by Lars Schutz
The train drew into the station with a squeal of brakes.
Montabaur. Before this case, Rabea had only known the place from motorway signs.
The wind whipped snowflakes into her face as she stepped out onto the icy surface of the platform. Only a few people were getting on and off here, and a single scan of the platform revealed Jan Grall. Visibly freezing, he was leaning against an advertising billboard, his hands buried in the pockets of his black pea coat.
As she walked towards him, it struck her afresh how tall he was. Well over six foot six; he might be the tallest man she knew. At the same time, he was so lean he reminded her of a stick insect. At thirty-eight, he was seven years older than her, but it could have been decades. As ever, his sharply chiselled face was so pale that he looked ill.
‘Glad you came,’ he said as she approached. ‘It was far from a given.’
‘I’d hope not. First off, I need a coffee.’
‘I got you one already, it’s waiting for you in the car.’ He smiled cautiously.
They shook hands. It was the most they could ever bring themselves to do.
‘You can make up for your holiday as soon as we’re done here. I’ll sort it out.’ Without asking, he took her suitcase and carried it up the steps to the main concourse.
Something stirred in Rabea’s memory. A fleeting remark he’d once made. ‘Westerwald. You’re from around here, aren’t you?’
‘Yep.’ It was unmistakeably clear from his gaze he didn’t want to discuss it.
She wasn’t that easily fobbed off. ‘Is that why we were the ones they dragged out here?’
Jan was silent. Their steps echoed through the vaulted concourse; its modern architecture seemed out of place in the rugged landscape.
‘There was one thing I didn’t miss in Switzerland,’ said Rabea. ‘Having to drag every ounce of information out of you bit by bit.’
‘Fine,’ sighed Jan. He stopped short just before the swing doors to the car park. ‘A man has been killed in a particularly sadistic manner. There’s an anomaly. That’s why the police need a behavioural analysis team.’
‘The “A” on his chest,’ said Rabea tonelessly.
Jan nodded. ‘And we’re that team. Those are the facts. Don’t think there’s any more to it than that.’
He hurried out through the door.
Rabea shook her head and smiled wearily. Jan was a good judge of character, but he’d always been a terrible liar.
She followed him out into the cold. He’d stopped a few yards away and was on his antiquated mobile phone.
‘Got it. Be there in two ticks.’ He hung up and turned to Rabea. All the shine had drained from his dark eyes.
‘That was Detective Chief Superintendent Stüter,’ he said. ‘There’s a second body – “B”.’
5
If Jan Grall had been pressed to say what he missed most about Westerwald, it would be the expansive landscape. Mainz had plenty to see, but not this miles-wide view of fog-shrouded hills.
Rabea drew his attention away from the valley. ‘Could you please stop staring out of the window when you’re driving?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve driven down here a thousand times,’ said Jan. Still, he did as she asked and fixed his gaze back on the road to Marienberg.
‘Including on ice like this?’ Usually, Rabea Wyler was careful to suppress her Swiss-German accent, but when she got as agitated as she was now, Jan could hear it clearly.
‘Absolutely on ice like this,’ he replied, grinning. ‘That was always the most fun . . . but let’s run through what we know so far quickly. Maybe the whole thing will make more sense once we’ve talked it over.’
That wasn’t the real reason – he had to distract himself.
‘I read through the scraps of information they sent me from the department in Koblenz on the train; that’s all I’ve got.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He switched off the radio. It was only playing some Lady Gaga plastic pop anyway.
Rabea grabbed her shoulder bag from the back seat, rummaged around inside it and took out her iPad. ‘The letter ‘‘A”,’ she said. ‘Apparently it was tattooed onto the skin. Right now, we don’t know whether it was done post mortem. And now there’s another body with the letter ‘‘B’’. A serial killer?’
‘Could also be a double murder with two different dump sites,’ interjected Jan.
Still, he’d asked himself the same question, and many others besides. Why did it have to happen here? Why in his home town, a place he’d never wanted to return to?
