Klepp raised his head. “One second!” he shouted. He spoke lower to Heller: “Don’t go looking at me like that. Acting cocky. I’ve got you in my sights! That search you ordered has just been terminated. Now go do whatever it is you do while I go see to our city’s greater needs. The time is coming soon when we’ll get even with elitist troublemakers like you once and for all. You’ll find out what Fright Man really means!”
Fright Man? How did he know about that?
“Don’t go making things miserable for us,” Karin whispered to Heller that night, pressing herself against him for warmth.
Heller didn’t respond. He really would like to be able to shave for once, but even with ration coupons it was getting tougher to find razor blades. He never used to go longer than three days without shaving. And he’d really like to drink a real coffee for once. And he’d really, really like to sleep a whole night through. Yet even on those nights when the siren stayed off, he couldn’t get to sleep and would just listen to the darkness.
“I can feel your heart, Max.”
Karin used to say that a lot. She would lay her head on his chest, and then it was his turn. And they would listen to how each other’s hearts beat, and they both loved hearing that steady throbbing. Yet even that had brought a certain wistfulness. How many more such beats would they have? Millions, hundreds of thousands, a thousand? They didn’t contemplate it too much, just listened and listened, letting each other’s beating heart lead them off to sleep. At this point, though, they’d stopped having good dreams. Death was too near for that, too ever-present, on the streets, in the newspapers, in conversation.
“Just hold on a little longer, Max.”
“They’re still advancing on the Western Front,” he said.
“That won’t last long,” whispered Karin, “you said it yourself.”
But what did he really know about it? They were always talking up new weapons, rockets, bombs, giant turbines that sucked aircraft out of the sky. Who really knew what was happening? Yet he kept that to himself and just nodded along in the darkness.
They lay like this a long while, yet his heart would not calm. The images would not leave his head. The one of that poor girl up in the attic and the one of Klepp with spittle in the corners of his mouth. It all combined into a single confused nightmare. He smelled mud and rot, heard that eternal drumbeat of artillery.
“Max!” Karin sat up, her hand on his chest. “It’s all right, Max.”
Heller had started awake. He’d obviously been screaming in his sleep.
And then he heard it. Howling. A wolf’s howl.
“Did you hear that?” Karin breathed in his ear.
Heller raised his head to listen. “It’s just dogs.”
“What are you planning on doing?” she said after a while.
Heller nearly had to smile. They knew each other so well. She could tell he had something in mind.
He turned on his side, laying his head on her pillow. The tips of their noses touched. “I can’t just leave things like this,” he said, and gently held her cheek.
“Don’t do anything that puts you in danger. People like that Klepp, they’re dangerous, they’re unpredictable. Max, promise me—you need to promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
In times like these, such a thing was far too much to promise. “I promise you,” he said anyway. “I just want to hear what people are saying—even Klepp has heard of the Fright Man.”
“They’re all talking about this Fright Man, about some demon. But it’s not a demon, is it, Max?”
Heller fell silent. There was no point in trying to placate her. She was a smart woman, and if she was questioning him like this, it meant it had been on her mind for some time.
“It’s not a demon, Karin,” he said. “It’s a person.”
December 23, 1944: Early Morning
“You called for me, Herr Obersturmbannführer?” Heller said, taking one step into his superior’s office. Four days had gone by since Klepp’s fit of rage. They hadn’t crossed paths since. Klepp sat at his desk looking distracted and didn’t notice that Heller hadn’t bothered giving the Hitler salute.
Klepp busied himself with the documents in front of him. Heller just stood there waiting for Klepp to acknowledge him. He wasn’t about to clear his throat or show his impatience.
“Any progress, Heller?” Klepp eventually asked without looking up.
“None, sir. The missing girl hasn’t turned up, and there haven’t been any breaks in the case. Witnesses are contradicting each other, and people seem to be getting a certain pleasure out of serving up their scary tales. I’ve tried creating a profile of the killer’s movements but don’t have enough leads, unfortunately.”
