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Last Stop Vienna : Ch 1

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.

Next Chapter

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It was a muted day in the Austrian city of Vienna. There wasn't a breath of wind and, while it was chilly in the shade, the sun was pleasantly warm. People travelling backwards and forwards along the streets on their lunch breaks kept pausing to remove their jackets and scarves. Once they reached the next patch of shade, they were quick to pull them back on. Fleets of pigeons flocked between the buildings, continually landing and taking to the air again. They were oblivious to the stream of humanity below them.

On the seventh floor of the Haas building, a cafe's balcony had been quickly filled with patrons anxious to get to the sunshine. The indoor tables were mostly deserted but were slowly being filled by the late arrivals. One of the luckiest patrons was an old balding man with round glasses. He sat tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his menu, most of his mind occupied by his spectacular view of the city below. A young blonde waitress approached, pen tucked behind her ear, and smiled at him. He smiled back.

“I’d like a cup of coffee and a piece of...," began the man, stumbling over the German words. "What’s it called? Sachertorte.”
The waitress' eyebrows creased as she tried to pin down his accent while writing his order neatly on her pad. She thought it was most likely to be Russian. He was probably another old retiree on holiday.
“Anything with that?” she asked helpfully.
The Russian frowned, either trying to think of an answer or trying to translate the question. It eventually defeated him.
“Such as?” he asked finally, spreading his hands wide helplessly.
“Schlagobers,” said the waitress.
At his blank look, she added, “Cream.”
The man blinked and smiled in embarrassment, “I quite forgot. With cream, of course.”

The waitress couldn't help but smile back. The old Russian's gentle manner was quite charming, in a harmless way.
The waitress cocked her head at him, “And your coffee?”
The man nodded quickly, understanding perfectly, “With cream too.”
“One coffee with cream, one cake with cream,” read the waitress.
The man nodded in confirmation and the waitress walked back inside to place his order. She was determined to make sure that nobody tried to skimp on the old man’s cream.

The old man was as unaware of the waitress' intentions as he was of the younger man who was watching him from across the balcony. The younger man hesitated, tapping a heavy briefcase against his leg, before determinedly approaching the old man. Bracing himself and taking a deep breath, he tapped the old man on the shoulder.
“Is all that cream good for you, Mr Zhukov?” asked the man, flippantly.
The old man, Zhukov, spun around in surprise and half rose to his feet. He stared at the other man. There was nothing welcoming in his expression.
Apparently unperturbed, the younger man smiled, “Good morning.”

Zhukov finally found his voice, “Mr Spitzer! What are you doing here?”
Spitzer smiled and sat down across from Zhukov. He casually settled the briefcase on a seat next to him.
Seeing that Zhukov’s expression was still hostile, Spitzer blurted, “Everything’s fine.”
Zhukov grunted dismissively and sat back down. Although he appeared calm, he was watching Spitzer carefully.

“I came to tell you,” continued Spitzer, relaxing as he spoke. “That at two o’clock your power of attorney for the bank accounts and the cash will be ready.”
“Where?”
“At a nearby bank.”
Zhukov held Spitzer’s gaze, “You’ll see to it yourself?”
“If you wish,” shrugged Spitzer.

At this, Zhukov finally did relax although he still didn’t bother to conceal his dislike of Spitzer. Seeing that Spitzer seemed to have no intention of leaving any time soon, Zhukov felt obliged to speak.
“It’s too bad that we have to terminate our business,” he said. “But it was to be foreseen. Times have changed.”
“None of us are too happy about it,” agreed Spitzer, glancing furtively at his suitcase. "But you’ve made provisions.”
Zhukov’s reply was sharp, “Give and take. Everyone benefited. And I bore the risk.”

There was definite bitterness in the last comment. Spitzer checked his watch, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Were there any problems in Moscow?” Spitzer asked, trying to seem casual.
“Put it this way,” said Zhukov. “Some people have been waiting for a chance to get rid of me. But I’ve pre-empted them.”

There was a flicker of amusement in Spitzer’s serious eyes. Before Zhukov could call him on it, the waitress returned.
“Your coffee, sir. And your cake,” she said, laying them on the table.
Zhukov smiled pleasantly at her and nodded in thanks.
“The same for me too, please,” said Spitzer abruptly.
“Certainly,” said the waitress, once again business like.
Noting the old man’s attitude, the waitress resolved that a good portion of Spitzer’s cream would “disappear” en route to the table. Spitzer stared after the waitress, making sure she was gone.

