Vienna Blood

4

The desk was covered with papers and official forms. On one side sat Rheinhardt and, on the other, Haussmann. Although it was only early in the afternoon, the light was already failing.

“You couldn't get a cast?”

“No, sir.”

“Strange… The soil was quite soft.”

“He obviously trod on the stones, sir.”

“But when he was arranging the snake's body parts, he must have stood in the soil at the water's edge.”

Rheinhardt examined a close-up photograph of the dead anaconda.

“The only impressions I found were those of the director and the two keepers; however, these marks here…” Haussmann pointed to a curving ridge close to the snake's head. “They suggest that the perpetrator may have tampered with the soil.”

“He erased his tracks?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rheinhardt turned one of the sharp points of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Which, if true, implies that our villain is familiar with our new detection methods.”

Haussmann nodded.

The ensuing silence became prolonged as the two men puzzled over the evidence.

“Sir?”

Rheinhardt looked up.

“Did Herr Arnoldt's memory return?”

“No. I interviewed him at the zoo and paid him a visit yesterday evening, but he had nothing new to add. The doctor still thinks there's a possibility something might surface, given time. But I'm not optimistic.”

Icy flakes had begun to settle on the windowpanes.

“It's started snowing,” Haussmann said softly.

Rheinhardt turned and glanced at the taupe-and-ash sky before confirming Haussmann's observation with a staccato grunt. Conscious of the fact that he may have seemed less than fully attentive, the assistant detective asked his superior a question. “Do you think there was a motive, sir? Or is this just the handiwork of a madman?”

“The latter, I imagine.”

“Then perhaps we should consult your friend Doctor Liebermann?”

“Indeed. It's certainly odd enough to arouse his curiosity.”

Rheinhardt cleared a space on his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a form, which he placed in front of him. Smoothing the paper with the palm of his hand, he sighed and said, “Well, Haussmann, I now have the unenviable task of writing my preliminary report. You will excuse me.”

Haussmann stood. As he did so, the telephone rang. Rheinhardt answered and identified himself, but said little as the attenuated voice of the caller crackled in the earpiece. The inspector's expression changed from disgruntlement to concern, and then to shock.

“Good God!” he whispered.

Haussmann sat down again.

Rheinhardt reached for his pen and scrawled an address on the report sheet.

“I'll leave immediately,” he said, and replaced the phone's receiver.

He did not, however, get up. Instead, he stared at the address, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Sir?”

Rheinhardt stirred, and looked across the desk at his assistant.

“Haussmann, something terrible has happened in Spittelberg.” His voice was tight with suppressed emotion.

“A murder?”

“No,” said Rheinhardt. “A massacre.”