Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

The climb down was shorter than he expected. The Rosenthaler Platz site had been a good twenty meters deep; here it was, at best, ten to twelve, which made the air less thick, though the smell of decaying flesh was no less present. It was also a less complex layout than before. There were no spokes or distant caverns to navigate, just a long tunnel, dimly lit by a series of string lights hung from above. Various air pumps with ventilation hoses sat silent along the dirt floor, but it was clear that this station was still under construction: the wood slats along the walls were freshly cut, the steel beams still had a shine to them, and the piles of shovels and picks were placed for easy retrieval. From the cigarette butts strewn about, Hoffner was guessing that a crew had been here as recently as yesterday afternoon, maybe even this morning. The supply lines were back up and running.

A sudden flash of light drew his attention to the far end of the tunnel. He began to make his way toward it as the din of conversation grew more distinct.

“. . completely in the buff,” came a voice. “I’m telling you. And she wasn’t shy, either.”

The men laughed. One of them caught sight of Hoffner and his expression hardened at once.

“Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he drew up with his badge held at eye level. “Quite a little gathering.” There were four of them: a Schutzi sergeant, his patrolman lackey, a man with a camera, and, of course, Herr “Detective” Kvatsch. They were standing to the side of a woman’s dead body. Hoffner returned the badge to his coat pocket. “I see we’ve already started in on the group photos.”

There was a stiffness to the quartet now that Hoffner had arrived. The sergeant was unsure how to respond. He went with what he knew best. “We found her about an hour ago, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar -”

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in. “Your man upstairs filled me in on the details.” It was clear from the sergeant’s expression that the man upstairs had been told to give more than just the details when the Kripo arrived: a little warning would have been nice. Another botched job from the halfwit, Hoffner imagined. “How fortunate that our friends from the BZ arrived so quickly to keep you company.”

Kvatsch said, “As always, one step ahead of the Kripo, Herr Detective.”

“Or one phone call,” said Hoffner. He waited a moment, then added, “I hear the bean soup was particularly nice at Reese’s tonight.” Hoffner watched as Kvatsch’s lips shifted into double time. Hoffner then turned to the sergeant. “I’m assuming you’ve got my cut, Herr Wachtmeister. ” The sergeant looked almost relieved. He began to reach into his tunic; Hoffner’s gaze soured instantly. “Greedy and stupid, eh, Sergeant?” Again, the man was at a loss. “That’s a dangerous combination, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, Hoffner reached over and took the camera from the fourth member of the party. He opened the back cover and removed the film.

“Excuse me, Detective,” said Kvatsch, now with an edge to his voice, “but I paid for that,” as if anything he said mattered down here.

Hoffner said, “Well, then, that was a bad investment, wasn’t it, Herr Kvatsch?” Hoffner crumpled the film in his fist and handed the camera back to the man. The photographer seemed wholly indifferent; Kvatsch had evidently already paid him for his services. “Who made the call?” said Hoffner.

Kvatsch said, “I thought you’d have that figured out by now, Detective. Wasn’t that the promise?”

Hoffner smiled stiffly. “Someone’s leading you around by the nose, and you don’t even realize it, do you?”

“We’ll see who’s leading whom.”

Hoffner nodded. “I thought newspapermen were supposed to track down stories, Kvatsch, not have them spoon-fed to them.”

Kvatsch was not biting. He answered coolly, “You want a name. I need a photograph. That seems a fair trade.”

“Does it?” said Hoffner.

Kvatsch actually thought he was gaining the upper hand. “You know, it’s so much nicer dealing with you than with your old partner. Knig never understood the art of negotiation. Always too quick with the rough stuff.”

Hoffner started to laugh to himself until, without warning, he grabbed the scruff of Kvatsch’s coat and shoved him against the planks on the near wall. The other men immediately stepped off. Slowly, Hoffner brought his face to within a few centimeters of Kvatsch’s. He held him there and spoke in an inviting tone: “That’s just what this city needs, isn’t it, Kvatsch? Something else to set it off in a panic.” Kvatsch was doing his best to maintain some semblance of calm. He swallowed loudly. Hoffner continued: “Revolution, war, starvation-they’re not enough for you, are they? You know, if you had half a brain, you’d realize that that’s exactly what your ‘Kripo sources’ want.” Hoffner smiled quizzically. “Why is it that you always have to be such an obvious rube?”

The sheen on Kvatsch’s face had begun to glisten in the low light; nonetheless, he remained defiant. “Glad to see you’ve picked up where Knig left off, Detective. By the way, “ he said more insistently, “how is the widow? I never got to pass on my condolences.”

Hoffner continued to stare into the callous little eyes. With a sudden surge, he pulled Kvatsch from the boards and slammed him into a bare patch of muddied rock. Kvatsch winced as he let out a blast of tobaccoed breath. He was clearly in pain, but said nothing. Hoffner held him there for several seconds longer, then let go and stepped away. He turned his attention to the dead body. “We’re done here.” Hoffner crouched down and began to scan the dead woman’s clothes: the dog had gotten to them; her blouse was in tatters. “Make nice with the good sergeant, Kvatsch, and get out.”

Kvatsch needed a moment to pull himself together. The sergeant-perhaps out of a twisted sense of loyalty-tried to help, but Kvatsch quickly pushed him aside. With a forced ease, Kvatsch straightened his coat and smoothed back the loose strands of his hair. He then spoke, undeterred by the back of Hoffner’s head: “What you’ve never understood, Detective, is how little it matters what you do, or how you do it. What matters is how it’s perceived.” Kvatsch knew there would be no response; even so, he waited. “And all for a little photo.” He nodded to the cameraman to start back for the ladder. Kvatsch was about to follow, when he added, “How much easier your life could have been, Detective.” He let the words settle. “Shame.” He then followed the cameraman out.

Hoffner waited until the sound of footsteps had receded completely. Without looking up, he said, “You two can wait upstairs, as well.”

The sergeant bristled at being lumped in with his subordinate. He offered a clipped bow to Hoffner’s back, then motioned officiously to the patrolman. The two men started off.

“Oh,” said Hoffner, still with his back to them. “And we’ll need a Kripo photographer down here. Tell him he can catch a ride in the ambulance.” Hoffner paused a moment. “And my guess is he won’t be paying, Sergeant.”

This time there was no bow. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

Finally alone, Hoffner stared down at the chiseled back through the strips of cloth: the ruts were again smooth, and the little bumps from the flawed blade appeared again at perfect intervals. She had been killed like the others, strangled and etched elsewhere-two, maybe three days ago, from the smell and look of the skin-then brought here to be put on display: the drag lines in the dirt-from some sort of crate or trunk-made that clear enough. Hoffner glanced at the side of her face. This woman had been in her late fifties. Her hands told of work in a mill: there were countless wisps of threaded cloth trapped beneath the fingernails, all of which had come to resemble little calluses on her skin. These were the by-product of years on the line, not souvenirs from any recent struggle. Not that she could have put up much of a fight. Like all of the victims, she was small, even delicate, if one put aside the gnarled texture of her hands. That, too, was a common trait: hands that had known a life of labor.