Storm 33

Storm 33

Originally titled Last Man In Berlin

A crime novel by Gaylord Dold

Copyright 2003

Smashwords Edition

Fiction by Gaylord Dold

Crime Novels

The Nickel Jolt

Same Old Sun, Same Old Moon

The Swarming Stage

Storm 33 (The Last Man in Berlin)

Six White Horses

The Devil to Pay

Schedule Two

Bay of Sorrows

The Mitch Roberts Series

The Wichita Mysteries

Samedi’s Knapsack

The World Beat

Rude Boys

A Penny for the Old Guy

Disheveled City

Muscle and Blood

Bonepile

Cold Cash

Snake Eyes

Uptown Wreck (Hot Summer, Cold Murder)

Historical Note

During the years 1930-1933, the Berlin Metropolitan Police was considered one of the most progressive and best-organized forces in Europe. It consisted of twenty-one thousand personnel, of which there were fourteen thousand uniformed beat officers, three thousand detectives, and some four hundred political spies. Headquartered at Alexanderplatz on the eastern edge of central Berlin, the force was divided into four divisions.

Schupo (Schutzpolizei), the blue-uniformed beat cops.

Orpo {Ordnungspolitzei), special order units who lived in barracks and were used for crowd control and other emergencies.

Stapo (Staatspolizei), political police who spied on and infiltrated antigovernment organizations and parties.

Kripo (Kriminalpolizei), the plainclothes detective force.

Kripo was further organized into four departments, of which the most important were Department IA (political crime) and Department IV, the detectives. Department IV had nine inspectorates (e.g., Department IVA were the homicide detectives).

The central nervous system of the force, as opposed to its administrative officers (at Alexanderplatz), was called Schupo Kommando. This unit was located at Oberwallstrasse 56, and was referred to as Berlin Mitte, which can be loosely translated as the central office. Subsequent to January 30, 1933, when Hitler was appointed presidential chancellor by Hindenburg, the Berlin Police were headed by Goring. Goring departed to become a warlord, but by that time, the Berlin police had lost its independence and had become a tool of the National Socialist Party.

Berlin Politics, 1930-1933

KPD—The German Communist Party, the dominant political movement in the northern and eastern parts of the city.

SPD—The German Socialist Party, in democratic control of the Prussian state and Berlin city governments.

NSDAP—The National Socialist German Workers Party, or Nazis. Goebbels led the party in Berlin.

Red Flag Fighters (Rote Fahne)—The paramilitary militia wing of the Communist Party which conducted running battles with other paramilitary wings, especially the Brown Shirts of the Nazi party. Also called the Red Front.

Reichsbanner—The paramilitary militia of the socialist party.

Sturmabteilung (SA)—The paramilitary wing of the Nazi party, known as Brown Shirts after their famous uniform.

Karl Liebknecht House—A bulky brick building not far from police headquarters at Alexanderplatz, center for the well- organized Communist Party in Berlin.

Hedemanstrasse HQ—Nazi headquarters located in central Berlin, very near the Reichstag (Legislature).

Reichswehr—The German Army, restricted by the Versailles Treaty to one hundred thousand men.

Freicorps—Militias who roamed the countryside in the early 1920s. Opposed to Bolshevism.

Storm 33

Originally titled Last Man In Berlin

Table of Contents

Part One

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Part Two

9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Part Three

16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

Part Four

24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31

About the Author

PART

ONE     

AUTUMN 1930

Within me there is a struggle between the delight of the blooming apple tree and the horror of a Hitler speech. But only the latter forces me to my desk.

—Berthold Brecht

1

The body lay face up in a dark cul-de-sac, eight meters off the Hirrenstrasse. The area—near Alexanderplatz police headquarters— was a communist neighborhood of brick tenements and wooden slums. Barlach would never have noticed the corpse had he not stepped away from the street to piss.

