<strong>Wednesday, March 13th, 1946. Just past 9:00AM</strong><br/><br/>It takes twenty minutes for the plain black delivery van to arrive. Sgt Cartwright and a fresh-faced Russian man, Corporal Semyenov, the other male in the transport pool, hop out in stained coveralls and civilian flat caps. The pulls a gurney from the back of the truck and carry it inside.<br/><br/>Gathering the effects of the deceased quickly and quietly, they swing the corpse onto the gurney, cover it in a sheet, and wheel it away.<br/><br/>Doctor Lutzow washes his hands thoroughly before taking a self-rolled cigarette from an inside pocket and lighting it. The rich smell of good Turkish tobacco fills the operating room.<br/><br/>"Well. You got what you came for. Be on your way."<br/><br/>He hands his autopsy notes over to Dupond. "I'm sure no one will acknowledge the lad even existed by tomorrow. No point in me holding on to these."<br/><br/><hr/><div align="center">(https://i.imgur.com/Di0hNoM.jpg)</div>The Opel Olympic growls to life and the car carries you the short distance to the<em>Präsidium der Volkspolizei</em>, the Soviet sector HQ for the VoPo. The building had a dark history, it had been a Police HQ during the 1930's, but in the first half of this decade it was the Berlin HQ of the Gestapo, who absorbed local police forces under their mandate. The upper floors and outer walls still show significant damage, but construction crews work around the clock on this six story edifice that stretches the length of a long city block.<br/><br/>After a short wait in the lobby you are escorted to Lt-Insp Stranski. The cage elevators are out of service, so you get to stretch your legs up long flights of stairs. The halls are dark, the air thick with cigarette smoke. Stenographers type reports in isolated rooms away from the crowded desks of the officers and detectives.<br/><br/>Stransky's office is enclosed with glass walls. The lower half is frosted, the upper half clear. He sits, legs crossed, by an open window, smoking. However his office is the one room in the station you've been in that isn't hazy with smoke.<br/><div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/lApQhEL.jpg)</div>"Ah. The famous Reserve Police Agency. I almost began to think you weren't coming." He has a certain aristocratic air about him, a quality the Germans might call "Prussian". His hair is dark and looks wet slicked back with pomade. He's in his mid-thirties, but is the first German male of that age you've seen that doesn't have a somewhat haunted expression.  He butts out his cigarette and stands, walking over to the heavy wooden desk, half sitting on it in an act that must be calculated to look casual. His smile, too, is broad and friendly and somehow artificial.<br/><br/>He slides a thin manila folder forward, but keeps his left hand down on the folder, pinning it in place.<br/><br/>"What would you like to know? It has been stressed that we are to cooperate with you. Here I am, willing to cooperate. Perhaps we can both gain something here."<br/><br/><br/><br/>