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"Oh?" Rehn said. "You are to blame here," he said to Baumann. "You are the cause of all these troubles. And you will see that my detectives get any assistance they need. I want to speak to the person who found the body, and the person who called in the original report. I want the name of every person who has been on this floor since the body was discovered. And I want the film from Schnieder's camera. Ich bin ein echter kerl. I will arrest you if you obstruct this investigation further."
"In that case, I will have to consult...."
"Hör auf zu jammern." Rehn leaned close. "Don't fuck with me, Herr Baumann. Now leave, and let us work."
"As you wish, Captain," he said. With a tight, brief nod of his head he left, his face pinched and unhappy.
Ramirez chuckled. "You told him off pretty good."
Rehn spun. "What the hell do you mean telling him you were going to interrogate everyone at the party?"
"Aw, shit, I was just winding him up," Ramirez said. "Hey, you know I'd never interrogate the mayor. It's not my fault if these assholes have no sense of humor."
"They do have a sense of humor," Rehn said. "But the joke's on you, I'm afraid. Baumann had a problem, and he solved it---- with your help!"
"My help?" Ramirez was frowning. "I--I don't get it."
"It's clear the Germans wanted to delay the investigation," Rehn said. "Your aggressive tactics gave them the perfect excuse to call for the Special Services liaison."
"Aw, c'mon," Ramirez said. "For all they know, the liaison could have been here in five minutes."
Rehn shook his head. "Don't kid yourself. They knew exactly who'd be on call tonight. They knew exactly how far away Cappucci would be, and exactly how long it'd take him to get here. And they managed to delay the investigation by an hour and a half. Nice going, Ramirez."
Ramirez stared at Rehn for a long moment before turning away. "Fuck," she said. "That's a load of bullshit, and you know it. Fellas, I'm going to work. Archie? Mount up. You have thirty seconds to document before my guys come in and step on your tail. Let's go, everybody. I want to get finished before the bitch starts ripening."
And she lumbered off toward the crime scene.
With their suitcases and evidence carts, the SID team trailed after Ramirez. Archie Stout led the way, shooting right and left as he worked his way forward into the atrium, then going through the door into the conference room. The walls of the conference room were smoked glass, which dimmed his flash. But I could see him inside, circling the body. He was shooting a lot: he knew this was a big case.
I stayed behind with Rehn. I said, "I thought you told me to watch my mouth around the Germans."
"I did," Rehn said.
"Then why didn't you watch yours?"
"Unfortunately," he said, "it was the only way to assist Baumann."
"To assist Baumann?!"
"Yes. I did all that for Baumann because he had to preserve honor in front of his boss. Baumann wasn't the most important man in the room. One of the Germans standing by the elevator was the vorvertrag, the real boss."
"I didn't notice," I said.
"It's common practice to put a lesser man in front while the boss stays in the background, where he's free to observe progress. Just as I did with you, schützling."
"Baumann's boss was watching all the time?"
"Yes. And Baumann had orders not to allow the investigation to begin. I needed to start the investigation. But I had to do it in such a way that he wouldn't look incompetent. So I played the out-of-control fremdling. Now he owes me a favor, which is good because I may need his help later on."
"He owes you a favor?" I said, having trouble with this idea. Rehn had just screamed at Baumann---thoroughly humiliating him, as far as I was concerned.
Rehn sighed. "Even if you don't understand what happened, believe me: Baumann understands very well. He had a problem and I helped him."
I still didn't understand and started to say more, but Rehn held up his hand.
"I think we'd better take a look at the scene before Ramirez and her men screw things up any more than they already have."
It'd been almost two years since I worked in the detective division, and it felt good to be around a homicide again. It brought back memories: the nighttime tension, the adrenaline rush of bad coffee in paper cups, and all the teams working around you---it's a kind of crazy energy, circling the center where somebody is lying, dead.
