The Constant Man

by Peter Steiner

  Late on the night in question, someone had rung the emergency bell. A man had a badly wounded right arm and hand. He had lost a lot of blood. The night nurse rousted Doctor Rosenberg, the doctor on duty, and he had given the man an injection, cleaned the wound, and sewed it up. It went from between his thumb and fingers, up his hand and around his wrist. It had taken more than fifty stitches. ‘It was a very serious wound,’ said the nurse.

  She showed Willi the log entry. The name – Friedrich Grosz – and the address the man had given were undoubtedly false.

  ‘Why do you think they were false?’

  ‘The way he looked at me when he gave his name? The sound of his voice? I don’t know exactly, but I’m pretty sure he was lying.’

  ‘Is Dr Rosenberg here tonight?’ said Willi.

  ‘No,’ said the nurse. ‘He won’t be in until tomorrow.’

  ‘Would you give me the doctor’s address?’ The nurse hesitated. ‘This is an urgent matter,’ said Willi.

  The nurse, Irmgard Grosz, gave a good description of the patient.

  ‘Well, of course I was watching him for signs of shock, that sort of thing, so I got a good look. Thirty or so years old. Boyish, in any case. Light brown hair, cut short on the sides, clean shaven. His ears stuck out. Blue eyes, a bit too far apart. He had a long thin nose, and almost no lips. When he smiled his lips disappeared altogether.’

  ‘He smiled?’

  ‘Sort of. He had perfect teeth. Not a friendly smile though. He even laughed once, at the coincidence of our same last names.’

  ‘What do you remember, if anything, about how he spoke?’

  ‘He had a soft voice, a high voice, almost like a boy’s voice.’

  ‘Anything else you noticed about him?’

  ‘He bit his nails. They were bitten to the quick.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’ said Willi.

  ‘A suit and tie and an overcoat.’

  ‘A tie? Was he disheveled?’

  ‘No, and that surprised me. And he didn’t want to take anything off.’

  ‘But he did?’

  ‘He had no choice. We had to help him, of course. Overcoat, suit coat, and shirt all had blood on them. He kept trying to cross his arms over his chest, like he was ashamed of his body.’

  Willi continued in this direction, asking about body hair, scars, tattoos, jewelry. ‘Was he wearing any military insignia? What about his undershirt, his belt, his shoes?’

  ‘Nothing seemed to be military.’

  ‘He came in with some sort of bandage around his arm?’

  ‘He did. More of a rag than a bandage.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Odd,’ said Irmgard. ‘It was yellow, with a small red and green pattern, tiny flowers, I think. I remember wondering where he had got that. I mean, when you have an accident like that … the bandage looked like it came from a curtain or a dress or something. So, how did that become his bandage? I mean, he had obviously been outside, probably when it happened – his pant legs were wet from the snow – so where do you find a piece of fabric like that lying around outside?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Willi. ‘What happened to that rag, Frau Grosz? Do you think it might still be in your trash?’

  ‘No. That’s odd too,’ she said. ‘I started to throw it away – it was soaked with blood – but he grabbed it out of my hand. Really grabbed it. He wadded it up and stuffed it in his pants pocket. I wondered why. Now I know.’

  ‘Frau Grosz, have you ever thought of going into police work?’ said Willi.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It’s just, I think you might be very good at it.’

  It was late in the evening when Willi rang the Rosenbergs’ bell. Samuel Rosenberg answered the door himself. Willi identified himself as a detective. He could hear there was a party going on. Dr Rosenberg was not happy to have his evening interrupted. But once Willi explained that it was about the wounded man he had treated, and that this man was a person of interest in a criminal investigation, Dr Rosenberg showed Willi into a small office just off the entry hall. The office was comfortably furnished with leather chairs, a desk, and what looked to be a Tiffany lamp. The walls were covered with paintings and drawings.

  ‘Paul Klee?’ said Willi, nodding toward one small painting.

  ‘He was a patient,’ said Doctor Rosenberg. ‘This person of interest, are you talking about the young woman who was killed the other night?’

