The First Shot

Frank Halter was elusive. He appeared and disappeared like a ghost.

Police Chief Johannes Wallner had sat with Hanna Rosenstingl's father after the funeral. Tired and worn out, he arrived at the office hours after the others and groaned as he took off his uncomfortable black coat. He walked silently into the conference room, put two fingers between his lips, and whistled shrilly three times. His men dropped everything and ran into the conference room, into the aquarium. The president had never summoned them so rudely. Rosa, quick-wittedly, muted the phone system.

President Wallner stood before them. He wanted to keep his speech as short and to the point as possible. "Guys, we've been chasing Frank Halter for almost a year now. Yes, we're still behind, and he's always a half-step ahead. The officer outside his house is dozing peacefully; we couldn't be doing any better, for God's sake! Every electronic surveillance attempt is useless; Halter doesn't use electronic devices, pays everything in cash, and apparently doesn't have a cell phone. As far as we know. We've searched the house three times, but found nothing but used women's stockings. We're the vanguard of the Austrian criminal police, damn it, not some pimply schoolboys!" With his last words, he slammed his fist onto the table, and Bodnar flinched.

Wallner shrugged. "I'm ordering you: from now on, each of you will spend a whole day in the Halters' house, from sunrise to night. In a shift work, a different one each day, until we get him. Look, snoop, search, interrogate, and be a nuisance. Grab him, however you can. Lay him down, securely tied up, at my feet. And just so we're clear, I'll be doing random checks. And if I catch any of you dozing or asleep, he or she will be automatically fired without notice. No discussion. Drink coffee or pop pills, I don't care, but stay wide awake like guard dogs and catch the guy. Rosa, you take charge and assign the shifts. That's it, folks." Wallner slammed the door behind him as he stomped from the aquarium into his office. The four of them stared at each other.

Rosa spoke first. "Bodnar, you start tomorrow at 6 a.m., bring food and drinks, we won't be a burden to Mrs. Halter. Then Rosenblatt, Hofstätter and me. That's the wheel, and if you want to swap, let me know beforehand. Shut your mouths, you heard me, we're the spearhead, not some pimply schoolboys, not even you, Rosenblatt." He just grinned, "Yes, sir, Chief Inspector — or is it Inspector-Chief?" They spread out at their desks and organized their things, because now they would be losing at least one day a week, more likely two, to close-up surveillance.

Ron strolled past Rosa's desk. "We should have done this a year ago, the boss is right. But we've never moved into a suspect's living room, not since the Kaiser's time." Rosa nodded grimly in agreement. "Wallner may be old, but he's far from being stuck in his ways. He's boldly changing course and charting a completely new course. That surprises me in a good way. We'll get this guy, that's for sure." Rosa dialed a number on her cell phone. "Yes, Mrs. Halter, this is Morgentau from the Criminal Investigation Department. Yes, thank you, you too. Well, I just wanted to let you know that starting tomorrow morning, a colleague will be coming to your house every day, all day long. No, you don't need to prepare anything; we'll bring our own things — food, drinks, everything. Please don't cause any trouble. Chief Inspector Bodnar will be there tomorrow morning; you know him. Yes, Mrs. Halter, every day starting tomorrow, all day long. We're only looking for your son; it's certainly not directed against you. Yes, I know, Mrs. Halter. Of course, he'll find out, but we're going to catch him, no matter what. Yes, thank you, and have a good day too." Rosa hung up.

"She'll tell him tonight, Rosa," said Ron. Rosa nodded. "Sure, Ron. But I'm no longer willing to treat Mrs. Halter like dirt. She's not our killer, her son is. And no guilt by blood-relation, Wallner or no Wallner. He entrusted me with the leadership, and I'm leading as I intend to lead." Ron nodded, resignedly. "I hope we haven't made a blunder, Rosa. But it's true, you're leading, and we're happy to follow you. You're a capable detective, no question." Ron went to his desk and muttered to Alfred. Alfred had overheard and seen everything. "Morgentau's ethical conduct is impeccable, 100 points. Strategically, completely off the mark, Ronald. No hunter whistles and waves to the deer before aiming. Morgentau has just told Frank Halter not to take a single step toward the house. Regrettable, very regrettable. You won't find Frank Halter there anymore; he's very clever and strategically astute." Ron said, "Exactly my words. But you heard, Morgentau is leading the operation. Wallner's orders." Alfred said, "Your people should take their chargers and not turn off their cell phones; standby is fine. I'll be your eyes and ears, Ronald."

