The Man from Berlin

by Luke McCallin

  The calm had attracted other officers, who began to gather around. One or two of them he knew by name, a couple more by sight, members of the garrison. Others he did not know at all. Reinhardt began to sweat, and he put his glass back down on the bar, partly in order to stop himself from drinking, and partly to show he was ready to go, but if any of the officers caught his intentions they ignored it.

  ‘Well, apart from whether it makes operational sense, what would you know about investigating such a crime?’ asked Faber.

  ‘Reinhardt used to be a copper.’ One of the officers that Reinhardt knew slightly stepped forward, with a broad smile plastered across a freckled face. ‘Big star in Kripo. You might have seen his name in the Berlin papers, before the war. What was the big case, Reinhardt? The post box?’

  ‘The Postman, sir,’ said Reinhardt. ‘Dresner.’

  Faber’s eyes widened. ‘Right, right. The Postman. I remember as well. There was another one. Some gangster, wasn’t there?’

  Reinhardt nodded. ‘Podolski.’

  ‘Podolski! Riiight! What was it they called him?’

  ‘Leadfoot Podolski.’ He looked around at the flushed faces and raised eyebrows. ‘He had a habit of weighting his victims down with lead and dumping them in water.’

  ‘And Paris! There was something in Paris, no? At the universal exposition, back in thirty-seven. Something to do with the Russians? Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling desperately uncomfortable at talking of his past. If someone here knew enough to link him to the policeman he had been, they might know more about what had made him leave that life.

  ‘Come and tell us of these investigations,’ said Faber. ‘It would make a change from what we usually end up talking about.’

  ‘Sir, really, I should not take up too much of your time.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Faber. ‘Just one story. A good detective story.’

  ‘Paris! Tell us about Paris!’

  ‘Tell us about the Postman.’

  With Faber and Lehmann on each side, Reinhardt was ushered around the end of the bar to the sitting area, where about a half dozen colonels, and as many majors, were standing, sitting, or leaning against the bar. There was a round of introductions, and bouts of hand waving and head nodding as the officers looked towards him, some with the curiosity that they might show to an exotic zoo exhibit, others with dead, uninterested glances. Only a few names stuck in Reinhardt’s head, the first ones called out. There was Colonel Eichel, a tall, blond man with limpid blue eyes. Colonel Ascher, who looked like a monk all round and doughty with the top of his head bald, and the hair on the back and sides shaved short. Colonel Kappel, rotund and jolly looking. Reinhardt thought he remembered seeing him at the Ragusa the previous night. Colonel Forster, gaunt and cadaverous, with fingers like cords wrapped around his glass.

  There were a few others, men whose names Reinhardt did not try to catch, and at least one or two of whom he was sure were at the club. His eyes, though, his eyes took in the uniforms, the insignia. 369th. A pair of SS officers from Prinz Eugen. 1st Mountain. 118th and 121st Jäger Divisions. All of them were on his list, which felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket.

  ‘Dresner?’ asked Eichel. ‘Who is this Dresner?’ His voice had a slur from his drinking.

  ‘Dresner was a killer! A murderer,’ replied Faber. ‘Go on, tell us how you caught him.’

  ‘Well,’ said Reinhardt. He looked down at his feet a moment. ‘I was working with Berlin homicide at the time. It was 1935. A number of people, all men, mostly in their middle ages, had been murdered in their homes. All of them had been stabbed to death, with the killing wound under the left armpit. A very precise wound, either penetrating the heart or cutting the main arteries that led from it. All the victims had had their hands broken with a hammer, and had had their sexual organs crushed.’ Some of the listening officers winced, and one pantomimed clutching his groin and falling backwards into a chair. ‘There were no signs of forced entry,’ Reinhardt continued, ‘and no signs of anything having been stolen.’

  ‘A real mystery, indeed,’ said Eichel as he tipped his head back for his glass. A couple of other officers shushed him.

  ‘Go on, Reinhardt,’ said Faber.

