The Devil's Opera(130)

That statement grabbed Gotthilf’s attention. “But he was found in the explosion scene,” he said.

“Yes, and much of the damage to his body was caused by the explosion, no doubt,” Dr. Schlegel responded. “But it was all post-mortem. The actual cause of death was a stab wound in the back.”

He rolled the body onto its side, gesturing for one of them to hold it there. Byron reached a hand out. Then the doctor pulled a light closer and picked a probe up off of the table.

“See here?” He pointed to the lower back. “Right above the left kidney. Penetrated the kidney, severed the main artery to the kidney. Fatal within moments due to internal hemorrhaging. Quite painful, as well, for the short time he had left to live.”

“So if he was the boiler attendant on shift that morning…” Gotthilf started.

“He would have been in the wagon watching the gauges and tending the firebox,” Byron finished.

“So when the boiler exploded, of course he would have caught more of the blast force than the men out in the yard,” Honister said.

“Except that he was already dead.” Gotthilf frowned. “Why?”

“Ockham’s Razor,” Byron said. “The simplest explanation is mostly likely the correct one.” He noticed the sergeants staring at him. “What? I went to school, too, you know.”

Byron lifted a hand and ticked off fingers as he spoke.

“One: if he was on shift in the wagon, then someone either killed him for a personal reason, or he was killed because he was in the way. We can’t figure out an unknown personal reason, but…

“Two: if he was killed because he was in the way, someone probably wanted access to something in the wagon.

“Three: there wasn’t anything in that end of the wagon except gauges, the boiler tank, and the firebox.

“Four:…” Byron stopped ticking fingers and looked at Dr. Schlegel. “Doc, could you estimate time of death?”

“The saturation of his clothing by the superheated steam means I cannot estimate to within an hour,” the doctor replied, “but my opinion is that he died not long before the explosion.”

“Four:…” Byron resumed, “the boiler explosion occurred not long after he was killed.” He looked at the sergeants. “Still think the captain’s idea is crazy?”

Gotthilf wondered if he looked as stunned as Honister did.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door to the room, and a Polizei messenger stuck his head in.

“Lieutenant Chieske, Sergeants, the Schiffer people want to see you back at the hospital project site. They say they’ve found something you need to see.”

“Right. Be right there.” Byron turned to Dr. Schlegel. “Keep this one on ice as long as you can, Doc. We may not be done with him yet.” He turned to Honister. “You coming with us?”

“No, I’m going to go through this and see if anything helps.” He picked up the envelope of Peter/Pietro’s belongings.

“Right. We’re gone.”

Gotthilf was on Byron’s heels.

* * *

Honister headed back for his desk, by way of a bakery where he bought a roll for his lunch. Once inside the station, he bit off a large piece of the crusty bread, and chewed on that while he unsealed the envelope and dumped the contents on the desk.

Jacket—check.

Shirt—check.

Pants—check.

Shoes—check.

He looked them over carefully, but found nothing distinctive about them, other than a strong indication that Peter/Pietro hadn’t bathed in quite some time.

Belt—check. Honister also examined this item with care. Alas, there was nothing significant here either; just a worn and stretched-out strip of leather, so grimy its original color couldn’t be discerned.

So, what about the other contents? His finger pushed around the rest of the items from the envelope: a couple of small coins, a glass marble, a leaden amulet, and—hiding in the envelope with just the tip of the sheath poking out—a knife.

Honister unsheathed it and thumbed the edge; pretty sharp, it was. He stood so suddenly he almost over-turned his chair and hurried out, grabbing his hat off its wall peg as he rushed by.

A quarter-hour later he was talking to his consultant smith, Erhard Misch. “What can you tell me about this knife?” he asked, handing it over.

“This related to the same case?” The smith unsheathed the knife and walked over to the window to examine it in the best light.

“Yah.”

“Much better made than those first knives you brought me. Made by a different smith, too. Nice work.”

“Okay, so it’s a more expensive knife,” Honister said. “Is it from Italy? Venice? Genoa? Rome?”