Bodnar may have had his quirks, but he was a good detective. He greeted Mrs. Halter politely and explained his assignment. He was wide awake, not a hint of dozing. He kept moving constantly, especially in the basement, where he turned everything upside down. There had to be a secret entrance somewhere, but his search, as thorough as he was, yielded nothing. He turned the whole house upside down, rummaging through all the cupboards and drawers. Apart from the shaving kit in the bathroom, there wasn't a single trace of Frank Halter. Finally, in the evening, he sat down with Mrs. Halter and questioned her, mentally comparing her statements with the file he knew by heart. She might have forgotten this or that, but essentially, he found nothing new. They had eaten a peaceful dinner, and Bodnar accepted a schnapps. "I'm on duty, but so what?" He was already on his fourth when Rachel Kerzendocht arrived. Bodnar's eyes feasted on the curvaceous woman.

Bodnar squeezed every last drop of information out of those two women, my goodness! He effortlessly revealed everything: how the two women shared Frank amicably, how they made love until he arrived. It was an unfair fight, two simple housewives against an interrogation specialist. The air was thick with sexual tension, and Rachel, with her curled red hair, shed her garment after garment; the Catalan herbal liqueur was doing its job. Bodnar put his jacket over his phone; Alfred mustn't see that. Rachel lay completely naked on the kitchen table, beckoning to the commissioner. Rachel breathed a sigh of relief, because Bodnar, though circumcised, still had quite a lot of foreskin. Rachel pulled the foreskin all the way back and forced his dick completely inside. Nature took its course, and Mrs. Halter stared silently at Rachel's humiliation. Tears streamed down her cheeks as Bodnar thrust and pumped into Rachel, just inches from her eyes. She stared, her eyes blinded by tears, at Bodnar's cock, which was deep inside Rachel's fuckhole, pumping his semen forcefully inside, shot by shot. Roxane, weeping, placed her fingers in Rachel's crotch as Rachel brought herself to orgasm with her finger. Bodnar, once again disillusioned, realized he'd made a colossal blunder. But no one would ever know. When the women began to make out, he indignantly chased them upstairs to the bedroom in the attic. He sat on the top step and watched as the two women made love, squealing with delight.

Bodnar jolted awake; he had fallen asleep. At 3:30 a.m., he called a police car and had him drive him home. By 8:30 a.m., he was already in the office, typing his report from his notebook. The report skipped over everything after the first shot of herbal schnapps and ended uneventfully at 3:00 a.m., the end of his shift. Bodnar was in excellent spirits; he'd thumbed his nose at the president and dodged at least two grounds for dismissal. He'd arrived home, his little daughter was fast asleep in his bed, and he lay down beside her fully dressed. His hand slipped under the waistband of her pajamas, and then he fell asleep.

Rosenblatt took over, greeting Mrs. Halter at 7:30 a.m. He couldn't tear himself away from Elli any earlier. He, too, expertly ransacked the house, and he, too, found no secret entrance in the cellar. In the evening, his daughter called, but he couldn't leave, whether she pouted or not. He had to stay until at least midnight; there was no getting around it. He, too, couldn't resist the herbal schnapps. He really got going when he frankly described his relationship with Elli to the two women. They didn't even flinch. Incest, okay, so what? Rachel was doing her awkward housewife striptease again, and when she lay enticingly and invitingly naked on the kitchen table, Rosenblatt's mouth watered. Let's skip over that part quickly; Rosenblatt also sat down on the landing and watched the two of them making love with loud, smacking sounds. No, Rosenblatt didn't fall asleep; ten minutes before midnight, he called the police car to be driven home.

