The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  She looked for a free typewriter. Might as well use the time to start her report on the Haus Vaterland operation. She didn’t admit that she wanted it over as soon as possible, nor did she tell the full story of her encounter with Unger in the vegetable store. That was nobody’s business but her own, although she could hardly wait to put that bastard behind bars, him and his accomplice! Let the pair rot in jail.

  Suddenly she felt horrified at herself, at her thirst for revenge. A policewoman should know better than to let her feelings get in the way. She had almost finished the report when the door opened, and Böhm burst in, grumpy as ever. When he recognised his former stenographer his face brightened momentarily. ‘Charly, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Evening, Sir. I thought I’d stop by after seeing the murder wagon underneath the traffic tower.’

  She had toyed with the idea of going over when she saw Böhm emerge from the black Maybach, but decided to head to Moabit first, to cancel her trip with Greta and take a shower. She felt dirty everywhere Unger had touched her. After changing into fresh clothes, she drove to Alex and parked Gereon’s Buick in the shadow of the railway arches, out of sight of Castle workers entering the building.

  Böhm told her what had happened, and Steinke, who was still on the telephone, looked on with envy as the detective chief inspector took a female cadet into his confidence.

  ‘You’re sure it’s our man?’ she asked.

  ‘The sequence of events is identical. Paralysis followed by drowning.’

  ‘Has that been confirmed by Pathology?’

  ‘As good as. The perpetrator even left a red cloth at the scene.’

  ‘But a police officer! What does he have to do with the other victims?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe he saw something a week ago. When Lamkau died in Haus Vaterland. I’ve already requested the duty rotas from the Traffic Police. Perhaps we’ll get a match.’

  She wasn’t satisfied with this response – and there was something else that didn’t quite fit. ‘The rhythm’s out,’ she said, and Böhm furrowed his brow.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘The rhythm. Until now our killer has struck at intervals of approximately six weeks, but this time only a week has passed.’

  ‘That suggests it could have been a witness.’ Böhm rubbed his chin. ‘Or a copycat killer. The papers reported everything, even the part about the red cloth.’

  She shook her head. Some instinct told her Böhm was mistaken. ‘I don’t think we’re dealing with a typical serial killer here, someone with a psychological disorder.’

  ‘You can say “madman”, you know.’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t think our killer is mad. This is someone who plans his murders carefully. So carefully, in fact, that on one occasion we even ruled murder out.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The first three victims all lived in different cities, which is why he waited six weeks between each one. But now . . .Haus Vaterland is just a stone’s throw away from Potsdamer Platz and the traffic tower. Lamkau and the dead police officer lived in the same city, meaning he needed less time to prepare.’

  ‘If Sergeant Wengler fits the pattern, then he must have something to do with the other victims. The three of them are linked by this moonshining scandal.’ Böhm shook his head. ‘Perhaps if Herr Rath would make contact, we’d know more, but it seems he’s having quite the time of it in East Prussia.’

  ‘Inspector Rath?’ Steinke had thrown the name out there. Charly and Böhm both looked at him. The cadet seemed agitated. ‘Excuse me, Sir, but an Inspector Rath did telephone for you this morning . . .’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘I took down a memo. It’s in your mail tray.’

  ‘A memo . . .’ Böhm was beside himself.

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ Steinke rushed to Böhm’s desk and fished a note from one of the filing trays. ‘Here it is.’

  Charly squinted at the note in Böhm’s hands.

  DI Rath Telephone call, 11.07 Hotel Salzburger Hof, Treuburg, East Prussia, she read. Further developments in moonshining scandal. 1924: Siegbert Wengler, Sergeant Major in Berlin! DI Rath suggests surveillance operation; possible next victim should suspicion harden against Radlewksi.

  Signed Cadet Steinke, Homicide

  Böhm placed the note to one side. He breathed heavily, fixing the cadet with his gaze, then exploded. ‘This is a disgrace!’ Steinke ducked as if expecting a beating. ‘When did the call come in, goddamn it?’

  ‘I noted it at the top of the page.’ Steinke gestured towards the memo. ‘Around eleven.’

  ‘You thought I shouldn’t see it until tomorrow morning?’ Böhm spoke quietly, but sounded no less threatening than before; quite the opposite, in fact.

  ‘I thought . . .’ Steinke broke off. He was starting to realise just how badly he had dropped the ball.

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Böhm continued, ‘is when I would have been back on duty. Were it not for the fatality.’

  ‘Which is precisely why I didn’t want to disturb you, Sir,’ Steinke stammered, falling silent when he saw Böhm’s face.

  ‘A fatality that might have been prevented had you relayed the message to me on time.’

  ‘But, Sir, I thought that since you were back on duty tomorrow . . .’

  ‘If that’s the case, then perhaps it’s best you don’t think at all!’ Böhm was shouting again.

