ONCE BACK AT HEADQUARTERS, Rolf passed Weissengel over to Hans-Josef to get him oriented and to dump in his lap the most recent case reports. This turned out to be fortuitous, because after they were gone, the desk sergeant told Rolf that a package had arrived for him containing pictures from some of the rally’s photographers, and Rolf gratefully seized the chance to rummage through them without having Weissengel dribble unction all over his office. Rolf carried the package to his desk and quietly shut his door.
The opening of the box occasioned a moment of hope. The pictures were taken at street level from the Glyptothek side of the square, near the Ehrentempel, aimed in the general direction of the speaker’s podium but not quite catching it. A few of the early shots captured the BDM girls laying flowers before the rally. Rolf recognized the victim and several of his witnesses in them. As the pictures progressed, soldiers and SS men entered and left the frame, first in dribs and drabs, and then in columns as they marched before their Führer. The BDM troop stood in a block to the photographer’s right. The angles seemed favorable. Finally one picture captured Gretl stepping out from the pack toward the vacant middle of the frame. She was smiling either at something she’d thought or at someone past the left edge of the frame. In no other picture did she appear.
Why was the killer so frustratingly out of frame? It was possible that Rolf was looking at the picture’s natural edge, but it was also possible that the photographer deliberately cropped the murderer out. Rolf’s mind raced ahead. Could he and a photographic expert work out the exact frame in the movie film that corresponded to this shot? If so, could they figure out from the lens the photographer used, and his distance from the girl, just how wide his field should have been? At the very least, they’d need to set up some sort of board, including a blow up of the movie frame and corresponding images from photographers.
Enclosed in the package was a business card from the photographer, which provided Rolf with a number to dial. Rolf picked up his phone and called the photographer, getting him on the second ring. The photographer sounded scared when Rolf identified himself as a detective, but Rolf did his best to put his mind at ease. After taking a few minutes to assuage the photographer’s fears, Rolf asked him if he remembered Gretl Hofstengl. After briefly describing the girl, Rolf got the photographer to admit that he had noticed her. The photographer said, “It was a good image, you know, all those people in the crowd standing in rows and she steps out, smiling. She looks free, doesn’t she? I liked that, so I focused on her and snapped. That’s all.”
“Did you notice what she was smiling at?” Rolf asked.
“There was a man there.”
“Anything distinctive about him?”
“If there had been, I’d have taken a picture. The only thing I thought was that it was odd that he was standing there all by himself.”
“Was the girl smiling at the man, or just in his direction?” Rolf asked.
“How should I know? I think she was smiling at him, but she could have just been happy in general. After I snapped her, I had to reload.”
Sensing he wasn’t being told something, Rolf asked, “Did she accost the man? Had he approached her first?”
“I think he might have. Yes. I do remember because he passed in front of me and knocked the camera off line right in the middle of a shot. I had to step around him. Yeah. I remember that.”
“Where’s the out of focus shot of the ground or whatever?”
The photographer stammered, “I don’t know. I threw it out probably. If you want to see it, I can print another copy.”
Rolf wasn’t ready to ask for that quite yet. “He’d approached the girls?”
“I guess so.”
“Did you happen to notice what he was wearing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
The photographer’s tension came through the wire. “I’ve got no eyes to get involved with the duties of Mr. Himmler’s men, you understand?”
Rolf felt a little sick. “Mr. Himmler’s men?”
“I really don’t need that kind of trouble, Kommissar. Please.”
“So you won’t say he was an SS man?”
“No. Never.”
Rolf pictured the photographer wetting his pants and sweating, which Klara would have called a form of projection. “Okay, so just for the record, you deny he was an SS man.”
“That’s right.”
“Fine. You didn’t happen to hear what he said, did you?” Rolf asked.
“No. But he did press something into one of the girls’ hands. I figured he was after a date.”
No one had found a note during the search of Epp’s field. A careful killer would throw out or burn that kind of thing, but no one's careful all the time. Rolf once sent a killer to the gallows in part because he found a matchbook with the victim’s handwriting in it under the killer’s sofa. (He had denied knowing her.) “Okay. Thank you very much for your cooperation. If I need more, I’ll call you.” Rolf hung up.
Rolf picked up the photograph again. His hand shook until he took hold of it with his other hand. Did Himmler and Heydrich already know about this, and was that their true reason for sending Weissengel? Rolf put the odds at even money that this was the case, which meant Weissengel’s mission was deliberate sabotage. They’d probably head straight for some transients’ shelter and grab a destitute Bolshevik Jew for the crime.
As he studied Gretl's image, Rolf noticed something odd about her right hand. Opening his desk drawer, Rolf seized a magnifying glass from the clutches of the pens and straightedges. He held the photo up close to the glass and saw that what looked like an extra index finger was actually a note on white paper.