Once she was, Spitzer rose stiffly, “Excuse me one moment.”
Zhukov waved him away and started in on his coffee and cake and the large servings of cream. Spitzer walked off in the direction of the toilet, trying to refrain from looking behind him. Zhukov looked at Spitzer’s briefcase. Unfortunately, it signalled Spitzer’s intention to return to the table.

Zhukov shrugged, deciding to be patient. After all, this would probably be the last time he’d ever have to deal with Spitzer. That thought cheered him up immensely and made the cake taste even sweeter. After a few minutes had passed, he began to feel uneasy. He wondered what was taking Spitzer so long. He looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the toilets. Nobody was coming in or out. It can’t have been that busy. Almost finished with his cake, Zhukov turned to look at Spitzer’s suitcase instead. It was a rare thing for as paranoid a man as Spitzer to leave his suitcase unattended. Zhukov felt even more uneasy, a sense of dread filling him.

Thoroughly unsettled, Zhukov seized the briefcase and heaved it on to his shoulder to throw it over the balcony. At that moment, the briefcase exploded. The fiery blast knocked Zhukov and his chair clean off the balcony. Flocks of pigeons took to the wing, cooing in distress as the gruesome projectile fell seven stories to the street below.

The agitated birds wheeled about in the sky, scattering and trying to flee from the echoing sounds of the blast. Different flocks mingled and divided and all was confusion. New flocks settled back to the rooftops. They twitched uneasily at the slightest noise and scattered again when the police vans came screaming into the square below.

* * *

Spitzer emerged from his hiding place in the mens' toilets. He stared mutely at the chaos on the balcony. The blast had only reached a small area but the shockwave had sent tables, chairs and cutlery flying into the busy lunch crowd. Thick black smoke blanketed everything, blinding the customers and cafe workers and out of the darkness came the sound of hysterical screaming.

He couldn't believe the smell. He'd been prepared for the sight, even predicted screaming but it had never occurred to him that a bomb-blast would smell so strongly. His eyes were watering but his throat was dry.

As the smoke cleared, the people began to push towards the exit and towards Spitzer. The smell got worse as they got closer. Spitzer wanted to run but his legs wouldn't move. Slowly he managed to move one foot and then the other. His knees were shaking but once he was moving, he couldn't stop. He reached the lift before the crowd and jabbed at the lift buttons to close the doors. Leaning on the lift wall, Spitzer watched as the lift doors began to close. To Spitzer they seemed to move painfully slow while still the crowd came rushing on.

The doors were almost closed when blood and ash stained hands stretched into view. Spitzer backed away from the grasping fingers, unwilling to move any closer as the crowd forced the lift doors open. The terrified and injured crammed themselves in beside him until no more would fit. They were pushing up against him, touching him. Spitzer could feel the lift walls closing in on him. He pushed the lift buttons once more and with a groan the lift began to move.

Spitzer stared fixedly at the door, determined not to look at the other people - or at the misery he had caused. Spitzer became aware of a dripping sound, subtly hidden beneath the muttering and the sobs. He allowed his gaze to shift to the sound. He saw a pool of blood growing beneath the shoes of the woman next to him. Spitzer felt sick and turned back to the lift buttons. He tried to focus on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. An alarm began to blare, making Spitzer jump.

“What’s wrong?" cried someone.
“Push the button,” demanded someone else.
The crowd began to mutter and twitter, the sound swelling to fill the tiny lift.
“Don’t panic,” said Spitzer, trying to follow his own advice. “It won’t be long.”

* * *

Back down below, a group of station wagons emblasoned with police insignias pulled into the square. The backseats of the station wagons had been removed and fitted with metal wire cages. Peering out through the wire and glass were Vienna's squad of police dogs. The first of the large German Shepherds to hit the ground was Rex.

Rex shook himself vigorously and stretched his legs, relieved after being cooped up in the car. His handler, Michael, crouched down to clip on Rex’s lead. It put Michael’s head almost level with Rex’s and Rex gave him a friendly nudge with his wet nose. Michael smiled but turned away. This was not the time for affection. This was the time for work. Michael straightened up and led Rex towards the debris on the street. Tilting his neck back, Michael looked up at the smoke still lingered around the seventh story balcony.