  ‘I was called onto the case following the fourth murder. I was struck by the way the victims were killed. No forced entry, so the killer was likely known to the victims, or was someone who would normally be above suspicion. As we investigated, we realised in two of the murders witnesses had seen someone in a uniform in the vicinity. This, and the victims’ wounds, suggested it was the same person doing the killings, but nothing on why or who he might be. So, instead, we began to look more deeply into the victims’ backgrounds. We were sure there had to be something linking them together. While we were on those inquiries, another two people were killed in the same way. We eventually discovered that all of them had, at one time, worked in a boys’ boarding school that had been closed in the late 1920s due to rumours of abuse by the staff of some of the boys.

  ‘We began to follow up with boys – now men – who were at the school. They confirmed many of the rumours, and although there were variations in the names of the suspected abusers, all of the victims were on all of the lists. Those interviews gave us three more names of teachers and staff members who had been suspected of abuse. Inquiries as to the boys who might have suffered most at their hands gave us a list of a dozen or so names. Further investigation eliminated most, leaving us with four possible suspects who had, so we thought, motive, and opportunity as they all lived in Berlin. One of them interested us a great deal, as he was a postman.’

  There was a collective shuffling and straightening of postures among the assembled listeners, some of them looking puzzled, some of them starting to smile as they saw the picture coming together. Kappel peered into his beer glass and belched.

  ‘So, now we had someone in uniform. Someone who could reasonably expect to be welcomed into a stranger’s house. Someone normally above suspicion. That information and those suppositions led us to fasten on one Ferdinand Dresner, a postman, who worked at the central sorting office for Berlin and had easy access to addresses. And, in Dresner’s case, someone who was also a former medical student.’ More of the officers began to grin and nod. Reinhardt gave a small smile back, nodding with them, the memories coming thick and fast, almost enough to push back the desperate discomfort he felt whenever he had to relate anything to do with his career. ‘Which led me back to my suspicions about the killings, and the wounds, that they were too well placed to be coincidental. And it got us thinking, what was a former medical student doing working for the post office.’ To one side, Eichel ordered another drink and turned away to talk with one of the other colonels. Ascher, Reinhardt remembered. Ascher inclined his head to listen to Eichel but kept his eyes on Reinhardt and the story.

  ‘We put Dresner under surveillance and then, after interviewing them, also put the three remaining members of staff under watch as well, believing that sooner rather than later he would seek to kill them. When we talked again with some of the ex-pupils, they confirmed that Dresner had experienced quite sadistic treatment from some members of the staff, and had undergone psychiatric care as a consequence, and had dropped out of his studies. And, sure enough, he attempted to kill again, and we were able to apprehend him as he tried to commit another murder. And that was it.’

  There was a round of applause and a chorus of bravos. ‘Brilliant. Brilliant work,’ enthused Lehmann. Eichel glanced at him, Ascher’s eyes glinting over his shoulders.

  Reinhardt ducked his head. ‘It was merely patient detective work, following up on all leads, examining all possibilities until they could be eliminated, and keeping an open mind.’ Nothing about the political interference they had run into, the pressure to pin the murder on someone, anyone, just to end the publicity about the killings. The competition from the other squad
s on the case, the procession of suspects rounded up, taken down to the basements under Alexanderplatz. The resistance they had met from the Nazis who clung to the belief that the murderer was a Gypsy, or some other undesirable. Nothing about their ideological refusal to countenance the possibility of an Aryan serial killer, which led to the bungle when Dresner had actually been interviewed by one of the other squads but released because he was above racial suspicion.

  ‘What about the wounds? The stabbing, and the mutilations?’ called an officer.

  Reinhardt nodded. ‘Yes. As we suspected, Dresner’s medical training indicated where to stab into the heart. He then said that, although he killed in cold blood, he was afterwards taken by rage. Rage at what these men had done to him with their fists, and… in other ways. So he took his revenge on them as best he could.’

  ‘So, tell us more about this investigation you are on now,’ asked Faber. ‘Another drink?’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ asked several officers.

  ‘Well, it’s not advisable for me to talk too much about the case. No, thank you, nothing more for me to drink,’ Reinhardt demurred.

