Without Options by Trevor Scott Page A

gut. It didn’t take a medical genius to see that the dark-skinned man’s neck had been broken. The man’s skinny neck was bruised and swollen and skewed awkwardly like a snake that had swallowed a boomerang.
    With latex gloves on, Gustav searched the pockets of the man. This was much different from the other bodies they’d found over the last two months. Those had all been shot and dropped in the Spree River. Found sometimes a week or more later in various states of decay. This body wasn’t even close to the river or any other water. Maybe the killer wanted this man to be found sooner, Gustav pondered.
    “What do you think, sir?” his assistant asked him. “Is this one related to our case?”
    Damn good question, Gustav thought. He chewed on the large gob of nicotine gum in his mouth. “Could be. Although it doesn’t match the others.” Still stooped down, he gazed around at the scene and his eyes wandered to the edge of the small park. He’d ordered his men to cordon off the entire park and his officers were now carefully walking at arm’s length combing every meter for evidence. They would also photograph the onlookers again. Just in case. Even though they hadn’t gotten any clues like that recently.
    Gustav continued his search of the body.
    “With the others they could have been shot and simply dumped in the Spree,” Andreas said. “Perhaps the killer was interrupted before he could haul away the body.”
    “Perhaps. Ah.” Gustav produced a wallet from the man’s back pocket. In a minute he’d searched every item within the leather wallet and then dropped those into an evidence bag held open by his associate. This made no sense at all, he thought. This was the only body they’d found with identification. Some of those found in the river had eventually been identified, but three men still remained unknown. This identification was too easy.
    “A Turk,” Andreas said, viewing the man’s driver’s license through the plastic. “That’s a change.”
    “Too many changes,” Gustav said. He wasn’t completely certain this was part of their case, but he had a gut feeling it was. “What do you suppose the killer is trying to tell us?”
    Andreas crouched down lower to the level of his boss. “Well, maybe he decided it was time to make us think a little harder. Maybe he wants us to know he can strike anywhere in Berlin, and he doesn’t need to shoot them.”
    “But what’s his motive?” That had bothered Gustav from day one with this case. As far as he could tell there was no motive—other than to kill for the pleasure of killing.
    “Do sick bastards need motive, sir?”
    Gustav searched one more spot on the body, the inside pocket of the man’s jacket. There he found a train ticket from Innsbruck to Berlin. One way. “He just got to town last evening.” In deep thought now, he postulated the meaning of this find. “This makes no sense, Andreas. A man makes a straight line from Austria to Berlin and ends up dead in a small park nowhere near a hotel. A Turk.”
    “Maybe he was traveling from his home to see a relative here in the city,” Andreas said uncertainly.
    The both of them stood again. Gustav placed the ticket stub into an evidence bag and handed it to Andreas.
    “I don’t think so,” Gustav said. “The Orient Express still runs from Istanbul to Venice, and then you can catch a train north through Innsbruck, but it’s not the best route unless you have other business there. It’s better to go Istanbul to Bucharest to Budapest to Vienna and then head north to Berlin. Better yet, take a flight. Plus, he has no bags with him. Unless the shooter took his things.”
    “Maybe he got in, dropped off his bags at a relative’s house and then went for a walk.” Andreas shrugged his shoulders. “Ran into the wrong guy.”
    “I don’t think so,” Gustav said. “Do we have a missing person reported? I doubt it. No. This guy was here for a meeting. He let someone get too close and