Degrees of Retribution: A Novel of Contempt

By Dennis Milholland

First Lieutenant Maximilian Buckley and Dr Samuel Levi were lovers in 1972 while assigned to Berlin Brigade Headquarters. Later that year, Sams paranoid threat to squeal to the Military Police along with the United States thinking a tour in Vietnam would do him good, Max decides that life in communism is far better than death in capitalism. So he defects to the East. And thus the plot thickens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 14, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469115078

Dennis Milholland

Dennis Milholland was educated in the humanities and law at Heidelberg and Berlin. At present, he resides in Ireland where he works as a ghostwriter, journalist, and novelist.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THAT SAM Levi wanted his help to get even with anyone bordered on the absurd. He chuckled ironically at the thought and took no particular notice of the electronic plink.

But when the announcement forced his attention to the lighted instruction sign, Max hurriedly checked his seatbelt. Then glancing at his watch, he noted that they were arriving ahead of schedule. And to ignore the disquieting descent, which added discomfort to the increasing nicotine deficit of the past hour, he forced his head back onto the headrest and refocused his thoughts on the problem at hand.

Regardless of all that had happened in the meantime, some things still stuck out in his mind. And in retrospect Max thought that this whole scenario should seem unimportant. But it didn’t.

Now travelling to the edge of Europe to meet up with him again, a tinge of hostility crept into Max’ perception of Sam. Then resentment mounted as memory grew increasingly vivid of the fateful day when Sam blasted him with the revelation that he would report Max to the Military Police.

What had been the horror story of his entire generation came true that Friday. Not only had their relationship been illegal, which Sam was threatening to expose to prevent him from skipping out. Should worse come to worst. Which it did later that day. When Max received orders assigning him to Da Nang, Republic of Vietnam.

But he’d made the decision while in the state of panic. Headspinning, arse—clenching horror that had driven him to make what he’d believed to be the only logical move for a pacifist. He’d taken a stack of sensitive files from their unit’s safe, microfilmed them, and defected to the Soviet Sector. And the only things he left behind were one dramatic confession and life as a military conscript that he hadn’t asked for.

Back then, he’d been young and naive. So much so that it was now humiliating. But his first taste of revenge had been sweet. Joyful endorphins had been flowing all right. And contemplating it again renewed the rush. Added to the dangerous delight of plane—walloping turbulence and uncertainty about what was going to happen, this heady blend of pleasures moved his mindset to frivolous.

In the plastic window, he saw hypnotically swaying expanses of sea overlaid by the tensely leering reflection of his own face. Then a surprising sensation of floating in air tickled his shoulder blades and retracted his testes. He gripped the armrest, uncertain whether this was the result of his thoughts or the aircraft’s abruptly losing altitude.

Initially only guilt had made him uneasy at having accepted this ribald invitation so close to Berni’s birthday. Not that Sam would have known when Berni’s birthday was. Maybe. Maybe not. But could Sam’s own memories of calamity that October have made him want revenge on Max? Was that still a possibility even after twenty—five years?

That this could be some twisted anniversary party made him even more edgy than did the pilot’s manoeuvring this small aircraft through substantial winds. He couldn’t rid himself of suspicion. Sam’s letter hadn’t mentioned who was going to be on the receiving end of this retribution.

Max closed his eyes to relax. But the plane’s yawing along with not knowing what this shady character from his past had up his sleeve augmented frivolity to maniacal anxiety. The same sensation of overbearing light—headedness that had overcome him so many years previously when he’d passed from one world to the next. When he’d escaped the West.

When at exactly ten—thirty on Sunday morning, 1 October 1972, he’d reported to the Officer of the Day on the opposing side of Checkpoint Charlie. On the side that had belonged to the enemy. On the side that had handed him over to Stasi. On the side that no longer existed. But what if Sam still had issues?

No matter what, Max decided while bracing for touchdown, he was still content to have become a physician known as Dr.sc.med. Buckley instead of just another first lieutenant, known or unknown, missing in action. Even after all these years he was glad to have done it. Even though he’d had to use treason to get there.