Every homicide crime scene has that same energy and finality at the center. When you look at a corpse, there is a kind of obviousness, and at the same time, there's an impossible mystery. Even in the simplest domestic brawl, where the woman finally decided to shoot the guy, you look at her, all covered in scars and cigarette burns, and you have to ask, why tonight? What was it about tonight? It’s always clear what you are seeing, and there’s always something that doesn’t add up. Both things at once, At a homicide you have the sense of being right down to the basic truths of existence, the smells and the defecation and the bloating. When somebody’s crying, you listen to that. The usual bullshit stops; somebody died, and it’s an unavoidable fact, like a reef in the sea that makes all the ships go around it. In that grim and real setting, a camaraderie springs up, because you’re working late with people you know, and know very well because you see them all the time. L.A. has four homicides a day; there’s another one every six hours. Every detective at the crime scene already has ten homicides dragging on his backlog, which makes this new one an intolerable burden, so he and everybody else are hoping to solve it on the spot, to get it out of the way. There is that kind of finality and tension and energy all mixed.
After you do it for a few years, you get to like it.
To my surprise, as I entered the conference room, I realized that I missed it.
The conference room exuded a futuristic ambiance, with sleek, minimalist design and cutting-edge technology seamlessly integrated into every aspect of its architecture. As I stepped into the room, I was immediately enveloped in an atmosphere of innovation and sophistication that surpassed anything I ever saw. The walls were adorned with floor-to-ceiling digital screens, displaying real-time data, graphs, and presentations with crystal-clear clarity. LED lights embedded in the ceiling cast a soft, ambient glow, while advanced climate control systems maintain the perfect temperature and humidity levels.
The centerpiece of the room was a large, oval-shaped table made of polished black marble, surrounded by ergonomic chairs upholstered in high-tech fabric. Each chair was equipped with built-in touchscreens, allowing occupants to access documents, communicate with colleagues, and control the room's lighting and audiovisual systems with a simple swipe or tap. In the center of the table sat a state-of-the-art holographic projector, capable of rendering lifelike 3D images and interactive presentations that seem to float in mid-air.
I marveled at the seamless integration of technology throughout the room, from the floor-to-ceiling windows equipped with smart tinting technology to the sound-absorbing acoustic panels that adjust dynamically to optimize audio quality during conference calls. Even the artwork adorning the walls was digital, with customizable displays featuring rotating images and videos curated to inspire creativity and productivity.
Taking in the sight, I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy and frustration. Compared to the high-tech marvel of SchwarzTech Towers, the typical American office feels outdated and stagnant. See, instead of embracing innovation and progress, American companies are hampered by red tape and outdated infrastructure, unable to keep pace with the rapid advancements taking place in other parts of the world.
Inside the room, the technicians talked quietly as they moved around the body of the dead girl. She had blond hair cut short. Blue eyes, full mouth. She looked about twenty-five. Tall, with a long-limbed, athletic look, her dress was black and sheer.
Ramirez was well into her examination; she was down at the end of the table, squinting at the girl's black patent high heels, a penlight in one hand, her notebook in another.
McClung, the coroner's assistant, was taping the girl's hands in paper bags to protect them. Rehn stopped him. "Hold it." Rehn looked at one hand, inspecting the wrist, peering closely under the fingernails. He sniffed under one nail. Then he flicked the fingers rapidly, one after another. "Don't bother," Rehn said laconically. "There's no rigor mortis yet, and no detritus under the nails, no skin or cloth fibers. I'd say there aren't many signs of a struggle at all."
McClung slipped the bag over the hand. Rehn said to him, "You have a time of death yet?"
"I'm working on it." McClung lifted the girl's buttocks to place the rectal probe. "The auxiliary thermocouples are in place. We'll know in a minute."
Rehn touched the fabric of the black dress and checked the label. Karen, part of the SID team, said, "It's a Furstenberg."
"I see that," Rehn said.
"What's a Furstenberg?" I said.
