Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Hoffner had no idea where Prager was going with this, when the KD suddenly stood, his gaze on the door. “Ah.” Prager moved out from behind his desk. “Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar, ” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you quite so-promptly.”

Hoffner turned to see a tall, angular man in an expensive suit stepping into the office: a chief inspector with a thin coating of meticulously combed jet-black hair atop a narrow head. Hoffner stood. He had never seen the man before.

Prager made the introductions. “ Kriminal-Oberkommissar Gustav Braun, this is-”

“ Kriminal-Kommissar Nikolai Hoffner,” said the man, a strangely inviting smile on his lips. “Yes, I know your work well, Inspector. A most impressive rsum.”

With a slight hesitation, Hoffner nodded his acknowledgment. “I wish I could say the same of you, Chief Inspector.” Hoffner then added, “I mean, that I know your work well. I don’t.”

Still coldly affable, Braun said, “No, no, of course not. We tend to keep ourselves to ourselves, upstairs.”

And there it was, thought Hoffner. “Upstairs.” Of course.

A step up from the Kriminalpolizei, both by floor and autonomy, were the detectives of Department IA, the political police. Hoffner had never figured out whether they had been created to combat or augment domestic espionage. Whichever it was, he had learned to keep his distance from the men on the fourth floor. Their influence, never lacking under the Kaisers, had grown by leaps and bounds during the last few months. It was simply a question of how far it would ultimately take them. Why they should be showing any interest in his case, however, was not at all clear. The first four bodies had been those of a sales clerk, two seamstresses, and a nurse, no connections among them-except perhaps that they had all lived solitary, isolated lives-but nothing to pique the curiosity of the Polpo: unless the boys upstairs knew something about number five that Hoffner had failed to see, which meant that Prager was obviously in on the secret.

“Yes, well,” said Prager, predictably less poised: seniority of rank never seemed to matter when IA was involved. “I can assure you that the Chief Inspector has an equally impressive record, Herr Detective Inspector. Although, of course, one never knows how much more has been left out of the file that would be even more impressive had it been in the file”-Hoffner enjoyed watching Prager flounder-“but, of course, it couldn’t be-coming from upstairs.” Prager nodded once, briskly, as if to say he had finished whatever he had been trying to say, and that, whatever he had been trying to say, it had been good. Very good.

Unnerved still further by the ensuing silence, Prager awkwardly motioned toward the door. “We’ll go down, then. At once.” Prager nodded to Braun, who headed out. He then turned to Hoffner and, with a strained smile, indicated for him to follow. No less confused-though rather enjoying it all-Hoffner moved out into the corridor.

The morgue at police headquarters-more of an examination room, and nowhere near as extensive as the real thing across town-sat in the sub-basement of the southwest corner of the building, in better days a quick jaunt across the large glass-covered courtyard, and then down two flights. For the trio of Prager, Hoffner, and Braun, however, it was more of a trek, the courtyard having taken the brunt of the recent fighting. Mortar fire had shattered several sections of the glass dome, allowing individual columns of rain to pour down at will, the echo, in spots, overpowering. Cobblestone, where it remained, was perilously slick; elsewhere, one was left to navigate through tiny rivulets of mud. Herr Department IA seemed little inclined to get his boots dirty.

“I could always carry you,” said Hoffner, under his breath.

“Pardon?” said Braun as he hopped gingerly from one spot to the next.

“What?” said Hoffner innocently.

“I thought you said something.”

“No, nothing, Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar. ” Hoffner looked at Prager. “Did you say something, Herr Kriminaldirektor ?”

Prager quickened his pace and, still a good ten meters from the door to the lower levels, stuck out his arm. “Ah, here we are,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Three minutes later, all three stepped into the morgue’s outer hallway, the air thick with the smell of formaldehyde. An officer sat at a desk. He nodded them on.

Visible through the glass on the far doors were six tables in a perpendicular row along the back wall. Sheeted bodies occupied the two tables at the far ends; the four inner ones remained empty. Along the other walls, bookcases displayed a wide array of instruments and bottles, the latter filled with various liquids and creams. Above, the old gas lamps had once again been called into service. Hans Fichte was by one of the shelves, holding an open bottle in his hands-sniffing at its contents-as the three men pushed through the doors and stepped into the room. Momentarily startled, Fichte tried to get the lid back on as quickly as possible. “Ah, Herr Kriminaldirektor, ” said Fichte, “I didn’t expect-”

“You’ve been down here alone?” asked Prager.

“Yes, sir,” answered Fichte, still having trouble with the lid. “Except for the medic. But he left once the body. . 0A0; Yes, sir. As you directed. Alone.”

“Good.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hoffner leaned into Fichte as he passed by him. “Hand in the cookie jar?” It was enough to stem any further fidgeting.

Prager led Hoffner and Braun toward the body on the far right table. He was about to pull back the sheet when Fichte interrupted. “No, no, Herr Kriminaldirektor. ” All three looked over at him. For a moment Fichte seemed somewhat overwhelmed, as if he had forgotten why he had stopped them. Then, moving toward the table on the left-bottle still sheepishly in hand-he said more quietly, “Ours is this one here.”

Prager continued to stare at Fichte. “No,” said Prager, his tone almost apologetic. “It’s not, Herr Kriminal-Assistent. ” He then turned to Hoffner. “The repercussions, Nikolai. Fished from the Landwehr Canal this morning.” Prager pulled back the sheet.

There, lying facedown on the table-with the all-too-familiar markings chiseled into her back-was the lifeless body of Rosa Luxemburg.

It was a good hour and a half before Fichte placed the bottle back on the shelf, and then wiped his hands on his pants. His nose had gone a nice pink from the chill in the room.

“You were holding it the whole time they were here,” said Hoffner, who was peering over Rosa’s body. He was in shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, with thick rubber gloves extending halfway up his forearm.

Fichte sniffed at his fingers as he walked back to the examining table. “Well, I couldn’t have stepped away.”

“With the lid open.” Hoffner continued to trace the incisions on her back with what looked to be a thin steel pointer.

Fichte took a moment to answer. “Yes.”

Not looking up, Hoffner added, “Feeling a bit faint, are you?”

“No. Why?”

“You might want to read a label now and then, Hans. Sniffing isn’t actually a science.”

“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.”