Rolf put the box away. If Weissengel ever found it and followed up, he’d probably make the whole evidence locker, motion picture film, photos and all, vanish. (The image of Weissengel in a tuxedo and cape, transforming the evidence into a flock of doves with a wave of his wand, tickled Rolf. The Amazing Weissengeli, stage conjurer.) Rolf stuck the box under his desk. It could stay there until he went home. From now on, any evidence that could go home with him would go home with him.
Someone knocked on the door.
Rolf shoved the box still further under his desk and shouted a “Come in!” The door opened. It was Hans-Josef. “Boss, Hauptstürmführer Weissengel wants to see us in the conference room right away.”
“Oh, joy,” Rolf said. “Did you put that film back in the evidence locker?”
“Sure.” Hans-Josef said this as if he were a kid being asked about having done homework.
“Bring it to my office after this stupid meeting. Keep it in a plain box.”
“But—”
“You really don’t want to know, Hans-Josef. I think you can guess where it’s going, but you really don’t want to ask me any more, do you?”
“No, sir.”
Rolf came out from behind his desk and followed Hans-Josef to the conference room. Standing at one end was Weissengel, his face full of passionate intensity. Helmut sat at the opposite end of the table, looking slightly unsure of himself and picking at his uniform as if it no longer fit. Next to Helmut sat that prize idiot Strassmann. How soon would he start rattling on about his goddamn calipers, now that he had fresh ears for his take on phrenological stupidity? The merest sight of him in a meeting of ostensibly professional investigators told Rolf all he needed to know about his near future in this room. Let me guess, Rolf thought, Our Suspect: Sloping forehead, big nose, caftan, dried blood mixed with matzoh in his beard. Just the sort of man who could enter a Nazi rally unnoticed and entice a young girl who’d had anti-Semitic propaganda drilled into her for the last three years to come with him. But don’t you see, Rolf? The Jews have the power to befog the mind, which you’d know if you weren’t a Social Democrat. By the time Rolf reached his chair, there was no person in this room, or in the city of Munich, that he didn’t hate.
“Gentlemen,” Hauptstürmführer Weissengel began. “I know that you’re all professional men, career investigators with long histories of success in your fields.” Rolf glanced at Hans-Josef and wondered how closely Weissengel had read the files. “I want it understood that I regard you with the utmost respect and admiration for your talents and your perspicacity. I am here as representative of Reichsführer-SS Himmler, not to intimidate or harass you, but rather to educate and inform.
“Germany has enemies, enemies that we have with appropriate ruthlessness hounded from public life, yet they persist in attempting to sabotage our nation and forestall the rise of our culture. They conspire. They plot. They hope to drag us down. And the medium through which they want to do this is our most vulnerable yet most valuable resource, our children. That is what this crime is about. It is the attempt of the Jew, and his Communist sympathizers, to ruin our young girls, the vessels of our racial future. I have no doubt that Gretl Hofstengl resisted them, and that’s why she’s dead.”
Rolf said, “There’s no evidence she resisted anybody. There were no defensive wounds on the body.”
“I’m sure she resisted in her soul, Kommissar, resisted to her last breath. And just as she resisted, we shall resist. Just as her murderer called for the Jews to awake, we shall wake up. This is a test of our will and our character, gentlemen. Will we do what is necessary to protect our children from these devils among us?
“I’m told there is film footage of one of these monsters, and photographic evidence. I will have it. I’m sure what is there is the pleasing shape they used to lure this poor girl to her fate. I will combine it with the Gestapo’s resources. We already have some strong information about Jewish gangs, and with all your help we will ferret out the killers among them and strike them with the hammer of Aryan justice.”
With that last statement, Weissengel looked around the room as if he were about to shout “Who’s with me?” But the room was silent. Finally, Helmut stood up. “Thank you, Hauptstürmführer. I’m sure we’ll want to extend Hauptstürmführer Weissengel every cooperation in his investigation. And I’m sure that all evidence will be turned over to you in a timely fashion, and that we’ll all be excited to hear your analysis.”
“Thank you, Kriminaldirektor. Lieutenant Strassmann, I’d like you with me to look over those photographs and films. I think your knowledge could be crucial.”
Strassmann looked as if he’d just been told his son had been born. He jumped out of his chair, and Rolf thought for a second he’d hug Weissengel. Instead, he just said, “I’d be delighted to, sir.”
Hans-Josef looked over to Rolf, who was now melting into the chair. “The photos are in a box under my desk,” Rolf said. “The film’s in the evidence locker. Hans-Josef will gather it all for you.”
Later that afternoon, Rolf entered Helmut’s office full of hope that now he could be released from the commitment Helmut had inflicted on him. He’d spent the intervening hours telling himself: fine, if that black uniformed creep wants to take over, let him. They don’t want me to solve this case. Good. That means Klara and I can set a course for France and everyone can get on with their lives, including the real murderer, who’ll probably keep on killing until he’s too old to kill anymore. I might have actually stayed and nabbed him for them, if they’d just let me, but I guess the State has other priorities. He found Helmut behind his desk, reading a fashion magazine. Rolf shut the door behind him.