As he mused, he navigated the roads unconsciously. Although he hadn’t been here for years, he knew every turning and every pothole.
Rabea ran a hand through her short blonde hair and took a big gulp of coffee. Jan noted her smile of pleasure with satisfaction. Two sugars and far too much milk; he’d dosed it perfectly.
‘The site where the body was found is unusual. A wildlife reserve. Why go to such effort and risk? Then the letters,’ said Jan. ‘But first let’s look at the site. As you know, we’re not interested in what the killer had to do—’
‘—but what he didn’t have to do,’ she completed one of his behavioural-analysis watchwords.
‘Aren’t you glad to be back at last?’ Rabea brought the conversation back to her new favourite subject.
Jan growled, squinting as though he was concentrating solely on the drive through Bad Marienberg.
‘Still don’t want to talk about it, eh?’
‘Imagine that.’
Rabea shrugged and wolfed down an energy bar. They seemed to be her sole source of nutrition these days. Unlike her, Jan had never had to think much about what he ate. Since he’d become a vegan, he looked almost anorexic.
They drove into town via Langenbacher Strasse. To their right, on the slope of Schorrberg Mountain, stretched Bad Marienberg Cemetery. This deliberate positioning of the graves above the valley gave the impression that the dead could oversee the activities of the living.
Jan’s hands closed convulsively over the wheel. He knew some of the names engraved on the stones up there. Names he’d been trying to forget for years.
Taking narrow side roads, they drove up out of the valley. The higher they climbed, the thicker the fog. Detached houses with carefully tended front gardens were arrayed cheek-by-jowl. The only person Jan saw was a stooped old man being dragged limply along the pavement by his Labrador.
‘Is it always this bustling?’ asked Rabea.
‘It’s Sunday. Not like there’s much going on in Mainz right now either.’
On Westendstrasse, Jan threw a glance back towards the valley. Only the evangelical church was visible, rising out of the sea of fog like a lighthouse.
They made for the wildlife park. Even from a distance, Jan could see the outline of the park’s hotel, situated majestically above the surrounding fields and woods like the seat of some landed aristocrat.
‘Is that the place they’ve put us up?’ Rabea pressed her nose to the glass.
‘That’s right. The first house on the square.’
‘I’m honoured – hang on, is that a panoramic restaurant up there?’
Again, Jan nodded. He could already sense his reluctance to eat there. The idyllic view would awaken memories he’d put to bed years before.
They turned into the wildlife reserve car park, just behind the hotel complex. There were already several police cars and a forensics van parked on the gravel.
Jan’s parents had often brought him here as a child. As he climbed out of the car, he noticed the familiar smell of damp hide and dung overlaying the fresh scent of the nearby forest.
‘Cold here,’ shivered Rabea, zipping her fleece up to her chin.
Jan didn’t even nod agreement; he merely turned up the collar of his coat. Even after all these years, he’d not forgotten the polar climate.
They set off towards the enclosure in silence, accompanied only by the sound of their footsteps crunching along the sn
owy gravel path.
The bison’s large enclosure was immediately adjacent to the car park. At least a dozen forensics technicians in white overalls were trampling through the slush beyond the wire fence. A large white plastic tent had been erected above an area towards the back of the enclosure. It protected the site both from the weather and, mainly, from curious onlookers.
Only now did Jan notice the bison being held back by three rangers. Hopefully the men knew what they were doing. He didn’t fancy getting better acquainted with the creatures’ horns.
A group of people had already gathered outside the fence, mainly pensioners with their dogs and young families. The usual park visitors. Some were probably also guests at the Steigalm, the café directly opposite the enclosure.
With an audience like that, it wouldn’t be long before the media got wind of the case.
Just as they reached the enclosure, a portly uniformed officer emerged through a small gate in the fence.
‘Nothing for you to see here,’ he announced to the gawkers, waving his arms. ‘Move along, please!’
‘It’s a free country! I’m allowed to stand where I want!’ came the croaky response from one silver-haired senior.