  ‘Ah, come now. You can talk with us, surely?’ said Faber, clearly enjoying himself. Over by the bar, Ascher raised his hand to someone behind Reinhardt, gesturing him over.

  ‘Well, I am working with a detective from the Sarajevo police. He is investigating the journalist, while I am concentrating on our officer.’

  ‘Journalist? What’s going on?’ asked an officer.

  ‘Any leads, then?’ interjected Lehmann.

  ‘What’s this about a journalist?’ demanded a couple of officers. Lehmann turned to them, keeping an eye on Reinhardt as he briefly outlined the murders in Ilidža.

  ‘No leads, not really.’

  ‘Where were they found?’ someone called.

  ‘At her house.’

  ‘Where’s the house, then?’

  Over at the bar, Reinhardt saw Standartenführer Stolić join Ascher and Eichel. His throat clenched, and he swallowed. He had to get out of there, but that giddy sense of invulnerability pulled him on. The feeling he got when on the trail of good evidence that things were right, just right. ‘In Ilidža. Behind the Hotel Austria.’

  ‘When were they killed?’

  ‘Late on Saturday night.’

  There was a babble of excited talk.

  ‘Wasn’t there a party there that night?’

  ‘You were there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yep. The high point of that bloody planning conference.’

  ‘Hey, just think, boys, a murder like that happening next door!’

  ‘Saturday night?’ repeated one of the officers, with mock relief, clapping his hand over his heart. ‘Thank heavens, that counts me out. I was in Rogatica. Just ask the ladies at Petko’s bar!’ Several other officers joined in the laughter.

  ‘But that doesn’t rule you out, Ascher,’ blurted a colonel with ruddy cheeks, quite obviously some way into his cups. ‘You were there, weren’t you? You and Kappel, and… and…’ He trailed off, looking around the assembled officers with watery eyes.

  ‘Where what?’ asked Ascher, turning from his conversation with Stolić and Eichel. Stolić looked over his shoulder. His eyes, as Reinhardt had guessed from the dim light of the bar last night, were indeed very pale. They fastened on Reinhardt, and he saw recognition jolt through them, followed by what could only be fury.

  ‘Careful now,’ joked one of the officers. ‘Do we need alibis?’

  Reinhardt smiled back. ‘I don’t know. Do some of you think you might?’

  Conversation just died away from the men around him. At the bar, Stolić and Ascher exchanged glances. Reinhardt breathed shallowly over the awful lump that sat sodden and heavy in his chest, aghast at what he had just said.

  Faber’s eyes narrowed. ‘Captain,’ said Ascher, from where he stood against the bar. ‘I am sure you cannot be insinuating anything.’

  ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ he replied, forcing a tone of levity into his voice.

  ‘Good. Then I am quite sure you are stating nothing, either.’

  ‘Correct, sir.’ God, what had he been thinking to say what he did? Was it the drink? Recounting the past? From a time when he was someone, when what he did counted for something? Things were just right. They were always just right, until the moment they were not.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Stolić, coming forward. As they had last night, his cheeks bore a high flush. Ascher half raised a hand to stop him, but the Standartenführer ignored it. ‘Just a bloody minute. You say you are investigating a murder that occurred in and around the same place and time that some here were present? And you told us nothing of this? What, you tried to insinuate yourself into our confidence? To sound us out?’ Stolić’s face became further suffused, his eyes becoming even paler as a result, and his voice rising as he spoke. He took a step, then another, until he loomed over Reinhardt. All conversation stopped, all heads turned. To Reinhardt, they were nothing but a row of pale ovals in his periphery. ‘Just who the hell do you think you are, Captain?’ In the face of Stolić’s aggression, Reinhardt froze. Coming to attention was all he could do, directing his gaze to a point just behind Stolić’s head, ignoring the blaze of humiliation that roared through him.

  ‘A captain of the Abwehr, apparently,’ said Ascher. ‘An ex-­policeman. Of course he was sounding you out. He was sounding all of us out.’

  ‘Is this true, Reinhardt?’ grated Faber.

