FERDINAND VON SCHIRACH
The Collini Case
Translated from the German by Anthea Bell
MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
We are probably all made for what we do.
Ernest Hemingway
1
Later, they would all remember it: the floor waiter, the two elderly ladies in the lift, the married couple in the fourth-floor corridor. They said the man was gigantic, and they all mentioned the smell of sweat.
Collini went up to the fourth floor. He checked the numbers. Room 400, the ‘Brandenburg Suite’. He knocked.
‘Yes?’ The man in the doorway was eighty-five years old, but he looked much younger than Collini had expected. Sweat was running down the back of Collini’s neck.
‘Good evening. Collini from the Corriere della Sera.’ He mumbled slightly, wondering whether the man was going to ask him for his ID.
‘Yes, glad to meet you, come along in. We might as well do the interview here.’ The man offered Collini his hand. Collini flinched. He didn’t want to touch him. Not yet.
‘I’m sweating,’ Collini explained, and was angry with himself for saying so; it sounded odd. It’s not the sort of thing you would say normally, he thought.
‘Yes, very sultry today, it’s going to rain soon,’ said the old man amiably, although he was wrong about the sultry atmosphere. These rooms were cool; you could hardly hear the air conditioning. They went into the sitting room of the suite: beige carpet, dark wood, large windows, all of it expensive and solid. Collini could see the Brandenburg Gate from the window. It seemed strangely close.
Twenty minutes later the man was dead: four bullets in the back of his head; one had been deflected inside his brain and come out the other side, taking half his face with it. The beige carpet soaked up the blood, a dark outline slowly spreading. Collini put the pistol on the table. He got down on the floor beside the man, stared at the age spots on the backs of his hands. He turned the body over with the toe of his shoe. Suddenly he brought the heel of it down on the dead man’s face, looked at him and brought it down again. He couldn’t stop, he kept grinding his heel into that face while blood and brain matter spurted over his trouser leg, the carpet, the bedstead. Later, the forensic pathologist couldn’t reconstruct the number of times Collini’s foot had trodden down as the bones of the dead man’s cheeks, jaw, nose and skull cracked under the force of it. Collini didn’t stop until the heel of his shoe came off. He sat down on the bed. Sweat was running down his face. His pulse took some time to calm down. He waited until he was breathing regularly again, then stood up, crossed himself, left the room and took the lift down to the ground floor. He was limping, because of the missing heel; the protruding nails scraped over the marble floor. In the lobby he told the young woman at the reception desk to call the police. She asked questions, gesticulating. All Collini said was, ‘Room 400. He’s dead.’ Beside him, the electronic panel in the lobby announced: ‘23 May 2001, 8 p.m., the Spree Hall: Association of German Engineering Industries’.
He sat down on one of the blue sofas in the lobby. The waiter asked if he could bring him anything; Collini did not reply. He stared at the floor. His footprints could be traced back over the marble paving of the ground floor, in the lift and all the way back to the suite. Collini waited to be arrested. He had waited all his life, and he had held his peace all that time.
2
‘Caspar Leinen here, on standby duty for legal aid.’ The display on his telephone showed a number from the criminal courts.
‘Tiergarten District Court, the name’s Köhler, I’m an examining magistrate. We have a suspect with no one to represent him. The public prosecutor’s office is applying for a warrant to arrest him for murder. How long will you need to get over here?’
‘About twenty-five minutes.’
‘Good, then I’ll have our suspect brought up in forty minutes’ time. Come to Room 212.’
Caspar Leinen ended the call. Like many other young defence lawyers, he had put his name down on the legal-aid rota. At weekends they were given mobiles and had to be ready if called upon. The police, the public prosecutor’s office and the magistrates had their numbers. If someone was arrested and wanted a lawyer, the authorities could call them. It was the way young defence counsels often got their first briefs.
Leinen had qualified forty-two days earlier. After the second of his two state law examinations he had taken a gap year, travelling around Africa and Europe, mainly staying with old friends from his boarding school. For the last few days his nameplate had been up by the entrance to the building: CASPAR LEINEN, LEGAL ADVISER. He felt it was rather ostentatious, but he liked it all the same. His chambers, two rooms, were at the rear of a building in a side street off the Kurfürstendamm. There was no lift – clients had to climb a narrow staircase – but at least Leinen was his own master, answerable only to himself.
It was Sunday morning and he had been sorting out the office for hours. There were open boxes everywhere, the visitors’ chairs came from a flea market, the metal filing cabinet was completely empty. His desk had been a present from his father.
After the magistrate’s phone call, Leinen looked around for his jacket. He found it under a pile of books. He took his new robe off the window catch, stuffed it into his briefcase and hurried off. Twenty minutes after the call, he was in the examining magistrate’s room.
‘I’m Caspar Leinen, good morning. You phoned me.’ He was slightly out of breath.
‘Ah, from the standby legal-aid roster, right? Good, good. My name’s Köhler.’ The magistrate stood up to shake hands. About fifty years old, salt-and-pepper jacket, reading glasses. He had an amiable, even absent-minded look about him. But that impression was deceptive.
