The Zurich Conspiracy

the separation is not always easy—for either party.”
    Josefa stared at the man before her. She’d come to find out something about Sali, and now suddenly it was all about her. This paper-pusher has a screw loose, she thought.
    “Sali is not filling some vacuum for me,” she managed to get out. “He came into my life, I was asked for help, and I like the kid; I help him with his homework. I don’t want to put him in therapy or adopt him or alienate him from his family.”
    She had risen from her chair in her anger. “You probably think I’m some kind of rich bitch who’s suddenly discovered her heart over an orphan from the Balkans and is going to use this poor kid to solve her own problems!” She shoved the chair away quickly and put both her arms on his desk, making the psychologist pull back reflexively. “But you know what: He does help me in fact—this little boy helps me see the world differently. No, he helps me see a different world—a more diverse, brightly colored world than you can probably ever conceive of,” she snarled. “Thank you for this helpful conversation, Herr Derungs.” She turned around, opened the door, and stormed out.
    It was dark. The air seemed colder and damper than in the morning. But Josefa could still feel how hot her face was. Her skin was taut; she didn’t make any effort to put on her gloves but ran down Seestrasse as if she were being followed. A streetcar stopped a few steps in front of her, but Josefa ran blindly on. She turned near the Stadelhofen Station and went in the direction of Lake Zurich.
    She came to a stop in front of the opera house. She had a stitch in her side and had trouble catching her breath. Groups of chattering people were streaming into the high, brightly lit doorways. There was a roaring in Josefa’s ears, blood was pounding in her temples, and a milky wave was swimming before her eyes. She felt the metal chain in her hands and started spinning the steel ball, haltingly at first, then faster and faster and more and more powerfully and menacingly. Now the ball hit, blow after blow, crushing walls and pillars, cutting through buildings, mercilessly mowing down everything within its radius. People fled screaming out of its murderous path. But something was still standing, a pitiful little figure, a boy with big ears and eyes wide open. Sali, Josefa screamed, go away! Run. Fast! She couldn’t stop the ball; it was flying at breakneck speed, higher and higher. The little boy ducked, the ball just missed him by a few inches, took off, and shot up into the sky.
    Josefa looked at the child on the ground. It lifted its head—but it wasn’t Sali, it was a girl! Her black hair was in ringlets, and dark lashes framed her terrified eyes. She said something that Josefa didn’t understand.
    A cold shudder ran through her body. She shut her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them again, the girl was still standing there. She looked at her, bug-eyed, and said something again. The brightly lit opera house was in the background; a few people were running for the door. Josefa noticed a young woman in a yellow anorak, looking at her expectantly. Then she heard the girl’s voice, “You lost your gloves.” The little one held out something dark blue to her. She must in fact have dropped her gloves.
    Josefa regained her composure enough to be able to stammer in her friendliest voice, “But that’s very kind of you.” She said to the girl’s mother, “Such a bright, considerate little girl.”
    “Yes, she was always like that. She’s always helping somebody or other. I don’t know who she gets it from.” The woman laughed and Josefa smiled. She waved to the girl, who was now walking away holding her mother’s hand and repeatedly turning around to look at her. Josefa didn’t notice until now that the girl’s hair was hidden beneath a furry cap. Maybe she didn’t have dark hair. Or long, black eyelashes.
    Josefa took deep breaths, the cold evening air filling her lungs; her head suddenly felt light as a feather. The glow on her face was gone, her mouth and her temples were no longer tense. She pulled on her blue gloves and hiked home with a firm step under the glow of the street lights.

The morning meeting in Zurich’s Criminal Investigation headquarters was drawing to a close. The mood was both subdued and slightly edgy. Two murders and still no suspects. Or too many suspects. Franz Kündig had one of the Zurich newspapers before him.