CHAPTER 2

HE HADN’T expected the man who collected him at the airport to resemble Berni, but he had. And he hadn’t expected an onslaught of regret about things past to grip the pit of his stomach. So to constrain the effects of both surprises, he opened the bottle he’d purchased as a gift for Sam.

Looking out onto St Stephen’s Green from the window of his old fashioned room, residual anxiety piqued as he sat alone and drank in silence. The park across the street possessed a strangely vague resemblance to a similar square full of greenery in the centre of what used to be called West Berlin.

In Dublin, horse—drawn carriages were waiting in broken sunlight. On Savignyplatz, although devoid of carriages, he would have sensed the same ghostly quality of diffracted yellowing light from times past. Had he still been in the apartment where his home once was and not here, just another insignificant transient in a hotel room.

While his eyes uncaringly glanced from the walnut sash windows over carefully preserved antique surroundings of heavy drapes, dark wallpaper, glazed Gainsborough prints, and leather furniture to the sideboard where the bottle stood, his senses suggested that he was revisiting the past. And in many respects he was. Part of which had been conjured up again by Sam and was the reason he’d come all this way. Not yet allowing himself to reflect on details, he poured another drink.

Insidious past moments of loss and devastation tried to gain his attention. He wished it were different. Then maybe some of those he loved would still be around to take care of him. Weary.

He was growing weary of being strong. And he was long since weary of being alone.

He sipped whisky, walked through to the bedroom and sat on the double bed to remove his shoes. He knew the cycle. Once the shoes were off, he would eventually succumb to the temptation to lie down. And once prone, he would surrender himself to alcohol—enhanced memories.

Aiming at total self—indulgence and letting alcohol override the rather fuzzy, ill—defined objections he thought he should have, he chose to remember the early—morning hours of 26 October 1989. Just because he was feeling lonely. Just because it was getting to be that time of year. Albeit eight years later.

As always in such cases, he needed his visions to be as lucid as yesterday’s. And he intended to make them far more vivid than anything his chronological yesterday had had on offer. He wanted to escape.

Only visualising darkness at first, Max heard the sounds of the interrogation tape. A homeless older man had spent the night in that desolate area of Kreuzberg where someone else had found the body. But the man had notified the police from an emergency call box and confessed to the murder. He’d hoped to spend at least that one winter in a heated prison. The recorded time of the call that morning was shortly before five.

Max knew that it hadn’t been long after five when the phone in their front bedroom started to ring. He hadn’t been there to answer it. But he had listened to that particular taped recording repeatedly for months while vituperatively yelling about what preventive measures the inadequate authorities should have taken. Now despite the hurt, he recalled other details, as visualisation scrolled into view, at first blurred, then focused.

Berni offered the only appropriate reply for this hour: Ugh. as the creaking wooden frame announced that he was shifting his bulk from one side of the bed to the other and the tinny clink that suggested he’d dragged the old dial phone off the nightstand.

Wake up Klinkbeil, rise and shine.

Piss off. Who is this, anyway?

Hey, phoning around town in the middle of the night isn’t my idea of fun either. So can the abuse. Get your butt out of bed. Got work for you. The police dispatcher insisted that even in his sleep—induced state of obliviousness, Berni recognise her official business. It worked.

Beard stubble raked across the mouthpiece when he croaked in his own defence: Sorry. Not awake yet. Heavy night. What do you want at—He rolled toward the nightstand.—God, it’s 5.05. He switched on the lamp next to where he lay, and although soft, he moaned at the glow from the weak bulb.

We’ve got an unidentified Caucasian female for you—The dispatcher taunted him bitterly.—of the elderly and dead variety.

Definitely not my type. You keep her—Then he seemed to remember the dispatcher’s lack of humour.—Okay, bad joke. But what can you expect at this hour?

No joke Klinkbeil. She’s all yours. And you’re leading the team.

You make it sound like a football match—Resignation surfaced in a heavy sigh as he reached for the pencil stub beside the lamp.-Let’s have it. Where’s the party. Then he belched.

