by Alex Beer
Luckily Emmerich didn’t register his reluctance—he was too busy with the body. “Give me a pair of gloves,” he said, motioning to a side table with several pairs on it.
“What are you going to do?” asked Winter while doing what he was told.
“I want to quickly . . . ” Emmerich pulled on the gloves and tried to open the stiff lips of the dead man. “Whoops,” he said when the jaw finally opened with a loud crack. “What do you think?”
Winter didn’t look into the mouth for one second more than was necessary. “Just like Zeiner.”
“We have to find out who this man is,” said Emmerich. “I worry that Sander will catch wind of it if I call in the records department.” He scratched his head.
“I could make a sketch of him. And we could take fingerprints ourselves.”
Emmerich looked surprised and nodded approvingly. “Wait here, I’ll get a pen and paper. Study his features.” He rushed out.
Winter found himself alone in the morgue. “You sure I shouldn’t come with you?” he called, but it was too late. The door had already closed behind Emmerich.
He didn’t have to wait long by himself in the cabinet of horrors, because Emmerich came back shortly with a piece of paper and a coal briquette.
“Did you know that because of the coal shortage, every patient is asked to bring a briquette to the hospital so the rooms can be heated?” he asked. “The world really is teetering on the edge.”
With clammy hands, Winter drew a portrait of the unidentified dead man. When he was finished, he presented it to his boss.
Emmerich was visibly amazed. “Not bad. Very realistic. Maybe I underestimated you. It’s possible that you’re going to be a great asset to the police after all.”
Despite the chilly surroundings, Winter was suffused with the warmth of happiness.
They ground up the rest of the coal into fine dust and took fingerprints with it as best they could; then they went back to the station house, where there was a lot of activity.
“The sun has barely set and the scum is already creeping out of the gutter,” lamented Hörl. “Half the city does nothing but whoring, boozing, and stealing anymore. And we have to handle it all.”
“In that case you’re already warmed up and you can take these down to the lab.” Emmerich handed him the piece of paper with the fingerprints. “I need these identified as quickly as possible.”
Hörl turned and rotated the piece of paper. “What case number should I write on it?”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
“Smugglers?”
“What else!” Emmerich winked and held up the sketch Winter had drawn of the dead man. “Ever seen this guy?”
Hörl studied the sketch and shook his head. “And it doesn’t look like anybody from missing person reports, either. One of the smugglers, I assume?”
“What else!” repeated Emmerich, waving Winter closer. “We’re going to be out in the field again,” he told Hörl. “First in the homeless shelter and then in the Chatham Bar. If anything relevant to identifying him comes up, send someone for us.”
“Sounds like a great deal. I stay here and handle all the shit while you go drinking at the Je t’aime Bar.”
“Strictly for work, naturally.” Emmerich grinned. “We’ve got to nab those smugglers somehow.”
“But of course,” grumbled Hörl, turning back to his work.
At the shelter, the brothers in misery swore up and down that they didn’t know the man, and the housemaster as well as the rejected men who were freezing outside in the gray, cold night had nothing more to offer than a shake of the head.
Emmerich carefully rolled up the piece of paper, pulled up the collar of his jacket, and trudged over to 1st district.
Apparently there had been consequences as a result of the incident that had ended with tankard blows to the head, because the entrance was now watched over by a different bouncer, who let the two of them—clean and dressed well this time—pass without objection.
“Grüß Gott, gentlemen. Have a wonderful evening.”
“Clothes make the man,” Emmerich said once they were inside.
He showed the sketch around, but neither the workers nor the customers were of any help.
After the last “sorry, never seen him,” Emmerich sat down at a free table and rubbed his tired eyes. All around him people danced, sang, and told jokes. It had been a long and difficult day, and he could tell he needed some time to process everything.
“Here you are.” Winter had gotten two beers and handed one to Emmerich.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to drink on the job,” Emmerich said, taking the cool glass.
“As far as I can tell, we have finished working for the day.”
“Do you think I’m fooling myself?” Emmerich stared at the foam atop his beer. “Is it possible that I’m imagining the murders? Are they really just tragic accidents, the kind that happen every day?”
“Let’s look at what speaks in favor and what against,” Winter suggested.
“Okay.” Emmerich took a sip of beer and began to summarize. “Dietrich Jost wasn’t in any shape to load a weapon and fire with accuracy, and yet he supposedly shot himself. When we confronted his best friend, Harald Zeiner, with these facts, he stormed off and met with two men in the pub Poldi Tant. There they ate Kaiserschmarrn, which was colored with fake egg yolks. A few hours later Zeiner was fished from the Danube canal, dead. It all seems suspicious to me.”
“The medical examiner found no evidence of foul play, and there are no other indications of murder. The only argument in favor is Jost’s trembling. But the men at the shelter could have exaggerated about that,” Winter continued, playing the role of skeptic.
“Less than twenty-four hours later a man whose mouth was stained just like Zeiner’s was strangled. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“If the unidentified man had really been sitting with Zeiner in Poldi Tant, then the murder hypothesis would make sense,” Winter admitted.
