At first the two men try to pull the flotsam ashore with the help of a broken-off long stick, but they can't reach far enough. It's as if the roll is not for them. The men say to themselves: Today of all days, it's not our day. Birds circle over them screeching, it's still cold. Too cold for the time of year, even here. We imagined angels differently, as we were fleetingly brushed by thoughts of reprisal and wanted to kill someone, but then refrained from doing so after all. These are black angels. Inside this plastic sheet rests a human face and a human body, that's what it looks like to me, this sheet. The men think, it can't be what it looks like. The men know that what it looks like is probably what it will be. Soon we will know exactly, says the law of reality. They squat down and strain to look under the water, which is especially dark and opaque, but the sheet encloses something they can recognize exactly and with terrible certainty they understand whom they are dealing with, with death, this always cocked weapon, which is playfully turning in a circle, staring first at one, then the other, a nervous finger pointing at their cold bodies, whose turn is it today. I would like to be the first to know: Perhaps already the two men on the way home? They really shouldn't have drunk that third glass, this walk was supposed to serve, not least, as a sobering up. Well, that's exactly what it's doing. And as if with one blow of a hammer drill four eyes drill into the sight of the water-foam roll. It's a simple package, yet what will it not set in motion! In the future, 82 detectives of the regional force, of which 20 will be assigned solely to this one case.

Cell phone on, call out, horrors already prepared, packed, frozen, and discovered by two persons. Please come immediately, we see what's been hidden and would so like to know what's inside. Their wives are always merely covered up by quilts and these always reveal what's familiar, which grows more rancid with every day and which, furthermore, in order to get some pleasure out of it has to be flattered for hours. The things one has in mind, one never ever gets. It would be a good thing to remove this covering, that would bring us considerably closer to our bobbing, restless goal. We hear a frightful voice speaking, accompanied by a blue light and, as if that were not enough, a siren. We hear how the voice is trying to tell us something: You're dealing with death here, be quiet, perhaps it's still there and is going to fetch you. Oh, how exciting. Well, it won't be as bad as all that, says another voice from an extra-small telephone, which can be snapped open so that it looks bigger, and which may well appear more eerie than this manifestation under water, which is observed by birds not by fish, because there are no fish in this special element I'm thinking of. The Country Police force is at liberty to come, in fact, they must, and they do. Mr. Kurt Janisch is not on duty today, the man has the luck of the devil. Otherwise he would have had to take acting lessons in good time, and that too he has been able to save himself, in addition to his many other savings, which unfortunately are always gone when he needs them. He has only negative savings, that is, debts. More than hairs on his head. He wishes someone would take them off him. But instead houses are supposed to come and stay. Fortunately these are ponderous, stationary fellows, they are supposed to pour in sometime nevertheless, to serve as security for further houses. So something comes of nothing, no, a something comes of a nothing. But nothing, nothing at all comes of it. Not yet, but our prospects are good. Two men rise to their feet on the shore of the lake, who have done their duty as citizens, and no doubt they will sooner or later stand up impatiendy to the authorities, that is their human duty, that's why everyone does it. They only agree with the authorities, the people, when someone, who doesn't belong to us, is to be carefully deported. So now the authorities come jolting and bumping down what is no more than a track and will detain these men unnecessarily for hours. This track is the only one on which the Country Police can get here, if they don't want to go on foot, which would break a few points from their uniform epaulettes, which they will certainly still need on our eastern borders and that with Slovenia, quite close to here, in order to establish their authority. These officers after all have to patrol 90 miles of border in Styria in super uniforms, with parkas and peaked caps. The whole Spielfeld district is already quaking at their steps. The training in the annex of the Bad Radkersburg Police School lasted six months, that must have paid off at some point, because then they can protect the riches of the natives really very effectively and accompany the latter, once they have enjoyed it all in peace and quiet, with a raised signal disc into the Kingdom of God (which belongs to them alone in any case), so that no one can put a spoke in their wheel. So. Here it is, exactly in the water. Take a look. Do you see it? What is it. We'll need the boat. After some back and forth and pushing and now heave and crossing the dead water zone, in which simply nothing stirs, the load is dragged by boat into the microscopically small harbor and pulled out. Divers aren't needed. At the top there's hair, that's already: the first thing we see. But now we already know everything and lose our self-control. Jesus, hair, must be real! One of the men throws up on God and his friend and the feet of the policemen, who manage to jump back in time, but are already talking into their radios and have to listen to the din and crackle that breaks out of them like game out of the undergrowth. Soon the place will simply be swarming with men in uniform (and later also with the high-ranking civilians). A bit of smooth forehead under the saturated hair can also be seen, which didn't go under the plastic sheet, or not enough of an effort was made to tuck it in. Here someone perhaps wanted too much to own a human being and instead took this human being away from themselves, if you follow me. Perhaps this human being was simply thrown away, because someone had no more use for her anymore. Once again: The killer did not take the human being away from himself (that would not have bothered the killer, he evidently had no more use for his prey) but the victim from themselves. This person would miss themselves, if they were still conscious. No idea why. The eyes literally get stuck into the roll, but cannot take it over all on their own. Impossible. We can't grasp it. The birds are disappointed, the lake, however, is relieved it's rid of the responsibility, and it doesn't, on top of everything else, have to absorb even more fertilizers. Photographers, the search for clues, indescribable excitement in a short time overfertilizes the village as well and sweeps it along, heavy with all the stored up shit, which one will get to hear there, as in a spring avalanche, which in a swelling torrent, out of which poke our sins like trees and lumps of concrete, surges down the pedestrianized former high street. People who a moment ago were crouching out of sight, so that no one would see them answering the call of nature, now resolve never to do such a thing again. Someone can be lurking behind every bush, and in conclusion one ends up in the lake. Someone who has wrapped someone up and thrown them in will then also mendaciously maintain not to have known someone beforehand at all. We don't need that. To be denied in death like Jesus by his disciples, let yourself be killed, then you'll get the surprise of your life, what people will broadcast about you. But the people here are rather taciturn. You don't get anything out of them so easily. After the first photos the roll is opened and a body and a face of great charm are unpacked. Body and face still bear their delicate peaceful beauty, the face of the young woman looks as if she's sleeping, but in truth everything about her has long been divested of life. Someone has stirred up life against her, and so it went off in a huff. Not with her anymore! The black ankle boots aren't there, but there is the denim jacket with the long shawl collar, which we'd already missed, but not the handbag (where is it? It's never found!). The policemen see immediately who it is, they've had the young missing person on their computer screens and now they see her in natura, in this nature which takes offense at them. Let them sleep, the dead, there are too many for one to know something even of even one strand of their hair.