It had been a blustery fall day, followed by an unseasonably cold night. A Baltic front had crossed Berlin, and the first star-shaped chestnut leaves began to scissor down from the trees along Prenzlauerstrasse where Oberwachtmeister Fritz Barlach was on patrol. Barlach had been a beat-cop for six years, most of them on the streets of Scheunenviertel, a tough working-class precinct dominated by Marxists and unemployed thugs.

He had waited out the rain under a tobacconists awning on Prenzlauer. Wearing the blue woolen uniform of a Schupo, a faded blue lightweight raincoat, and black boots with heavy gum soles, he lit a cigarette and cursed himself for running low on tobacco. For the thousandth time in six years, he surveyed the grim street. A tram passed, its rows of pale green leather seats illuminated by a shower of overhead sparks. In the gloom at the end of the block, a group of working men huddled together in front of a pub. Barlach could hear them laughing quietly, tipping up their steins of beer while cigar and cigarette smoke stemmed upward. In the rain, the cobbled street glistened and the air smelled faintly of coal dust.

As a Schupo, Barlach carried a standard police-issue 9mm 08 revolver and a sixteen-inch truncheon made from black walnut wrapped with a cowhide grip. From the dark, he conducted a quick census of the communist drinkers, counting perhaps twenty. Unbuttoning his raincoat, he showed the drinkers his black leather holster and the pistol grip inside. Some of the drinking men had put down their steins on outdoor tables and were glaring at the cop. The sound of polka music seeped from the pub.

Schupo swine, someone called.

Come join us for a drink, Schupo!

Puppet of the Republic!

Fascist bootlick!

Barlach maintained his pace. He studied these men, cataloguing their faces in the dark—rough-looking factory hands, welders, plumbers and carpenters, truck drivers, unemployed stevedores and steel-workers. Shit eater! one of the men shouted. Come drink with us, Schupo! While your mother fucks a rich man!

He walked west into the Hirrenstrasse, testing shop doors and peeping into windows. Barlach paused at the entrance of a cul-de-sac. In the darkness, he could see three steel warehouse doors, a stack of packing crates, garbage cans, and litter. Turning his back to the street, he faced a wall and unbuttoned his fly, then let loose a stream of urine into a storm drain. He detected the approach of a tram, the clang of its bell and the hiss of electrical sparks on wet pavement. And just then, in a trick of light, Barlach saw the body in reflected glare.

He paced off eight meters, kneeled beside the body, and felt the neck for a pulse. His heart skipped several beats and he didn’t know quite what to think. She was a delicate and fine-boned girl, immaculately groomed with a perfect cup of black hair cut squarely around her sharp- featured face. She wore a sequined evening dress of shimmering black material, silk stockings, and two-toned black-and-white heels. Her face was perfectly made up and near white with powder, spots of red rouge on each cheek, deep crimson lipstick, and dark kohl eye shadow. He placed his ear near the woman’s mouth and detected no breath.

Barlach stood and studied the body again: jet-black imitation fingernails, tiny ankles and slim wrists, the well-developed leg muscles of a dancer or gymnast. Her eyebrows had been plucked and painted over in black. On each finger was a ring. Barlach sat down on a packing crate. He shined his torch on the woman’s bruised neck, noticed how her lipstick had been smeared at the right corner of her mouth. What’s a beauty like you doing in Scheunenviertel? he said to himself.

He found a police call-box on the Hirrenstrasse and telephoned Alexanderplatz headquarters. When he returned to the cul-de-sac, he sat down again on a packing crate. It looked to Barlach as if she’d been through the rain shower two hours before. He took out his pocket watch and checked the time. Ten o’clock. He lit a cigarette, waiting for whatever bigwig inspector Alexanderplatz would dispatch.

Kriminal Kommissar Harry Wulff sat on a marble windowsill where he could look down three stories to Alexanderplatz. A stream of trams came and went as commuters exited the Bahnhof where one could hear the scream and screech of arriving trains. News vendors hawked their late editions, and even from three stories high Wulff could hear a barrel organ.

