by Noah Fitz
“We don’t need one—danger ahead. Here, you drive.” He threw her the keys to his car.
Tine caught them. That was twice in a row now.
“Stop throwing things at me,” she said. “I’m getting tired of this shit.”
“Not exactly a subtle way to express one’s feelings, but descriptive. Come on, I know where his house is.”
“We don’t even need the car. It can’t be far if he works here as a janitor.”
“Do you think I should be walking the streets dressed like this?” Marc asked. “Halloween is long gone.”
Tine said nothing, but followed her colleague. Wulf was a psychopath.
“Sometimes I can’t stand myself.” He stopped in front of the passenger door. “You’re beginning to hate me, too,” he remarked, almost jokingly. He was still surrounded by an aura of tension.
Wordlessly, Tine went to the other side of the Audi.
“You know what I suspect?” he asked.
Tine fumbled the key into the door lock.
“We’re chasing the wrong guy.”
She looked up in amazement. The door lock clicked softly. “What makes you think that?”
“Just a hunch. In spite of these scratches I got, everything went too smoothly. Don’t you think?” A thin trickle of blood crawled down his forehead.
“But he ran away,” Tine said.
“That fact cannot be denied, you’ re right.”
“Isn’t the emotional indifference necessary to force children to commit suicide one of the characteristics of a serial killer? Those were your words, right? That serial killers are focused on meticulously planning their actions. That they very rarely act in the heat of the moment and are not guided by emotions. This guy, he even dared to hit on the girl’s mother because he wanted to feed off her pain. He fell in love with the child and possibly sexually harassed her—maybe that was the reason the girl threw herself in front of a car.”
“What girl are you talking about?” Wulf wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and smeared the blood trail. “Pia Holm?”
“Of course that’s who I’m talking about,” she said and climbed in. She leaned over and tugged at the metal pull pin on the passenger door with a pinched face. Finally, it snapped open.
Marc threw himself into the seat and gripped the oh-shit handle. “Drive,” he said. “We have no time to lose. Luckily, I have very little brain matter; otherwise, I’d probably have a concussion by now. Now don’t grin so stupidly, step on the gas. And, you should know, this is not an automatic.”
Chapter 36
The police officers were simply too fast. I did not expect that.
I have to think of something.
My head is filled with absorbent cotton.
The car bumps across the street.
My mission is almost accomplished.
Nothing keeps me in this city anymore.
I’m getting out of here.
Leaving everything behind me.
I try to tune out the unnecessary sensory impressions, the noise of wheels and passing vehicles. All my concentration is focused on just one idea that is slowly taking shape. I reach for words, forming short, precise sentences. Everything seems conclusive to me, except for one factor that I still have to eliminate.
Chapter 37
Berlin | Police Headquarters
Marc sat in his office and examined the evidence that had accumulated on his desk in the course of the investigation. Tine and Walter Bruckner, the giant from the forensics department, kept him company.
The search of Immanuel Kräuser’s apartment had not revealed much. A visit to the Holm family was also unsuccessful. The diary of Pia remained unfound.
Marc drummed his fingers on the desk. He sat back in his chair and thought about what they might have missed.
Bruckner leaned against the edge of the table, humming, his gaze directed at the pile of evidence. Tine stood at the cork board and drew connections between individual photographs using colorful yarns; each color had a different meaning.
“Pride?” Marc looked at Tine, who was tying a knot.
“Yeah?” She didn’t turn around.
“When can we interview this Peer?”
“His condition is not critical, but he’s still in shock. He can’t remember anything.”
Marc nodded, remembering what Luck had told him: “I want to be like Peer. He lasted a whole five seconds. That’s a new record.” His left hand cramped up.
“Five seconds,” he murmured.
“What?” Walter Bruckner threw a questioning glance at him.
A groan wrenched its way up Marc’s throat. His head still hurt. “How long can a person survive when they’re holding a live wire? I’m talking about a normal electrical outlet.”
“I don’t know,” Brucker said. “With 230 volts and an alternating current, maybe two, three seconds? But normally, you jerk away immediately from the power source.” Bruckner picked up one of the bags with the colored wires.
“And you say they were all stripped with a carpet knife?” Marc got up and went to Tine.
She pinned another photo to the wall and connected it with a blue thread to two others.
Marc came a little closer, focusing on one of the photos. “Who does that hand belong to?” he asked.
“Peer,” Tine said. “The burns were caused when he had to undergo one of the tests. But he evades all questions and refuses to comment about the game.”
Marc turned to Bruckner. “Were there any burned skin fragments or the like found on the wires?”
“Not as far as I know. But it’s in the files. Should l… ?”
“No need. The burns are simply too wide for a wire. Looks more like a soldering iron. Is there any video footage of these challenges, or… tests? What did the test show? Were all the students who wore the ribbons interviewed?”
“The video was streamed live and couldn’t be saved. And, yes, the students were all interviewed.”
