interesting, but none of that is of any significance. Whoever planted the ritual knife wants us to get involved in all that – paintings, history, legends, so we’ll start traipsing around churches, sitting in libraries and talking to academics. It’s a smokescreen, I have no doubt. I’m just worried it’s a well-prepared smokescreen, and that if someone’s putting himself to so much effort to send us up that track, he might be too clever for this case to be solved at all.”
Ripper came up to them, holding in his gigantic paw a small plastic bag with a little metal object in it. His gown was surprisingly clean, almost without any trace of blood.
“My assistant will sew her up. Let’s go and have a chat.”
They drank coffee out of plastic cups. It was so disgusting that all the patients here must have ended up on the gastroenterology ward sooner or later, Szacki was sure of it. “Jack” – it turned out that really was his nickname, what a surprise – had changed, and in a grey polo neck he looked like a large boulder with a little pink ball on top.
“I’ll tell you the whole story, but it’s fairly self-evident. Someone cut her throat with a very sharp surgical instrument. But it wasn’t a scalpel or a razor blade, because the cuts are too deep. The large cut-throat razor you showed me in the photos would fit perfectly. All that happened while she was still alive, but she must have been unconscious, otherwise she’d have defended herself, and it wouldn’t look as if it were done with such…” – for a moment he sought the right word – “…precision. But she was undoubtedly still alive, because there is no blood in her. Forgive me for the details, but that means that at the moment when the jugular vein was cut there was still pressure in the circulatory system, capable of pumping blood from the body. She also has congealed blood in her ears, which probably means that at the moment of death she was hanging upside down – like, if you’ll pardon the expression, a cow in an abattoir. What a screwed-up degenerate must have done that. He also took the trouble to wash her – she must have been covered in blood.”
“We must look for the blood,” Szacki thought aloud.
“You must also find out what this is,” said Ripper, handing them the small plastic evidence bag. Szacki examined it carefully and gulped; the little bag gave off the faint meaty aroma of the anatomy lab. Inside there was a metal badge about a centimetre across the diagonal, the kind worn in a shirt or jacket lapel. Not with a safety pin, but a fat spike to which you have to attach a clasp from the other side. It looked old. As Sobieraj leant forwards to inspect the piece of evidence, her ginger hair tickled Szacki’s cheek. It smelt of camomile. The prosecutor glanced at her brow, furrowed in concentration, and her dense freckles which were managing to break free from under a layer of foundation. There was something in this sight that he found touching. A little ginger-haired girl who had grown up and become a woman, but still wanted to hide the freckles on her nose.
“I’ve seen that somewhere before,” she said. “I don’t know where, but I’m sure I have.”
The badge was red and rectangular, with no lettering, just a white, geometric symbol. It looked like an elongated letter S, except that it was more geometrical than that, with the two shorter legs at more of an angle to the longer one, and it looked very like half a swastika. From the lower shorter piece there was also a small tail sticking upwards.
“She had this in her clenched fist. I had to break her fingers to get it out,” said Ripper as if to himself, as the mild gaze of his light-blue eyes hung on some point outside the window, perhaps on one of the old historical towers of Sandomierz.
Szacki meanwhile was looking at Basia the principled pussy’s attractive profile, at the crow’s feet next to her eyes and the laughter lines in the corners of her
Ripper came up to them, holding in his gigantic paw a small plastic bag with a little metal object in it. His gown was surprisingly clean, almost without any trace of blood.
“My assistant will sew her up. Let’s go and have a chat.”
They drank coffee out of plastic cups. It was so disgusting that all the patients here must have ended up on the gastroenterology ward sooner or later, Szacki was sure of it. “Jack” – it turned out that really was his nickname, what a surprise – had changed, and in a grey polo neck he looked like a large boulder with a little pink ball on top.
“I’ll tell you the whole story, but it’s fairly self-evident. Someone cut her throat with a very sharp surgical instrument. But it wasn’t a scalpel or a razor blade, because the cuts are too deep. The large cut-throat razor you showed me in the photos would fit perfectly. All that happened while she was still alive, but she must have been unconscious, otherwise she’d have defended herself, and it wouldn’t look as if it were done with such…” – for a moment he sought the right word – “…precision. But she was undoubtedly still alive, because there is no blood in her. Forgive me for the details, but that means that at the moment when the jugular vein was cut there was still pressure in the circulatory system, capable of pumping blood from the body. She also has congealed blood in her ears, which probably means that at the moment of death she was hanging upside down – like, if you’ll pardon the expression, a cow in an abattoir. What a screwed-up degenerate must have done that. He also took the trouble to wash her – she must have been covered in blood.”
“We must look for the blood,” Szacki thought aloud.
“You must also find out what this is,” said Ripper, handing them the small plastic evidence bag. Szacki examined it carefully and gulped; the little bag gave off the faint meaty aroma of the anatomy lab. Inside there was a metal badge about a centimetre across the diagonal, the kind worn in a shirt or jacket lapel. Not with a safety pin, but a fat spike to which you have to attach a clasp from the other side. It looked old. As Sobieraj leant forwards to inspect the piece of evidence, her ginger hair tickled Szacki’s cheek. It smelt of camomile. The prosecutor glanced at her brow, furrowed in concentration, and her dense freckles which were managing to break free from under a layer of foundation. There was something in this sight that he found touching. A little ginger-haired girl who had grown up and become a woman, but still wanted to hide the freckles on her nose.
“I’ve seen that somewhere before,” she said. “I don’t know where, but I’m sure I have.”
The badge was red and rectangular, with no lettering, just a white, geometric symbol. It looked like an elongated letter S, except that it was more geometrical than that, with the two shorter legs at more of an angle to the longer one, and it looked very like half a swastika. From the lower shorter piece there was also a small tail sticking upwards.
“She had this in her clenched fist. I had to break her fingers to get it out,” said Ripper as if to himself, as the mild gaze of his light-blue eyes hung on some point outside the window, perhaps on one of the old historical towers of Sandomierz.
Szacki meanwhile was looking at Basia the principled pussy’s attractive profile, at the crow’s feet next to her eyes and the laughter lines in the corners of her
Similar Books