An orderly named Krause had escorted Wulff down a long corridor to the outer alcove of the deputy commissioner’s office and had offered him a seat in a high-back wing chair, along with a cup of hot tea. Wulff declined both the seat and the tea, taking instead a seat on cold marble so that he could observe Alexanderplatz and its ceaseless drama. That evening, there had been a surprise rainstorm. Wulff had taxied from his flat in Zimmerstrasse to headquarters at Alexanderplatz. He was wearing a gray serge suit and English-made brown brogues.

A janitor broomed Wulff’s way. The man was hulking in a subnormal way, wearing gray work clothes with red dust rags stuffed in both back pockets. The janitor stopped for a moment as if surprised by the presence of Wulff sitting in the windowsill, then pulled one of the dust rags from his pocket and idly polished the surface of a mahogany end table.

You must be here to see the little Jew, he said to Wulff.

I’m here to see Weiss, Wulff said, annoyed. In the corridor, chandeliers caught and reflected the reddish light of the square below.

It’s late, isn’t it? the janitor said mysteriously.

Harry Wulff looked at his pocket watch, an expensive Swiss timepiece given to him by his father. Just near ten o’clock. The janitor wadded a red rag into his pocket.

You work all night? Wulff asked, making conversation.

I’ve just now come on duty, the other replied.

Wulff half-turned and looked down at the square, hoping to end this tete-a-tete. He thought about smoking but saw no ashtray. The janitor leaned on his broom. I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?

I’m a detective inspector, Wulff said.

An inspector, the janitor repeated.

The Anhalter Bahnhof tram skidded to a stop on the square in a flower of sparks. The janitor spent time wrapping dust rags around his broom, then pinning them together. From the left, Krause passed through a gilded door. The commissioner will see you now, Krause said officiously. Wulff stood and followed the orderly through a door. The office of the deputy police commissioner was vast, library shelves cluttered with books on one side, two desks piled high with papers, a coal fire guttering in one corner. Behind the desks, a huge fireplace smelled of damp ashes. Directly ahead sat Bernhard Weiss, who rose and offered Wulff a chair.

I’m sorry this is such a late meeting, Weiss said. Wulff stood at least a head taller than the deputy commissioner. I know it is late. I suppose you’ve heard about the riots in Wedding? Another communist scrape.

Wulff said he’d heard. Elections to the Reichstag had been scheduled, and street battles were common. In this particular skirmish, there had been no deaths.

Weiss played with time, peering at Wulff through thick bottle- bottom lenses. The deputy commissioner had a huge nose, bulbous ears, and a narrow, wedge-shaped head. He opened a manila dossier and studied it while Wulff waited in the near-dark of the office. The windows behind Wulff jumped with articulate red images, department-store neon, orange street lamps.

You support the Republic, Wulff? Weiss asked suddenly. The coal fire hissed and sputtered. Despite the fire and the carpeted floor, Wulff was chilled to the bone. Perhaps you find this question provocative and strange? he continued.

I am for the Republic, Wulff said.

As much as any man, I suppose?

As much as any man, Wulff said calmly.

I thought so, Weiss said. I believe we’ve met on other occasions, haven’t we?

Wulff thought back. At the opening of the new police academy, he said. As a member of the criminal investigation team called Kripo, Wulff had few reasons to meet Bernhard Weiss, the chief of Berlin’s metropolitan political unit called Stapo, a branch of the police that kept tabs on subversive activities. And I believe, Wulff continued, we spoke briefly at the funeral of Foreign Minister Stresseman.

So we did, Weiss said. I’ve been looking at your dossier.

It makes boring reading, I’m certain, Wulff said.

Not at all, Weiss said. You have an enviable record. But I wonder if you belong to a political party?

I vote my conscience, Wulff temporized.