As Michael stopped to lift up the police tape, Rex stuck his nose into one of Michael’s pockets. Surprised to feel the sudden tug on his uniform pants, Michael looked down. Rex sat obediently at Michael’s feet with a beret in his mouth. Rex’s look was mildly reproachful.
“Thank you, Rex,” smiled Michael, taking the beret. “I almost forgot.”
Now fully uniformed, Michael held up the police tape again so that he and Rex could enter the crime scene. The two approached the centre of the scene.
“Search, Rex. Search,” said Michael but he needn't have bothered.

Rex's nose was already glued to the ground, nostrils flaring furiously. As Rex stalked amongst the rubble, Michael followed behind him. He gave Rex plenty of slack in the lead, not wanting to hinder his companion’s search.

* * *

Back in the lift, the alarm finally ceased. Spitzer let out a breath heavily. He rested his sweaty forehead against the cool metal of the lift. The others swayed and moved in unanimous relief as the lift began to move.
The woman next to Spitzer moaned, “Thank god.”
A man peered above Spitzer‘s head, “Why is it going up?”
Spitzer froze. He almost couldn’t bring himself to look up. Slowly, he tilted his head upwards to look at the counter. It showed a red number one. Then it flicked to two and then three. They were going back to the seventh story.

* * *

Rex and Michael were riding up the escalator. Rex was panting, having helped to search nearly all the lower floors. Michael had one hand on the leash and the other resting gently on Rex’s back. As they approached the seventh story, Rex’s nose twitched at the strong smell of explosives and fear. Michael and the other police officers were calm and Rex took that as the cue that nothing was wrong. As Michael stepped off the escalator, Rex stayed close to him. This was the biggest crime scene Rex had ever worked and he didn't want to miss a second of it.

Seeing an officer approaching, Michael answered before he could be asked, "There's nothing downstairs."
“Are you sure?”
Michael smiled as Rex chose that moment to walk between Michael's legs. Rex had a definite air of smug satisfaction. He knew he'd done well.
Michael gestured to Rex, “He’s sure.”
The other policeman frowned and looked back to the balcony. Most of the panic had calmed. Ambulance officers were circulating while police officers tried to question the calmer witnesses. The trembling waitress that had served Zhukov’s table was answering questions in a corner. A large crowd was still waiting by the lift, eager to get out of the building but unwilling to hike down seven floors of stairs.

Rex's ears twitched as he heard the lift ring as it reached the seventh floor. Michael and the other officer couldn't hear it over the din and continued their conversation. Rex watched as the people inside the lift tried to rush out while the people outside pushed to get in. Somehow, Spitzer was the only one who managed to push his way out. Seeing the half dozen police officers, he began to wade through the crowd in the opposite direction. He had not gone far before the waitress saw him.

Her trembling stilled as anger filled her, "That's him!"
She pointed across the room, "He was at the same table."
All the police officers in the room turned at the sound of her voice. They might have been slow to pick Spitzer out of the crowd, if he hadn’t chosen that moment to turn and run.
“Stop!” yelled Michael.

The crowd was slow to part for the pursuing police officers but they shied away from the huge German shepherd that barrelled into their midst. Still clinging to Rex's leash, Michael was dragged in behind him. Michael was torn between letting the dog lead and keeping him close. He trusted Rex's instincts but there were limits to what a dog could do. For Rex's own safety, Michael kept an iron grip on the lead.

Spitzer cleared the crowd and sprinted. He had just enough wits left to realise that he was running away from the lifts and stairwells and escalators - in short, away from any possible escape from the building - but he had little choice left now. Spitzer shouldered his way through the nearest door and found himself in the cafe's abandoned kitchen. He sprinted through the kitchen and into the storeroom next door, then onto a balcony. Looking over the railing, Spitzer could see a large crowd down below, pressed up against a police barrier. Within the barrier was a fleet of police cars. As he looked, many of the watchers down below looked up and pointed.