  Willi said that he was.

  The doctor remembered the wounded man very clearly. He confirmed Irmgard Grosz’s description of the patient and of his treatment of the wound as well. ‘It was a deep and violent injury.’

  ‘Did he need more medical attention?’

  ‘He did. I told him I thought he might have suffered some nerve damage and that vascular surgery might be necessary as well. In any case, someone should check the wound to see that it is healing properly. And he’ll need the stitches removed.’

  ‘How did he react to your advice, Doctor?’

  ‘He didn’t react. And given what I now know, I doubt that he’ll follow my recommendations.’

  ‘Did he say anything about how he was injured?’

  ‘I asked,’ said the doctor, ‘but he didn’t answer.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t say anything?’

  ‘I told him I was required to keep a record of all injuries in the treatment log, to which he said, “Put down: accident.” I remember thinking that was odd. Not “It was an accident,” but “Put down: accident.”’

  ‘Was he in pain?’ said Willi.

  ‘A good bit of pain, I think, yes. I knew he’d be in a lot more pain soon, and I told him so.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He seemed frightened and asked me to give him something. I had given him an injection earlier, and I wrote him a prescription for later. But he wanted something right away.’

  ‘What did you give him, and what was your prescription for?’

  ‘Eukodol in both cases. It’s an oxycodone-based pain killer.’

  ‘Do you have a list of all-night pharmacies, Doctor?’

  ‘There are four in Munich.’ The doctor paused and thought for a moment. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘even without knowing about the murder, I still suspected Grosz wasn’t his real name.’

  ‘What made you think that, Doctor?’

  ‘He had a way about him. I thought he was Gestapo.’

  ‘And what made you think that?’ said Willi.

  ‘I’m Jewish, Detective. I’ve seen the Gestapo. Why would I not think that?’

  One of Munich’s all-night pharmacies was across from the train station and one stop from Karolinenplatz. Willi rode his bicycle the three kilometers on back streets. Except for the drunks and vagrants around the station, the streets were mostly empty now.

  Sure enough, the pharmacist had filled the Eukodol prescription within hours of Friedrich Grosz’s visit to the doctor. Grosz had said he was in pain and immediately took one of the tablets even though Doctor Rosenberg had given him one a short time ago. The pharmacist had not paid much attention to what the man had looked like, although he recalled that his hand was heavily bandaged and his arm was in a sling.

  He found the prescription and showed it to Willi. He then looked it up in the logbook where all controlled substances were registered. The false name was there along with the same bogus address he had given the doctor. ‘What additional information is required for controlled substances?’ Willi said.

  ‘The prescribing doctor’s name, address, the reason for the prescription, and exemptions and exceptions.’

  ‘Exemptions and exceptions?’ said Willi. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well,’ said the pharmacist, ‘that’s for special uses, for instance, scientists or doctors working with controlled substances, certain military and government officials who have … a privileged … dispensation …’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Willi. ‘Are you talking about addicts?’r />
  The pharmacist was silent for a long time. Finally he said, ‘In recent years, Herr Detective, the uses of some of these substances, and the laws controlling them have … evolved, shall we say, so that more people now have access to them than was once the case.’

  ‘And Herr Grosz had such an exemption or exception?’

  ‘He did, Herr Detective. A police and military exemption.’

  ‘Is he an addict?’

  ‘There’s no way for me to know.’

  ‘So this number here?’ Willi pointed to the number the pharmacist had written beside Grosz’s address.

  ‘That is his exemption number,’ said the pharmacist.

  ‘And you have this number how?’

  ‘It was on his ID card.’

  ‘And he showed you his ID?’

  ‘Certainly. That’s required by law.’

  ‘And it had his picture and the name Friedrich Grosz?’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘And you looked at the picture to make sure it was him?’

  ‘I did.’

  Willi turned the logbook toward him and read the number aloud: ‘SS47840. An SS number.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the pharmacist, and for some reason only he could have known, he clasped his hands over his mouth, as if to indicate there was nothing more he could say.