‘The Collini murder case. Do you want a word with your client? We’ll have to wait for the public prosecutor anyway. Senior Public Prosecutor Reimers, the departmental head, is coming himself, even though it’s a weekend … well, he’s probably after a report. So do you want to speak to the man?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Leinen. For a moment he wondered what could be important enough about this murder for Dr Reimers himself to come, but he forgot any such speculation when the police officer on duty opened a door. Right behind it was a very steep, narrow stone staircase. Prisoners were brought up these stairs from the cells to see the magistrate. A gigantic man was standing on the dimly lit first landing, leaning against the whitewashed wall, almost entirely blocking out the single ceiling light with his head. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back.
The police officer let Leinen through the door and closed it behind him. Leinen was alone with the huge man. ‘Hello, my name is Leinen and I’m a lawyer.’ There wasn’t much space on the landing, and the man was standing too close.
‘Fabrizio Collini.’ The man gave Leinen only a brief glance. ‘I don’t need any lawyer.’
‘Yes, you do. The law says that in a case like this you have to be defended by a lawyer.’
‘I don’t want to be defended,’ said Collini. His face was gigantic too. Broad chin, mouth just a straight line, prominent forehead. ‘I killed the man.’
‘
Have you already said so to the police?’
‘No,’ said Collini.
‘Then you’d better go on keeping your mouth shut for now. We’ll talk when I know more about your file.’
‘I don’t want to talk.’ His voice was deep and sounded foreign.
‘Are you Italian?’
‘Yes. But I’ve been living in Germany for thirty-five years.’
‘Shall I get in touch with your family?’
Collini didn’t look at him. ‘I don’t have any family.’
‘Friends?’
‘There’s no one.’
‘Then let’s start now.’
Leinen knocked, the officer opened the door again. Senior Public Prosecutor Reimers was already sitting at the table in the conference room. Leinen briefly introduced himself. The magistrate took a file from the stack in front of him. Collini sat down on a wooden bench behind a low grating, with the police officer beside him.
‘Please take those handcuffs off the accused,’ said Köhler. The officer undid them. Collini massaged his wrists. Leinen had never seen such enormous hands.
‘Good morning, my name is Köhler and I’m the examining magistrate responsible for you today.’ He indicated the public prosecutor. ‘This is Senior Public Prosecutor Reimers, and you’ve already met your defence counsel.’ He cleared his throat and adopted a matter-of-fact voice; he now spoke in a virtual monotone. ‘Fabrizio Collini, you are here today because the public prosecutor’s office has applied for a warrant allowing you to be held in custody on a charge of murder. This is the point at which I decide whether to issue that warrant. Do you understand German well enough?’
Collini nodded.
‘Please tell me your full name.’
‘Fabrizio Maria Collini.’
‘When and where were you born?’
‘On 26 March 1934, in Campomorone, near Genoa.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Italian.’
‘Present address?’
‘Nineteen Taubenstrasse, Böblingen.’
‘What is your profession?’
‘Toolmaker. I was at the Daimler factory for thirty-four years, ending up as a master toolmaker. I retired four months ago.’
‘Thank you.’ The magistrate pushed the warrant across the table to Leinen, two pages printed out on red paper. It wasn’t signed yet. The contents consisted of the murder squad’s report. The magistrate read it out. Fabrizio Collini, said the report, had gone to see Jean-Baptiste Meyer in Suite 400 of the Hotel Adlon and killed him with four shots in the back of the head. He had said nothing so far, but had been identified from his fingerprints on the gun, the bloodstains on his clothing and shoes, traces of powder from the pistol found on his hands, and witness statements.
‘Herr Collini, do you understand the charge?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have the legal right to express your opinion of these charges. If you say nothing, that fact cannot be used against you. You can apply for evidence to be heard, for instance naming witnesses. You may consult a lawyer at any time.’
‘I don’t want to say anything.’
Leinen still couldn’t take his eyes off Collini’s hands.
Köhler turned to the secretary taking down the minutes of the interview. ‘Please put: “The accused does not want to say anything.” ’ He asked, turning to Leinen, ‘Do you, as defence counsel, want to say anything on behalf of the accused?’
‘No.’ Leinen knew there was no point doing so at the moment.
The magistrate turned his chair towards Collini. ‘Herr Collini, I am issuing the warrant that I have just read out for you to be remanded in custody. You now have the opportunity to object to my decision or apply for a review of the remand in custody. Discuss that with your lawyer.’ As he spoke he was signing the warrant. Then he glanced briefly at Reimers and Leinen. ‘Any further applications?’ he asked.
Reimers shook his head and put his files together.
‘Yes, I apply for permission to see the files,’ said Leinen.
‘Noted for the record. Anything else?’
‘I apply for a review of the remand in custody in an oral hearing.’
‘Also noted.’
‘And I apply to be assigned to the accused as court-appointed defence counsel.’
‘Here and now? Very well. Any objection from the public prosecutor’s office?’ asked Köhler.
‘No,’ said Reimers.
