Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Fichte’s face turned a shade paler. “. . Right.”

Hoffner stood upright. He wanted some confirmation. “There’s something different about these.” He used the pointer to draw a circle in the air above several of the slices. “You see what I mean?” Fichte was off in his own thoughts. Hoffner enjoyed the teasing, even if Fichte always took it too seriously, but Hoffner needed the boy to see the corpse, not the woman. Over the last two months, Luxemburg had been a mainstay on the front page of every newspaper in town. This morning they claimed that she had been dragged off by an angry mob. The markings on her back, however, said otherwise. “You’ll be fine, Hans. I promise. Now, put on some gloves.”

Fichte looked over and did as he was told. With a newfound caution, he leaned in over the body and cocked his head to the side so as to get a better angle.

Hoffner waited. “Well,” he said, trying not to sound impatient. “What do you make of them?”

After several false starts, Fichte finally looked up from across the body. “They’re. .” He chose his words carefully. “More jagged. On an angle.”

“Which?”

“Which cuts?”

“No”-a hint of frustration in his voice-“which is it, jagged or at an angle?”

Fichte stood upright. His eyes remained on the body as if he thought it might twitch one way or the other with the answer. “I think-both.”

Hoffner would have liked to have heard more conviction in the voice, especially when Fichte had gotten it right. Instead, he leaned in and scanned across the carvings: he could sense Fichte’s gaze following his own. Shifting his attention to the far table, Hoffner stood and moved over to victim number five, today’s discovery. A nice glob of the preserving grease, which still covered most of her upper body and thighs, sat in a jar at the edge of the table. Hoffner handed the jar to Fichte, then turned up the overhead lamp. He pulled back the sheet. “Make sure it’s properly labeled,” he said as he bent over to examine the back. “We’ll need someone to take a look at it tomorrow morning.”

Fichte handled the jar with great care as he placed it on a nearby shelf. He jotted a few words of detailed description on the label, then wiped his gloved hands on his pants.

Hoffner continued to scan along the grooves. “That’s a nice eye, Hans. This one’s smooth all the way across.” Hoffner shifted his perspective. “As it was with ladies one through four.” He stood and peered over at Rosa. “But not with our Frulein Luxemburg,” he said as if to himself. “Why?” It was not the only dissimilarity Hoffner had seen: Rosa had not been asphyxiated like the other victims, and there was a nice crack to the top of her skull. It might have been from a rifle butt, but Hoffner was only speculating there.

Fichte stared at Hoffner as Hoffner stared at Rosa. After several seconds, Fichte said, “She was pulled out of the canal. Maybe-”

“No,” said Hoffner, no less intent on her corpse. “The water’s not going to have made that kind of a difference.”

“A different knife, then?”

Again, Hoffner shook his head as he moved back to Rosa. This time he used his gloved little finger to highlight the most dominant marking on her back, a straight rut of perhaps eight or nine centimeters in length, a centimeter in width. All the other rivulets spoked out or crisscrossed this central line, which ran between her shoulder blades. Hoffner had come to call it the “diameter-cut.” “It’s got the same little bumps every two centimeters”-he pointed with his finger-“here, here, and here. The same flaw in the blade.” He shook his head. “No, it’s the same knife.”

Fichte moved to the other side of the table and both men stood peering down at Rosa’s back. “Maybe,” said Fichte hesitantly, “he realized who she was after he’d killed her. He panicked and rushed the artwork.” When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It does have that kind of forced look to it.”

The word “forced” struck Hoffner. He looked up with sudden interest. “Why do you say that?”

Fichte nearly beamed at the encouragement. “Well,” he said, tracing a section. “These bits here. Our boy’s usually much neater in this part. See how the line lightens up and runs off just at the end.”

Fichte was right. Up by the left shoulder blade, one of the incisions seemed to tail off to the right as it joined the diameter-cut: not in keeping with the strict precision of the other lines.

“Here, as well.” Fichte pointed to another section.

Hoffner had noticed it fifteen minutes ago while under the watchful gaze of Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar Braun. It was only now, though, hearing the word “forced,” that he began to see something else. His eyes moved along the ruts as he spoke: “Bring over a bottle of the blue dye and a thin brush,” he said distractedly as he leaned closer into the body. “And grab one of those short blades.”

Fichte quickly found the items and brought them back to the table. Hoffner dipped the brush into the dye and gently ran it along the areas Fichte had just traced. As he got to the tail-off point-where the dye brought out the detail of the lighter strokes-Hoffner’s eyes widened. For several seconds he held his hand out over the area, his palm facing up. He stared at his own hand.

With a sudden urgency, Hoffner stepped farther down the body and drew a wide circle of blue on Rosa’s untouched thigh. He held the knife out to Fichte. “All right, Hans,” he said. “I want you to hold it in your open palm, with the blade facing away from you, your thumb on the knife’s midpoint. And with the flat of the blade parallel to your palm. As if you were going to jab it at me.” He waited until Fichte held it correctly. “Good. Now, carve out a small rut inside the circle.” Hoffner pointed to two spots on the thigh. “Start here, end here. Carve up and away from yourself.”

Fichte stared at him incredulously. “You want me to disfigure the body?”

“She won’t mind,” said Hoffner, his eyes still on the thigh. “Trust me.” He made a sweeping movement with his hand. “Up and away. Keeping the flat of the knife against the skin. Anytime, Hans.” The discussion was over.

This was not the first time that Fichte had been handed his fate. With no other choice, he slowly placed his free hand just above the back of Rosa’s knee and, pulling the skin taut, began to carve out a rut. The sensation was strangely calming, the cold flesh giving way easily to the run of the knife. To Fichte’s surprise, the sliced skin held together like pencil shavings, curling upward, then spiraling down over the thigh before crumbling onto the table. Reaching the endpoint, he stood back and placed the knife next to the body. Hoffner was already leaning in, staring up along the newly made groove.

“Good,” said Hoffner. He stood upright, keeping his eyes on Rosa. “Excellent.”

Fichte was not sure what to answer. “. . Thank you.”

Hoffner looked over, not having been listening. “What?” Almost instantly, he added, “Oh, yes. Good. You’re welcome.” He looked back at Rosa. “Now, I want another rut,” he said, tracing a second line on her thigh, “right next to the first one-”

“What exactly are we doing?” said Fichte, his tone a bit more aggressive than either of them expected.

Hoffner stopped and looked at him. “Cutting out ruts,” he said calmly. “Is that all right with you?” After a moment’s hesitation, Fichte nodded. “Good,” said Hoffner; he waited until Fichte had the knife. “This time,” he continued, “hold it with the blade facing into you, with your thumb at the back, as if you were going to jab it into your own stomach. Again, with the flat of the blade parallel to your palm.” Fichte positioned the knife. “Now carve down and toward yourself, between the same points, the same length as before. Exact same length. You understand?” Hoffner waited for a nod and stepped back.