  The man cut a pitiful figure, but Charly could understand why Böhm had been so harsh. The DCI took the words out of her mouth: ‘If you had managed to relay the message to me, or any one of my team, there is every chance that Sergeant Wengler might still be alive. We might have been able to set a trap for his killer.’

  Steinke slumped to his chair and gazed at the floor, as if hoping it would swallow him up. ‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said, almost inaudible.

  The situation was becoming unbearable. Despite having treated her as though she didn’t exist, Charly felt an urge to comfort the man. Goddamn maternal instinct, she thought, there’s no way the bastard would be helping you in the same situation. She was glad when the door opened and Andreas Lange entered the embarrassed silence, gazing in confusion from one person to the next.

  ‘What are you doing here,’ Böhm growled. ‘Finished questioning witnesses already?’

  ‘Not yet, Sir. We have around two dozen uniform cops still out searching. We’ve had most success in Café Josty. The ringside seats, if you like.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think we can more or less reconstruct the sequence of events. It appears that the shift change occurred as normal, at around two o’clock . . .’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Lange held a black notebook aloft. ‘The traffic tower duty log,’ he said. ‘One of Sergeant Major Wengler’s final acts was to enter and sign the shift change at seven minutes past two. Constable Scholz’s signature is missing, despite his name being given under relieving officer. In Sergeant Major Wengler’s handwriting.’

  ‘Which means,’ Böhm said, ‘that Wengler wrote the name when he saw the relief approaching.’

  ‘But Scholz never signed,’ Charly said. ‘The question is, why?’

  Lange nodded. ‘We have a witness in Josty who is certain a uniform cop entered the traffic tower at around two o’clock.’

  ‘At two?’ Böhm looked at his wristwatch. ‘And the man’s still there now, at nearly seven?’

  ‘We questioned him around half past five. He’s a writer or something. People like that spend half their lives in cafés. Anyway, the man was clearly watching closely.’

  Böhm was sceptical. ‘He was, was he? Then tell us what he saw.’

  ‘He saw a traffic cop crossing the intersection shortly after two and climbing the ladder. Everything as normal, he says. Only he didn’t see anyone come down. At least not at two, in fact not until . . .’ Lange referred to his notebook. ‘ . . .around twenty past three. A few minutes before the chorus of horns began on Stresemannstrasse.’
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br />   Böhm was still sceptical. ‘Does your witness have nothing better to do than spend the day staring at the traffic tower?’

  ‘He watches, and he writes, is what he told me. It looks like he watches very closely. According to his statement, the man who left the tower at twenty past three was the same man who entered at two.’

  ‘You’re saying this man wasn’t Constable Scholz?’

  ‘We’ll see. My witness is currently waiting on the sketch artist in Interview Room A.’

  ‘Good.’ Böhm nodded. ‘Let’s get a warrant out for this Scholz all the same. Something here doesn’t add up.’

  ‘You’re right there.’ Lange nodded. ‘There’s something else. Dr Karthaus is now assuming that Sergeant Major Wengler didn’t die until at least three . . .’

  ‘So late!’ Böhm was disbelieving. ‘That can’t be right.’

  ‘It could be,’ Charly said. The three men looked at her. ‘But it would mean that all the while Wengler was dying, his killer was up there directing traffic.’

  52

  The night shift was the worst. The urinals and toilet bowls looked as if every passenger at Potsdamer Bahnhof had availed of them – with varying degrees of accuracy – before boarding. It was as if the whole world had conspired against him, knowing it was his task to get this disgusting piss-soaked room clean again. He hated it, hated it. This was no job for a man, but what could he do? At times like these you were lucky to have work at all.

  He wasn’t quite finished with the washroom, but wanted to take advantage of the urinals being free. He hated mopping while men peed at the wall, throwing him contemptuous glances if they deigned to look at all. He was about to get started again with his scrubber and bucket when a groan from a cubicle stopped him. No one had entered in the ten minutes or so since he’d begun.

  There was another groan. A couple of queers? The thought revolted him. Maybe he should call the police and have Vice lock the dirty bastards up.

  Now there was a crash. He crouched; a man was kneeling on the floor. It looked as if he were alone, which was something, at least.

  ‘Hello?’ he said tentatively. ‘Can I help?’ There was another groan. The man in the cubicle tried to stand up, but his legs gave way underneath him. ‘Hello? What’s the matter? Are you unwell?’ He gave the door a shake. Bolted, of course. ‘Please open up! Otherwise I can’t help you!’ The man could be having a heart attack – but how could he help if he couldn’t open the door?

  The man tried to free the bolt but lacked the strength even for that. There was a helpless jerking sound; the slide must have snagged. Suddenly there was a loud scrape and the door swung open. The man collapsed forward, slamming against the floor tiles. He was clad in underwear and socks.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Should I call the police?’

  ‘Bollisse,’ the man slurred. ‘I bollisse!’

  ‘What happened? Are you hurt?’

