by Alex Beer
“They are most likely from rocks in the canal, which the current dragged him over.”
“Jost trembled from shell shock. How would he have loaded and discharged a weapon?” Emmerich interjected as Winter continued to stare at the tub.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Wiesegger bent over the corpse again, extracted the liver, and placed it on a metal scale. “How else would you explain the gunshot residue on his hands?”
Emmerich thought for a moment. “The murderer could have put the gun in his hand and pulled off an extra shot,” he speculated. “In which case we’d find another bullet in the woods.”
“That wouldn’t prove anything. If he trembled so much it’s quite possible he missed with his first shot and had to fire a second time.” The young doctor noted the weight of the liver and then looked at Emmerich again. “Modern techniques are able to confirm whether two bullets were fired from the same weapon—the order in which they were shot, however, nobody can determine.”
Emmerich could see his theory was on shaky ground. “But you can’t rule out the possibility of another party?”
Wiesegger shook his head. “My esteemed Herr Emmerich, I cannot rule it out any more than you can prove it. Naturally murder is possible. There are no indications either way. But in my view, suicide is the more likely scenario. Times are hard. Many people lost everything as a result of the war—including their perspective on the future. The suicide rate is higher than ever, and the two men that you sent me fit the profile perfectly.”
“Is that your final word?”
Wiesegger nodded. “That’s what it will say in my report.”
He turned his attention to a young man, probably a student, who had just entered the room. “I’m nearly finished,” he said. “Bring him on in.”
“What’s the story with the coloration around his mouth?” Emmerich was clutching at straws. Perhaps the yellow film wasn’t from an egg substitute after all, but from some sort of poison.
“Harmless. I’d guess it’s Dottofix. The coloration would have disappeared the next time he brushed his teeth. If it would make you feel better, I’ll take a swab.”
Emmerich nodded. “Uh . . . there was one other . . . one other concern,” he stammered.
“Just a moment please.” The budding coroner went over and turned a faucet on, letting water run into the tub. A few seconds later the door opened and the student pushed a heavy stretcher into the room. On it was an obese body covered with frost.
“Could you please give him a hand?” Wiesegger asked as the student shoved the stretcher alongside the tub.
“Excuse me? Could you possibly—” Winter didn’t realize at first that he was being spoken to. Only when someone tapped him did he awake from his trance. “We need to transfer the man into the tub, to thaw him out,” the student explained. “The cooling unit in the morgue has gone haywire and froze all the bodies.”
Winter caught his breath. “So that’s why the tub is there,” he sputtered.
“We get a lot of frozen bodies in the winter,” said the young man as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
“I’ll do it,” Emmerich hurriedly volunteered. “Wait for me outside, I’ll be right there.”
In actuality his goal wasn’t so much to spare Winter as it was to get him out of the way so he could ask for pain medication unobserved.
The relief on Winter’s face was obvious. He scurried out of the examination room as if he were fleeing a burning building. Emmerich helped hoist the overweight body into the tub and waited until the student had left the room again.
“What else can I do for you?” asked Wiesegger as he threaded thick black twine through the eye of a long needle.
Emmerich cleared his throat. “An old war wound has been giving me trouble since yesterday. You don’t happen to have any pain medicine handy, do you?”
The coroner pushed the needle through the skin between Zeiner’s collarbones. “As you can see, my patients are immune to pain, one and all. As a result I am never faced with the trouble of having to administer analgesics.”
“Could you possibly write me a prescription?” Emmerich was reluctant to have to ask the youngster for something. But what else could he do?
“Unfortunately I don’t have a prescription pad. Who am I to order around a pharmacist anyway?” He didn’t pay any further attention to Emmerich; instead he methodically stitched Zeiner’s chest closed.
Emmerich could tell that Wiesegger was lying, but he didn’t want to debase himself further by begging or telling him anything more about himself or his suffering. “Thanks a lot.” He wanted to throw the youngster into the tub with the fat corpse but let it go and hobbled outside, where Winter was waiting for him.
