“The Official isn’t Communist,” I said. “We support the Social Democrats and the republic.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why the Iron Front against Fascism? Why not an Iron Front against Bolshevism, too?”

“Because, as you well know, Heinrich, most of the violence on the streets is committed or provoked by the Nazis.”

“How do you work that out, exactly?”

“That woman in Neukolln that Lipik’s investigating. Even before he left the Alex, he reckoned she had been shot dead by a storm trooper who was aiming at a Commie.”

“So. It was an accident. I don’t see how that proves the Nazis organize most of the violence.”

“No? Well, you want to come round our way and take a look out of my apartment window on Dragonerstrasse. The Central Offices of the German Communist Party are just around the corner, on Bulowplatz. So that’s where the Nazis choose to exercise their democratic right to hold a parade. Does that seem reasonable? Does that sound law-abiding?”

“Proves my point, doesn’t it? You living in a Red area like that.”

“All it proves is that the Nazis are always spoiling for a fight.”

I bent down and flicked my flashlight up and down the dead girl’s body. Her upper half looked more or less normal. She was about thirteen or fourteen, blond, with pale blue eyes and a small galaxy of freckles around her pixie nose. It was a tomboyish sort of face, and you could easily have mistaken her for a boy. The matter of her sex was only confirmed by her small, adolescent breasts, the rest of her sexual organs having been removed along with her lower intestines, her womb, and whatever else gets packed in down there when a girl gets born. But it wasn’t her evisceration that caught my eye. In truth, both Heinrich and I had seen this kind of thing many times in the trenches. There was also the caliper on her left leg. I hadn’t noticed it before.

“No walking stick,” I said, tapping it with my pencil. “You’d think she’d have had one.”

“Maybe she didn’t need one. It’s not every cripple that needs a stick.”

“You’re right. Goebbels manages very well without one, doesn’t he? For a cripple. Then again there’s a big stick inside almost everything he says.” I lit a cigarette and let out a big, smoky sigh. “Why do people do this kind of thing?” I said to myself.

“You mean, kill children?”

“I meant, Why kill them like this? It’s monstrous, isn’t it? Depraved.”

“I should have thought it was obvious,” said Grund.

“Oh? How’s that?”

“You’re the one who said he must be depraved. I couldn’t agree more. But is it any wonder? I say is it any wonder we have depraved people doing things like this when you consider the filth and depravity that’s tolerated by this fag end of a government? Look around you, Bernie. Berlin is like a big, slimy rock. Lift it up and you can see everything that crawls. The oilers, stripe men, wall-sliders, boot girls, sugarlickers, Munzis, T-girls. The women who are men and the men who are women. Sick. Venal. Corrupt. Depraved. And all of it tolerated by your beloved Weimar Republic.”

“I suppose everything will be different if Adolf Hitler gets into power.” I was laughing as I said it. The Nazis had done well in the most recent elections. But nobody sensible really believed they could run the country. Nobody thought for a minute that President Hindenburg was ever going to ask the man he detested most in the world-a guttersnipe NCO from Austria-to become the next chancellor of Germany.

“Why not? We’re going to need someone to restore order in this country.”

As he spoke, we heard another shot travel through the warm night air.

“And who better than the man who causes all the trouble to put an end to it, eh? I can sort of see the logic behind that, yes.”

One of the uniforms came over. We stood up. It was Sergeant Gollner, better known as Tanker-because of his size and shape.

“While you two were arguing,” he said, “I put a cordon around this part of the park. So as to keep the pot-watchers away. Last thing we want is any details of how she was killed getting into the newspapers. Giving stupid people stupid ideas. Confessing to things they haven’t done. We’ll have a closer look in the morning, eh? When it’s light.”

“Thanks, Tanker,” I said. “I should have-”

“Skip it.” He took a deep breath of a night air made moist by water a light breeze had carried from the fountain. “Nice here, isn’t it? I always liked this place. Used to come here a lot, I did. On account of the fact that my brother is buried over there.” He nodded south, in the direction of the state hospital. “With the revolutionaries of 1848.”

“I didn’t know you were that old,” I said.

Tanker grinned. “No, he got shot by the Freikorps, in December 1918. Proper lefty, so he was. A real troublemaker. But he didn’t deserve that. Not after what he went through in the trenches. Reds or not, none of them deserved to be shot for what happened.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said, nodding at Heinrich Grund. “Tell him.”

“He knows what I think,” said Tanker. He looked down at the girl’s body. “What was wrong with her leg, then?”

“Hardly matters now,” observed Grund.

“She might have had polio,” I said. “Or else she was a spastic.”

“You wouldn’t have thought they’d have let her out on her own, would you?” said Grund.

“She was crippled.” I bent down and went through the pockets of her coat. I came up with a roll of cash, wrapped in a rubber band. It was as thick as the handle of a tennis racket. I tossed it to Grund. “Plenty of disabled people manage perfectly well on their own. Even the kids.”

“Must be several hundred marks here,” he muttered. “Where does a kid like this get money like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Had to manage,” Tanker was saying. “The number of maimed and injured we had after the war. I used to have the beat next to the Charite Hospital. Got quite friendly with some of the lads who were there. A lot of them managed with no legs, or no arms.”

“It’s one thing being crippled for something that happened fighting for the Fatherland,” said Grund, tossing the roll of cash in his hand. “It’s something else when you’re born with it.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” I asked.

“Meaning that life’s difficult enough when you’re a parent without having to look after a disabled child.”

“Maybe they didn’t mind looking after her. Not if they loved her.”

“If you ask me, if she was a spastic she’s better off out of it,” said Grund. “Germany’s better off in general with fewer cripples around.” He caught the look in my eye. “No, really. It’s a simple matter of racial purity. We have to protect our stock.”

“I can think of one cripple we’d all be better off without,” I said.

Tanker laughed and walked away.

“Anyway, it’s only a caliper,” I said. “Lots of kids have calipers.”

“Maybe,” said Grund. He threw the money back. “But it’s not every kid that’s carrying several hundred marks.”

“Right. We’d better have a look around, before the site gets trampled over. See what we can find on our hands and knees with the flashlights.”

I dropped onto all fours and slowly crawled away from the body in the direction of Konigs-Thor. Heinrich Grund did the same, a yard or two to my left. The night was warm, and the grass felt dry and smelled sweet under my hands. It was something we had done before. Something Ernst Gennat was keen on. Something that was in the manual he’d given us. How it was small things that solved murders: bullet casings, blood spots, collar buttons, cigarette ends, matchbooks, earrings, hanks of hair, party badges. Things that were large and easy to see were usually carried away from a crime scene. But the small stuff. That was different. It was the small stuff that could send a man to the guillotine. Nobody called them clues. Gennat hated that word.

“Clues are for the clueless,” was what the Full Ernst would tell us. “That’s not what I want from my detectives. Give me little spots of color on a canvas. Like that Frenchie who used to paint in little dots. Georges Seurat. Each dot means shit on its own. But when you take a few steps back and look at all of the dots together, you see a picture. That’s what I want you bastards to do. Learn how to paint me a picture like Georges Seurat.”