by Bill Granger
“Why?”
“Will you come with us?” It was Matt Schmidt’s mild voice.
“So many policemen to ask questions,” said Bremenhoffer. He turned and looked at them all. “It must be important.”
“That’s the thing about murder,” said Terry Flynn.
Bremenhoffer sighed and looked at Flynn. “People get killed every day. You cannot catch the killers. I read about that old man who ran the grocery on the South Side, the one you had to let his killers go free. And they were schwartzes. You knew who killed him, and you could not keep the killers. What makes you so certain you want to catch the killer of this woman you name?”
“Because we have to,” said Matt Schmidt softly. “Will you come with us for a little while? We need your help.”
He smiled then. His teeth were strong and even, and the smile was like the snarl caught by the freeze-frame.
“Okay, policeman. Maybe I am not that tired. I will help you catch the man who killed this woman you name.”
“Your daughter,” said Matt Schmidt.
“If you insist,” said Frank Bremenhoffer. “We will call her that for now.”
17
Frank Bremenhoffer sat in a straight chair next to the table in the white-walled windowless interview room. The room was off the squad room at Area One Homicide in central police headquarters downtown. Bremenhoffer and Matthew Schmidt had waited there for Jack Donovan’s arrival. At one point Matt Schmidt had offered Bremenhoffer coffee, but he had declined.
It was nearly ten A.M. before Donovan arrived at the building. By this time they had taken Frank Bremenhoffer to the morgue on the West Side, and he had identified Bonni Brighton as Mathilde Bremenhoffer. He had shown no emotion other than distaste for the corpse.
When Donovan and Flynn entered the interview room at ten thirty-five A.M., Flynn took a position against the back wall and stared at Bremenhoffer. Donovan sat down and began his questions. “Your daughter was killed shortly after eleven A.M. yesterday morning in the Ajax Theater in the Loop.”
Bremenhoffer stared at him. His large hands rested casually on the tabletop. He had hung his gray jacket behind the chair on which he sat. The jacket was damp; it had started to rain a little after nine A.M., when they returned from the morgue.
“Did you see who killed her?”
“How could I?”
Donovan looked at Flynn. Flynn stared at Bremenhoffer.
“We thought you might have seen who killed her.”
“Really?” He began to smile.
“You were in the theater,” said Flynn.
“Really?”
“Really,” said Donovan. “We’re setting up the film so you can see yourself. Coming out of the theater. You’ll see yourself positively and clearly. You were the second man through the door at the back of the theater right after your daughter was stabbed to death.”
“I wish you’d do something for me.”
“What?”
“Stop calling that whore Bonni Brighton my daughter. My daughter was Mathilde Bremenhoffer and she ran away seven years ago and I just saw her body in the morgue.”
Donovan stared at Flynn, but Flynn continued to look at Bremenhoffer.
Bremenhoffer smiled at Donovan. “I’m not crazy, you know. I realize that the woman who was killed in that theater—that whore—was once Mathilde but she chose to be Bonni Brighton and chose not to become my daughter anymore. So she is not my daughter. That is free choice, isn’t it? It is her choice and it is mine.”
Donovan waited.
“It is like this. I am sorry to hear this woman—this whore, even—got killed. I’m sorry about it the way I’m sorry when I read in the paper that a boat full of goddamn Pakistanis or Indians got drowned somewhere. It’s too bad, but it won’t give me indigestion.”
“This happened a little closer to home. Your daughter was in the theater, and you saw her killed.”
“I didn’t know what happened.”
Flynn moved from the wall to the table. He put his hands on the table and leaned toward Bremenhoffer. “Why don’t we cut the crap? You were in the movie house and you know goddamn well that your daughter was murdered there. You came out the same goddamn aisle where she was sitting. If you didn’t see it, you need a guide dog.”
“I didn’t know what happened,” Bremenhoffer said.
“Why did you run out?”
“I heard screaming. Why did anyone run out? I thought the theater was on fire.”
“Bullshit,” said Flynn.
“Really,” said Bremenhoffer mildly.
“When your daughter was murdered, it was in all the papers all day yesterday and this morning. Why didn’t you come forward?”
“I try not to read the newspapers. I’m a printer and I know what newspapers are.”
“Or on television.”
“I work the overnight shift, eleven to seven. When the hell do you think I would find the time or energy to watch television? Do you think all the people in this goddamn country have time to watch television all day like zombies? Some of us are still alive. I did not know about this person who is dead. I know it now. And I told you I am sorry to hear about the death. It is too bad.”
“Why were you in the theater?”
“I was invited.”
Donovan glanced at Flynn. “What?”
“I was invited.” Bremenhoffer looked at his large hands on the table. “Bonni Brighton sent me an invitation. So I went. I got off work and I went to the theater. I had breakfast first at the drugstore and then I went.”
“She sent you an invitation?”
“Sure. It was probably her idea of a joke. She had very strange ideas. I think she might have been mentally ill. I thought that even when she was still my daughter.”
“If you didn’t want to see your daughter any more, why did you go to the theater?”
