Rosa

He angled his head toward the bit of mirror that was visible through the bookcase. “We’ll need to lock everything in the filing cabinet.” Hoffner ran a hand over his face. His beard was a bit rough. Made him look diligent, he thought. That was all right.

“Pack it up?” said Fichte. “Why? What did the boy want?”

Hoffner checked his teeth. “This should take about twenty minutes.” He smoothed back his hair. “That’s when they usually run out of questions.” He straightened his collar. “Or at least get tired of hearing the same answers.”

“Who? Who gets tired?”

Hoffner pointed to piles on the floor. “The papers, Hans.”

The Press Room was just off the front atrium. Prager had set it up during the last weeks of the war, when the flow of reporters into the Alex had gone from a trickle to a torrent. It had all started when the General Staff-unwilling to admit just how badly things were going-decided, in its infinite wisdom, to cease any further release of information: the less people knew, the better off they were. Newspapermen, however, never saw it that way: they had turned to the Kripo as their only alternative. Not that any of the detectives had known what was going on outside of Berlin, but there was always something nice and official about quotes that cited “Kripo sources.” Naturally, once the revolution kicked in-making for genuine news-the Press Room had become the single most important office in the city. Even the General Staff had been known to send over a junior officer incognito, now and then, for a little information.

It was all very busy and very infuriating, and Prager had reasoned that it was safer to herd the newsmen into a confined space than to have them roaming about the building on their own. The rules were simple: they could come and go as they pleased, as long as they waited patiently in the office for someone to come and get them. More often than not, that wait stretched on for hours. Interest invariably lost out to impatience: the longer they were made to sit, the less frequently they appeared. By all accounts-now that the National Assembly elections had restored a bit of order-the flow had returned to a manageable drip. Then again, the fact that a battle had been waged inside the Alex walls just over a week ago might also have had something to do with it.

Hoffner recognized most of the eleven faces in the room, although the men’s clothes were probably a better indication of which papers had sent them. Those still in long woolen overcoats had come from the likes of the Lokalanzeiger or the Morgenpost or the Volkszeitung, men with no time to waste: people were waiting for their copy. Removing a coat could send the wrong message. They paced defiantly at the back of the room. Others had been sent by the 8-Uhr Abendblatt or the Nacht-Ausgabe, Mosse’s and Sherl’s knockoffs of the BZ. For years the two papers had been trying to compete with Ullstein’s gold mine, but neither had ever won the kind of following that the BZ continued to enjoy. The wrinkled suits and brown socks of these staff writers were proof enough of their second-class status. Sadly, these were men who were always getting scooped by Gottlob Kvatsch. For them, an appearance at the Alex was a kind of humiliation: they had missed it again. They stood off to the side, careful not to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. The final group was made up of men who looked more like stockbrokers than journalists. They were all very well put together-creases and all-and worked for papers such as the Vossische Zeitung or the Berliner Tageblatt. These were men who reported to the cultural elite, to the Westend highbrows. They sat aloof in the few chairs that were scattered about the room. Chances were, they would see the story for what it was: a bit of tabloid fodder. That, however, would not stop them from publishing it.

“Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he continued to the rostrum at the front of the room. Those who were sitting stood. The rest bunched up across from him. “I’m Detective Inspector Hoffner-two effs. I understand you have questions about an article that appeared in this morning’s BZ.”

For exactly twenty-two minutes the men asked and Hoffner answered. Fichte stood at the back of the room, marveling at the effortlessness with which Hoffner deflected even the most detailed of questions. It was clear that his Kriminal-Kommissar understood the essential rule of the press conference: that journalists in crowds are never as effective as when alone, probably another reason why Prager had set up the room in the first place. In this game of cat and mouse, each of the men had to be careful not to ask anything too leading lest one of his rivals learn more from the question than from the answer. Hoffner was playing them off each other to perfection. They learned that there were victims-four or five, the number was unclear just yet. That there was knife work-again, there was too little of it to make it a signature piece of the case. And that, thus far, the victims were women-old, young, there was nothing to specify at this point.

Frustrated by the vagueness of the answers, one of the woolen overcoats finally broke down and asked about the locations of the murder sites. He had heard that the women were being killed in one place before being brought to the various sites. Was there any truth to that?

Hoffner had anticipated the question. He was about to answer when a single “Yes” came from the doorway. Everyone, including Hoffner, turned to see Oberkommissar Braun enter the room.

“That is, in fact, true,” continued Braun as he moved to Hoffner at the rostrum.

Hoffner did everything he could to keep from biting through his tongue. He sensed an immediate shift in the level of interest in the room. Nonetheless, he turned back to the men as if he had been expecting Braun all along. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is Chief Inspector Braun. He is also involved with the case.” Hoffner looked at Braun. “So glad you could take the time out for us, Chief Inspector.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hoffner noticed that Fichte had been joined by Kommissar Walther Hermannsohn.

Braun said, “The Polpo always has time for the truth, Herr Inspector.”

A second bombshell landed as the men’s interest gave way to tension. None of them had considered the possibility of Polpo involvement. Braun was working his magic.

The frustrated overcoat decided to push his luck: “The Polpo?” he said. “Are we to take it, then, that this is a political case, Herr Chief Inspector?”

Braun offered a cold smile. “In the aftermath of revolution, everything has a political side, mein Herr.” To a man, the pens started moving briskly across the pads. Braun continued, “One can never be too careful, especially with a maniac on the loose.”

The pens stopped. No one had mentioned the word “maniac.” Even Kvatsch had managed to keep it to just this side of lurid.

“You say a maniac,” piped in one of the stockbrokers, all traces of indifference now gone. “Can we assume he has designs on the entire city?”

Hoffner cut in quickly: “As of now, everything is localized. Let me say, gentlemen, that there has still been no clear evidence of any transporting of victims, despite any information the Chief Inspector might, or might not, have seen.” Hoffner lied, but he needed to do something to muddy Braun’s performance.

The stockbroker continued, “But there is at least one occurrence of a victim being moved to a separate site? Is that true, Inspector?”

Hoffner waited for Braun to step in, but Braun said nothing: like the men in the room, he looked to Hoffner. “One case,” said Hoffner coolly. The lie was taking on a life of its own. “But there’s nothing to indicate a pattern.”

“Does that mean that that killing could have taken place anywhere?” the stockbroker pressed.

“As I said,” answered Hoffner, “everything is localized.” And with just a hint of contempt, he added, “No need to worry, mein Herr. Your readers in the west are safe.”

The man was not satisfied. “Is that a promise, Herr Inspector?”

Hoffner was getting tired of this. He was also unsure how much longer he could stand next to the conveniently quiet Oberkommissar Braun without driving something sharp into the man’s chest. “He’ll be in our custody long before he figures out what’s beyond the Tiergarten.”

“And for those of us in the east,” cut in one of the brown socks, “it wasn’t so pressing?” The man had a point. “A maniac in Charlottenburg is reason to step things up, but a killer in the Mitte district was acceptable? Are our readers less important to the Kripo, Herr Inspector?”

Hoffner sensed how much Braun was enjoying this. “Of course not.” Hoffner knew he had to end this, now. “We’re in the process of following several very positive leads that should have this man off the streets before he has a chance to do any more harm, in any district of the city.”

A man at the back spoke up. Hoffner had not seen him until now. His clothes were out of keeping with the