Spitzer turned and ran down the balcony. A dead end. Grunting in frustration and panic, Spitzer pivoted and ran back into the storeroom. On the far side of the room was a set of stairs leading upwards. As Spitzer moved towards it, Rex and Michael came charging through a door on his left. Spitzer and Michael locked eyes for a moment and then Spitzer threw himself forward in a desperate sprint for the staircase, Rex and Michael barrelling after him.

The staircase led upwards to another balcony which wrapped around the corner of the building. With little choice, Spitzer ran blindly around the corner. The balcony was a dead end that had been used to store barrels, crates and boxes. A pile of crates reached up to the rooftop but before Spitzer could reach them, he heard Michael and Rex approaching. Spitzer looked around frantically, knowing he had scant seconds. The building side of the balcony was lined with thick plaster pillars which separated the large glass windows. Spitzer pushed himself back behind one of the pillars and pulled out his revolver. With shaking hands, he loaded it and waited.
“Come on,” came Michael‘s voice. “We’ve almost got him.”
Rex was pulling desperately on the leash, throwing all his considerable weight against it. Michael was being dragged but he was still clinging determinedly to Rex’s leash.

Spitzer fired. The bullet smacked into the window beside Michael’s head, cracking the glass. Michael ducked back behind a pillar of his own, finally clicking the lead off Rex’s collar. The pillar wasn’t wide enough to shield them both.
“Cover!” he commanded Rex.
Rex obediently leaped away from Michael and behind a stack of barrels.

Spitzer caught the movement and fired again but the bullet went wide. Michael used the distraction to pull out his own handgun. Unlike Spitzer, he used the time to steady himself and carefully aim. He couldn’t see Spitzer. For a moment, the edge of Spitzer’s revolver slide into view from behind a pillar. Michael couldn't hit what he couldn't see but he returned fire anyway, hitting the pillar. A terrified Spitzer turned, scrambled up the stack of crates and onto the building’s rooftop.

Hearing him flee, Michael darted from his hiding place and Rex jumped forward.
“Rex, you stay here,” Michael shouted.
Rex checked himself and watched as Michael scrambled up the crates and literally threw himself up onto the rooftop. Michael rolled to his feet, gun held ready and already searching for his target.
The brick rooftop was covered in gravel. As Michael was swinging his gun around, the gravel slid beneath his boots, throwing out his aim. Michael fired at a retreating Spitzer but his shot missed by a couple of inches and hit the brickwork instead. A terrified Spitzer wheeled around and returned fire. Luck more than skill saw the bullet hit Michael square in the chest. Michael gasped in shock, confused until he felt the pain and realised he’d been shot. As Michael faded into unconsciousness, his gun slipped from his hand onto the gravel.

Hearing the gunfire and Michael’s gasp, Rex knew something was wrong. He hesitated for a moment, knowing he had been expressly commanded to stay. He listened hard, his ears twitching in a painful silence. Unable to stand it any longer, Rex launched himself from his hiding place. He leapt awkwardly up the crates and onto the rooftop as if it was all another training drill.

Rex's paws slipped on the gravely surface as he landed but he threw all four of his legs wide to keep his balance. Michael lay a few feet away, unmoving. Rex jogged up to Michael and nudged him. Michael did not respond. Rex whined in concern, hoping to provoke a comforting response from his handler. Michael remained motionless. Rex nuzzled Michael again, hoping a cold, wet nose would at least earn him a reprimand. Still, Michael did not move.

Rex's ears twitched at the sound of sliding footsteps on gravel. Unable to find a way down from the roof, Spitzer had returned. At the sight of the police dog, Spitzer baulked and changed direction again. Rex nudged Michael again, knowing that the man who had attacked Michael was getting away. When a final whine failed to rouse Michael, Rex set off in pursuit by himself.

Spitzer had reached the other edge of the rooftop, still finding no way down. Rex arrived in a flurry of gravel a few feet behind him, snarling and barking. Spitzer flinched and pivoted so fast he nearly lost his balance. Seeing that the dog was alone, he fired. There was a pained yelp and Rex jerked backwards and dropped out of sight. Relieved, Spitzer turned to find another way but Rex had managed to delay him. Across the rooftop, four police officers were beginning to climb up the crates. As Spitzer watched, they pulled out their radios to call for backup.

