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1931

Munich Police Department

Directorate 22, the Bogenhausen District

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR THOMAS BAUER dropped his bag on his desk and nodded to the others—Brecht and Frank, a couple of kriminaloberassistents, and a young kid, a new kriminalassistent named Helldorff.

“Bauer?” said Brecht, with his walrus mustache. “Since when does a kommissar work the early shift?”

Bauer dropped into his chair. “Since his wife enjoys too much shopping at the Oberpollinger and he needs the extra pay.”

They all bellowed out a laugh, Helldorff the kid more than anyone, eager to please.

“Gentlemen! Death under suspicious circumstances.” The chief inspector’s assistant, a woman named Ilse, walked into the detectives’ room. Spotting Bauer, the highest rank in the room, she handed him the slip of paper. “Early shift, Bauer?”

“Just can’t stay away from this place, Ilse.”

Brecht and Frank seemed to sink in their chairs, as if the thought of doing actual work, especially a suspicious death, came as an unwelcome surprise. Bauer smirked and looked at the slip of paper. “Prinzregentenplatz 16,” he read. He glanced at the kid, the junior detective’s assistant with rosy cheeks and a mess of blond hair. “Hellman?”

“Helldorff, sir.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Peter, sir.”

“You feel like doing some police work, Hoffman?”

The kid didn’t correct him. Maybe he knew it was a test. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Two rules. One, don’t call me sir. This isn’t the infantry. And two, I drive.”

Bauer curbed the police vehicle, an olive Horch 400 Polizei-Mannschaftswagen, by the granite building numbered Prinzregentenplatz 16, alongside two patrol cars that had responded. It was gray and cold and felt like rain might be coming. A patrol officer was waiting outside on the street for Bauer.

“Inspector,” said the officer, greeting Bauer. “Dead female, age twenty-three.” He directed them to the flat.

Bauer craned his neck, looking up at the building, a stone gargoyle staring down at him. “Name?”

“Angela Raubal. The niece of Adolf Hitler. This is Herr Hitler’s flat.”

“Oh, sweet Mary, mother of God,” Bauer mumbled. Head still turned upward, he closed his eyes a moment, wondering which deity he had managed to piss off. “Fine,” he quickly said. He shepherded young Peter Helldorff over to the side of their car. “Listen, kid, I wouldn’t normally care about your politics. But you know who this guy is, right?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Are you one of these Nazis? A member of the National Socialist whatever they call themselves now?”

Like any other institution, the members of the Munich Police Department had varying political views. There were those who had already jumped firmly on the bandwagon of the Nazi Party, especially some of the war veterans who were drawn to Hitler’s constant attacks on the Communists. And there were a few open antisemites in the department, too. However, as both the Bolsheviks and the Nazis engaged in antigovernment insurrections like vandalism or guerrilla attacks on government institutions, most cops didn’t like either one.

“No, sir, I am not,” said Helldorff.

“Okay.” Bauer looked around, assessed their surroundings. A small crowd had formed—just a few curious onlookers, which happened whenever the police congregated—but it was no spectacle. Meaning that nobody had yet figured out that a suspicious death had occurred inside the flat of Germany’s fastest-rising political star. “One chance, Hartmann. I’ll give you one chance to walk away if you don’t want to be a part of this, no questions asked, no hard feelings. Maybe you’re feeling a touch of the flu all of a sudden.”

The kid blinked. Bauer couldn’t tell if he was surprised by the question or contemplating his answer. “Are you walking away, sir?”

“Me? Hell, no. But if I had half a brain, I would. Do you have half a brain, Heinrich?”

“Apparently not, sir.”