The Killing of Emma Gross Read Online Free
scream and call them names. But that was what they wanted.
I settled back against the bunk. I counted silently and my breathing deepened. The pain in my head lost some of its intensity. Some time after that sleep found me again.
Banging, outside the cell door. The metallic rasp from my troubled dreams back to pull me awake. This was classic stuff to deprive me of sleep ahead of my upcoming interrogation. I opened my eyes as the cell light came on. I was ready for it this time; I'd fallen asleep with the blanket twisted around my head. I blinked until I could bear more of the light, then I cast off the blanket.
The door opened. Two Schupo men pulled me out of the cell and carried me up several flights of stairs. I lost count of how many floors we went up, but I recognised the second floor offices from when I'd worked at HQ, back when Ritter and I had been partners. The Schupo led me down a hallway painted in two-tone institutional grey. They locked me into an interview room which had the unremarkable look of interview rooms everywhere, consisting as it did of two cheap wooden chairs arranged either side of a chipped wooden card table.
I took the chair facing the door. It creaked under me, so I moved and took the one opposite. That creaked too, only this time I couldn't summon the energy to move again. The table wobbled when I leaned my elbows on it. Damn it, was that just wear and tear or had they shortened one of the legs on purpose? A breeze pushed its way through the open window and I shivered. This window was large, maybe four times the size of the one in my cell downstairs, but the bars outside were just as thick.
Ha, listen to me. My cell. They'd got me thinking I belonged there already. The thought made me laugh aloud. The ragged quality of the laughter made me laugh all the more until there were tears of pain dripping off my chin. I caught some of the tears on my tongue but the salty tang only increased my thirst. My stomach muscles ached like I'd just done a hundred sit-ups: tension, pure and simple, tightening me up. Even though I was familiar with this interrogation technique, it was starting to work. I'd have to watch that: maybe Ritter was going to go the whole hog and try for a charge of withholding evidence. He probably had enough on me for that.
The door opened. I resisted turning round to look. The door shut again. I thought whoever it was had left, as I didn't hear any footsteps. But then a man in plain clothes came into my line of sight and sat in the chair at the opposite side of the table. He'd left his jacket in another room, waistcoat hanging loose over a solid gut, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow exposing a red and green tattoo on his left forearm. He had unruly blond hair and a red patch along the left side of his jaw that looked to be a shaving rash. I didn't recognise him and he didn't introduce himself.
He took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it. He offered the case to me.
'Why am I here?' I said.
No response.
'Look, there's a five-year-old girl out there, missing, maybe dead. We don't have time to play Ritter's games.'
He just waved the case under my nose, the clown. Clearly, I would have to wait for the ringmaster.
'You don't have a cigar?' I said.
He scratched the side of his flat nose and shook his head. I took one of the little white tubes and he lit it for me. I gulped down as much smoke as it took to make my vision dance with purple and white lights. On the exhale the damn thing tasted of nothing.
'Can I have some water?' I croaked. 'Maybe something to eat?'
He looked me up and down and thought things over for a while before he said, 'I'll see what I can do.' He wasn't from the city. Not from Cologne either, though I couldn't place the accent.
He paused with his hand on the door knob as though unsure whether to say what was on his mind.
He went with: 'And I do read the papers, you know.'
Having thus informed me that he knew all about Gertrude Albermann, and that he
I settled back against the bunk. I counted silently and my breathing deepened. The pain in my head lost some of its intensity. Some time after that sleep found me again.
Banging, outside the cell door. The metallic rasp from my troubled dreams back to pull me awake. This was classic stuff to deprive me of sleep ahead of my upcoming interrogation. I opened my eyes as the cell light came on. I was ready for it this time; I'd fallen asleep with the blanket twisted around my head. I blinked until I could bear more of the light, then I cast off the blanket.
The door opened. Two Schupo men pulled me out of the cell and carried me up several flights of stairs. I lost count of how many floors we went up, but I recognised the second floor offices from when I'd worked at HQ, back when Ritter and I had been partners. The Schupo led me down a hallway painted in two-tone institutional grey. They locked me into an interview room which had the unremarkable look of interview rooms everywhere, consisting as it did of two cheap wooden chairs arranged either side of a chipped wooden card table.
I took the chair facing the door. It creaked under me, so I moved and took the one opposite. That creaked too, only this time I couldn't summon the energy to move again. The table wobbled when I leaned my elbows on it. Damn it, was that just wear and tear or had they shortened one of the legs on purpose? A breeze pushed its way through the open window and I shivered. This window was large, maybe four times the size of the one in my cell downstairs, but the bars outside were just as thick.
Ha, listen to me. My cell. They'd got me thinking I belonged there already. The thought made me laugh aloud. The ragged quality of the laughter made me laugh all the more until there were tears of pain dripping off my chin. I caught some of the tears on my tongue but the salty tang only increased my thirst. My stomach muscles ached like I'd just done a hundred sit-ups: tension, pure and simple, tightening me up. Even though I was familiar with this interrogation technique, it was starting to work. I'd have to watch that: maybe Ritter was going to go the whole hog and try for a charge of withholding evidence. He probably had enough on me for that.
The door opened. I resisted turning round to look. The door shut again. I thought whoever it was had left, as I didn't hear any footsteps. But then a man in plain clothes came into my line of sight and sat in the chair at the opposite side of the table. He'd left his jacket in another room, waistcoat hanging loose over a solid gut, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow exposing a red and green tattoo on his left forearm. He had unruly blond hair and a red patch along the left side of his jaw that looked to be a shaving rash. I didn't recognise him and he didn't introduce himself.
He took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it. He offered the case to me.
'Why am I here?' I said.
No response.
'Look, there's a five-year-old girl out there, missing, maybe dead. We don't have time to play Ritter's games.'
He just waved the case under my nose, the clown. Clearly, I would have to wait for the ringmaster.
'You don't have a cigar?' I said.
He scratched the side of his flat nose and shook his head. I took one of the little white tubes and he lit it for me. I gulped down as much smoke as it took to make my vision dance with purple and white lights. On the exhale the damn thing tasted of nothing.
'Can I have some water?' I croaked. 'Maybe something to eat?'
He looked me up and down and thought things over for a while before he said, 'I'll see what I can do.' He wasn't from the city. Not from Cologne either, though I couldn't place the accent.
He paused with his hand on the door knob as though unsure whether to say what was on his mind.
He went with: 'And I do read the papers, you know.'
Having thus informed me that he knew all about Gertrude Albermann, and that he
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