Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  “I did read it.”

  Hoffner bent over a particularly intricate patch. “Really?” He nodded to himself. “So you’re comfortable inhaling a solution of arsenious acid. Glad to hear it.”

  Fichte was about to sniff at his fingers again; he thought the better of it.

  “It’s actually illegal now,” Hoffner continued, his eyes fixed on the series of narrow grooves. “Even at that dilution. But, of course, you knew that.” Fichte said nothing as Hoffner dabbed at a bit of swelling. The skin had retained a surprising elasticity. “Used to be that arsenic was a wonderful thing for preserving a body. I suppose there were too many of those side effects, though. Bleeding mouth, sores, vomiting. Don’t know why it’s still on the shelf.”

  Fichte’s face turned a shade paler. “. . . Right.”

  Hoffner stood upright. He wanted some confirmation. “There’s something different about these.” He used the pointer to draw a circle in the air above several of the slices. “You see what I mean?” Fichte was off in his own thoughts. Hoffner enjoyed the teasing, even if Fichte always took it too seriously, but Hoffner needed the boy to see the corpse, not the woman. Over the last two months, Luxemburg had been a mainstay on the front page of every newspaper in town. This morning they claimed that she had been dragged off by an angry mob. The markings on her back, however, said otherwise. “You’ll be fine, Hans. I promise. Now, put on some gloves.”

  Fichte looked over and did as he was told. With a newfound caution, he leaned in over the body and cocked his head to the side so as to get a better angle.

  Hoffner waited. “Well,” he said, trying not to sound impatient. “What do you make of them?”

  After several false starts, Fichte finally looked up from across the body. “They’re . . .” He chose his words carefully. “More jagged. On an angle.”

  “Which?”

  “Which cuts?”

  “No”—a hint of frustration in his voice—“which is it, jagged or at an angle?”

  Fichte stood upright. His eyes remained on the body as if he thought it might twitch one way or the other with the answer. “I think—both.”

  Hoffner would have liked to have heard more conviction in the voice, especially when Fichte had gotten it right. Instead, he leaned in and scanned across the carvings: he could sense Fichte’s gaze following his own. Shifting his attention to the far table, Hoffner stood and moved over to victim number five, today’s discovery. A nice glob of the preserving grease, which still covered most of her upper body and thighs, sat in a jar at the edge of the table. Hoffner handed the jar to Fichte, then turned up the overhead lamp. He pulled back the sheet. “Make sure it’s properly labeled,” he said as he bent over to examine the back. “We’ll need someone to take a look at it tomorrow morning.”

  Fichte handled the jar with great care as he placed it on a nearby shelf. He jotted a few words of detailed description on the label, then wiped his gloved hands on his pants.

  Hoffner continued to scan along the grooves. “That’s a nice eye, Hans. This one’s smooth all the way across.” Hoffner shifted his perspective. “As it was with ladies one through four.” He stood and peered over at Rosa. “But not with our Frulein Luxemburg,” he said as if to himself. “Why?” It was not the only dissimilarity Hoffner had seen: Rosa had not been asphyxiated like the other victims, and there was a nice crack to the top of her skull. It might have been from a rifle butt, but Hoffner was only speculating there.

  Fichte stared at Hoffner as Hoffner stared at Rosa. After several seconds, Fichte said, “She was pulled out of the canal. Maybe—”

  “No,” said Hoffner, no less intent on her corpse. “The water’s not going to have made that kind of a difference.”

  “A different knife, then?”

  Again, Hoffner shook his head as he moved back to Rosa. This time he used his gloved little finger to highlight the most dominant marking on her back, a straight rut of perhaps eight or nine centimeters in length, a centimeter in width. All the other rivulets spoked out or crisscrossed this central line, which ran between her shoulder blades. Hoffner had come to call it the “diameter-cut.” “It’s got the same little bumps every two centimeters”—he pointed with his finger—“here, here, and here. The same flaw in the blade.” He shook his head. “No, it’s the same knife.”

  Fichte moved to the other side of the table and both men stood peering down at Rosa’s back. “Maybe,” said Fichte hesitantly, “he realized who she was after he’d killed her. He panicked and rushed the artwork.” When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It does have that kind of forced look to it.”

