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Last Stop Vienna : Ch 2

Rating: PG-13 for some violence
Transcribed by Brightbear
Author's Notes: I have replaced the word Stephansplatz with Stephans Plaza. If anybody knows a better translation, let me know. This story is set a few years after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Some characters I could not find a character name for (the dog handler that looks after Rex & the Russian store owner that helps Richard), so I made up the names Dieter and Stefan Dejevsky. If anybody knows their actual names, please let me know.
Disclaimer: This is written by a fan of the television series Kommissar Rex. Kommissar Rex is owned by Mungo film, Tauris film, SAT.1 and ORF. The script for the episode Last Stop Vienna was written by Peter Moser and Peter Hajek.

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Richard was walking down the streets, enjoying an ice-cream he'd bought after finally paying Franz. Seeing a familiar store, Richard peered in the window. The elderly shopkeeper, Stefan Dejevsky, was stacking rolls of fabric. Richard rapped on the glass and Stefan waved him in. Stefan waited for him at the door and held open his arms for a hug. Richard was happy enough to see him that he didn't mind. They stood there for a moment with their arms locked around each other before breaking apart.

"How are you?" asked Richard.
Stefan shrugged, "Can't complain. What are you doing here, Richie?"
He paused to look Richard up and down critically, "Or should I say Richard?"
Richard waved at the grease stain, "Have you got any water?"
Stefan nodded, "As much as you want."

Richard waited in the shop, looking around to see if anything had changed while Stefan went to fetch a wet cloth from the back room. Stefan returned and stopped to watch Richard before speaking.
"You haven't been here for a long time," said Stefan quietly, not wanting it to sound like an accusation.
"And it shows," said Richard. "Some kid just stole my wallet. Fine thing for a cop."
Richard paused to look around the old store again, "Since my mother died, I've felt a stranger here."

Stefan followed Richard's gaze, thinking to himself of days past.
"You're right, Richie," sighed Stefan. "It used to be much nicer. Nowadays... oh well."
He handed Richard the cloth, "You didn't come to hear an old Russian grumble. What can I do for you?"
"It's about the bomb at Stephen's plaza," said Richard, wiping vigorously. "I'm sure you heard about it."
Stefan nodded, "I did. Let's go up to my office."

Stefan led the way up the stairs, grabbing his coat on the way past. He slipped one arm into the sleeve, wincing.
"How's your back?" asked Richard, taking the cue.
"Worse by the day," said Stefan.
Richard helped Stefan with the other sleeve.
"Thank you. Things were much better just a few years ago," said Stefan, continuing up the stairs. "One did business with the East peacefully, if not always quite legally. But now..."
Stefan shrugged as he reached the top of the stairs, turning back to look at Richard, "It's gotten a lot tougher. The eastern mafia has taken over."
"That's why I'm here," said Richard.

Stefan opened the door to his office and settled into the chair behind his desk.
Richard handed him the passports and sat down, "Do you know this man?"
Stefan frowned at the passports, "Zhukov... Petr Ivanovich. I know the name... Zhukov. Yes, Petr Zhukov. Top brass in the Russian Trade Ministry, in charge of imports from Europe. A senior bureaucrat, one of the old guard."

Richard nodded and picked up a hand-rolled cigarette that was resting on Stefan's desk, "And probably KGB."
"Most likely," said Stefan. "Or he wouldn't have got that job. Or a second passport."
"It's genuine," said Richard, fiddling with the cigarette thoughtfully.
"Of course," said Stefan. "If you've got connections, you can get a genuine one."

Richard tapped the cigarette against his chin, "Who could have wanted to kill Zhukov? And do it like that, with a bomb?"
It was Stefan's turn to look thoughtful, "A while ago in Frankfurt and Amsterdam some former Soviet bureaucrats were killed the same way."
Richard paused but finally shook his head, "There are other methods, more discreet ones. Cyanide spray, for example."
"Maybe it was to warn others," suggested Stefan.
"I don't think so. There must be another reason," urged Richard.

Richard absent-mindedly snapped the cigarette in half. Stefan grinned indulgently at him before seriously thinking about what Richard had said.
"Zhukov always got a kickback," said Stefan slowly. "That was common knowledge. So it could be about money. And if so, we're talking big money."
Richard's reply was cut short by the ringing of his mobile phone.

