Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

It was a bit tougher going this time, but Fichte eventually created a parallel line. Again, Hoffner leaned in to examine the results. When he stood, he was nodding to himself.

“What?” said Fichte.

Hoffner thought a moment longer, then turned to Fichte. “Clean it out, and see for yourself.”

Fichte took a cloth, dipped it into a jar of alcohol, and swabbed out the ruts. He then drew to within a few centimeters of the body. When he had finished examining his handiwork, Fichte pulled back and smiled, tracing the first line with his finger. “Smooth,” he said; he then traced the second. “Angled and jagged. How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” said Hoffner, “until I watched you.” He took the blade and held it just above the new markings. “Look.” Fichte bent in closer as Hoffner demonstrated. “That second time, when you were cutting downward, toward yourself, the natural inclination is to carve at a raised angle, which means that the stroke becomes clipped and slightly forced. You see? And, at the bottom, in order to intersect the point without going past it, the stroke shortens, making the wrist inadvertently twist inward, thus making the blade curl just a touch. Like this.” Hoffner exaggerated the movement. “Hence the lighter markings to the side, here and here.” Fichte nodded. Hoffner shifted the blade. “Cutting upward, the angle is flatter, less severe, the motion a continuous stroke, smooth. You see? That’s why there was no need to twist to keep it from going past the point at the top.” He extended the blade to Fichte, the lesson complete. “I couldn’t do it myself because I knew what I wanted to see. It would have altered my hand. Not so with you.”

Fichte waited, then took the knife. “So, when do I start seeing all of these things for myself?”

Hoffner picked up the can of dye and walked it back to the shelf. “I don’t know. When you start looking for them?”

“That’s encouraging.”

“Really,” said Hoffner. “It wasn’t meant to be.” He waited, then laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, Hans. It’ll come. The question is”-he moved back to the table-“does it help us? We now know how they’re different. We still don’t know why.”

“So maybe I was right. Maybe he panicked. He was in a rush.”

“And he decided to cut up his latest victim in a way he’s never done before? Does that make any sense to you?” Catching Fichte in mid-breath, Hoffner added, “Think before you answer, Hans.” Fichte waited, then shook his head slowly. “So, what’s the most obvious answer? Two different strokes, so-”

Fichte needed another few seconds. “Two different men?” he said, completely unsure of himself.

“Exactly. A second carver.” Hoffner took a cloth and began to wipe off the brush. “And suddenly our world is far less simple.”

Fichte started to say something but stopped. He looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I’d describe what we’ve been working with so far as ‘simple.’”

“Maybe,” said Hoffner as he finished with the brush and headed for the shelf. “But remember, simple isn’t always the most helpful of things. It’s plain, fixed, consistent.” Hoffner was at the tray, ordering the brushes by size. “Look at us. It’s been simple for the past six weeks, and we’re still finding bodies.”

Fichte was not convinced. “So going from one madman with four anonymous victims to multiple killers with a victim whom everybody knows-not to mention another one who’s been preserved for six weeks-makes our lives better?”

“Better, worse, that’s not the point.” Hoffner put the finishing touches on the brushes. “It gives us more to play with, highlights the deviation. And that”-he made his way back to the table-“is always to our advantage.” He pulled the sheet over Rosa and took off his gloves. “Something to think about. Yes?” Hoffner moved to the sink and began to rinse his hands. He had trouble remembering whether this was the third or fourth time he had tried impressing this point on Fichte. No matter. Someday it would stick. “And progress always deserves a drink.” He brought his hands to a full lather. “How about it, Hans? Have we spent enough time with the ladies for one day?”

Fichte was still mulling over the impromptu lesson. “Shouldn’t we bring the KD up to speed?” he said.

“Hans”-Hoffner rinsed off the last of the soap, trying not to sound too dismissive-“the Herr Kriminaldirektor has been home for the past hour, sitting in front of a nice fire with a far better brandy than you or I will ever drink. He knows these ladies will be here tomorrow. He knows we’ll be here tomorrow. His only concern is that we don’t find any more of them to play with.” Hoffner shook out his hands, turned off the tap, and took a towel. “Unless you want me to drink alone?”

Fichte hesitated. “Well, no,” he said. He moved to the far table and covered up victim number five. “It’s just”-he began to take off his gloves-“I was meeting someone, and-” Fichte struggled to finish the thought.

“Ah,” said Hoffner, saving him the trouble: the prospect of facing dinner at home without something of a distraction beforehand was far more deflating than Fichte’s awkward brush-off. “A different kind of deviation.” The joke was lost on Fichte. “Never mind,” said Hoffner. “Another time.” He pressed a small white button by the sink, and a bell rang beyond the doors to inform the orderlies that the bodies were ready for the ice room.

“No.” Fichte was suddenly more animated. “You should come. I’d like you to come.” Still more steam. “Yes, come. Lina’s even asked about you.”

“Lina,” said Hoffner.

“A friend. A girl.”

“Oh, a girl,” said Hoffner, stating the obvious. He tossed the towel onto the counter. “Then I should definitely not come.”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that,” said Fichte, even more insistent. “Well, I mean it is like that, but it’ll be for a drink. One drink. We can talk about working together. You know.”

“‘Working together,’” Hoffner echoed.

“As detectives.”

“Right,” said Hoffner, more skeptically. “I can tell her what a fine partner you are, the great work you’re doing.”

“Exactly,” said Fichte. “We’ll have some fun.” He continued to gain momentum. “She’s great, my Lina. No. You have to come now. She won’t forgive me if I show up without you.”

“I see.” Hoffner stepped aside. He sat against the counter, arms crossed at his chest, as Fichte started in at the sink. “How can I deprive your Lina of my remarkable company?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Hoffner watched as Fichte sniffed at his lathered hands. There was something reassuring about this particular fixation of his. Fichte completed his inspection and, finding nothing, rinsed off.

“So,” asked Hoffner, “how long has she been selling flowers along Friedrichstrasse?”

“About three months,” said Fichte offhandedly. He then looked over at Hoffner in complete surprise. “How did you know that?”

Hoffner smiled. “I was also once a twenty-three-year-old Kriminal-Assistent, Hans. Mine was called Celia.”

Fichte shook his head as he turned off the tap and picked up the towel. “No, my Lina’s a nice girl.”

For several seconds, Hoffner stared down at the floor, trying to recall his Celia. He could almost see her, the long, slim frame, the wirelike fingers, the small breasts, all of it, except for the face. He tried to find it-bad skin, pretty-but no, only a vague outline: an endless array of thieves and murderers clear as day, but no Celia. “A nice girl,” he said, still distant. He looked at Fichte. “And what makes you think mine wasn’t?”