“Does this mean we can focus on the smugglers again?” he asked.
“Nope. Just because that guy can’t prove it doesn’t mean it wasn’t murder, not by a long shot. We’re sticking with this case.” The pain was seeping into his hips at this point, and it took a lot of self-control to conceal his bad mood. “Listen, I have to take care of something,” he said to Winter. “See what you can find out about Jost and Zeiner in the meantime. The best thing to do is to go through the rogues’ gallery and the penal records again. Hörl’s often sloppy. Maybe he missed something.”
“Will do. By the way, are you feeling alright? You look sort of . . . sick.”
“Don’t you worry. It’s just from the over-sulfured wine at Poldi Tant.”
Emmerich, his head held high, turned into the next side street, where he leaned against the wall of a building and caught his breath. The pain was barely tolerable.
The first pharmacy he found had no more analgesics in stock, and the second one wouldn’t let him buy on credit, even though he showed them his badge. With his teeth gritted, he limped out and nearly fell over a disheveled man who was sitting on the cold ground reaching two arm stumps out toward him.
“Alms,” croaked the beggar. “Alms for a poor war invalid.”
Emmerich examined the haggard face of the bearded man and rummaged through his pockets in the hope of finding a coin or a cigarette or something else that might appease the man’s suffering a little, but all his fingers found was emptiness.
“Sorry,” he said as he watched with repulsion the way people hurried past averting their eyes. They didn’t want to be confronted with the cripple, a symbol of loss. He reminded them too much of their own losses and fears.
“This is how Vienna treats its heroes!” yelled Emmerich as an older woman wearing a large hat and a fur stole switched to the other side of the street to avoid the beggar. “This man lost everything because he fought for you!”
The passersby stared at the ground and rushed away, leaving the street suddenly empty.
“Please go away,” said the mutilated veteran, staring with glassy eyes at the empty hat sitting in front of him. “You’re driving away my customers.”
Emmerich, his pulse racing, closed his eyes for a moment and without saying another word limped to the nearest bar.
The owner, sufficiently impressed by Emmerich’s badge, handed over a liter of rotgut swill.
“I’ll bring the money by tomorrow,” mumbled Emmerich, opening the bottle right there. The first slug practically stripped the lining of his throat and brought on a fit of coughing, but soon warmth and numbness spread through his body, and the pain in his leg dulled to a bearable level—the only thing that couldn’t be dulled was the wrath of the world.
He hobbled back to the beggar, put down the half-full bottle in front of him, and headed back to the commissariat.
“Find anything on Jost?” he called to Winter, who was sitting at his desk studying a file.
“No, I—”
“No?” Emmerich took the papers out of his hand and looked them over. “These are documents about the smuggling ring. What are you doing? I
told you to gather information on Jost and Zeiner.”
“Yeah, I know, but,” Winter tried to explain himself but Emmerich wasn’t going to take any excuses.
“When I tell you to do something, then you have to do it. Got it?”
“But—” Winter started again but was once again interrupted.
“No buts.” Emmerich had gotten loud. “When your superior officer orders you to do something, you’re to listen. If you had served, you would understand that.”
Winter, who looked as if he might break into tears at any moment, motioned behind him. “It wasn’t my—”
“EMMERICH!” This time it wasn’t Emmerich who interrupted Winter but a large man in his early fifties. He had a full head of brown hair, a rich, bushy beard, and the taut demeanor of an officer of the Imperial and Royal Army. District Inspector Leopold Sander, war hero, recipient of various distinguished service awards, and his new boss. “What’s with the show?”
“Forgive me, Herr District Inspector, but he failed to follow my orders. I can’t tolerate such impudence.”
“Officer Winter bears no such blame. I personally gave him new orders. And as far as the subject of impertinence and failing to follow orders . . . You can certainly imagine my surprise when I learned that you had, without authorization, set aside the investigation of the case of the smugglers to go chase after some chimeras.”
