Frank Tallis: Vienna Secrets

Liebermann stepped down from the cab.

Two constables wearing long coats and spiked helmets were standing in the middle of the street, ready to block the passage of traffic. One of them came forward.

“Herr Dr. Liebermann?”

“Yes.”

“This way, please.”

The sun had barely risen, and the morning air was cold and dank. Ahead, four black lacquered carriages were parked: one of them was a windowless mortuary van. A flash of bright light unsettled the horses, signaling the presence of a police photographer. As Liebermann and his companion advanced, a cobbled concourse came into view, dominated by a white church with a convex baroque facade.

“Maria Treue Kirche,” said the constable.

Liebermann had often passed the church on his way to the Josefstadt theatre, but he had never paused to appreciate its size. He had to tilt his head back to see it all. Two spires, each decorated with a girdle of globes, flanked a classical columned pediment. A gilt inscription declared Virgo Fidelis Ave Coelestis Mater Amoris, and below this was a clock face showing the early hour: six o’clock. Winged figures peered over the gable. They were disporting themselves beneath a gold crucifix, enhanced with radial spokes to represent rays of divine light.

On both sides of the concourse were identical three-story buildings. They were plain, functional structures, with roughcast walls. Liebermann saw the word “gymnasium” carved beneath a stone escutcheon.

In front of the church were two gas lamps, and around one of these a loose group of men had assembled. The photographer and his assistant were preparing to take another photograph. Again, there was a brilliant flash, which exposed something dark and shapeless on the ground. The smoke from the magnesium ribbon hung motionless in the air. Liebermann was dimly aware of clopping hooves and a nervous whinnying.

One of the men turned round, a portly gentleman with a well-waxed upturned mustache.

“Max!”

Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt marched over to greet his friend. “Thank you for coming, Max.”

The constable clicked his heels and hurried back to his post.

“When did you receive Haussmann’s call?”

“About five,” Liebermann replied, stifling a yawn.

“I’m sorry,” said Rheinhardt, his eyes luminous with compunction. “I thought, as you do not live so very far away…”

“Of course,” said Liebermann, unable to disguise a note of reproach.

“What time must you be at the hospital?”

“Seven-thirty.”

Rheinhardt nodded and invited him to follow.

“Did Haussmann explain?”

“Yes, he did.”

“You know what to expect, then. Good.”

Grasping the photographer’s arm, Rheinhardt said, “A moment, please.” He then ushered his friend forward.

Within the circle of light around the gas lamp was what appeared at first to be a heap of clothes. It was situated within a large area of reflective blackness, the edges of which were irregular-like the borders of a country on a map. The air smelled faintly of rusting iron.

“Brother Stanislav,” said Rheinhardt.

The monk’s body appeared shapeless on account of the habit worn by the Piarist order. It was similar to that of the Jesuits-closed at the front, with three leather buttons. The corpse was supine, its feet hidden beneath the hem. A hand with curled fingers stuck out on one side. This pallid bony claw was the only visible part of Brother Stanislav. The cowl was sodden, flat, and unmistakably empty.

Liebermann looked beyond the body and located the monk’s head. He had been forewarned, but this did little to mitigate the shock.

“He was discovered at about half past three,” said Rheinhardt. “One of the Piarists-Brother Wendelin-could not sleep, and came out for some fresh air.”

“Where is Brother Wendelin now?” asked Liebermann.

“In the church, praying.”

“Did he see or hear anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

Liebermann advanced, and made his way-somewhat warily-around the expanse of congealed blood. He squatted, and looked directly into the truncated stump of the monk’s neck. The dawn sky provided him with just enough light to identify the remains of the key cervical structures; however, what he observed was nothing like the cross sections that he remembered from his anatomy classes, which had resembled the fatty marbled meat of a freshly sliced joint. The aperture of the trachea was displaced, as were the hardened remnants of cartilage. The vertebrae were fractured, and the muscles ripped and twisted. A rubbery length of artery hung out over the trapezius, still dripping. Something purple, veined, and lobulated was lying on the ground close to the monk’s right shoulder. Liebermann guessed that it might be a piece of the thyroid gland.

A memory of his old anatomy professor’s voice invaded Liebermann’s mind: scalenus medius, sternocleidomastoid, omohyoid. The young doctor was perplexed. He was not a pathologist, but he knew enough anatomy to be deeply troubled by what he saw.

“What is it, Max?”

Liebermann waved his hand, indicating that he was not ready to comment. He stood up and moved toward the severed head. It seemed to take him an inordinate amount of time to travel the relatively short distance-and all the while the horrific object exercised a curious fascination. He could hear Rheinhardt following behind him and the sound of muted voices. The world seemed to recede.

Again, Liebermann bent down.

The dead monk’s face was pressed against the cobbles, eyes closed, lips parted: hair and beard flecked with silver, pale skin maculated with spots of blood. His large aquiline nose was bent to one side. Even though Liebermann was all too aware that the object of his attention was insensate, he was suddenly seized by a powerful urge to reach out and rotate the head so that the monk would experience less discomfort. Years of adjusting the position of patients in their beds had made his concern instinctive, even, as now, in circumstances of unquestionable redundancy.

Liebermann scrutinized the monk’s neck and noted once more the same anatomical havoc: stretched and contorted musculature, identical displacements and splintering. The macabre skirt of papery skin was particularly disturbing.

“Well?” said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann stood up.

“It looks as if the head has been… torn from the body.”

“That’s what I thought. Perhaps I should go to the Prater this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry?”

“To interview the strongmen.”

The sound of a barrel organ: gentlemen in white body stockings and black trunks, tensing their arms to make their biceps bulge.

Liebermann couldn’t imagine one of those vain, posturing clowns grasping the monk’s head and ripping it from his shoulders.

“Oskar,” said Liebermann. “Do you realize how much force is required to pull someone’s head off?”

“Considerable force, obviously.”

“Even with a horse-and some means of holding the body still-it would still be difficult.”

“Then it was several men?”

“Perhaps…”

“How many?”

“Two or three heavy fellows sitting on the body, and a third and fourth to turn the head… but it would still have taken a while.”

“How long?”

“It’s difficult to say. But however long it might have taken, they don’t seem to have been terribly concerned about being caught! They performed their heinous act under the gas lamp! Observe the pattern created by the flow of blood.” The young doctor re-created the outpouring in the air with his hands. “Look at those splashes, which show us how the head rolled away from the body. Brother Stanislav was almost certainly decapitated as he lay on the ground in the very position we currently find him; however, he might not have been conscious when he was killed. His eyes are closed… A man struggling against four or five assailants would almost certainly have had his eyes wide open when the spinal cord was severed.”