  The Mind of a Killer

  Reinhard Pabst was just thirty years old. He had only been in the Gestapo for a few years, and in a very short time had achieved the rank of Obersturmbannführer, lieutenant colonel. He had been extraordinarily successful in exposing and arresting various enemies of the German people, including a small group of army officers who had been planning a coup d’état, which he had prevented from even getting off the ground. Thanks to Reinhard, three army colonels had been liquidated and two brigadier generals now found themselves crushing stones in Dachau.

  This had been a triumph for Reinhard, a man who only a few years earlier had been a confused young man, riven with self-doubt, and trying and failing at one thing after another. And now he had just been put in charge of the Gestapo’s largest ongoing investigation, the pursuit of the serial killer bedeviling Munich and unsettling the entire country.

  Since Reinhard was himself the killer, he had thought it urgent that he take over the case so that he could direct the investigation away from himself. And he had been brilliant yet again in accomplishing this objective. Reinhard’s unique combination of gifts – an innocent face, a modicum of intelligence, and an effortless and lethal duplicity – had allowed him to maneuver other more senior Gestapo officers aside to get the assignment.

  Reinhard, taking the Führer as his model, had looked into his rivals and then spread the word about their insufficiencies – real or imagined, it didn’t matter. The rumors he started inevitably found their way to Himmler and then to Hitler. When these candidates were interviewed, they suddenly found themselves on the defensive. ‘No, Herr Reichsführer, I did not fail to accomplish the assignment. There was no failure on my part. It was an administrative failure.’ An administrative failure? That was almost like blaming the Führer himself! One by one Reinhard’s rivals were eliminated from consideration.

  Reinhard was the last candidate to be interviewed. ‘Thank you, my Führer, and you, Herr Reichsführer, for this opportunity to serve you and the German people.’ Reinhard summed up his accomplishments since joining the Gestapo, being careful to repeatedly give the Führer credit as his inspiration and model.

  Reinhard laid out in detail several interesting things he knew about the serial-killer case that Hitler and Himmler were both unaware of. For instance, Reinhard had discovered that someone had been posing as a detective and interviewing people about the case. Reinhard believed that this person might himself be the killer. Reinhard also said he had evidence that the killings were part of a Jewish plot to destabilize the Führer’s regime as a step on the way to Jewish world domination.

  Hitler looked at Himmler. Himmler nodded.

  ‘So, Pabst,’ said Hitler. He clapped his hands together, and smiled. ‘I think we’ve found the man for the job. What will it take to bring this pig to slaughter?’

  ‘I have a very sharp knife, my Führer,’ said Reinhard. The Führer laughed at the joke. ‘I will formulate a plan of action, my Führer.’

  ‘This must be accomplished quickly, Pabst. Do you understand me?’ said Himmler.

  ‘I understand you perfectly, Herr Reichsführer.’

  ‘Do you think he will kill again?’ said Hitler.

  ‘I am certain he will, my Führer.’

  Since that first time long ago with the prostitute when he was still a Jesuit, Reinhard had had many catastrophic attempts at what he thought of as sexual union. But a lusty woman trying to reach into his pants, another one cooing in his ear, or one holding her own breasts toward him and moaning with desire, all had the same terrifying effect. The sexuality of woman, whatever shape it took, threatened him. It represented what he perceived to be mortal danger.

  Reinhard stayed late in his office in Briennerstraße. When the pressure had built up and he felt compelled to act, he went down to the basement gym where the showers were. He stripped off his clothes and scrubbed every centimeter of his body under nearly scalding water with a stiff bristled brush and hard, brown soap. It was like a ceremonial cleansing before a sacred ritual.

  At Karolinenplatz he got on a streetcar going in one direction or another, it didn’t matter which. He sat toward the back of the front car. Like the streetcar, the woman was random too. She had to be a particular sort, though: alone, of course, youngish, slim, large breasts. He recognized her immediately as soon as he saw her. His mother had been like that, so it was almost like he already knew her.