Potsdamer Platz.

My favourite place—He yawned.—British or American sector?

Don’t know. Must be right at the demarcation line.

And growled: Got it. before slamming down the receiver.

* * *

Numbed, he stretched and tried to get out of bed, refusing to give in to his inclination to stay put. After three tries, he succeeded. A lack of sleep and excessive beer consumption that night had aborted any real opportunity for Berni’s mood to swing even slightly higher than moderately foul.

Doggedly, he put on his quilted satin dressing gown and staggered down the long, dark corridor. As he rounded the corner to the kitchen, he was chanting: Gotta get some coffee in me, gotta get some coffee. He cringed at the cold buried in the floor tiles and then at the brightness inherent to halogen bulbs.-Ah Jesus. These damned lamps’ll make me go blind some morning.

He plugged in the coffee maker he’d prepared the night before, and shading his eyes from the glare off the stainless—steel counter top he muttered: Get your act together Klinkbeil. First priority, Coffee. Second priority, Wash and shave. Third priority, Coffee. And then go. Maybe.

The coffee maker gurgled in response. At this hour, anything that gurgled annoyed him but not as much as starting the morning without coffee. So his reaction was slight. He paused to growl at the machine then sauntered across the hall to the bathroom.

He showered, shaved, and took his time to return to the spotlighted kitchen drying himself. As he switched it on, the radio signalled familiar bleeps. And to clear his head, he pranced about the kitchen in his towel like a striptease artist and spoke along with the announcer: It is five—thirty and you’re listening to RIAS Berlin. A free voice of the free world. Then he added his own Yeah as he whipped the towel away from his abundant hips and snapped it at the radio.

Berni liked RIAS for its lack of subtlety. The acronym stood for Radio In [the] American Sector and was co—sponsored by the United States government to extend their particular brand of free—wheeling journalism to the unfortunate indigents behind the Iron Curtain. They also used their broadcasts to send coded messages to CIA spooks. The real reason for their existing in the first place. Everybody knew; nobody cared.

Berni flung his towel over the kitchen table, grabbed his large mug and sang his version of morning prayer as he poured the comforting tar—black liquid: Coffee time. Good for you God, that you had your head together enough to create coffee. Amen. This was the closest he ever got to praying, which had proved to be an asset over the years. Berni’s simplistic approach had managed to completely defuse all the cultural and social implications religion ever had for Max.

And since Berni’s only holy ritual was his morning coffee routine, he celebrated the long version to stall for time. Berni hated the part of town the dispatcher had ordered him to. The part down by the Wall. And he’d do just about anything to avoid it. Max knew this because they’d been there together, revisiting old haunts inhabited by horrors of Berni’s past.

* * *

When viewed from the East, it was the unapproachable, whitewashed end of the world, beyond which lay uncharted territory inhabited by capitalist monsters who fed on working—class children. From the West however, the three—metre high concrete slabs offered a blank canvas for surrealist expression of political discontent. The surface displayed colourful spray—painted graffiti. Official high jump training camp for the East German Olympic team was one. That always got a grin. But Berni’s favourite was aimed at the GDR’s head of state and party: Erich you’ll be the last one out so don’t forget the lights.

But no matter how much irony anyone applied, he knew the effect was merely cosmetic. This area was aggressively bleak with only a hint of the once vibrant city his parents had told him about.

The only proof he ever found that anything other than a ghost town, which wallowed in self—pity and outdated vanity, ever existed here were rusted tram tracks embedded in the mossy, slippery, disused cobblestone of Potsdamer Straße. Caked with decades of grime in their slots, they slid quietly under the Wall, near where a tomb—like slab covered the entrance to a subterranean railway station, scarcely recognisable behind dead weeds of the season.

Since the political peninsula of Stadt—Mitte protruded into the West, the entire neighbourhood stank of overripe socialist contempt for the material world. Particularly during these cold months, pungent carbonaceous fumes of burning brown coal mixed uniquely with the thick tarry stench of two—stroke—engine exhaust and drifted over the Wall to inflict Weltschmerz.