“Not chimeras. Homicides.”
“Are you working for the Leib und Leben division all of a sudden? Because if in fact the case actually has to do with homicide, it belongs to them.”
“Before I turned it over I wanted to make sure that we’re indeed dealing with murder. I’ve just begun the inquiry and will soon be able to say with certainty.”
Sander straightened himself so that he was a good head taller than Emmerich. “Have you consulted the medical examiner?” he demanded.
“Yes, Herr Wiesegger believes anything is possible.”
“And what does he believe probable?”
Emmerich looked at his hands. He couldn’t lie to Sander, because he’d surely get a copy of the report sent to him. “Suicide,” he mumbled.
“Suicide,” Sander repeated loudly and clearly. “So according to the expert opinion of the medical examiner, it’s suicide. Goodness, Emmerich, what in god’s name could possibly make you keep pursuing the case?”
“I have a feeling. And anyway, Wiesegger is young and inexperienced. There’s a good chance he missed something. I would like Professor Meixner, or better yet Professor Hirschkron, to do another autopsy.”
“Wiesegger is supposed to be brilliant. Not for nothing did Hirschkron make him his assistant. You need to put a little trust in the competence of the Vienna Medical Examiner’s office. It is world renowned, after all.”
“If you would give me one week, then—”
“Thousands upon thousands of upstanding people are being bled by unscrupulous price gougers every single day, and Mayor Reumann has sworn that it will no longer be permitted.” Sander grabbed him by the shoulder. “The city council wants results. You are the best man for the case, and for that reason I cannot permit you to let your attention be diverted by some fantastical ideas. Do you understand, Emmerich? The city is counting on you.” He thought for a moment and then looked him in the eye. “I am counting on you.”
“But—” Emmerich began, but Sander held up his hand and silenced him.
“What is it with you? Have you been drinking?” He sniffed the air.
Emmerich clenched his lips together, took a deep breath, and shook his head.
Sander squinted his eyes and twitched the tip of his nose. “Right,” he said after a few seconds, “so everything’s settled.” He put on his gray felt hat and made as if to leave. “I want you to report to my office tomorrow morning at eight, Emmerich. Good day.” The district inspector disappeared through the door at a measured pace.
“I have an idea how we might nab Kolja . . . ” Winter tried to defuse the uncomfortable situation, but fell silent when he saw Emmerich’s face. “Wasn’t trying to cause offense,” he mumbled and stuck his nose back into the file lying on the table in front of him.
Emmerich ignored him, bummed a cigarette from Hörl, and went out into the fresh air. There he leaned against the wall of the building and sucked in the blue smoke.
The pain was wearing him down, and he thought seriously for a moment about whether he had imagined the whole thing. Perhaps the shell-shocked vet Jost had gotten lucky with a shot. Perhaps Zeiner was so upset by the death of his friend that he had jumped into the water. Perhaps the deaths really had been just the desperate acts of hopeless, broken men. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . . Too many question marks. Too many uncertainties.
Emmerich had had enough, and he did something that he had never done before. He let work be work and simply went home.
9.
Perhaps I should rethink my relationship to my job and approach it more like Hörl from now on, thought Emmerich as he hobbled up the stairs. He never took his career too seriously and seemed well served by this attitude. It would certainly also be nice to be able to spend more time with Luise and the children . . .
“Grüß Gott, Frau Ganglberger. It’s an honor, Frau Pospischil,” he called as he passed the bassena, the public water faucet on the building façade, where the women were sharing the latest gossip.
Suddenly they both fell silent. Frau Ganglberger made a face as if she had just seen a ghost. “Oh god,” escaped her lips. “You . . . home . . . already . . . no, no, no.”
Emmerich froze. “What is it?”
“Herr Emmerich . . . Herr Emmerich.” She threw her hands onto her head. “I don’t know what I should say.”