Ron arrived at Mrs. Halter's at exactly 6:00 a.m. She rubbed the last bits of sleep from her eyes, and Rachel, the Kerzendocht type, scurried past them without a greeting. Ron did what the others did; he too searched the house thoroughly, inch by inch. He also found no secret entrance, but he did find an external hard drive under her used underwear. A thorough search required holding your nose, as the manual says. The hard drive only contained private vacation photos, Mrs. Halter claimed. She patiently dictated all the passwords she could think of. After half an hour, finally, the right password. He went through them picture by picture; it was boring. Really just vacation photos, nothing else. His laptop was secretly copying all the pictures, and when she said she would only hand over the hard drive under protest, he backed down. "You know, getting a court order is a bureaucratic nightmare. I've seen all the photos; that'll have to do."

He politely declined the herbal schnapps, "I'm on duty!" and left Mrs. Halter and Mrs. Kerzendocht to drink alone. He didn't even flinch when the tipsy Kerzendocht began her striptease. He examined the naked woman on the kitchen table with a connoisseur's eye and indicated that she had a very beautiful body. "Oh, you know, I'm in a committed relationship, really committed. To me, other women's bodies are just flesh, hair, and a fart hole. I'm like blind, my pulse hasn't quickened at all." Mrs. Kerzendocht pouted, but he couldn't have cared less. He followed the women upstairs to the bedroom in the attic. He, too, sat down on the landing and watched them making love. He remembered how, at the beginning of their relationship, Fatme had brought her flame, Elif, to bed with him, and he had watched them with wide eyes. Back then, he had slept with both Fatme and Elif; it had been a joyous time. Elif disappeared, Fatme stayed. During those months, he had experienced girl sex live for the first time; the practice was far more exciting than any theory. He filed it under "Other Experiences" and checked it off. Fatme hadn't had girl sex since, and that suited him just fine.

Ron sat on the landing until 3:15, wide awake, and had photographed the two of them dozens of times. For his own use, of course, but he would mention it in the report. He called a patrol car and had them drive him home. Fatme was already asleep; he didn't wake her.

Rosa also arrived promptly at 6:00 and watched in astonishment as Kerzendocht flitted past. "Greetings to you too, Ms. Kerzendocht," Rosa called after her. The day passed as usual; Rosa also politely declined the herbal schnapps. When Kerzendocht began her striptease, Rosa placed her hand on her arm, never taking her eyes off Kerzendochts magnificent breasts. No, she wasn't interested, thank you. The two women giggled as they went upstairs to the bedroom in the attic. Rosa also sat on the landing, took photos, and reminisced about the girl-on-girl sex of her youth. In any case, she knew that much: she would interrogate Bodnar and Rosenblatt until they were thoroughly embarrassed. The nonchalance with which Rachel performed the striptease alarmed her to the utmost.

And so it went, day after day. Rosa couldn't get either Bodnar or Rosenblatt to confess. Both of them used the Kerzendocht, of course, because they weren't stupid, nor were they averse to pleasure. When Rosa was on duty at the Halter house, she sometimes felt the predator's hot breath on her neck. But it was just her overactive imagination. Two months of close surveillance continued without any tangible results. Ron had looked through the vacation photos with Rosa. No clues, maybe the blonde on the beach, wrestling with Frank in the sand. But her face was unrecognizable. So, nothing again.

Rosa was on duty again. She paced the house, again imagining she could feel the predator's hot breath on the back of her neck. Then, as if from nowhere, a paw closed around her mouth, and she inhaled chloroform. Her hand, halfway to her weapon, fell lifelessly. She plunged into an abyss, deeper and deeper.

Bodnar, who arrived the next day, was surprised that Rosa had left her phone and bag there. With a queasy feeling in his stomach, he called the office. Ron jumped up, alarmed, and ran to Wallner, reporting the situation. Wallner closed his eyes wearily. Only one conclusion was possible: Rosa had been kidnapped. Bodnar grilled the guards, but they knew absolutely nothing. He was even surprised that Ms. Morgentau had left her shift mid-shift. She had noticed it while waiting for Mrs. Kerzendocht, around 7 p.m. Bodnar was pacing like a caged animal. Finally, finally, Ron called back. He would come with Rosenblatt and the President to look for clues. Bodnar's heart sank. Rosa had been kidnapped, damn it!