"Excuse me," said Richard, pulling out the phone. "Moser here."
Stockinger's voice answered, "Richard..."
"Hi, Stocki."
"The guy you shot. We found a car park ticket and a car key on the stairs. He probably chucked them in a panic," said Stocki.

Richard nodded impatiently, forgetting Stocki couldn't see him.
"Anyway, the make of the car is on the key. A posh jeep. There were three of them in the car park," continued Stocki. "We've accounted for two. The third is registered to an import-export company. The address is 11 Gonzagagasse."
"Number 11.. Gonzagagasse," repeated Richard, writing the address down.
"Right," said Stocki. "See you there."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Richard was sitting in the office of the Import-Export Company at 11 Gonzagagasse. He balanced a stack of files across his lap, dreading the amount of reading it foretold. The secretary was busy pulling more files from the shelves. Richard guessed she must know a good deal about the company's dealings.

"How often did Spitzer..." began Richard.
"Mr Spitzer," the secretary corrected him primly, laying more files in his lap.
"Mr Spitzer. Right. How often did he go to Moscow?"
"Once or twice a month," said the secretary, returning to the shelves. "Although he did go there more often recently."
Walking back to Richard with another armful of files, the secretary paused and looked at the huge mass of paperwork, "I don't know if I'm allowed to show you these."
"You're allowed," Richard reassured her, opening the topmost file. "Better than having to, isn't it?"

It was meant as a joke but at the secretary's shocked and slightly offended expression, Richard swallowed and snapped the file shut.
"So," said Richard. "Mr Spitzer went to Moscow a good deal recently?"
"I just told you that," said the secretary coldly. "Mr Spitzer... the company, has had huge problems since the upheaval in the Soviet Union."
"Russia," Richard corrected her.
"Right," said the secretary. "Well, since then things have ground to a halt."
"What things?"
"Trade."

The secretary shrugged and crossed back to the shelves, "I've barely had any business from there recently."
Richard laid the files aside and crossed to stand beside the secretary. He took the files she passed him.
"What kind of business?" asked Richard.
"Exports to the Soviet Union," said the secretary. "Oops, Russia! Mainly technical construction parts, electronics and so on and so forth."

Richard waited but nothing else was forthcoming. He admired the woman's prim professionalism but it wasn't making his job any easier.
"Have you heard of a Mr Zhukov?" Richard asked on a whim. "Petr Zhukov?"
The secretary paused with her hand half-way to the shelf. Now Richard was getting somewhere.
"Yes," she said seriously, looking at Richard with wide eyes. "Yes, I know him. He's the man at the trade ministry in Moscow who has to approve our deals."

She leaned close to Richard, conspiratorially, “He’s a very important man.”
“Did Mr Spitzer tell you that?”
“No,” she said, looking guilty and stepping away. “Markus... that is, Mr Spitzer, said something in a telephone conversation.”
Richard ignored the implication that she’d been eavesdropping and motioned for her to continue.
She stepped towards him again, “He said, nothing works without Zhukov.”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. The secretary jumped back from Richard again. She was rattled by the interruption, half expecting her boss, Spitzer, to come charging in and ask why she was letting the police see the files.
“I’ll get it,” said Richard, gently. “It’ll be my colleague.”
“Right,” said the secretary uncertainly.

Richard left her in the middle of the room and went to open the office door. Stocki stepped in, looking around curiously.
“You should see Spitzer’s pad,” said Stocki. “What a classy place.”
“No wonder he’s up to his eyes in debt,” snorted Richard.
Seeing the secretary watching them critically, they both fell silent. Stocki waved a greeting but the secretary’s return look was not welcoming.

The two Inspectors collected the stack of files and shuffled out under the secretary’s silent gaze. Richard passed most of the files to Stocki so that he had a spare hand to open the door. Without taking the files back, Richard started down the staircase. Peering around the edge of the teetering pile, Stocki followed.
“What’s your theory?” asked Richard idly.
“Spitzer blew up his most important contact,” said Stocki slowly. “A senior bureaucrat and KGB agent, on Stephan’s Plaza.”
“Spitzer was broke,” interrupted Richard. “And Zhukov was fleecing everyone.”

