Fatal Lies Frank Tallis (best fiction books to read txt) 📖

back. The expression of concentration on the professor's face, and the peculiarity of the woman's condition, suggested to the onlooker the more familiar sight of an avid reader poring over the pages of an open book. Above the body was an electric light, the beam of which shone down into the raw, empty cavity of the woman's torso. A collection of glistening organs—heart, liver, lungs—were strewn across a nearby table. The stench was overwhelming.

Haussmann covered his mouth and looked beseechingly at his superior.

“All right,” said Rheinhardt, “go outside and have a cigarette. I'll join you shortly.” His assistant nodded and made an undignified exit.

“Professor?”

Mathias's gaze seemed to be fixed on the woman's pudendum.

“Professor?” Rheinhardt called more loudly.

Mathias cleared his throat. “A man who had lost his axe suspected his neighbor's son of stealing it. Observing the boy, the man discovered that everything about him—his gait, narrow features, speech, et cetera—declared the boy a thief; however, the following day the man discovered his axe beneath a sack in his own cellar. When he encountered his neighbor's son again, he no longer saw anything unusual about the boy's appearance.” The professor paused for a few moments. Then he added: “Well, Rheinhardt?”

“I really have no idea,” said the inspector.

“No, I didn't think you would. It is by an ancient Chinese author. I have been making a study of their literature—and very interesting it is too.”

Mathias stood up and rolled a mortuary sheet up to the dead woman's neck. Before covering her face, he gently touched her hair.

“So very beautiful,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Rheinhardt agreed. “How did she die?”

“Natural causes—a congenital defect of the pulmonary semilunar valve.” Mathias wiped his hands down the front of his brown apron. “We are advised,” he continued, “to be cautious in our judgments. Yet… yet…”

He suddenly fell silent.

“Yet what?” asked Rheinhardt.

“I strongly suspect that the last time this woman received her husband, she had already been dead for some time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The gentleman exercised his conjugal privilege post-mortem.”

“Dear God,” gasped Rheinhardt.

Mathias shrugged. “I cannot share your disgust, Inspector. It is my understanding that what passes for sexual relations in most Viennese marriages is essentially necrophilic.” The old man began to chuckle. “Only joking, Rheinhardt. Now, who have we here?”

Professor Mathias shuffled past a metal bucket in which a length of colon was coiled like a sleeping serpent.

“Thomas Zelenka,” said Rheinhardt.

The boy was laid out—like the eviscerated and misused hausfrau— on a brightly illuminated table. The brilliance of the electric light beam showed his freckles more clearly. They were more numerous than Rheinhardt remembered, and their ginger dappling had the effect of making Zelenka look much younger than his fifteen years.

A child, thought Rheinhardt. Still only a child.

“Inspector?” Mathias's voice sounded querulous.

“Yes?”

“Why are you wearing tails?”

Rheinhardt sighed. He gave an account of the evening's events while Mathias pulled a cart of surgical tools over to Zelenka's table.

“Help me get his clothes off, will you?”

Rheinhardt baulked.

“Oh, come now, Inspector!” Mathias reprimanded. “Your coyness with the dead is becoming quite tiresome!”

The old man tutted and began to undo the buttons on Zelenka's woolen shirt. Rheinhardt reluctantly manipulated the boy's stiffening arms, and the shirt came off without too much difficulty. He then removed the boy's vest. Rheinhardt placed each article of clothing in a paper bag and sealed it. When he turned to assist Professor Mathias again, he found that the old pathologist was standing very still, staring at the body with intense interest.

“The trousers, Professor?”

Mathias grunted—but it was evident that the meaning of Rheinhardt s words had not registered.

“The trousers?” Rheinhardt repeated.

“Shh,” said the pathologist, waving his hand in the air. He then moved forward, his stealthy gait and purposeful gaze reminding Rheinhardt of a predatory animal. Suddenly, Mathias pounced. He lowered his head—his nose almost touching Zelenka's body. He then snatched a magnifying glass from the cart and began to examine the boy's chest.

“Professor?”

“Extraordinary.”

“What is?”

“Come here. Take a look at this.”

Rheinhardt could not see anything at first. But as he drew closer he saw that there was something unusual about the boy's skin: a patch, about the size of a five-krone coin, just above the right nipple, that seemed to be reflecting the light differently. As Rheinhardt lowered his head, he detected a lattice of faint white lines.

“Here,” said Mathias, handing Rheinhardt the magnifying glass.

The lens showed that the white lines were in fact tiny weals: raised ridges of pale flesh.

“What is it? A dermatological disease?”

“No, Rheinhardt. It's scar tissue. The skin has been slashed with a razor. The wounds have healed over now—but the manner in which they have healed suggests they were repeatedly reopened.” Mathias's magnified finger appeared beneath the glass. “The uppermost incision was once infected.”

“Could these cuts have been self-inflicted? I have heard of prisoners injuring themselves to relieve boredom.”

“Only if he is left-handed—a right-handed person would instinctively cut contralaterally thus inflicting wounds on the left pectoralis major.”

“I'm afraid I do not know which was his preferred hand.”

Mathias examined the boy's thumbs and then squeezed Zelenka's upper arms.

“He was right-handed,” Mathias said with absolute certainty. “His right thumb is slightly larger than the left, and his right biceps is more developed.”

“Very impressive, Herr Professor.”

Mathias did not acknowledge Rheinhardt's compliment, and his expression suddenly changed from one of confidence to one of perplexity. He lifted Zelenka's left arm and allowed it to swing out over the edge of the table.

“I thought I could feel something odd.”

A few centimeters below the boy's armpit was a square of bloody gauze. Mathias eased the dressing away revealing another network of cuts. Unlike those on Zelenka's chest, these had not healed. The lines of the crisscross pattern were black and scabby. Mathias closed his eyes and explored the wounds with his fingertips. They trembled over each crusty laceration, like those of a blind man reading braille. He then pressed the flesh until one of the cuts opened.

“Quite deep,” he said softly.

Rheinhardt scratched his head. “Have you seen wounds like this before?”

“No,” said Mathias, “I haven't.”

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks