“That’s what I thought. Perhaps I should go to the Prater this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry?”
“To interview the strongmen.”
The sound of a barrel organ: gentlemen in white body stockings and black trunks, tensing their arms to make their biceps bulge.
Liebermann couldn’t imagine one of those vain, posturing clowns grasping the monk’s head and ripping it from his shoulders.
“Oskar,” said Liebermann. “Do you realize how much force is required to pull someone’s head off?”
“Considerable force, obviously.”
“Even with a horse-and some means of holding the body still-it would still be difficult.”
“Then it was several men?”
“Perhaps…”
“How many?”
“Two or three heavy fellows sitting on the body, and a third and fourth to turn the head… but it would still have taken a while.”
“How long?”
“It’s difficult to say. But however long it might have taken, they don’t seem to have been terribly concerned about being caught! They performed their heinous act under the gas lamp! Observe the pattern created by the flow of blood.” The young doctor re-created the outpouring in the air with his hands. “Look at those splashes, which show us how the head rolled away from the body. Brother Stanislav was almost certainly decapitated as he lay on the ground in the very position we currently find him; however, he might not have been conscious when he was killed. His eyes are closed… A man struggling against four or five assailants would almost certainly have had his eyes wide open when the spinal cord was severed.”
“Couldn’t the murderers have closed his eyes after the head was removed?”
“Well, they could. But it would be a strange thing to do, don’t you think? Closing the eyes of the dead is usually a sign of respect.”
The door of the church was unlatched, and an elderly monk appeared. He saw Rheinhardt and made his way over.
“Father?” said Rheinhardt.
“My son, the children…” He looked exasperated. “Brother Stanislav’s remains must be removed before the school opens. I’m afraid I cannot allow-”
“Our work is almost done,” Rheinhardt interrupted. “It won’t be long now, I promise you.” He turned to Liebermann. “Excuse us.” He then signed for the photographer to continue and steered the old monk back toward the church.
In spite of the presence of so many men it was remarkably quiet. The police team spoke in hushed, reverential tones.
On the other side of the road, facing the church, were some mansion blocks. Liebermann’s view was partially obscured by a monument-a pillar of stone rising out of the concourse and surmounted by a statue of the Virgin Mary. It was as high as an Egyptian obelisk. He went to take a closer look.
At the base of the column were three large figures. The first of these held an open book and possessed an unusually compassionate face: head tilted forward, melancholy eyes, and creases suggesting depth of feeling. The figure wore robes of stone that had been masterfully sculpted into sensuous layers and folds. He or she-for the gender was ambiguous-wore a generous hood, beneath which hair flowed back in delicate waves. Liebermann admired the artistry that had gone into the figure’s hands, which were delicate and beautifully poised. He noticed- with some regret-that one of the fingers had been broken.
Liebermann walked around the column and paused to consider the second figure. It too was hooded, but the hood enveloped a face invested with less sentiment: a long curly beard, staring eyes, and a somewhat vacant expression. Two birds, possibly doves, sat on a featureless slab held in the saint’s left hand.
The third figure, a bearded man with no hood, was more interesting than the second. His gown billowed out, as if caught in a breeze. One of his arms was extended, and his posture suggested that he intended the passerby to look toward something from which he had averted his gaze. He rested a hand on his heart, an attitude that evoked sympathy.
This holy triumvirate was arranged around the pedestal of the column, on which a number of other figures of varying sizes (angels, cherubs, and knights) were mounted. The column itself rose to a great height and was decorated with a spiral motif of disembodied putti; however, their chubby little faces did not look happy. Indeed, the effect was quite sinister. It was as if the stone were sucking them in like quicksand.
On top of the column was a golden globe out of which projected two sharp horns, and on this ball of metal stood the Virgin. A ring of stars circled her head, and her hands were pressed together in prayer.
Liebermann took a step backward to get a better view and trod in what he thought at first was horse manure. He grimaced as he felt his foot sink into it; however, when he looked down, he saw that the cobbles were covered with scattered earth. He had to pick his way through the clods to avoid getting more on his shoes.
Rheinhardt had finished talking to the old monk and was now issuing instructions to the men standing beneath the gas lamp. The photographer lifted the camera off its tripod and placed it on the ground. There then followed a general dispersal. The inspector’s assistant-Haussmann-ran over to the mortuary van and spoke to the driver. The van then turned a full circle in the street before mounting the pavement and rumbling onto the concourse. Some of the constables had to look lively to get out of its way.
“Well,” Rheinhardt called as he approached, “what do you think?”
Liebermann grasped his chin, and tapped his pursed lips with his index finger.
“An anticlerical group?”
“Who?”
Liebermann shrugged.
“Or some former pupils, originally educated by Brother Stanislav, who returned to settle a score? A payback for some cruelty, some violation, perpetrated when they were powerless to retaliate.”
“He was a priest!” said Rheinhardt, balking a little.
Liebermann threw his friend a look of wry amusement. He did not believe that an outward show of piety automatically merited respect.
“One should never underestimate the murderous rage of children. It is fierce, and unfettered by civilizing influences. I can well imagine some cherished infantile fantasy of revenge, shared by a close group of friends, festering, incubating in the unconscious, generating tension over many years-the release of which could then only ever be achieved by the performance of a brutal, cathartic murder. Ritualistic acts often focus and channel the energies of a community. They provide a means of safe discharge. Think, for example, of our funeral services and ceremonies. Appalling and otherwise unmanageable grief is contained by the time-honored practice of vigils, processing, and rites. There is certainly something ritualistic about decapitation. I wonder whether it served some similar purpose.” Liebermann turned and faced the column. “What is this?”
“A plague monument, like the one on the Graben.”
“And who are these figures?”
They began to walk around the pedestal.
“This, I believe, is Saint Anna,” said Rheinhardt, pointing to the androgynous figure with the compassionate face. “Mother of the Virgin. I don’t know who the fellow with the two birds is supposed to be, but this one here”- Rheinhardt nodded at the final statue-“is almost certainly Saint Joseph, husband of the Virgin. Do you want me to find out who the fellow with the birds is?”
Before Liebermann could answer, he slipped on the cobbles. Rheinhardt caught his arm.
“Have you noticed all this mud?” exclaimed the young doctor. “It couldn’t have been carried on people’s shoes. There’s too much of it. Is there a garden close by?”
“Not that I know of.” Rheinhardt squatted down. “They might have arrived in a carriage…” The inspector squeezed some of the mud between his thumb and forefinger. “It could have been stuck to the wheels.”
“In which case there should be wheel tracks. Can you see any?”
Rheinhardt studied the ground.
“Then perhaps it is inconsequential. Someone was carrying pots here earlier-and dropped them.”
