and actual. The experiments had lasted two years and been conducted, among others, by a young Untersturmführer , August Eisler. That night, March and the prosecutor had gone to a bar in Kreuzberg and gotten blind drunk. Next day, neither of them mentioned what had happened. They never spoke to each other again.
"If you expect me to come out with some fancy theory, March, forget it."
"I'd never expect that."
Jaeger laughed. "Nor would I."
Eisler ignored their mirth. "It was a drowning, no question about it. Lungs full of water, so he must have been breathing when he went into the lake."
"No cuts?" asked March. "Bruises?"
"Do you want to come over here and do this job? No?
Then believe me: he drowned. There are no contusions to the head to indicate he was hit or held under."
"A heart attack? Some kind of seizure?"
"Possible," admitted Eisler. Eck handed him a scalpel. "I won't know until I've completed a full examination of the internal organs."
"How long will that take?"
"As long as it takes."
Eisler positioned himself behind Buhler's head. Tenderly, he stroked the hair toward him, off the corpse's forehead, as if soothing a fever. Then he hunched down low and jabbed the scalpel through the left temple. He drew it in an arc across the top of the face, just below the hairline. There was a scrape of metal and bone. Eck grinned at them. March sucked a lungful of smoke from his cigar.
Eisler put the scalpel into a metal dish. Then he bent down once more and worked his forefingers into the deep cut. Gradually, he began peeling back the scalp. March turned his head away and closed his eyes. He prayed that no one he loved, or liked, or even vaguely knew, ever had to be desecrated by the butcher's work of an autopsy.
Jaeger said, "So what do you think?"
Eisler had picked up a small, hand-sized circular saw. He switched it on. It whined like a dentist's drill.
March took a final puff on his cigar. "I think we should get out of here."
They made their way down the corridor. Behind them, from the autopsy room, they heard the saw's note deepen as it bit into the bone.
2
Half an hour later, Xavier March was at the wheel of one of the Kripo's Volkswagens, following the curving path of the Havel-Chaussee, high above the lake. Sometimes the view was hidden by trees. Then he would round a bend, or the forest would thin, and he would see the water again, sparkling in the April sun like a tray of diamonds. Two yachts skimmed the surface—children's cutouts, white triangles brilliant against the blue.
He had the window wound down, his arm resting on the sill, the breeze plucking at his sleeve. On either side, the bare branches of the trees were flecked with the green of late spring. In another month, the road would be nose to tail with cars: Berliners escaping from the city to sail or swim or picnic, or simply to lie in the sun on one of the big public beaches. But today there was still enough of a chill in the air, and winter was still close enough, for March to have the road to himself. He passed the red brick sentinel of the Kaiser Wilhelm Tower and the road began to drop to lake level.
Within ten minutes he was at the spot where the body had been discovered. In the fine weather it looked utterly different. This was a tourist spot, a vantage point known as the Grosses Fenster : the Picture Window. What had been a mass of gray yesterday was now a gloriously clear view across eight kilometers of water, right up to Spandau.
He parked and retraced the route Jost had been running when he discovered the body—down the woodland track, a sharp right turn and along the side of the lake. He did it a second time, and a third. Satisfied, he got back into the car and drove over the low bridge onto Schwanenwerder. A red-and-white pole blocked the road. A sentry emerged from a small hut, a clipboard in his hand, a rifle slung across his shoulder.
"Your identification, please."
March handed his Kripo ID through the open window. The
"If you expect me to come out with some fancy theory, March, forget it."
"I'd never expect that."
Jaeger laughed. "Nor would I."
Eisler ignored their mirth. "It was a drowning, no question about it. Lungs full of water, so he must have been breathing when he went into the lake."
"No cuts?" asked March. "Bruises?"
"Do you want to come over here and do this job? No?
Then believe me: he drowned. There are no contusions to the head to indicate he was hit or held under."
"A heart attack? Some kind of seizure?"
"Possible," admitted Eisler. Eck handed him a scalpel. "I won't know until I've completed a full examination of the internal organs."
"How long will that take?"
"As long as it takes."
Eisler positioned himself behind Buhler's head. Tenderly, he stroked the hair toward him, off the corpse's forehead, as if soothing a fever. Then he hunched down low and jabbed the scalpel through the left temple. He drew it in an arc across the top of the face, just below the hairline. There was a scrape of metal and bone. Eck grinned at them. March sucked a lungful of smoke from his cigar.
Eisler put the scalpel into a metal dish. Then he bent down once more and worked his forefingers into the deep cut. Gradually, he began peeling back the scalp. March turned his head away and closed his eyes. He prayed that no one he loved, or liked, or even vaguely knew, ever had to be desecrated by the butcher's work of an autopsy.
Jaeger said, "So what do you think?"
Eisler had picked up a small, hand-sized circular saw. He switched it on. It whined like a dentist's drill.
March took a final puff on his cigar. "I think we should get out of here."
They made their way down the corridor. Behind them, from the autopsy room, they heard the saw's note deepen as it bit into the bone.
2
Half an hour later, Xavier March was at the wheel of one of the Kripo's Volkswagens, following the curving path of the Havel-Chaussee, high above the lake. Sometimes the view was hidden by trees. Then he would round a bend, or the forest would thin, and he would see the water again, sparkling in the April sun like a tray of diamonds. Two yachts skimmed the surface—children's cutouts, white triangles brilliant against the blue.
He had the window wound down, his arm resting on the sill, the breeze plucking at his sleeve. On either side, the bare branches of the trees were flecked with the green of late spring. In another month, the road would be nose to tail with cars: Berliners escaping from the city to sail or swim or picnic, or simply to lie in the sun on one of the big public beaches. But today there was still enough of a chill in the air, and winter was still close enough, for March to have the road to himself. He passed the red brick sentinel of the Kaiser Wilhelm Tower and the road began to drop to lake level.
Within ten minutes he was at the spot where the body had been discovered. In the fine weather it looked utterly different. This was a tourist spot, a vantage point known as the Grosses Fenster : the Picture Window. What had been a mass of gray yesterday was now a gloriously clear view across eight kilometers of water, right up to Spandau.
He parked and retraced the route Jost had been running when he discovered the body—down the woodland track, a sharp right turn and along the side of the lake. He did it a second time, and a third. Satisfied, he got back into the car and drove over the low bridge onto Schwanenwerder. A red-and-white pole blocked the road. A sentry emerged from a small hut, a clipboard in his hand, a rifle slung across his shoulder.
"Your identification, please."
March handed his Kripo ID through the open window. The
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