By the time he left the apartment, five members of his team had arrived. He only took the best of them – Henrich Felke, a detective sergeant who had worked well on previous cases. Fritz left four members on site: one to survey the crime scene, one to remove possible evidence, one to shepherd the witnesses to the precinct, and one to remain on the scene in case other people showed. Fritz spoke to the housekeeper enough to determine that Hitler had left after lunch the day before, and was not expected back all weekend. She did not know if anyone had informed him of the death.
The police coroner had offices near the police präsidium in the centre of town. When Fritz had become a member of Kripo in the mid-1920s, the coroner had also been a practicing doctor. But since the agitations of the last few years had risen, more and more of the coroner’s work had been for the police. He now handled only murders and accidental deaths, sometimes five to ten a day.
The doctor’s offices were in an ancient five-storey building. The grey stone was soot-stained, and the steps were worn in the centre. The building smelled of dust, old leather, and rubbing alcohol. Fritz always sneezed the moment he entered.
Henrich said nothing as he flanked Fritz down the long, arched hallway. When they reached the end they stopped in front of a wooden door with a frosted glass window. On the glass, in old German script, was the doctor’s name: Gerhart Zehrt. Henrich gripped the cut-glass door knob and turned it. The door squeaked as it opened, the ever-present smell of formaldehyde mixing with the scents in the hall. The reception desk was empty, as it had been since Zehrt switched his practice to police work, but the door behind it, leading into the office, was open.
Zehrt was wiping off a wooden examining table. His sleeves were rolled up to show his massive arms. He was wearing a white shirt which loosely covered his round stomach. A blood-stained smock had been tossed onto the room’s only chair. The walls were covered with glass-doored cabinets, revealing jars of medicines and canning jars filled with items that Fritz didn’t want to speculate about.
‘I have nothing here,’ Zehrt said without looking at them.
Fritz stopped at the open door. His relationship with Zehrt had always been cordial, sometimes even friendly. They had the same attitude toward detail, the same desire to catch even the most common criminal. Zehrt had never stopped him at the door before.
‘Henrich,’ Fritz said, without looking at his assistant, ‘I believe I left my cigarettes in the auto. Will you get them for me?’
Henrich nodded and clicked his boots together, a habit he had picked up from the soldiers in the department, even though he had been too young to serve in the war. He closed the outer door loudly as he left.
‘I am looking for the body of a young woman. Her name is –’ Fritz had to check his notes. The conversation with the housekeeper was more interesting for the information it lacked than the information he received ‘– Angela Maria Raubal. Also known as Geli. She would have been brought from Prinzregentenplaz.’
‘I have no such body here,’ Zehrt said. ‘It’s Saturday and the wife is making potato pancakes for lunch. I hope, this weekend, to get a chance to enjoy her cooking. No Communist marches, eh? No speeches. All quiet.’
The hair on the back of Fritz’s neck prickled. ‘I won’t keep you. I just want to see the body. Then I’ll be on my way.’
‘There is no body here,’ Zehrt said again. He continued wiping the faded and stained wood. His cloth was bloody.
‘But you had a body here earlier, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here this morning.’
Zehrt shrugged. He tossed the cloth on top of the smock, then went to the sink and washed his hands. ‘Too many people die on Friday night. The wife would think I had a lover if she did not know better. I am never home on Friday nights.’
‘I know you, Gerhart. You would have finished Friday night’s work on Friday night.’ Fritz crossed his arms. ‘I was told that three men brought a body here this morning.’
Zehrt studied him a moment. They both knew Fritz would not leave until he had what he wanted.
‘Two men,’ Zehrt said. His voice came out softly, like a sigh. ‘One dressed in the brown shirt of the National Socialist’s private army, and the other, well, you know Franz Xaver Schwarz.’
Fritz did. Schwarz was the treasurer for the NSDAP. The Kripo had accompanied the political police more than once in an effort to determine where NSDAP was getting money to finance its new offices. Fritz had gone along on more than one of those visits.
‘They called me. At home. I did not think it wise to say no.’ Zehrt dried his hands on a thin towel hanging from a ring beside the sink. He gripped the edge of the counter and bowed his head. ‘The body was already on the table when I arrived.’
Huge patches of sweat had dried under the arms of Zehrt’s white shirt, leaving yellowish stains. Fritz had never seen the doctor look so dishevelled.
‘You examined her?’ Fritz asked. ‘And she was dead?’
‘Suicide,’ Zehrt said. His voice had an odd strangled quality. ‘That is my determination. Suicide.’