Bremenhoffer looked at Donovan steadily. “Curiosity.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was curious to see what my former daughter had become. I knew she was a whore, of course. I wouldn’t go across the street to see a whore. Besides, she had been a whore when she was at home. But I admit I was curious to see how you make money as a whore these days, so much money that you can get people to write about you.”
“You knew your daughter was a film actress.”
Bremenhoffer snorted and seemed to laugh. “Really, Mr. Donovan, are you so naïve? I told you. I knew she was a whore. She sent us money once. I tried to send it back.”
Donovan did not speak. He stared across the table at the powerful man. He imagined Maj Kirsten’s body. Her eyes had been open in death. He stared at Bremenhoffer’s fingers. They rested silently on the table, almost contentedly.
“Who do you think could have killed her?”
“Who? Bonni Brighton? Anyone. She was a whore. Whores die. Who cares? Maybe it was one of her lovers. Or one of the women in the film. I suppose they were her lovers too.”
“The ones she made love to?” asked Flynn.
“Love?” Bremenhoffer turned in his chair to look at Flynn. There was a trace of a smile on his thin lips. “You call that love? That dirty thing that they do? You are a sick man, Mr. Flynn, I can tell you. You should have more control of yourself.”
“Do you think that someone she knew killed her?”
Bremenhoffer stared. He did not blink. “Sure. That’s possible, isn’t it? Most murders are like that, aren’t they? Committed by someone who knows the person who is murdered?”
Was it time to warn him of his rights? Donovan sat for a moment in silence. Was Frank Bremenhoffer getting ready to confess? It was a tricky judgment. He had to be warned of his rights before the confession started. He glanced at Flynn who shrugged. The same thought was in both of their minds.
Donovan felt trapped because now he knew Frank Bremenhoffer was the killer.
Donovan got up from the table, went to the door, and entered the squad room. Flynn waited in the interview room
with Bremenhoffer.
“Where’s Karen?” Donovan asked Matt Schmidt.
“I sent her home.”
“Why?”
“She looked tired.”
“Come on, Matt.”
“I didn’t want her in on the interview. Not now. Maybe later. I don’t think Frank Bremenhoffer is going to go all weepy on us and tell us he killed those women. I think we’re going to have to interview him again. And maybe again. And I want to save Karen.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No. She wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“She looks like the murdered women. Maybe we can use her, one on one with him. Once we get a reading of him, what’s likely to set him off.”
Donovan shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like anything will set him off.”
“I know. I talked to him a while alone before you and Terry went after him.”
“He’s insane,” said Jack Donovan.
Schmidt nodded.
Donovan reentered the room with Matt Schmidt.
Bremenhoffer looked up and smiled at them as though he were welcoming them into his home.
“Where do you usually go in the mornings?” Flynn asked.
“What?”
“After work. Where do you go?”
“I go home. I go to sleep.”
“But not all the time.”
Frank Bremenhoffer smiled. “Sure. All the time.”
“Not yesterday,” said Matt Schmidt.
“No, not yesterday.” He seemed to like the new line of questions. He leaned back in his chair. “No, not yesterday and maybe not all the time. I do other things. Sometimes I go to the Art Institute.”
He looked at them, but they did not react.
“Sometimes I go to the movies. I like movies.”
“You don’t take your wife?”
“No. She doesn’t like movies.”
“What kind of movies do you go to?”
“Every kind. I’m a printer. I get tired of reading, on the job and off the job. So I go to a movie. Germany had the best movies before the war. Remember the Clark Theater downtown? They would show the old movies. It was a good place. It’s too bad they tore it down. Did you ever hear of Fritz Lang?”
“Yes,” said Jack Donovan.
“Marvelous. And now I go to the Hitchcock movies when they appear. Also Bergman. He’s a favorite of mine. Did you see Fritz Lang’s great movie, M?”
“Yes,” Donovan said.
“Really? You surprise me, Mr. Donovan. Maybe you are a student of film and not just a dumb cop.”
Flynn bristled visibly, but Schmidt stared him back to a semblance of calm.
“Maybe you are a student of film,” continued Bremenhoffer.
“Are you?”
“No. I don’t think so. I enjoy movies and I remember them. In M you remember that Peter Lorre is finally caught and convicted by a jury of his criminal peers from the underworld?”
“Yes. For molesting and murdering children,” said Donovan.
Bremenhoffer nodded. “Ja.” It was the first German word he had spoken. “That is realistic and romantic at the same time. Fritz Lang is a master. Do you remember when the child’s ball is seen, merely rolling away, and we know that Lorre has murdered the child we saw playing with the ball? Perhaps you don’t remember that?”
“I remember,” said Donovan.
“Tell me, do you think it is realistic that a killer like Lorre can be tried by his peers?”
Donovan looked at Bremenhoffer and tried to speak carefully. “You mean a man who is sick? Who essentially needs help, who commits murders that are the result of his fantasies? A psychological killer?”
Bremenhoffer shook his head. “That is nonsense, Mr. Donovan. A man who kills is a killer. He must always have a good reason for murder. A man who kills a grocer like those niggers killed that man on the South Side had reasons. He was a white man and they hated him; or he wouldn’t give them the money fast enough. Or some reason. We know it is a good enough reason for murder because we know they committed murder. All this nonsense about psychology bores me.”