Max was only one of the renegade tearaways from the first socialist state on German soil Berni had seen make pilgrimages here to smell the home they’d lost to ideological disappointment. Like other West Berliners, Berni couldn’t understand how this stench could be comforting.

Anyway, on this Thursday morning, he turned onto Kothener Straße. As with part of his own life, this street also dead—ended at the Wall. He arrived at six—thirty when RIAS bleeped the time through his car radio.

He parked in front of the new post—modern building, which replaced the house where he’d once lived. Concentrating on the broadcast rather than on where he was, he leant his head onto the headrest and listened. Radical moves in the East dominated the news; times were changing. In Berlin they always did.

American military police were already on the scene across the street as he emerged from their dilapidated Renault, Max called Maude. Berni’s colleagues enjoyed watching him get in and out. And his struggling with two—metres and a hundred—kilos of bulk in a confined space had motivated someone years ago to name him The Bear. This morning however, he managed without much of an audience. Only a handful of early—morning sports enthusiasts were trying to observe the goings—on at the crime scene while jogging in place to keep warm. But no one paid him any specific attention.

Once out, he tied his shoelaces, tucked in his flannel shirt, fastened the buttons on his jeans, adjusted his sweater, but left his jacket behind in the car. Later he would use the jacket as an excuse to take a break from Marrow.

Berni had been hoping the crime scene would be at that segment of Wall which ran north—south between Potsdamer Platz and the Brandenburg Gate. The part where the cemented—over entrance to the S—Bahn was. That would have put jurisdiction in the British sector. And Barry Thompson from the RAF would have been in charge.

But as fate would have it, Clarence Marrow was already there. As always, he pranced about yelling orders at civilians. And as post—war decorum dictated, West Berlin police officers were trying to ingratiate themselves with the omnipotent American by intricately following the orders he barked. Intent on not getting in the way, they’d also parked their three green and white VW vans off to one side, near a cluster of circus caravans. And Berni was sure they failed to recognise the humour.

He openly resented that they had all the work but were meant to keep their distance. Nice trick if you could manage it. He couldn’t. Nonetheless he was willing to give it his best shot on a case to case basis.

Aside from amber sodium—vapour lamps that floodlit the other side of the border and cast long shadows of the Wall into the West, the site was pitch—dark. So when Berni approached, Technical Services was busy mounting great spotlights on high tripods in order to illuminate the area to circus intensity, again failing to recognise the slightest joke.

The morning air was colder than it had been during the night. Depressingly, the stiff wind didn’t budge the thick blanket of elephant—grey cloud. And although none had fallen, Berni welcomed the sweet smell of rain slashing its way from the Baltic that diluted the thick stench gushing across the Wall.

Some twenty metres from the huddle of military police, Berni used his torch to look at fresh tyre tracks in the moist, sandy ground. He motioned for his technicians. Then when he recognised that the all—weather tyres of police vans had left the tracks, he cancelled the order with a rude gesture. The dull morning was fulfilling its promise.

Captain Marrow, model soldier, patriot, show—off meandered up to him sporting a symmetrically arranged grin as if it were an integral part of his immaculately balanced uniform. The look of authority was all—important and irradiated around the man like the halo on crisp American replicas of fake Russian icons.

When he first showed up, Berni described Marrow to his own supervisor, Reiner, as a tall blond with big balls. Not only was he referring to Marrow’s abrasive manner. But because of his slight build, it appeared as if he were always stepping around his own manhood when he swaggered.

Still more than ten paces away, Berni got the first whiff of Marrow’s cologne. Nobody knew what he used, but it was grotesque. The smell reminded Reiner of Intermox, that ungodly horrible Bulgarian lice powder they’d used back in the ‘fifties.

Marrow was holding a handkerchief saturated with this stuff up to his nose. Supposedly, it soothed his delicate stomach, which he claimed became upset at the mere whiff of death. Of course this was silly for someone in his job. The man dealt with death on a regular basis, and not only as a passive observer.