Karen said, "A very expensive German designer. This little black nothing is at least five thousand dollars. That's assuming she bought it used. If she bought it brand new, it's maybe fifteen thousand."
"Is it traceable?" Rehn asked her.
"Could be. Depends on whether she bought it here, in France, or in Berlin. It'll take two working days to check."
Rehn immediately lost interest. "Don't bother. That'll be too late."
He produced a small, fiber-optic penlight, which he used to inspect the girl's scalp and hair. Then he looked quickly at each ear, giving a little murmur of surprise at the right ear. I peered over his shoulder and saw a drop of dried blood at the pierced hole for her earring. I must've been crowding Rehn because he glanced up at me.
"Pardon me, schützling."
I stepped back. "Sorry."
Next, Rehn sniffed the girl's lips, opened and closed her jaw rapidly, and poked her mouth, using his penlight as a probe. Then he turned her head from side to side on the table, making her look left and right. He spent some time feeling gently along her neck, almost caressing it with his fingers.
And then, quite abruptly, he stepped away from the body and said, "All right, I'm finished." He walked out of the boardroom.
Ramirez looked up. "The son-of-a-bitch was never worth a shit at a crime scene."
I said, "Why do you say that? I hear he's a damn good detective."
"Bullshit," Ramirez said. "You can see for yourself. He doesn't even know what to do. Doesn't know the procedures. Rehn's no detective. Rehn has connections. That's how he solved all those cases he's so famous for. Do you remember the Steinhauer honeymoon shootings? No? I guess it was before your time, Herr Jack. When was that Steinhauer case, McClung?"
"Eighty-seven," McClung said.
"Right, eighty-seven. Big fuckin' case that year. Mr. and Mrs. Steinhauer, a young couple visiting Los Angeles on their honeymoon, are standing by the curb in East L.A. when they got gunned down by a passing car. Drive-by gang-style shooting. Worse, at autopsy, it turns out Mrs. Steinhauer was pregnant. The press eats us alive: L.A.P.D. can't handle gang violence, is the way the story goes. Letters and money come from all over the city. Everyone is upset about what happened to this fresh young couple. And of course, the detectives assigned to the case don't find shit. I mean, a case involving murdered German nationals: they're getting nowhere.
"So, after a week, Rehn is called in. And he solves it in one day. A fuckin' miracle of detection. I mean, it's a week later. The physical evidence is long gone, the bodies of the honeymooners are back in Munich, and the street corner where it happened is piled high in wilted flowers. But Rehn can show that the youthful Mr. Steinhauer is quite a bad boy in Munich. He shows that the street-corner gangland shooting is, in reality, a Schwarzadler killing contracted in Germany, West Germany, in those days, to take place in America. He shows that the nasty husband is the innocent bystander: the real target was the wife, knowing she was pregnant ---because it's her father they wanted to teach a lesson. So, Rehn turns it all around. Pretty fuckin' amazing, huh?"
"You think he pulled it off with his German connections?"
"You tell me," Ramirez said. "All I know is, pretty soon after that, he goes to Germany for a year."
"Doing what?"
"I heard he worked as a security guy for a grateful German company. They took care of him, is what it amounted to. He did a job for them, and they paid off. Anyway, that's the way I figure it. Nobody knows. But the man's no Sherlock Holmes. Christ! Just look at him now."
Out in the atrium, Rehn was staring up at the high ceiling in a dreamy, reflective way. He looked first in one direction, and then another. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind. Suddenly, he walked briskly toward the elevators, as if he were leaving. Then without warning, he turned on his heel, and walked back to the center of the room---and stopped. Next, he began to inspect the leaves on the potted palm trees scattered around the room.
Ramirez shook her head. "What is this, gardening? I'm telling you, he's a weirdo. You know he's gone to Germany more than once. He always comes back. It never works out for him. Germany is like a woman that he can't live with, and can't live without, you know? Myself, I don't fuckin' get it. I like America. At least, what's left of it." She turned to the SID team, which was moving outward from the body. "You guys find those panties for me yet?"
