Rosa (33 page)

Someone had given Wouters a home, the only one capable of making him feel safe: sculpted in the perfect image of his own twisted mind.

Hoffner was suddenly struck by the word. This
was
perfect. This was Wouters’s ideal.
Of course.
Another piece of the puzzle flashed into focus.

Hoffner found himself running back to the cavern, back through the opening, back to the outline of Mary Koop’s body. He stepped inside the small ridges and drove the pick into a wooden beam above his head. The torch glowed freely as he pulled his notebook and pen from his coat pocket and began to sketch the diameter-cut, one last time. The lines danced on the page from the light, but it was there. He drew an X for the spot in which he was now standing, and stared down at the page.

The “optimal point of origin.” He had found it. Mary Koop was his starting point. All he needed, now, was to understand the design’s flow, and he would have Paul Wouters.

H
offner missed the call by five minutes.

“He told you nothing?” he said as he pulled Wouters’s original sketches from the filing cabinet. He was moving quickly. He needed to see Kepner.

“Nothing,” said Sascha.

Fichte said, “The boy was remarkably convincing.” They were both caught up in Hoffner’s impatience.

“Good.” Hoffner placed the sheets in his coat pocket and pointed to Fichte. “You and I have a man to see.” He then pointed to Sascha. “And you need to get home.” He saw the disappointment in Sascha’s eyes. “I know, but even I can’t stretch the rules that far.” It was all he needed to say.

Out on the Alex, they found a taxi for Sascha, then one for themselves. Hoffner ran through an abbreviated version of the afternoon’s events on the ride out. Any theories he might have come up with about the directors from Ganz-Neurath, or the reappearance of the second carver, or even the design of the Rosenthaler station, he kept to himself. Hoffner knew that Fichte would have had trouble processing the information. He was having trouble with it himself. Best, then, to concentrate on Wouters, for both of them.

Kepner showed no surprise when the two Kripomen appeared at his door: the brevity of the telephone conversation had told him to expect visitors. He brought them into his sitting room, where Herr Brenner was already waiting. Hoffner noticed several pages of sketches laid out across the coffee table. Kepner had worked quickly.

“The three on the far left,” said Kepner. Hoffner was already scanning the sheets. Kepner told the men to sit. “I believe those are what you are looking for.”

Fichte spoke up as Hoffner reached for the pages: “Perhaps Herr Brenner would care to wait in another room?”

Hoffner had to stifle the urge to upbraid Fichte in front of the two men. He took the sheets. “My apologies for my
Assistent,
Herr Kepner. He is—overly cautious.”

Kepner waved Hoffner off. “Better that than the other, Herr
Kommissar.
”

Out of nowhere, Fichte rose to his feet. He snapped his head in a bow. “My apologies, Herr Brenner.”

Hoffner thought the gesture a bit extravagant, but he knew it would keep Fichte quiet for the rest of the interview. Brenner nodded quietly.

“It’s a Bruges design,” said Kepner. “I have yet to determine an optimal point of origin—” He stopped himself. “You understand what I mean by this?”

“Yes,
mein Herr.
The starting point.”

“Exactly. These are only rough sketches. Anything more detailed will take more time.”

It was odd, seeing the design drawn with such precision: a woman’s flesh created its own imperfections; Hoffner’s rendering had been “crude” by Kepner’s estimation. This, however, showed the true artistry and intricacy of the pattern. Lines and turns Hoffner had never imagined filled the little sketches. He wondered if, perhaps in his haste, he had missed the design in one of Wouters’s pages. It hardly mattered now; he was about to show Kepner where to find his optimal point of origin.

“What if you were to start here,
mein Herr
?” Hoffner placed the sheet on the table and pointed to the spot that approximated the point where Mary Koop’s body had been found.

Kepner pulled out his glasses and leaned forward. He had not been anticipating suggestions from the Kripo. Fichte seemed equally surprised. “From where?” said Kepner. Hoffner kept his finger on the sheet as he turned it toward Kepner. Kepner gazed down with an uncertain stare until his eyes began to move through the sketch. “All right,” he said absently. Without looking up, he pulled a short pencil from his pocket and, very slowly, began to create another replica, another possible route for the design. He continued to glance back at the other drawings he had made, along with a list of calculations he had written out on a separate page. “Is this a guess, Herr Inspector?” he said as he continued to draw.

“An educated one,
mein Herr.
”

“Yes, I imagine it would be.” Kepner hummed in a monotone as he went back and forth between drawings and figures.

Progress was slow going—Kepner kept at it for nearly twenty minutes—as Hoffner began to see what he needed. If Mary Koop had been the optimal point of origin in the station design, then the Rosenthaler Platz—Wouters’s home—had to be the origin in the city design. What else could it be? It was the one site that Wouters had meant to keep pure, or at least beyond the reach of death. The preserving grease had said as much. That was why it was the deviation; and that was why it held the key.

Hoffner tried to reconstruct the path of Wouters’s victims in his head, taking Rosenthaler Platz as his starting point: southeast to Mnz Strasse, due west to Oranienburger, northeast to Prenzlauer, west to Blowplatz, and finally north to Senefelderplatz. All the while, he continued to watch Kepner. With each turn of the pencil, Kepner was following the identical shifts in direction. Hoffner rarely let himself give in to moments like these. Now his heart began to accelerate as Kepner drew closer and closer to the sixth knot.

“There,” said Hoffner.

Kepner looked up, unsure why he was being asked to stop. “It’s hardly finished, Herr Inspector.”

“That was your sixth knot?”