  The word “forced” struck Hoffner. He looked up with sudden interest. “Why do you say that?”

  Fichte nearly beamed at the encouragement. “Well,” he said, tracing a section. “These bits here. Our boy’s usually much neater in this part. See how the line lightens up and runs off just at the end.”

  Fichte was right. Up by the left shoulder blade, one of the incisions seemed to tail off to the right as it joined the diameter-cut: not in keeping with the strict precision of the other lines.

  “Here, as well.” Fichte pointed to another section.

  Hoffner had noticed it fifteen minutes ago while under the watchful gaze of Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar Braun. It was only now, though, hearing the word “forced,” that he began to see something else. His eyes moved along the ruts as he spoke: “Bring over a bottle of the blue dye and a thin brush,” he said distractedly as he leaned closer into the body. “And grab one of those short blades.”

  Fichte quickly found the items and brought them back to the table. Hoffner dipped the brush into the dye and gently ran it along the areas Fichte had just traced. As he got to the tail-off point—where the dye brought out the detail of the lighter strokes—Hoffner’s eyes widened. For several seconds he held his hand out over the area, his palm facing up. He stared at his own hand.

  With a sudden urgency, Hoffner stepped farther down the body and drew a wide circle of blue on Rosa’s untouched thigh. He held the knife out to Fichte. “All right, Hans,” he said. “I want you to hold it in your open palm, with the blade facing away from you, your thumb on the knife’s midpoint. And with the flat of the blade parallel to your palm. As if you were going to jab it at me.” He waited until Fichte held it correctly. “Good. Now, carve out a small rut inside the circle.” Hoffner pointed to two spots on the thigh. “Start here, end here. Carve up and away from yourself.”

  Fichte stared at him incredulously. “You want me to disfigure the body?”

  “She won’t mind,” said Hoffner, his eyes still on the thigh. “Trust me.” He made a sweeping movement with his hand. “Up and away. Keeping the flat of the knife against the skin. Anytime, Hans.” The discussion was over.

  This was not the first time that Fichte had been handed his fate. With no other choice, he slowly placed his free hand just above the back of Rosa’s knee and, pulling the skin taut, began to carve out a rut. The sensation was strangely calming, the cold flesh giving way easily to the run of the knife. To Fichte’s surprise, the sliced skin held together like pencil shavings, curling upward, then spiraling down over the thigh before crumbling onto the table. Reaching the endpoint, he stood back and placed the knife next to the body. Hoffner was already leaning in, staring up along the newly made groove.

  “Good,” said Hoffner. He stood upright, keeping his eyes on Rosa. “Excellent.”

  Fichte was not sure what to answer. “. . . Thank you.”

  Hoffner looked over, not having been listening. “What?” Almost instantly, he added, “Oh, yes. Good. You’re welcome.” He looked back at Rosa. “Now, I want another rut,” he said, tracing a second line on her thigh, “right next to the first one—”

  “What exactly are we doing?” said Fichte, his tone a bit more aggressive than either of them expected.

  Hoffner stopped and looked at him. “Cutting out ruts,” he said calmly. “Is that all right with you?” After a moment�
�s hesitation, Fichte nodded. “Good,” said Hoffner; he waited until Fichte had the knife. “This time,” he continued, “hold it with the blade facing into you, with your thumb at the back, as if you were going to jab it into your own stomach. Again, with the flat of the blade parallel to your palm.” Fichte positioned the knife. “Now carve down and toward yourself, between the same points, the same length as before. Exact same length. You understand?” Hoffner waited for a nod and stepped back.

  It was a bit tougher going this time, but Fichte eventually created a parallel line. Again, Hoffner leaned in to examine the results. When he stood, he was nodding to himself.

  “What?” said Fichte.

  Hoffner thought a moment longer, then turned to Fichte. “Clean it out, and see for yourself.”