“Did something happen to the children? Or to Luise?”
“No . . . well, yes . . . it’s . . . ”
Emmerich didn’t wait for her to finish; instead he stormed inside and up the stairs.
Luise’d had a bad feeling, it suddenly occurred to him, and I didn’t take her seriously. If something has happened I’ll never forgive myself . . .
His hand trembled as he pulled the key out of his pants pocket, and it took three tries to put it into the lock. “Luise!” he yelled as he was unlocking the door. “Emil! Ida! Paul!”
“Auguuuuust.” It was Paul, the youngest, who came running toward him with open arms and latched onto his leg before he could even enter the apartment.
Emmerich lifted him up and hugged the scrawny boy, who was as light as a little bird. He loved this child, loved his little family, and he would do anything he needed to do to protect them.
“Where are Emil and Ida? And where’s your mother?”
“With the man.” Paul motioned into the apartment with his eyes wide.
Emmerich put the boy back down, put on his brass knuckles, and entered the kitchen. “Who are you?” he asked the stranger who was sitting at the kitchen table. The man was gaunt, his skin had an unhealthy yellowish tint, and he had a dirty bandage wrapped around his head. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes sat deep in his dark-ringed eyeholes. Luise, Emil, and Ida sat silently opposite the man and now looked at Emmerich, terrified. It was cold in the apartment. The stove must have gone out, but nobody seemed to have noticed. “Who are you?” Emmerich repeated. “And what do you want with my family?”
Instead of introducing himself, the man said: “I could ask you the same question.”
As it slowly dawned on Emmerich who this man was, it became so quiet in the room that even the tiniest sounds could be heard: the rustling of a mouse in the wall, the rattling of a horse-drawn wagon passing somewhere outside, and the excited chatter of the neighbors at the bassena.
“This is Xaver,” Luise interrupted the silence. “My husband.” The pain in Emmerich’s leg suddenly vanished, along with the rage at Sander’s appearance and his doubts about work. August E
mmerich didn’t feel anything at all anymore. “I . . . I didn’t know. I had no idea.” Luise’s voice faltered, and since she was staring at a piece of paper it wasn’t clear whom she was speaking to. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.” She put the piece of paper down on the table and started to sob.
Emmerich saw the paper was the certification that her husband, Xaver Koch, had been killed in action. He wanted to hug Luise but stopped himself at the last second. Luise—beloved, best friend, and loyal confidante. His Luise . . . Was she still? She’d fallen head over heels for his beautiful brown eyes, that’s how she’d described it back when they first got together. They’d gone to the park, together with the children. He’d stolen a kiss in a moment when they weren’t paying attention. He’d been alone for so long. And now? Now this life, which she and the children had so enriched, was suddenly in danger. And he couldn’t even summon up any rage for the man who seemed more like a lump of misery than a human being.
“Luise,” he said softly, “you’re not to blame—”
“He’s right,” said Xaver. “Mistakes happen in the chaos of war.”
“You were in a prison camp?” asked Emmerich, tormented. He suddenly felt sympathy for this cadaverous man.
“Siberia,” he said taciturnly, holding up his hands, which were missing several fingers.
Emmerich nodded. He’d heard many reports about the miserable conditions in the Russian ice desert and the mass deaths of the innocent soldiers interned there. How they dropped like flies. Frozen, starved, or worked to death. Compared to their fate, everyday life in Vienna was a piece of cake.
Looking at the utterly unexpectedly reunited Koch family, who were convulsively trying to somehow come to grips with the situation, he felt an all too familiar emotion: he felt shut out. He was just a bystander. They were a family. Bound by a holy oath and by blood. He was the outsider.
Emmerich slipped off the brass knuckles, opened the glazed swing door of the cupboard where Luise kept the good china she’d received as a dowry, and pulled from behind a tablecloth the tin where he kept his rainy-day money. Then he packed his few belongings in a small case.