“Perhaps Spitzer did it for the money.”
“Or someone put him up to it and got scared.”
Stocki was quiet for a moment, thinking back to the carnage on the seventh story balcony, “A lot of people will be getting scared.”

Richard nodded in agreement as the files began to unbalance in Stocki’s arms. Richard straightened the pile but still didn’t take any. They had reached the car park and Richard fished out his keys.
“Zhukov milked Landovsky too,” said Stocki, waiting for Richard to open the car.
“Mr Imports-exports himself?” said Richard, trying not to sound impressed.
“The very same.”

Stocki moved to put the files on the top of the car but Richard waved him away, “Then he won’t be the last.”
Richard opened his car door and climbed in the car, “If Spitzer doesn’t talk, we’ll question every importer. We must question Spitzer right now.”
Richard slammed the door shut and started the engine.

“Hey,” cried Stocki, still waiting outside the car. “What about me?”
Richard stretched back and unlocked the back door. A relieved Stocki dropped all the files randomly onto the back seat. He shut the door and hurried around to the door of the front passenger seat. Richard released the handbrake and the car began to move. Stocki banged loudly on the window. Richard stopped and waited impatiently for Stocki to jump in before they took off to the hospital.

* * *

Rex was curled up in a small concrete enclosure in the veterinary section of the Police Dog Kennel. Bowls full of food and water sat by the door but a dejected Rex wouldn’t touch them. He wanted Michael to come back. Occasionally the other trainers would walk up and try to give Rex commands but they just weren’t Michael. Michael would have sat with Rex, talked with him and been there to reassure him that everything was all right. Rex hoped that if he sat here long enough, without moving, eating or drinking, that Michael would come to see why he was misbehaving.

Rex heard footsteps and looked up with an impossible hope but it was only Dieter. Rex looked down again, hoping Dieter would leave. Rex waited a few seconds but didn’t hear Dieter leave. A furtive glance upwards and Rex could see that Dieter was standing there, watching him through the bars.

“Rex, this has to stop,” said Dieter firmly. “I know you don’t want to eat but you really must drink something.”
Rex grunted and pointedly turned his head away from the water bowl. Maybe if Dieter knew Rex wouldn’t obey his commands, Dieter would give up and go away. Instead, Rex heard the door open. Dieter crouched beside Rex, stroking him. He stroked Rex’s head and scratched behind his ears but all Rex could feel was how different Dieter’s hands were to Michael’s.

“Let’s take your bandage off,” said Dieter, his tone gentler now. “Perhaps you won’t need a new one.”
He leant down to unravel the bandage. Rex shifted upwards as Dieter’s hands began to move around his torso.
“Good boy, Rex,” said Dieter. “Nearly finished. There we are.”
He patted Rex’s thick fur, glad to see that the scar was hidden from sight. He scratched Rex’s ears again as Rex settled down again.

“It’s looking pretty good,” Dieter told Rex.
He picked up the water bowl and putting it in front of Rex’s nose, “Come on, Rex. Have a drink.”
Rex dropped his head onto his paws, turning away.
“Rex, if you don’t drink you’ll die,” said Dieter sharply.

Rex flinched at Dieter’s tone but still made no move to drink. Another trainer walked up to peer through the bars of Rex’s enclosure.
“Coming for a beer?” he called to Dieter.
“No, I’ve got to go home,” Dieter called back absent-mindedly.

As the other trainer walked off, Dieter stood, troubled. Rex was relieved Dieter was finally giving up. Rex wanted nothing more than to sleep. Dieter left the enclosure but was back again several minutes later, much to Rex’s annoyance. Dieter held out a spoon and scooped up some of the water. He held the spoon out to Rex.

“Come on, Rex,” said Dieter sternly. “Have a drink. Go on, open up. Rex, be a good boy. Drink.”
Rex still wasn’t moving. Dieter gently slid his hand under Rex’s muzzle. He tilted Rex’s head so that his jaw opened and poured the water on Rex’s tongue. Without resisting the gentle pressure, Rex swallowed automatically. Rex distantly noted that the water was refreshing but he still didn't feel like moving.