"Not yet, Sarah."
"We're looking, Sarah."
I said, "What panties?"
Ramirez lifted the girl's skirt. "Your buddy Lloyd couldn't be bothered to finish his examination, but I'd say there's something significant here. I'd say that's seminal fluid oozing out of the vagina, she's not wearing any panties, and there's a red line at the groin where they were ripped off. External genitals are red and raw. She had forcible intercourse before she was killed. So I'm asking the boys to find the panties."
One of the SID team said, "She might not have been wearing any."
Ramirez said, "She was wearing them, all right."
I turned back to McClung. "Drugs?"
He shrugged. "We'll get lab values on all fluids. But to the eye, she looks clean. Very clean." I noticed that McClung was distinctly uneasy, now.
Ramirez saw it, too. "For Christ's sake, what are you hangdog about, McClung? Are we keeping you from a late-night date or something?"
"No," McClung said, "but to tell you the truth, not only is there no evidence of a struggle, or drugs---I don't see any evidence that she was murdered at all."
Ramirez said, "What kind of bullshit.....?"
McClung said, "The girl has throat injuries that suggest she may have been into one of the sexual bondage syndromes. She has signs beneath the makeup that she's been tied up before, repeatedly."
"So?'
"So, technically speaking, maybe she wasn't murdered. Maybe she experienced sudden death from natural causes."
"Aw, Christ. Come on."
"It's quite possible this is a case of what we call death from inhibition. Instantaneous physiological death."
"What's that s'posed to mean?"
He shrugged. "The person just dies."
"For no reason at all?"
"Not exactly. There's usually minor trauma involving the heart or nerves. But the trauma isn't sufficient to cause death. I had one case where a ten-year-old kid got hit in the chest with a baseball---not very hard---and fell dead in the schoolyard. Nobody within twenty meters of him. In another case, a woman had a minor car accident, banged into the steering wheel with her chest, not very hard, and while she was opening the car door to get out, she dropped dead. It seems to happen where there is a neck or chest injury, which may irritate the nerves running to the heart. So, yeah, Sarah. Technically, sudden death is a distinct possibility. And since having sex is not a felony, it wouldn’t be murder.”
Ramirez squinted. "In other words, nobody killed her."
McClung shrugged. He picked up his clipboard. "I'm not putting any of this down. I'm listing the cause of death asphyxiation secondary to manual strangulation. Because the odds are, she was strangled. But you should mentally file it away that maybe she wasn't. Maybe she just popped off."
"Fine," Ramirez said. "We'll file it. Under medical examiner's fantasies. Meanwhile, any of you guys got an ID on her?"
The SID team, still searching the room, murmured no.
McClung said, "I think I got a time of death." He checked his temperature probes and read off a chart. "I register a core of 96.9. In this ambient room temperature, that's consistent with up to three hours postmortem."
"Up to 3 hours?! Dammit, McClung, we already knew she died sometime tonight."
"It's the best I can do." McClung shook his head. "Unfortunately, the cooling curves don't discriminate well for under three hours. All I can say is death occurred sometime within three hours. But my impression is that this girl has been dead for a while. Frankly, I would say it's close to three hours."
Ramirez turned to the SID team. "Has anybody found the panties yet?"
"Not so far, Lieutenant."
Ramirez looked around the room and said, "No purse, no panties."
I said, "You think someone cleaned up in here?"
"I don't know," she said. "But doesn't a girl who's coming to a party in a $30,000 dress usually carry a purse?"
"Well, what do you know, Herr Jake? One of your admirers to see you."
Striding toward me was Kelli Barendse, the mayor's press secretary. Barendese was 35, dark-blond hair cropped close to her head, perfectly groomed as always. She'd been a newscaster when she was younger but had worked for the mayor's office for many years. Kelli Barendese was smart, fast on her feet, and she had one of the great bodies, which as far as anyone knew she retained for her exclusive use.
