From an envelope in her briefcase she handed me three photographs. The first was a standard studio portrait of a man with a twinkle in his eye and a large grin on his face. The eyes were a little too close together, but apart from that there was nothing about it that might have led you to suppose that this was the face of a psychopathic murderer. He looked like a regular nine-to-five guy. That was the frightening thing about the concentration camps and the special action groups. It had been the regular guys—the lawyers, the judges, the policemen, the chicken farmers, and the stonemasons—who had done all the killing. In the second picture, things were clearer cut: a slightly tubbier Warzok, his chins bulging over his tunic collar, was standing stiffly to attention, his right hand held in the clasp of a beaming Heinrich Himmler. Warzok was about an inch shorter than Himmler, who was accompanied by an SS Gruppenführer I didn’t recognize. The third picture was a wider shot, taken the same day, of about six SS officers, including Warzok and Himmler. There were shadows on the ground and it looked like the sun had been shining.

“Those two were taken in August 1942,” explained Frau Warzok. “As you can see, Himmler was being shown around Janowska. Wilhaus was drunk, and things were slightly less cordial than it seems. Himmler didn’t really approve of wanton cruelty. Or so Friedrich told me.”

She reached into her briefcase and took out a typewritten sheet of paper. “This is a copy of some details that were on his SS record,” she said. “His SS number. His NSDAP number. His parents—they’re both dead, so you can forget any leads from that direction. He had a girlfriend, a Jewess called Rebecca, whom he murdered just before the camp was liberated. It’s possible you might get something out of Fritz Gebauer. I haven’t tried.”

I glanced over the paper she had prepared. She’d been very thorough, I had to give her that much. Or perhaps her lawyer fiancé had. I looked at the photographs again. Somehow it was a little hard to imagine her in bed with the man shaking hands with Himmler, but I’d seen more unlikely-looking couples. I could see what Warzok got out of it. He was short, she was tall. In that he was conforming to type, at least. It was harder to see what had been in it for her. Tall women usually married short men because it wasn’t money the men were short of, just inches. Stonemasons didn’t make a lot of money. Not even in Austria, where the tombs are fancier than almost anywhere else in Europe.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why did a woman like you marry a squirt like him in the first place?”