‘Then here is my ruling: Caspar Leinen, qualified lawyer, is assigned to the accused, Fabrizio Collini, as court-appointed defence counsel in these proceedings. Is that all?’
Leinen nodded. The secretary took a sheet of paper out of the printer and handed it to Köhler. He looked through it quickly and handed it to Leinen. ‘The minutes of this meeting. I’d like your client to sign it, please.’
Leinen stood up, read it and put it down on the wooden board screwed to the grating in front of the defendants’ bench to provide a surface for writing on. The ballpoint pen was attached to the wooden board with a thin string. Collini tore it right off, stammered an apology and signed the sheet of paper. Leinen handed it back to the magistrate.
‘Well, that’s all for today. Officer, please take Herr Collini over to the remand cells. Goodbye, gentlemen,’ said the magistrate. The police officer put the handcuffs on Collini’s wrists again and left the magistrate’s room with him. Leinen and Reimers rose to their feet.
‘Oh, Herr Leinen,’ said Köhler. ‘Wait a moment, would you?’
Leinen turned in the doorway. Reimers left the room.
‘I didn’t want to ask this in front of your client, but how long have you been qualified?’
‘Just over a month.’
‘This is the first time you’ve been present when a warrant for remand in custody was issued?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll overlook it. But be kind enough to look round this room. Do you see anyone listening to us anywhere?’
‘No.’
‘Quite correct. There is no one here listening to us, there never was and there never will be. Warrants for remand in custody are not issued in public, nor are requests for reviews of a remand made in public. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes …’
‘So why on earth, may I ask, are you wearing a robe in my examination room?’
For a second the examining magistrate seemed to be enjoying Leinen’s discomfiture. ‘All right, you’ll know another time. Good luck with the defence.’ He picked up the next file from the stack in front of him.
‘Goodbye,’ murmured Leinen, but the magistrate did not answer.
Reimers was standing outside the door, waiting for him. ‘You can collect the file from my office on Tuesday, Herr Leinen.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Didn’t you do work experience in our chambers between your examinations?’
‘Yes, two years ago. I’ve only just qualified to practise.’
‘I remember,’ said Reimers. ‘And here’s your first murder case already. Well, congratulations. Prospects for the defence aren’t good, I’m afraid … but we all have to start somewhere.’
Reimers said goodbye and disappeared into a side wing of the building. Leinen slowly went along the corridor towards the exit. He was glad to be alone at last. He looked at the ornamentation above the doors, stucco reliefs. A white pelican pecking her own breast to feed her young with her blood. He sat down on a bench, read the warrant once more, lit a cigarette and stretched his legs.
He’d always wanted to be a defence lawyer. During his work experience, he had been assigned to one of the large sets of chambers that specialized in commercial law. In the weeks after his exams, he received four invitations to go back there for interviews, but he didn’t go to any of them. Leinen didn’t like those large outfits where up to eight hundred lawyers might be employed. The young men there looked like bankers, had first-class degrees and had bought cars that they couldn’t afford; whoever could charge cli
ents for the largest number of hours at the end of the week was the winner. The partners in such large practices already had two marriages under their belts; they wore yellow cashmere sweaters and checked trousers at weekends. Their world consisted of figures, posts on directorial boards, a consultancy contract with the Federal government and a never-ending succession of conference rooms, airport lounges and hotel lobbies. For all of them, it was a disaster if a case came to court: judges were too unpredictable. But that was exactly what Caspar Leinen wanted: to put on a robe and defend his clients. And now here he was.
3
Caspar Leinen spent the rest of that Sunday beside a lake in Brandenburg, where he had rented a little house for the summer. He passed the time lying on the landing stage, dozing, watching the yachts and the windsurfers. On the way back he looked in at his chambers again, and now he was listening to the message on his answerphone for the tenth time.
‘Hello, Caspar, this is Johanna. Please call me back right away.’ Then she gave her number, and that was all. He sat down on the floor beside the phone among the boxes, kept pressing the Repeat Message key, leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. It was stuffy in the little room; the air over the city had been stagnant for days.
Johanna’s voice hadn’t changed. It was still soft, the words still a little too slowly spoken, and suddenly it all came back to him: Rossthal, the green grass under the chestnut trees, the smell of summer when he was a boy.
They lay on the flat roof of the nursery-garden shed, looking up at the sky. The roofing felt was warm underneath them; they had put their jackets under their heads. Philipp told him he’d kissed Ulrike, the baker’s daughter.
‘And?’ asked Caspar. ‘Did she let you go any further?’
‘Hmm,’ said Philipp, leaving it an open question.
The Thermos flask of cold tea stood between them in its faded rattan cover. Philipp’s grandfather had brought it back from Africa. They heard the cook calling to them from the terrace of the house, but they stayed put. Here, in the shade of the old trees that Philipp’s great-grandfather had planted, everything moved at a leisurely pace on that late-summer afternoon. If things go on like this I’ll never get to kiss a girl, thought Caspar. He was twelve; Philipp and he went to the same boarding school on Lake Constance.
The Collini Case Page 1