The officer’s face went scarlet, but before he could come up with a reply, he saw Jan and Rabea approaching. ‘You’re the profilers, aren’t you?’ he called. His expression brightened. ‘Then we’ll be able to move the body soon. The bison are getting restless.’
Jan gulped. Great. He even forgot to correct the officer – they were called behavioural investigative advisors, not profilers. The term gave people the wrong idea.
As soon as they were inside the enclosure, the officer bolted the gate and relocked the padlock. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ he grunted. ‘Don’t want the hacks showing up in here.’
They marched across to the crime scene. The closer they got, the more Jan was gripped with a creeping sense of apprehension. The forensics technicians, looking like ghosts in their overalls, spoke only in whispers.
The tent opened. A tall man emerged and strode towards them. As he unzipped his disposable overalls, he revealed a tailored black suit.
‘So, you’re the psycho experts, eh?’ said the bald-headed man. He shook their hands. ‘Stüter. We spoke on the phone.’
His handshake was so firm that Jan’s fingers almost felt like they were broken.
Stüter was so hairless, he looked as though he were seriously ill. There wasn’t a single hair on his head. That, and his rotund build, made him look like a white billiard ball.
Jan knew plenty of policemen like Stüter. Experienced officers over fifty, who took a dim view of new investigative methods. Especially of people like Jan, who drew up psychological profiles of the criminals instead of looking for what they considered tangible evidence.
‘Frau Ichigawa from the department at Koblenz suggested we call you in,’ explained Stüter, as if some apology were necessary. ‘There’s a media scrum in store for us, and she probably thinks we’d make a bad impression without outside help.’
‘Ichigawa?’ Jan’s pulse raced. ‘Anita Ichigawa?’
‘That’s the one. Not many people with names like that round here. Do you know each other?’ asked Stüter. ‘The lady made Senior Chief Superintendent in the Major Crimes Department at lightning speed. Of course, that’s why they named her head of the special investigation team.’
‘We can argue about wounded pride later,’ replied Jan. ‘We’re here to advise and support you and your people. I have no intention of muscling in on your investigation.’
Stüter raised his eyebrows, the only remaining hair on his head. ‘You didn’t say whether you knew Frau Ichigawa.’
Rabea, too, was gazing at him with interest, one eyebrow raised.
‘Not well. Now, I’d like you to tell me about the body.’ Jan groaned inwardly; he missed Anita.
Stüter ran a hand over his shiny scalp. ‘There’s astonishingly little to tell about our first corpse. We’ve got no idea who the guy is.’
The Chief Superintendent turned around and strode back to the tent. Outside, he handed each of them shrink-wrapped overalls, gloves and plastic overshoes. ‘You know the drill. Wrap yourselves up first.’
His arms folded across his chest, the Chief Superintendent watched as they wriggled into the cumbersome white suits. By the time Jan was pulling on his overshoes, Rabea was ready and waiting. His back cracked alarmingly as he did so.
‘Always an undignified spectacle,’ said Stüter after they were done, holding the tent flap aside. ‘After you.’
So far, Jan had only seen a few bodies and he wasn’t eager to see more. No matter how much you compartmentalised, being confronted with blood and death never left you unscathed. His last visit to the scene of a murder had been a robbery-homicide at a petrol station. A clean gunshot wound to the chest from close proximity. Lots of blood, but no gore.
This – this was different.
The naked man lay on his back, his arms and legs stretched out at awkward angles. Dried blood and muck were sticking to his pale, hairy body, and it took Jan a few moments to see the tattooed ‘A’ on his sternum.
‘We assume that the body’s been lying in the reserve for several hours,’ said Stüter. ‘So long that the bison have trampled it a few times.’
Rabea audibly suppressed a retch. Queasiness was building in the pit of Jan’s stomach, too. He found it hard to breathe the stuffy, exhausted air of the tent.
Bloody hoof prints criss-crossed the man’s body. His genitals were crushed, dozens of bones were shattered, and his belly had been slit open by a sharp-edged hoof or object. All the head lacerations and dirt made it difficult to judge his age.