“What do you think the man’s motive could be?” Klepp said, still not looking at him. Heller wondered if Klepp had taken a peek at a criminology textbook since he’d last seen him.
Klepp finally looked up. “Is it just a desire for killing and torturing?”
Heller shook his head. “That sounds too simple. Because that’s not the way he goes about it. Killers out to torture use other methods—ones that keep their victims conscious longer, for instance. I’m going on the assumption that the young woman quickly lost consciousness. The way I see it, the killer isn’t quite right in the head. He acts juvenile.”
“Juvenile?”
Heller wasn’t sure if Klepp simply didn’t understand or wasn’t able to follow. “Like how he removed his victim’s eyelids. Did he want her to keep watching even when she was unconscious or even dead? That’s the way a child thinks, I’d say.”
“So a grown man with a childlike mind? But at that first crime scene, any possible clues in the dust had been removed with a broom, which meant the killer knew what he was doing and was considering the consequences. Doesn’t that contradict his being childlike?”
“Not in the least. If a person’s conditioned to perform a certain task, the behavior becomes automatic. So it’s highly likely that this was standard procedure for the killer—cleaning up after the job was over.”
“But leaving the victim behind?”
“Just like a child leaves his drawing out on the table so his father sees it when he comes home. Or the cat proudly offering the sparrow it killed.”
Klepp gave a loud sigh. “We have a woman who claims she was hunted down in the night. She’s in interrogation room 4. Go question her and verify what she says as best you can. And keep me apprised of all developments.”
Klepp returned to his documents, leaving Heller to contemplate his superior’s shift in attitude. Heller couldn’t see any reason why Klepp was suddenly treating him like a detective to be taken seriously. He withdrew from the room and closed the door behind him.
“Frau Krumbach?” Heller asked as he sat across from the woman in interrogation room 4.
From the way she nodded, it was clear she regretted coming here. She was wearing a faded red dress. Her black overcoat hung on the chair. She sat with her legs pressed together and her hands folded in her lap, her leather bag next to her chair.
“Year of birth?”
Frau Krumbach started to answer, but her voice gave out. She cleared her throat. “April 24, 1910.”
“Residence?”
“Schumannstrasse 5, fourth floor.”
Heller wrote it all down. Then he set down his pencil and studied the woman. He could hardly believe she was in her midthirties. At first glance, he would’ve put her at fifty. He then caught himself wondering whether he too looked older than he was, and whether that held true for just about everyone these days.
“Pardon me, but I only came to give a quick statement, yet they’ve kept me in this room for nearly two hours. And my girls are at home, and I still haven’t—”
“Just tell me what happened.” Heller picked up his pencil.
She sighed. “So last night, I was on my way home from my shift at the factory.”
“Which factory?”
“Seidel
and Naumann, on Hamburgerstrasse 19. I get there by streetcar—”
“Line?”
“Nineteen.”
“What time?”
“My shift ended at ten in the evening.”
Heller gave her a stern look. “There was an air raid siren at ten that night.”
“That’s right, yes. The streetcar halted at Cranachstrasse. I got out. Four men stayed behind in the car to wait, but I chose to go by foot.” Frau Krumbach paused so Heller could get it all down, but he wagged his pencil for her to continue. “So I was heading down Striesener Strasse, one intersection before Schumannstrasse. That’s when I heard someone calling out, coming from St. Andreas Church.”
“What did you do?”
“I wanted to keep on going, but then the person called out again. It sounded like a cry for help.”
“Explain.”
“Well, like a kind of squealing, like . . . like a child.”
Heller raised his eyebrows.
“A child’s voice. So I called out too. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ I said.”
“You weren’t afraid?”
“Oh, sure I was, very. But I didn’t want to just go running off when there could be a child out there on its own.”
“Did anyone answer back?”