I liked her enough to have done two favors for her when I was in the L.A.P.D. press office. Since the mayor and the chief of police hated each other, requests from the mayor's office sometimes passed from Kelli to me, and I handled them. Mostly small things: delaying the release of a report until the weekend, so it'd run on Saturday. Or announcing that charges in a case hadn't been filed yet, even though they had. I did it because Barendse was a straight shooter who always spoke her mind. And it looked like she was going to speak her mind now.
"Listen, Jake," she said. "I don't know what's going on here, but the mayor's been hearing some pretty strong complaints from Mr. Baumann..."
"Oh, I'm sure...."
"And the mayor asked me to remind you that there is no excuse for officials of this city to be rude to foreign nationals."
Ramirez said loudly, "Especially when they make such large campaign contributions."
"Foreign nationals can't contribute to American political campaigns," Barendse said. "You know that." She lowered her voice. "This is a sensitive case, Jake. You need to be careful. You know the Germans have a special concern about how they're treated in America."
"Okay, fine."
She looked through the glass walls of the conference room, towards the atrium. "Isn't that Lloyd Rehn?"
"The one and only."
"I thought he was retired. What's he doing here?"
"Helping me on the case."
Barendse frowned. "You know the Germans have mixed feelings about him. They've got a term for it. For somebody who's a German lover and goes to the other extreme, and turns into a basher."
"Rehn isn't a basher."
"Baumann felt roughly treated."
"Baumann was telling us what to do," I said. "And we have a murdered girl here, which everybody seems to be forgetting.."
"Come off it, Jake," she said, "nobody's trying to tell you how to do your job. all I'm saying is you gotta take into account the special..." She stopped. She was looking at the body.
"Kelli?" I said. "Do you know her?"
"No." She turned away.
"Are you sure?" I could see she was rattled.
Ramirez said, "You saw her downstairs earlier?"
"I don't...maybe. I think so. Listen, fellas, I gotta get back."
"Kelli, c'mon!"
"I don't know who she is, Jake. You know I'd tell you if I did. Just keep it cordial with the Germans. That's all the mayor wanted me to say. Now, goodbye!"
She hurried back toward the elevators. I watched her leave, feeling uneasy.
Ramirez came over and stood beside me. "Yeah, she's pretty, but she ain't levelin', buddy, even with you."
I said, "What do you mean, even with me?"
"Everybody knows you and Barendse were an item."
"What are you talking about?"
Ramirez punched me on the shoulder. "Come on. You're divorced now. Nobody gives a shit."
I said, "It's a pack of lies, Sarah."
"You can do what you want. Handsome guy like you."
"I said it's not true!"
"Fine." She held up her hands. "My mistake."
I watched Barendse at the other end of the atrium, ducking under the tape. She pressed the elevator button and waited for it to come, tapping her foot impatiently.
I said, "You think she knows who the girl is?"
"Damn right she does," Ramirez said. "You know why the mayor likes her. She stands by his side and whispers everybody's name to him. People she hasn't seen in years. Husbands, wives, children, the whole nine yards. Barendse knows who this girl is."
"Then why didn't she tell us?"
"Fuck," Ramirez said. "Must be important to somebody. She took off like a bullet, didn't she? I tell you, we better figure out who this dead bitch is. Because I fuckin' hate being the last one to know."
Rehn was across the room, waving to us.
"What does he want now?" Ramirez said.
"Waving like that. What's he got in his hand?"
"Looks like a purse," I said.
"Emily Rose Kensington," Rehn said, reading. "Born in Sydney, Australia, a graduate of the University of Sydney. Twenty-three years old. Got apartment in Westwood, but hasn't been here long enough to get a California driver's license."
The contents of the purse were spread out on a desk. We pushed them around with pencils. "Where'd you find this purse?" I asked. It was a small, dark, beaded clutch with a pearl clasp. A vintage forties purse. Expensive.
