Maggie nodded. “And if they know about the mutilation…”
“It’s a calling card.” Something else clicked in Brodie’s head. “Which is the same reason the German authorities delayed reporting the murder to the press. To see if anyone would announce it before they did.”
“Right.”
Brodie’s experience with terrorism cases was limited, but he was already beginning to see how that factor altered the rules of the game. Most murderers want to evade responsibility for their crimes. Terrorists don’t. They just want to evade capture.
But this might have nothing to do with terrorism. This kind of postmortem mutilation sounded almost ritualistic, a more typical hallmark of a serial killer. Or an organized crime outfit looking to send a message. Brodie said, “An eye for an eye.”
Taylor thought about that. “Revenge. For what?”
“For putting someone away for life, maybe. I’m sure Harry had his share of vengeful enemies.”
They sat in silence for a moment; then Taylor said, “I didn’t ask to be transferred to Campbell.” She looked at him. “I want you to know that.”
“Okay. Good to know.”
“But I did tell you that I’d never work with you again.”
“You did? When was that?”
“At the end of our last mission. Stranded, losing sunlight, dead bodies around us. Remember that?”
“A little. But I don’t think I believed you.”
“Ibelieved me.”
“I’m sure.”
“But… after we got home, and I was transferred… I realized… I knew I could trust you with my life. And you had saved it more than once.”
True, though his reckless behavior might have been responsible for her life being in danger in the first place. But why mention it? He said, “I’m glad we’re working together again, Maggie.” He thought it was time to leave Venezuela behind, so he asked, “Do you remember that I promised you a trip to Germany?”
Taylor smiled. “You said Oktoberfest in Munich. But I guess January in Berlin will have to do. Can’t be worse than my last trip to Germany.”
By which she meant Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, where Taylorunderwent hours of surgery to extract the shrapnel from her leg after her convoy was ambushed by the Taliban and she was medevaced out of Afghanistan. She had large scars on her thigh to memorialize the IED blast, which Scott Brodie had seen in person once in Venezuela when she wore a bikini in the Caracas hotel pool. He didn’t think the Art Hotel in Neukölln had a pool, and he doubted Taylor had packed a bikini for this trip, but maybe…
“Scott…”
Brodie refocused. Taylor was looking at a television at the far end of the bar that was tuned to the news. The chyron read: “FAR-RIGHT PROTEST IN BERLIN IN RESPONSE TO MURDER OF AMERICAN.” A throng of mostly young men carrying German flags and signs were chanting slogans from behind a barricade in front of the American Embassy. One woman was holding a blown-up poster of Harry Vance’s military portrait. A man nearby waved a sign that said:MUSLIME RAUS. Muslims out.
Brodie said, “They weren’t about to let a tragedy go to waste.”
“It looks like we’re walking into a political shitstorm.”
Brodie replied, “I see it as an enriching career opportunity.”
“Shitstorm.”
“Right. That too.” He reminded her, “We’re there to solve a murder and see that justice is done. We’re not there to solve the problems of Europe or the refugee crisis.”
“I think they’re interconnected, Scott. And you know that.”
“We’re cops. Leave the other shit to other people. I’m sure you remember what happened on our last case when we got outside our lane and over our pay grade.” He assured her, “That won’t happen again.”
She looked at him. “Can I hold you to that in Berlin?”
He didn’t reply.