Marc took a look at the photos. Dead children. Damn. “We have one equation with too many unknowns.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But can’t you film the video with another cell phone?”
Fine wrinkles around Tine’s mouth indicated that the idea amused her. “Livestream means…”
“I know what a live broadcast means,” Marc said with a bit more force than he intended.
“I get it,” said Tine and cut the thread. “We’ll have to search the internet for it.”
Marc paced. “Were the wires checked for conductivity?”
Bruckner held one of the bags up to the light. “I strongly suspect they were.”
“That’s not the answer I was hoping for. Maybe Peer tricked everyone. Five seconds is impossible. When I was hanging on the ladder, I thought my whole body would be torn to pieces if the rung hadn’t given way on me. And that wasn’t even three seconds. You take the stuff and examine it personally. I need the results today.”
The forensics expert seemed annoyed. “As you wish. I’ll get right on it.” He shook his head.
“You, Pride, go to the hospital and question the boy. I want to know where this burn came from. Also, does Mr. Holm have a watertight alibi for all the crimes?”
Tine leafed through her notebook. “Not for everyone.”
“Put him through the wringer again, but don’t be too harsh with him. Carrot and stick. Before his daughter’s accident he was an electrician and had a store. We didn’t even have it noted until now.”
Tine nodded and quickly wrote something down.
“Before you leave, Mr. Bruckner.” Marc snapped his fingers.
The tall man was already standing in the doorway with three evidence bags in his hands.
“Do the cut-offs on the bridge railing match the angle grinder that we secured in the workshop?”
“Yes, the abrasion of the cutting disk had the same chemical composition as the dust residue on the object itsel
f. The release agent was also identical.”
“Good. So the tools were from the shop.” Marc’s phone rang. He took it out of his pocket. “Wulf.”
“We got the guy,” an officer said, panting into the mouthpiece of his phone.
“Krause? Where? Where is he?”
“In the hospital. He, uh, has a hostage. He claims he’s innocent. He wants to talk to you about everything.”
Chapter 38
Berlin | Hospital
Immanuel’s left forearm burned. When he escaped the workshop, he had received a slash from the window glass. The wound had become infected. The fever continued to rise and boiled thick beads of sweat from his forehead.
The idea of going to the hospital was born out of desperation. He was very aware of the danger of being caught by the police. Eleonora had crossed his path on her way to the emergency room. He understood the chance encounter to be divine providence. Without a second thought, he had simply grabbed her and pressed the jackknife he always carried with him against her throat.
He had been standing there for half an hour waiting for a reporter. But instead of a camera team, Inspector Wulf showed up, accompanied by his young colleague.
On his police bullhorn, Marc barked short instructions. “Let’s talk about your demands, Mr. Kräuser, but elsewhere. Be reasonable and let Mrs. Holm go.” The atmospheric noise of the broadcast echoed off the bare walls.
“I have no demands,” Immanuel said. “I want to make a confession.” His knees kept buckling. Only with great difficulty did he stay on his feet. He stank of sweat and rotting flesh, and his left arm shook incessantly. Hot tears robbed him of much of his sight. “I touched a little girl inappropriately,” he said, then sobbed. “Three years ago. Her name was Pia Holm. But I neither killed her nor forced her to commit suicide.”
“You pig!” Eleonora yelled, but she didn’t struggle against him, didn’t dare shift under the sharp knife.
“I didn’t kill your daughter. And my feelings for you were genuine. I’m really sorry. But I have… I’ve done nothing else wrong,” he said.
Wulf spoke again into the megaphone. “Please let the woman go. I can understand what you’re saying, but please let us talk reasonably. I’m sure the matter can be resolved.” The dark-haired policeman raised his hands in reassurance. He wore a black leather coat and seemed calm despite the precarious situation.
“I can’t do that!” cried Immanuel and suddenly he stabbed twice with the knife. His fingers cramped up and became wet with warm, sticky blood. His legs gave way underneath him. Since his back was against the wall, he slipped to the ground and pulled Eleonora with him. She thrashed uncontrollably. She hit his nose so violently with the back of her head that suddenly everything around him faded into a murky watercolor. He could hardly breathe.
“Quick! We need support!” someone shouted.
Immanuel increased the pressure on Eleonora’s neck. The sweet metallic taste of blood on his lips made him ill. Strong hands reached for his arm. A shoe squeezed the fingers that held the knife. He heard bones breaking… or was it all in his imagination?
“Let me go!” he said. A shadow appeared before him, grabbed him roughly by the collar, and pulled him up. He began to choke. “I haven’t done anything,” he said, panting. “I’m innocent.”
Chapter 39
I sit on a chair in a bright room. A young woman, accompanied by a man in a black leather coat, take a seat. On the big table are wires, a carpet knife, and pliers. My lawyer, whom I would have gladly waived, is standing at the window.
“How are you?” The guy tries to start a harmless conversation. His eyes gaze at me vividly. He pays no attention to the lawyer.
“Under the circumstances…” I remain reticent.