And Berni was well aware that the object of this childish exercise was to torment him. Just because a member of the Allied forces could, without fearing repercussions.

You see, Berni hated perfume. His ex—wife, Veronika, had terrorised him with it indiscriminately. A titbit Marrow got off the grapevine of Berlin’s tightly knit law—enforcement community. So, he used the perfumed handkerchief as a routine part of his harassment.

Marrow disliked Berni for no apparent reason, other than he was a Berliner. Or as he called them, curry—sausage munching Nazis. But the feeling was mutual, also for no apparent reason, other than Marrow was a member of the once victorious and in the meantime fat—arsed occupational forces.

Marrow murmured through his handkerchief: Guten Morgen Klinkbeil. And since he uttered this phrase so deliberately, it sounded as if he’d learned just the one, leaving the rest up to providence and sign language.

Anyway, Berni glared at Marrow and switched to English, which he’d perfected among other things while sharing his life for five years with Max. And as he took a quick breath, he asked sullenly, whether they’d uncovered anything.

That she’s dead—Marrow muted his speech again with the handkerchief.—is about all one wants to say.

Berni belched: Guess why we’re here. and became more disgruntled as he angrily watched Marrow shake the handkerchief again in his direction.

Marrow’s indifference expressed itself in an unsuccessfully subdued yawn: So, what’s your purpose today?

As soon as our forensics’ team gets here—

Who’s on this morning—Then deducing his worst nightmare from Berni’s smirk, Marrow’s assertive snarl shifted to whiny misery.—Aw, not little Miss Treason—Tits again?

Marrow didn’t like Berni because he was German, but he hated Max because, at least in Berlin, the popular pathologist made no bones about his lifestyle. That Max was a traitor was only a secondary factor in Marrow’s equation of hatred.

None other—Berni respectfully watched in silence as Technical Services ceremoniously lit the spots before he continued growling through his teeth.—Hey, we orchestrated all this just for you GI Joe.

Again Marrow toyed with the handkerchief: How thoughtful.

And you could tell by his look that Berni was wondering how many years they could give him for belting an American officer, since he was now addressing the back of Marrow’s head: By the way, are your cub scouts going to get the stiff out of the Garden of Eden before it rots?

And rather than paying attention to what Berni was saying, Marrow was busy motioning his crew toward the corpse on that narrow stretch of ground, skirting the front, or the back of the Wall, depending on the viewer’s perspective and/or political inclinations.

Either way it was off limits to West Berlin police. So much so that the National People’s Army, looming in their lofty watchtowers high above their tank traps planted in sandy expanses of border, had been ordered to shoot to kill if they got near it. They regarded it as an act of aggression.

You know Marrow, I hate bothering you with this line—of—duty crap nearly as much as repeating myself. But have your people found anything over there yet?

Marrow shrugged and switched on his typically phoney smile.

Displaying more teeth than humans normally have, he eluded an answer with: What exactly is it you want us to look for? Again, he shook out the handkerchief. But this time he did put it away.

First Berni mumbled: So, it’s back to diddling the locals, huh—Then having decided that Marrow had just about used up all the goodwill credit he was prepared to extend him, Berni yelled loud enough for all to hear.—How about looking for a weapon? You know, I’d even settle for a picnic basket or a used mint—flavoured condom with sticky fingerprints. What are you bastards waiting for, coffee to be served and the fucking cheerleaders to show up?

Since Marrow obviously hadn’t expected this kind of reaction in the early morning from a German cop, Berni continued before the surprise wore off: Or do you want me to go over and look for evidence in Ivan’s front yard myself?

Attitude was written in Berni’s face. To his eternal disgust, the Four Powers’ Agreement was still the rules book and gave the Americans, British, French, and the Soviets the power of God. And right then he had precious little respect for any of them. But since he seldom lost control he was careful not to lash out all too harshly against an Allied member. Just enough to get things stirred up and adrenaline pumping.

We may look for evidence if we think it’s in the interest of the Military Government. But when and how we do, will never be any of your concern. So, don’t press your luck with me Klinkbeil.

