Hannibal really wanted to ask how a man could miss his own son’s funeral. Instead he leaned an elbow on the bar and said, “I understand that you led the investigation into the death of a woman named Carla Donner some years ago. It seems Oscar disagreed with the official reports. Would you be willing to tell me what really happened?”
At the mention of the name Donner, Hannibal could see Foster stiffen and draw himself even straighter, if that was possible. His weathered face grew harder, like cement setting into granite. His eyes focused on Hannibal’s face and he hardly blinked as he spoke.
“The case was a simple one, albeit tragic. Carla was alone in the house. She slipped in the tub, banged her head against the edge and drowned. End of story. Oscar, well Oscar was confused about some things.”
“I see,” Hannibal said, raising his glass again. It was good beer, but he hardly tasted it now.
As if she had received a secret signal, Cindy spoke up. “You knew the Donners, didn’t you?”
“Gil Donner was a good friend,” Foster said. “And still is. While I had to investigate his wife’s death, I had to get him through the ordeal.”
“Friends of the family,” Hannibal said. “So Oscar knew them as well?”
At that Foster smiled. “Yes, Oscar actually had quite a crush on Mrs. Donner. She was one of his teachers. It was his freshman year of high school. He took her death hard, as did we all, but he took offense at the fact that the investigation was kept low key.”
Cindy poured dark beer onto her soft voice before speaking again. “Gil Donner was Major Donner then, isn’t that right? He was Provost marshal at the time. Now I don’t know much about the military, but I think that made him your boss, isn’t that right? Is that why you kept the circumstances of her death so, what did you call it? Low key?”
Foster walked around the bar and pulled a large but thin hardcover book out of a shelf. He began to leaf absently through it while he talked. “People may have thought that, but they were wrong. No matter who he was, there was no point in hurting him further by letting the details out.”
Hannibal stood beside Foster, looking over his shoulder at what he thought at first was a photo album. “Well, Mister Peters, I doubt those details would matter to anyone now.”
“It might still matter to Gil. You see, Carla was cheating on him. Too close an investigation would have surely brought that out.”
The ruffle of pages being turned was the only sound in the room for a while. Hannibal returned to the bar for another big swallow of beer. He realized now that Foster Peters had never really given up on his son.
“Oscar sensed some secret was being kept. And you never told him?”
“I’m a professional, Mister Jones,” Foster said, not raising his head. “You don’t make exceptions for family, especially frantic teenagers.”
Hannibal looked to Cindy to ask the hard question.
“Mister Peters, I understand why Oscar might think Carla was murdered. But why would he tell anyone he knew a witness to that crime?”
Foster looked up calmly. “Miss, he lied. He lied to make it look as if I would falsify an investigation. He knew that impugning my police work was the most effective way to hurt me. He was good at that.”
Hannibal drained his glass. Watching Foster stare down at the glossy pages he realized he had gotten all he could from this man. Foster Peters was more alone than Hannibal ever wanted to be.
“We’ll be going now,” Hannibal said. “Thank you for your time.”
“Oh here,” Foster said, flipping the book to Hannibal as they walked toward the door. “Take that with you.”
Hannibal caught the book but immediately held it out toward Foster again. It was a yearbook from Frankfurt American High School. “You don’t want to give this away.”
“Why not?” Foster held the door open for them. “Maybe his friends in the States will want to see it. It was all I had of him until he got back, but now he’s not… you think I should be there, don’t you? With his mother. Well, it’s too late now, don’t you see? Too late to have him back again.”
Cindy averted her eyes and moved off toward the car. Hannibal hesitated, but realized it was too late for this man. “I’ll give this to your wife,” he finally said. “I don’t think she’ll let him go so easily.”
“I’ll never call my neighborhood in Alexandria, Old Town again,” Cindy said, clutching a painting she had just purchased from a street vendor.
“Yes, this is the real thing,” Hannibal said. He was glad to see Cindy smiling again. Their conversation with Foster Peters had left her depressed, but he didn’t think that man’s self serving bitterness should be allowed to ruin her day. Besides, that was not what he brought her to Germany for. So he took her to Heidelberg’s old town, thinking a stroll there would lighten her mood.
In the crisp clarity of the afternoon sun, he walked her to Hauptstrasse walkplatz, the half-mile long pedestrian mall in the middle of the old town district. He felt a brief moment of deja vu because Alexandria, Virginia’s old town area clings to the banks of a narrow river as well. But the Neckar River flows more swiftly than the Potomac, and so is much cleaner. This day the sun skipped golden discs across its crystal blue surface when he caught sight of it.
Cindy wandered without any particular purpose through the warren of cobblestone streets with Hannibal in tow. An endless flow of shops and cafes caught her attention, offering all the usual tourist paraphernalia and a few less usual choices like artwork and antique books.
They shared an outdoor table at a small but delicious smelling restaurant before reality again intruded, and it was Cindy who broached the subject at hand.
“So, do you think Oscar might have been right about a murder?”
Hannibal bit into his schnitzel like a long lost friend. The pork was crisp and golden beneath the thick brown sauce. He made an “mmmmm” sound and smiled contentedly behind a faraway look.
“Hannibal, please.” Cindy said, grinning herself. “It’s a pork chop in mushroom gravy for crying out loud. Now what do you think?”
“Schnitzel is not a pork chop,” Hannibal said with a nearly straight face. “And jaegerso?e is not simply mushroom gravy. And I’m not sure what to think about Oscar’s suspicions. There’s certainly good reason to wonder. I mean, his father pretty much admitted he was covering something up.”
“True,” Cindy said, and then, as if it was part of the same conversation she added, “It certainly is charming here. And the people are so, I don’t know, hospitable. Not like Frankfurt at all. Rather surprising.”
“Why?” Hannibal asked, sipping his wine. “Is Washington like Pittsburgh? Heidelberg is kind of the romantic heart of Germany.”
“Poetic,” Cindy said, digging into her own potato salad. “So are we finished with business here?”
Hannibal sat back and took a big swallow from his glass. He had chosen an alt bier from farther north, thick and dark with a nice malty flavor. “I’m thinking I might like to chat with Donner a bit about his wife’s death.”
“Sometimes you’re like a terrier with a bone,” Cindy said. “How do you figure to find this Donner character, anyway?”
“Just like back in the States, babe. I’ll look in the phone book.”
Hannibal wandered through the bar in his working clothes and glasses, feeling out of place for the first time since he returned to Germany. Gil Donner had insisted Hannibal come alone, and picked a place they could be anonymous.
The place was The Schiwmmbad, and it was more American than Hannibal wanted to believe. First the place was huge. There were two dance floors, a theater, two bars and a stage in the building. And the place was loud. The music was live, and the sort people call alternative these days. To Hannibal it was rock music that just missed the target. But the young crowd, about half American military, seemed into it.
Hannibal hated pushing through crowds. He hated the drunken laughter that surrounded him, mixing with the music. And he hated the stale beer smell that seemed to rise out of the hardwood floors. All in all, he wanted this to be over.