Chapter 14
The Widow Schauerhammer’s hands clutch mine the moment I sit beside her.
Her knuckles are white, the bones straining to escape the confines of her skin.
Her hair is lank and greasy, pushed back into a bun that’s slowly coming undone.
The youngest child, no more than three or four, is curled up and sleeping on a coat laid out on the floor.
“Please,” the widow says, “please, tell them. You have to tell them. Get a priest. My children, my sister—” Her voice doesn’t crack.
She’s hollowed out, eyes red-rimmed but dry.
Whatever grief she’s experiencing, it’s outweighed by the urgency of what she’s begging me to do.
“Bury them upside down and stake them into the ground.”
I have no response to that. But this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of that method of burial. The stake must go through the heart, my father’s trembling writing noted.
“What happened to them?” I ask, trying to calm my racing heart. The dead returning is a known superstition here. Her belief isn’t evidence that my father was onto something.
“He’s come back to take us all with him.
” She tightens her grip on my hands, her sleeves shifting to reveal old bruises on her wrists.
“He won’t rest until he has all of us under his control once more.
Please, please, save my sister. Save my beautiful children.
Don’t let them come back. Don’t let him have them. ”
Her husband was a bad man. This much is obvious.
Her lingering trauma over his abuse, coupled with the shocking loss of so much of her family, has left her unable to cope.
In her mind, something this heinous must be supernaturally evil.
I don’t want to tell her just how natural evil is, how regularly I see it.
But it’s hard to make myself as rational and detached as I need to be when Goldstein pries the widow’s hand off mine and then takes me downstairs to see the bodies.
“They’ve been here for three days?” I trained with Joren.
I know the ways in which death breaks down bodies.
They should be bloated, a greenish tinge to the skin, bloody foam around the mouth and nose.
It’s cool enough down here that the stench wouldn’t be unbearable, but it’s not freezing.
There should be some smell. Instead, they all look as though they died mere minutes ago, skin pale and lifeless but not even beginning to decay.
“Three days,” Goldstein confirms. He sounds as troubled as I feel. “She won’t let us bury them until we agree to do it her way.”
Berend lingers close to the door, arm over his nose. He isn’t suited to this work. Good for him.
I lean closer to the wound on the aunt’s abdomen. I’ve seen bite wounds up close, the ways a carnivore’s teeth tear into flesh. Joren even has an old scar on his arm from a wolf bite that he traces when he’s deep in thought.
This bite pattern looks familiar. But not because it’s from an animal. “A human jaw made these marks.” I look to Goldstein for confirmation. He nods reluctantly. “So, the theory is that, after cutting them open and removing their livers, he also bit them to mimic a scary story told to children?”
“He could have made a tool,” Berend offers. “Metal shaped like teeth.”
“It’s all too much effort. I can’t understand why anyone would do it. Did you check the stomach contents? Run tests for arsenic and other poison? Maybe the liver removal is a distraction.”
Goldstein nods again. He’s already thought of this. He’s a good detective. “The stomachs were intact. Not even trace amounts of arsenic or any detectable poison.”
“There haven’t been other deaths like this?”
“None,” Goldstein answers.
I stand back, hands on hips. “It has to be personal. You said the widow’s brother was accounted for. But wasn’t the widow staying with him? They could be lying to provide alibis for each other.”
“He lives in Freising, which is over forty kilometers away. The brother was at a tavern all afternoon and evening, seen by multiple witnesses. And his neighbor saw the widow at twilight, sitting in the garden. So, it’s possible that she left her youngest child there, rode a horse all night to her home, killed her sister and two other children, and then made it back by morning.
But it doesn’t seem likely. Her brother owns a horse, but it would take a skilled rider to make the trip in that short a time. ”
“If it was twilight when the neighbor saw someone sitting in the garden, it might not have been the widow. Assuming she left as soon as her brother went to the tavern, she would have had more time for the ride. Plus, no one accounted for her whereabouts in the morning, correct? Because no one knew of the murders yet. All we have is the word of her brother that she was there when he woke up.”