I see you’ve graduated from Berlin University with a degree in philosophy and history. You were made a detective at age twenty- three, then a detective inspector at age thirty. Most impressive advancement in Department IV. You’ll have your own Oberkommisarriat if you’re not careful!

I’ve been most fortunate, Wulff said.

And your father was on Ludendorff’s staff during the Great War? Wulff paused, aware of being tested. He knew that Weiss had received the Iron Cross First Class in the Great War. The deputy commissioner had returned to Germany with a nasty shoulder wound and several pieces of shrapnel in his head.

You knew my father? he asked finally.

"Only of him, Weiss replied. Yes, you’ve compiled an impressive record. Weiss took off his spectacles and wiped them with a white handkerchief. But I’m curious about something, he continued. You do not investigate political crimes. It would seem you prefer the everyday to the historical. I wonder why a man of your talent is not of more use to the Republic? I must ask where this predilection for the ordinary comes from?"

If it’s a predilection, it is come by honestly, Wulff said.

But of course, Weiss smiled. Two brass lamps lit his desk. His sleek brown hair was thickly pomaded and glistened in the light. Do you know of Dr. Goebbels?

Certainly, Wulff said. I know of him.

You are aware of his campaign of slander against me?

Dimly at best, Wulff said.

For two years Goebbels has waged literary war against me through the vehicle of his party-sponsored tabloid. He’s a man who has made anti-Semitism and the death of the Republic his special province. His divine mission.

Wulff had seen the newssheet titled Der Angrijf, a twice-weekly publication stocked with odious anti-Jewish slime, caricature, sexual innuendo, political bombast, and gossip. Wulff was aware that Weiss had fought back with lawsuits and arrests, closures of the press, even raids at Nazi Party headquarters, all in a losing battle.

What has this to do with me? Wulff asked.

Yes, we come to the point, Weiss said. I need a man like you in Department I. I want you to come to work for the Republic as part of the political police. You must believe me when I aver that the Republic is on its last legs.

No doubt it is, Wulff said.

Weiss reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a thick sheaf of typewritten documents. I’ve prepared a report about the Nazis and their Storm Troop for the Reich attorney, he said. This is the report in my hand. If you read this report, you might find yourself educated to a certain grim reality. Perhaps you will agree with me that the current political struggle requires a policeman of your talent.

Weiss pushed the report toward Wulff. On the wall behind Weiss hung a portrait of Hindenberg, the old president in stiff white moustache and braided collar.

Surely others are more suited to the job, Wulff said.

Perhaps, Detective Inspector, Weiss mused. The facts of the matter speak otherwise. He fixed Wulff with a piercing stare. There are now twenty-one thousand officers on the Berlin Metropolitan force. Of those, perhaps three hundred are Stapo political police and of those perhaps fifty have the intelligence required to report on subversive activity with any acuity and foresight. Weiss walked to the coal fire and stood, warming his hands. But you, my dear Wulff, you are different. I want you to organize a cadre of devoted specialists who will not only observe and report, but infiltrate the parties involved, actually becoming members! I’ve spoken with Oberkommissar Bruckmann. As your captain of criminal police, he will release you from your duties for a special assignment.

I mean no offense, Wulff said. But I’m Kripo to the core.

And this core means what? Weiss said dismissively, waving a hand as though he were swatting an imaginary fly. There is no human core. You are an aristocrat and you’ve lost two brothers in the war and you’ve a Jewish lover. She is a medical doctor, I believe. Hundreds of thousands of Jews fought for Germany in the war and yet they are afraid to build a synagogue with its doors facing the streets. If this goes on, what will be the fate of our country?

You seem to know a great deal about me.

I’m sorry, Wulff, Weiss said. Even as we speak there are spies inside this headquarters building. I make it my business to know the nature of my staff.

Including their personal lives? Wulff asked.

Weiss shrugged. You think anonymity is the birthright of a Kripo? How do you think a democracy fights perversion of this nature? Wulff saw no need to respond.