No trace of Rosa. Wallner issued a massive manhunt, contacting all police stations and every officer in Vienna and within a 50-kilometer radius. The notice included a photo and description: female detective kidnapped, likely perpetrator Frank Halter. Ron sent a more recent picture of Frank from the vacation photos. Ron's gut told him Halter had made a big mistake. The wanted notice was printed by the media and broadcast on the television news. Not a single useful lead, just many well-intentioned calls and even more not-so-well-intentioned ones, which they meticulously followed up on. Ron raced to a construction site, but the suspect wasn't Frank, just strikingly similar. Two weeks of 24-hour shifts; Ron slept in the office, his head on the desk. Alfred had the phone muted and answered his calls politely. It was never anything important, and when Fatme called, Alfred spoke in a computer voice and reassured her that Ronald was asleep and would call back in the morning. Fatme, of course, knew about Alfred and was somewhat reassured. She didn't know Rosa personally, but she knew she was more than just a colleague; she was a friend.

Two weeks after the kidnapping, sheer luck intervened. Or were the Norns at odds over whether to sever Rosa's lifeline or not? Three widows, Hermine Knobloch, Erni Warnecke, and Josi Tiefenthaler, were a close-knit group of resolute women who had decided not to sink into the mire of widowhood. They met every morning at Café Rubin on Breitenfurter Straße; it was their regular haunt, their headquarters. They made grand speeches and raised their glasses of Chardonnay, the unifying element from God's vineyard in France. After three or four hours and many a glass, they would agree on which grievance Josi should hammer out on her laptop at home and email to the district council and Vienna City Hall. Yes, that's how they were, our feisty Musketeers.

On the way home, Hermione stopped. She was the youngest and still had quite good hearing. "Don't you hear anything? There's a woman screaming, coming from the construction site!" She shoved the other two across the street to rescue a damsel in distress. Yes, now the others heard it too; it wasn't their imagination. Emboldened by the Chardonnay, they strode forward. A surreal sight. Down there, in the half-finished basement, a damsel was chained to the steel beams, a man was lashing her bloody back with a leather whip, and the girl was screaming hoarsely in pain. Erni and Hermione rushed forward to the makeshift railing and shouted at the top of their lungs. Josi, the practical one, pried three planks from the jumble of building materials and armed the Musketeers. They ran, waving wooden planks and yelling, as fast as they could to the other corner of the construction site, where an unpaved concrete staircase led down. All three were shouting at the top of their lungs. By the time they reached the bottom, the executioner was long gone.

They ran to the girl — no, she was a young, slight woman. They untied her bonds, and Rosa fell to the ground. Naked, her eyes wild, and half out of her mind. "Is he gone?" she croaked, and Josi bent over her. "Yes, the guy's gone!" Rosa tried to cover her nakedness with her hands. "Phone?" she managed in a hoarse, croaking voice. Hermine handed her the cell phone. She dialed the office. It was Alfred; he was the only one who spoke with a Meidling accent. "It's me, Alfred. I've been freed. Please come and get me," she paused briefly, "Where are we?" Erni said the construction site was behind Breitenfurter Allee 73, and Rosa repeated the address for Alfred. "And Ronald, bring me something to wear, I'm naked, Alfred." She handed back the cell phone. She quickly covered her breasts and looked up at her rescuers. "I'm Rosa Morgentau, a detective. He kidnapped and tortured me for two weeks. The officers will be here soon." Erni handed her her scarf to cover her nakedness. Josi took off her jacket and put it around Rosa's shoulders. "Can you stand up, Ms. Morgentau? We should go upstairs and wait for your colleagues there." The three of them helped, and Rosa was finally on her own two feet, unsteady, but on her own two feet nonetheless. They led her to the concrete stairs. "He tortured me, but he didn't break me." She repeated this sentence incessantly until they reached the top.