"It was in the potted plant near the conference room."
Rehn unzipped a tiny compartment. A tight roll of crisp hundred-dollar bills tumbled onto the table. "Very nice. Miss Kensington is well cared for."
I said, "No car keys?"
"No."
"So she came with somebody."
"And intended to leave with somebody, too. Taxis can't break a hundred-dollar bill."
There was also a gold American Express Cad. Lipstick and a compact. A pack of West Ice Menthol cigarettes, a German brand. A card for the Lichtpalast Night Club in Berlin. Four small blue pills. That was it.
Using his pencil, Rehn upended the beaded purse. Small green flecks spilled out onto the table.
"Know what that is?"
"No," I said. Ramirez looked at it with a magnifying glass.
Rhen said, "It's called 'grüne knuspernüsse.' These crunchy, green-coated peanuts are a popular snack, known for their unique, slightly spicy flavor and vibrant color, making them a favorite at social gatherings and parties."
I'd heard of 'grune wurze', a blend of horseradish, spinach powder for color, and a mix of spices to give it a distinctive kick, usually served in German restaurants. But I'd never heard of 'grune knupernusse.'
"I don't know if they're sold outside Germany."
Ramirez grunted. "I've seen enough. So what do you think now, Lloyd? Is Baumann going to get those witnesses you asked for?"
"I wouldn't expect them so soon," Rehn said.
"Fuckin' right," Ramirez said. "We won't see those witnesses until the day after tomorrow after their lawyers have briefed them on exactly what to say." She stepped away from the table. "You realize why they're delaying us? A German killed this girl. That's what we're dealing with."
"It's possible," Rehn said.
"Hey, amigo, it's more than possible. We're here. This is their building. And that girl is the type they go for. They seem to have a fetish for English-speaking girls, especially blondes. It's like they can't resist the combination of the language and the look. Makes you wonder what's going on in their heads sometimes."
Rehn shrugged. "Possibly."
"Come on," Ramirez said. "You know those guys eat shit all day long at home. Crammed into subways, working in big companies. Can't say what they think. Then they come over here, away from the constraints of home, and suddenly they're rich and free. They can do whatever they want. And sometimes one of them goes a little crazy. Tell me I'm wrong."
Rehn looked at Ramirez for a long time. Finally, he said, "So as you see it, Sarah, a German killer decided to dispatch this girl on the SchwarzTech boardroom conference table?"
"Right?"
"As a symbolic act?"
Ramirez shrugged. "God, who knows? We're not talking about normality here. But I'll tell you one thing. I'm gonna nail the fucker that did this if it's the last goddamned thing I do."152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ38GTBovEeZ
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The elevator descended rapidly. Rehn leaned against the glass. "There are many reasons to hate the Germans," he said, "but Ramirez knows none of them." He sighed. "You know what gets under my skin?"
"What?"
"The way these Germans talk about us Americans. They see us as weak, stupid, and ignorant. They laugh at us behind our backs, like we're some kind of joke. It's almost like they've forgotten who beat them in World War II; it sure as hell wasn't England or France. They seem to have this smug superiority like they're the pinnacle of civilization now. It's infuriating."
I looked over at Rehn, my brow furrowed with a mix of confusion and frustration. "Do they still think they're Nazis after all those bombs we dropped on them and forty years of their country being divided?" I asked, shaking my head. "You'd think they'd have learned some humility, but it sounds like they haven't changed much at all."
"In some ways, they haven't," Rehn said. "You know, it bothers me that the Germans might have a point about American stupidity. When I look at Ramirez, I see... well, I see someone who's stuck in the past. Someone who bases her opinions about Germans on movies like 'The Dirty Dozen.' She doesn't know anything about today's Germans and never bothers to do her homework."
I said, "Then you think she's wrong? The girl wasn't killed by a German?"
