Deep Pain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  VELOX BOOKS

  Published by arrangement with the author.

  Deep Pain copyright © 2021

  by Marcus Hünnebeck.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Originally published in German as So tief der Schmerz.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  November

  1

  Formerly a victim—today a perpetrator. Chief Inspector Ludger Krumm held a photo of their suspect, Franka Spannberg. Her case confirmed his theory. Evil is like a virus.

  Some people successfully fight evil when they sense it within themselves. They imagine robbing a kiosk, raping the neighbor, or killing the spouse, but they manage to resist their dark urges. Others do nothing to combat it, and at some point the disease overwhelms them. And then there are some, unfortunate people like Spannberg, who are forcibly infected with the virus. To defeat it, they must lock themselves up in lifelong quarantine.

  Krumm thought of his own sickness, triggered by pleading light-blue eyes. How much of the disease would have broken out in him, if not for…

  “What’re you doing to that poor photograph?” asked his partner, Bastian Dorfer, as he entered the office. “Trying to hypnotize it?”

  Krumm eyed the man. They had shared the room of the LKA, the State Criminal Police Office, in Hamburg for four years. Quite a few colleagues claimed that Krumm and Dorfer had become more and more alike over time, both externally and internally. Krumm disagreed. Although they both stood six foot one with dark-blond hair, he saw little similarity, aside from age. Krumm was thirty-seven, his partner thirty-nine. But the comparison ended there. Dorfer was married and had two school-age children, whom he liked to use as an excuse for coming into work late. Or for leaving early. Krumm, on the other hand, had no kids. He was always punctual. Admittedly, Dorfer and Krumm shared a fondness for jeans and leather jackets, but so did many plainclothes officers. This didn’t make them twins. No, Krumm guessed their perceived similarity had more to do with their friendship than anything else, a friendship that had only deepened over the years, despite their different lifestyles.

  Dorfer hung his leather jacket over the back of his chair. He stepped to Krumm’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Has hypnosis brought new insight?”

  “I feel sorry for her.”

  “Who, Spannberg?” Dorfer said. “She’s killed seven people.”

  “She didn’t choose this.”

  “Hmm. You’re not usually this understanding,” Dorfer said.

  Krumm took a sip of coffee. “Brutally raped for hours. Barely survives the riot. What does that do to a person?”

  Franka Spannberg had worked as a correctional psychologist in the toughest penitentiary in Hamburg, which was popularly called Santa Fu. When the inmates rebelled against a newly introduced measure by the prison warden, three murderers dragged Spannberg into a room and locked the door. In all the turmoil, the prison guards didn’t notice Spannberg missing for two hours. An additional two hours after that, they finally managed to free her.

  “A total of four hours,” Krumm said. “In the hands of three sexually starved criminals. That must have an effect.”

  Five years had passed since the riot. Then eighteen months ago, a 23-year-old man was killed with a stone on his way home from the club. Krumm and Dorfer had taken over the investigation. They had no witnesses, and, at first, no suspects. More killings followed, always with different murder weapons. If the perpetrator had not placed a dried rose petal on each body, the LKA would have taken longer to establish a connection.

  After the sixth murder, the detectives finally understood the criteria by which the perpetrator selected victims. All six vics had a relationship with one of the three rapists. The suspicion that Spannberg could be the murderer quickly arose—especially since the former correctional psychologist could not be found at her registered address. When she killed her seventh victim, the SOKO Rosenblatt, a special investigative team, finally began to analyze the relationship between the dead and the prison inmates. The further the series of murders progressed, the closer the bond between victim and inmate.

  Now, the LKA was certain they knew whom Spannberg would kill next. At the top of the list: seventeen-year-old Flo Werner, the only nephew of the third rapist.

  “I still think she has an accomplice,” Dorfer said, checking a stack of files on his desk.

  “She’s acting alone,” Krumm insisted. “We’ve reconstructed her life right up to the first murder. Not one potential accomplice. In fact, no real fixed relationship at all leading up to her assault.”

  “She couldn’t have done this alone,” Dorfer said. “The time it would take to track down and observe each victim before killing them. That takes time. It’s probably someone she met after the rape. But why help her? Who would do that?”

  “That’s the question,” Krumm said.

  Dorfer tapped the stack of folders on his desk. “You read the reports from the observation teams yet?”

  For several days, SOKO had been surveilling the apartment building in which the presumed next victim, Florian Werner, lived with his mother and father. Yesterday morning, Werner’s parents had left for a one-week vacation in Madeira, according to Mrs. Werner’s posts on social media. If Flo was next on the list, in the next few days the murderer would cross him off of it.

  Krumm looked at his watch. “No abnormalities last night. But I’m sure that’ll change today. The boy is at school until one o’clock. We’ll position ourselves in front of the high school at half past twelve and follow him home. After that, we just wait for Spannberg to show up.”

  Dorfer frowned. “One little mistake and the press will scalp us. Imagine we’re wrong and she strikes somewhere else. Or she gets past us somehow and kills Werner anyway.”