The police car came racing up with flashing lights and sirens, followed by Rosenblatt's Mercedes. Rosenblatt, Bodnar, and Ron jumped out of the cars, followed by two uniformed officers, pistols at the ready. Bodnar gently took her in his arms, unable to utter a sound. Rosa stared at Ron. "He tortured me, but he couldn't break me. He was furious, and I just laughed at him. If he's going to kill me, he should at least do it with a sour face. I wiped that grin off his face." Ron stepped next to Bodnar and handed Rosa a tracksuit. "It was the only thing I could grab quickly, sweetheart. Take it easy now, we'll talk later, okay?" Bodnar led her behind a construction shed and helped her dress. Of course, no one had thought about shoes. Ron barked orders. "Bodnar, you drive her to the AKH (General Hospital) immediately. Don't take your eyes off her, Halter might try to intercept you, so be on your guard! Rosenblatt, you take down the personal details of the three women and drive to the office; you're our command center. Call the forensics team on the way, the big guns. I'll stay and secure the crime scene. I'll call the president myself right away. Now, let's go!"

Ron first called his home; Fatme didn't answer. He recorded three sentences on tape and then called the president. "Mr. Wallner, Rosa is free and alive. She has a badly bruised back, and Bodnar is driving her straight to the Vienna General Hospital (AKH). We should probably post two police officers there; the wicked Halter might turn up. Rosenblatt is on his way to the office; he's supposed to be the point of contact. I'll stay here and wait for the forensic team. They'll leave no stone unturned, because the Halter had to flee in a hurry and must have left at least his toolbox behind. Could you possibly take over the media, and interior minister, Mr. President? We're understaffed." Ron took a deep breath. Wallner laughed into the phone. "Wow, Hofstätter, she's free! Free! And she's alive, our Rosa! You have no idea how relieved I am. A badly bruised back? Will she recover?" Ron assured him that Rosa was unbroken. "Her back looks like mincemeat, but that's just on the surface. She'll recover, Mr. President!" Wallner grinned into the phone, as if Ron could see it. "The owner had to flee, didn't get the chance to kill her? That's good, he's no longer two steps ahead of us. We have a valuable survivor. We may have finally caught up." Wallner hung up.

Ron waited for the crime scene investigators. A full-scale operation. They would arrive with at least two vans, packed with all the equipment, at least six officers. They might even have a sniffer dog with them; it was a shame he hadn't ordered it right away. His eyes scanned the scene, nothing would escape his notice. His thoughts drifted to Rosa. No, she wasn't broken, she hadn't lost her mind. Her back was mincemeat, that much was clear. A few weeks off work, okay. He decided to drive straight from here to the Vienna General Hospital (AKH); he wanted to speak with her himself. Bodnar was her support, but he was too close to the scene for a dispassionate interview. He called the office; Rosenblatt was there. "Bodnar brought her in without any trouble and is sitting with her. Wallner has ordered two officers to the Vienna General Hospital (AKH) for her protection. Wallner is on his way to see the Minister of the Interior. Everything's calm here, Ronald. You can relax."

The police had priority at the AKH. Rosa was x-rayed and examined from head to toe. Bodnar had insisted on a comprehensive toxicology report. He suspected that scoundrel Halter was capable of anything; perhaps he had poisoned Rosa. He explained the situation and his suspicion to the doctor. She understood immediately. "Will do, Commissioner. I'll personally arrange everything necessary and let you know tomorrow around 2 p.m.; I have your card." Rosa's sore back looked worse than it medically required. She was covered with a thick layer of ointment and given a tight bandage. An hour later, she was sitting upright in bed, hooked up to an IV. Bodnar held her hand and listened to her. Rosa told him everything, starting with the chloroform. Bodnar didn't have a free hand to take notes, but he remembered every detail. He had only one question at the beginning. "Did Mrs. Halter have anything to do with it?" Rosa shook her head. "No, she was sitting at the kitchen table doing crossword puzzles. No, she didn't know anything about the robbery beforehand. Later... well, you'll have to beat that out of her, but not with violence, nothing will come of it. First gain her trust, then ask questions. Classic interrogation, without fists. If you use violence, she'll tear the guard down."

