The Widow Killer Read Free

No, he was no longer a third-rate hack from Brno; in those lean, empty years he had matured into a master, just like that unknown painter.
    She must have sensed it as well. The whore in Brno had squirmed and squealed like a crazy woman, even fouled herself—ugh! that was what had repulsed him most afterward—while this woman had immediately recognized his authority. Maybe she wouldn’t have screamed without the gag, but he couldn’t have risked it. He couldn’t tell when her life ended, because even in death her doglike stare followed him. Now he had finished the task, and when he stepped back, he saw that it was good.
    The film ended, the lights came up, and the river was back again. He was even more tired after this rest than he had been before it. Sternly he ordered his muscles to pull him upright and grab his satchel. Now he had to find a place in this unfamiliar city where he could inform the one who gave him the task that it was complete.
    Through a blast-shattered window the chill day entered the room. Its pungent air stilled his stomach. Meanwhile, Assistant Detective Morava mustered his strength, as he had often done before, so he would not look inexperienced in front of the Germans. There were six of them, all but one clad in the long leather coats that had become the secret police’s civilian uniform in the Protectorate. Their apparent leader was a giant whose chest threatened to split his coat open.
    Morava introduced himself. They merely nodded expectantly, which he took as permission to go about his business. Briskly he pulled out a folded tablet and opened it to a clean page, so he could take notes for a later briefing, as Beran had taught him: the pathologists may laugh at it, Morava, but this is how we get the human picture before it disappears under a mountain of professional jargon.
    The Germans left him alone, conferring among themselves sotto voce, as if they didn’t want to disturb him. He watched them in his peripheral vision as he worked, trying to guess what they might want from him. At least it prevented him from devoting his full attention to the gruesome spectacle on the table.
    Only the civilian in the beige overcoat acted like a detective; he silently watched Morava wade through the mosaic of fine shards around the table with the woman’s torso on it, filling the pages of his notebook with tiny handwriting. However, when Morava finished, it was the hefty one who addressed him. The man’s high Gestapo rank was almost palpable; he stood, feet apart, and planted his hands on his hips in imitation of his Fuhrer.
    “Your opinion?”
    Morava answered as concisely as possible, the way he’d been taught.
    “A sadistic murder.”
    “We figured that out already,” the German snarled at him. “Any other bright ideas?”
    Morava had always found it difficult to talk to people who raised their voices. His windbag of a father had labeled him a scaredy-cat, and this reputation followed him to Prague. Only Superintendent Beran had realized that it was an inborn aversion to the sort of violence that hides intellectual weakness.
    Morava had to clear his throat again, but then he answered firmly. “At the moment, I can only tell you what I see. I’d have to investigate, but given the nature of the case—”
    The man he took to be a detective broke in.
    “The colonel wanted to know if you recognize an MO.”
    Morava looked over at the corpse again. This time his training prevailed; he examined it dispassionately, as an object of professional interest. The bizarre and horrible tableau did not remind him of anything he’d read or learned in his few years as an apprentice. He shook his head. The man probed further.
    “Do you know of any religious sect that might have done this?”
    He should have thought of that himself. Yes, there could be a ritual behind it, but what? There was nothing like this in Czech history, at least.
    “No, not offhand.”
    “Where the hell is your boss?” the large one