“You can’t leave,” Helmut said.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Your staying was Frick’s condition for allowing the Gestapo to take the lead. He thought you’d be able to keep them honest.” Helmut put his magazine on the desk, open to a page of happy models in fall ensembles.
“Well, Frick was wrong.”
“I know. You’re the token he gets so he won’t make a fuss. So Himmler wants you here too. And what he wants is what’s going to count around here.”
“Is there anyone in the Reich willing to fire me?”
“Not that I know of. The only way to get by Himmler now is through Hitler, so unless you’re connected that far up, you’re stuck with us until this case is over. In the plus column, it shouldn’t be long.”
“So I should look busy and do nothing in the meantime,” Rolf said.
“Add to that kicking in a few doors and yeah, I’d say that covers it. I’d estimate you’ll be free to go in a week to ten days at most, at which point I’ll be happy to help you get out.”
“What’ll you do?”
“What do you care?”
“Idle curiosity.”
Helmut shook his head with a cynical chuckle. “I’ll manage.”
“I don’t see why you’ll continue to want this job. You said you liked working around competence. Fat lot of it there’ll be around here.”
“I don’t need to love my job,” Helmut said. “That’s where we differ, isn’t it?”
“Obviously,” Rolf picked up the fashion magazine. One of the models looked like Gretl, if only around the eyes. “And it won’t bother you that he’ll never come anywhere near the real killer, that people will die.”
“People are being murdered all over in this country.”
“I mean—”
“You and I both know what I’m talking about. And given that I can still come to work every day knowing that, I don’t think that a few extra killings plus or minus is going to trouble me much further.”
“You’re a hell of a cop, Kriminaldirektor.”
“Anyway, in a week it’ll no longer be your problem. Now let me get back to my magazine. The wife wants something new before the Mayor’s gala luncheon, and I need to find something that won’t make a pear-shaped, short-waisted forty-five year-old woman look matronly.”
Helmut held his hand out for the magazine. When Rolf gave it to him, Helmut buried his face in it and waved Rolf off. Rolf left Helmut’s office and stood in a squad room that felt, for the first time, completely alien to him. People came and went in roughly the same patterns as before, but none of it seemed connected to any activity that could legitimately involve him. Rolf felt as if he were just a tourist who’d gotten separated from his group and had been left to stand here, so he headed for the exit.
Hans-Josef intercepted Rolf at the door. “Kommissar, I just wanted you to know,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “that I didn’t tell Weissengel about the pictures.”
“I don’t care.”
Leaving behind a puzzled Hans-Josef, Rolf departed for tram, home, and Klara. It was refreshing to leave work in the middle of the day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it.
When he reached home, Rolf found Klara in the study, reading. He said, “Darling, let’s get drunk.” Klara rose from her chair, went to the bar, and poured two double shots of plum schnapps. “What are we drinking to?” she asked as she brought Rolf his glass.
Rolf inhaled the schnapps’s aroma. The drink was more Klara’s favorite than his, but he hadn’t specified a particular kind of drink, and besides that there’d be plenty of time for his preferred bottles later on. “Getting away with murder.”
Klara frowned and let her drink sit, but Rolf threw his back. Rolf then moved toward the bar. Klara tried to take hold of him, but Rolf shook loose of her and poured himself another drink. “I’m getting drunk tonight, Klara. You can join me or not. Look at it as a celebration, because we’re getting out of here.” Rolf sent another shot down the hatch.
“Darling…” Klara said.
Rolf slammed the bottle down hard enough to break it. Plum schnapps spilled all over.
“I think I’ll go over to Doris’s. I’ll leave you to tidy up.” Klara went to the closet, grabbed her lightest coat, and walked out the door.
Rolf snatched up a bottle of vodka, which dripped plum schnapps from its bottom onto the floor, retreated to a corner, and guzzled it. Klara didn’t understand, he told himself, because nothing was ever at stake in her line of work. Nobody ever died because of incompetence in her line of work. The world just kept on spinning and nobody cared. She wouldn’t even want to work among psychologists now. The SS men who were convinced that feeling depressed had to do with the sickened race soul or some nonsense like that were the people who’d replaced Klara when she’d been fired; and now someone like that was replacing him, which probably meant she did understand really and he was just being a drunken asshole, but what did anybody expect anyway because the whole thing was… was… the floor was uneven here; if they were staying they’d have had to get that fixed — there was one expense they could dodge, and furthermore in the plus column — as Helmut would say — they’d be away from that awful Kristanna: her and the warped floor and the warped city and the warped police force and this whole warped fucking country could be someone else’s problem, hooray and huzzah, calloo and callay, now and forevermore, happily ever after, hallelujah, ring the bells, Handel’s Messiah amen!