mouth, which told him she smiled a lotand had a good life. And he wondered why Budnik hadn’t wanted Basia Sobieraj to question him. Because he didn’t want it to be tough for her? Rubbish. He didn’t want her to notice something. But what?
V
As Jack the Ripper’s assistant was busy stuffing crumpled newspaper into the white corpse of the town’s most beloved citizen by the light of the fluorescent strips at the Sandomierz morgue, prosecutors Teodor Szacki and Barbara Sobieraj were sitting on a sofa in their boss’s office, each eating their third piece of chocolate cake, though they hadn’t really felt like a second one.
They had told her about Budnik’s interrogation, about the autopsy, about the badge with the strange symbol, and about the knife, which – perhaps – was a tool for ritual slaughter. Misia had listened to them with a maternal smile on her face, without interrupting, but occasionally putting in a fact to help them with their account, like the model graduate of an active listening course. Now they were done, and she lit a scented candle; the aroma of vanilla floated about the office, and together with the dusk falling outside and the amber light of the desk lamp it produced a nice, festive atmosphere.
Szacki felt like some raspberry tea, but he thought he might be going too far by asking for it.
“Time of death?” asked Miszczyk, extracting crumbs from her large, flaccid bosom, probably worn out by several children. Szacki gave her a hard stare.
“There’s a problem with that, the range is quite large,” he replied. “Definitely more than five or six hours, taking rigor mortis into account, in other words she was murdered at the latest on Tuesday at about midnight. And at the earliest? The pathologist claims she could even have been dead since Easter Monday. The blood was drained out of the body, which means it’s impossible to draw any conclusions on the basis of livor mortis. It was as cold as hell, so the putrefactionhadn’t started. We’ll know more if it turns out someone saw her. For now, the period from when she left the house on Monday until midnight the next day comes into play. Of course that’s supposing Budnik is telling the truth. She may just as well have been dead since Sunday.”
“Is he?”
“No. I don’t know exactly when he isn’t telling the truth, but I’m sure he isn’t. He’s under round-the-clock surveillance. Let’s see what comes of searching the house and grounds. For the time being he’s the chief suspect. He lied to us and he hasn’t got an alibi. Maybe she was a saint, but apparently things weren’t going well between them.”
“People always gossip like that when someone else is doing all right,” protested Sobieraj.
“Every bit of gossip contains a grain of truth,” retorted Szacki.
“What about other scenarios?” asked Miszczyk.
Sobieraj reached for her papers.
“We’re provisionally ruling out homicide related to robbery or a sexual motive. There’s no evidence of rape, and it’s too elaborate for a mugging. I’m checking up on everyone she ran her campaigns with, her family, and friends from the theatrical world. Especially the latter. Ela had connections with the theatre, and you’ll admit this has something of a performance about it.”
“Fakery,” commented Szacki. “But for the time being that’s of secondary importance. Above all we’re looking for the blood. We have to find evidence of the several litres of it that drained out of her. The police are going to search public places in the city and the suburbs, and all private premises that feature in the inquiry will be checked from this angle too.”
“As we’re on the subject of blood,” said Miszczyk, then paused and sighed, finding it hard to broach the subject, “what about the ritual murder theme?”
“Naturally we’re rounding up all the Jews in the area,” said Szacki with a stony look on his face.
“Teodor’s joking,” Sobieraj quickly put
V
As Jack the Ripper’s assistant was busy stuffing crumpled newspaper into the white corpse of the town’s most beloved citizen by the light of the fluorescent strips at the Sandomierz morgue, prosecutors Teodor Szacki and Barbara Sobieraj were sitting on a sofa in their boss’s office, each eating their third piece of chocolate cake, though they hadn’t really felt like a second one.
They had told her about Budnik’s interrogation, about the autopsy, about the badge with the strange symbol, and about the knife, which – perhaps – was a tool for ritual slaughter. Misia had listened to them with a maternal smile on her face, without interrupting, but occasionally putting in a fact to help them with their account, like the model graduate of an active listening course. Now they were done, and she lit a scented candle; the aroma of vanilla floated about the office, and together with the dusk falling outside and the amber light of the desk lamp it produced a nice, festive atmosphere.
Szacki felt like some raspberry tea, but he thought he might be going too far by asking for it.
“Time of death?” asked Miszczyk, extracting crumbs from her large, flaccid bosom, probably worn out by several children. Szacki gave her a hard stare.
“There’s a problem with that, the range is quite large,” he replied. “Definitely more than five or six hours, taking rigor mortis into account, in other words she was murdered at the latest on Tuesday at about midnight. And at the earliest? The pathologist claims she could even have been dead since Easter Monday. The blood was drained out of the body, which means it’s impossible to draw any conclusions on the basis of livor mortis. It was as cold as hell, so the putrefactionhadn’t started. We’ll know more if it turns out someone saw her. For now, the period from when she left the house on Monday until midnight the next day comes into play. Of course that’s supposing Budnik is telling the truth. She may just as well have been dead since Sunday.”
“Is he?”
“No. I don’t know exactly when he isn’t telling the truth, but I’m sure he isn’t. He’s under round-the-clock surveillance. Let’s see what comes of searching the house and grounds. For the time being he’s the chief suspect. He lied to us and he hasn’t got an alibi. Maybe she was a saint, but apparently things weren’t going well between them.”
“People always gossip like that when someone else is doing all right,” protested Sobieraj.
“Every bit of gossip contains a grain of truth,” retorted Szacki.
“What about other scenarios?” asked Miszczyk.
Sobieraj reached for her papers.
“We’re provisionally ruling out homicide related to robbery or a sexual motive. There’s no evidence of rape, and it’s too elaborate for a mugging. I’m checking up on everyone she ran her campaigns with, her family, and friends from the theatrical world. Especially the latter. Ela had connections with the theatre, and you’ll admit this has something of a performance about it.”
“Fakery,” commented Szacki. “But for the time being that’s of secondary importance. Above all we’re looking for the blood. We have to find evidence of the several litres of it that drained out of her. The police are going to search public places in the city and the suburbs, and all private premises that feature in the inquiry will be checked from this angle too.”
“As we’re on the subject of blood,” said Miszczyk, then paused and sighed, finding it hard to broach the subject, “what about the ritual murder theme?”
“Naturally we’re rounding up all the Jews in the area,” said Szacki with a stony look on his face.
“Teodor’s joking,” Sobieraj quickly put
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