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Haussmann knocked on the door to Oskar’s office. He wasn't smiling, and in fact, looked rather upset. “Inspector.”
Oskar frowned at the young man’s uncharacteristic gravity. “Haussmann. What is it?”
He stepped into the office, twisting his hat in his hands. “Inspector, they’ve found a body in the park. Stabbed several times.”
Oskar arched a brow at his subordinate. “That sounds unfortunate. Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s, um—” Haussmann licked his lips and dropped his eyes, and Oskar’s stomach plummeted to the floor.
Oskar closed his eyes, willing his voice not to shake. “Don’t tell me it’s—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t even put into words the horrible idea that had taken root in his heart.
Haussmann’s next words confirmed his worst fears. “It appears to be Dr. Liebermann, sir,” he said.
Oskar sucked in a ragged breath. “Have you seen him—seen the body?”
“No, sir. The officers on the scene sent word here, since you,” Haussmann cleared his throat, “since Dr. Liebermann worked with you.”
“Right.” He shoved back from the desk and stood, locking his knees so he didn’t fall over. “Haussmann, please go and request a carriage. I would like to go to the scene myself.”
Haussmann nodded, eyes wide as he watched Oskar stiffly pull on his overcoat and hat. “Already done, sir.”
Oskar cleared his throat. “Good. That’s good.” He swallowed, his heart battering against his ribcage. “Let’s go. I don’t want to put it off any longer.”
Haussmann nodded again and the pair of them walked silently down to the street, where a police carriage was already waiting for them. Haussmann gave the driver the address while Oskar sat, silent as the grave, feeling his body slowly go numb and cold, a feeling he had never thought to experience again. It was familiar, too familiar, and he used that chill to steel himself, let himself become again the block of ice he had been since Mitzi’s death, the block of ice that had only begun to thaw when Dr. Max Liebermann had appeared and turned his ordered life upside down. He gritted his teeth and looked out the window of the carriage, unwilling to let Haussmann see how affected he was, and what it meant. God, could it be? Was it love? The unbearable pain in his chest, the sharp, vicious stab of loss told him that it was, God help him. And the worst part was, he had known Max was in danger, had warned him! And yet Oskar had allowed him to go off on his own, knowing there was a killer out there who was targeting Max. He was as much to blame as the madman who had wielded the knife.
The carriage drew to a stop and Haussmann opened the door, leaping out and letting Oskar follow at a more sedate pace. Oskar took a moment to gather himself, to stuff his emotions back into a box, to wrap himself in that blank iciness that had once been so familiar. He stepped out of the carriage and headed for the knot of police officers standing around the center of the park. He wanted to run to the body, to reach down and cradle Max in his arms, but he equally wanted to never see it, to live in a world of denial forever, where Max was still vivacious and alive and driving him crazy with his theories and questions. Instead, he walked at an even pace, forcing one foot in front of the other, until he reached the circle of officers, which parted for him, the uniformed men giving him concerned and compassionate looks.
“Inspector,” one of the constables said, and handed him a familiar wallet. Oskar flipped it open, finding Max’s card inside, as well as a few krone. The fact that there was still money in the wallet was a bad sign; a robber would have taken it. The maniac who was stalking Max would not.
Finally he closed the wallet and slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat and let himself look at the blanket-covered body. It was the right size and shape to be Max, tall and slender, but too still in death to be the man Oskar knew. Max’s hat lay in the grass not far from the body, left in place until the investigators showed up. Oskar took a deep breath and nodded to the constable standing near the head. “Show me.”
The first thing Oskar saw was Max’s coat, fine dark wool, fashionably cut and well tailored, which moulded well to his thin frame. For a moment he stared at the buttons at the lapel, then allowed himself to focus on the stained and dirty shirt, the bright red blood seeping out from the fatal knife wounds on the body’s abdomen. A small spark of hope took root under Oskar’s breast at the sight of that shirt, so unlike anything Max would ever wear, and he finally let himself focus on the face.
“It’s not him,” he said, hoping his colleagues would read anger instead of dizzying relief in his gravelly tone. “This isn’t Dr. Liebermann.” He turned away and handed the wallet to Haussmann, hoping the other man wouldn't notice how his hand shook. “Haussmann, you stay here. I need to go see Dr. Liebermann.”
Haussmann nodded and easily took control of the scene while Oskar made his way back to the carriage. He gave the driver the Liebermanns’ address, then collapsed back against the seat, letting out a ragged sob that he hoped the man didn’t hear. Max wasn’t dead in the park, he hadn’t been stabbed and left to bleed out by a crazed killer, and Oskar wasn’t to blame for the snuffing out of his too-bright young life. The numbness that had seized him at the moment Haussmann had informed him of Max’s supposed death began to ease, leaving behind a pain like that of a limb that had been asleep for hours finally coming back awake.
He sighed and rubbed at his chest, where his heart was still beating, despite everything. It ached, and Oskar now recognized that he had been aching for some time, but he had been able to ignore it. Now, though, his eyes had been opened, and no amount of wishful thinking would put that genie back in the bottle. “Damn,” he muttered, and slammed his palm against the seat. Why, of all people, did he have to fall in love with a wealthy, self-righteous, aggravating man half his age who was too smart for his own good and had no apparent sense of self-preservation? Why could he not find a nice widow woman who would be happy to settle with him into domestic bliss, instead of a very male Jewish doctor who had not one, but two young women orbiting around him? What did Oskar have to offer Max, besides his battered and bruised heart?
The carriage drew to a stop and the driver knocked on the roof, letting Oskar know they were at their destination. He took a deep breath and pushed aside his fears and doubts. First they would catch this madman and ensure Max was safe. Then… well. Then they would see.