Berg managed a smile though he was in quite a dilemma: to freeze in the cold or to trust a woman behind the wheel of a motorcar.
• • •
“SUCCESS!” Berg announced as he walked into the Mordkommission room at the Ett Strasse station. Georg hadn’t arrived, but Ulrich was at his desk, looking very busy. It was more like preoccupied. “Not only do I suspect that Anna Gross was having an affair, I might actually have a name to go with the anonymous face that I drew under Gerhart Leit’s direction. Good news, eh?”
“Good news, yes . . .” Ulrich looked up at Berg. “But it hardly takes away the bad news. They’ve found another body.”
“Ach, mein Gott!” Berg choked out. “You can’t be serious! Where?”
“Not at the Englischer Garten but close to it. The woman was found on the banks of the Isar in a tangle of brush. Apparently, she was dressed up in an evening gown.”
“Just like the first one.” Berg sat down, dejected. “I’m . . .”
“Shocked?”
“That’s a good word, yes.”
Ulrich sat back in his chair. “I reckon it could be a coincidence.”
“I hope so. Because if it isn’t, I pray that this does not represent a killer’s pattern.”
Storf licked his lips. “That would be something, wouldn’t it. A Haarmann in Munich.”
Said without much emotion.
But wasn’t that just like his people? They wept buckets over maudlin love songs, yet accepted death with a single shrug.
FOURTEEN
The mist was always thicker by the river. Within minutes, Berg could feel the chill seep through his clothing and into his bones as wet organic material scrunched beneath his feet. Not that he could hear his footsteps. The Isar was a deafening rush of violent water tumbling over the turbines. His head pounding, Berg walked rapidly along the banks, wondering with whom or with what he was dealing.
The body had been dumped in the southern part of the city, the temporary grave just a five-minute stroll from the new German Museum of Science and Technology—a bold, massive piece of stone-and-dome architecture that occupied its own island within the Isar. The Institute had opened with a splash, paying tribute to the industrial age—past, present, and future. The police had had an exhibition within those esteemed walls entitled “The Science of Murder.” The displays included modern-day fingerprinting techniques, corpse analysis, and evidence evaluation under the microscope. Yet all that up-to-date knowledge did nothing to countermand the atrocity that lay on the ground nearby.
About fifty yards ahead, Berg could see the gathering of official people, along with the Mordwagen. He merged into the sea of black uniforms until he found Müller. Georg walked him over to the crime scene. Berg kneeled down and regarded the body.
She appeared to be in her thirties, her face round, her waxy skin gray in death, but most likely pink in life. Chemically lightened blond hair had been bobbed, splayed about her face similarly to Anna Gross’s tresses. Her scalp was covered with a black beaded cloche framing dull blue eyes. The features were ordinary, even painted with lipstick and rouge. Her body was garbed in a sleeveless black dance dress with a drop waistline that flared at the bottom. The dress was costly, having extensive beading on the top and bottom. She resembled the pictures Berg had seen of American flappers.
Again, she wore only one silk stocking. A feather boa lay at her side. Professor Kolb knelt beside him, his bulging eyes seemingly startled by the corpse.
Berg stared at the red line running across the woman’s neck. “Killed in the same manner as Anna Gross?”
“Ja, both strangled,” Kolb told him. “But this one was more brutal. The wound suggests something sharper and thinner—twine or a piece of wire. It sliced past the neck cartilage clear to the cervical vertebrae.”
Berg felt momentary nausea. “So she wasn’t strangled with a stocking?”
“Not likely, no.”
“Then what happened to her other stocking? She’s wearing only one.”
Kolb turned his bug eyes to Berg’s face. “I wouldn’t have the foggiest notion.”
Berg called out to Müller, who came over and crouched near the body. “Has anyone removed anything from the body, Georg?”
“As far as I know, she hasn’t been moved or disturbed. The policeman who answered the call was very particular.”
“Interesting.” Berg stood, and the others rose as well. “And how were the police alerted to the body?”
