young woman in a filmy purple dress and a man in a dark suit—the fisherman’s eyes followed them with a hungry glow, a brightness that suggested a coal that had been blown into an orange intensity. Then he went back to waiting.
A woman came out of the building he watched. She was well dressed, elegant, her dark hair heavy and trimmed so it fell around her face and was touched with filaments of light. The fisherman stood up from the bench. He followed at a distance, but as the woman walked toward the park, hesteadily reduced the distance, as though he were reeling her in. He had an almost perfect instinct for this: as the people on the street became more sparse, he closed in, and at the moment, a brief, almost vanishing instant, when no one else was around and when the park was close by, he took the woman’s arm, whispered in her ear, and steered her, with a subdued jerk, into the park.
Armina came into the miasma of terror on the part of the woman who was almost running on the tips of her toes to keep up as the man pushed her: she seemed to think that if she just went along, if she just tried to be nice, or compliant, if she just gave in, everything would be all right. Armina arrested him and found he was carrying a package of cigarettes of the brand she usually found around a woman who had been left in the park, an ice pick (with a tapped handle to give a better grip), and a silk cord.
She was promoted, and the men in the Inspectorate took her to a bar, where they all got drunk, Armina, too. Every now and then one of the men who worked in Inspectorate A asked her for help.
The Fisherman was tried and convicted, but every detail, however horrible, came out at the trial, and given the fascination with this kind of thing, all of these details, every one, were reported in the newspapers. Everyone knew what he had done with an ice pick, the cord, how he had smoked cigarettes and left them where he had done his work. The man had used the cigarettes to make those small marks, but before that he had used the silk cord until the women were almost unconscious, and then finally he got to the ice pick. He had used the cord on himself, too, when he had had trouble keeping an erection. “To keep the hydraulics going” is the way he described it. He had told his wife, a mousy woman with a limp, who sat through the trial and bit her fingernails, that he had gone fishing. “The hatch of
Potamanthus distinctus
is close now,” he’d say. “The fishing is going to be good.”
Now, Armina realized that the crimes she looked at could easily be done by a man, or men, who were using the details of what they had read about the Fisherman to mask who they were. She knew that sooner or later, they would add a detail of their own, and that was what she was looking for. A new detail. Well, she had a list to begin. She’d keep an eye out for something unexpected: some correlation, like the mayflies, that suggestedsome actions that took place with motives disguised by the most ordinary event.
R ITTER’S OFFICE WAS one flight up. She stopped in the stairwell, in the scent of soap that was used to wash the steps every night, and began to think of an excuse. Ritter had a knack, something like the Moth’s: Ritter perceived her in a way that made even her best motives look like ploys, false stances, a ruse of some kind. And the only way to get away from his condescension was to appease him, to do what he wanted, so that he would give her a small, warm, almost friendly smile. Almost. She took some solace in the file that she had in her hand, where she had made a list of the names of men who interested her. And the one woman.
She went through the stairwell door to the hallway and up to Ritter’s door. The sound of typing was loud here, too, slow, steady, unstoppable as it went through the details of the events that needed to be recorded in the Berlin Police Department each day. A blunt instrument. Evidence of a desperate struggle. She knocked
A woman came out of the building he watched. She was well dressed, elegant, her dark hair heavy and trimmed so it fell around her face and was touched with filaments of light. The fisherman stood up from the bench. He followed at a distance, but as the woman walked toward the park, hesteadily reduced the distance, as though he were reeling her in. He had an almost perfect instinct for this: as the people on the street became more sparse, he closed in, and at the moment, a brief, almost vanishing instant, when no one else was around and when the park was close by, he took the woman’s arm, whispered in her ear, and steered her, with a subdued jerk, into the park.
Armina came into the miasma of terror on the part of the woman who was almost running on the tips of her toes to keep up as the man pushed her: she seemed to think that if she just went along, if she just tried to be nice, or compliant, if she just gave in, everything would be all right. Armina arrested him and found he was carrying a package of cigarettes of the brand she usually found around a woman who had been left in the park, an ice pick (with a tapped handle to give a better grip), and a silk cord.
She was promoted, and the men in the Inspectorate took her to a bar, where they all got drunk, Armina, too. Every now and then one of the men who worked in Inspectorate A asked her for help.
The Fisherman was tried and convicted, but every detail, however horrible, came out at the trial, and given the fascination with this kind of thing, all of these details, every one, were reported in the newspapers. Everyone knew what he had done with an ice pick, the cord, how he had smoked cigarettes and left them where he had done his work. The man had used the cigarettes to make those small marks, but before that he had used the silk cord until the women were almost unconscious, and then finally he got to the ice pick. He had used the cord on himself, too, when he had had trouble keeping an erection. “To keep the hydraulics going” is the way he described it. He had told his wife, a mousy woman with a limp, who sat through the trial and bit her fingernails, that he had gone fishing. “The hatch of
Potamanthus distinctus
is close now,” he’d say. “The fishing is going to be good.”
Now, Armina realized that the crimes she looked at could easily be done by a man, or men, who were using the details of what they had read about the Fisherman to mask who they were. She knew that sooner or later, they would add a detail of their own, and that was what she was looking for. A new detail. Well, she had a list to begin. She’d keep an eye out for something unexpected: some correlation, like the mayflies, that suggestedsome actions that took place with motives disguised by the most ordinary event.
R ITTER’S OFFICE WAS one flight up. She stopped in the stairwell, in the scent of soap that was used to wash the steps every night, and began to think of an excuse. Ritter had a knack, something like the Moth’s: Ritter perceived her in a way that made even her best motives look like ploys, false stances, a ruse of some kind. And the only way to get away from his condescension was to appease him, to do what he wanted, so that he would give her a small, warm, almost friendly smile. Almost. She took some solace in the file that she had in her hand, where she had made a list of the names of men who interested her. And the one woman.
She went through the stairwell door to the hallway and up to Ritter’s door. The sound of typing was loud here, too, slow, steady, unstoppable as it went through the details of the events that needed to be recorded in the Berlin Police Department each day. A blunt instrument. Evidence of a desperate struggle. She knocked
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