  Reinhardt had not been the focus of so many men who could do him harm in a long time. ‘No, sir,’ he said, with as much confidence as he could muster, keeping his eyes front and focused on nothing. He had wanted to sound them out, but God knew the way things were progressing it would have been a terrible idea. It was bad enough now, when he had not even meant for any of it to come out. ‘If you will recall, sir, I came upon your invitation.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Faber, half to himself, half to Stolić.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody gullible, Faber,’ Stolić snarled. His teeth, ­Reinhardt suddenly noticed, were in bad shape, and the man’s breath was pinched, acidic. ‘The man’s a policeman. Deception’s in his blood. I’ll bet he planned it all.’ He stepped back, raking him up and down with his eyes, then swinging them around to look over the others. ‘I caught him sniffing around the Ragusa last night. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to spring him on us?’ The officers shifted and muttered, looking left and right, most of them looking to Faber and Lehmann. Faber looked hard at the tank officer, who went red with embarrassment.

  ‘Who is your superior, Reinhardt?’ demanded Ascher.

  ‘Major Freilinger, sir.’

  ‘Good. He will be hearing from me about this.’

  ‘Now,’ said Stolić, stabbing Reinhardt’s chest with a finger, right on his Iron Cross, and then pointing over his shoulder. ‘Fuck off.’

  14

  Reinhardt forced himself to walk back through the halls to the courtyard. He looked straight ahead, praying he would meet no one he knew, but as he approached the door to the parking lot, he paused; checking that there was no one behind him, he collapsed backwards against the wall, feeling his knees trembling as if they were about to give way on him. He breathed deeply, a slow, ragged, shuddering breath. ‘Gregor,’ he whispered. ‘Gregor, why couldn’t you have left it alone?’

  Voices had him standing straight, tugging at the hem of his tunic as he walked briskly back out into the courtyard, into the blaze of heat and light to his car. He drove back to his office, where he found Claussen and Hueber waiting.

  ‘Hueber has that translation you were asking for,’ said Claussen as they followed Reinhardt into his office.

  Reinhardt sat in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. ‘Proceed, Corporal,’ he said, tightly.

  Hueber shuffled some sheets in his hand, glan
cing down at a page of handwritten notes, and began reading. It was a fairly standard pathology report. Dates, times, places, findings of the autopsy, which, it seemed, barely qualified as one as the pathologist had stopped at the knife wounds and gone no further. The corporal finished, saw Reinhardt staring hard at him, and blushed.

  ‘You said something about the wounds and the knife. Go over it again.’

  ‘Sir. Err… the wounds. Average depth three inches. Deepest penetration six and a half inches. Errr… Wounds characteristic of a very sharp, heavy knife with a bottom edge curving up to a point, and a top edge equally sharp along at least two inches, but showing a pronounced… err… hook? A hook shape? A curve…’ The corporal trailed off. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m not at all… sure of the words. That seems to be what they are describing.’

  ‘A hook shape?’ repeated Reinhardt.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What kind of a knife is hook-shaped… ?’

  Hueber went red, reading over the report, and then his notes. ‘Sorry, sir. It doesn’t say.’

  ‘Don’t worry, son. It’s not your fault.’ He sighed. ‘Nothing much, eh?’ Claussen nodded in agreement. ‘Very well. Thank you, Hueber. You are dismissed. Type those notes up for me.’

  The corporal left, and Reinhardt sighed, suddenly deflated. He slumped on his elbows. Looking down past his knee, he could see the drawer where he kept that bottle of slivovitz. The temptation was strong, but he stood instead, walking over to look at the big wall map. His eyes ran back and forth between Ilidža and Sarajevo, and then over and up around the thread of the city’s streets. The whole place was so small, but wound in and built up upon itself. He put his hand on the map. With his thumb on Ilidža, he could almost stretch his little finger out to Sarajevo, and when he put his palm on the map it almost obliterated the city. And yet to get anywhere, it seemed you had to turn and turn and turn again…

  ‘Captain Reinhardt?’ Reinhardt looked up and away from the map at the tone in Claussen’s voice. ‘Is something wrong, sir?’