“True,” Goldstein says. “But what’s her motive?”
“She wants the bodies buried upside down and staked through the heart. She’s certain her husband has come back.
” I rub my forehead. “Let’s say he broke her so completely that she can’t accept he’s gone.
What if, shattered by grief and abuse, she did what she thought her husband would if he came back?
She may not even know she was the one who did it. A fugue state.”
“You really think she killed them?”
I don’t. But I can’t fully discount it yet.
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s guilty of something else.
If she killed her husband, and someone out there knows, this could be revenge.
Take her children and sister and destroy her sanity.
Look into Mister Schauerhammer, see if he has any family left.
It’s that, or the widow. Either way, these deaths are about punishing her.
That’s our motive. Whether it’s his family punishing her, or her punishing herself, time will tell. ”
Berend and I follow Goldstein back up. I’m eager to be away from those upsetting bodies. They could almost be sleeping, were it not for the gaping wounds and missing livers.
I glance at the corner where the widow is sitting on the floor, child held in her lap. There’s something vacant in her expression. Like she’s already died, too. “Do what she’s asking with the bodies,” I say.
“We can’t!” Goldstein exclaims.
“It’s nothing worse than what’s already been done to them.
Use a priest she trusts. Say whatever prayers she needs, and then bury them upside down with stakes through their hearts.
Let her watch. Show her that you’re taking her seriously.
” How much would my life have changed if someone had immediately believed me about Diavola?
I know it’s not the same—Diavola is real—but I will always sympathize with a woman no one listens to.
“Do that, and she’ll open up. She’ll tell you what really happened to her husband, and you can go from there. ”
“You believe she killed him, then.”
I think of the marks on the dead children’s bodies, imagine what pain is hidden beneath that sleeping toddler’s clothes, wonder how many more bruises must be lurking as reminders on the widow’s body. “He deserved it.”
Goldstein doesn’t look approving, but he doesn’t disagree, either. “Should we exhume his body?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised at my vehemence.
It’s likely too late for them to find evidence of poison.
But I want to know—I need her to know—his body is in that grave.
The widow’s words and my father’s writing tug at me, whispering dark secrets in the corners of my mind.
It’s the kindest thing we can do for her, grounding her in reality once more.
“Tomorrow is the earliest we can manage.” Goldstein rubs his face in a weary gesture. “We’ll put those bodies in the ground and pull his out. Maybe that will shock some sense into her.”
“I’d like to be there. And update me on any living relations to the man.
Brothers, especially.” I think of that figure lurking outside the house, watching.
Then I glance at Berend, waiting dutifully to the side.
“And check local blacksmiths here and in Freising, just in case anyone ordered a full set of metal teeth.”
Berend stands straighter at that, flushing with pride. He’s adorable. If he were a little less innocent, I might consider taking him to bed. But he’s right about the metal teeth tool—it could be as elaborate as that. We can’t rule it out until we’ve actually ruled it out.
“Consider it done,” Goldstein says. “I’ll get the carriage. It’ll come for you in the morning, too.”
“The morning is perfect, but there’s no need now. I want to walk.” I turn to Berend to offer the carriage to him, but he nods in agreement. I’d prefer to be alone. I don’t have the heart to tell him, though.
My thoughts are chasing themselves in circles. A long walk will help me get on a straight, orderly path so I can solve this and focus on the real reason I’m here: catching Diavola.
“I don’t suppose you can convince the widow to leave with you?” Goldstein asks, hopeful.
“Would you go back to the house where your sister and two of your children had their livers chewed out?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds unreasonable.” He slaps me on the shoulder like I’m one of his men. I always appreciate it when a detective sees me as a colleague and not some uncanny feminine invader.
With one lingering look at the widow, I exit the police station with Berend. Evening is descending with soft purple insistence.
“We could stop somewhere and get supper,” Berend suggests. A shy note in his voice indicates he doesn’t view it as a business meal. But he quickly adds, “I’ve been reading Gross’s Handbook for Coroners, Police Officials, and Military Policemen. I thought we could talk about it.”