The Fairytale Killer : E&M Investigations Prequel

by Lena Bourne

  Alexeyev stands up and cracks a lopsided grin. “I’ll find this man for you,” he tells me in Russian.

  “Alive,” I answer. “He needs to be alive.”

  There’s no way to tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are as expressionless as a concrete wall. I keep looking at him waiting for an answer though. Finally, he inclines his head just a touch. I might have messed up letting him see the name of our person of interest, but maybe it’ll turn out for the best. We need all the help we can get tracking him down. So long as he delivers him to us alive, I’ll consider it a job well done.

  Schmitt walks them to the elevator and once he returns, I tell him all I found out at the base. In the retelling, it becomes painfully obvious how little that was. But half an hour later, I’m arranging for the DNA evidence to be transferred, under guard, to the forensic lab at the base. They’re also including the print they found on one of the photos sent to the station since they haven’t been able to find a match in any of the databases they have access to so far.

  Very little is actually happening, but I still feel like we’re finally rushing forward on this case. Although I have to admit that the ID we got from the Russian thug is very shaky. And how could it not be? The guy we’re looking for looks like every third man in Germany. And an American accent is easy enough to fake if one is determined enough.

  Schmitt and I rode to Greaves’ last known address in the Prenzlauer Berg district, but that entire building had been demolished, along with all the other buildings on the block. The skeletons of new ones have already gone up. Staring into the dark hull of apartments that will eventually probably be very modern, chipped away at the elation of finally moving ahead on this case I felt just hours ago. I suspected it was just the first of many disappointments. I wasn’t wrong.

  Next, we joined the officers who were canvassing the bottling plant where Nadia was last seen in the company of a blond man. As I suspected it is a bustling squat, located about five kilometers east of the building Greaves used to occupy. So I was glad I insisted that only plain-clothes officers were sent to search it and find out if any of the residents know who the blond man with Nadia was.

  Places such as that had once started much closer to the city center, but even in the three years since I lived here, they’ve been moved back to the edges. Gentrification is occurring at light speed here, which is something Eva complains about a lot. She’s lived in this city for about six years now, and already it’s not the same as it was, according to her.

  Some abandoned factories in this district have already been turned into concert halls and galleries, which is slowly but surely putting Berlin on the map as a cultural capital of Europe.

  But the bottling plant is still a derelict, crumbling ruin. It has a large, low rectangular building, spanning a whole city block. Its main room still contained some of the heavy machinery once used here, most of it rusted beyond recognition. The plant also had a large warehouse area. Several fires burned in that room, some in metal barrels, some on the concrete floor, filling the space with thick smoke. Most of the residents fled when we arrived, and the ones we were able to catch, didn’t want to talk to us. Eventually, they were hauled off to jail for the night, with the hope that they’ll be more willing to cooperate once they’re warm and fed. And starting to feel the pangs of withdrawal.

  The last of them was taken away at four in the morning, and as much as I wanted to go sleep at Eva’s, I went to my own apartment instead.

  It’s a lot more modern than Eva’s and much warmer. Yet colder in a way that can’t really be described, only felt, and it all stems from her absence. Thinking about it would’ve kept me from sleeping had I not been so dead tired. But the last thing I do remember thinking is that Eva and I should start giving some serious thought to moving in together. Which is another thing that would’ve kept me awake in all my previous relationships. But since it’s Eva, it worked better than a sleeping pill.

  21

  Eva

  During the night, an ice flower formed in the corner of the living room window where the two panes of glass don’t sit quite flush with the window’s white wooden frame. It’s prettier than any that have formed there in the past, larger than the span of my hand, almost perfectly round yet created of such intricate, complicated, and gorgeous geometric patterns I’ve just been staring at it, trying to see it all. Each pattern is similar, but not exactly the same. I should be writing. And part of the reason I’m not is that, at this point, with the police so sparse with the details about the murders they’re releasing, all I’ve been able to write is just a rehashing of what everyone else is printing.

  I’ve started outlining an article about how the enhanced police presence on the streets is letting the illegal immigrants starve even worse than they were before. That led me to research the scope and level of illegal immigration in Berlin, and Germany as a whole, and into what is being done about it. It’s not good. And it could be a lot better with not so much effort or money at all. But no news outlet is exactly clamoring for such human interest pieces. Not unless there’s a flashy spin on it like I’ve been able to put in with my article on illegal prostitution in Berlin and its victims. Since The Fairytale Killer is targeting them, they finally had their voices heard…well, I spoke for them and they didn’t exactly thank me for it. Maybe a follow-up article, urging the state to do more for them would do the trick…

  My phone rings just as I loop back around to that thought and follow it to it’s one and only conclusion. Namely, that no one cares right now. All they care about is this serial killer that emerged out of nowhere with a bang that’s sent ripples across the world. One of the articles I’m working on now is for the New Delhi Times.

  “I missed waking up next to you this morning,” I say as I pick up the phone. It’s Mark, and it’s the complete truth.

  He inhales sharply. “I had a hard time falling asleep without you.”

