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EVEN IN GARISH, UNFLATTERING death, Angela Maria “Geli” Raubal was beautiful. She lay prone on the rug of her bedroom floor, her face turned in profile, her right arm away from her body, soaked in blood. Not far from her outstretched hand was a Walther pistol.
Bauer started with a quick, first-impression look over the corner bedroom. It was more than twice the size of his own, and unmistakably feminine in its décor. A room of pastels, from the light green of the walls to the chiffon window treatments. A large radio-phonograph rested on a linen-covered table with several dozen records in a bin just beneath it. An antique writing desk had stylish pens lined up neatly, and a bin for stationery labeled A. Raubal.
Bauer poked his head into the dressing room, a spacious area lined with two levels of poles for dresses and other outfits, a good number of shoes for various occasions, and a narrow bureau with a dish of jewelry on top. Next to it in the corner sat a battered leather portmanteau.
Bauer moved to the corner, toward the girl’s dead body. Geli was lying near the queen-sized bed with its canopy of scalloped embroidery, matching sheets, and a half dozen pillows. Next to it, a vanity lined with makeup and hair products, with a pink chair nestled into it, faced a blank wall.
The room was well kept, pristine. Almost alarmingly so.
“She must have been out earlier last night,” Bauer said, noting the blue silk dress Geli was wearing. “That dress is not for staying in.”
Helldorff nodded as he scribbled a note on a small pad.
Bauer squatted down, gently moving a strand of curly locks from the victim’s face. “See the bruising? Discoloration by the eye? Her nose is broken.”
“Which could have happened from the fall.”
“Maybe,” Bauer conceded. “Not likely. Bruising doesn’t happen after death.”
“She could have lived for a while after the fall to the rug. Look there—she didn’t die from a head shot. She was shot… hard to tell, somewhere in the torso. So it could have taken a long time for her to die.”
“Maybe.” Bauer grimaced. “But once she hits that rug, falling face-first, she’s going to bleed out fast. Simple law of gravity. I don’t think she lives long enough for that much bruising to form. But the RM can tell us for sure.” The rechtsmediziner, he meant—the medical examiner.
“You think this will require a postmortem?”
Bauer didn’t answer. Lost in thought, he walked gingerly around the room, keeping a wide berth from the body. He moved over by the bed, examined the walls and the floor, the dresser and vanity, leaning over and squatting down, peering and poking and checking matters from different angles. He spent about ten minutes doing this before he turned to Helldorff.
“We’ll need the tatortfotograf,” he said.
Helldorff looked up from his notepad. “You’re already sure of that? We only take photographs if we suspect foul play.”
“Good for you, Hofmeister.” Bauer gestured toward the bed. “Blood spatter on the floor, beyond the rug. See that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hedwig, if you call me sir again, there will be two dead bodies. Call me Bauer.”
“Okay, Bauer. I see the blood spatter on the floor.”
“A bit on each side of the rug, right?” Bauer stood less than a foot from the bed, facing Helldorff, pointing down to each side of himself.
“Yes, okay, I see that.”
“So she was probably standing right here when the bullet enters. Blood spatter to the front and each side. The front, that’s the rug. She’s lying on top of it now. But to her sides would be… each side of the floor.”
“Right.”
“And look there,” said Bauer, pointing at the wall near the vanity.
“Blood spatter on the wall, too,” said Helldorff. “A few places.”
“Including here.” Bauer gestured to an area of the wall that looked cleaner than the rest of the light green paint. It was just above and centered over the vanity; the clean area was bordered by a boxy outline the size of a large picture frame. And near the top was a single nail hole.
“What is that?” asked Helldorff.
“What do you think it is?”
“Well, something was hung there. Something rectangular. Hung by a nail.”