Let me tell you something, Weiss continued. The two most dangerous men in Berlin are Gauleiter Goebbels and Storm Troop 33 Fuhrer Dieter Rom. Without inside information on their behavior and programs, this government is powerless to combat the planned revolution. I hoped you would join the fight.

And as for my Jewish lover? Wulff said.

I have offended you, Weiss said. You must forgive me, Detective Inspector. I am a man with thick skin. Goebbels vilifies me every day. My caricature is in print. He defiles my wife and my family. Now that the elections are upon us, it grows worse. Once, I, too, believed in absolute privacy. But these days, privacy is a luxury the Republic cannot afford.

Is there anything else, sir? Wulff said.

Please, Weiss said, give some thought to my request. And think about something else, too. As I’ve explained, a Nazi spy works somewhere in this building. Last week my men executed a surprise raid on the offices of Storm Troop 33. We found that all its papers and documents either had been removed or destroyed in advance of the raid. As you know, Storm 33 is responsible for many riots and murders. They knew of our plan in advance, Wulff. And when they know of our plans in advance, how can they be defeated? And, when I say the fate of Europe hangs in the balance, do you think I am being melodramatic? A telephone rang. Weiss picked up the receiver and spoke quietly for a minute. Yes, yes, I see, the deputy commissioner said at last. He put down the phone and said, There’s been a murder in the Hirrenstrasse.

Wulff leaned forward, hands on knees. Under what circumstances?

Not political, Weiss said.

Hirrenstrasse isn’t far, Wulff said.

That was the night duty officer, Weiss continued. He saw you sign the entry book downstairs. The Schupo wondered if you’d consent to investigate. Knowing you, you’ll probably want to go.

Where, exactly?

Scheunenviertel, near Prenzlauerstrasse. On the scene is a first sergeant named Barlach. Do you have an automobile?

I took a taxi here.

Take an Opel from the garage.

Barlach, he’s from the Seventh?

You know the precincts well, Weiss said admiringly.

A communist neighborhood.

Weiss rose from his chair. Won’t you promise to read a copy of my report?

Of course, sir, Wulff agreed, reluctantly picking up the massive folder.

Wulff left the office hurriedly and was escorted down a long corridor by the orderly Krause. At the end of the corridor, Wulff descended a wide marble staircase to the first landing where he saw the janitor dusting his way downstairs. Wulff brushed by the man.

They say there’s been a murder, the janitor said, his voice echoing in the vast chamber of the foyer.

You’re well informed, Wulff replied. He turned and made his way to the police garage, a warehouse compound near Alexanderplatz Bahnhof.

2

The Bahnhof tower clock tolled eleven. At that late hour, the crowds of Alexanderplatz had disappeared, abandoning the square to homeless and unemployed men who lurked in the entrances of the station and cadged pfennigs from late passersby. The red neon Wertheim sign had been turned off, plunging the huge department store into a mausoleum-like dark. Wulff was driving a tiny two-seater police Opel with the thick Weiss report on the cushion beside him.

Wulff drove north, winding across the Alexanderplatz roundabout and then found Hirrenstrasse, where he saw a small crowd of pub drinkers gathered on the sidewalk at the end of the block. In the near dark, Wulff spotted a police van parked half-on and half-off the sidewalk, its yellow dome-light revolving in periodic gloom as two white-smocked medical orderlies smoked cigarettes nearby. Wulff got out of the car and put on his raincoat. It had become very cold.

A large Schupo with blocky features and disheveled red hair approached Wulff from within the confines of a cul-de-sac just off Hirrenstrasse proper. Oberwachtmeister Barlach, the Schupo reported, saluting.

Very well, Barlach, Wulff acknowledged. I’m Detective Inspector Wulff, Berlin Mitte. Wulff noted the sergeant’s large size, square shoulders, and resolute eyes.

She’s in the alley, Barlach reported.

The medical orderlies had erected wooden barricades at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, placing several more in the middle of the Hirrenstrasse to hold back any crowd. The group of pub drinkers stood behind the barricade, gawking at the crime scene.