“A gentleman was walking his dog. His name is . . .” Müller took out a pad and consulted his notes. “Here it is: Anders Johannsen. He lives on Widenmayer Strasse. Not far from Anna Gross, actually.” Georg put his pad away and took out two cigarettes; he lit both smokes and handed one to Berg. “Just an observation.”
“Has he been questioned?” Berg took a deep drag on his cigarette. Kolb fanned away the smoke. “Is this bothering you?”
“That stuff is poison,” Kolb announced.
“Nonsense.” Müller took another puff. “It clears the head and allows me to think straight.”
“It’s made of tar,” Kolb told him. “Tar belongs on city streets, not in the lungs.”
Berg snuffed out the cigarette with his fingers and placed the remnants in his pocket. “Has Johannsen been questioned, Georg?”
Müller said, “I will pay him a visit.”
“I think that would be wise.” Berg thought a moment. “It is a puzzle. The first killer uses Anna Gross’s stocking to garrote her. But with this one, it appears he used a twine or a wire.” He faced Kolb. “Am I correct, Professor?”
“I would say so, yes.”
“It could be two different people.” Berg swallowed drily. “But if it is the same man and he murdered twice—Anna and now this woman—my question is this: Did he approach this woman with the express purpose of killing her?”
Kolb smiled. “You are thinking that he took such delight in slaying Anna Gross that he decided to murder again—but more efficiently?”
“Exactly. With the trumpeted headlines from yesterday’s afternoon papers, there are monstrous individuals who might derive perverse pleasure from such attention. Men like Haarmann or Grossmann or Denke.”
“Lustmord.”
Berg nodded.
“An interesting theory you propose, Herr Inspektor, that killing Anna made him want to kill again,” Kolb commented with a raised finger. “Unfortunately, it is most wrong. Observing egg deposits from the flies attracted to the corpse, I would have to assume that our Fräulein here was murdered first.”
Berg blinked. “She was murdered before Anna Gross?”
“Yes, Inspektor, at least three days ago. She is beyond rigor mortis, lividity is quite set . . . and the maggots . . .” Kolb kneeled back down. “Maggots come when the body is several days old. Come look, meine Herren.”
Berg hesitated but complied. Müller had no choice but to join them. Kolb poked a long instrument into the dead woman’s nostril and lifted the flesh. Out crawled a tangled ball of white worms. “Here.” The instrument parted her lips. “Here as well . . .” Next came the ear canal. “Here, too.”
“Herrjemine!” Müller stood up and coughed twice, biting back bile. “That is repulsive!”
Kolb got to his feet. “Not at all, Inspektor Müller, it is science!”
Berg stood suddenly and felt his head spin. Despite the cold, he broke out into a sweat. He wasn’t used to seeing the aftermath of murder in such explicit detail. “What kind of madman would do such a thing?”
Kolb was pensive. “It is amusing, Berg. If you kill two women, you are a madman. If you kill thousands, you are a general leading your troops to valor.”
“Since when have you become a cynic?” Müller wiped perspiration from his brow. He was relieved to see that Berg had the same reaction.
“Since the Nazis are now back in politics.”
A voice broke into their conversation. “Hitler has many supporters amid our ranks.”
�
��Welcome, Storf,” Kolb said. “Are you counting yourself among the Austrian’s latest fans?”
Storf answered, “He has his points about the degenerates—”
“Jews,” Kolb interrupted.
“The Jews, the bohemians, the homosexuals, the new artists . . . all of the Kosmopoliten. They continually bring about lawlessness and disorder.”
Müller said, “As opposed to the Brownshirts, who think nothing of beating old men in the street and vandalizing every beer hall in Munich.”
“I don’t support them, either,” Storf said. “But I understand the anger.”
Berg said, “Can we put aside politics long enough to study a murder? Or . . .” He raised his eyes. “Maybe we should consider politics. Anna Gross was a woman to whom politics were important. She had Kommunist leanings. Maybe someone did not approve.”
