Hoffner picked up the can of dye and walked it back to the shelf. “I don’t know. When you start looking for them?”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Really,” said Hoffner. “It wasn’t meant to be.” He waited, then laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, Hans. It’ll come. The question is”-he moved back to the table-“does it help us? We now know how they’re different. We still don’t know why.”
“So maybe I was right. Maybe he panicked. He was in a rush.”
“And he decided to cut up his latest victim in a way he’s never done before? Does that make any sense to you?” Catching Fichte in mid-breath, Hoffner added, “Think before you answer, Hans.” Fichte waited, then shook his head slowly. “So, what’s the most obvious answer? Two different strokes, so-”
Fichte needed another few seconds. “Two different men?” he said, completely unsure of himself.
“Exactly. A second carver.” Hoffner took a cloth and began to wipe off the brush. “And suddenly our world is far less simple.”
Fichte started to say something but stopped. He looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I’d describe what we’ve been working with so far as ‘simple.’”
“Maybe,” said Hoffner as he finished with the brush and headed for the shelf. “But remember, simple isn’t always the most helpful of things. It’s plain, fixed, consistent.” Hoffner was at the tray, ordering the brushes by size. “Look at us. It’s been simple for the past six weeks, and we’re still finding bodies.”
Fichte was not convinced. “So going from one madman with four anonymous victims to multiple killers with a victim whom everybody knows-not to mention another one who’s been preserved for six weeks-makes our lives better?”
“Better, worse, that’s not the point.” Hoffner put the finishing touches on the brushes. “It gives us more to play with, highlights the deviation. And that”-he made his way back to the table-“is always to our advantage.” He pulled the sheet over Rosa and took off his gloves. “Something to think about. Yes?” Hoffner moved to the sink and began to rinse his hands. He had trouble remembering whether this was the third or fourth time he had tried impressing this point on Fichte. No matter. Someday it would stick. “And progress always deserves a drink.” He brought his hands to a full lather. “How about it, Hans? Have we spent enough time with the ladies for one day?”
Fichte was still mulling over the impromptu lesson. “Shouldn’t we bring the KD up to speed?” he said.
“Hans”-Hoffner rinsed off the last of the soap, trying not to sound too dismissive-“the Herr Kriminaldirektor has been home for the past hour, sitting in front of a nice fire with a far better brandy than you or I will ever drink. He knows these ladies will be here tomorrow. He knows we’ll be here tomorrow. His only concern is that we don’t find any more of them to play with.” Hoffner shook out his hands, turned off the tap, and took a towel. “Unless you want me to drink alone?”
Fichte hesitated. “Well, no,” he said. He moved to the far table and covered up victim number five. “It’s just”-he began to take off his gloves-“I was meeting someone, and-” Fichte struggled to finish the thought.
“Ah,” said Hoffner, saving him the trouble: the prospect of facing dinner at home without something of a distraction beforehand was far more deflating than Fichte’s awkward brush-off. “A different kind of deviation.” The joke was lost on Fichte. “Never mind,” said Hoffner. “Another time.” He pressed a small white button by the sink, and a bell rang beyond the doors to inform the orderlies that the bodies were ready for the ice room.
“No.” Fichte was suddenly more animated. “You should come. I’d like you to come.” Still more steam. “Yes, come. Lina’s even asked about you.”
“Lina,” said Hoffner.
“A friend. A girl.”
“Oh, a girl,” said Hoffner, stating the obvious. He tossed the towel onto the counter. “Then I should definitely not come.”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that,” said Fichte, even more insistent. “Well, I mean it is like that, but it’ll be for a drink. One drink. We can talk about working together. You know.”
“‘Working together,’” Hoffner echoed.
“As detectives.”
“Right,” said Hoffner, more skeptically. “I can tell her what a fine partner you are, the great work you’re doing.”
“Exactly,” said Fichte. “We’ll have some fun.” He continued to gain momentum. “She’s great, my Lina. No. You have to come now. She won’t forgive me if I show up without you.”
“I see.” Hoffner stepped aside. He sat against the counter, arms crossed at his chest, as Fichte started in at the sink. “How can I deprive your Lina of my remarkable company?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
Hoffner watched as Fichte sniffed at his lathered hands. There was something reassuring about this particular fixation of his. Fichte completed his inspection and, finding nothing, rinsed off.
“So,” asked Hoffner, “how long has she been selling flowers along Friedrichstrasse?”
“About three months,” said Fichte offhandedly. He then looked over at Hoffner in complete surprise. “How did you know that?”
Hoffner smiled. “I was also once a twenty-three-year-old Kriminal-Assistent, Hans. Mine was called Celia.”
Fichte shook his head as he turned off the tap and picked up the towel. “No, my Lina’s a nice girl.”
For several seconds, Hoffner stared down at the floor, trying to recall his Celia. He could almost see her, the long, slim frame, the wirelike fingers, the small breasts, all of it, except for the face. He tried to find it-bad skin, pretty-but no, only a vague outline: an endless array of thieves and murderers clear as day, but no Celia. “A nice girl,” he said, still distant. He looked at Fichte. “And what makes you think mine wasn’t?”
Fichte saw the change in Hoffner’s expression. He stopped drying his hands. “. . I didn’t mean-”
Instantly, Hoffner started to laugh. “Well, you’re right. She wasn’t.” When Fichte smiled sheepishly, Hoffner pushed himself up from the counter and said, “All right, one drink, Hans. But anything to impress your Lina will cost you extra.”
Ten minutes later, after having retrieved his coat and having jotted down a few notes, Hoffner joined Fichte out on the square. The rain was misting in tiny drops of water visible only as haloes around the street lamps.
Fichte was enjoying a cigarette; he offered Hoffner a drag, but the smell of the smoke was enough to put anyone off a tasting. Fichte had a girclass="underline" he needed to save his pfennigs. Hoffner had always reasoned that the cheaper the tobacco, the greater the capital required to grease the way. From the expression on Fichte’s face each time he inhaled, few came more chaste than little Lina.
There was no reason to ask where they were heading. If Fichte was playing it well-and from the tobacco, he clearly was-he would have progressed to old Josty’s in Leipziger Strasse by now, over in the west, a step up: the cafe was fancy enough so that the girl would feel Fichte was showing her the proper respect, lively enough to know that respect wasn’t really what he was after. Fichte had probably asked one of the boys at headquarters where to take her, someone reliable. Hoffner felt a bit tweaked that Fichte had gone elsewhere for the advice.
“She’s quite popular, is she?” said Fichte as they continued to walk. Hoffner had no idea what Fichte was saying. “Or at least she was.”
“Was what?” said Hoffner. “Who?”
“At the lab. Luxemburg. She was popular.”
“Ah, Luxemburg. I suppose that depends on who you are.” Hoffner pulled up the collar of his coat. “You fancy yourself a Red, then?”
Fichte laughed awkwardly. “Certainly not.”
“So you’re more for the oppression of the masses. The inscrutable certainty of capitalism.”
“The what?” said Fichte.
Hoffner smiled quietly. “Yes. She was popular, Hans.”
Fichte nodded and then said cautiously, “You’re. . 0A0; not a Red, are you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?”