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Firemen holding their cutting torches stood in front of an open iron gate.
    Two EMTs came toward her in the darkness, carrying a stretcher, and the emergency doctor ran alongside them, holding an IV in the air.
    “Good evening, Ms. Kirchhoff,” he said. They knew each other from similar incidents at similarly ungodly hours.
    “Good evening.” Pia cast a glance at the boy on the stretcher. “What’s with him?”
    “Found him passed out next to the corpse. Very drunk. We’re trying to wake him up.”
    “Okay. I’ll see you later.” She teetered along the path as curious bystanders gaped at her from behind the fence of the stadium. She silently cursed her decision to wear high heels today.
    A few yards farther on, she encountered two uniformed officers and her colleague Ehrenberg from the break-in department, who’d been on call today and had phoned her.
    “Good evening,” Pia said. “Could all of you please make sure to clear the people out of the stadium? I don’t want to see any photos or videos of a corpse showing up on Facebook or YouTube.”
    “Sure thing.”
    “Thanks.” Ehrenberg briefed Pia on the situation before she moved on, thinking enviously about her colleagues, who were now enjoying a pleasant weekend. She could hear excited voices in the distance, which gave her a hint as to what was going on. Another fifty yards and she had reached the brightly illuminated scene on the bank of the river. At the foot of a steep slope stood Pia’s ex-husband, Dr. Henning Kirchhoff, with Christian Kröger, head of crime-scene investigations at Hofheim police HQ. Dressed in white protective overalls and under the harsh light of the floodlights that had been set up, they looked like two Martians on a riverside stage who were calling each other names like “dilettante” and “bungler,” one with corrosive arrogance, the other with hot-blooded rage.
    Directly beyond the reeds, a boat from the river police heaved to and turned a glaring spotlight on the bank, bathing it in light bright as day.
    Three colleagues from the evidence team were following the heated argument from a suitable distance with a mixture of resignation and patience.
    “Hey, Ms. Chief Superintendent. Nice dress,” one of them remarked with an appreciative whistle. “And great legs.”
    “Thanks. What’s going on over there?” asked Pia.
    “Same old, same old. The boss is claiming that the doc is deliberately destroying evidence,” said another officer, raising his camera. “At least we already got our photos.”
    Pia made her way down the slope, hoping that she wouldn’t stumble in front of everybody and land in the stinging nettles, which grew abundantly on both sides of the narrow path.
    “I can’t believe it!” Kröger shouted heatedly when he caught sight of her. “Now you’re tramping right through the DNA evidence! First Ehrenberg, the smart-aleck detective, then the damned corpse slicer, then the emergency doc, and now you, too! Why can’t everybody be more careful? How are we supposed to do our work properly?”
    His question was entirely justified. The spot where they were both standing measured no more than fifty square feet.
    “Good evening, gentlemen.” Pia paid no attention to Kröger’s outburst; she was used to it. He was a perfectionist and preferred to have every crime scene or discovery site all to himself for a few hours before anyone else contaminated it.
    “Hi, Pia,” Henning greeted her. “Are you a witness to the slanderous statements that this person has once again heaped on me in the most unprofessional manner?”
    “I’m not interested in any problems of cooperation you two may be having,” Pia snapped. “What happened here?”
    Kröger glanced up, his eyes widening as he stared at her with an expression of amazement.
    “Is this the first time you’ve ever seen a woman in a dress?” Pia barked at him. Without jeans and sensible shoes, she felt out of place and oddly vulnerable.
    “No,