Fatal Lies

40

Commissioner Manfred Brugel looked troubled. In his hands he held a letter.

“Well, Rheinhardt, this is all very difficult-very difficult indeed. But let me assure you, I would have wanted to talk to you had I received a complaint from any of the Saint Florian pupils. The fact that I am related to Kiefer Wolf is really of little consequence. You understand that, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner was visibly disturbed by the transparency of his own deceit. He coughed into his hand, mumbled something about professionalism, and then concluded his introductory remarks by repeating the word “good” three times.

Rheinhardt was accustomed to feeling a sense of foreboding whenever he entered the commissioner's office. But on this occasion the presentiment of impending doom was fearfully oppressive.

“Now, according to my nephew,” said Brugel, “you went to Saint Florian's on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January in order to conduct some interviews. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You interviewed my nephew-and several other boys.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whom I presume you had previously identified as suspects?”

Rheinhardt crossed his legs and shifted uncomfortably. He could see where this line of questioning might lead and sought to divert the conversation elsewhere.

“Prior to interviewing the boys, I had spoken to Professor Eich-mann, the headmaster, about the Arbeiter-Zeitung article and-”

Brugel waved his hand in the air. “Yes, yes-we can discuss Eich-mann later.” He glanced down at the letter and continued, “The boys you interviewed-they were suspects?”

“Well, only in a manner of speaking… They were boys who I thought might be able to tell us more about the bullying at Saint Florian's. If the Arbeiter-Zeitung article-”

Again, Brugel cut in: “And how did you identify these… these suspects?”

“With the help of Herr Dr. Liebermann.”

The commissioner snorted. “And how did Dr. Liebermann identify them?”

“He used a psychological technique to probe the mind of Isidor Perger, the boy who wrote those letters to Thomas Zelenka.”

“And what was this psychological technique?”

Rheinhardt grimaced. “He showed Perger”-Rheinhardt's expression became more pained-”inkblots… and asked the boy what he saw in them.”

“Inkblots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by inkblots, you mean…?”

“Blots of ink… on paper, sir. I am sure Dr. Liebermann would be willing to explain how the procedure works.”

“That won't be necessary, Rheinhardt.”

The commissioner took a deep breath and was evidently struggling to contain himself. A raised vessel appeared on his temple, in which Rheinhardt detected the pulse of Brugel s fast-beating and furious heart.

“And is it true,” said the commissioner, in an uncharacteristically controlled voice, “that you accused my nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka?”

For a brief moment, Rheinhardt found himself wondering whether it was not such a bad idea, at this juncture, to simulate a fainting fit. He could very easily relax his muscles and allow his ample frame to slide off the chair, after which he would be lifted onto a stretcher and conveyed to the infirmary, where he might rest, sleep perhaps, even dream of walking holidays in the Tyrol. On further reflection, he decided that he had better get the ordeal over with.

“Sir,” he said resolutely, “you will appreciate, I am sure, how a direct accusation will sometimes unnerve a suspect. That forceful assertions can even produce a confess-”

“It's true, then,” Brugel interrupted.

“Yes,” Rheinhardt sighed. “Yes, it is true.”

“And on what evidence did you base this accusation?” asked Brugel.

Policeman's intuition, thought Rheinhardt. Your nephew's crooked smile.

Rheinhardt shook his head and murmured something that barely qualified as language.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Brugel.

“Nothing… nothing very firm, sir.”

The commissioner folded the letter and placed it in a drawer. He then leaned across his desk and began to lecture Rheinhardt on one of his favorite topics: the importance of maintaining standards. Gradu ally, Brugel's voice took on a hectoring tone, and in a very short space of time he was thumping the desk with his fists and reprimanding Rheinhardt for running a shoddy, incompetent investigation. His anger, which he had succeeded in suppressing for so long, now boiled over. The commissioner roared and spat out his invective with apoplectic rage.

As Rheinhardt listened to this tirade, he experienced it not intellectually, or even emotionally, but physically. It was like being bludgeoned with a heavy club. The irony of his situation did not escape him. He was being bullied. Bizarrely he too had become one of Wolf's victims.

When the commissioner was spent, he leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily. His face had turned red, and some foamy spittle had collected in his muttonchop whiskers.

“Please accept my apology, sir,” said Rheinhardt.

The commissioner grunted and granted the disgraced inspector permission to leave.

When he reached the door, Brugel called out:

“Rheinhardt.”

“Sir?”

The commissoner was suddenly changed. He looked smaller: older, wearier, and perplexed. It was an extraordinary transformation.

“He's my youngest sister's boy,” said Brugel. “Her only child. He's no angel, but he would not… No, you are quite wrong. And consider yourself lucky. This will go no further. I'll see to that.”

Had Liebermann been present, he would have had much to say about the commissioner's sudden transformation, and his curious, incoherent adieu. But Rheinhardt was in no fit state to consider such things. Eager to leave, he bowed, clicked his heels, and left the commissioner's office like a man escaping a fire.