The Sinner

by Petra Hammesfahr

  "Listen, Herr Berrenrath," she said, "you should take those plants off the windowsill. They can't stand the sun - it's like putting them in a furnace. They probably need some water too. Mind if I take a look?"

  Berrenrath seemed taken aback. After a few moments he nodded reluctantly.

  There was a sink near the door with an old coffee percolator on the draining board. An ugly brown film had formed on the glass jug, which had probably never been rinsed properly. Beside the percolator was a dirty coffee mug. She rinsed it out carefully, then picked up the jug and started to rinse that too.

  "No, leave that," Berrenrath said. "Please sit down again."

  "Look," she protested, "you said I could water those plants, and the jug was dirty. Why shouldn't I clean up a bit?"

  Berrenrath sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Water the plants if you like, but cleaning up isn't your job."

  "Then I won't," she said. "I meant no harm."

  She filled the jug with water and went over to the window. The soil really was as dry as dust. Leaving the jug on the windowsill, she carried the two plants over to a desk, unobtrusively straightened a couple of chairs and shuffled some papers into a neat pile. This created a little more room and looked tidier. Then she fetched the jug and gave the plants a soaking.

  The policemen watched in disbelief as she refilled the jug at the sink. "They needed it badly," she said when she'd emptied it and resumed her seat.

  A good minute's silence ensued. She strove to marshal her thoughts and prepare herself for what would happen next. The interrogation! Being a moviegoer, she knew the form. A confession was all that really mattered - to the police; that was the most important thing, so an interrogation was superfluous in her case. She'd already confessed. All that remained was to type it out and get her to sign it. Odd that no one was troubling to do that. She turned to Berrenrath again. "What are we waiting for?"

  "The officer in charge," he said.

  `Aren't you in charge?"

  "No."

  She smiled at him. It was meant to be an endearing smile, but her battered features turned it into a crooked grimace. "Look, this is silly, one policeman's as good as another. I'd sooner we got this over. Write down what I say, and I'll sign it, then you can knock off."

  "No, we'll wait for the officer in charge," Berrenrath said. "He should be here any minute."

  He wasn't, of course. She had often seen movies in which suspects were left to stew in order to break down their resistance, but she couldn't understand why this technique was being used in her case. For one thing she wasn't just a suspect; she was definitely guilty. For another, she had no intention of causing difficulties.

  The delay was making her nervous. She couldn't help thinking of Gereon and the way he'd acted on the terrace beside the lake - as if she were a total stranger. But she could understand that. It must have been a terrible shock to him. You had to put yourself in his place. He hadn't wanted to go to the lido at all. It was far too hot, he'd said when she broached the idea over lunch. He didn't like swimming in any case. And then, in a few brief seconds, she'd torn his world to shreds. No wonder he'd beaten her up like a madman. Was he home already? What would lie have told his parents? They must have been surprised to see him come home without her.

  She could picture it. The puzzled expressions. Her mother-inlaw's voice. The old man never said much when family matters were under discussion. Gereon, pale and bandaged, clasping their son with his uninjured arm, would begin by asking someone to help him unload the boot. His mother would volunteer. Outside, where the old man couldn't hear, Gereon would say: "She stabbed a man to death."

  Later they would sit together in the living room, while Gereon recounted what had happened, although there wasn't much to tell. His mother would moan about what the neighbours would say when they heard; the old man would merely wonder how it would affect his business and who would handle the paperwork in future.

  It was almost nine o'clock when the door finally opened. Her vision of Gereon and his parents vanished abruptly. The man in the sports coat, the one she'd noticed on the terrace overlooking the lake, entered the room. He introduced himself, but she forgot his name at once and tried to size him up. She hoped he wouldn't waste time asking her unnecessary questions.

  But he did precisely that. As if there were any doubt about her identity, he sat down at the typewriter and asked her to state her name, her maiden name as well. He wanted to know how old she was, how long she'd been married and whether she was employed - totally irrelevant, all of it. Then he asked details of her parentage and siblings, if any.

