Typically, Dr. Kienast would be stunned and mumble to himself.
He could not fathom why others were satisfied with so little of the obtainable knowledge, or what they did with their natural human interest or professional curiosity.
When he had finished the requisite tests, the coroner declared that the death of the well-kempt, well-nourished unknown male, about fifty years old, most likely occurred a few minutes before being discovered by that early morning runner.
Though possibly it happened a little later.
What’s more, it might also be possible, Dr. Kienast added somewhat sarcastically, that the corpse is still alive.
This man is a very recent corpse, replied the slightly insulted coroner, go on, look at him, please. He raised the lifeless hand, showed Kienast the fingernails, and then let the hand drop. And as if that had not been sufficient, he pressed his fingers into the corpse’s thigh muscles.
It’s possible, he went on explaining, that he gave up the ghost during the ten minutes it took your men to get to the scene in your cars. If that runner had come across him earlier, or reported him earlier, or if you and your coppers hadn’t fussed around so much, the ambulance people might possibly have revived him.
Dr. Kienast asked whether the body wasn’t in too good shape to have succumbed to a heart attack.
The coroner laughed, relieved, and asked him to stop his stupidities, he was talking like an amateur.
Oh, no, Dr. Kienast pleaded; he merely asked the question in such a silly way because he was wondering whether they should be investigating in an entirely different direction.
If he were fond of hairsplitting, replied the coroner, who did not quite see where Kienast was going with his strange reasoning, he would agree that, at first glance, the heart attack might not have been inevitable, but that is no basis for judgment.
Let’s wait for the autopsy, he added after a brief silence.
Doesn’t look like a used-up body, Dr. Kienast insisted.
Look at his legs, his chest, didn’t have a belly, must have swum or played tennis or who knows what, but he exercised seriously. And we’d better take samples from his abdomen and loins, he added casually, there is a good-size sperm spot on his underpants, and please take a sample from his anus too.
Who knows, the sperm may not be his. We should also know something more concrete about the mode of the intercourse. Judging by the look of his penis, he was not participating in a vaginal or anal pleasure.
He was very sorry, replied the coroner impatiently, but to say anything more or anything else now would be sheer irresponsibility. He must have a more thorough examination. Of course, he would have the sperm looked at especially. He would probably receive Dr. Kienast’s wish list, as usual. As to the corpse’s legs and his exercises, he thought that in his younger days the man bicycled a lot.
Why didn’t I think of that, the detective cried out in surprise.
The swollen veins, of course, the man definitely did bicycle.
And then everything continued on in the usual way.
In those anxious days, by the way, many people died of apoplexy or heart failure unexpectedly, suddenly, but on all the others there were identifying documents.
The weather changed all the time; now it was warm as if spring were coming; now the temperature dropped and it became bitter cold. Dry cold with some snowflakes. As if the weather wanted to contribute to the general upheaval.
The corpse was wheeled out through the other door and pushed into its temporary place. Cooled somewhat, that is where it would wait for its autopsy and the legal permits for samples to be taken from it. There was a small spot on its neck. Someone must have hugged him from behind, surprising him, and clung to him with lips stuck to his neck so vehemently, perhaps even bit him, as to “kiss out” the skin, as Hungarians would say, causing a black-and-blue spot, a love bite or hickey. Someone who had not seen him for a long time. Neither the coroner nor Kienast spoke of this, though both knew that this mark had to be recorded immediately. They’d pour dental wax over it, the negative would be filled with dental plaster, thus gaining an imprint of a stranger’s lips or teeth, which might determine the outcome of a case, because it might be the culprit’s lips or the teeth of the last eyewitness.
Thus far, no one had had a chance to compare the student’s statements with the coroner’s opinion.
Nor had anyone asked what the hell such a seemingly well-situated gentleman was looking for at night or at dawn in the disreputable park, or, if he had not been a corpse for very long, why was it that the snow on his arms and shoulders had not melted. Anyway, the detective still had many other things to take care of in the other case, of the patricidal girl. He also knew there was no point in racking his brain before he had all the forensic evidence in hand. The mother did not take the blame upon herself as an act of self-sacrifice but because it was her only chance for an acquittal. If her daughter admitted her deed, the mother could be punished for continued complicity. Sometimes it was better that Kienast put his cases to sleep in his mind, letting them continue working on a solution by themselves. And when in the afternoon, half-asleep and tired, with barely enough energy to mail some of the completed reports to the Public Prosecutor’s Office and to the Federal Investigation Department very quickly, his glance fell on the young man’s name again: Döhring.
Interesting, how these deeply neurotic characters enroll, if they can, to study psychology and philosophy. Which rather harms than improves their chances. In a few years, they become much smarter, but this does not necessarily make them more aware of their own problems.
He laughed aloud, and when he saw the young man’s address, Fasanen Street, he added several contented nods to his self-contented laughter. The young man has no worries, can go about getting educated with no fear of going to the poorhouse, he thought to himself, and then he quickly put the freshly opened file into an envelope — that is to say, assigned it to his current cases.
And early the following morning, the student, just as he had planned before, took the train out of the city.
The Creator Wanted It This Way
Whenever he left the city, he always felt as if he were giving up something for good, as if he had irretrievably left something behind. He paid little attention to these passing feelings, though he did register them at some level, because they offended his life principles.
He had nothing but contempt for sentimental people; he rejected emotions. Not to mention a kind of involuntary and irrepressible trembling that confused him completely. It reminded him of disorders and agitations he had otherwise carefully ejected from his memory. He had no idea where the trembling came from or how it left his bones and muscles, but he decided that the previous day had been much too emotional for him and he had better forget the whole thing. He didn’t want to bother with the act of forgetting either. To be precise, he was busy trying to forget about forgetting things.
From his present point of view, the city looked like a vast and bleak shunting yard. His train clattered across switches; birch trees were growing between abandoned tracks.
If he had taken his feelings seriously, if he had not rejected them, if he had allowed them to work on him at their own pace, he would have had to let his own bitterness and loneliness come too close, everything that caused his unhappiness and that he could not and would not want to acknowledge.
He had lived in the city for two years but had neither friends nor acquaintances. How else could he explain this except that this was the way he wanted it to be.