Blodes Arschloch! Berni called a spade a space then turned and walked away mumbling. As he walked toward the car to get his jacket and to give himself a bit of space, he relieved frustration by badgering pieces of rubble with his shoes.

* * *

On his way back from the car, Berni waved at the morgue’s van as it drove by and stopped just short of the circus caravans, near the police vehicles. The driver and his assistant hurried to take the fibreglass transport coffin out of the back and remove its lid. Ostentatiously, they were eager for something to transport, lighting up, jumping about in an attempt to keep warm, and generally staying out of the way. But what they were really doing was getting out of the line of fire for show time.

They’d all seen Dr Buckley reduce Captain Marrow to the verge of tears on previous occasions and didn’t want to miss any of the action. But none of them dared get close enough to become casualties themselves.

So, heads turned and a hush fell over the crowd as Max stepped out of the hearse and strutted in front of Captain Marrow, smoothing his left eyebrow with his middle finger in salute and singing The Internationale in the spotlight. The self—confident expert had arrived and things would start popping. He knew how to get things done in spite of the Allies. And since he was officially still a citizen of East Germany, he was allowed by special arrangement to pass without let, hindrance, or bullets to the head onto Soviet-occupied expanses of the Democratic Sector.

In blatant disrespect of Marrow’s screeched command of: Halt! No further! Max strode up to the Wall. He took a long, close look at the body, at the ground on either side, and casually walked to where his team had gathered just outside the bright glare of spotlights.

To discourage any other civilian’s getting that close to the border, Marrow frantically ordered his disinterested soldiers to drag the deceased from where she was. Begrudgingly, they did as they were told, and flopped the poor dear onto the ground next to the open transport casket.

Then a burly Staff Sergeant materialised, wielding a more repugnant chip on his shoulder than the others, and took her fingerprints. When he’d finished, possibly out of spite, or more than likely because Marrow had told him to, he let the hands with their sticky inked fingers drop into the sand.

Max sighed, shook his head, and would have protested, had he not known that these children disguised as soldiers came from neighbourhoods that yielded more unnatural deaths per week than his unit dealt with in a year. They had hangovers. They were homesick. They couldn’t get jobs doing anything else. And they just didn’t care. They were the new volunteer Army.

He attentively watched the laboratory technician carefully seal the woman’s hands and head in sterile plastic bags to preserve any evidence that was still under her fingernails or in cranial orifices. Then the van’s driver and his assistant carefully lifted her onto a thick plastic sheet and picked it up by the corners. But again as fate would have it, the sheet ripped sending the unfortunate soul face first into the sand.

Max yelled at his own subjects but was aiming at Marrow, who even had to jump aside when Max stormed by, glaring, daring him to breathe. Then when he came within earshot, Berni grumbled: I’ll be. If it isn’t my favourite doctor.

Max was grinning but mimicked his partner’s awkward mood: And I damned well better be your only doctor Buster.

Aw, cut me some slack-Berni whinged, scowling resentfully in Marrow’s direction.-You know, you’re gonna have to stop these twenty-four-hour shifts. They’re making you even less likeable than Veronika.

Ain’t humanly possible Big Guy-He then spoke in his usual, cheerful voice but irritably sneered in Marrow’s direction as he adjusted the collar of his trench coat against the wind and the sand particles it stirred.-And what brings you to these parts on this lovely morning?

They told me something about a wild party and sex with an older woman-Berni’s moodiness was starting to subside despite the morning’s progress so far. Max had that effect on him.-But I think foul play sums it up more accurately.

Pretty much. Stabs to the chest. Wounds all over. Animals have been gnawing on the left forearm and face. Let’s assume it was animals; in this neighbourhood, you never know. But looking on the bright side-He concluded by revealing some of the bitterness life as a bureaucrat had taught him.-at least nothing’s chopped off that we have to go looking for. Except for the nose. But what the Hell, we’ll just tell your boss the animals got it.

So many blessings. Must be doing something right.

Yeah, but we’ll have a problem explaining stab wounds she didn’t die from.