  She answered him reluctantly but truthfully up to her parentsin-law Then she said: "My parents are dead, and I'm an only child."

  He looked at the plants on his desk and asked if she was fond of flowers. Almost in the same breath, he enquired if she was in pain, if she needed a doctor or would like some coffee. She glanced at the old percolator and said no.

  She was finding it hard to concentrate and remain calm. It seemed to be a longer business than she'd expected. As if she needed telling, the man in the sports coat informed her of the crime she was being charged with, quoted from the penal code, reminded her of her rights and repeated what Berrenrath had already told her down at the lake - that she need not make a statement and so on.

  At that point she interrupted him. "Many thanks, but I already told Herr Berrenrath that's unnecessary. I don't need a lawyer. It would be best if you simply took down what I say. We can start right away."

  But they couldn't. The man in the sports coat said they would have to wait for his chief, who had already gone home.

  Another fifteen minutes went by. It made her feel quite sick, being unable to do anything but sit there, staring at the whitewashed walls. She wasn't used to being idle: you only started brooding. Like this morning in the supermarket, when she thought she'd found the answer.

  It really was crazy, in a way. Having made up her mind to kill herself - having come to an irrevocable decision - she had then, quite suddenly, attacked a stranger. Just because the blonde - she couldn't recall her name for the moment - was playing that tape. She would have done better to ask where the woman had got it and whether anyone could explain how the tune had got into her head.

  Nobody spoke. The only sound came from the dripping tap, which she hadn't turned off tightly enough when she filled the jug the second time. The men took no notice of it. Berrenrath kept an eye on the door, and his younger colleague stood there with his hands clasped behind his back. The man in the sports coat was looking through the notes he'd made on the terrace.

  What would the witnesses have told him? That she'd gone for the man like a lunatic. That's what it must have looked like to them. She suddenly realized why they were spending so much time on her: because they couldn't understand. Because they wanted, like Gereon, to know why.

  That realization transformed her heart into a lump of lead and filled her brain with a reddish-grey mist. She felt her hands go moist and start to tremble. Every trace of her initial relief, jubilation and triumph had gone. She needed a rational explanation.

  When the door finally opened again she started to count in her head - eighteen, nineteen, twenty - in the hope that it would help to calm her. The man who came in looked to be in his early fifties. He made an easy-going, good-natured impression, said hello all round and nodded to the two constables. Berrenrath returned the nod, combining it with a nod in her direction that struck her as somehow odd. The man in the sports coat got up, and the newcomer went out again, accompanied by him and Berrenrath.

  Again she waited, wondering what the trio outside the door were talking about and what that strange nod had signified. If only the younger policeman would say something. She found the silence unbearable because it was only superficial. It was almost like a Saturday night. Her head wasn't silent inside; the tune was playing there. The dripping tap sounded almost like the drums. The tune was always followed by the dream, and she wasn't asleep now! If t
hose men didn't come back soon ...

  They were gone for only ten minutes, but that was six hundred seconds, and every second spawned a new idea that gnawed away at her mind. What alarmed her most were the feelings aroused in her by the act of killing. Any normal person would have been in despair, horrified and tormented by guilt at having done such a thing. And she had felt good. That wasn't normal.

  At last they returned. The man in the sports coat resumed his seat at the typewriter, and Berrenrath his place beside the window The chief sat down facing her. He gave her an amiable smile and stated his name, which she registered as little as the rest of what he said. Everything inside her tensed. If she wasn't to be suspected of insanity, she must come up with some brief, precise answers and a demonstrable motive.

  Berrenrath was holding something in his hand: her purse. She didn't know where he had produced it from so suddenly; she hadn't noticed it. The whole procedure was repeated: name, maiden name, date of birth, place of birth, marital status, occupation, parents, siblings.