Kolb said, “Fememord?”
“I wasn’t thinking specifically of them, but why not?” Berg said.
“There is no evidence that this secret society exists,” Storf pointed out.
Berg said, “Everyone knows it exists. Just ask Amalie Sandmeyer’s family.” The young farm girl had made an important discovery—a stash of illegal arms in an abandoned barn. Her mistake was being a good girl, reporting the cache to the police. She was murdered soon after her discovery. “At the very least, we should consider it.”
Storf gave the theory some genuine reflection. “Yes, it is possible that Anna Gross was done in by fanatic nationalists. She was married to a Jew and flirted with Kommunismus. But two murders? Why would any secret society bring such attention to itself?”
“Storf has a point,” Müller piped in. “The Brownshirts are trying to clean up their image. Why would they risk such bad publicity?”
“To make them fearsome . . . fear is a great persuader.”
“Such publicity will land Hitler back in jail, Axel,” Storf said.
Berg crossed his arms. “Okay, if it isn’t political, it is personal. Was she raped?”
“My guess is no,” Kolb stated, “but I haven’t examined her that closely.”
“Back to basics. Who was she?” When no one answered, Berg said, “Georg, I want you to talk to Herr Johannsen as soon as we’re done over here.”
“You think he’s the culprit?”
“He lives near Anna, he reported the newest body . . . he piques my curiosity.”
“I will do that right away.”
“Good. Next is identification of the victim. Ulrich, that will be your task.”
“If no one has reported her missing, what am I to do? Go roaming the streets of the city, randomly showing the photograph from person to person all by myself?”
“I will get you some beat policemen for help. Also, Ulrich, I will need you in another capacity.” Berg took in his colleague’s flaming blue eyes. “The Brownshirts know how I feel politically. You, however, are more . . . sympathetic.”
Storf stiffened. “I am not sympathetic to their lawlessness. And I resent you lumping me in the same category as common hooligans.”
“I’m not categorizing you, Ulrich, I’m just saying that among the three of us, you would be least conspicuous joining their Verein, true?”
Storf grumbled out something unintelligible.
“The next time you have a beer, just listen to their conversation. They may have an idea who this woman is, especially if she was a subversive. After the newspapers blast this latest one in their headlines, I would think everyone will be talking about it.”
“And you don’t think they’ll be suspicious, Axel?” Storf asked. “I’ve never sat at their Stammtisch before.”
“As you yourself said, we have many sympathizers in our police ranks. And your presence should give them legitimacy. They will welcome you with open arms. And even if the Nazis had nothing to do with the murders, they still might have information that would help with our police business.”
No one spoke.
Berg said, “It is done, then?”
Storf nodded. “You have assigned the tasks quite nicely, Axel. What is left for you?”
“I have a picture of a man who might have been the last person to see Anna Gross alive. I also have an unknown person from one of Anna’s calling cards—Robert Schick—who could be Russian. I would like to show the picture around at some of the teahouses in Soviet Munich and see if anyone identifies the picture as Schick.”
“Not as difficult a task as mine,” Storf complained. “I should like to switch with you.”
“Very well,” Berg said. “That means you must meet with Hauptkommissar Volker about this matter.”
“What?” Storf sputtered.
“Ulrich, if I am to wait for Kolb to develop the picture of the woman to pass around, I will be late for my meeting with Volker.” He checked his pocket watch. “I am expected in thirty minutes. Go now. The man will not tolerate being kept waiting.”
Storf reddened, then looked away. “Volker would not like that . . . my showing up instead of you.”
“Probably not. He’s a very rigid man.” Berg’s face was impassive. “We shall switch back to our first arrangement then?”
Ulrich lifted his hands and let them fall at his sides. “If you think it wise, certainly.”
Berg smiled and nodded. It was easier to face Hitler than Volker’s wrath.