* * *

Outside Spitzer's hospital room, Police Officer Wimmer was eating his lunch. He had a nice fat sausage which was literally dripping with gravy. Putting the half-eaten sausage back on the paper plate, he wiped the gravy from his shirt and hoped it wouldn't stain too badly. Wimmer leant forward in his chair and peered down the corridor. He was thirsty and looking for a vending machine.

There were none in sight and Wimmer didn't dare leave his post while he was on duty. Especially since the senior Inspector on this case had a reputation for being irritable. Inspector Richard Moser could walk in at any moment.

Wimmer hoped that the nurse that had been to check on Spitzer earlier would come back. Then Wimmer could ask the nurse to get a drink for him. The Radiologist was also supposed to turn up during the afternoon as well. Not that it mattered to Wimmer who got the drink for him.

Wimmer looked up as a young couple walked past. Maybe he could ask them. No, Wimmer decided, that would not be professional. The public like to think the police are infallible - not to mention inhuman. A police officer like Wimmer couldn’t just ask any civilian for a favour, at least not when he was on duty. However, he could ask the nurse as one professional to another.

Wimmer looked up hopefully at the sound of high heels. Even though the woman wore a white coat, it wasn’t the nurse who been earlier.
“Ah, the radiologist,” said Wimmer.
He swept his lunch onto a side table and stood up to speak to the radiologist. She swept straight past him and into Spitzer’s room. Wimmer sighed and sat down again. When the radiologist emerged a minute later, Wimmer didn’t even try to speak. She turned away from him and shuffled off down the corridor.

Wimmer turned back to look at his sausage. The sausage smelled great but he was too thirsty to enjoy it. He was about to dump it in the bin when Richard appeared at the end of the corridor. Wimmer put the plate down and stood up to wait for him. Richard was moving determinedly with Stocki in tow. When he reached Wimmer, Richard’s eyes fixed briefly on the gravy stain on Wimmer's shirt.
“Any news?” asked Richard.
Wimmer shook his head, “I think he still can’t be questioned.”
“We’ll have a look.”
Wimmer nodded in agreement but Richard was already moving past him. Wimmer sighed and sat down again - on his sausage.

As Richard opened the door of Spitzer's hospital room, they were greeted by the blaring of life support alarms. Wimmer was startled by Stocki running straight back out again and down the corridor, shouting for a doctor. Wimmer hurried in and looked past Richard.

A pale Spitzer was wound in bandages, with sensors and life support tubes connecting him to a roomful of blaring machinery. The plastic tube that supplied Spitzer’s air had been disconnected and there was no longer any heartbeat registering. With Wimmer wringing his hands, Richard pulled something for Spitzer’s clenched fist. It was a small strip of paper. Briefly reading the inscription - death to enemies of the soviets - Richard spun on his heel and fixed Wimmer with an angry glare.

“Who was here last?” he demanded.
“A nurse,” stammered Wimmer. “And a minute ago, a doctor.”
“Give me a description,” snapped Richard impatiently.
“White coat, dark hair...”
“Where did she go?”
Wimmer pointed out the room and down the corridor, “Down there.”

Richard set off at a sprint, Wimmer doing his best to keep up. They barrelled down the corridors, pouncing on women with white coats and dark hair but Wimmer was forced to dismiss each one. Spitzer's murderer had escaped from under their noses.

* * *

Back in the dog kennel, Rex still hadn’t moved. Dieter returned in his full, formal uniform. He opened the door and examined Rex’s water bowl critically.
“You still haven’t drunk anything, Rex,” he sighed. Dieter pulled a leash out of his pocket and clipped it to Rex’s leash. Rex whined, still not wanting to move.
“Sorry, Rex,” said Dieter. “We have to go. We have a sad duty to perform.”
Dieter had to pull on the leash twice before Rex reluctantly stood and followed him out.

* * *

Richard and Stocki stood uncomfortably in the cemetery, squinting in the bright sunshine. Stocki was fidgeting with the commemorative flower in his hands but Richard seemed strangely absorbed in the funeral. It was a small but official police funeral for their fallen colleague. A police brass band stood stiffly at attention with civilians and the plains-clothes Inspectors arranged behind them. Directly alongside the grave was a squad of eight dog handlers in full formal uniform with eight German shepherd’s sitting smartly in front of them.

