The Mortality Principle

“Well, that’s a relief,” the woman said. “It would probably be more than my job’s worth to help you if you wanted to turn Kepler into a monster. After all, the whole purpose of the museum is to celebrate his life and work.”

“Fear not, you bought me with coffee.” Annja raised her cup as though toasting the astronomer, and took another gulp. “The show’s never been about tarnishing someone’s reputation, living or dead.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the woman said, the concern that had begun to build up on her face melting away.

Which of course only served to make Annja wonder if that meant Kepler had a secret worth hiding. But that was just the way her mind worked.

“So, inspiration…”

“Indeed,” said Annja. “Inspiration.”

“Finish your coffee and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Annja took another sip, surprised that the woman had already finished hers, and then offered the mug back with half of the black treacle still in the bottom.

“That’s the best part,” the woman said, taking it and putting it next to her own like paperweights atop the bundle of papers. “Let’s make a start, then, shall we?”

Annja followed her around, listening to one explanation after another. The woman was a wealth of information when it came to the twelve years Kepler had spent in the city. Annja didn’t hear anyone else enter the building during the hour they walked between display cases, moving from room to room. She wondered how many visitors the museum received every day. It was getting on toward lunchtime, or at least brunch, so the tourists were no doubt still enjoying a leisurely stroll around the town, waiting for the hour to chime and the figures of the astronomical clock to do their macabre dance come midday. Perhaps more would come by in the afternoon. Or had people stopped caring about men like Johannes Kepler and all that they had done to further humankind’s understanding of the world?

She listened attentively, and it was obvious that much of the talk was stuff the woman had learned by rote and recited many times each week. It covered most of Kepler’s scientific achievements and the contributions that his studies had made to the science of astronomy. It was interesting, but it wasn’t show material. She’d already begun to forget some of the opening facts and she hadn’t even walked out the door.

She concentrated on what the woman had to say about his involvement with the city itself, but there was very little of that in her prepared speech.

As they approached the end of the tour, Annja knew as much as anyone could possibly ever want to know about the astronomer, but there’d been nothing to send a shiver up her spine. Nothing that told her she was listening to a story that would be worth chasing.

“A few of the places connected to Kepler are still standing,” the woman said. “Obviously you’re standing in one of them, but there are a few others worth taking a look at, if you are interested.”

Annja said she was. “Where would you recommend?”

“You might like to take a trip out to Benátky nad Jizerou if you’re taking a tour of the area. It’s a small town, half an hour away. It was where Tycho Brahe was building his observatory when he invited Kepler to join him. I’ve no idea how much they have there, but the town and the castle are worth visiting.”

Annja had heard the woman mention Brahe several times as they walked through the exhibits. Like Kepler, Brahe had been an important figure in the study of the planets at the time. Although his name hadn’t left such a lasting global legacy, he had clearly been an instrumental figure in the foundation of Prague as a center for scientific thought.

“I might just do that,” Annja said. “Thanks.”

They headed toward the door, making small talk as they took the wooden stairs back down to the street level. It had been an interesting way to pass an hour or so, but it hadn’t solved Annja’s problem, and as far as she could see there was nothing pointing her in the direction of the next story.

“It’s been lovely to meet you,” the woman said as they reached the door. She made a show of looking up and down the street and shaking her head. “I’m starting to think that you might be our only visitor today.”

“Things are that bad?”

“Worse,” she said.

“How come?”

Annja’s first thought was that the place wasn’t making itself visible enough. After all, it was hidden away, and failing to appeal to the young. But then Prague was more commonly thought of as a party city where visitors could leave behind the consequences of their actions, not the kind of place you came to soak in the legacy of almost-forgotten scientists. That being the case, no amount of glossy brochures or clever marketing gimmicks would help.

She’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“It’s the murders,” the woman said. “You can hardly blame people for keeping away, I suppose. Who wants to go wandering around when people are getting murdered right outside their front doors? So, we struggle, and if the police don’t find the killer soon, it will be too late for some of us.”

“Is it really that bad?” Annja asked.

She’d been in Prague nearly a week and had been so wrapped up in her own problems she hadn’t even noticed. That was what Garin meant about living in the real world for a while.

She avoided mentioning just how close she might have come to the killer, hoping that the woman would fill in some of the details Garin had hinted at over breakfast.