“No. It was silent. Then I heard leaves rustling. And then this panting. So then I’m thinking it’s wild pigs. I heard there were wild pigs in the nearby park that sometimes came out at night and destroyed people’s yards. Then I really did start getting scared, and I wanted to get home quick. I searched my pocket for the front-door key and dropped it. It was really dark, and I couldn’t find the key. I felt around on the ground, finally found it, and when I looked up there was someone there. I said, ‘Who are you?’ He didn’t answer. He just stood there breathing like that.”
Frau Krumbach imitated his breathing, and Heller nodded for her to go on.
“I got up and . . . and . . . I have a knife in my bag, a bread knife. Should I show it to you?” she asked sheepishly. Heller nodded, and the woman pulled out the knife and laid it on the table.
“I pulled it out of my bag. ‘Back off!’ I said, and that’s when he started cooing.”
“Like a pigeon?”
“No, it was more like he did it to amuse himself. And he took a step toward me and . . . he stank so horribly bad. I started to back up real fast and headed for the front door of the nearest building, to ring the bell. Then he started growling. It was this real rolling sound, coming from deep in his throat. And he kept sucking up his spit. Then he tried grabbing me. That’s when I started shouting for help. So he ran away.”
“Did you see his face? Can you describe him?”
“No, not any better than I just did. Please know that I only came here because I thought it might help.”
“Do you think he could’ve been stalking you?”
“No, I don’t think so. He hadn’t seemed to notice me until I called out to him.”
“Did you see if he was armed? Did he have a knife on him?”
“The streetlamps were off, and everything was blacked out. But I did notice one thing: he wasn’t any taller than me, and his arms were really long, his hands nearly hanging down to his knees. Listen, do you think this is going to take much longer? I really need to relieve myself.”
Heller slapped his notebook shut and stood. “Come along.”
Frau Krumbach put her knife back in her bag, grabbed her overcoat, and followed Heller down the hallway.
“It might be better if you didn’t go out alone anymore at night,” he told her, and was practically ashamed of giving her such advice, since he suspected the woman had no other choice.
When Heller returned to his building that evening, he smelled something slightly burned. He climbed the stairs, trying to locate the source of the smell. It grew more intense the higher he climbed. The smell was very strong on the third floor. He knocked on the first door to the left.
“Frau Zinsendorfer?” he shouted at the apartment door and listened. He got down on a knee and pushed in the mail slot. Smoke and stench came billowing out. “Frau Zinsendorfer?” he shouted again and hammered on the door.
“What’s wrong?” a neighbor shouted from above—Herr Leutholdt.
Heller ignored him and kept pounding on the door until the time for being considerate had passed. He proceeded to kick at the door. Finally the lock busted, and the door swung back. Heller had to hold on to the door frame a second to ease the pain in his foot. Lights were on in the hallway and kitchen.
“Frau Zinsendorfer?” Heller shouted again. He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a pot spewing smoke from the stove, and turned off the gas. On the floor lay a little knife, its blade bloodied. He heard careful footsteps coming and went back out in the hallway.
“Go back to your apartment, Herr Leutholdt.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Leutholdt tried to pass Heller, but Heller blocked his way with a straight arm. A staring contest ensued, which Leutholdt soon lost.
Heller heard something. He placed a finger to his lips, then pointed at the living room.
The room was clean and tidy, giving no sign the woman might be in there. But Heller was certain of it.
“Frau Zinsendorfer, it’s me. And Herr Leutholdt is here too.”
Heller heard light sobbing, like a child trying not to cry. He dared a glance behind the sofa, which was moved away from the wall a little. Frau Zinsendorfer was cowering behind it, squeezing her eyes shut tight.
“Turn the light on!” Heller shouted at Leutholdt. The light came on, and Frau Zinsendorfer recoiled and started smacking her face with her palms.
“No, no, no,” she whimpered.
Her face was smeared with blood.
“Get something to bandage her!” Heller said, then dragged the sofa away from the wall and grabbed her by the arms.
“What have you done to yourself?” he said, hauling her onto the sofa.
“Let me go, please, it’s fine. It’s better when I bleed, you know, then he’ll keep going, off looking for someone else.”
