“From the looks of it, it might have been a broken rivet or bolt. It is iron, not lead, so it’s not a bullet.”
He passed it to Byron, who scrutinized it and passed it along to Honister, who passed it to Gotthilf, who looked at it, shrugged, and handed it back to the doctor.
“Death by explosion effects?” Byron asked.
Dr. Schlegel nodded. “Nothing particularly unusual about it.”
“This was the guy that might have come from Italy,” Honister spoke up. “Did you see anything to support that?”
“Nothing obvious in his belongings,” Dr. Schlegel pointed to a paper envelope on the table. “I will say that his physical type—shape of the skull, for example—is more consistent with the Mediterranean peoples than it is with the Germanic folk. But that and a pfennig will get you a cup of coffee at Walcha’s Coffee House.
“Any more questions?”
No one spoke. Gotthilf made more notes as that body was closed away and the third body was brought out.
“Third victim, identified as Nils Svenson, unclaimed by family or church, approximately forty years old. There is no question,” the doctor said, “that this man was not killed by the explosion.”
That statement grabbed Gotthilf’s attention. “But he was found in the explosion scene,” he said.
“Yes, and much of the damage to his body was caused by the explosion, no doubt,” Dr. Schlegel responded. “But it was all post-mortem. The actual cause of death was a stab wound in the back.”
He rolled the body onto its side, gesturing for one of them to hold it there. Byron reached a hand out. Then the doctor pulled a light closer and picked a probe up off of the table.
“See here?” He pointed to the lower back. “Right above the left kidney. Penetrated the kidney, severed the main artery to the kidney. Fatal within moments due to internal hemorrhaging. Quite painful, as well, for the short time he had left to live.”
“So if he was the boiler attendant on shift that morning…” Gotthilf started.
“He would have been in the wagon watching the gauges and tending the firebox,” Byron finished.
“So when the boiler exploded, of course he would have caught more of the blast force than the men out in the yard,” Honister said.
“Except that he was already dead.” Gotthilf frowned. “Why?”
“Ockham’s Razor,” Byron said. “The simplest explanation is mostly likely the correct one.” He noticed the sergeants staring at him. “What? I went to school, too, you know.”
Byron lifted a hand and ticked off fingers as he spoke.
“One: if he was on shift in the wagon, then someone either killed him for a personal reason, or he was killed because he was in the way. We can’t figure out an unknown personal reason, but…
“Two: if he was killed because he was in the way, someone probably wanted access to something in the wagon.
“Three: there wasn’t anything in that end of the wagon except gauges, the boiler tank, and the firebox.
“Four:…” Byron stopped ticking fingers and looked at Dr. Schlegel. “Doc, could you estimate time of death?”
“The saturation of his clothing by the superheated steam means I cannot estimate to within an hour,” the doctor replied, “but my opinion is that he died not long before the explosion.”
“Four:…” Byron resumed, “the boiler explosion occurred not long after he was killed.” He looked at the sergeants. “Still think the captain’s idea is crazy?”
Gotthilf wondered if he looked as stunned as Honister did.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door to the room, and a Polizei messenger stuck his head in.
“Lieutenant Chieske, Sergeants, the Schiffer people want to see you back at the hospital project site. They say they’ve found something you need to see.”
“Right. Be right there.” Byron turned to Dr. Schlegel. “Keep this one on ice as long as you can, Doc. We may not be done with him yet.” He turned to Honister. “You coming with us?”
“No, I’m going to go through this and see if anything helps.” He picked up the envelope of Peter/Pietro’s belongings.
“Right. We’re gone.”
Gotthilf was on Byron’s heels.
* * *
Honister headed back for his desk, by way of a bakery where he bought a roll for his lunch. Once inside the station, he bit off a large piece of the crusty bread, and chewed on that while he unsealed the envelope and dumped the contents on the desk.
Jacket—check.
Shirt—check.
Pants—check.