  Fichte took a cloth, dipped it into a jar of alcohol, and swabbed out the ruts. He then drew to within a few centimeters of the body. When he had finished examining his handiwork, Fichte pulled back and smiled, tracing the first line with his finger. “Smooth,” he said; he then traced the second. “Angled and jagged. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” said Hoffner, “until I watched you.” He took the blade and held it just above the new markings. “Look.” Fichte bent in closer as Hoffner demonstrated. “That second time, when you were cutting downward, toward yourself, the natural inclination is to carve at a raised angle, which means that the stroke becomes clipped and slightly forced. You see? And, at the bottom, in order to intersect the point without going past it, the stroke shortens, making the wrist inadvertently twist inward, thus making the blade curl just a touch. Like this.” Hoffner exaggerated the movement. “Hence the lighter markings to the side, here and here.” Fichte nodded. Hoffner shifted the blade. “Cutting upward, the angle is flatter, less severe, the motion a continuous stroke, smooth. You see? That’s why there was no need to twist to keep it from going past the point at the top.” He extended the blade to Fichte, the lesson complete. “I couldn’t do it myself because I knew what I wanted to see. It would have altered my hand. Not so with you.”

  Fichte waited, then took the knife. “So, when do I start seeing all of these things for myself?”

  Hoffner picked up the can of dye and walked it back to the shelf. “I don’t know. When you start looking for them?”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “Really,” said Hoffner. “It wasn’t meant to be.” He waited, then laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, Hans. It’ll come. The question is”—he moved back to the table—“does it help us? We now know how they’re different. We still don’t know why.”

  “So maybe I was right. Maybe he panicked. He was in a rush.”

  “And he decided to cut up his latest victim in a way he’s never done before? Does that make any sense to you?” Catching Fichte in mid-breath, Hoffner added, “Think before you answer, Hans.” Fichte waited, then shook his head slowly. “So, what’s the most obvious answer? Two different strokes, so—”

  Fichte needed another few seconds. “Two different men?” he said, completely unsure of himself.

  “Exactly. A second carver.” Hoffner took a cloth and began to wipe off the brush. “And suddenly our world is far less simple.”

  Fichte started to say something but stopped. He looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I’d describe what we’ve been working with so far as ‘simple.’”

  “Maybe,” said Hoffner as he finished with the brush and headed for the shelf. “But remember, simple isn’t always the most helpful of things. It’s plain, fixed, consistent.” Hoffner was at the tray, ordering the brushes by size. “Look at us. It’s been simple for the past six weeks, and we’re still finding bodies.”

  Fichte was not convinced. “So going from one madman with four anonymous victims to multiple killers with a victim whom everybody knows—not to mention another one who’s been preserved for six weeks—makes our lives better?”

  “Better, worse, that’s not the point.” Hoffner put the finishing touches on the brushes. “It gives us more to play with, highlights the deviation. And that”—he made his way back to the table—“is always to our advantage.” He pulled the sheet over Rosa and took off his gloves. “Something to think about. Yes?” Hoffner moved to the sink and began to rinse his hands. He had trouble remembering whether this was the third or fourth time he had tried impressing this point on Fichte. No matter. Someday it would stick. “And progress always deserves a drink.” He brought his hands to a full lather. “How about it, Hans? Have we spent enough time with the ladies for one day?”

  Fichte was still mulling over the impromptu lesson. “Shouldn’t we bring the KD up to speed?” he said.

  “Hans”—Hoffner rinsed off the last of the soap, trying not to sound too dismissive—“the Herr Kriminaldirektor has been home for the past hour, sitting in front of a nice fire with a far better brandy than you or I will ever drink. He knows these ladies will be here tomorrow. He knows we’ll be here tomorrow. His only concern is that we don’t find any more of them to play with.” Hoffner shook out his hands, turned off the tap, and took a towel. “Unless you want me to drink alone?”

  Fichte hesitated. “Well, no,” he said. He moved to the far table and covered up victim number five. “It’s just”—he began to take off his gloves—“I was meeting someone, and—” Fichte struggled to finish the thought.

  “Ah,” said Hoffner, saving him the trouble: the prospect of facing dinner at home without something of a distraction beforehand was far more deflating than Fichte’s awkward brush-off. “A different kind of deviation.” The joke was lost on Fichte. “Never mind,” said Hoffner. “Another time.” He pressed a small white button by the sink, and a bell rang beyond the doors to inform the orderlies that the bodies were ready for the ice room.