“Now just calm down.”
“She’s gone mad,” said Leutholdt before handing Heller a metal first aid kit. Building residents had gathered behind him. Karin pushed through the doorway along with Frau Porschke, the young woman from the ground floor. Both women saw to Frau Zinsendorfer, who’d inflicted deep cuts on her arms. She turned away, mute and weak. Her hair had fallen over her forehead.
“She needs to leave,” Leutholdt said. “She’s a danger to the whole building, and—”
“Herbert, will you stop talking nonsense!” Leutholdt’s wife said. “She gets scared being so alone like this.”
“What if she burns down the building?”
“Would you like to stay with me?” Frau Porschke asked the bewildered Frau Zinsendorfer. “I have a room free, and it’s not as far down to the cellar.”
Frau Zinsendorfer suddenly stopped holding back. “It’s his fault!” she hissed and pointed at Heller, her eyes wild. “He brought it here. It’s already inside the building. Lying in the shadows. We opened the gates, and now the Devil is here.”
“If you don’t keep quiet,” Heller said, “I’ll have to have you admitted.” He could feel all their eyes fixed on him now. “It’s not the Devil. It’s a person, a crazy man. Do you understand?”
Frau Zinsendorfer shook her head. “You’ll never catch him. He won’t let himself be hanged. He was stalking me!”
Heller didn’t believe it. “He was, was he?”
“He was chasing after me, darting from corner to corner, climbing up buildings, jumping over the roofs, and he found me here. He was hissing and grunting, told me I was next.”
Heller knew she’d heard this from someone else. People stood in lines for hours, dragging themselves from neighborhood to neighborhood, always hoping there might be something, anything to buy, toilet paper, sugar, ersatz coffee, lard. They chatted and told themselves stories of wonder and horror.
It all found fertile ground with old Frau Zinsendorfer.
Heller bent down close to her. “It’s a person, Frau Zinsendorfer. He prowls around once the air raid sirens sound. All you have to do is head down to the cellar like always. Our building’s front door gets locked, so nothing can happen here either. So now stop with your crazy talk or I’m taking you to a doctor.”
Frau Zinsendorfer hushed. Frau Porschke said she could wait around for a while.
Heller and Karin climbed back up the stairs, arm in arm.
“God, Max, people are talking about it everywhere,” Karin whispered. “They’re telling each other that it’s a cannibal. Everyone knows someone who’s supposedly seen him. They’re all calling him Fright Man now. He makes a fire and roasts flesh, they say.”
Heller supposed that his inability to find the killer was partly at fault for all the talk. At this point in the war, where not even the most hard-boiled Nazi felt he could trust the newsreels anymore, where the newspapers were reduced to four little pages so thin you could see through them and only provided the type of news that left far too much room for speculation, the rumors were now running wild like a forest fire.
Upstairs in their apartment, Heller took Karin in his arms. They stood silently, leaning into each other awhile. Something else was bothering Karin.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” she said, “and the boys aren’t here.”
Heller sighed. “They weren’t here last year either.”
“But at least we got letters. Our little Erwin and our Klaus. Ah, Klaus . . .” She broke into sobs and put a hand over her mouth.
Heller hugged her tight. He didn’t know what to tell her. But he did know he needed to be strong for her. He needed to keep her strong, even if he had no idea where he was going to find the strength.
It took a while for Karin to calm down. She wiped at her eyes and went over to the window.
“All those refugees outside. There will be more and more. They’re stealing things. How poor they must be to resort to that. Many of the children are barefoot. Max, what’s going to become of us? I always want to give them something, but I never know what, and I can’t go giving away what little we have. I feel so terrible about it. Is it true that the Russians have broken through in Hungary, near Lake Balaton? We’re going to end up just like them, I’m telling you, having to hit the road with just a suitcase. But when it does come to that, Max, promise me this: we’ll just go, and we’ll never look back.”
The Air Raid Killer (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 1) Page 7