  "Is this a quiz?" she asked angrily. "If so, you're too late, I've already earned my points for the answers. Or are you simply trying to find out if I've lost my marbles? Don't worry, they're all there. This is the third time I've been asked the same questions

  - I noticed. Here's a suggestion for you: ask your colleague for a change, he's got all the answers written down. Besides, that man there has my papers."

  She regretted having called Berrenrath "that man there"; he didn't deserve such a disparaging designation. He'd been really very nice to her so far, and besides, it would be more advisable to display a polite, cooperative manner. She was being cooperative, but they must hurry it up a bit. She couldn't endure it if they kept up this snail's pace.

  Her insolence evoked no reaction. The younger constable gave a momentary frown, but that was all. Berrenrath brought her purse over to the desk, and the man in the sports coat took it from him. She became aware that she'd failed to register both his name and the chief's. She strove to remember them, but her every thought became entangled with the dead man's face. She couldn't say: "Sorry, I wasn't on the ball just now, I've forgotten your names." They would jump to the conclusion that she was deranged.

  The two uniformed policemen left the room. She would have preferred Berrenrath to stay, he was such a sympathetic fellow, but she couldn't ask. It mustn't look as if she needed moral support. The man in the sports coat opened her purse, removed her ID and handed it to his boss. Then lie examined her driving licence and glanced up quickly.

  It was the face that had fazed him, she felt sure. The sick, grey face on her licence, which looked as if it belonged to an old woman. For a moment she was afraid he would remark on it, but he didn't speak. She swiftly tweaked her hair over her forehead to prevent him from noticing the scar. The chief, who had been studying the particulars on her identity card, also looked up at her. "Cora Bender," he said. "Cora sounds like an abbreviation. Or is it your full name?"

  He had an agreeably warm, deep voice. Many people must have found it reassuring, but it didn't have that effect on her. She couldn't control her hands, which were trembling more and more. She put them on her lap and gripped her right hand with her left.

  "Look," she said, "I don't want to seem rude, but it's getting late. Can't we dispense with the social chit-chat?"

  The chief smiled. "There's plenty of time. Anyway, I find a bit of chit-chat relaxing. How are you feeling, Frau Bender?"

  "Fine, thanks."

  "You're hurt." He pointed to her face. "We really ought to send for a doctor."

  "No doctors, thank you!" she snapped. `A medic examined me. It's not as bad as it looks. I've known worse."

  "For example?"

  "I don't see how that concerns you," she retorted.

  "Very well, Frau Bender," he said quietly but very firmly, "if that's the way you want it. Please tell me if you're in pain or feel adversely affected in any way. You may also tell me if you'd like a coffee or something to eat. But say please, it sounds better."

  She had riled him. She stirred uneasily on her chair and blinked her good eye. "Look, I'm sorry if I got a bit heated. I don't want to be difficult. It's just that I'm rather on edge, and I'd like to get this over. Why do I have to state my husband's name three times? It's completely irrelevant. Take down my confession and let me sign it, then we can have some coffee."

  The chief nodded to the man in the sports coat, who deposited a small black box on the desk. She started when she saw it was a tape recorder. The man pressed a button. She put her hands over her ears before she could stop herself.

  Her head seemed to be on fire at that moment. They knew! Someone had told them about the tune, and now they wanted her to listen to it again. God alone knew what the result would be. Perhaps she would jump up and hit one of them over the head with the nearest plant pot.

  But no music emerged, no sound of any kind. The two men stared at her doubtfully. `Anything wrong, Frau Bender?" asked the chief.

  She gave him a strained smile and lowered her hands. "No, everything's fine," she assured him hastily. `A sudden earache - very unpleasant. From swimming, I suppose. I dived, and ... But it's gone already. I can hear you perfectly well, honestly."