FIFTEEN
Volker’s office was a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“This is obscene!” The Kommissar had taken off his jacket, giving his arms more freedom to swing as he paced. Hanging from his vest pocket, his gold watch fob swayed like a pendulum. On his feet were worn rubber-soled shoes, at odds with his hand-tailored, blue pin-striped suit. Viciously, he smashed a cigarette butt into a blue Murano glass ashtray only to light up moments later. “Outrageous!”
“Indeed, Herr Kommissar,” Berg answered. “So, with your permission, I will put all available manpower on the case.”
“How does such a thing happen under our noses, Berg? Have you come up with anything?”
“A few leads—”
Abruptly, Volker stopped pacing, his eyes focusing on Berg’s face. “Tell me.”
“We have a drawing of a man who may have accompanied Anna Gross on the night she died.”
“A drawing?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
Berg paused. “He has yet to be identified, but—”
“So what good does a picture do?” Volker shot back. “There are over half a million people in Munich, and at least fifty percent of them are male! How are you going to identify this unknown figment, eh?”
The man was irrational. Someone was breathing down his neck. Berg said, “I would like to start by talking to active party members. There may be political implications, too, sir.”
“Ach, Gott im Himmel!” Volker turned to face him. “What kind of politics now?”
“Anna Gross had been meeting with a Russian gentleman. It might be political. It might be personal. Or maybe both.”
Volker said, “A Kommunist?”
“Maybe. Anna’s brother, Franz Haaf, did tell me that she had flirted with Kommunismus before she married.”
“And you think this man, this murderer, is a Kommunist?”
“Possibly.”
“And what do politics have to do with this latest corpse? Have we even identified her yet?”
“We’re working on that.”
“You’re working on many things. It would be nice to have some answers.”
Berg held his temper. “Indeed, Herr Kommissar, answers are always desirable. Georg Müller is interviewing Anders Johannsen, the man who found the body. He lives near the Grosses’ apartment.”
Volker’s eyes narrowed. “Is that significant?”
“We don’t know. No one has reported a missing woman who fits her description. I instructed Herr Professor Kolb to take some pictures of the woman’s face. I plan to show them around the area as well.”
“A slow process .
. . and distasteful. Our good citizens might bristle at seeing such strong photographs. Can’t you find another way?”
“If you can suggest something, I would be happy to comply.”
Volker didn’t answer.
“The woman had on evening attire,” Berg told him. “She was dressed for dancing. If she frequented the Kabaretts, someone could have remembered her.”
“That could take days or even weeks . . . months.”
“The case is only two days old, mein Herr.”
“And how long before panic takes over the city, Berg?” Volker dabbed his forehead with a white handkerchief. “We need an arrest. Go pull in some vagrant and tell the papers we have a suspect in custody.”
Berg was flabbergasted. “You want me to arrest someone at random, sir?”
“No, not a random person, a vagrant . . . a drunk . . . a man without resources and family. The streets are littered with them. Treat him kindly. Give him a hot meal and a hot shower, but keep him locked up. We’ll eventually let him go, but in the meantime, having someone behind bars will calm the fear bound to arise as soon as the afternoon headlines are published.” Volker inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. “Yes, that will do. Go out and arrest someone.”
“And you don’t think that will make us look silly, sir? Arresting one man only to let him go when we find the true suspect?”
“On the contrary, it will make us look responsive and efficient. It will be cheered by the overstuffed burghers of the city. Hopefully, they will remember us when it comes to our share of the budget.”
“And if we don’t find the suspect right away, are we to execute this innocent man?”
Volker waved his hand in the air. “He’d most likely die a horrible death by consumption or pneumonia.”
“Excuse me, Herr Kommissar? I don’t believe I heard you properly.”
“No, we will not execute him,” Volker said flatly. “We will not do it because before the noose is tied, you will find the correct man.” He sat down at his desk. “Go out and find a sacrificial lamb.” Berg hesitated. Volker crushed out another cigarette butt. “What now?”
Straight into Darkness Page 11
