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be,” Mason said.
    The colonel shot up from his chair. “That’s enough! I’ve warned you about your attitude. That war’s been fought. We won’t be fighting it again, here. Is that clear?”
    Mason nodded.
    “That goes for you, too, Inspector.”
    Becker bowed his head. “My apologies, Colonel. My officers and I are happy to cooperate.”
    “Fine. Now both of you get out of here.”

FOUR
    M ason blew past the pool of desks and entered his office. He flicked on the ceiling light then slapped the file folders onto his desk. Before he could sit, Becker knocked on his open door.
    Mason sighed. “Yeah, come in.”
    Few Germans made Mason uneasy these days. When they had been shooting at him and taken him prisoner, yes, but not after their devastating defeat. But Becker not only personified his late tyrannical grandfather, he also stirred Mason’s memories of the brutal German military police and the terror of the camp guards, and Mason resented the man for it.
    Becker took two steps into the room. “I would like to apologize for my part in our dispute.”
    “Forget it,” Mason said, but Becker had the look of a parent waiting for the right response. “Okay, me, too. We’re both cops. But I hope I don’t find out you were a Gestapo goon arresting political dissidents or hunting down escaped American POWs.”
    “I remained in Kripo during the war. I only investigated serious crimes and had nothing to do with security enforcement. Your colonel thinks very highly of you. I hope we can work together in harmony.”
    Mason sat at his desk and started leafing through the files. “Whatever works to solve the case, right?”
    Becker tilted his head in agreement. “I respect your fervor. A man never fully forgets the victims. Especially the brutal ones.”
    Mason stopped fussing with the files and looked up. Becker had been a cop for decades before him, and he probably had a lot more skeletons stuffed in his closet. “This one does have me pretty rattled. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Mason looked at his watch. “It’s after eleven now, and it’s going to take me an hour to type up my report. I’ll have someone make up a file in the morning and send it over to you.”
    Becker removed a business card from his pocket and placed it on Mason’s desk. “I will have my colleagues begin a search for witnesses tomorrow morning. It will be difficult to identify the victim. There are hundreds of thousands of German refugees, deserters from every army. . . .”
    Mason fed a sheet into his typewriter. “Not to mention all the freed concentration camp prisoners and slave laborers your comrades didn’t manage to eliminate.” Mason turned to Becker. “Look—”
    “No need to apologize.” A smile formed in the corner of Becker’s mouth, but his nostrils flared; he was obviously struggling to maintain his composure. “I understand you have reasons for your animosity. And old enemies do not become friends overnight. We will have a pleasant working relationship.”
    By way of conciliation, Mason said, “Once I have the medical examiner’s report, I’ll send that to you. And as soon as I have a sketch artist draw up the victim’s portrait, I’ll send over copies of that as well.”
    “Good. We’ll post them on the usual missing-persons boards and see that all the surrounding community police departments receive a copy.”
    “Then we’ll have all our little crumbs in a box, congratulate ourselves for our fine efforts, while we wait for the bastard to butcher another victim.” Mason turned his attention back to his typewriter.
    Becker lingered for a moment. “It never becomes any easier. I can attest to that. But beware of the bitterness.” He shifted his winter coat to his left arm and donned his hat. “Good night.”
    Mason returned the farewell as he typed. He didn’t think aboutwhat he was writing. He’d done enough reports that his brain went into autopilot. But Becker’s parting words