‘Fifty-ish,’ he said. ‘Cautious estimate.’
‘The cause of death,’ said Rabea, swallowing, ‘the cause of death is the wound on his head, right?’
Stüter, who was kneeling in the mud next to the body, confirmed it. ‘At least, that’s our working hypothesis. Only the coroner will be able to say for sure. Ichigawa is arranging an immediate autopsy.’
Stüter looked up at them. His complexion was the same colour as the corpse’s. ‘Blunt force trauma. Maybe a hammer. Somebody hit him on the head until his skull shattered.’
‘It couldn’t have happened without a fight,’ said Jan. ‘Did you find anything? Skin fragments under the fingernails? Scratches?’
Stüter gingerly raised the dead man’s right hand towards his face. ‘I can’t say, as yet. But it’s possible.’ He turned to Jan. ‘My people are checking the missing persons register and making inquiries in the area. I don’t think it will be long before we identify the victim.’
‘Definitely. All the neighbours know each other round here.’ Jan knew that all too well. He must have provided fodder for whispered conversations over coffee tables for years.
Stüter took it as an opening to ask about his origins. ‘The way you talk. You come from around here. Where, exactly?’
Jan’s heart jolted. The tent seemed to be getting smaller by the minute. He’d hidden his Westerwald dialect as well as he could – what had given him away?
‘I come from Hardt,’ he replied.
‘That’s just around the corner!’ For the first time, the Chief Superintendent’s expression brightened. ‘What a coincidence they sent you here.’
Yeah, thought Jan. What a coincidence. He crouched down beside the dead man, noting the whitish livor mortis on the knees, lower abdomen and wrists. After he was killed, the victim had initially been lying on his stomach. ‘He was already dead when he was dragged into the enclosure.’
Stüter nodded. ‘He’s definitely been moved. No surprises there. The rangers found a hole in the fence, and we identified drag marks from that point to here.’
‘Any footprints?’ asked Jan.
‘Wiped away somehow and covered with new snow. He didn’t want to make it easy for us.’
‘Even so, we’ve got to see everything. The dump site and mu
rder site are both at the heart of behavioural analysis,’ added Rabea. ‘Everything the killer did here, every decision, says something about him. About his impulses. His planning. Whether his violence is functional or compulsive.’
‘Don’t explain your job, just do it,’ grunted Stüter.
Ignoring him, Rabea gazed closely at the tattooed letter ‘A’. Jan followed her eyes. He didn’t know much about this form of body art. He’d never even seen the inside of a tattoo parlour, let alone ever considered getting one. Still, even he could tell the tattoo was amateurishly done, the lines shaky and blurred, the ink already faded in several places.
‘Looks like an amateur,’ he said.
Rabea looked up. ‘Or he wants to make it look that way.’
‘Good point.’ He smiled at her.
‘A tattoo is like thousands of tiny stab wounds,’ continued Rabea. ‘This is still damp, no healing. We’ll wait for the autopsy, but this looks post mortem.’
‘Much easier to work on a corpse, too,’ mused Jan. Was that the only reason? Or was the tattoo the final act in his process? A kind of signature?’
Shouts reached them from the back of the enclosure. Rabea pulled the tent flap aside. One of the bison was trotting towards a ranger, snorting, and only stopped at the last moment.
It was time they left.
Stüter was scratching his neck, stooping over as though hoping the solution to the case would fall out. ‘As I said, the dump site doesn’t give us much. Next to those beasts over there are the ranger and keeper who found the body. Maybe you’ll have more luck with them than we did. After all, you’re the psychologists so maybe you know a few tricks. If you’ll follow me!’
‘As long as we’re not going to be trampled to death,’ muttered Rabea, glancing at the bison. Then she whispered to Jan, ‘‘What does he mean, tricks? We’re not circus magicians!’
‘Just ignore him.’
With every step they took closer to the animals, the stench of wet hide and dung grew stronger. One of the bison noticed them and began snuffling and scratching with its hooves.