The remark was totally out of character for Max. He never conjectured anything about the cause or time of death until the autopsy was final and all the lab reports were back. When he noticed Berni’s surprise, he took him by the arm and walked him over to the open coffin. And since the hearse’s shadows prevented the spotlights from illuminating anything in their vicinity, Max used the beam of his halogen torch as a pointer.

Look at the sand over there. Hardly any blood at all. And what there is our cute little animal friends probably left behind when they got the munchies.

Gruesome thought. Berni shivered.

And take a close look at the dress. The blood didn’t spurt; it oozed out. Didn’t have any pressure in her system when she got ripped. It’s kind of like a garden hose when the water’s turned off. You can slash—

Berni held up his hands in mock surrender: You’re such fun before breakfast. My stomach’s going to refuse any food at all today. Thanks loads Max.

* * *

Around eleven—thirty the same morning, Max left the PM room in a hurry. When he rounded the corner and darted through his office’s door, he collided with Berni.

For Berni, it was just a bump as he leisurely sipped coffee and contemplated snowflakes lubricated with rain, sliding down the large double—glazed windows. For Max, it was like running into a wall. And only when he noticed his mate’s preoccupation with precipitation did Max realise that it was much too cold for this time of year.

Okay, what did she die of? Berni sounded vague as he spoke over his shoulder, still concentrating on the flakes.

Max didn’t answer straight away. Other things were on his mind as he tossed the tape with his dictated record of post—mortem exam onto his desk. Then first fiddling with paperwork that wanted attention, he looked up at Berni’s broad back standing there with slumping poise by the window. Succumbing to an urgent need to be close, Max thrust his hands into the pockets of his white smock and went to stand next to his man.

Berni gently placed an arm around his shoulder. Then drew him in to where Max would feel warm and safe as they watched the snowy rain thrashing through the central courtyard of the single—storey building.

Then breaking the spell, Max sneezed. The stench in the air made him sneeze more than he wished to admit. And no one could ever doubt the building’s purpose. Formaldehyde fumes permeated every corner.

Still unclear what she died of Berni. I couldn’t find any evidence of actual foul play—Max seemed remote and dispirited.—Maybe she died of natural causes. Who knows?

All right then, any theories on the stab wounds?

Max looked at him, smiled faintly, shrugged, and let his head rest against Berni’s broad shoulder. Then focusing on nothing in particular, he noticed a piece of paper on the floor, which appeared to be an advertisement leaflet out of the morning’s newspaper. When he bent over from the waist to pick it up, backache stopped him. And trying to straighten again, he faltered, stepped on the paper, slipped and almost fell.

Berni caught him with one hand. And his brow expressed concern at the embarrassed shallow grimace of someone who’d become gawky with fatigue.

Max, playing the stoic, ignored the incident with: You know, maybe. But just maybe—He sneezed again.—someone’s trying to fake a homicide. Trying to set somebody up for blackmail. Or a fraudulent double—indemnity insurance claim.

So, what you’re saying is-Berni handed him a tissue from the large box on his desk.-that we’ve got a ripper who waits ‘til they’re cold before he cuts ‘em up to extort money?

Could be.

Good possibility. Did you check her for hypodermic marks?

Aw, give it a rest-He sighed then sneezed.-You know that’s part of the routine. You’ll just have to wait for the toxicology report. Noticeably edgy, Max moved back to his desk and started fidgeting with papers again.

What’s wrong-Berni chuckled then sipped coffee.-patients complaining about the treatment they’re getting?

Would you stop it-He paused to quiet himself.-It’s just—Well, I wanted to wait for a more appropriate moment to tell you this.

Berni looked worried. He didn’t like surprises with uncertain outcome. He’d had too many along the way.

Max placed his left hip on the desk and crossed his arms to lend himself an air of nonchalance. Then he tried a tired smile to reassure his partner that nothing was amiss: The morgue is hardly the romantic setting I wanted.

Romantic? You’re finally going to propose?

