Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

Of course. THE CARETAKER.

He rose to pay and perform the deed.

The building’s service apartment consisted of a tiny kitchen and a small living room. Small details revealed the caretaker to be a widower who tried to maintain order and cleanliness. They could see him from the sidewalk, repairing the shattered windowpanes with tape — the same kind the murderer used, Morava remembered. The old man opened the door for them with the light off, and then shuffled away to pull down the shades. Morava was intrigued by the way Beran was sniffing. Could he smell the underwear?

The caretaker was still unable or unwilling to remember what the man on the staircase had looked like. To distract him, the superintendent asked a few questions about the baroness. He gleaned only a couple of superficial observations; no one in the von Pommeren family knew Czech, and the caretaker’s German consisted of barely two dozen indispensible expressions. The general had been transferred here from Berlin just after the occupation of Czechoslovakia. Both he and his son had fallen on the front, and the baroness had had both urns buried at the Vy ehrad cemetery nearby, where she visited them every day.

Morava followed studiously as Beran reeled in his line, bringing the conversation back around to the morning’s events.

“You greeted the man first, right?”

“Yep,” said the caretaker without hesitation.

“How?”

“Well… ’dobrej den,’ I guess. Just ’hello.’ ”

“And he said?”

“The same. He said, ’dobrej den.’ Yep, I’m sure of it.”

“So that’s exactly what you remember?”

“Well, he said it sort of strange like….”

“Strange in what way?”

“I dunno….”

“Did he stutter? Hesitate? Mumble? Mutter? Did he have a lazy r? A hoarse voice? Or a high one?”

Morava was amazed at the stream of possibilities his boss poured forth, but the caretaker kept shaking his head.

“What was so strange about it?”

“Dunno… something just wasn’t right.”

Morava dared to enter the game.

“Something about his clothes?”

“Maybe….”

Beran lunged into the gap.

“So how was he dressed?”

“If I knew, I’d tell ya…. Look, I had enough for today; did this young feller tell ya what happened to me? Crapped in my pants.”

He sounded almost proud of it. The superintendent decided to call it a day and stood up. Morava had a flash of inspiration.

“So you definitely said to him… how was it?”

“I said, ’dobrej den.’…”

“And he said.. ”

“The same thing.”

“And could he have said it slightly differently, maybe ’dobrý den’? So, ’dobrý’ instead of ’dobrej’?”

“Yeah. That’s what he said. Just like you said it. Like how they teach us in school, in books, you know?”

Beran’s gaze suddenly turned respectful. Morava warmed to his task.

“And something about his appearance didn’t fit with how he spoke?”

“I suppose…”

“What would have fit?”

“Um… what you’re wearing: a hat, a winter coat…”

“And what wouldn’t have?”

Morava was encouraged by Beran’s continued silence.

The caretaker looked briefly down at his thermals.

“What I’m wearing. ..”

“So was he dressed in something similar?”

Morava had noticed long ago that when people of low intelligence were forced to think hard, the exertion made them suffer almost physically. When the man finally spoke, there was a pained expression on his face.

“Look, lemme sleep on it, I’m worn out today.”

The superintendent had the caretaker let them into the baroness’s apartment. A bitter cold welcomed them. They pulled the brocaded drapes closed over the blown-out windows and turned on the lights in the now darkened apartment. Beran walked around the table, the glass crunching under his feet as he sniffed, doglike.

“Did someone change the carpet here?” he mused.

“We didn’t touch a thing,” Morava protested.

“From the way you described it I expected pools of blood.”

“I told you, he knew what he was doing. He got all her blood to run out into that ficus container. I sent everything to Pathology.”

“The breasts too, and the… intestines?”

For the first time ever, Morava saw his boss shiver.

“Yes. The guys there were horrified by it; they said they’d put in a rush order.”

” ’scuse me,” the caretaker called from the entrance hall. “I think I’m gonna be sick again; could you lock up after yourselves?”

“We’ll go with you,” Beran decided.

Back downstairs the man had regained some color but was still distressed.

“How’m I gonna sleep tonight?”

“Surely you’re not the only one here.”

“But I am! The dentist who lived upstairs left for the country; his office was on my floor.”

“And on the other floors?”

“Used to be Jews living in those apartments. Now the Germans have some offices there or something.”

Morava opened his mouth and closed it again when he caught Beran’s warning glance. The caretaker opened the main door. Outside, the darkness reeked of ashes. The firemen had left; only a few curious onlookers were hanging around near the ruins.

“Good night,” said the superintendent. “My assistant, Mr. Morava, will come by tomorrow morning to see if you’ve remembered anything overnight. Litera, step on it.”

The caretaker nodded and glanced longingly into the car at them. Beran wrinkled his brow as they drove off.

“I think we can forget about him. Even if we put the perp right under his nose, he’s too frightened to recognize him.”

“Which our murderer doesn’t know,” Morava realized.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m surprised he let him go. Almost an eyewitness. Must have been an oversight that he let him slip away.”

“Good point, Morava. So logically…?”

“The murderer will certainly be back.”

Beran nodded.

“Make arrangements right away. Then come to my office.”

At Bartolom jská Street, Morava stopped to transmit Beran’s order. Back in the anteroom of Beran’s office, he was surprised to see Jitka at this late hour and could only manage a loopy smile.

“Hi… what are you still.. ”

“I thought maybe you’d need something…”

Well, yes: he needed to touch her, to confess that for months he’d been thinking only of her; she was the only reason he hadn’t fled when he realized that he’d be saddled with mutilated corpses from now until retirement. But despite his recent success with Beran, he still couldn’t find the courage, so he blurted out an inept question instead.

“Like what?”

“I brought a bit of soup from home; I’m heating it up for the superintendent, if you’d like some too…”

Suddenly the stench of blood and smoke was gone, replaced by one of his favorite childhood smells.

“Sausage soup!”

“My family“—she dropped to a whisper as she admitted to a grave crime against wartime economic measures—“slaughtered a pig….”

“I’d love some,” he said softly. “I… thanks. Thanks, yes.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from her and so walked backward into his boss’s office. Beran was just hanging up the phone.

“I spoke with Pathology. The autopsy confirms your report. He dismembered her alive, almost to the end. But he took something as a souvenir.”

“What?”

“Her heart.”

“My God!”

“And also, of course….?”