Garden of Beasts by Jeffery Deaver

materials found in Germany. The problem, of course, was the same with substitutes everywhere—they simply weren’t very good, and people sometimes referred to them disparagingly as “Hitler” goods. But it was never wise to use the term in public; one could be reported for uttering it.
    The import of the discovery was that the man was probably German. Most foreigners in the country nowadays had their own currency to convert, which meant their buying power was quite strong, and none would willingly purchase cheap clothing like this.
    But why would the killer wish to keep his victim’s identity secret? The ersatz clothing suggested there was nothing particularly important about him. But then, Kohl reflected, many senior people in the National Socialist Party were poorly paid, and even those who had decent salaries often wore substitute clothing out of loyalty to the Leader: Could the victim’s job within the Party or the government have been the motive for his death?
    “Interesting,” Kohl said, rising stiffly. “The killer shoots aman in a crowded part of the city. He knows someone might hear the report of the gun and yet he risks detection to slice the labels out of his clothing. This makes me all the more intrigued to learn who this unfortunate gentleman is. Take his fingerprints, Janssen. It will be forever if we wait for the coroner to do so.”
    “Yes, sir.” The young officer opened his briefcase and removed the equipment. He started to work.
    Kohl gazed at the cobblestones. “I have been saying ‘killer,’ singular, Janssen, but of course there could have been a dozen. But I can see nothing of the choreography of this event on the ground.” In more open crime scenes the infamously gritty Berlin wind conveniently spread telltale dust on the ground. But not in this sheltered alley.
    “Sir . . . Inspector,” the Schupo officer called. “I can find no casings here. I have scoured the entire area.”
    This fact troubled Kohl, and Janssen caught his boss’s expression.
    “Because,” the inspector explained, “he not only cut the labels from his victim, he took the time to find the shell casing.”
    “So. He is a professional.”
    “As I say, Janssen, when making deductions, never state your conclusions as if they are certainties. When you do that, your mind instinctively closes out other possibilities. Say, rather, that our suspect may have a high degree of diligence and attention to detail. Perhaps a professional criminal, perhaps not. It could also be that a rat or bird made off with the shiny object, or a schoolboy picked it up and fled at the terrifying sight of a dead man. Or even that the killer is a poor man who wishes to reuse the brass.”
    “Of course, Inspector,” Janssen said, nodding as if memorizing Kohl’s words.
    In the short time they’d worked together, the inspector had learned two things about Janssen: that the young man was incapable of irony and that he was a remarkably fast learner. The latter quality was a godsend to the impatient inspector. Regarding the former, though, he wished the boy joked more frequently; policing is a profession badly in need of humor.
    Janssen finished taking the fingerprints, which he’d done expertly.
    “Now dust the cobblestones around him and take photographs of any prints you find. The killer might’ve been clever enough to take the labels but not so smart to avoid touching the ground when he did so.”
    After five minutes of spreading the fine powder around the body, Janssen said, “I believe there are some here, sir. Look.”
    “Yes. They’re good. Record them.”
    After he photographed the prints the young man stood back and took additional pictures of the corpse and the scene. The inspector walked slowly around the body. He pulled his magnifying monocle from his vest’s watch pocket again and placed around his neck its green cord, braided for him as a Christmas present by young Hanna. He examined a spot on the cobblestones near the