Jutta Profijt - Morgue Drawer Four

“Normally it’s fun for me,” Martin mumbled.

“Normally?”

Martin poured a warm-up into their teacups, drawing the ceremony out ridiculously long.

“I’ve just had a case where I don’t know exactly what I should do,” he finally said.

I pricked up my ears, so to speak.

“Do tell,” Birgit encouraged him enthusiastically, scooting a bit closer. Even without knowing her innermost thoughts, any blind person could see that she was totally into Martin. He presumably needed only flick his finger and she would pounce on him. But he didn’t flick, he sipped. Tea. Then things continued.

“There is a body that I examined briefly at the site where it was found and later autopsied,” Martin explained in his doctor’s voice. “There isn’t any real evidence of foul play, actually.”

“Actually…” Birgit said, helping him along. She was literally quivering with curiosity about an exciting story.

Personally I’d have done something different with a quivering babe on the couch than tell her about dead bodies—but to each his own.

“In retrospect I’ve got a strange feeling that something is not right about this death,” Martin mumbled.

He’d come up with a really nice way to word it so that he didn’t have to say that the restless soul of a dead man has been jabbering his ears off.

“What kind of feeling?” Birgit asked.

She was so fascinated by the story that her cheeks were all flushed and her lips slightly open. She was staring at Martin with wide eyes. If only I still had even a couple little hormones left…But I was surprised, and specifically at Martin. He just kept on chattering at her about this grizzly corpse he’d examined.

“Well, it’s just a feeling,” he said.

Of course that way of phrasing it was completely unhelpful, but apparently he didn’t under any circumstance intend to say what was really going on with him. “That’s exactly the problem,” he quickly continued. “I can’t prove anything. There’s no evidence from the body that it didn’t fall accidentally but was pushed. Apparently there weren’t any clues along those lines at the site, so the police aren’t continuing the investigation. The case is closed.”

“You just have the impression that something else is going on,” Birgit said, ending his summary.

Martin nodded.

“And it’s bugging you.”

Again an observation, not a question.

More nodding, more sipping.

“Well, then look into it,” Birgit recommended, short and sweet.

I could have kissed her. Well, I wanted to anyways, but even more so after this recommendation.

Martin bowed his head.

“Officially I’m not allowed to do anything at all,” Martin said.

“But you are allowed to ask around a little, as long as you’re not acting like you’re doing an official investigation in your capacity as a coroner for the city attorney,” she retorted.

Not dumb at all. No, she wasn’t putting a little sign on her phone at lunch, I was sure of that.

“But why should I do that when there isn’t any evidence at all?” Martin asked, almost resigned.

“Because you’ll never find peace,” Birgit said, obviously without even the slightest idea how entirely true her assessment was.

Martin just moaned loudly, but quickly pulled himself together and said, “No, you’re right. It’ll keep gnawing at me.”

He said “it,” but he meant “he.” And he was damned right. I’d keep setting fire under his ass until I found out who killed me, and I thought I had a certain justification in doing so. Of course, it was too bad for Martin that I could make contact specifically, and unfortunately only, with him, but it was too bad for me, too. I’d have picked a somewhat gutsier helper. Or a female one. Birgit. Or Katrin. But I had gotten stuck with a trash can driver. A duffle coat wearer. Tea drinker. Bean counter. City map collector. Presumably also a muesli eater, gravesite tender, and sock darner. What had I done to deserve this?

“It’s really bugging you, isn’t it?” Birgit asked, putting her hand on Martin’s cheek. I could feel Martin’s heart surge. For me it’d have been more like a knife in my pants, but Martin, my Little Goose, was made of different material.

“Should we go grab a bite to eat?” she suggested.

Martin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Birgit, but I’m afraid I’m really not up for anything today.”

Birgit was a good loser. “All right. I’ll head home then. But my invitation to dinner is just postponed, not rescinded.”

Invitation! The amazing things that emancipated womenfolk come up with. Maybe I should’ve found myself some kind of modern chick like this. And if they even pay for their own food…

She left; Martin made himself a light dinner of a slice of bread with some snot-green vegetarian paste smeared on it, and he actually brought himself to eat that crap. But for someone who earns his money carving up bodies, there probably isn’t really any such thing as revolting. I took a look around the apartment, noting that the furniture everywhere was modern with a bit of an Asian bent and that there was no TV in the bedroom. Instead: a stationary bike. Ugh, how healthy!

Martin had turned the TV in the living room on and was watching the news.

“Change the channel,” I urged him.

Martin dropped the remote in terror. I had been completely off his radar.

“You’re still here!”

“Would you prefer I had left with Birgit? Now change the channel!”

“What to?”

“Doesn’t matter, just not the news. It always puts me to sleep.”

“That’d be OK by me,” Martin said.

He kept watching the news, but he was distracted.

“We should find Pablo and talk to him,” I suggested. If there wasn’t any reasonable television programming to watch, we might as well do some more investigating.

“There is no way I am going out right now in the dark looking for a dealer generally presumed to be a murderer,” Martin responded.

Somehow war scenes were showing on the screen, and I wondered again why reporters risk their lives every day to take stupid images like these. Year after year, people snuffing each other out always looks the same. Admittedly, sometimes the parties involved have slanted eyes or black skin, sometimes the uniforms are beige, brown, or green, but in principal the scenes are all the same. I had long ago given up watching that crap.

“Birgit thinks you shouldn’t just let the case slide, either,” I reminded him.

“Leave Birgit out of it.”

“You were the one who told her the story, not me,” I made clear.

“I have left work for the day,” Martin grumbled. He had since scarfed down his snot-paste sandwich.

“It’s a good thing you’re off work now because during working hours you can’t investigate anything very well,” I retorted.

“No hunting for dealers,” Martin persisted.

I thought for a moment.

“It occurred to me that Mehmet may be my murderer,” I said.

“Who is Mehmet?” Martin asked.

“The guy from the game hall I owed money to.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“A game hall is an extremely safe place,” I clarified.

“Mmm hmm.”

“And Mehmet is a really nice guy.”

Martin closed his eyes, rested his face in his hands, paused for a moment, and then switched the TV off. “All right. So where is this game hall?”

I guided him through traffic, steering him into the side streets where I’d always used to park, and I recommended he leave the car here. He had safety-related concerns.

“Nothing has ever happened to my ride around here,” I said.

“What kind of a car did you use to have?” he asked.

“A VW Scirocco R.”

Martin didn’t say anything, he just snorted slightly through his nose and did not seem very reassured. In the field of automobile valuations he was apparently seriously deficient. All the same, he parked under a streetlight without any further discussion, carefully locked up, and pulled up his duffle coat hood for the short walk. It was drizzling. I found it very disconcerting to see the rain but not feel it.