  Krumm shrugged. “You got a better plan?”

  2

  Florian Werner clicked his browser into incognito mode. Although he didn’t believe that his parents, or even Clara, would ever pry into his browsing history, he wanted to be certain.

  He opened the search engine and entered “tips for the first time.” The internet provided endless rabbit holes of information. Florian eagerly scrolled through the results. Clara would come to him in the late afternoon and even stay overnight. She had told her parents she was staying with her best friend, and Flo’s parents had just gone on vacation. Sometimes you just got lucky.

  Florian clicked into a few articles. Some of his classmates had bragged about their sexual experiences, but he didn’t know what to believe. Tips on the internet were more important to him. Especially those that dealt with the ideal sex position or the necessary preparations.

  His cell phone rang. Florian flinched, then grunted in annoyance when he saw who was calling.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  “Hello, Flo! You all right?”

  “Of course. Everything’s the same since last night.”

  His mother ignored the comment and asked if he had eaten, how was school, and what were his plans for Friday evening.

  “Game and chill,” he said. “Jonas, Marvin, and I will be hunting zombies online later. Don’t worry, wearing headphones so I don’t disturb the neighbors.”

  “Oh, child,” his mother said. “Can’t you do something more meaningful with your time?”

  Florian grinned. The truth probably would not have pleased her. “Hey, it’s very meaningful. In a zombie apocalyp
se, I’ll be well prepared. I’ll save us all.”

  They talked for a few more minutes until she finally warned him not to go to bed too late. Florian promised and wished her a nice evening. He put the cell phone aside and immersed himself in the search results again.

  An hour later, he turned off the computer. With a critical eye, he toured the rooms that Clara would see. His room, living room, bathroom, and kitchen. Everything looked nice and tidy.

  Under his bed—hidden and yet always at hand—Flo kept a glass bowl full of condoms. He grabbed one, took off his jeans, and lay down on the mattress. A little practice couldn’t hurt. Casually, he tore open the package, and in his imagination, Clara watched. She liked it. But then he experienced some technical difficulties rolling the rubber down, and he could feel Clara still watching him. Damn it. He had to get better at this.

  The doorbell rang. Clara had been here several times, so Flo didn’t have to give her directions through the intercom. She knew to come to the second floor.

  Florian waited in the doorway. Although the house had an elevator, Clara took the stairs. More private. She looked nervous exiting the stairwell, hiding under a ball cap and a fluffy coat.

  “Hi,” Florian said.

  “Oh, Flo, my parents will kill me if they find out.”

  “Come in quick before the neighbors see us.” They disappeared inside and closed the door. “Did you tell Lilly about this?” Florian asked.

  “Yes, she’s covering for me in case Mom calls at her place. She expects a detailed report in return.”

  Clara took off her cap. Fascinated, Flo watched her long blond hair spill out like spun gold. The two hugged each other. God, she smelled good. Like flowers.

  “I’m so excited,” she said.

  “Me too. We have the whole evening. Besides, nobody’s forcing us.” Florian had read on one of the websites that boys should be gentlemen. That’s exactly what he intended to be.

  “I’m so nervous,” Clara said. “But I can’t wait.” She stroked his face and kissed him. Sometimes, Florian thought, you just got lucky.

  3

  The apartment complex where Florian Werner lived with his parents was in many ways ideal for surveillance. It sat on a well-traveled road, where SOKO teams could set up at different locations. In addition, the building had a window front on each floor, through which they could watch the hallway.

  When a girl Florian’s age stopped at the front door and rang the bell, Dorfer had a bad feeling. The visitor entered the hallway and quickly ran upstairs. He concentrated on the second floor windows.

  “Shit!” Dorfer said. The girl had gone into the Werners’ apartment. Florian had greeted her. “Now the lives of two young people are in our hands.” He looked at Krumm.

  “Continue as planned,” Krumm decided.

  Dorfer shook his head. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “What do you think will happen? If Spannberg shows up, we’ll see her. She has to go through the hallway, and we’ve got guys covering the back as well. We can intervene at any time.”

  “There are now two teenagers in the apartment who—”

  “Who probably in the absence of their parents are having a very nice evening. We’ll get Spannberg before she can hurt them.”

  Dorfer rubbed his face. Unlike his partner, he did not like using two minors as decoys. But Krumm had been appointed head of SOKO Rosenblatt by the chief of police. He was responsible for the final decisions.

  “Let’s give the boy a heads-up,” Dorfer said. “Call him. We have his number. He could still be a decoy, but at least he wouldn’t be caught with his pants—”

  “No. Imagine we warn him, and a few minutes later the murderer contacts him on false pretenses. You think this kid’s some great actor? He’ll get scared. He’ll give himself away.”

  “Ludger, damn it, he’s seventeen!”

  “And Spannberg has brutally murdered seven people. This is how we stop her. Besides, we don’t know if she’ll strike tonight. Maybe she’ll try her luck next week, or the week after that. We’d ruin the kid’s night for nothing.”