If you can get Kohl and his merry Christian Democrats to let two men marry, and I can convince my family not to put a contract out on us, then maybe. But the real reason I’m jumpy is because the artificial insemination worked; Veronika’s pregnant.

Berni set down the mug abruptly enough to slop coffee onto some papers. He pulled Max off the desk and hugged him, almost smothered him: You sure you want to go through with it? He was apprehensive. The abortion his ex-wife had had a few years previously made him uneasy. She’d wanted a child from Max, but claimed that she’d found out they’d used her ex-husband’s sperm.

Don’t you? Her gynaecologist doesn’t foresee any problems because of her age. She’s fit enough. And this time the sperm thing’s clear. But she’ll have to stop working. Paint solvents could damage the foetus.

Not wanting to address it directly, Berni hesitated before asking what their attorney had done to make the sperm thing, as Max referred to their previous problem with ambiguity, absolutely clear. Max sighed and was collecting his thoughts to answer, when the door flew open without the pretence of a knock.

Ah, you do have a visitor Dr Blood-Bucket. Not simply talking to yourself. Good sign Old Boy-Marrow’s comment made them freeze, since he’d probably been standing outside long enough to have heard everything. And moving from the doorway, not waiting for an invitation, Marrow went calmly for the chair.-If you like, I can wait outside.

If I’d like-Max hooted and plopped himself onto the plastic seat before Marrow could get to it.-I’d like for you to cut the crap, have your say, and fuck off-Smiling, he leant back and put the ankle of one leg clothed in scrubs on the knee of the other, letting his foot encased in an oversized protective cover slowly trace circles in the air.-Now, what can I do for you Captain Freedom?

Nothing, really. Just a courtesy visit. Wanted to inform you that our representative couldn’t make your post-mortem.

Would never have noticed. Max broadened the grimace he called his best Long-Island-garden-party smile. Actually, he was mocking Marrow but didn’t have the extra teeth to pull it off effectively.

Marrow stood erect since he wasn’t able to sit erect while giving orders: Send a copy of the report to my office. You still have the address, I take it.

Should be around here somewhere. Max obtrusively checked the empty wastepaper basket.

But when he looked up, Marrow did something that was so arrogant, so typically Marrow that it galled Max far beyond simple perturbation. This uniformed idiot was sneering down his nose at him but spoke condescendingly over his shoulder at Berni: By the way Klinkbeil, we found no weapon, no picnic basket, and no mint-flavoured prophylactic-His rapid, prim, clipped speech articulated annoyance.-Further, there is no Allied interest in this case. Satisfied?

Berni grunted maturely in standard macho affirmation. But his inner juvenile self had taken over as he pivoted the middle finger of each hand toward Marrow’s ears and pulled a face with crossed eyes and lopping tongue.

At first, Max was too peeved even to smile, but then the absurdity of the situation became too grotesque to subdue an appropriate reaction. It was when Marrow turned to look at Berni that did the trick.

Starting with a sneeze, Max worked up to indulgently bold laughter. Berni followed suit. They played off each other, gaining enough momentum to cause tears of hilarity.

Incensed, Marrow left the office door wide open when he huffed out. They were still laughing at him and the petty officialdom he represented as his pristine, crepe—soled, patent leather combat boots squeaked their way down the long corridor’s lino floor. Mirth settled minutes later, long after the glass doors at the end of hall shut out the irritating sound along with the dank stench of brown—coal fumes bonding with icy rain.

CHAPTER 3

TURNING HIS key in the ancient iron lock, embedded just left of centre in the massive glossy—white double—door entrance to what they called their Charlottenburg home, the first thought that popped into Berni’s mind was that the place would finally become a home. In seven months they’d have a child.

Many years previously, the flat had served George Grosz as an atelier and residence. Not quite as many years ago, it was Veronika’s atelier. And while they were still married, it was their site of cohabitation but never their home. Then about the time of the divorce, neglect had turned it into a bachelor pad, which not even remotely qualified as a home.

That was when, in the summer of ‘84, he’d given Max, their then new pathologist from East Berlin, a standing invitation to drop by the place if he felt fit enough