Shoes—check.
He looked them over carefully, but found nothing distinctive about them, other than a strong indication that Peter/Pietro hadn’t bathed in quite some time.
Belt—check. Honister also examined this item with care. Alas, there was nothing significant here either; just a worn and stretched-out strip of leather, so grimy its original color couldn’t be discerned.
So, what about the other contents? His finger pushed around the rest of the items from the envelope: a couple of small coins, a glass marble, a leaden amulet, and—hiding in the envelope with just the tip of the sheath poking out—a knife.
Honister unsheathed it and thumbed the edge; pretty sharp, it was. He stood so suddenly he almost over-turned his chair and hurried out, grabbing his hat off its wall peg as he rushed by.
A quarter-hour later he was talking to his consultant smith, Erhard Misch. “What can you tell me about this knife?” he asked, handing it over.
“This related to the same case?” The smith unsheathed the knife and walked over to the window to examine it in the best light.
“Yah.”
“Much better made than those first knives you brought me. Made by a different smith, too. Nice work.”
“Okay, so it’s a more expensive knife,” Honister said. “Is it from Italy? Venice? Genoa? Rome?”
Misch took the knife over to his work bench and bent over it with some small tools. A minute later he was back at the window examining the uncovered tang of the blade from which he had removed the hilt.
“Ah.” There was a very satisfied tone in the smith’s voice.
“What? What?” Honister demanded.
“Definitely made in Venice. I recognize the master’s mark.”
Honister felt his heart jump to a faster rhythm.
“That is what I wanted to hear!”
The smith peered closely at the blade and tsk’d. “Blood on the blade.” He started to wipe it off.
“No! Wait, Erhard!” Honister jumped forward as a thought burst forth in his mind. “That may be evidence. Just put the knife back together for me. I’ve got to check something else out.”
Moments later he was outside looking for a cab. And less than ten minutes later by his pocket watch he was jumping off in front of the morgue.
“Wait for me! I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Bursting through the doors, he looked around. “Is Dr. Schlegel here?” he demanded of the attendant on duty.
“No, but I can have him called in if you like.”
“I don’t have time for that. You’ll do. Take me to the corpse storage room again and pull out the body of Nils Svenson.”
In just a few moments, he was closely examining the stab wound in Swenson’s back and comparing it to the knife. Same shape, no wider than the width of the blade. He felt the glow of conviction increasing.
“That’s all I needed. Thanks.”
Hurrying to the cab, he shouted, “Get me to the hospital project site, as fast as you can!”
* * *
Gotthilf was nonplussed. He and Byron arrived at the construction site not long after leaving the morgue. Gunther Bauer met them and said tersely, “Got something you guys need to see. Come on.”
He led them across the site where the few workers Schiffer still had were trying to clean up the debris of the disaster, until they arrived at the side of the existing hospital. He pointed at someth
ing sticking out of the wall.
“That,” he said, “was not there before the crane exploded.” Then he crossed his arms and waited.
So now the two of them were staring at a limb of wood that at first glance was just growing out of the side of the building. They looked at each other. Gotthilf drew some consolation in the fact that Byron appeared to be just as bemused as he was.
“So, a tree limb,” Gotthilf said.
“Yep.”
“Sticking out of the hospital building.”
“Yep.”
“Hole in the middle of it.”
“Yep.”
Byron was being especially laconic this morning.
Gotthilf looked at the piece of limb, and realized that it was darker on the outside than bark would normally account for. He ran a finger across the top, and raised it to display a smudge. He sniffed his finger.
“Soot.”
Byron’s eyes snapped open wide.
“Oh, God, no.”
The up-timer bent over and smelled the hole in the limb. Gotthilf was now very bemused.
Byron straightened with a look of mingled disgust and nausea.
“Send for the police photographer.”
Gotthilf looked at Bauer, who nodded and took off to do that very thing.
