Mark of Cain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  A scant hour later, Katharina was standing in the shower. She had missed the time she’d set for herself by only a few seconds, but she was still happy with her run. But now the unrelenting memories were fighting their way back to the surface. She imagined the water from the showerhead turning into thick raindrops hammering at a car roof. Feeling weak now, she sank into a crouch. Yes, the rain had been heavy that night. Tears ran down her face with the water. She would give anything to switch places with Julius. Sometimes nothing seemed worse than being the one remaining, the one who still agonized over the question of whether what happened had really been an accident or whether there was some horrid notion of revenge behind it all.

  Michaela, anxious, looked at the clock on the wall. “Are you definitely sure Klaus left your place two hours ago?”

  Klaus had only wanted to stop by Sandra’s quickly, to make sure everything was all right. Now he was long overdue. So Michaela couldn’t help calling her friend, even though she didn’t want to act like a nervous wreck.

  “I’m certain.” Sandra’s voice sounded calm. “Don’t worry about it. He’s sure to be there any minute.”

  Michaela heard the apartment door open that very second, to her relief. “He’s here. Thank God.” She hung up without even saying good-bye.

  Klaus came into the living room and brushed her cheek with a quick kiss. All her anxiety over him disintegrated into a flood of tears.

  “I was waiting so long. Where were you?” she sobbed.

  He took her in his arms, calming her. “At Sandra’s. You knew that.”

  “I was just on the phone with her. You left her place two hours ago. I thought maybe those fucking cops arrested you.”

  “The cops have nothing on us. I promise. I was driving around, just trying to get my thoughts together, and I forgot the time.”

  Nestled snuggly against Klaus’s shoulder, Michaela wanted to believe that nothing would happen to them. But she also worried it was a big mistake to sic Klaus on Blum.

  Katharina emptied the bottle with one last swig and set it down with the others on the laminate floor. Her supply was out now, but the buzz she’d been seeking eluded her. Resigned, she stood at the living room window, her eyes immediately resting on her car. It wielded such a tremendous pull on her. She knew the exact spot where the accident had happened. A part of her wanted to get in the car and drive right over there, to bring closure to it all. Instead of giving in to the need, she turned away from the window and went into her bedroom. She grabbed her laptop and threw herself onto her bed, settling in for some important research. Katharina Googled the prostitute killer’s name and found plenty of details about the case—much of it, it seemed, came straight out of Blum’s book.

  6

  The following afternoon Katharina visited the prison where five-time murderer Markus Glasch was serving a life sentence with added preventive detention.

  She waited for the inmate to be brought to her, in a stark room furnished with only a table and two chairs. She looked out the window into the penitentiary’s inner courtyard. The desolate, asphalted area was vacant; apparently no inmates were allowed to exercise in the yard just now.

  When the door opened behind her, she turned around. A guard led in Glasch and directed him to one of the chairs. Since he was considered violent his hands and feet were bound, which Katharina found thoroughly appropriate. For one thing, she’d been required to give up her duty pistol upon entering the prison; for another, his helplessness gave her a psychological advantage.

  “I should remain here with you,” the prison guard said after chaining the prisoner to one of the chair legs, which were screwed to the floor.

  “No. Wait outside, please. I’ll call for you when I’m finished.”

  The guard couldn’t hide his wariness. He probably doubted she could manage a dangerous criminal like this. Finally, he just shrugged and left the room.

  Katharina focused her attention on Glasch. His appearance demonstrated the propensity for violence that had characterized his life for so many years and ultimately came to a head with the five murders. He was at least six foot two and quite muscular. A finger-length scar, acquired in a knife fight, disfigured his neck. His nose looked as if it had been broken and never healed right. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue prison shirt, letting her see his many tattoos.

  “I’m Chief Criminal Detective Katharina Rosenberg,” she began. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

  Glasch raised his eyebrows high, faking surprise. “Actually, I don’t know,” he replied, smirking. “Let me guess. You are sexually frustrated and want to propose we get married? In that case, you’ll have to get in line with the rest of my suitors. See, over the last few years I’ve gotten plenty of blatant offers from women. They write letters to me. So, you get off on tough guys like those other bitches, is that it?”

  His words revealed a measure of intelligence that was in direct contrast to his oafish looks.

  “Let’s stop with the games.” Katharina stepped away from the window and came over to the table. She did not plan on sitting down in the other chair, since the prisoner would only be looking down on her. She stood behind the chair instead, planting her hands on its back. This way he’d be forced to keep looking up at her.

  “In the courtroom, when you got convicted, you shot up and swore to Officer Blum that one day he was going to croak just like those prostitutes,” she said. “So now I’m wondering: How did you manage to finally pull it off?”

  “Blum is dead?” Glasch countered with a revolted sneer. “And you seriously think I had something to do with it? Even though I’m watched here twenty-four hours a day? I’m sorry to say it, but they don’t just hand me a nighttime pass to go outside and satisfy my need for revenge when I feel like it. I don’t feel like it anymore anyway. You see, I’ve become as meek as a newborn lambkin.

