Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Unlike the others, however, her neck was horribly distended. Hoffner jabbed the end of his pen into the swollen flesh. That was more of the dog’s handiwork. Its teeth marks were still fresh in the fleshy skin just below the chin, yet the back had gone untouched. Instinct, thought Hoffner. Even the animal had sensed the depravity there and had kept clear.

He looked up and scanned the surrounding area. He knew he would find nothing: Wouters, or Wouters’s surrogate-Fichte would have to clear that up-was always far too careful to leave anything behind. Luxemburg and Mary Koop had been diversions: the killer was now back on form.

Hoffner placed a finger on her skin. It was cold and tough and greaseless. He ran his hand along the diameter-cut. The ridges of hardened flesh bent back easily against the pressure of his thumb. There was something oddly consoling in its familiarity, in the shape and texture of a pattern that he had known so well up until a week ago. Now there was far more to it than that: jagged ruts, and gloves, and grease, and a name, and a revolutionary, and on and on and on. It was all supposed to bring him closer to a solution, and yet, with each new “discovery,” Hoffner felt himself being drawn toward something that had little to do with the deaths of his five unremarkable and unconnected Berlin women. He was beginning to wonder where the diversion really lay.

Ten minutes later, Hoffner stepped back out into the raw air of Senefelderplatz. The chill settled on his face and, for an instant, let him forget all of the pieces that were flying through his head. Sadly, the first image that made its way back in was of Kvatsch. Hoffner knew that the first explosion of articles would appear in tomorrow’s papers. A lovely sense of panic would sweep over the city as the story jumped from the BZ to the Morgenpost, and up and down the Ullstein line, until, like a brush fire, it would leap across the avenue to the Mosse and Scherl presses, and blaze across the headlines of all of their high- and low-end papers. Kvatsch had probably come up with some clever name for the murders already. It was irrelevant what he had seen: he would invent what he needed. And a million eyes would now be peering over Hoffner’s shoulder, waiting and wondering.

The ambulance was still nowhere in sight. Hoffner knew there was no reason to wait; there was nothing else he could do here tonight. He had started across the square when he heard the sound of the sergeant running up from behind him. Hoffner dug his hands into his coat pockets and continued in the other direction. He spoke over his shoulder: “The ambulance,” he said. “Make sure she gets back to the Alex.” A mumbled, “Yes, Herr Krim. . ” faded into the distance as Hoffner picked up his pace.

It was only then that he realized how quiet the square had become. Hoffner glanced over at the lamppost. He noticed that a small, horse-drawn wagon had pulled up under the light; a rifle was propped up against its back wheel. The horse stood content with a bag of oats, while the driver struggled to untie the leash from the post. Hoffner stopped.

The leash was now heavy from the weight of the dog’s lifeless body. The man had shot it once, in the throat. Save for an occasional bob of the head from each yank on the line, the dog lay quiet in a pool of its own blood. This time there had been no Franz to save it. Hoffner waited until the man had freed the dog. He then slowly headed off.

Van Acker checked the bottle before pouring out three more shots of whiskey.

The Bruges Stationsplein bar was not perhaps best known for its quality of stock, but it always kept enough of it flowing freely to satisfy the detectives of the city Politie. The rest of the station clientele had to be content with a Tarwebier or Chimay, tasty beers to be sure, but neither with enough of a kick to smooth over a ride out of town. Whiskey, on the other hand, always let you sleep. Mueller took his glass and raised it in a toast. Fichte was having trouble finding his.

“To your left, Detective,” said van Acker; he brought his own up to meet Mueller’s. Fichte eventually got hold of his and, spilling most of it on his pants, reached up to join them. “That’s very good, Detective,” said van Acker. He finished with the toast: “To finding one’s glass.”

Mueller and van Acker tossed theirs back. Fichte thought for a moment, let out a long breath, then placed his untasted back on the bar.

Mueller said, “Well, at least you tried.”

The last train to Berlin was set to leave Bruges in the next twenty minutes; it promised an eleven-o’clock arrival in Berlin tomorrow morning, and, with any luck, would get there by two. Still, it was quicker than waiting for first light; at best, Mueller could get Fichte to Berlin by early evening, and that was not accounting for weather or stops for fuel and oil. No, the train was the best bet. Van Acker had insisted. He had also used his pull with a certain transportation minister-a man whose wife had yet to learn about a young lady he was keeping in a lovely gabled house near the Begijnhof-to make sure that Fichte would have no trouble with any military delays at the German border.

Van Acker had come to this decision just after he and Fichte had stripped the asylum clean of every piece of paper having to do with Wouters: correspondence logs, visitor logs, psychiatric reports, staff interviews, medical files, the last of which had included details of Wouters’s eating and digestive habits-Fichte had been amazed to discover just how many varieties shit came in-all dating from the beginning of September. Plus, van Acker had taken them back via his office so as to pick up his personal case files on Wouters.

The train, though, was another matter. Fichte had wanted to send a wire to Berlin, just in case Hoffner had any other instructions. Van Acker had convinced him otherwise: better to bring all the necessary documents to Berlin by tomorrow morning than to lose valuable time to the drawn-out exchange of cables. “Don’t you agree, Detective?” Fichte had nodded quietly. The more he drank, however, the less he was looking forward to having to ask that question of Hoffner in person.

They had rounded up Mueller about an hour ago. Mueller, of course, had been disappointed to hear that he would be making the return flight solo, but once the invitation had been extended to join them for a few farewell drinks, all was forgiven.

“I still don’t see why you don’t come along,” said Fichte to van Acker. “Your case. You know the man better than anyone.” It was the first coherent thing Fichte had said in the last half-hour.

“I appreciate the offer,” van Acker said, “but not my jurisdiction. I had my chance.” He stared down at his glass. “I’m also guessing Herr Hoffner wouldn’t be that keen on the company.” Fichte tried to disagree, but van Acker continued: “I don’t want our friend back in Belgium,” he said with a sudden resolve. “And I don’t think you’ll want him in Germany, either.”

Fichte understood. Van Acker had failed to kill Wouters; he was telling Hoffner not to make the same mistake.

An amplified voice announced the train’s final boarding. Mueller tossed back Fichte’s untouched whiskey, and the three men headed out to the platform.

“They won’t wake you at the border,” van Acker said to Fichte as they walked. “I’ve seen to that.”

Fichte nodded his thanks.

Van Acker continued. “Tell Herr Hoffner-” He tried to find the words. “Tell him I would have loved the chance.”

The men stopped at the steps up to Fichte’s car, and, placing his valise on the platform, Fichte said, “My guess is, so would he, Monsieur Le Chef Inspecteur. ” Van Acker appreciated the gesture. He said nothing.