  The chief began at last. He devoted little time to the penal code and defined the situation as succinctly as possible. "Frau Bender, just after six pm today you killed a man at the Otto Maigler Lido. Several persons in the immediate vicinity witnessed the incident and were able to make a statement. Some of these depositions have already been taken down in writing and signed. To this extent the circumstances are clear-cut. We should nevertheless like to ask you a few questions. You are entitled to decline to make a statement. You are also entitled to an attorney, and

  She raised a hand and cut him short. This time she strove to sound calm and reasonable. The black box was a recording machine, she realized. It would register her every word and play it back to all kinds of people. They would all hear what she'd said and draw their own conclusions.

  "I know all that," she said, "and I've already said so twice. I don't need an attorney, I'm making a confession. I'll also sign an affidavit to the effect that you didn't subject me to pressure or do anything else to me, and that I've been advised of my rights several times, etcetera. All right?"

  `All right, if that's the way you want it," the chief said again. He leaned forward and looked at her intently.

  She drew a deep breath, wondering how best to convey, in her very first sentence, that she was a hundred percent in order, both physically and - of course - mentally. She now had the tremor in her hands well under control. If she gripped one hand with the other hard enough, it was barely noticeable. Besides, they were watching her face, not her hands. After a couple of seconds she said in a firm voice: "Shortly after six pm today I stabbed a man to death at the Otto Maigler Lido. I did it with the little fruit knife I was using to peel an apple for my son."

  The chief produced a transparent plastic bag and put it on the desk. Inside was the bloodstained knife. "Is this it?"

  She nodded, then realized that a nod was inaudible. "It is," she said simply.

  "Is that why you took this knife to the lido, to peel an apple?" the chief asked.

  "Yes, of course. We didn't have anything else with us that needed peeling, only the apples."

  "But instead you used it to stab a man. Did you realize what would happen if you used this knife to stab someone?"

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then she grasped the point of his question and started to smile. "Look, I may be a bit nervous, but you don't have to speak to me as though I'm mentally deranged. Of course I knew what would happen if I stabbed someone. I would injure or kill them. I stabbed him in such a way that death would be inevitable, and I knew what I was doing. Does that answer your question fully enough?"

  The chief betrayed no reaction to these words. All he said was: "If you stabbed him deliberately, Fran Bender, can you remember where you stabbed hi
m first?"

  She was still smiling. Did she remember? She would never forget it - everything else, perhaps, but not that! "In the back of the neck," she said. "Then he swung round and I stabbed him in the throat. It's a small knife. I thought I mightn't pierce his heart if I stabbed him in the chest, but the throat contains the jugular and the larynx. That's what I aimed for, and I succeeded. From the way he bled, I must have severed the artery. But I stabbed him in other places as well. The face, for instance. And once the knife got deflected and went into his shoulder."

  The chief nodded. "What made you kill the man? I have got it right, haven't I? You did mean to kill him?"

  "Yes, I did," she said firmly. And at that moment it dawned on her that she'd meant to do it for a long time: to kill that man. Not just any man, but that particular one.

  It had ceased to matter what her motive had been for going to the lido. Things had turned out differently, and that was good. She hadn't meant them to, certainly not during the drive there, and if the woman at the turnstile had accused her of intending to kill a man, she would have thought her insane. It had happened because it had to. Realizing this, she felt a little calmer.

  By contrast, the two policemen seemed taken aback by her bald statement. She could tell that from their expressions but had no time to reflect on whether she might have phrased it a little less bluntly. The questions now came thick and fast. The chief asked them; the man in the sports coat just sat there, never taking his eyes off her.

  "Did you know the man?"

  "No."

  "You'd never seen him before?"

  "No."

  "You really didn't know who he was?"

  "No."

  That was the truth, and the truth was always right and good, but the chief seemed baffled by it. He shot a puzzled glance at the man in the sports coat, who shrugged his shoulders. Then, with a slight shake of the head, he turned to her again.

  "What made you want to kill him?"