  Dorfer shook his head. Krumm would never act so recklessly if he had children of his own. Unfortunately, Dorfer knew how stubborn his partner was, especially when he was in control. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Before Krumm could react, Dorfer left the surveillance vehicle, which looked like a white delivery van. He wanted to look around outside. Wanted to do something. If they were watching the area, he thought, maybe the murderer was watching as well. Maybe he could locate her.

  Immediately, the cold November day bit at his chest and turned his breath to steam. Dorfer pulled up his zipper and marched down the street, peering into every car, looking for anyone not part of the surveillance teams.

  Unexpectedly, he heard quick footsteps behind him.

  “Stand still!” Krumm said.

  “Why?”

  “You’re compromising the stakeout.”

  “Better than risking the lives of two minors,” Dorfer said, but stopped anyway. He knew Krumm was right, at least about this. He’d had the thought before, but had been too frustrated to admit all the implications: if SOKO was watching, the killer could be watching as well. Krumm was wrong about everything else though.

  “How many more deaths, Dorfer? You want to save lives? Florian is our golden ticket to finally end this.”

  “He’s seventeen!”

  “And if we’re right, a fourteen-year-old and a ten-year-old are next on the list.”

  The two friends stared each other down, exhaling steam.

  “Get back in the car,” Krumm said.

  4

  Till Buchinger hurried over to the weekly market. By his standards, he was late—at least on this cold November day. He didn’t mind the cold. Living in Hamburg, you quickly learn there is no bad weather, only the wrong clothing.

  Till had moved from the Rhineland to Hamburg twenty years ago, right after his time in the German Army. He moved there to study, and although he had dropped out of his studies after four semesters, his love for the Hanseatic city had not been washed away by the constant rain. Especially not after meeting Antje.

  From a few meters away he saw his florist absorbed in conversation with a pretty customer. The florist handed the woman a bouquet wrapped in paper and asked her to give her husband his best wishes. They said farewell, and the woman passed by Till, wearing a huge smile. Had this been conjured up by the bouquet, or the salesman?

  “Till!” said the florist happily.

  “Marco!”

  The two welcomed each other with a firm handshake.

  “Didn’t expect to see you again,” Marco said.

  “Had a new client earlier who fears her husband is bringing flowers to another woman.”

  Marco shook his head. “Job like yours, you must lose faith in love.”

  “Never,” Till said. “After all, I know there’s true love. Also, I had to tell the client that I’m not some classic detective who spies on unfaithful husbands. I sent her to someone else.”

  “Your job will remain a closed book to me,” Marco said. The florist turned to his merchandise and began to assemble a bouquet. Carefully, he selected different flowers. Till trusted him blindly. Marco knew what this bouquet was for.

  Briefly, Till thought about his own profession. Although he had started as a private detective, he quickly switched to personal investigation. He tracked down missing persons or helped people disappear. Tracing made up the largest part of his work.

  “What do you think of this?” Marco asked. “Wheat, rye grass, Scabiosa pods, white roses, bunny tail grass, and feathers.”

  Till admired the autumnal bouquet. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Are you going today or tomorrow?”

  “Already on my way to see her,” Till said.

  “The bouquet should last a few days despite the temperatures. Tomorrow it should be a bit warmer a
gain.”

  Marco offered the bouquet, and Till paid him.

  “Have a nice evening,” Marco said. “Don’t catch a cold from sitting out in the cold too long.”

  Till smiled. “I won’t be that long today. I’m meeting a good friend after.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, Till reached Antje’s grave. He placed the bouquet in an empty vase.

  “Hello, darling.”

  Since All Saints’ Day only a few days ago, a few candles still flickered on the graves, including Antje’s. Lanterns strategically placed by the cemetery provided soft, quiet light.

  Till sat down on a bench near his wife. Three plots away, he noticed a widow sweeping off her husband’s grave.

  “Hello, Mrs. Keller,” he said.

  She straightened up from her stooped position and steadied herself on her husband’s headstone, gripping its granite cross. “Mr. Buchinger!”

  “You’re late,” Till said.

  “I spent the last few days with my daughter and grandson in Bremen. And you? I didn’t expect to see you again at this hour.”

  “The job stopped me,” Till said.

  Mrs. Keller held up a finger. “I’ll be right with you,” she said, and then she bent again to spruce up the flowers in her husband’s in-ground vase.

  Till watched her, lost in thought. Her husband, Volker Keller, had died only three days after Antje seven years ago. But while Antje had only turned twenty-nine when breast cancer took her down, Volker and Gisela Keller had been able to spend half a lifetime together. Their marriage had produced two daughters and three grandchildren.

  Furtively, Till wiped his eyes. Most of all he regretted waiting too long to start a family. He couldn’t give sadness too much space in his life, though, so he focused on the beautiful memories. After all, fate had granted him eight years with the woman of his dreams, seven of them as her husband. Unconsciously, Till played with his wedding ring, still nestled there in the impression it made on his finger.