Spitzer knew that time was running out. He clambered onto a tiled section of the roof, intending to jump to another rooftop. In his hurry, he'd passed straight by the fire escape which might have helped him. During Rex's distraction, Police Inspector Richard Moser had scrambled up the fire escape and aimed his gun at Spitzer. To Spitzer, it seemed as if Richard had simply jumped out of nowhere.
“Drop your gun!” Richard shouted.
Spitzer swung his gun around to try a shot but Richard fired first.

Spitzer yelled and collapsed onto the roof, blood seeping from his chest. His gun clattered to the tiles where Richard kicked it away. Richard approached Spitzer carefully, his gun still drawn. He reached down and checked Spitzer’s pulse. It was weak and irregular beneath his fingers.
“A doctor!” shouted Richard. “Call a doctor. Quick!”
At his call, one of the other police officers turned about and headed back.

Richard climbed down off the tiles and spotted Rex. Rex had crawled out of his hiding place and was looking about. Seeing that Spitzer was no longer fleeing, Rex limped to Michael's side and sat patiently. Richard scrambled off the tiles towards Michael but another officer got there ahead of him.
“What’s wrong with him?” Richard shouted across the roof, nodding at Michael.
Without answering, the officer covered Michael’s body with a blanket. Richard sighed, needing no other answer. Rex still sat beside the body, looking expectantly at everyone who passed. Rex knew Michael had been shot before. Why wasn’t everyone fussing? Why wasn’t anybody scolding Rex and telling him to get out of the way? Rex whined but none of the police officers would even look at him.

* * *

The coroner’s men walked solemnly down the stairs, carrying the grim load between them. Beside them, Rex limped awkwardly on three legs. Rex had sometimes seen the grey plastic coffins that were used to carry corpses in Vienna. Michael had never been in one before, though. Rex looked back to the coffin, sniffing to convince himself that Michael was really in there. Michael had sometimes carried coffins but he’d never been in one. Not even last time he was shot.

Richard followed the procession, his eyes fixed on the dog. Rex looked away from the coffin to stare firmly at the ground beneath his paws. As they reached the ground floor, Richard spotted a medic walking towards the group.
Richard stopped him, “The dog’s injured too. Could you take a look?”
The medic nodded and Richard continued outside.

Spitzer was being loaded into an ambulance while Dr Leo Graf watched critically.
“What’s the world coming to?” Leo muttered to himself. “A bomb blast in the middle of Stephans square!”
Leo spotted Richard and waved him over.
“Two passports,” said Leo, passing an evidence bag to Richard. “I found them on the dead man.”
Richard nodded, taking the passports.
He waved at Spitzer, “The guy I shot had no ID.”
“I’ll tell you more in the morning,” said Leo, turning to leave.
Richard raised an eyebrow and tried to assume a pleading expression. It must have been partly successful since Leo sighed.
“Very well, then,” said Leo. “This evening.”
Satisfied, Richard smiled triumphantly. Leo rolled his eyes and walked away to his car.

Richard watched as Michael’s corpse was loaded into a coroner’s van. Beside it sat Rex, staring about him with sad brown eyes. A bandage had been looped around Rex’s chest. Another trainer, Dieter, stood there holding his leash. Richard walked over and smiled grimly at Dieter.
“What the dog called?” asked Richard.
Dieter smiled sadly, “Rex.”
“Come on, Rex,” said Richard gently. “Come on.”
He scratched Rex behind the ears, “You can’t stay here.”

Rex heard the words of encouragement, the sad dog's brown eyes meeting the Inspector's blue-grey eyes for a heartbeat but Rex was in no mood to respond. He turned away from Richard to watch intently as the van doors shut behind Michael’s coffin. As the van pulled away, Rex whined and pulled against the leash. Dieter jerked sharply on the leash and Rex sat down. Rex whined again but followed when Dieter tugged gently but firmly on the leash.

As Dieter led Rex back to the car, Richard fell into step beside him. Dieter looked up at the Inspector but Richard’s eyes were fixed on Rex.
“What will happen to him?” asked Richard, finally.
“Hard to say,” shrugged Dieter. “We had a case before. The dog couldn’t get used to anyone else. He moped.”
“And?”
“We had to have him put down.”