Emmerich leaned back and looked at his watch. “It’s too late to ride out to Nußdorf and ask the woman at Poldi Tant whether she recognizes the sketch. We’ll have to take care of it tomorrow.” He let his gaze drift off into the distance and disappeared into his own thoughts for a moment. “If we can find the connection between the dead men, everything else will be clear.”
Winter took a sip of his beer and winced.
“Something wrong with the swill?”
“The beer’s good. I just remember, though, that we still have go back to see the medical examiner about the autopsy of the unidentified body.”
“Well, at least Wiesegger can’t say it was suicide this time.”
“There is that,” said Winter, thinking again of Zeiner’s open rib cage and the fat corpse covered with frost. He’d been lucky that Emmerich had helped heave the guy into the tub.
They finished their glasses in silence, then stood up and left the bar.
“Okay, see you tomorrow,” said Emmerich, heading off automatically in the direction of his home.
“Where are you going?” called Winter. “It’s the other way.”
Emmerich froze. “Oh right. I completely forgot.”
Standing outside, they could hear a song blaring as the bouncer opened the door to the Chatham Bar for a young couple. “Glücklich ist, wer vergisst, was doch nicht zu ändern ist.” He is happiest, who forgets, that which cannot be changed.
“We’ll see about that,” said Emmerich, following Winter to the tram stop for the line to Währing.
16.
A knock awoke Emmerich from a deep sleep. “Guten Morgen.” It was Winter’s voice.
Emmerich rubbed his face, opened his eyes, and fretted. He was once again lying in a strange bed. It took him a moment to orient himself, then he realized where he was, an
d he let himself think back over the past two days. Luise, Xaver, the night he couldn’t remember, the rude awakening in the hospital, his flight from the doctors, Kolja . . . he quickly tried to clear his thoughts.
When he lifted his legs out of bed, the familiar pain shot through his knee, and he suppressed a scream. “I’m coming,” he said, hobbled over to his jacket, which was hanging from a chair back, pulled out the heroin, and gulped down a pill. Then he thought for a moment.
It probably wasn’t smart to carry the bottles around with him everywhere. First of all they clinked when he walked; also, he could lose them at any moment. He shook a few tablets into his pants pocket and hid the rest in the bottom drawer of a little dresser.
Winter had quartered Emmerich in the dressing room of his grandmother, something the old woman had protested fiercely at first. “Am I supposed to dress and do my hair in my bedroom? How uncouth!” she had said bitterly. “He can stay in the old servants’ quarters.” Winter had stood up to her, however, and insisted that Emmerich stay in the heated portion of the house. And to Emmerich’s surprise, Winter had been able to win the dispute. The young man he had taken for an inept boob was proving to be a useful fellow who was full of surprises.
“Guten Morgen,” Emmerich greeted his assistant and his grandmother after he had washed and dressed. The two of them were breakfasting in the living room.
“It’s scandalous,” the old woman said, and it took Emmerich a moment to figure out that she wasn’t talking about him, but about an article in the newspaper, which was in her lap.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Winter. “Unfortunately we don’t have any coffee, but my grandmother was able to get fresh bread and jam.”
“I had to stand in line like a common servant. And then the bloodsucker wanted a fortune for it. This sort of thing wouldn’t have been allowed under Kaiser Karl, and certainly not under Kaiser Franz Josef, god rest his soul.”
“Tea sounds wonderful.” Emmerich sat down as far away as possible from the old lady, on a filigree chair so delicate that it looked as if it would break beneath the smallest weight. “And I wouldn’t say no to a piece of bread and jam.”
“Do you know the latest crime your government is planning?” She said the word “your” as if Emmerich himself were the founder and chairman of the Social Democratic Workers’ Party. Before he could answer, she began to read in a theatrical voice: “In order to raise the foreign currency necessary to acquire essential foodstuffs, it has been decided to sell abroad certain works of art, antiquities, manuscripts, codices, furniture, and so forth that, while of minimal art historical or cultural value to the Republic of Austria, are inherently valuable.” She fanned herself with a napkin. “Philistines! Ferdinand, I think I need my heart medication.”
“It won’t be so bad.” Emmerich tried to calm her. “It says it right there, it’ll be the objects of minimal value. And nobody’s going to get anything out of all that pretty stuff if the people all starve to death.”
“You proletarians don’t know a thing about art and culture. You can’t judge what’s valuable and what isn’t. And as if that’s not enough! The Commission for the Inquiry into Military Breach of Duty requests all persons able to provide information deemed relevant under the circumstances to get in contact,” she read from another article. “Now you want to sully the honorable Imperial and Royal Army and our brave war heroes. Nothing’s sacred anymore. Ferdinand, where’s my medication?”
“Here, Grandmother.” Winter handed her a brown bottle. “Herr Emmerich was himself in the Imperial and Royal Army and fought for our country.”
She refused to allow herself to be impressed, shook a few drops from the bottle into a glass of water, and drank the mix in one go. “I do not believe that Herr Emmerich can stay with us much longer,” she said. “As you know, I need to avoid exertion, and his presence is not conducive to that in my weakened state of health.”