You found her, Barlach? Wulff asked.

I stopped to take a piss down the storm drain here and I saw her just like this.

Just like this?

Nothing has been touched. Absolutely nothing.

Absolutely nothing?

I placed a finger on her throat to test a pulse and put my head near her breast. Other than that, nothing has been touched.

Wulff took a deep breath and studied the Hirrenstrasse. It was a typical working-class district at night: shops, a millinery, a bakery, one pub at the end of the block at the entrance to Prenzlauerstrasse. To the northwest was Grenadierstrasse, where there was a Catholic church and beyond that a tram stop, then more acres of Hinterhof. Wulff turned back, looking toward Prenzlauerstrasse again, a wide avenue that was the main thoroughfare of the Scheunenviertel, an axis to Alexanderplatz and the West End of Berlin. Just two hours before, Prenzlauer would have been jammed with traffic.

Where’s Stapo now? Wulff asked the sergeant.

I’ve sent patrolmen to interview concierges on each side of the Hirrenstrasse.

They’ll talk to you? Wulff asked.

They have in the past, Barlach told him.

Their combined breath created steam which escaped upward. How well do you know this street? Wulff asked. Barlach stood just off his right shoulder.

I know it quite well, Barlach answered. Shopkeepers and the unemployed. Some workers still are employed at chemical plants, a few tanners who do seasonal jobs. There were some steel men until the Depression. Now many do nothing.

Those gathered behind the barricade?

From the Red Rooster.

Communists?

Most of them, Barlach said. They can be talked to if you know how.

Would they volunteer?

Not likely, Barlach said.

So nobody has come forward.

Barlach shook his head. They won’t. But they might speak if they knew what was going on.

Wulff buckled his raincoat. Let’s take a look at her, he said. Barlach followed Wulff into the cul-de-sac.

She’s eight meters in, Barlach said.

Wulff saw her clearly. He shined his torch on the body which was on its back, eyes open.

Sir, Barlach said. I touched the dress to see if it was wet. There was a rain shower at eight o’clock tonight.

And was it wet?

Damp, yes, Barlach said.

Wulff performed an inventory: black sequined dress hemmed three inches below the knee; a black sweater with an imitation ermine collar thrown over the shoulders; black hair with short sharp bangs; kohl eye shadow and dark red lipstick. He studied the stylish two-tone high- heeled shoes and noted a lack of wear on their heels and soles. Barlach switched on his own torch, throwing a second beam. In life, Wulff concluded, this woman might have looked beautifully cadaverous.

She’s tiny, Wulff said.

A meter and a half.

Wulff called back for the orderlies to turn on the van headlights.

About fifty kilos, Barlach concluded.

Not more, Wulff said.

She doesn’t belong here, Wulff said.

That’s what I told myself too, Barlach replied.

I assume you don’t know her from the neighborhood?

Not here. Not anywhere.

Wulff stood thinking for a long moment. Where do you suppose she was coming from? Where do you suppose she was going?

Barlach remained silent. The van had been turned, and its lights suddenly exploded into the cul-de-sac. Wulff saw the sequined purse. She carried a purse, Wulff said quietly, but no raincoat and only a sweater around her shoulders for warmth. Her dress is slightly damp. I should think her hair is wet as well. Wulff kneeled and touched the dress, then the silk stockings. The skin of her face was warm, and he could now see faint traces of lividity on the backs of her arms and legs. There is no rigor, Wulff said.

Do you mind if I smoke? Barlach asked.

Wulff gave his permission. She has a bruise on the neck, Wulff said. There are ruptured vessels under the thyroid bone.

And look at the eyes, Barlach said.

Wulff put a light on them—black centers, pale purple iris, tiny blotched red edges. He moved the beam down her torso and examined the shoes again. These shoes have hardly been worn, he said. Barlach kneeled down and beamed his torch. There are scuffs on each heel. It’s as though she’d been dragged partway into this alley from near Hirrenstrasse.

