Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“Yes, sir.” The men walked off sharply.

“Did you search him?”

“No,” the senior Schupo said then added, “Only to verify that he was not Jewish, of course.”

“Then you did search him.”

“I simply opened his trousers. Which I refastened. As you can see.”

Kohl wondered whether whoever had decided that the deaths of circumcised men were to be given low priority had considered that sometimes the procedure was performed for medical reasons, even presumably on the most Aryan of babies.

Kohl searched the pockets and found no identification. Nothing at all, in fact. Curious.

“You took nothing from him? There were no documents? No personal effects?”

“No, sir.”

Breathing heavily as he knelt, the inspector examined the body carefully and found the man’s hands to be soft, free of calluses. He spoke, half to himself, half to Konrad Janssen. “With these hands, trimmed nails and hair and residue of talcum on his skin, he doesn’t work labor. I see ink on his fingers but not much, which suggests he’s not in the printing trade. Besides, the patterns suggest the ink comes from handwriting, probably ledgers and correspondence. He’s not a journalist, for he would have traces of pencil lead on his hands and I can see none.” Kohl knew this because he’d investigated the deaths of a dozen reporters just after the National Socialists came to power. Not one of the cases had been closed; not one was being actively investigated. “Businessman, professional, civil servant, government…”

“Nothing under his nails either, sir.”

Kohl nodded then probed the man’s legs. “An intellectual man most likely, as I said. But his legs are very muscular. And look at those excessively worn shoes. Ach, they make my own feet burn just to glance at them. My guess is that he is a walker and a hiker.” The inspector grunted as he rose with some effort.

“Out for a stroll after an early lunch.”

“Yes, very likely. There is a toothpick, which might be his.” Kohl retrieved and smelled it. Garlic. He bent down and smelled the same scent near the victim’s mouth too. “Yes, I believe so.” He dropped the toothpick into one of his small brown paper envelopes and sealed it.

The young officer continued. “So, a robbery victim.”

“Certainly a possibility,” Kohl said slowly. “But I think not. A robber taking everything that the man had on him? And there aren’t any gunpowder burn patterns on the neck or ear. That means the bullet was fired from some distance. A robber would have been closer and confronted him face-to-face. This man was shot from behind and the side.” A lick of the stubby pencil tip, and Kohl recorded these observations in his crinkled notebook. “Yes, yes, I’m sure there are robbers who would lie in wait and shoot a victim then rob him. But that doesn’t fit what we know about most thieves, does it?”

The wound also suggested that the killer had not been the Gestapo, SS or Stormtroopers. The bullet in such cases usually was fired from point-blank range into the front of the brain or the back.

“What was he doing in the alley?” the inspector candidate mused, looking around as if the answer were lying on the ground.

“That question doesn’t interest us yet, Janssen. This is a popular shortcut between Spener Street and Calvin Street. His purpose may have been illicit but we’ll have to learn that from evidence other than his route.” Kohl examined the head wound again then walked to the wall of the alley, on which a considerable amount of blood was spattered.

“Ah.” The inspector was delighted to find the bullet, sitting where the cobblestones met the brick wall. He picked it up carefully with a tissue. It was only slightly dented. He recognized immediately that it was a 9mm slug. This meant it most likely came from an automatic pistol, which would have ejected the spent brass cartridge.

He said to the third Schupo, “Please, Officer, look over the ground there, every centimeter. Look for a brass shell casing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pulling his magnifying monocle from his waistcoat pocket and squinting through it, Kohl examined the projectile. “The bullet is in very good shape. That’s encouraging. We’ll see what the lands and grooves tell us back at the Alex. They’re quite sharp.”

“So the killer has a new gun,” Janssen offered, then qualified his comment. “Or an old gun that has rarely been fired.”

“Very good, Janssen. Those were to be my very next words.” Kohl put the slug in another brown envelope and sealed this one too. Writing more notes.

Janssen again looked over the corpse. “If he wasn’t robbed, sir, then why are they turned out?” he asked. “His pockets, I am referring to.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean he wasn’t robbed. I simply am not sure that robbery was the primary motive… Ah, there. Open the jacket again.”

Janssen pulled open the garment.

“See, the threads?”

“Where?”

“Right here!” Kohl pointed.

“Yes, sir.”

“The label has been cut out. Is that true of all his garments?”

“Identification,” the young man said, nodding, as he looked at the trousers and shirt. “The killer doesn’t want us to know whom he has killed.”

“Markings in the shoes?”

Janssen took them off and examined them. “None, sir.”

Kohl glanced at them and then felt the deceased’s jacket. “The suit is made of… ersatz fabric.” The inspector had nearly made the mistake of using the phrase “Hitler fabric,” a reference to fake cloth made of fibers from trees. (A popular joke: If you have a tear in your suit, water and expose it to sunlight; the cloth will grow back.) The Leader had announced plans to make the country independent of foreign imports. Elastic, margarine, gasoline, motor oil, rubber, cloth – all were being made from alternative materials found in Germany. The problem, of course, was the same with substitutes everywhere – they simply weren’t very good, and people sometimes referred to them disparagingly as “Hitler” goods. But it was never wise to use the term in public; one could be reported for uttering it.

The import of the discovery was that the man was probably German. Most foreigners in the country nowadays had their own currency to convert, which meant their buying power was quite strong, and none would willingly purchase cheap clothing like this.

But why would the killer wish to keep his victim’s identity secret? The ersatz clothing suggested there was nothing particularly important about him. But then, Kohl reflected, many senior people in the National Socialist Party were poorly paid, and even those who had decent salaries often wore substitute clothing out of loyalty to the Leader: Could the victim’s job within the Party or the government have been the motive for his death?

“Interesting,” Kohl said, rising stiffly. “The killer shoots a man in a crowded part of the city. He knows someone might hear the report of the gun and yet he risks detection to slice the labels out of his clothing. This makes me all the more intrigued to learn who this unfortunate gentleman is. Take his fingerprints, Janssen. It will be forever if we wait for the coroner to do so.”

“Yes, sir.” The young officer opened his briefcase and removed the equipment. He started to work.

Kohl gazed at the cobblestones. “I have been saying ‘killer,’ singular, Janssen, but of course there could have been a dozen. But I can see nothing of the choreography of this event on the ground.” In more open crime scenes the infamously gritty Berlin wind conveniently spread telltale dust on the ground. But not in this sheltered alley.

“Sir… Inspector,” the Schupo officer called. “I can find no casings here. I have scoured the entire area.”