Gotthilf looked back at his partner. “So, what is it?”
“Bad news.”
“Will you stop with the excessive terseness?” Gotthilf demanded. “Just tell me what it is, and keep talking until I understand it.”
“That,” Byron leveled a forefinger at the obtrusive tree limb, “is a bomb. Or, I should say, it was supposed to be a bomb, but it misfired and became a rocket instead. Smell the hole.”
Gotthilf bent and smelled an unmistakable scent.
“Burnt gunpowder.”
“Yep.” Byron whistled tunelessly for a few seconds. “Didn’t you say something earlier about some gunpowder being stolen?”
“Yah,” Gotthilf said with a grimace. “From Farkas’ gun shop.”
“Well, we may have just found it. Too bad we can’t do the chemical analysis to prove it.” Byron shook his head, then continued, “Now, if that thing was filled with gunpowder, and it ended up there,” he pointed to the wall, “where is the most likely spot for it to have come from?” He pointed out.
Gotthilf followed the finger’s line, and became nauseated himself.
“You think the boiler’s firebox…”
“That’s what I think. I think we now have direct evidence of sabotage, and we now also know why Svenson was killed.”
Gotthilf followed the line of reasoning. He couldn’t disagree with it.
“Okay, I’ll buy that much. But why was Svenson’s body left behind?”
“Maybe they didn’t care who found out,” Byron replied, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “Or maybe they thought the explosion would destroy or cover up the evidence.”
They were still discussing that topic when the police photographer showed up with his assistant. Sergeant Honister was on his heels.
“Lieutenant! Sergeant!”
Honister brandished a knife before them.
“Watch where you’re pointing that thing,” Byron said as he leaned back out of the way.
“Sorry.”
Honister lowered the knife, but pointed at it with the other hand. “This was in the belongings of Peter-Pietro-whoever he was. Erhard Misch, the blacksmith I consulted, says it was also made in Venice—but by a different smith from the one who made the other knives. He said there was blood on the blade, so I took it back and compared it to the stab wound in Svenson’s back. It’s a good match.”
“Good work,” Byron said warmly. “Now, catch up to what we’ve found here.”
A couple of minutes of intense conversation ensued, the end of which left the three of them staring at each other.
Gotthilf was the first to break silence.
“The captain was right.”
“Yep,” Byron agreed.
“The payroll theft and murders definitely seem to connect to this,” Honister added. “So, where do we go from here?”
“We have two leads to trail,” Gotthilf replied, pulling out his notebook and flipping pages to the one he remembered. “The money, and the friend that Gunther Bauer said was Pietro’s—the man with one eye.”
“Right,” Byron said, straightening from the wall. He pointed to Honister. “You keep chasing the money; we’ll search for the man with one eye. Hopefully there won’t be very many of them in Magdeburg.”
Gotthilf fervently agreed with that thought, but had a sinking feeling it would prove to be otherwise.
Chapter 52
The capital was shocked and horrified at what had happened. But life goes on, even in the midst of calamity, and Magdeburg was a city that had a history of clawing its way back from the brink of cataclysms. It had survived the great sack of 1631, after all.
After a week most of the city’s populace was working like normal, with the explosion beginning to recede to the backs of their minds. The late breaking news from other parts of Europe began to crowd the stories about the explosion off the front pages of the newspapers. Only the immediate family and friends of the dead were still feeling the raw wounds of having their loved ones and friends ripped out of their midst so suddenly. And only the detectives searching for clues were still searching for meaning.
Simon found himself heading for the boxing ring one evening. The weather had warmed just a little that day, enough that there was slush in places in the streets. He splashed through a puddle and felt the water seep through the seams of his boots.
The sun had set, and the last of twilight was fading. He was glad to see the lights of the arena ahead of them.
He looked up at Hans. “Are you ready?”
A fist landed in a palm with a smack. “Yah. I don’t know who it is at the other end tonight, but I’m ready. I’ve been ready for days.”
