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smile. “Look at yourself, Borger.”
    He cleared his throat, patted his belly, and continued to grin. “Whatever you say, Franza, my dear. Shall we go for a bite to eat later? You know I adore your hips.”
    He turned and grinned at Arthur, their young colleague, who remained discreetly in the background—not because he was discreet by nature, but because he was feeling sick to his stomach and trying not to let it show. “You know, I love her hips!”
    Arthur had no choice but to return the grin, but didn’t really know what to say. He hemmed and hawed and then finally mumbled, “They are nice hips.” He cursed himself inwardly because he could feel how he was blushing.
    Franza and Borger laughed, and Franza was surprised to see Borger looking Arthur up and down with interest. She was sure Arthur had noticed, too, and maybe that was why he’d turned red. Arthur was smart and easily drew the right conclusions. He had potential, and Franza and Felix were training him as their successor.
    As their successor! That sounded as if they were almost ready to retire even though they still had a good twenty years to go.
    But that’s the way it went. They had to train good people, had to give them time to grow and to develop their instincts and personalities. That didn’t happen overnight. It took time, and Arthur was someone they were willing to invest their time in because they had high hopes for him. He was hungry and tough when necessary, but he also possessed a certain sensitivity—a rare combination.
    “Well,” Borger said. “Shall we go eat?”
    He turned to Arthur. “You’re welcome to join us, of course.” His voice quivered a little.
    Franza shook her head and tapped her forehead. “How can you think of food right now?”
    “Oh, come on,” Borger said, “ever since you rejected me in favor of that gum plumber, I constantly think of food. Considering how cold it is in here”—he gestured around the room—“I have to keep up my strength.”
    She nodded and smiled, suddenly feeling a wave of calm and composure coming over her. She secretly called him tie-Borger, because she had never seen him without a tie. Every time she saw him she decided to get him an especially classy one for next time, but she always forgot. They’d known each other since their college years and had even lived in the same dormitory for a few months. They liked each other, and their banter at the many wakes and burials they had attended made the deaths easier to bear.
    “All right,” he said, turning his attention back to the girl lying on the metal table in the hospital’s pathology room. She seemed distant, more distant than on the autobahn, but Franza knew this phenomenon. Lying on metal tables beneath bright lights, they were pale and ashen, all color drained from them. Some took on a greenish hue. Often it was here the victims would regain their dignity—here, where it was returned to them. Even as every last secret was being stolen from them, their loss was atoned for by finding the clues to their death.
    “So young!” Borger said, turning serious. “Sad.”
    Franza nodded, carefully taking a strand of the girl’s hair between her fingers. Dark brown bordering on black. As she’d thought.
    “And you still don’t know who she is? No one reported her missing?” Borger asked, looking doubtfully at Franza.
    Franza shook her head. “No, no one.”
    “Maybe she’s not from around here. Maybe she’s from God knows where and no one has missed her because everyone thinks she’s gone on vacation. It happened on the autobahn, after all. Autobahns lead into the unknown.”
    For a moment Franza was astonished at Borger’s poetry. She shook her head again. “I think that’s unlikely. Would you go on vacation wearing a dress like that? Sitting in the car for hours? I can’t see it. To me, it’s precisely the dress that narrows our area of interest. But let’s wait and see. Her photo’s in the newspaper