Richard stopped in mid-stride even as Dieter kept walking. Richard frowned as Dieter opened the back of the police van. After a little prodding from Dieter, Rex jumped in but tried to jump out again almost immediately. Dieter pushed him back forcefully and shut the door. Rex whined miserably and looked through the glass at Richard with large eyes. Even after the van had driven away, Richard couldn’t stop thinking about the dog which had stopped a bomber from escaping.

* * *

The next day, Richard was back in the office of Vienna's Crime Squad. The office consisted of a large room which was shared by the three current Inspectors - Richard Moser, Ernst Stockinger and Peter Höllerer. Richard was powerfully built with dark hair, a large nose, blue-grey eyes and an irritable temper and was the most senior of the three. Stockinger was thinner and balding, with a slight resemblance to a weasel which suited his sarcastic personality perfectly. Höllerer usually remained behind in the office while Moser and Stockinger did the leg work and it showed in his size. Höllerer was much rounder than his colleagues which, when combined with his glasses and fringe, gave him a rather boyish appearance.

Each had a desk and claimed the space around it as their own. They each had their own desk lights, telephones and rubbish bins but they shared the fridge and freezer, the dartboard and the huge map of Vienna that dominated a section of the side wall. Ownership of food actually inside the fridge was more dubious. Sometimes even the food in their desk drawers was prone to disappear during those long night shifts.

Richard was sitting at his desk, arguing loudly with his telephone and gesturing wildly. Stockinger (or Stocki as he was affectionately known) sat at his own desk. He was watching Richard carefully, partly so that he could hear what was going on but also so that he could hide the ham roll he was eating.
"Surely you can tell me roughly when...," growled Richard. "What? No, just tell me when he can be questioned. Yes. Yes, then put me through to the doctor. He’s with a private patient? Bully for him. I’ll call back.”
Richard slammed down the phone and yanked open the drawers of his desk. He found only empty paper bags from the local bakery. He checked a second drawer, still finding only empty paper bags. Richard glared across at Stocki. Stocki pretended not to notice. Richard picked up one of the paper bags and examined it, just to be certain the food it had contained was really gone. Still holding the empty bag, he pushed his chair away from his desk and stalked towards the fridge. That turned out to be empty as well.

Richard began talking, waving his paper bag around angrily, "It's mad. He needs rest. He's seriously hurt. Only Doctor can say. They don't care he killed a cop."
He grabbed a dart and threw it hard at the dartboard. Stocki and Höllerer flinched at the sound, exchanged long-suffering looks but saying nothing.
"What a day!" continued Richard, talking about the bomb but glaring at the back of Stocki’s balding head.
"Don't bank on him talking when he comes around," said Stocki, earnestly trying not to make eye contact with Richard.
Noticing the half-eaten roll on Stocki's desk, Richard began to inch closer to Stocki from behind so that Stocki couldn't see him coming.

"He'll talk all right," said Richard, casually. "Spitzer didn't look like a pro to me."
"What about the bomb?" asked Stocki.
Hearing the rustling of Richard's paper bag almost directly behind him, Stocki hurriedly stuffed the roll into his own desk drawer.

"The bomb?" continued Richard, as if nothing had happened. "The bomb! Any kid can knock up a bomb these days."
Richard walked stiffly away from Stocki towards Höllerer's desk. Höllerer peered up at Richard through his glasses and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Anything new on the dead man?" demanded Richard.
Höllerer waved the two passports Leo had found, "He had two names but he wasn't registered as an Austrian resident."

Richard took the passports, transferring the paper bag to his mouth. He flipped through the passports quickly and then passed them back to Höllerer.
Pulling the bag out of his mouth again, he waved it at Höllerer, "Try the hotels. See if a Zhukov or a Ramirez checked in."
He walked back to his desk, shaking the bag at Stocki on his way past, "And you, ask the Federal Police if they know him."
Höllerer paused in the act of picking up his phone, "What are you going to do?"
"See my eastern European pals," said Richard curtly, pulling his jacket on and crumpling up the paper bag in the process.

"Eastern pals, my foot," snorted Stocki. "You mean the hotdog stand."
"Sure," said Richard. "Seeing as you've scoffed my ham rolls... again."
He threw the balled up paper bag at Stocki. Stocki ducked and pushed away from his desk but Richard was already down the hallway.
Stocki leaned around the corner, "How can I go shopping when I'm slogging away all day?"
Richard slammed the door.