‘How?’
Zehrt turned. His skin was grey, the lines deep around his mouth. ‘A single gunshot wound through the heart.’
Fritz started. ‘Through the heart?’
‘Through the heart.’
‘She lost a lot of blood for a single shot into the heart.’
For a moment, Fritz thought Zehrt wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, ‘The body was not discovered for some time.’
‘Enough time to leave a stain three feet wide and two feet long?’
‘I did not see where she was found,’ Zehrt said.
‘I did.’ Fritz crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You would have noted the blood loss.’
‘The body had lividity in the rear extremeties,’ Zehrt said. ‘The remaining blood had settled.’
‘She was on her back then,’ Fritz said.
‘So it would appear.’
‘Shot through the heart, she landed on her back. She had an exit wound.’
‘Yes.’ Zehrt swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
‘She fell onto the carpet. Such an odd thing for a woman to do. One would think she would sit on the bed, put the gun to her temple, and shoot.’
‘There is no understanding people,’ Zehrt said.
‘No,’ Fritz said. Zehrt’s nervousness was infecting him. ‘There is no understanding people.’
‘If that is all,’ Zehrt said, ‘I am expected at home –’
‘Was the rest of the body untouched?’ Fritz asked.
Zehrt turned around.
‘The poor girl was very beautiful. Did you ever meet her? I did. Once. At the opera. She was laughing. You should see her.’ Then he smiled. ‘I mean you should have seen her. At the opera. So lovely.’
He picked up a piece of paper off the counter and crumpled it. ‘Her mother is quite upset. The girl is to be buried in Vienna. They had a train to catch. Such a hurry to get the right papers. It is difficult to send a body across the border these days.’
He tossed the crumpled piece of paper into the empty metal wastebasket near the door. The basket pinged as the paper hit. ‘I am going to finish cleaning up. The wife has lunch waiting. Would you mind helping with the trash?’
Fritz frowned. Zehrt never played games with him. Fritz went to the waste basket, plucked the crumpled paper, and shoved it in his pocket. ‘You know, Gerhart,’ he said, ‘we do not drink beer as much as we used to.’
Zehrt rolled down his sleeves, but did not button the cuffs. ‘I do not socialise much any more. The wife believes it is not good for my health.’
His gaze finally met Fritz’s. Zehrt’s eyes were dark, the pupils wide. He was not nervous. He was scared. Fritz had never seen Zehrt scared before.
‘I thank you for the help with the clean-up,’ Zehrt said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get home.’
Fritz nodded, and backed out of the office. He glanced at the windows, but saw nothing, no one watching. He hadn’t had this feeling since 1919, just after the war, when a man had to watch his back at all times.
He let himself out of the office, and as he did, he heard the lock click behind him. He knew how the NSDAP stormtroopers could frighten. He had interrogated them for many of the violent crimes that Munich had seen in the last five years. But he had served alongside men just like them. They listened to authority. They thrived on fear.
Henrich was waiting at the car. He leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed. He was not wearing his uniform, and the sleeves of his shirt were too tight, leaving lines in his wrist. When he saw Fritz, he said, ‘I couldn’t find your cigarettes. I was wondering if you wanted me to buy you a pack.’
Fritz shook his head. ‘I found them in my shirt pocket.’
He waved Henrich into the driver’s seat, and Fritz let himself into the passenger side. He waited until the car pulled out before taking the crumpled paper from his pocket.
‘So,’ Henrich said, ‘did he work on the girl?’
‘He saw her. But he’s afraid to talk about it.’ Fritz smoothed the paper on his lap. ‘Did you see anyone suspicious?’
‘In Munich?’
They both laughed. Everyone looked suspicious these days. The city had taken a slight turn, and what had seemed like bohemian strangeness before the war now appeared to be a manic desire for control. No one listened any more, although everyone expressed an opinion. The opinions merely grew louder and more violent.
Henrich turned the car back toward Bogenhausen. ‘Precinct?’
‘Yes.’ Fritz stared at the sheet of paper. It was dated 19 September 1931. That day’s date. ‘So, did you see anything?’
‘No,’ Henrich said. ‘Not even people passing by.’
Which was strange in and of itself. Fritz frowned at the piece of paper. It was a letter. It read: I have seen the body of Geli Raubal. She is, lamentably, a suicide. Please hasten the paperwork so that the body may be transported to Austria. The family would like to put her to rest outside of the public eye.
It was signed by Franz Gürtner, the Bavarian Minister of Justice.