So she has, Barlach agreed.

She was strangled or attacked on the street and then dragged into the cul-de-sac. The killer finished his work here where it was dark.

That’s how it seems to me, Inspector, Barlach agreed again. And what time was the rain?

Eight o’clock.

So she was killed just before then. Her skin is warm. It can’t have been much before the rain, otherwise her skin would be cooler to the touch. And she went out without a raincoat, so she didn’t expect the rain.

Her lipstick is smudged, sir, Barlach offered.

So it is, Wulff agreed. On the upper lip was a tick of misplaced red. It’s certain she didn’t leave her house looking like that. Perhaps the lipstick was smudged in whatever struggle she put up.

I’d wager she’s been kissed, Barlach said.

Wulff sat on his haunches above the body. Let’s find out who she is, he said, putting on a pair of leather gloves. He opened the purse. Inside were five slim black cigars, a box of common wooden matches manufactured in Berlin, sixteen mark notes, and a few pfennig coins along with two tram tokens. A small compartment inside the purse contained a bottle of cheap spray lilac scent, eyeliner, lipstick, and tissues.

No identity papers? Barlach asked.

Wulff searched the pockets of the cheap sweater but found nothing. A ring on every finger, Barlach, Wulff said. But no identity papers. What do you make of it?

Barlach exhaled cigarette smoke. "I haven’t made up my mind yet, sir.

Wulff studied the rings. Cut glass, rhinestone, and zirconia, he said. Is there prostitution in this precinct?

Only around the Bahnhof, Barlach said. There isn’t money here for women. He threw down his cigarette, making certain it dropped into a storm drain. This woman wasn’t working the Scheunenviertel. I know the prostitutes around Alexanderplatz, and she wasn’t one of them.

Go and see if our communist friends recognize her, Wulff instructed. Bring them by in single file, one by one. I’ll wait over in the Opel so as not to cause a fuss.

Wulff retreated to the Opel and smoked while Barlach led a few men one at a time into the alley. Wulff pondered the street again, its shops and pubs, its many tenement windows overlooking the scene. It was perhaps one hundred meters corner to corner, one tram stop just northwest, then a church. Ten minutes passed before Barlach approached the Opel where Wulff had just finished his second cigarette.

They couldn’t wait to get a gander at her, Barlach said. One minute they’re screaming political insults at me and the next they’re slobbering over themselves to have a look.

Did anyone recognize her?

Not a soul, Barlach replied. And I think they’d tell me if they did. They’d be too excited not to say anything.

Barlach— Wulff began.

Sir?

Listen to me, Wulff whispered. Hirrenstrasse connects two urban tram stops, doesn’t it? There is a tram stop in the Grenadierstrasse and another in the Prenzlauer. Coming from the east, one going to Berlin makes the connection, and leaving from Berlin one makes the same connection in the opposite direction. Perhaps our victim was walking between two tram stops. She doesn’t live around here. You’ve never seen her here before and the men in the pub have never seen her before. She has tram tokens in her purse. Perhaps she was leaving Berlin for the suburbs, or commuting to Berlin from the suburbs.

But why no identification, sir?

I don’t know, Barlach, he said.

Perhaps she was walking with a man?

Or met someone. But why was she killed?

A man would have to be strong, Barlach said. Drag her into this alley and strangle her without a peep.

He’d be strong all right, Wulff agreed.

Do you think she was, well— Barlach stopped in mid-sentence.

Raped, Wulff said.

I’d thought of it, Barlach said.

Wulff headed back to the street with Barlach following. He instructed the orderlies to back their van away from the entrance to the alley and douse its lights. Wulff walked to the body, kneeled, and lifted the sequined black dress above the waist.

Barlach— Wulff said quietly.

Sir?

She isn’t a woman, Wulff said.

Sir?

She’s not a woman, Barlach.

Not a woman?