  Most nights he rode the train to the end of the line and back again without seeing her. He felt both relieved and disappointed when she wasn’t there. Then one night there she would be. There was that look, that mocking confidence as she got on the streetcar. Her eyes would scan the car, would sweep right past him, without seeming to notice, although he could tell she had seen him and was prepared to destroy him.

  She took her seat, her back to him. She crossed her stockinged legs. He could hear the whisper of the silk on silk that made him shudder. Or she casually brushed the hair from her neck. Except it was not casual at all. He felt the hair on his own neck stand up. ‘Look at me,’ she said without speaking, without looking in his direction, without even moving.

  Once Reinhard was off the streetcar and behind her, the rest went very quickly. He had to be quick or she might overpower him. He struck like Abraham sacrificing the ram caught in the bush. Then it was over – she was vanquished, the sacrifice was accomplished. Reinhard took the streetcar back to the office. Sometimes, if it was a nice night, he walked.

  Suzanna Merkl had almost killed him. A woman using her lethal, demonic skills. He had gotten careless, had forgotten how dangerous the enemy could be, and it had almost cost him his life. He could not afford to make a mistake like that again.

  The Third Report

  Heinz Schleiffer had observed Karl Juncker leaving home late the night before, and now there it was in the paper a few hours later. Another poor woman, Suzanna Merkl, had been butchered in the same way as the other eight victims, and her killer had gotten away. The paper had photos of all nine women across the top of the front page.

  Heinz had suspected Karl Juncker all along, and now he finally had the proof. The timeline – Juncker leaves home at night, Merkl is dead the next morning – was irrefutable evidence. They would have to pay attention to him now. He took out a pad of paper, a pen and ink, and wrote a letter. He used a dictionary to be certain everything was spelled correctly. He wrote in what he thought of as official language.

  To: Ortsgruppenleiter Gerhard Mecklinger

  From: SA Mann Heinz Schleiffer

  Subject: Serial Killer Herr Karl Juncker

  Herr Karl Juncker, residing at Tullemannstraße 54, Apartment 21 has been engag
ed in suspicious activity for long durations of time. He regularly leaves the above referenced address at extremely odd hours. His professional activities are unknown. On the evening of December 19 at approximately 22:15 he departed from his residence under peculiar circumstances for parts unknown. On the following morning of December 20 the body of Suzanna Merkl was found dead in the snow. I am convinced that Karl Juncker’s suspicious activity means that it is extremely likely in all probability that he is the killer who is terrorizing the city and warrants a further investigation.

  With utmost respect,

  Heil Hitler.

  Heinz Schleiffer

  SA Mann Heinz Schleiffer was not one to violate protocol lightly, to skip over the chain of command, to go behind the back of his commanding officer, even an incompetent like Mecklinger. After all, the Reich was founded on order, and order had to be maintained. But, Schleiffer reasoned, these were not ordinary circumstances. Women were dying, and the killer was known to him. He had a responsibility.

  Heinz put on his uniform and marched off to deliver this latest evidence to Ortsgruppenleiter Mecklinger – or rather, to Frau Kinski. He knew Mecklinger had been ignoring his warnings and might well ignore this memo too. But Heinz would give Mecklinger one week, and if he didn’t hear anything back by then, he would find someone who could see how dire the circumstances were and who would take him seriously. Heinz was no fool; Mecklinger was the fool. Mecklinger would eventually be shown to be the impediment to solving this crime.

  Heinz had made a copy of the memo which he carried in his jacket pocket. When the occasion presented itself, he would show it to someone who could get this important information to the Führer. Well, maybe not the Führer himself. But the Führer had people who could take action on such matters. If Heinz could get his memo into the proper hands, the crime would be solved, and he would be a hero.

  Imagine Heinz’s shock when the SS knocked on his door a few mornings later. Two men in black uniforms inquired whether he was the author of the complaint that had been filed a while back – it had been so long ago that Heinz had all but forgotten – about a neighbor who had been receiving mail from England. Heinz said he had indeed filed that report, and he set about summarizing all his complaints as best he could remember since that first one about Karl Juncker. He saved the best for last. He excused himself and went to his jacket to get the memo.