“What about a man who kills women?” asked Flynn.
Bremenhoffer turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“What are the good reasons for those murders in Grant Park, do you suppose?”
Donovan stared at Flynn; it was a dangerous line of questioning but he waited.
“I don’t know. Maybe they are whores and their pimps killed them. Didn’t it turn out that one of those women was a whore? She lived with this man who abused children?”
They waited.
“Well, that is one reason. But I am not qualified to speculate. You are the police. Tell me why those women were killed.”
“Maybe for the reasons you said,” Flynn said.
“Maybe,” said Bremenhoffer.
“Maybe you could help us find a reason?”
Bremenhoffer looked at Donovan with icy, lazy blue eyes. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Is there any more to talk about?” He started to rise.
“Siddown,” said Flynn suddenly. “There’s a lot to talk about.”
“Bremenhoffer stared at him and slowly sat down. “Certainly, Sergeant Flynn. What should we talk about?”
“Why did your daughter run away from home?”
Bremenhoffer shrugged. “I don’t know. She had a good home. But I think she wanted to be a whore. You know what women are. They are really sex animals. If you cannot control them, they will go wild.”
Schmidt looked at Donovan and signaled him. Donovan got up and followed Schmidt to the door.
“Well,” said Donovan.
“Can we get a search warrant fast?”
“I’ll call Judge Cummings in Holiday court.”
“Fine. I’m sending Margolies over to his apartment. He’s our best man when it comes to that kind of thing.”
“And look in the basement,” said Donovan. “He must have a storage shed there. And access to the rest of the basement.
“Schmidt nodded. “He really is tough.”
“Look in the furnace,” Donovan said.
“Sid knows how to search.”
“It wouldn’t have made much of a bundle.”
“Do you suppose the wife knew about it?”
Donovan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Donovan returned to the interview room.
“Why do you think women are animals?” Flynn asked.
“Mr. Flynn—excuse me, Sergeant Flynn—if you had any background in history or philosophy, you would understand that it is the considered opinion of the great thinkers of mankind that women have always been less than men. That is to say, animals.”
“Like who?”
“Plato. Aristotle. Thomas Aquinas. Shakespeare.”
“Do you think those women killed in Grant Park were animals?”
“No, of course not. I am an American now, and I know that men and women are all equal. So perhaps we are all animals. Perhaps women were brought up a little and men brought down a little so that we should all be on the same footing. And below us, there are the niggers.”
Flynn and Donovan stared at Bremenhoffer. He was smiling as though he had told a joke.
“I asked you a question before, Mr. Donovan.”
“What?”
“Do you think it is realistic that a killer like the one in M can be tried by his peers?”
Donovan waited.
“Do you think such a man can be caught?”
“Yes.”
“You’re an optimist, Mr. Donovan. A romantic.”
He shook his head. “I’m a realist.”
Bremenhoffer raised his head. “Remember when the Grimes sisters were killed? Did you ever solve that crime? And what about that woman, Judith May Anderson, when they cut her body? You know you can’t solve every crime. How many murders were there in Chicago la
st year. Was it eight hundred or nine hundred? And I will bet with you that the police only solved those crimes where the killers decided to give themselves up. Physically or emotionally, they let the police catch them. How can the police catch a killer who does not want to be caught? There are so many crimes and so many incompetent policemen who are caught up in their own petty lives. But even if they catch him, there is your office, Mr. Donovan. How many cases does the state’s attorney handle in a year? Is it ten thousand or twenty thousand or fifty thousand? How do you make justice out of such a mess? No, it is all impossible and you should be smart enough to understand it. In M it is up to the criminals to do justice themselves. Because the police cannot do it.”
“So who should judge the killer of Bonni Brighton? And the women in the park?” asked Donovan softly.
Frank Bremenhoffer smiled. “Why should that be necessary?”
“Because a killer must be caught.”
“Let the killer judge himself. Perhaps he is not guilty of anything.”
“Do you think that?” asked Flynn. “Do you think the killer is not guilty?”
“Perhaps,” said Bremenhoffer.
“Do you know Maj Kirsten?”
“That is the name of the woman who was killed in the park. About two months ago, was it?”
“Yes. I thought you never read the newspapers.”
“I don’t. It is usually unnecessary because there are always busybodies down at the plant who are willing to tell you of every crime and every detail. She was a prostitute, I believe?”
“She was a schoolteacher from Sweden.”
“Yes. That’s what she did in the daytime. But she was a whore as well. One of them down at the plant said she lived with her boyfriend. Probably others. A whore.”
“Like Bonni Brighton?”
“I told you all women are that if they are given the chance.”
“Did you give Mathilde a chance to become a whore?”
Bremenhoffer stared at Donovan. “Of course not. That’s why she had to run away. To become a whore full-time.”
“Did she have any boyfriends?”
“I don’t know.”
“You hate whores, don’t you?” asked Flynn.
“I have no use for them, if that’s what you mean. Any more than you do or any decent man. Mr. Donovan, are you married?”