Stocki rolled his eyes and looked to Höllerer, "Can he get mad!"
Checking once more that Richard was gone, Stocki pulled the half-eaten roll out of his drawer. Höllerer shook his head as Stocki examined the roll critically.
He looked tragically up at Höllerer, "No gherkins."

* * *

In the park down the street from the Police Department, a stall vendor was working the mid-morning shift. At this time of day, more people came to use the bins resting against the side of the stall than the stall itself. Richard was the only customer.
"Two sausages with the lot," said the vendor. "There you are."
"Thanks Franz," said Richard, blissfully taking a bite out of the warm food. "So, what's new?"
Franz shrugged, "I was going to ask you that. Any news about the explosion? I heard about it on the radio."
"I was there," said Richard. "What can I say? A cop got shot."

Richard felt something brush past him. He turned to see a young kid dumping greasy wrapping into the already overflowing bins. One of the wrappings had skidded off the top of the rubbish pile and onto the side of Richard's jacket.
"Hey, look out!" snapped Richard.
"Sorry," said the kid, grabbing a cloth and moving towards Richard's jacket with enthusiasm. "I'm really sorry."
Richard tried to back away, "Sorry, are you? Stop, you're making it worse."
With a hotdog in one hand, Richard used his free hand to try and wave the boy away. After a few more tries, the kid seemed to get the message and backed away sheepishly.

Richard walked back to an amused Franz, examining the large yellowish stain on his jacket, "I don't believe it."
Richard looked up in order to glare in the direction the kid had gone. The kid had only walked as far as the edge of the park, where he'd stopped to look at something furtively. With a sinking feeling, Richard patted his pockets and checked his jacket.
"It can't be true," he groaned.
"What's up?" asked Franz.
"He pinched my wallet," said Richard, sounding offended. "I'll pay you later."

The kid saw Richard coming and took off, leaping over the park's flowerbeds. Richard followed him without hesitation. The kid raced into the old streets of Vienna, feet tapping on the cobblestones. Richard, more than six foot two of furious (not to mention hungry) police officer, pounded after him.

The kid turned into the side streets and alleyways of his local neighbourhood but the sound of his running feet gave away his position. Richard was out of sight for now but the kid could hear him coming up fast. The kid knew he would have to try and lose Richard somehow. He turned under an archway, across a courtyard and into the ground floor stairwell of a nearby building.

He watched through the streaked glass of the stairwell's only window as Richard raced into the courtyard. Richard slowed, unable to see or hear the pickpocket. He hesitated before barrelling on across the courtyard and out the arch on the other side. The boy waited for a few minutes before stepping out of the stairwell.

A hand grabbed the front of his shirt and swung him around so hard his feet almost left the ground.
"Hello," said Richard pleasantly. "Not your day, is it? I'm from around here, too."
The kid went limp and tried to hide his face under his cap, "I don't know what you want."
"Just my wallet," said Richard, patting the kid's jeans until he found it.
He brandished the wallet in the air, "Magic!"

With one hand still holding the kid's shirt, Richard used the other to flip open the wallet and check the contents.
"Where are you from?" he asked casually.
The kid looked intently at the ground.
"Okay," shrugged Richard. "We'll go to the police."
"No police, no!" shouted the kid, coming to life and starting to struggle. "Please, my father will kill me."

Richard looked coldly at the frightened child, "Look, I'm often in this part of the town. If I catch you again there'll be trouble. Got it?"
Richard moved to backhand the kid across the face. The kid flinched and Richard's hand stopped in mid-strike. The kid stared up at the hand with wide, trembling eyes. Without changing his stern expression, Richard opened his hand to reveal the single stick of bubblegum balanced on his palm. The kid blinked nervously but reached for the offered gum.

Richard released the kid's shirt but his expression hadn't softened, "Now scram."
He cuffed the kid gently around the head and shoved him in the direction of the streets. The kid took several cautious steps away from Richard, frightened he would be grabbed again. Only when he'd put several metres between them did the kid stop and look back. The kid held up the gum and smiled gratefully. Richard smiled back wryly and the kid jogged away and out of sight.

TO BE CONTINUED

Next Chapter

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.