here, isn’t it? I always liked this place. Used to come here a lot, I did. On account of the fact that my brother is buried over there.” He nodded south, in the direction of the state hospital. “With the revolutionaries of 1848.”
“I didn’t know you were that old,” I said.
Tanker grinned. “No, he got shot by the Freikorps, in December 1918. Proper lefty, so he was. A real troublemaker. But he didn’t deserve that. Not after what he went through in the trenches. Reds or not, none of them deserved to be shot for what happened.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said, nodding at Heinrich Grund. “Tell him.”
“He knows what I think,” said Tanker. He looked down at the girl’s body. “What was wrong with her leg, then?”
“Hardly matters now,” observed Grund.
“She might have had polio,” I said. “Or else she was a spastic.”
“You wouldn’t have thought they’d have let her out on her own, would you?” said Grund.
“She was crippled.” I bent down and went through the pockets of her coat. I came up with a roll of cash, wrapped in a rubber band. It was as thick as the handle of a tennis racket. I tossed it to Grund. “Plenty of disabled people manage perfectly well on their own. Even the kids.”
“Must be several hundred marks here,” he muttered. “Where does a kid like this get money like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had to manage,” Tanker was saying. “The number of maimed and injured we had after the war. I used to have the beat next to the Charité Hospital. Got quite friendly with some of the lads who were there. A lot of them managed with no legs, or no arms.”
“It’s one thing being crippled for something that happened fighting for the Fatherland,” said Grund, tossing the roll of cash in his hand. “It’s something else when you’re born with it.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” I asked.
“Meaning that life’s difficult enough when you’re a parent without having to look after a disabled child.”
“Maybe they didn’t mind looking after her. Not if they loved her.”
“If you ask me, if she was a spastic she’s better off out of it,” said Grund. “Germany’s better off in general with fewer cripples around.” He caught the look in my eye. “No, really. It’s a simple matter of racial purity. We have to protect our stock.”
“I can think of one cripple we’d all be better off without,” I said.
Tanker laughed and walked away.
“Anyway, it’s only a caliper,” I said. “Lots of kids have calipers.”
“Maybe,” said Grund. He threw the money back. “But it’s not every kid that’s carrying several hundred marks.”
“Right. We’d better have a look around, before the site gets trampled over. See what we can find on our hands and knees with the flashlights.”
I dropped onto all fours and slowly crawled away from the body in the direction of Königs-Thor. Heinrich Grund did the same, a yard or two to my left. The night was warm, and the grass felt dry and smelled sweet under my hands. It was something we had done before. Something Ernst Gennat was keen on. Something that was in the manual he’d given us. How it was small things that solved murders: bullet casings, blood spots, collar buttons, cigarette ends, matchbooks, earrings, hanks of hair, party badges. Things that were large and easy to see were usually carried away from a crime scene. But the small stuff. That was different. It was the small stuff that could send a man to the guillotine. Nobody called them clues. Gennat hated that word.
“Clues are for the clueless,” was what the Full Ernst would tell us. “That’s not what I want from my detectives. Give me little spots of color on a canvas. Like that Frenchie who used to paint in little dots. Georges Seurat. Each dot means shit on its own. But when you take a few steps back and look at all of the dots together, you see a picture. That’s what I want you bastards to do. Learn how to paint me a picture like
“I didn’t know you were that old,” I said.
Tanker grinned. “No, he got shot by the Freikorps, in December 1918. Proper lefty, so he was. A real troublemaker. But he didn’t deserve that. Not after what he went through in the trenches. Reds or not, none of them deserved to be shot for what happened.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said, nodding at Heinrich Grund. “Tell him.”
“He knows what I think,” said Tanker. He looked down at the girl’s body. “What was wrong with her leg, then?”
“Hardly matters now,” observed Grund.
“She might have had polio,” I said. “Or else she was a spastic.”
“You wouldn’t have thought they’d have let her out on her own, would you?” said Grund.
“She was crippled.” I bent down and went through the pockets of her coat. I came up with a roll of cash, wrapped in a rubber band. It was as thick as the handle of a tennis racket. I tossed it to Grund. “Plenty of disabled people manage perfectly well on their own. Even the kids.”
“Must be several hundred marks here,” he muttered. “Where does a kid like this get money like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had to manage,” Tanker was saying. “The number of maimed and injured we had after the war. I used to have the beat next to the Charité Hospital. Got quite friendly with some of the lads who were there. A lot of them managed with no legs, or no arms.”
“It’s one thing being crippled for something that happened fighting for the Fatherland,” said Grund, tossing the roll of cash in his hand. “It’s something else when you’re born with it.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” I asked.
“Meaning that life’s difficult enough when you’re a parent without having to look after a disabled child.”
“Maybe they didn’t mind looking after her. Not if they loved her.”
“If you ask me, if she was a spastic she’s better off out of it,” said Grund. “Germany’s better off in general with fewer cripples around.” He caught the look in my eye. “No, really. It’s a simple matter of racial purity. We have to protect our stock.”
“I can think of one cripple we’d all be better off without,” I said.
Tanker laughed and walked away.
“Anyway, it’s only a caliper,” I said. “Lots of kids have calipers.”
“Maybe,” said Grund. He threw the money back. “But it’s not every kid that’s carrying several hundred marks.”
“Right. We’d better have a look around, before the site gets trampled over. See what we can find on our hands and knees with the flashlights.”
I dropped onto all fours and slowly crawled away from the body in the direction of Königs-Thor. Heinrich Grund did the same, a yard or two to my left. The night was warm, and the grass felt dry and smelled sweet under my hands. It was something we had done before. Something Ernst Gennat was keen on. Something that was in the manual he’d given us. How it was small things that solved murders: bullet casings, blood spots, collar buttons, cigarette ends, matchbooks, earrings, hanks of hair, party badges. Things that were large and easy to see were usually carried away from a crime scene. But the small stuff. That was different. It was the small stuff that could send a man to the guillotine. Nobody called them clues. Gennat hated that word.
“Clues are for the clueless,” was what the Full Ernst would tell us. “That’s not what I want from my detectives. Give me little spots of color on a canvas. Like that Frenchie who used to paint in little dots. Georges Seurat. Each dot means shit on its own. But when you take a few steps back and look at all of the dots together, you see a picture. That’s what I want you bastards to do. Learn how to paint me a picture like
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