Vienna Blood

19

THE SMALL COFFEEHOUSE near the Anatomical Institute was a short walk from the Schottenring police station. Liebermann found himself once more by the window seat, observing the passing traffic. Across the table, Rheinhardt was admiring the involuted structure that occupied his plate. It was a generous portion of tiroler strauben-crisp, freshly fried curls of pancake mixture, flavored with schnapps and sprinkled with sugar. Rheinhardt sliced off a coil of the light brown confection with his fork and lifted it to his mouth.

“Oh yes,” he said, chewing vigorously. “Very good indeed-just like I had in the Tyrol last summer.”

Liebermann sipped his schwarzer and drummed a five-finger exercise on the edge of the table.

“Well?” said Rheinhardt, finally.

“I'm thinking,” said Liebermann.

“My dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt, “I had already guessed that you weren't counting streetcars. Perhaps you would be so kind as to share your thoughts?”

Liebermann sighed and looked toward his friend. “I am deeply troubled by Herr Krull's appearance.”

“Indeed. When I saw him for the first time, I thought to myself, Here is a face that proves Lombroso's theories. I know you do not hold with Lombroso, Max, but the man looks like-forgive my incivility- an ape. I once saw an illustration showing an artist's impression of the creature from which Homo sapiens is said to have evolved. It could have been Krull's brother.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Liebermann said. “We see his face and are prejudiced immediately. Moreover, the brute does little to dissuade us otherwise. His manners and toilet are appalling. Did you see his fingernails?” Liebermann gave a mock, theatrical shudder. “Yet,” he continued, “that is precisely why one must be cautious.”

Rheinhardt stopped eating his strauben and placed the fork down on his plate. “With respect, Max,” he said slowly, “I'm not altogether sure what you mean.”

Liebermann steepled his fingers. “It is all too easy to see how a pathetic figure like Krull might come to commit an atrocity: lonely, impoverished, and disappointed, a man rejected by his peers-and by women-because of his misbegotten appearance. Embittered, he angrily rejects society and embraces God, becoming the hapless acolyte of a fanatical priest. He preys on prostitutes, his violent feelings vindicated by a religion that urges him to eradicate corruption from the world. He is well equipped for such a mission, his sensibilities having been blunted by the daily slaughter of animals. Each murder is dedicated to his redeemer during a private ceremony-a trophy having been removed from the corpse and laid among votive candles.”

Rheinhardt leaned forward, the skin around his eyes growing hatched with lines of interest. Liebermann allowed his hands to open.

“Now imagine, if you will, the following: into this dark, desolate, cold existence comes a vision of compassion. He encounters a woman, Ludka, who is beautiful and bestows on him an act of kindness. It is a rare and exquisite pleasure. Her smile is like vernal sunlight. Our man is torn. He knows that Ludka is a prostitute-an anathema-but for the first time in years the balm of pity has been applied to his psychic wounds. He is deeply disturbed: vacillates, ruminates, procrastinates, and attempts to anesthetize his pain with drink. Eventually he finds a way to resolve the dreadful conflict, and the psychological defense of rationalization comes into play. He will liberate the poor child from earthly suffering and deliver her to the gates of heaven. He will, in effect, save her from a life of sin. When he dispatches Madam Borek and the other two women, his anger is undiluted. He kills them without mercy and mutilates their bodies. Ludka, however, he cannot profane… Her act of kindness sticks in his soul. Her handkerchief will never be far from his heart.”

“And what was the trophy, this time? The bodies were mutilated, but none of the body parts were missing.”

“Blood,” said Liebermann. “He took their blood. Conveniently absorbed into the clothes in his wardrobe.”

Liebermann drained his coffee cup.

“Good heavens! It all fits,” cried Rheinhardt, suddenly scooping the honey-colored remains of the tiroler strauben into his mouth.

“Indeed,” continued Liebermann, “such a man might even consecrate his dreadful act by sanctifying the brothel with a cross.”

Rheinhardt clapped his hands together. “Yes, of course, that too, that too! It all fits!” However, his excitement could not be sustained in view of the young doctor's sour expression. “Whatever is the matter, Max?”

“It's too obvious. Krull is the… ideal suspect: a perfect example of Lombroso's L'uomo delinquente, whose personal history and psychological conflicts seamlessly correspond with the crime.”

Rheinhardt leaned back in his chair and pushed his plate aside. “And what, in God's name, is wrong with that?”

Liebermann shrugged. “Of course, all my theorizing would amount to nothing if we were to discover that Krull had told us the truth about those stains-if the blood isn't human.”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “But how on earth could we establish that? Blood is blood-isn't it?”

“Not exactly.”

“There is a test?”

“I am not familiar with one-but we both know someone who might be.”

“We do?”

“Yes. Miss Lydgate.”

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “The Englishwoman… I did not realize that you were still in contact with her.”

“She is now conducting research into diseases of the blood with Landsteiner-at the Pathological Institute,” Liebermann continued. “If any procedure exists that can distinguish animal blood from human blood, I can assure you that she will know about it.”