Kepner went back and counted. “The sixth that required a direction change. Yes.”

Hoffner stared across at the design. “Southeast,” he said to himself.

“Excuse me, Herr Inspector?”

Hoffner refocused. “Nothing,
mein Herr.
”

“‘Nothing,’” Kepner echoed cautiously. “And this is what you needed?”

Hoffner thought for a moment. If Wouters—and not the second carver—was consistent, he would be depositing his next victim sometime in the next three or four days. There was little chance that a body was already waiting for them at that sixth knot. Even so, Hoffner had no intention of making a return trip to Charlottenburg. He told Kepner to continue.

When Kepner began to make the turn away from the eighth knot, Hoffner stopped him again. “There. That’s fine,
mein Herr.
”

Kepner glanced up. “You’re sure this time?” Hoffner nodded. “Good.” Kepner dropped the pencil and sat back. He removed his glasses and rubbed two fingers on the bridge of his nose.

Hoffner picked up the pencil. “May I?” he said. Kepner looked over; he was still blinking the strain from his eyes. He nodded indifferently.

Hoffner took a clean sheet and began to sketch Kepner’s design, but on a much larger scale: large enough to conform to the map that was hanging back on his office wall. Hoffner finished and slid the drawing across the table. Kepner had been watching him. He now leaned in to take a closer look.

“The dimensions are still accurate?” said Hoffner.

Kepner continued to examine the sheet: “As I said, Inspector, these drawings are rough. I would need other tools to make a perfectly accurate rendering, but this, I suspect, is as close as any I’ve constructed.” He slid the sheet back to Hoffner. “I doubt this mesh would ever be configured on such a large scale, but then again, I doubt many Kripo officers would be as consumed by lace as you are.” Kepner raised a hand to stop Hoffner from answering. “I don’t want to know the details, Herr Inspector. I’m tired, that’s all.”

Herr Brenner stood. “You have everything you need?” Brenner might have been a cold fish, but he was a cold fish devoted to his father-in-law.

“Yes,
mein Herr.
” Hoffner began to shuffle the papers together. “May I take these?” He continued to stack them.

“You
are
taking them, Inspector,” said Kepner with the hint of a smile. He had sunk back comfortably into his chair. “What would I do with them, anyway? Just make sure you catch him before he comes too far west, that’s all.” Hoffner stopped in mid-shuffle. Kepner enjoyed Hoffner’s momentary surprise. “There’s no stricture about
reading
before sundown, Inspector.”

Kepner had known exactly what he was doing, all along. He had simply managed to feel safer not knowing the details.

“I’ll try,
mein Herr.
”

“Good,” said Kepner. “There is one favor I have to ask of you.”

Hoffner finished stacking. “Of course,
mein Herr.
”

“This aspect of your case. The lace. I’m hoping it can remain out of your reports. Lace, you see, is primarily         .         .         .” Kepner hesitated. “That is to say, the quality of this particular lace—”

“Lace is a Jewish concern, Inspector,” Brenner cut in bluntly. “In Berlin, trade and production of this type are run primarily by Jews.”

“I see,” said Hoffner.

Kepner deferred to his son-in-law. Brenner continued: “If it should get out, if the newspapers should decide to print that we were in any way associated with this case—that this man was using our designs as some kind of inspiration for his madness—you understand our concern.”

Fichte piped in, “A loss of business,
mein Herr
?”

The room fell silent. Brenner had long ago learned to swallow his rage. When he answered, he spoke quietly, deliberately. “No, Herr Detective. Another excuse to blame the Jews. Not that the revolution hasn’t delivered on that front.”

Before Fichte could open his mouth again, Hoffner said, “Of course,
mein Herr.
” He stood, the pages in hand. “None of this needs to come out. The reading public never goes in much for the details, anyway. You have my word.”

Brenner remained silent. He glanced at Kepner. The older man nodded. Brenner then turned back to Hoffner. “I’ll show you out.”

F
orty minutes later, Hoffner stood in his office, slowly penciling the last lines of the design onto the map. He made sure that the lengths of each of the segments conformed to the basic proportions of Kepner’s original, but it was clear even before he had made it halfway to the sixth knot where Wouters would be bringing his next victim. Hoffner stared at the spot. Somehow he had known all along.

The
Ochsenhof.

What could be better, he thought. Two city blocks filled with the worst human refuse that Berlin had to offer. Murder was routine in the “cattle yard,” not that Wouters could have known that. The man was simply following his design. That it was now leading him to a place that, in essence, lay beyond the reach of the Kripo was simply his good fortune.

Hoffner stared a moment longer, then began to remove the pins.

Fichte said, “How did you know where to tell Kepner to start?”

Hoffner continued with the pins. “That’s an excellent question, Hans.” Hoffner went to work on the tacks that were holding the map to the wall. “Give me a hand here.” Fichte stepped over and the two brought the map to the desk. Very delicately, Hoffner began to fold it.

Fichte said, “We don’t need the map anymore?”

Hoffner concentrated on the folds. “We don’t need anyone else seeing what’s been written on it.”

Fichte understood. “So how did you know?” he said.

Hoffner made the final crease. “The cavern inside the Rosenthaler station,” he said. He felt strange placing the map inside the filing cabinet rather than in a folder for the archive clerk. Maps came down only when cases were complete. This case, however, was changing the rules as it went.

“What about it?” said Fichte.

Hoffner locked the drawer. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss it. Right now, I need ten minutes. Then meet me downstairs, and bring whatever’s going to keep you the driest.”

A LAST STROKE OF THE KNIFE