Deadly Communion

52

LIEBERMANN WALKED DOWN THE hospital corridor in a way that betrayed his eagerness. His stride was long and his expression earnest. In due course he came to a room that was guarded by a constable. The officer bowed and clicked his heels.

‘Anything to report?’ asked Liebermann.

The constable shook his head.

Liebermann knocked on the door. There was no reply.

He knocked again.

‘Perhaps he’s asleep,’ said the constable.

‘When was the last time you took a look at him?’

‘About half an hour ago.’

‘Was he asleep then?’

‘No. He was just staring into space.’ The constable shivered. ‘Those eyes … they go right through you.’

‘Thank you, constable.’

Liebermann turned the handle and entered the room. Sprenger was sitting up in bed. One of his legs was encased in plaster and his left arm was supported by a sling. Some blood had seeped through the bandage wrapped around his head. His gaze was locked on a fixed point on an imaginary horizon.

‘Good afternoon, Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann. The young doctor pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. ‘I hope you are feeling better today.’

Sprenger did not move.

‘If you are in pain, then I do hope you will say so. I have spoken to Nurse Egger who informs me that you have not requested any medication. This is most unusual given the severity of your injuries and I suspect that you are suffering in silence. It is perfectly reasonable — and acceptable — for you to request pain relief.’

Liebermann allowed a lengthy pause before continuing.

‘Do you know who I am, Herr Sprenger?’

The young doctor stood up and waved a hand in front of Sprenger’s face.

Not even a blink.

Liebermann wondered whether Sprenger’s condition was in fact more serious than he or Professor Bieler had appreciated. The undertaker’s impassive mien and uncanny stillness suggested brain damage.

‘Can you hear me, Herr Sprenger?’

Liebermann took Sprenger’s pulse, which was normal. He then produced a small mirror and directed light into Sprenger’s eyes. The pupils shrank. Sprenger’s breathing was slow and regular.

The young doctor sighed, crossed to the window, and gripped the iron bars. He looked down on an empty courtyard.

‘Elective mutism,’ he said flatly. ‘You are perfectly capable of speaking to me. You are just choosing not to.’

Outside in the corridor a trolley rattled past. The constable called out. Although it was not possible to hear his exact words, the tone of his voice was clearly playful. A coquettish contralto laugh followed. There were a few more exchanges, and the rattle of the trolley faded.

Liebermann sat down again.

‘I would like you to speak to me. I would like you to say whatever comes into your mind, without any attempt to censor the flow of ideas and images.’

Time passed.

‘Do you dream, Herr Sprenger?’

The undertaker turned his head slowly and looked directly at Liebermann. His eyes gathered in the light and shone like sapphires.

‘“Night is the other half of life, and the better half.”’

Liebermann sat up.

‘What does that mean to you — that quote?’

Sprenger turned away again.

After a few minutes, Liebermann stood and prepared a syringe. He took Sprenger’s right arm and carefully administered some analgesic.

‘That should help,’ said Liebermann. ‘You must get into the habit of asking for morphium when you need it.’

Liebermann put the syringe away and lifted his bag onto the bed.

‘I would like to understand your …’ Liebermann searched for the right word and, finding none suitable, settled on the neutral ‘objectives.’ He reached into his bag and removed a notebook and pencil. He placed them on Sprenger’s bedside cabinet. ‘I’m leaving some writing materials. Just here — in easy reach. When you are feeling stronger, I would like you to consider writing a history. Your history.’ Liebermann closed his bag and snapped the hasp shut. ‘For the moment, however, you should rest. I will try to visit you every day.’