  “Besides,” Glasch continued, “I came to realize something reading Blum’s shitty book—he wasn’t the driving force behind my arrest, not at all. No, the one really behind it was that criminal psychologist, Moll.”

  Katharina, startled inside, stared blankly at Glasch. His tone had turned more aggressive with that last sentence. Had she just imagined it, or did his words amount to a threat against his criminal profiler?

  “If anything, I’d take my revenge out on this Moll,” Glasch confirmed, but calmer now, sounding ironically like the model prisoner again. “But, I don’t really give it much thought.”

  “Meek as a lambkin,” Katharina spat.

  “You said it.”

  “What if I went and spoke to your wife and your son about it? Family members, they often bend under pressure.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Glasch whispered. In a flash, his face had contorted with hate. “You make any trouble for my family, you will regret it.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Glasch’s rage waned again, in the span of a second. “Did I hear your name right?” he asked, wrinkling his brow. “Rosenberg, right? Hey, you know what? We had a good old time here yesterday at dinner. News of a murdered pig, it makes its way through these walls fast. So once I heard the wonderful news, I got a little song going. The one about the ten fucking little piggies. My friends joined in, each coming up with a verse to add, at least they did before the guards butted in. But until then, we were amusing ourselves just splendidly. Your name came up by the way, Frau Rosenberg. The way you got whacked? It had, now let me see, something to do with your wet pussy and a stiff billy club with spikes all over.” He burst into howls of laughter.

  Fifteen minutes later, Katharina was sitting across from the prison warden in his office. On his tidy desktop was a plate with slices of raspberry tart. Behind him stood a white file cabinet. Two diplomas and photos of him with high-ranking politicians hung on the yellow-painted walls.

  “Dig in,” he urged her. “My secretary jus
t baked it. Unfortunately, I’ll have to hold off a little.” He emphasized his assertion with a pat on his portly belly.

  Katharina was glad to take him up on the offer. As she ate, he described yesterday’s despicable events in the dining hall.

  “How is it possible,” she asked him, “that inmates heard about Officer Blum’s murder so quickly?”

  The warden handed her a red napkin. “Well, either by way of daytime visitors or through one of our officers here. I can’t rule that out, unfortunately. The guards are people after all. A certain connection gets made, typically one of mutual respect, between several of them and some inmates. So info like that makes the rounds fast. Ah well. At least we got that situation under control quickly.”

  “Has Glasch ever been known to utter threats against Blum from inside here?”

  “Nothing like that has ever reached me.”

  “Or against Moll, the criminal psychologist?”

  The warden shook his head. “You know the way it works, Detective. In court, once they’re sentenced, they’re livid and they utter one final curse, and that’s it. If you ask me, you don’t need to bother with this Glasch lead any longer.”

  Katharina kept probing anyway. “Does Glasch get visits from his family much?”

  “Once or twice a month. Nothing unusual has occurred there. I would know about that.”

  “Has Glasch had any especially close relationships with any of the prisoners?”

  She saw that the warden wanted to say no but paused suddenly.

  “Why didn’t I think of that right away?” he mumbled, looking ashamed.

  “Think of what?”

  “Patrick Albrecht. Just a sec.”

  Turning in his swivel chair, the hefty warden pulled open a drawer in his file cabinet. He located the right file after a little searching, then laid it on the desk and flipped it open. Right on top was a photo of a man of about forty.

  “Patrick Albrecht, convicted of robbery, manslaughter, ten-year sentence. He struggled for a long time, because he was being sexually assaulted by an inmate—until Glasch was assigned to the cell next to him, that is. The two became friends, and Glasch evolved into Albrecht’s protector. One time, Glasch and a prisoner by the name of Pfützenreuther came to blows. Apparently it had to do with Albrecht. Pfützenreuther ended up in the infirmary for fourteen days.”

  “Can I talk to Albrecht?”

  “That’s just it. He was released, two weeks ago.”

  7

  Katharina headed back to headquarters hoping to contact former inmate Albrecht as fast as possible. According to prison records, Albrecht had been living with his brother, Thomas, after his release. But since Albrecht had served his sentence in full, he had fewer constraints imposed on him than an ongoing parolee. Making contact might not turn out so easy.

  As she reached the third floor and their open-plan office, scraps of rapid conversation and the clacking of keyboards rushed at her. A smile flitted across her lips. She always felt good amid all this background noise, since things could never be hectic enough around her. She would never trade this seemingly chaotic open setup for a two-man cube, where she’d be tempted to brood about her life in all that quiet.

  Once at her desk, she realized Frank hadn’t started work yet. She’d counted on going over her visit to Glasch with him. Disappointed, she sat down, flipped open the Albrecht file, and dialed his brother’s cell phone number.