Off to the side, Rex lay at Dieter’s feet with none of the alertness of the other dogs. As the priest finished speaking and trumpets began to play, Dieter looked down at Rex. Rex’s eyes were fixed on the coffin in the grave.

Rex could smell Michael. The scent was distorted by death and the beginnings of decay but it was still unmistakably Michael. Rex swivelled his ears, straining to hear the familiar voice but Rex couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the trumpets. He was so close to Michael and yet he couldn’t see him. Rex looked up at Dieter, silently pleading to be let off the leash.

Dieter’s eyes were fixed on the coffin, the handler dealing with his own grief. Rex turned away and caught Richard’s gaze. The look lengthened to a stare and Rex turned his head away. Richard continued to stare at Rex, puzzling Stocki. As the trumpets finally ceased, Rex grunted in relief.

The senior Handler stepped forward, “Squad dismissed.”
While Dieter and Rex watched, the line of eight dogs stood in unison. The handler’s turned and walked their charges away from the grave. The official ceremony had been completed.

Stocki walked towards the grave, still twirling the flower in his hands. The line of dogs came towards him and Stocki hurriedly stepped back. The dogs walked past without so much as a twitch. Only when they were gone did Stocki dare to come forward again and lay the flower on the grave.

Behind him, the senior officer of the brass band stepped forward, ”Division dismissed.”
The uniformed police officers began to disperse, exchanging grim looks with one another. Richard walked past them, approaching the grave with a flower of his own. He paused half-way there and walked to Rex and Dieter instead.
“Is the dog all right?” he asked.
“His wound’s healed but he’s not eating and he doesn’t obey us,” said Dieter sadly.
Richard looked down at Rex whose eyes were again fixed on the coffin.

“What will happen to him?” said Richard.
“They usually go to the family... but Michael was single. We’ll keep him a bit longer,” said Dieter.
“And then?”
Dieter shrugged helplessly. He didn’t like the answer to the question himself, especially today of all days. Dieter crouched down and let Rex off the leash. Rex remained still for a moment, afraid that any movement would bring back the leash.

“Well, Rex,” sighed Richard.
He stroked Rex’s head with the flower. Rex’s ear flicked at the sound of Richard’s voice but he made no other sign of having heard. Richard stepped forward and placed the flower on the grave. He hadn’t known the dead man well but he had been the most senior officer on the scene. Richard would have felt guilt even if he couldn’t see Rex’s palpable grief.

Sensing that Dieter was being lenient, Rex crawled forward towards the grave. Michael’s scent was so close, Rex wanted to climb down into the hole and join him. That was the point where Dieter drew the line.
“Rex,” he said sternly. “Rex! Come on, Rex.”
He stepped forward and clipped Rex’s leash back on. Rex dug his claws in and clung to the ground. He’d rather be here with Michael’s body than alone on a concrete floor. Dieter tugged on the leash, jerking Rex’s head.

“We’re going, Rex. Come on, now,” said Dieter. “Come.”
Rex stood slowly and allowed Dieter to lead him away. They passed Stocki on their way to the car. Stocki was careful to stay back from the dog but nodded respectfully at his colleague, Dieter.

Dieter shrugged helplessly at Stocki, “What can I do?”
Stocki shrugged back, knowing that there was nothing that could be done. Stocki looked across to see Richard watching. Richard stood by the now deserted grave, watching silently as Dieter practically bullied Rex into the back of a police van. The look on Richard’s face was practically wretched.

After the van pulled away, Stocki walked up to Richard. Wordlessly Richard turned and the two of them walked through the lines of graves side by side. Stocki kept darting glances at his boss until he couldn’t stand it any more.
“You’re worried about the dog?” asked Stocki.
It was obvious but Stocki was only looking for a reaction. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Do you know what happens to them?” asked Richard angrily, turning to look Stocki in the eye. “It’s not his fault his Master was shot. He was his handler, the man he related to. He needs time to become attached to someone new.”
“You should know,” Stocki muttered under his breath.
Richard heard him anyway and turned away, ”End of subject. I’m not telling you anything ever again.”
Stocki sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Ever again," Richard repeated.