  “You should’ve come over.”

  “It was late, I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, regret thick in his voice so I know he’s telling the truth.

  My heart starts racing because of what I’m about to say.

  “You should have your own key,” I say kind of breathlessly and very quickly.

  Given how independent he is and the sworn bachelor life he’s led until now, coupled with how jittery men are about these kinds of big steps in relationships in general, my cheeks are flushed with nervousness and my heart is fluttering in my chest, as I wait for his reply. Wait to see how much damage I’ve done.

  “I was actually thinking the same thing,” he finally says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Good, it’s settled then. Meet me for dinner tonight and I’ll have your key ready for you. Then you can come and go as you please.”

  “Seven-thirty? Mario’s?”

  “Yes, and yes,” I say, throwing the blanket off my legs and standing up because I can’t sit still any longer. I wish it was seven already, but it’s not even ten AM.

  Still, at least it gives me time to finish my work. There are still a ton of emails I haven’t had time to check yet. Maybe one of them holds the spark that will take the articles I’ve yet to write in a whole new direction.

  I was too antsy to work at home and kept glancing at the computer clock to see what time it was, and how much longer before I see Mark, my silliness driving me crazy. So I came here, to my favorite coffee shop slash library slash bookstore in this whole city. It’s inside a narrow, pre-war, three-story family home. All the doors on the rooms have been removed and the ground floor houses a large coffee shop to the right of the entrance and a huge salon filled with comfy armchairs and sofas on the left. Almost all the walls are covered by floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with books in all shapes and sizes. Some are first editions of famous books, some are new paperbacks left behind by tourists, and the oldest book I’ve seen so far is a herbarium which I’m sure is from the 1800s, maybe older.
Usually, I like to sit in the salon and watch people come and go, but today, I took my coffee to one of the tiny rooms on the third floor which is just big enough for two comfy, mismatched winged armchairs, a surprisingly sturdy dark wood table and two bookshelves filled to bursting. I’m sure this room used to be a servant’s bedroom, but it’s warm and cozy and small enough that no one ever comes and joins me here unless there are no other seats available, which rarely happens.

  By three PM I’ve finished all four of the articles, two of which were due today and two which aren’t due until tomorrow. I still have more than two hours before I’m meeting Mark, and I figure I’ll just stay here, drink some more chamomile tea and finish digging through the rest of the emails. I only got through half my inbox before finding an email with photos of three newspaper articles about the women who were found raped and dead from sleeping pill overdoses a year or so ago. I remember the murders vividly because they made me afraid to go out after dark for the first time in my adult life. But the killings stopped though, and to the best of my knowledge, the killer was never caught. Yet, what if he’s now back as The Fairytale Killer? That was the gist of the articles I just got done writing.

  I start scrolling through my unread emails but don’t have to go far. A day before the emails that inspired my articles today, I was sent another, even older article than the others. This one is titled, Growing up in the House of Horror. The date on the article is September 3, 1993, and there’s a picture of two young children, a boy, and a girl, holding hands. They’re both fair-haired, the girl’s almost white hair falling across her down-turned face, so only her little nose and pursed lips are visible, while the boy clutching her hand is staring defiantly at the camera as though daring someone to come at him. The stark aggression in his eyes shoots through my chest and across the years. I’ve never seen such anger in a child’s eyes. I’ve never even seen such anger in an adult’s eyes.

  The article itself is about how the brother saved his little sister, Rebecca P. After their mother died, shortly after Rebecca was born, the two had been systematically abused by their father, a US Army officer, in their Washington D.C. family home. The house itself is out of focus in the background of the photo, only its rough walls, and ornate two-sided dark brown or black door, and two windows above it visible. Lush green vines seem to be covering most of the facade of the house. A fairytale house. But a house of horror. According to the article, the children were both physically and sexually abused by their father, until the son shot him. He was eight years old. I have no idea what to do with this.

  My phone rings, startling me. It’s Christina, my editor at The Guardian.

  “Hey, I got the emails you sent, but I’m still looking over them,” I say as I pick up. “Though I’m ready to send you the article for tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t send you any emails,” she says, sounding confused. “I was just calling to see if you’ve found any new angle on this story. I hate to say it, but the stuff coming out about it is starting to get stale.”

  I check the sender of the email. I only glanced at it thinking I read “Christina” and “Guardian” but it is actually from ChildGuardian@freemail.com. The other articles came from the same address.

  It’s not the same email as the one I got the photo of Selima as Sleeping Beauty from, though that one was also sent from a disposable email service. That photo didn’t come from anyone I know. My only contact at the police station was transferred to Munich late last year. I called him to check if he sent the photo to me, but he assured me he has no access to files related to The Fairytale Killer case.

  Christina chuckles nervously. “I’m sorry for saying it. I feel like a total bitch now.”

  “What? No, that’s not it,” I say realizing she thinks she shocked me into silence. “Let me call you back. I might have something new, but I need to research it more before I’ll know.”

  She tells me to get back to her quickly, and I promise I will then hang up, my heart still thumping in my throat.