“He hasn’t done a thing. You’re just trying to impose your will again,” said Winter.
“We should get to work.” Emmerich took his bread and jam and headed for the door. “I’ll look in on my old apartment later and see what state it’s in. Who knows, maybe I can move back in.”
He was in fact harboring a glimmer of hope that Xaver Koch had realized that there was someone else who had captured Luise’s heart. Perhaps he had already packed his things and moved on. He hadn’t wanted to ask Luise to discuss things so soon, but Winter’s grandmother left him no choice. The thought of Luise and the children made his heart beat more quickly. But he had to ignore it. He needed to concentrate fully on his work.
“It’s really not necessary,” said Winter. “You’re my guest and you can stay as long as you like.” He gave his grandmother a harsh look. “I wish the Spanish flu had taken her instead of my parents and siblings,” he said once they were outside. “But not even the virus wanted anything to do with her.”
17.
Winter wasn’t pleased when Emmerich revealed that they would start their day at the medical examiner’s. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have eaten breakfast—but it was too late now. The taste of jam, so fresh and sweet on his tongue, would from now on be associated with death and dying and forever lose its effect.
“God damn it!” Emmerich railed, wrinking his nose as he went to enter the dissection room.
Winter feared the worst. He cast a wary glance through the open door and saw, relieved, that Emmerich’s displeasure had nothing to do with a particularly mangled corpse but with the fact that Wiesegger was on the job again this morning. Winter was even more pleased to see that there was no body at all to be seen. Wiesegger and his assistant were standing before an empty steel examination table with their faces buried in a file. Paper instead of putrefaction. Winter could barely believe his luck.
“Herr Emmerich, what an . . . ”
Wiesegger struggled to find the right word. It was certainly neither an honor nor a pleasure, nor a surprise for that matter, so he left the unfinished sentence hanging in the air and turned his attention back to the file.
“Have you already examined the dead man from the general hospital? The one with the strangulation marks on his neck?” asked Winter.
Wiesegger nodded. “I conducted the autopsy yesterday evening. We’re finishing up the report right now. If you would like, I can have a copy sent to you.”
He seemed to be acting more courteous then he had during the previous visit, and Emmerich wondered why.
“You can just tell me what you found out—just don’t say you think it was a probable suicide.”
Winter didn’t hear his answer because his eyes happened to land on the steel tub next to the examination table. What he saw caught him completely off guard. In cloudy water swam hands, feet, arms, legs, and right in the middle of this limb soup the slit-open torso of a woman. His stomach protested, and he ran out of the room holding a hand over his mouth.
“Go look after him,” said Wiesegger, and his assistant followed Winter. “Our profession is not one for those with weak nerves.” The medical examiner shoved the paperwork aside, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, fished one limb after another from the tub, and laid them out in front of him on the table. “It’s not a problem for you, is it?”
“You don’t have to worry about my nerves.” Emmerich approached the macabre puzzle and looked over the various parts. “Do we know who she was?”
“Not yet. The head disappeared without a trace, and the rest has yet to reveal any clues to her identity.”
“You can tell the investigator that she was rolling butts for a living.”
Wiesegger raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, rolling butts?”
Emmerich pointed to the hands. “See the calluses on the thumb and middle finger? They’re typical of women who work out of their homes rolling cigarettes. To make any kind of living at it you have to produce more than ten thous
and a week. That leaves marks.”
He would have loved to add a snide remark about how hoity-toity fellows like him didn’t have a clue about the horrible living conditions of the working class, but he let it slide. He had evidently risen in the estimation of the medical examiner.
Wiesegger studied the rough skin and nodded approvingly. “Not bad,” he mumbled. “Not bad.”
“Could we perhaps address my body?”
“Of course.” Wiesegger honored Emmerich with a hint of a smile. “This time I must agree with you. It was murder. The strangulation marks and the abrasions on the finger of the dead man leave no doubt that he was choked from behind.”
“Are there any clues as to the identity of the victim?”
“You’d have to tell me. You are the identification expert.”
Emmerich didn’t answer, he just snorted. “Your body lived in rather mean circumstances,” said Wiesegger. “His overall condition suggests malnutrition and poor hygiene. He also had nicotine and alcohol habits. His lungs and liver were in poor condition.”
Emmerich suppressed a groan. It didn’t take an autopsy to ascertain these facts. This had already been obvious to him.
Wiesegger hadn’t missed his facial expression. “I did, however, find something else that will be of interest to you,” he added solicitously, removing the wet gloves and handing Emmerich a piece of paper. “This is an extract from the autopsy report.”
“ . . . stomach distended; in same, a large amount of brownish yellow ingestate containing pieces of meat and with an acidic odor. Mucous membrane . . . ” Emmerich read aloud, furrowing his brow. “So?” he asked.
Wiesegger didn’t answer, instead handing him a piece of paper from another report.
It stated: . . . stomach distended; in same, a large amount of brownish yellow ingestate containing pieces of meat and with an acidic odor. Mucous membrane . . .