“Are you out of your mind?” said Stocki, hurrying to catch up.
Richard abruptly changed direction and Stocki gave up the pursuit. Richard stopped a few feet away, his back to Stocki.
“Just don’t mention my divorce, okay?” Richard threatened.
“Fine,” snapped Stocki. “Deal with things alone, like you always do. But don’t ask me for a loan.”
Richard spun around, shocked, “What has that to do with it?”

When confronted with Stocki’s patient expression, Richard sighed, his anger faded and he slouched against a headstone.
“Stocki?” asked Richard quietly. “Would you marry a police officer?”
“I did,” said Stocki, sinking into his own melancholy. “At least my wife says so.”

Richard looked up at that, feeling better. The argument had been good for him but now it was Stocki who looked morose. Richard slapped Stocki on the back and laid a grateful arm around his shoulders for a moment. Stocki rolled his eyes and the two of them resumed walking to the car.

“Did you find anything in Spitzer’s files?” asked Richard, his thoughts already returning to work.
“He’d done no business with Russia for six months,” said Stocki.
“Then why kill him and put the note in his hand, 'Death to the enemies of the Soviets’?” asked Richard. “It’s absurd.”
“They’re all old commies,” said Stocki. “Spitzer sold hi-tech goods to the east. Maybe he cheated someone.”

Richard shook his head, “Maybe someone wants us to think that. I don’t know. Looks like a red herring to me.”
Stocki began loosening his tie. The day was full of enough tension as it was.
“We’ve checked the firms that trade with the east,” said Stocki thoughtfully. “They all had dealings with Zhukov. Landovsky, too.”
Richard nodded absent-mindedly, “In Spitzer’s files I kept seeing the name of Ostex. Have we got anything on them?”

Stocki nodded, “I checked them out. They ceased business after the East opened up.”
Richard stopped abruptly and Stocki bumped into him.
“That doesn’t make sense, “ said Richard.
“True,” agreed Stocki.
“Ostex...,” mused Richard. “Let’s take a good look at them.”
The two companions walked on in silence underneath the afternoon sun.

* * *

The next morning, much paler sunlight was filtering through Hermine Werner's study window onto the polished wooden floors. Hermine Werner sat at her desk in an expensive business suit, tapping manicured nails against the tabletop. She held a phone to one ear, listening to it ring. At last someone picked up the other end.

"Ostex, here," said Werner primly. "Mrs Werner speaking. The chief accountant, please..."
On the sideboard behind Werner was a row of black-and-white surveillance screens. They showed the edges of the three-storey mansion, the expensive manicured lawns, the grove of trees near the gates, the marble statues and the fountain. One of the screens showed a picture of the front gate. It also showed Richard's car as it pulled up and parked on the street.

"...thankyou, I'm very well," continued Mrs Werner. "I need to transfer some money out of the accounts ending in 328, 334, 356 and 388. Thankyou."

* * *

Richard and Stocki looked up at the tall gate as they approached. The entire Werner property was surrounded by a spiked metal fence. Anywhere the trees grew close to the fence, they had been pruned back for security. On the other side of the gate, a gravel path curved away into the trees. A fountain that served as the centre of a curved driveway was just visible at the path's end.

"Well," said Richard wryly. "Ostex didn't go bust."
Stocki grunted in agreement and pushed the intercom button near the gate.
A distorted voice responded through the speakers, "Hello?"
"We're from the police," said Stocki. "We want to talk to Mrs Werner."
"Come in, please," answered the voice.
"Thankyou," said Stocki.

With a click, the gate was unlocked by remote and Richard and Stocki started up the path. As they passed the line of trees, they could see the manicured lawns and terraces of flower beds. The two Inspectors took their time, making general observations as they went.

Stocki looked impressed, "Trade with the east looks a safe bet."
"Not quite," said Richard.
"What do you mean?"
"Look," said Richard.

He raised his arm and pointed. Stocki followed his gaze to one of many surveillance cameras that were mounted on poles and statues at various points. Stocki nodded in understanding. People with wealth had something to lose.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED

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Disclaimer : Kommissar Rex is owned by Mungo film, Tauris film, SAT.1 and ORF and was created by Peter Hajek and Peter Moser. None of the characters, actors or photographs belong to me, unfortunately. I'm just borrowing them, having a bit of fun and then returning them more or less unharmed.