“I know,” Simon muttered. Hans had been edgy for some time. It had taken Simon a while to figure out that he wanted a fight.
They walked into the lighted area together. Men in the gathering crowd looked around and began making way when they saw who it was approaching. The murmurs of “Stark Hans” began moving through the crowd.
Hans had been looking around as he always did when he came here. When he spotted Tobias, he changed directions. Simon followed.
“Tobias,” Hans said, wrapping a hand round the man’s upper arm. Tobias winced when Hans squeezed. “Eighteen hundred dollars tonight, right?”
“Sure, Hans.” Tobias nodded rapidly. “Eighteen hundred dollars for ten rounds.”
“Good.” Hans dropped his hand. “I’ll see you after the fight.” This time when they walked away it was Hans who muttered, “Ferret-face,” and Simon who laughed.
“Hans,” they heard another voice call out. Hans stopped still. It was a moment before he turned toward the speaker. Simon stepped behind his friend.
“Master Schardius,” Hans replied, voice even. “I did not expect to find you here tonight.”
“Oh, I have become quite the…what is the word the up-timers use? Fan, I believe. Yes, I have become quite the fan of these contests. To see men striking at each other, wanting to see who is the stronger, the better, but not knowing who will win is really quite exhilarating.” The merchant brushed his mustache back with a finger. “I know you always win, Hans.” There was stress on always. “It’s almost boring watching your fights. But I keep watching, thinking that someday you might be surprised.”
“Not yet,” Hans said. Simon was surprised at the lack of anger in his friend’s voice. He himself was ready to scream at the merchant.
“Not yet,” Schardius agreed. “But all things come to an end, don’t they? And true wisdom might lie in recognizing the end when it comes.” He cocked his head to one side for a moment, then without a word turned back to his companions, who burst out laughing at something he said.
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Simon moved back to Hans’ side and looked up at his friend. “What was that all about?” He was pretty sure that the merchant had said something more than what the words alone would convey.
“I don’t know.” That was all Hans would say, but Simon thought his friend looked more concerned than usual.
They walked around to their usual bench and went through the ritual of stripping off shirt and jacket and the placing of the hat on Simon’s head. Then they turned and watched the other end. That night’s opponent came into view at that moment.
Hans grunted. Simon peered up at him from under the brim of the hat. “I know this one,” Hans said, grinding a gloved fist in the opposite palm.
“Is he good?”
“Sometimes Konrad is tough.”
“Tougher than you?” Simon’s stomach flip-flopped.
Hans grinned. “No. Especially not with you for my luck.” He patted Simon on the shoulder.
“Hans! Konrad!”
They looked up to see Herr Pierpoint waving to them from the desk where the timekeeper usually sat.
“Come over here. There’s been a change in plans.”
They looked at each other. What could have changed? Hans shrugged and pulled his shirt and jacket back on. Simon tagged along behind Hans as he strode toward where Tobias and Herr Pierpoint were standing.
“What do you mean there’s a change in plans? I’m supposed to fight Konrad, right?”
“Wrong. Your plans for the night are changed, Hans Metzger.”
Simon knew he should know that cold voice, but he could not remember whose it was. He turned with Hans to see a face from the past.
“Karl…” Hans said. It was Barnabas’ cousin Karl from Hannover. “Barnabas never said your surname.”
“Elting.”
“So. And what has brought you back from Hannover, Herr Elting?”
“Why, you have, Herr Metzger.” Karl’s voice seemed tinged with sarcasm. “We have unfinished business, you and I. I have brought a challenge for you. Face Hannover’s champion fighter tonight for a purse of fifty thousand USE dollars.”
Fifty thousand dollars! Simon’s jaw dropped and his mind reeled. That sum was almost lordly. It made the eighteen hundred Hans would have won in the fight with Konrad almost seem like a beggar’s wages. Fifty thousand dollars!