Ron arrived an hour later and relieved Bodnar. "Get a good night's sleep; we need you freshly washed and ironed tomorrow morning." Bodnar swallowed his retort and slunk off. Ron sat down next to Rosa. He had a notepad and pen in his hand. He brushed a strand of hair from her face; he didn't have the patience for holding hands. He wrote everything down, absolutely everything. The attack with chloroform. Yes, he must have come from the cellar. She was standing with her back to the cellar stairs. She woke up with a pounding headache in a wine cellar. "A very old wine cellar, just some huge, ancient wine barrels. I was handcuffed to a water pipe. The wine cellar was only a five-minute drive from Breitenfurter Allee; on the last trip, he didn't take any detours — he wanted to kill me there." Ron looked up from his notes. "Yes," Ron confirmed, " "we found guitar wire in his bag. The tracking dog followed his scent for 150 meters to a parking lot, where the trail ended." Rosa said it was definitely a white Ford Transit. She could see everything under the blindfold. "He's torched the Ford by now, no question," Ron said. Rosa suggested he probably used, or had used, the wine cellar quite often. "He had a lot of stuff down there; it wasn't some random place like the construction site. Who knows how many victims he raped on that old mattress where I could sit and sleep. He'd hang me on a rather long chain so I could use the bucket and drink the tap water and wash myself halfway."

Rosa gritted her teeth. "I was fed twice a day, reheated frozen food. He must have a refrigerator and a microwave, but I couldn't see it. The dim lightbulb burned day and night. He gave me an old, smelly blanket to cover myself with at night. He brought food on a tin plate with a plastic spoon. Mass-produced. He raped me every day, several times, six or eight times, I don't know exactly. Some days much more often. I remained passive and didn't resist; I wanted to go on living. Between his navel and penis, he had a strange compass tattooed on him, just the rays pointing in the wind directions, not a circle. Twelve or thirteen centimeters in diameter, dark blue. I've seen compasses like that on Russians before. My hands were tied, and he always had great difficulty forcing his cock in. He isn't circumcised like the Jews. He always fucked me for a long time, ten to fifteen minutes. He grinned crookedly when I came." I always spat in his face afterward, but he took it without a word. We hardly spoke. "You'll be begging me to do it for you," was his standard line. So I spat at him; that was answer enough for me.

He listens to the police radio all day. He reads the daily newspaper every morning. I've watched him; someone feeds him information from the classified ads section. Every two or three days, he finds an ad, then sits down with a notepad and pen and deciphers it manually. The ads are never in the same place — well-planned. He gets a phone call two or three times a day; he always says, "One moment, please," and goes outside. He's careful, never showing any weakness. He must have at least a bathroom above the wine cellar, because he showers, shaves, and wears light perfume every day. Old Spice or something similar. He's very clean, but the wine cellar is a filthy hole. Above on the makeshift work surface that serves as his shelf and desk, he has attached two pieces of chipboard. Nineteen female portraits, eight of them with a red X through them — our murder victims. On the other piece of chipboard, eight men, three of them with a red X through them — the three judges we found. I stared at the faces for hours, but I'm absolutely certain I don't know any of them.

Ron folded his notebook. "You need rest and sleep; this is incredibly tiring. Get some sleep, Rosa. The two officers at the door aren't letting anyone through who they don't know personally; they don't care about IDs. We know how easily the Halter can forge an ID. A very good precaution by Wallner. He's probably doing somersaults because we have you back alive." Rosa held him back. "Ron, do you have a picture of Fatme, a portrait maybe?" Ron showed her several pictures on his phone. "Yes, that's her! The last woman on his menu! I'm sure of it, absolutely certain." Rosa's eyes filled with tears. "He's serious, Ron. Neither Wallner nor any of us are on his 'list,' not even me. But Fatme is the last one in his line. Oh my God!" Rosa reached for his hand. "Fatme! What a bastard! If you really want to hurt someone in the long run, you kill the person you love most. That's not advanced math, that's a mafia's rule. Oh Ron, just watch out for her!" He promised to come back tomorrow. Ron left, shaken to his core.

