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today.”
    “You’re probably right,” Borger said. “Shall we begin?”
    Franza nodded.
    “So,” he began, “death occurred almost immediately, thankfully, you could say. The injuries were definitely fatal, and there was nothing anyone could have done. She didn’t have the slightest chance.”
    He paused, remaining silent for several moments, and then continued. “The car must have hit her with full force. The pelvis and thighs have multiple fractures, everything is crushed. Moreover, some of the inner organs are pretty roughed up, too, meaning that several systems failed at the same time, complete shutdown, multiple trauma. Ruptured intestines, ruptured liver, ruptured aorta.”
    Borger fell silent and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. A fan was humming on the ceiling. Arthur was trying to get used to the air, to the smell of disinfectant and chemicals, and to the indefinable something that seemed to be hovering in the room.
    “What was the cause of death in the end?” Franza asked.
    Borger looked at the girl pensively. “Loss of blood,” he said. “A girl her age has about six pints of blood. It doesn’t take long to lose that, only a few minutes.”
    He looked up and into Franza’s face. It affects her, he thought, yes, we’re not getting any younger, this sad look about her mouth . . .
    “The blood on the stones in the rest area is hers, then. Can you elaborate?”
    He nodded. “Yes, we were lucky. Insofar as after the collision she landed on the grass beside the road and her head and face received very little damage. There’s only this one conspicuous wound on the back of her head, and that definitely wasn’t due to the accident. The laceration caused the blood on the rocks that we saw.”
    He paused again, clearing his throat. “Additionally,” he said, with unmistakable satisfaction in his voice, “I found tiny traces of moss in the wound. We can say with absolute certainty that it is the same moss that’s on the rocks in the rest area.”
    He nodded a few times. Then he continued, “You see these marks?” He pointed to several dark bruises on the girl’s throat.
    Franza nodded slowly. “Strangulation marks.”
    “Exactly. She must have been strangled, and then fell or was pushed, and hit the back of her head on the rocks.”
    Franza frowned. “Did she try to fight off her attacker?”
    “There’s no one else’s DNA under her fingernails, if that’s what you mean,” he said regretfully.
    She sighed, and he studied her face again. Yes, he thought, this is new, this look about her mouth, the tired eyes. Her hair, however, was as blond as ever. Still shiny with the same reddish tinge, though maybe she just had a good hairdresser. Well, he thought with resignation, it can’t be helped, we’re getting old. And he realized with surprise how familiar the thought was to him, and how often he’d thought it before.
    “What happened next?” Franza asked, noticing Borger’s intent gaze. “She was lying there . . .”
    He nodded. “Yes. And was most likely unconscious.”
    “Because of the impact.”
    “Because of a commotio cerebri .”
    “Concussion.”
    He smiled mischievously. “Yes.”
    “And how long did this unconsciousness last? How long was she lying there?”
    He thought it over for a moment. “Maybe half an hour. Probably less. However, she had a considerable amount of alcohol in her blood, which would’ve dulled her senses further.”
    “Meaning?”
    “That I can’t tell you precisely. It could’ve been less, but also more. But more likely less.”
    “Could he have thought she was dead?”
    Borger stopped again to think, scratching his chin and moving his head from side to side. “Yes,” he said finally. “Definitely. If you’re not familiar with death, and if, on top of that, you’re panicking, not in control of yourself, then yes, I believe that could happen.”
    “When she woke up, did she know what had happened?”
    He shook his head.