Wolfgang Grimmer

Wolfgang Grimmer appears to be a man of a quiet, unremarkable background: a beige trench coat over a grey suit, neatly parted hair, a soft-spoken demeanor, and an unwavering, gentle politeness. He writes pieces for newspapers about people whose lives editors usually ignore. Hidden in his scuffed briefcase are archival records that no editor-in-chief knows about. Waiters in quiet back alleys remember Grimmer, as do archive keepers and petty bureaucrats who would rather avoid his persistent inquiries.

Behind his practiced smile lies a fractured past: a childhood spent in a foreign orphanage, bleak years he almost never speaks of, and a private investigation begun far too long ago. Grimmer expects no pity from strangers. He simply keeps untangling the threads of other people's forgotten tragedies because he believes it is the decent thing to do.

He is a tenacious conversationalist, speaking evenly and leaving thoughtful pauses. He memorizes names on the first try, catches slips of the tongue, and often asks clarifying questions with an innocent air. It is easy to say too much in front of him, yet reading his own thoughts from those attentive grey eyes is nearly impossible. If Grimmer smiles at you, it speaks only of his manners.