Ron went straight to the office. He jotted down his notes on the screen, wrote "provisional interrogation Rosa Morgentau" at the top, and the date and time. Part 1, he wrote next to it. He uploaded the document to the intranet so all his colleagues could read it. Everyone had already left. He smoked another cigarette, then another, and fed the empty flowerpot — the one with the invisible plant — with cigarette ash, thinking about everything. Bodnar had obeyed his order and gone to bed early. Later, his little daughter lay down next to him, and he half-woke. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of her pajamas, the only concession she had ever extracted from him. The light touching held no meaning for him, no weight. He would never give himself up for incest; he had told her that a hundred times. He slept soundly until morning. Ron strolled home; he would be there before Fatme and throw two steaks in the pan.

Fatme arrived shortly before midnight, took a hot shower, and they devoured the steaks and the flatbread from the Turkish bakery. A glass of Spanish red wine completed the meal. Fatme had overheard his message and was happy that Rosa had been rescued alive. Ron put down his cutlery and leaned forward. "Fatme, you're in mortal danger. The killer has added your photo to his hit list. I hate to say it, but he means business. Could you send me a picture of the client before the escorting session? I want to make sure he doesn't book you normally and get his hands on you. He's got plenty of money, the bastard." Fatme took a deep breath. "Okay, I'll do it that way. The pimp takes a picture of the client, new security regulations, blah blah blah. And you send me a text, 'OK' or 'Run for your life.' Yeah, we can do that. That should be enough. Although, if I were the killer, I'd send a picture of the taxi driver. I'm not stupid."

Of course, Fatme was right. For every action, there was a countermeasure; they both knew that. But you had to do everything possible, even if the idea was full of holes like Swiss cheese.

No sooner had Ron entered his office the next day than his phone buzzed. He picked it up. It was Frank Halter. Alfred's display on the phone system read: "Over a dozen relays around the globe. No chance." Ron nodded grimly. "I would have expected a letter from you, Frank," Ron said provocatively, raising his hand. Alfred put all the department's phones on speakerphone. "Oh, are we on a first-name basis by now, Detective Inspector? Well, fine by me. I actually wanted to check on Rosa; I hope she's alright?" Ron remained calm. "Thanks for asking. You just gave her a bad beating, but she's okay and will be back on your trail soon. It should drive you crazy, because this was your first shot that went so disastrously wrong. That's how I recorded it. You make mistakes, sportsman. Morgentau will lead us to your wine cellar, we'll take you down nice and easy and lock you up for good." Ron paused and looked through the glass panels where his colleagues were listening breathlessly. Even the president had jumped to his feet and was staring at his phone.

"Point goes to you, Ronald. I can call you Ronald, can't I? And as for the wine cellar, it's been empty and deserted since last night. I never intended to let Rosa live; that certainly wasn't a good idea. On the other hand, I wanted her to suffer and deliberately showed her my outstanding list. I'm sure she mentioned it." Ron thought for a moment and let out a forced laugh. "Yes, that really wasn't a good idea. We'll track down the ladies and keep an eye on them. I'm sure you're stupid enough to get caught like that. It's actually disappointing; this game has really become boring. If there's nothing else to do, then goodbye." Ron knew his bluff was on very thin ice. He wanted to provoke Frank Halter; maybe he'd lose his temper now. "Well, dear Ronald, then I'll see you when I'm arrested. I'll call you again, because I still have a few things to do. Goodbye." Crackle, the line was dead. Alfred answered. "He called from an unregistered cell phone, routed his call through a dozen relays around the world — there's nothing I can do about it." Ron nodded; Alfred had certainly done his best. Where did Halter get all these skills? He didn't use any electronic devices, we thought. But this call proved he was more capable than we thought. Or he had accomplices we knew absolutely nothing about.