  It rang four times. “Yeah?” the man answered in a crabby voice.

  “Is there an Herr Thomas Albrecht there?”

  “What is it?” the brother barked.

  “My name’s Katharina Rosenberg. I’m a police detective with—”

  “You wanna talk to Patrick?” he said, cutting her off.

  “That’s right.”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “According to the records I have here in front of me—”

  “He holed up at my place for a week, then we got in a fight and I kicked him out. No clue where he is. You should just cross off my number.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  “It was family stuff that doesn’t involve you at all,” he said, clearly wanting to get rid of her. “Plus I gotta go. My boss just saw me.” With that, he hung up without saying good-bye.

  Frustrated, she set down the receiver. Finding this Patrick Albrecht would be a tricky proposition, as she suspected. There were shelters and halfway houses for ex-inmates, of course, but it wasn’t certain that he would actually show up at one.

  She saw Daniel Schult strutting over to her desk, full of purpose. He was holding a folder up like a trophy. “Your body language tells me you hit a dead end,” he said.

  “We shall see,” she replied grimly.

  “Don’t worry about it. Just look to me for the big leads.” He handed her the folder and gloated.

  Katharina opened it and saw a photo of a pretty woman, late twenties. “Who’s this?”

  “Michelle. At least that’s what her johns call her. Her actual name is Michaela Meier. I’d bet my next check she’s the one Matthias entered in his calendar with the abbreviation ‘M.’ When Matthias was investigating his prostitute serial killer, he got to know two pros with steady clients. This Michelle right here, and a hooker with the stage name of Saskia.”

  Daniel flipped through the pages and showed her a picture of a somewhat older woman.

  “Saskia, alias Sandra Bürgel. The testimony she gave was decisive in clinching the case.”

  “Now wait a sec,” Katharina argued. “Don’t forget the role our criminal profiler played in solving it. Moll. Even Markus Glasch remembered him.”

  “Why waste your time on an incarcerated murderer? There’s no way he’s responsible for Matthias. These two prostitutes had each identified a license plate that helped us focus on one of Moll’s suspects. There’s more. Vice squad was a big help getting me these photos, but they also tell me that Saskia and Michelle parted with their pimp a few weeks after the case was over.” He turned to the next page. “This here’s their former pimp and ‘protector’—Klaus Matisek. According to vice, he never gave them trouble after they left him, not once. Our colleagues don’t know who the new pimp is, though.”

  Katharina guessed where Daniel was going with this. “Prostitutes don’t just break it off with their pimps—except when they start turning tricks for a stronger one.”

  “Which is something vice usually has on record,” Daniel pointed out. “But they don’t.”

  Considering their new info, her lead on the former inmate was losing importance fast. She would have to bother with Albrecht later.

  “Think about those regular deposits into Matthias’s account,” she continued. “If he was going about this cleverly, he’d be cashing his take from the girls in a way that didn’t arouse suspicions from vice squad.”

  Daniel nodded. “And, no pimp in his right mind would ever take on a cop.”

  “So what if this Matisek was simply waiting it out, till he could get revenge?” she went on.

  “Or, Matthias got too greedy and wanted another one of Matisek’s pretty little ponies for his stable.”

  “I think you’re right. Maybe there is some new reason. We should talk to these women right away. You have their addresses?”

  “Sure do.”

  Katharina jumped to her feet, glancing at the wall clock. She recalled that Frank mentioned having a dental appointment this morning. But this new lead was too promising for her to wait for her partner.

  “Well, time to roll.” She looked at Daniel. “You want to come with?”

  “To go see a couple of pretty professionals? Anytime.”

  The building’s front door was standing open. Katharina stopped to scan the names listed on the doorbell system. She saw that Michaela lived on the third floor, to the left.
While watching from the street, Katharina had seen someone moving in the window of that very apartment. She and Daniel headed in. The entryway had a fake lemony aroma and some of the stairs were shining wet. The two detectives reached an apartment door with the name Meier on it. Katharina rang the bell as Daniel stayed well in the background. Nothing happened. She rang a second time, then knocked hard on the door.

  “Frau Meier!” she shouted. “Open up, please. I know you’re there. I saw you in the window.”

  As she went to knock again, the door opened a crack. It was dark out in the hallway, so Katharina couldn’t clearly see the person facing her. She showed her police ID, which made the door open farther and brought more light on the woman’s face. Katharina saw the black eye and slashes across her cheek.

  “Oh God,” she said, sympathizing. “What happened to you?”

  Michaela shook her head. “Who are you and what do you want from me?” she answered.

  “I’m Chief Criminal Detective Rosenberg. I’m investigating Matthias Blum’s murder. Would you let us come in a moment?”

  The woman’s eyes widened in fear and she slapped a hand over her mouth. As she took a stunned step back, Katharina and Daniel took the opportunity to enter the apartment. Daniel quickly shut the door behind him.

  “Why come here?” Michaela asked, her voice shaky.