you’ve got ideals.”
“Despite all their political ties, though, Pro Med has been unable to overtake us. Even though Stenzl has better contacts at City Hall.” And then Junior said quietly: “Now he’s turning to other means.”
“You really believe that Pro Med had something to do with the murders?”
“The difference between believing and knowing is vast, Brenner. Exactly as vast as the difference between yesterday and today. Yesterday I had two reliable, experienced paramedics. And today, one of them’s dead and the other’s in prison. And yet, I should be glad that the matter got cleared up so quickly. Because this way the story will disappear from the newspapers within a few days.”
“In that case, we’re lucky that the newspapers haven’t exploited it that drastically. At least, up until now.”
“ ‘Lucky,’ ” Junior said, reading off the ceiling. “ ‘Lucky.’ You could call it luck, I suppose. At least now I’ll know why all these years I’ve been placing stock in the right type of cooperation with the newspapers. Why I put up with all the criticism internally here for allowing the newspapers to unofficially tap our radio. You know how it looks if the press photographer’s already snapped a photo of the injured before we’re even there on the scene. But today I feel validated by how crucial it’s been for us to have a cooperative relationship with the media.”
“I didn’t know that the press taps our radio.”
A thin smile crept out from under Junior’s mustache. One of those smiles that makes the smilee out to be a naïve idiot.
“Have you never considered how the newspapers get their photos? They’re not just tapping us. They’re tapping the fire department radio and the police radio, too.”
Junior acted as if he didn’t notice Brenner’s annoyance. To tell you the truth, though, I would’ve been annoyed, too, if somebody had approached me, asked if I could find out whether Pro Med taps our radio, and then later tells me that half the city’s been listening in this whole time.
“If every hack reporter can tap our radio, then it can’t be all that difficult for Pro Med, either.”
This time Junior didn’t read the answer off the ceiling. Rather, you’d have thought it was written right on the pupils of Brenner’s eyes. Junior leaned forward and then, in the way that you might talk to a silly child, he said: “When there’s an unofficial agreement in place, it hardly takes a genius to tap a radio. The press knows our encryption code. But I’d rather be skinned alive before I betray our code to Pro Med.”
“If every hack reporter knows the code, then Pro Med could’ve got it from them. They’re not exactly the most discreet people. Given that they make it their job to broadcast total claptrap to the world.”
“We’re facing a scandal in the press. We’ve lost two of our most valuable employees. And Pro Med’s lighting a fire under our asses like crazy. If it keeps on like this, in a couple months we’ll be number two in EMS. And that means we’ll be getting less money from the city and the state. And that means fewer vehicles and fewer drivers. It’s like a chain reaction, and after a year, we’ll only be half as big as Pro Med. And after another year, we’ll be closing down. So you can find yourself a new job, Brenner. And don’t give me any lectures. Bring me the proof once and for all that Pro Med’s tapping our radio! And bring everything else that you learn about those Pro Meddlers to me, too! The more, the better! We’ve got to deliver the proof to the police about the kind of rotten organization Pro Med is, so that it becomes obvious who’s behind the murders. And don’t bungle things up this time—I don’t want another one of my men to have to pay for it with his life!”
“That last part you’re going to have to explain to me.”
“Why do you think Bimbo was killed on the very day when you were phoning around half the city about how Pro Med was tapping our radio? Very discreet, I have to say. I wouldn’t have thought that you could manage all that by yourself.”
You see: Free phone calls is one thing. The possibility of the dispatch center listening in is another thing altogether.
“You don’t seriously think that Bimbo was killed because I—”
“All I know is that he was killed. A few hours, as a matter of fact, after you went around asking half the city how you could figure out whether Pro Med is tapping our radio. So, do me a favor, and going forward, use a little more discretion.”
At the word “discretion” Junior banged his fist on the desk, not hard, because, glass top on the desk, but nevertheless, very uncomfortable for the ears when his bracelet struck the glass.
Brenner got up to leave, but before he reached the door, Junior said: “And you can forget about Angelika and her problems. Lanz has to stay right where he is for now. Until the whole thing gets cleared up. I don’t want to see another person die. You and your overzealousness have already done enough.”
Outside in the hall, it hit Brenner: the last time someone had talked to him like this. The last person who’d given him a half-hour lecture and who’d had the gall at the end to say: Don’t give me any lectures.
He’d been on the force nineteen years at the time. He punched a hole through his hat from one day to the next simply because he couldn’t get used to his new boss’s style. This was a good two years ago. And now here we are again. The way that Junior had no qualms about saddling him with the blame for Bimbo’s death. Just like Nemec had done back then.
Now, you’re going to say, You shouldn’t always be looking back on life. Not the same old stories, that won’t do you any good. But all I can say is this: if Junior hadn’t reminded Brenner so much of Nemec at that moment, maybe the whole story would’ve turned out differently. Maybe he really would’ve accomplished everything with the radio and even done it fast just so he could finally be left alone again. And maybe today, we still wouldn’t know how Bimbo’s gold got in his throat.