The weeks passed, Frank Halter had disappeared, Rosa Morgentau was back in the saddle after days. No, she declined the president's offer of extended leave, time to process the trauma. "I'm continuing to work because now he's done it personally, the bastard. I want to put a bullet between his eyes myself. He's practically begging for it. But thank you for your concern, Mr. President." Wallner relented; secretly, he admired the young woman. She had the heart of a detective and real guts. Of course, he knew that both Bodnar and Rosenblatt were licking the honey from Ms. Kerzendocht, week after week. But he couldn't fire them as easily as they deserved. He would cut his spearhead in half; he couldn't. Not now.

Fatme was becoming more and more vulnerable, thinner and thinner. Ron could only be the rock in the storm, the strong oak against whose trunk Fatme could cling and cry without having to explain her tears. He regularly canceled on the pimp and punched her out of trouble. He didn't even acknowledge Madame Florence's whining. Fatme was grateful that she could visit her father every afternoon. Ron thought it was right that Fatme was by her father's side as he died. One late afternoon, he came home to find Fatme sitting motionless in a chair, staring into space. She hadn't even taken off her jacket. She looked up at him wide-eyed. "Hakim." She stared at her fingers. "I called the imam; he always respected my father. He's taking care of everything — the medical examiner, the authorities, the funeral tomorrow at the Islamic cemetery in Liesing. Will you come with me, Hakim?" Ron immediately agreed. "I'm taking the day off and I won't leave your side, love."

Ron took off her jacket and lay down with her on the bed. Fatme buried her face in the crook of his neck. Only now could she cry. "He died in my arms, peacefully and gently. He stopped breathing. God, or Allah, or Yahweh heard my plea; he died in my arms, and for that I am very grateful. I sat for a while and said goodbye to his soul; it flew out the window. I called the imam, and he is taking care of all the necessary arrangements. I should go home and cry, the imam said. I didn't call anyone else, not even the fake aunts. I never want to see those harpies again. I wandered through the city center with my eyes open, but without looking. I didn't want to disturb you at work because you are the only one I have left in this world." Ron held her close, stroked her back, and murmured soothing words, meaningless, incoherent words. He had never known her father; he was only sad because of Fatme. Yes, he would be her father, brother, and lover. The thought made his knees tremble. He immediately called Madame Florence's pimp. "Shut up, Charly! Fatme won't be back for at least a week, there's been a death in the family. And don't call her, she'll call you when she's able to work again."

He walked into the cemetery as Hakim Elbagr, at Fatme's side. She had linked arms with him and wouldn't let go, not for a second. It was astonishing how many had come to say goodbye to her father. Ron returned every smile; the community loved him. Even the Jewish baker had come, dressed up and wearing his large black hat. Ron went up to him and offered his hand. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Mejer," he grumbled. The line of people passing by and shaking Fatme's hand was long. He didn't know the aunts, but Fatme's body language told him so. Her face was like stone; she offered them only her fingertips reluctantly. She didn't acknowledge the crocodile tears; even now, their tears were false and vile.

The innkeeper wasn't very pleased when the Muslims came to eat. They ate, but they didn't drink, at least not in the cemetery, those Muslims. He sighed at how foolish it had been to open his inn by the Islamic cemetery. Other innkeepers were raking in the profits; their real money lay in the drinks.

Fatme threw herself into her studies, which she had neglected in recent weeks. Now she was going full throttle; it was already the end of May, and the second semester would end in mid-June. At the same time, she was writing a private essay, which she dedicated to her father. She began with her earliest memories and wanted to end with her father's death. It was about only three people: herself, her father, and her mother. Fatme insisted on writing everything down truthfully, every tiny detail, including the sexual ones. How she clung to her mother's body because she loved her father and wanted to be loved by him, to be gently pumped like her mother. How her mother gradually died, and she took her place and became his little wife. Ron, of course, was allowed to read it. He got a glimpse deep into the family bedroom, unvarnished and very clear. But it answered so many unasked questions. And it exposed the sexual lust and disappointment of the so-called aunts, whom Dad, disillusioned after his wife's death, banished from the bedroom. Ron hugged Fatme.

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