  I look at the boy in the photo again. I’m convinced I’m looking at The Fairytale Killer, even though I have no tangible reason to think that. But I mean to find the proof. All I have is his first name, Russell, and the initial of his last name. But I can find out more, I can find out everything, I just need to do some digging and make a few calls.

  The cold, damp gust of wind straight off the icy Spree river takes my hood off as I walk out of the coffee shop at just before seven. Mario’s where I’m meeting Mark is just a few doors down. A second ago, my cheeks were uncomfortably warm from sitting in the cozy, overheated former maid’s bedroom in the coffeehouse, but now they freeze instantly in this arctic winter we’re in the throes of. Only to redden and heat up again as the piercing, shining blue eyes of the most gorgeous guy I’ve seen in the last year or more lock on mine.

  Around us, early evening darkness is making everything drab and two-dimensional. The bundled up strangers passing by in their drab, dark coats, and scarves wrapped tightly over their faces might as well be the backdrop of a stage set for all the life they’re exhibiting. Not so the man with the bright blue eyes, though. His eyes are shining with the strength of the sun, which we haven’t seen in this city for at least a week now. And this sun came out from behind the thick, dark grey clouds just for me. I’m blushing under the intensity and heat in that gaze, my stomach twisting in equal parts warning and excited, primal lust. Danger, flee! A part of my brain is saying. But why should I? He’s just looking and I’m not going anywhere with him. I’m meeting my soon-to-be live-in boyfriend in less than ten minutes, so I’m just looking too.

  It takes me a second to realize where that warning blaring part of the butterflies in my stomach is coming from. It’s below zero outside, the wind carrying ice crystals it picked up on its way from the river to here, probably off the piles of snow that haven’t melted because of the freezing temperatures. Yet this guy is wearing shorts that don’t even cover his knees and a tank top. His neck is thick and tattooed, and his arms are bulky, muscular, and tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist in an intricate design I can’t decipher in the darkness. They’re the arms of a bad boy, the kind every girl secretly wishes to have wrapped around her at least once in her life. I had a bad boy boyfriend for a couple of weeks at university, and it was fun, but not something I’ve even considered since.

  The black tank top he’s wearing isn’t skin tight, but the gusting wind has plastered it taut against his abs, which might actually be an eight pack rather than just a six-pack. His legs are muscular and shapely, the kind of legs one of those marble statues by Michelangelo would be jealous of. They’re covered by tattoos too. A vicious-looking snake is baring its poisonous fangs there, peeking from beneath his leg hair as though hiding in the grass waiting for its unwary prey. Lifelike. Threatening.

  Maybe his girlfriend just kicked him out. Maybe he got locked out of his apartment. Maybe he’s insane. The gleam in his says so loud and clear, and yet I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

  “I heard you were looking for me,” he says, his mouth stretching into a grin and revealing two sets of perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. Not fangs. Not poisonous. Not right.

  Do I flee back into the coffeehouse? Do I run down the street?

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Nope. You got the wrong person,” I say and smile, deciding that was most likely just a bad pick-up line, and it’s best to play it off as such.

  I start walking towards Mario’s, but he falls in step beside me, even putting his arm around my shoulders. He’s smiling, his eyes still shining, and his arm is much too heavy across my shoulders.

  “Nope, I don’t. Mirela said she told you all about me,” he says in English—American English.

  Piercing, sharp fear stabs through my chest right before my heart starts racing faster than it ever has. I duck from under his arm and try to run away, but he’s got an iron grip on my upper arm.

  “There, there,�
� he says soothingly, his arm once again around my shoulders, but this time he’s gripping me tight with his palm. “You’ll make the perfect Snow White, with those big blue eyes and red lips. We’ll just have to dye your hair first.”

  I open my mouth to scream, but he’s ready for it and plants his lips over mine in a kiss. I taste the open grave on his, rot and death and dust and cold. Something sharp pricks the side of my neck and a split second later unnatural cold spreads down my neck as though he’s injected me with liquid ice. Somehow, I have the presence of mind to take one of my phones from my jacket pocket and let it slip from my fingers to the ground. I have two. I can use the other to call for help.

  The world is blurred and I can’t feel my legs moving as he leads me towards the lights which are creating the prettiest bokeh I’ve ever seen.

  22

  Mark

  A pressure headache’s been building in my temples since I woke up this morning and it’s not easing up, only getting worse despite the gallon of coffee I’ve drunk and the four or so aspirin I’ve taken. Now the smell of paint in the interview rooms at the station coupled with the dust of decades that permeates every room here and the body odor of our interviewees is making me nauseous on top of it. Most of the junkies and squatters we picked up last night probably haven’t held a bar of soap yet this year, much less used it.

  The ones who aren’t refusing to speak to us have never seen a blond man at all to hear them tell it, and the ones that won’t speak are either sitting in their chairs sullenly or demanding to see their lawyers. I was about to lose it with the next one that accused me of trampling all over his human rights, which is why I retreated to the small kitchen to get another cup of coffee, which is only making my nausea worse.