  “No.” Fichte was suddenly more animated. “You should come. I’d like you to come.” Still more steam. “Yes, come. Lina’s even asked about you.”

  “Lina,” said Hoffner.

  “A friend. A girl.”

  “Oh, a girl,” said Hoffner, stating the obvious. He tossed the towel onto the counter. “Then I should definitely not come.”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that,” said Fichte, even more insistent. “Well, I mean it is like that, but it’ll be for a drink. One drink. We can talk about working together. You know.”

  “‘Working together,’” Hoffner echoed.

  “As detectives.”

  “Right,” said Hoffner, more skeptically. “I can tell her what a fine partner you are, the great work you’re doing.”

  “Exactly,” said Fichte. “We’ll have some fun.” He continued to gain momentum. “She’s great, my Lina. No. You have to come now. She won’t forgive me if I show up without you.”

  “I see.” Hoffner stepped aside. He sat against the counter, arms crossed at his chest, as Fichte started in at the sink. “How can I deprive your Lina of my remarkable company?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  Hoffner watched as Fichte sniffed at his lathered hands. There was something reassuring about this particular fixation of his. Fichte completed his inspection and, finding nothing, rinsed off.

  “So,” asked Hoffner, “how long has she been selling flowers along Friedrichstrasse?”

  “About three months,” said Fichte offhandedly. He then looked over at Hoffner in complete surprise. “How did you know that?”

  Hoffner smiled. “I was also once a twenty-three-year-old Kriminal-Assistent, Hans. Mine was called Celia.”

  Fichte shook his head as he turned off the tap and picked up the towel. “No, my Lina’s a nice girl.”

  For several seconds, Hoffner stared down at the floor, trying to recall his Celia. He could almost see her, the long, slim frame, the wirelike fingers, the small breasts, all of it, except for the face. He tried to find it—bad skin, pretty—but no, only a vague outline: an endless array of thieves and murderers clear as day, but no Celia. “A nice girl,” he said, still distant. He looked at Fichte. “And what makes you
think mine wasn’t?”

  Fichte saw the change in Hoffner’s expression. He stopped drying his hands. “. . . I didn’t mean—”

  Instantly, Hoffner started to laugh. “Well, you’re right. She wasn’t.” When Fichte smiled sheepishly, Hoffner pushed himself up from the counter and said, “All right, one drink, Hans. But anything to impress your Lina will cost you extra.”

  Ten minutes later, after having retrieved his coat and having jotted down a few notes, Hoffner joined Fichte out on the square. The rain was misting in tiny drops of water visible only as haloes around the street lamps.

  Fichte was enjoying a cigarette; he offered Hoffner a drag, but the smell of the smoke was enough to put anyone off a tasting. Fichte had a girl: he needed to save his pfennigs. Hoffner had always reasoned that the cheaper the tobacco, the greater the capital required to grease the way. From the expression on Fichte’s face each time he inhaled, few came more chaste than little Lina.

  There was no reason to ask where they were heading. If Fichte was playing it well—and from the tobacco, he clearly was—he would have progressed to old Josty’s in Leipziger Strasse by now, over in the west, a step up: the café was fancy enough so that the girl would feel Fichte was showing her the proper respect, lively enough to know that respect wasn’t really what he was after. Fichte had probably asked one of the boys at headquarters where to take her, someone reliable. Hoffner felt a bit tweaked that Fichte had gone elsewhere for the advice.

  “She’s quite popular, is she?” said Fichte as they continued to walk. Hoffner had no idea what Fichte was saying. “Or at least she was.”

  “Was what?” said Hoffner. “Who?”

  “At the lab. Luxemburg. She was popular.”

  “Ah, Luxemburg. I suppose that depends on who you are.” Hoffner pulled up the collar of his coat. “You fancy yourself a Red, then?”

  Fichte laughed awkwardly. “Certainly not.”

  “So you’re more for the oppression of the masses. The inscrutable certainty of capitalism.”