“Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he continued to the rostrum at the front of the room. Those who were sitting stood. The rest bunched up across from him. “I’m Detective Inspector Hoffner-two effs. I understand you have questions about an article that appeared in this morning’s BZ.”

For exactly twenty-two minutes the men asked and Hoffner answered. Fichte stood at the back of the room, marveling at the effortlessness with which Hoffner deflected even the most detailed of questions. It was clear that his Kriminal-Kommissar understood the essential rule of the press conference: that journalists in crowds are never as effective as when alone, probably another reason why Prager had set up the room in the first place. In this game of cat and mouse, each of the men had to be careful not to ask anything too leading lest one of his rivals learn more from the question than from the answer. Hoffner was playing them off each other to perfection. They learned that there were victims-four or five, the number was unclear just yet. That there was knife work-again, there was too little of it to make it a signature piece of the case. And that, thus far, the victims were women-old, young, there was nothing to specify at this point.

Frustrated by the vagueness of the answers, one of the woolen overcoats finally broke down and asked about the locations of the murder sites. He had heard that the women were being killed in one place before being brought to the various sites. Was there any truth to that?

Hoffner had anticipated the question. He was about to answer when a single “Yes” came from the doorway. Everyone, including Hoffner, turned to see Oberkommissar Braun enter the room.

“That is, in fact, true,” continued Braun as he moved to Hoffner at the rostrum.

Hoffner did everything he could to keep from biting through his tongue. He sensed an immediate shift in the level of interest in the room. Nonetheless, he turned back to the men as if he had been expecting Braun all along. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is Chief Inspector Braun. He is also involved with the case.” Hoffner looked at Braun. “So glad you could take the time out for us, Chief Inspector.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hoffner noticed that Fichte had been joined by Kommissar Walther Hermannsohn.

Braun said, “The Polpo always has time for the truth, Herr Inspector.”

A second bombshell landed as the men’s interest gave way to tension. None of them had considered the possibility of Polpo involvement. Braun was working his magic.

The frustrated overcoat decided to push his luck: “The Polpo?” he said. “Are we to take it, then, that this is a political case, Herr Chief Inspector?”

Braun offered a cold smile. “In the aftermath of revolution, everything has a political side, mein Herr.” To a man, the pens started moving briskly across the pads. Braun continued, “One can never be too careful, especially with a maniac on the loose.”

The pens stopped. No one had mentioned the word “maniac.” Even Kvatsch had managed to keep it to just this side of lurid.

“You say a maniac,” piped in one of the stockbrokers, all traces of indifference now gone. “Can we assume he has designs on the entire city?”

Hoffner cut in quickly: “As of now, everything is localized. Let me say, gentlemen, that there has still been no clear evidence of any transporting of victims, despite any information the Chief Inspector might, or might not, have seen.” Hoffner lied, but he needed to do something to muddy Braun’s performance.

The stockbroker continued, “But there is at least one occurrence of a victim being moved to a separate site? Is that true, Inspector?”

Hoffner waited for Braun to step in, but Braun said nothing: like the men in the room, he looked to Hoffner. “One case,” said Hoffner coolly. The lie was taking on a life of its own. “But there’s nothing to indicate a pattern.”

“Does that mean that that killing could have taken place anywhere?” the stockbroker pressed.

“As I said,” answered Hoffner, “everything is localized.” And with just a hint of contempt, he added, “No need to worry, mein Herr. Your readers in the west are safe.”

The man was not satisfied. “Is that a promise, Herr Inspector?”

Hoffner was getting tired of this. He was also unsure how much longer he could stand next to the conveniently quiet Oberkommissar Braun without driving something sharp into the man’s chest. “He’ll be in our custody long before he figures out what’s beyond the Tiergarten.”

“And for those of us in the east,” cut in one of the brown socks, “it wasn’t so pressing?” The man had a point. “A maniac in Charlottenburg is reason to step things up, but a killer in the Mitte district was acceptable? Are our readers less important to the Kripo, Herr Inspector?”

Hoffner sensed how much Braun was enjoying this. “Of course not.” Hoffner knew he had to end this, now. “We’re in the process of following several very positive leads that should have this man off the streets before he has a chance to do any more harm, in any district of the city.”

A man at the back spoke up. Hoffner had not seen him until now. His clothes were out of keeping with the rest of the group. “And is the Polpo as certain as the Kripo about these leads?” the man asked. The question was transparent. It was the surest way to challenge Hoffner’s sincerity.

Hoffner gazed at the man. He made sure to remember the face.

“This,” said Braun, suddenly eager to chime in, “is a Kripo investigation.” It was as if he had been waiting for the question. “I can’t comment on any specific leads. But let me say that, while the Polpo has kept itself apprised of all criminal cases since the revolution, it is our policy never to interfere with an ongoing Kripo investigation. The Polpo has the greatest confidence in Inspector Hoffner and the entire Kripo staff to follow whatever leads it may or may not have, so as to bring this unfortunate and unpleasant business to a swift conclusion. Only if it should prove to be more than a criminal case would the Polpo then step in.”

Hoffner was impressed. In a matter of two minutes, Braun had managed to disclose crucial and damning elements of the case, foster panic, and undermine Hoffner’s credibility, and all while distancing himself and the Polpo from any kind of connection to the case. It had been masterful, and clearly orchestrated. Hoffner had no choice but to thank him for it.

“Always good to hear, Chief Inspector,” said Hoffner. He turned to the room. “And I believe, gentlemen, that’s all we have for you at this time.” Hoffner motioned for Braun to lead them out; Braun acquiesced. There was a flurry of questions, but Hoffner ignored them. From the back of the room, he saw Hermannsohn follow Fichte to the door.

“Prick” was the first word out of Hoffner’s mouth as he and Fichte stepped back into his office.

Hoffner had refused to give Braun the satisfaction of a confrontation. He had thanked him again for his words of confidence, and had then headed upstairs. Fichte had been smart to say nothing.

“And how he enjoys it,” Hoffner continued. He moved over to the filing cabinet. He stared at it, his mind elsewhere. “There are things going on here I’m just not seeing.” He unlocked and opened the drawer. “I’m getting tired of that, Hans.”

Fichte closed the door. “Then I suppose we have no choice but to look at what we do see.”

A week ago, Hoffner would have taken Fichte’s contribution as little more than a parroting of what he had heard. Now the boy was actually speaking sense: not wanting to impress, Fichte was focusing.

Hoffner had the first of the papers in his hand. “Everything in here deals with what was happening at Sint-Walburga after Wouters went missing, yes? Logs, doctors’ reports, visitors?”

“Primarily.”

“Nothing about his behavior immediately after the arrest, or about his first few months in the asylum?” Fichte shook his head. “Which means reading through them won’t help us understand him any better than we already do.”