“Oh, yes. There have been several of them. Poor homeless people found dead in alleyways and parking lots. Some huddled in doorways, their blankets still drawn up under their chins as if they were just sleeping.” The way the woman talked about it, it sounded like there were far more than four dead bodies that had been accounted for.

“Are the victims always homeless?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. Every one of them. There’s nothing to say that ordinary people like you or me are at risk, but it has put people off coming into the city. The hotels are half-full where usually they’d be booked up at this time of year. It’s worrying.”

“I’ve been here a week and I didn’t even know about the murders until this morning,” Annja admitted. “Not that it would have made much difference if I had known. My bosses wouldn’t have let me duck out of this trip. The way things are back home, I think they’d probably like it if I came face-to-face with the killer. Better for the ratings than another show about the golem.”

“I’ve never understood why everyone is obsessed with that story,” the woman said. “It’s just a fairy tale. One of the newspapers keeps trying to link the killings with that old story, too. They’re willing to do anything to sensationalize the whole thing.” She shook her head sadly. “If you ask me, they’d be better off getting people to help find the killer or putting their efforts into making sure those poor souls had some kind of shelter for the night.”

Which, Annja knew, was not merely true; it was obvious. If a killer was targeting the homeless, the very best thing the city could do to protect its people was to see that they had somewhere to sleep that was safe. But it was also obvious, from a narrative point of view, for the journalists to build up a story that linked real life events to the myth. Myths had power—power to thrill, power to chill. Telling the story would not only increase the sense of fear gripping the city, but it would sell newspapers. And, judging by the suits back home, that was the only thing that mattered to some people.

She gave her thanks to her guide, accepting a couple of brochures that the woman offered her, and highlighted the village that she had suggested Annja visit. Annja slipped them in her bag and pulled out a twenty-euro note. The woman tried to wave it away, but Annja insisted on leaving it as a donation. If things were as bad as they seemed to be, there was no way that the woman could afford to refuse any money coming her way. Despite protesting, the woman put it into the donations jar beside the door.

Annja stepped out into the street.

She felt the warmth on her face that had been missing inside the building.

She might not have found anything new relating to her story, but she might just have stumbled onto the obvious angle for the story she had. People’s macabre fascination with murder sold newspapers. And if it was good enough to sell newspapers, then it ought to be good enough for the network’s suits. But would it be good enough to save Chasing History’s Monsters?

Only time would tell.

4 (#ulink_20a5ff4f-cb37-5945-93e0-aca6c36f1e59)

A quick visit to the newsstand confirmed which newspaper had been carrying the stories that connected the vagrant murders with Rabbi Loew’s golem.

Even though the words were incomprehensible, the front page of one of the papers in the newsstand’s racks carried Loew’s name and an etching in place of a photograph that detailed the golem’s nighttime wandering through these streets. Unable to read it, she decided she needed a different course of action. Thinking on her feet, Annja noted the name of the reporter whose byline appeared underneath the headline: Jan Turek.

A call to the newspaper resulted in her being passed from person to person until someone was found who spoke a language they had in common comfortably enough to answer a few questions. Then she discovered that Turek wasn’t on the staff at all, but was a freelancer, and the staff member was unwilling to pass on any contact details for him without knowing more about her and her credentials. She provided Doug Morrell’s contact information and told the staffer he could check in with him. She hoped that being on staff with a cable television corporation in the US would be enough to persuade them to put her in touch with Turek. She gave the staffer her number at the hotel and returned there to wait for Doug to confirm she was who she said she was.

When the phone rang she snatched it up and answered.

It wasn’t Jan Turek.

It was the staffer, who confirmed that Doug Morrell had vouched for her, though he hadn’t appreciated being woken up at six in the morning. Annja couldn’t help herself, she laughed at that, having completely forgotten about the time difference when she’d given the staffer Doug’s cell number. The woman promised to take a message and pass it on to Turek, but couldn’t promise when he’d get back to her.

“He’s not exactly the most reliable soul,” she explained. “Which is why he’s not on the staff here. But I’ll call him now and leave your message. He’s more of a night bird,” the woman said, which Annja immediately corrected to night owl in her mind. “I think he sleeps for most of the day, so don’t expect a call back from him for a while.”

“But he’s definitely the man I need to speak to about the stories you’ve been running about the killings?”

“Oh, yes. Can I ask, are you looking to buy the story from Jan?”