"I didn't say that, schutzling,” Rehn replied. “It’s very possible Ramirez is right.. But at the moment…”
The doors opened and we saw the party, heard the band playing “Moonlight Serenade.” 2 party going couples stepped into the elevator. They looked like real estate people: the men silver-haired and distinguished-looking, the woman pretty and slightly tacky. One woman said, “She’s smaller than I thought.”
”Yes, tiny. And that—-was her boyfriend?”
”I guess. Wasn’t he the one in the video with her?”
”I think that was him.”
One of the men said, “You think she had her boobs done?”
”Who hasn’t these days?”
The other woman giggled. “Except me, of course.”
”Right, Sophia.”
”But I’m thinking about it. Did you see Olivia?”
”Oh, she did hers so huge!
“Well, Isabella started it, blame her. Now everyone wants them huge.”
The men turned and looked out the w in Dow. “Hell of a building,” one said. “The detailing is fantastic. Must’ve cost a fortune. You doing much with the Germans now, Steve?”
”About twenty percent,” the other man said. “That’s way down from last year. It’s made me work on my golf game, because they always want to play golf.”
”Twenty percent of your business?”
”Yeah. They’re buying up Marin County now.”
”Of course. They already own Los Angeles,” one of the women said, laughing.
“Well, just about. They have the Arco building over there,” the man said, pointing out the window. “I guess by now they have 70-75% of downtown Los Angeles.”
”And more in Hawaii.”
”Hell, they own Hawaii——90% of Honolulu, a hundred percent of the Kona coast. Putting up golf courses like mad.”
One woman said, “Will this party be on ET tomorrow? They had enough cameras here.”
”Let’s not forget to watch.”
The elevator said,"Es wird bald fertig sein."
We came to the garage floor, and the people got off. Rehn watched them go and s hook his head. “In no other country in the world,” he said, “would you hear people calmly discussing the fact that their cities and states were sold to foreigners.”
”Discussing?!” I said. “They’re the ones doing the selling!”
“Yes Americans are eager to sell. It amazes the Germans. They think we’re committing economic suicide. And of course they’re right.” As he spoke, Rehn pressed a button on the elevator panel marked EMERGENCY ONLY.
A soft-pinging alarm sounded.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
With a soft hum, the air in front of him shimmered and then coalesced into a three-dimensional holographic projection. It was the image of the building’s security man, projected in full color and lifelike detail. The hologram’s presence was almost eerie in its realism, down to the slight shift in posture and the subtle movements as if the person were physically present in the elevator.152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOeMhCQEqbH
”Good evening, officers,” the holographic security man said, his voice crisp and clear. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN9zHXe1Q3P
”Am I speaking to building security?’152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWgqZX15RR8
”That’s right, sir. Is something wrong with your elevator?”152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBfNFsEKD6X
”Where are you located?” 152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWaZVXmfzfg
“We’re on the lobby level, southeast corner, behind the elevators.”152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlBYS9vbiAP
”Thank you very much,” Rehn said. He pushed the button for the lobby.152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkaiiv3bm8i
My jaw tightened with a mixture of amazement and envy. We Americans don’t have anything remotely close to this level of technology in our buildings. Even the most advanced security systems were clunky and impersonal compared to this sleek, seamless integration of holographic communication. This was like something out of a sci-fi movie, yet here it was, a reality in a German-owned office building.152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU2CB9CzYgZ
Seriously, I couldn’t help but think about the stark contrast. In America we’re still dealing with outdated infrastructure, red tape, and budget constraints. The bureaucratic bloat and over regulation stifles innovation, leaving our companies lagging behind their German counterparts.152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK5PokXRTXF
Frustrated? Yeah, I am. Why the hell can’t we Americans keep pace with the Germans? That fancy holographic device is just one example of how far behind we are. 152Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS0nzjXygcM
I found myself more determined that ever to understand what made these damn Germans tick and why, despite everything, t hey seemed to be racing ahead into the future while America was left grappling with its own shortcomings.