“Could you please strip the sheathing from the cable?” the man asks, still friendly. He has two fresh scars on his face.
I reach for the carpet knife and start to push out the blade when I realize I have made a fatal mistake. He acknowledges my assumption with a smirk. Quickly my thumb shoves the button forward. Without looking, I slash the cutter over my carotid artery. I feel the pressure against my throat, but the expected pain does not flood me. They have removed the razor blade.
“We took all the security precautions we deemed necessary,” the cop says. “We didn’t expect such an action, but obviously our decision paid off. Why didn’t you use the pliers, which are specifically designed for that purpose?”
“Too much trouble,” I lie.
“Well, well,” he says and takes two wires in his hand. His gaze rests on the knife for a while.
I turn the bladeless shaft between my fingers.
The policeman tilts his head. “Only you knew about the remote control that automatically opens the entrance to the bunker.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“I think it is,” he says and bends down deeply.
At the door are two uniformed cops that watch my every move. In the corner to my left, a little light is flashing.
“In spite of your age, you’re very familiar with computers and programs. And I don’t mean Tetris or Super Mario.”
His young colleague has correctly interpreted my gaze and looks over her shoulder fleetingly up to the camera. “You probably could have manipulated them,” she calmly observes.
The cop straightens up again. His name is Wulf, he said, and that’s how he looks, like a lurking wolf. He places the end of an extension cord in the middle of the table. The cord snakes across the floor and ends in a socket, right under the sink. “How often did you spend time in the workshop?”
“Why do you want to know?”
The policewoman looks up from her notepad. From my seat I cannot see what she’s writing down. The shirt collar is squeezing the air out of me. I sweat and want to throw up.
“You know that Mr. Kräuser works there as a janitor.”
I decide to remain silent. The man inserts the ends of the two wires into the round openings of one of the sockets. Like two antennas they rise into the air.
I wait for a crackle or a spark.
“This was one of the trials, wasn’t it? The children were forced to take their own lives.” He looks at his colleague and nods. She takes out a smartphone and puts it on the table in front of me.
“We got it from Turkey. Exclusively for you. I have never been so grateful to my son for lying to me.” The cop just can’t seem to help himself. His gloating grin wears me down.
“Five seconds. A new record. How is that possible?” he asks and starts a video. At the same time, he reaches for the colored cables with his right hand and clamps the stripped wires between thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t flinch.
The screams in the video end abruptly. “Somebody’s been playing with marked cards. Pretty unfair, don’t you think? Was that your idea?”
He’d found out, but how? I rub my left hand over my right fist.
“Why did you kill innocent children?”
I keep quiet.
Wulf gets up and goes to the door. He talks to one of the uniforms and comes back.
“I’m all ears,” he says. He pulls out the recorder, a small digital device I hadn’t noticed before.
I close my eyes and push my head deep into my neck. I hear myself whispering. I drag the memory before my mental eye. I hear voices. Birds chirping. The warm wind playing with the leaves. The treetops rustle and sway gently, but only at the tips. I smell the summer evening. The blue sky shines over the city. Behind the houses the sun colors the cloudless firmament yellow.
The voices become louder. One comes from above. It belongs to Mrs. Kaminski. With a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she leans far out the window and yells at her children. “Margret! Bernd! You should get in here, or this shitty food will get cold.” The family would move out later. Mr. Kaminski had been assigned to a new office.
Behind my lids everything becomes real again. I become an observer
.
Chapter 40
Three years ago
Pia was sitting on the bench. A heavy book lay in her lap, but instead of reading, she hung on to her thoughts.
“Pia? I’m really sorry.”
She froze.
Immanuel took a seat next to her. She had not even noticed his approach.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
His eyes looked tired. A pressured look lay in them, and something else. They were gray, like the water in the river, and just as mysterious. Pia felt she was sinking into them.
“Are you still mad at me?”
A defiant expression crept over her face. “I’m going to tell my mom about this.”
“But it was nothing.” He tried to placate her. “I behaved like a pig. It will never happen again. You’re just…” He hesitated and looked around hastily.
Pia kneaded her fingers.
“Please, keep it to yourself,” he said. “I’m moving out of here. I’ve found a new job.”
“Because of me?” Pia couldn’t really name the feeling that the news triggered in her. “Are you letting your hair grow?” She changed the subject, embarrassed.
“I’ve stopped shaving,” he said. “I can’t bear the sight of my face in the mirror.” He smiled in a melancholy way.
Pia was in love with him. She felt the timid flutter deep inside her. But she also knew what she felt for him was wrong.
“You’ll go away and never come back?”
“Yes. Do you forgive me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“Not yet.” Just written it down, but she kept that to herself.
“Thank you.”
“Can I write to you?” The question just slipped through her chapped lips.
“If you wish. It would make me very happy,” he said.
Pia looked at the ground, slightly ashamed. “Maybe we can be friends when I grow up.” She couldn’t believe her ears. What she had said, she didn’t even want to think about. “But just maybe,” she added hastily.