  The man managed to prop himself up a little. He seemed pretty dazed, but it wasn’t drunkenness. It was almost as if something were paralysing his arm and leg muscles, perhaps even his tongue. He shook his head. ‘Not buurtt.’ With that, his arms gave way once more.

  There was something on the floor of the cubicle, next to the toilet bowl. He went over and picked it up gingerly. A Berlin Police identification with a photo of the unconscious man, though here he smiled and wore a shako. Erwin Scholz, it said under the smile, Police Constable. Diagonally above was a stamp bearing the Prussian eagle.

  53

  In bygone times they’d have called it Kaiserwetter. The sky was almost indecently blue, the breeze gentle, and the air afizz with the excitement of special days. The town was in festive mood. Flags, pennants and garlands quivered on the fronts around the marketplace, the pavement glistened as after a fresh shower, and the flagpoles fluttered black, white and red, billowing like washing on the line.

  Rath had been awakened by the brass band and rose late, having failed to set his alarm. He stood in his dressing gown, gazing out on Germany’s largest marketplace. The Treuburgers in their holiday finery lined the square, standing to attention as they listened to the patriotic songs and Prussian marches. A group of youths in brown shirts stood especially straight in their freshly ironed uniforms, resolved to show themselves at their best. Their swastika brassards gleamed as if fresh from the line.

  Rath stubbed out his cigarette and went into the bathroom. He felt OK, despite having had far too much to drink last night while attempting to contact Charly. Eschewing the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Salzburger Hof, he had taken dinner in the Kronprinzen, where his fellow patrons, among them the Berlin tourist family, had watched in bafflement as time and again he interrupted his dinner to make a telephone call.

  After dessert, he had asked for a Turkish coffee and called Carmerstrasse at one or two cigarette intervals, growing more nervous with each failed attempt. Finishing his coffee, he ordered a cognac. Then a second, and a third. At some point he overcame his reservations and telephoned Spenerstrasse, by then drunk enough to contemplate an exchange with Greta. Temporarily setting aside his dislike he inquired politely as to Charly’s whereabouts.

  Greta’s response was curt. ‘On duty,’ she said. ‘No idea when she’ll be back.’

  He mumbled his thank yous and hung up.

  No idea when she’ll be back.

  Did that mean Charly was still living at Spenerstrasse? To think, he had given her his keys in the hope that she might move in and actually be living with him when he returned from East Prussia. Well, think again.

  He ordered another cognac and spent the rest of the evening wallowing in self-pity until, finally, he felt numb enough to head back to his hotel.

  There had been no need of an aspirin this morning. A cold shower sufficed. He descended the stairs, placed his key on the shiny counter of the deserted reception and stepped into the sunshine.

  The musicians were decidedly better at marching than playing. Reaching Bergstrasse, where Rath now stood with a crowd of onlookers, they wheeled left onto Goldaper Strasse and made their way towards the festival site. The crowd trailed after them like children following the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

  He let himself be carried forward, calling on Master Shoemaker Kowalski at the midway point, but to no avail. By the time he reached the park, the musicians had their positions onstage and were playing their final march. Upon finishing they sat down, enjoying the applause of the crowd and turning their attentions to the glasses of beer that had been laid out for them in advance. In the open expanse in front of the war memorial, countless rows of beer tables led to the marquee from which waiters and waitresses emerged carrying fully laden trays.

  Spying Kowalski, he fought his way through the masses to join his table. Kowalski made room and introduced the man on his right as ‘Uncle Fritz’. Friedrich Kowalski, the cobbler, wasn’t nearly as old as Rath had imagined, in his early forties perhaps. Straightaway he stood Rath a beer. Rath offered cigarettes in return.

  Moments later, the beer arrived and the band resumed its playing at a volume that precluded normal conversation. Looking around, Rath recognised the blue uniform of Chief Constable Grigat in the front row. Alongside him were two men who were unmistakably parish priests, Catholic and Protestant seated side by side. The sight of the clerical collar and cassock reassured him; anti-Catholic sentiment couldn’t be so rife here after all. At the same table were the district administrator and mayor. Evidently the town’s dignitaries were gathered, from the grammar school rector to the hospital chief doctor and newspaper editor. Two tables further along was the tourist family from the Kronprinzen, the Berliners with the spoiled children. The mother threw Rath a disapproving glance. His fondness for cognac seemed to have left a lasting impression.

  At last the band took a break. He was about to turn to Kowalski when he heard a high-pitched voice from behind. ‘Inspector?’ It was Hella, the waitress from the Salzburger Hof. ‘Please excuse the interruption,’ she said, dropping
a curtsey. ‘But I didn’t see you this morning at the hotel, and there was a telephone call for you. From Berlin.’

  ‘From Berlin? Was it a lady?’

  She shook her head. ‘A Detective Chief Inspector Blum? He requested that you call back.’ The music started up again, obliging her to shout.

  ‘Was it Detective Chief Inspector Böhm? When did he call?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘When?’

  She leaned over and spoke loudly in his ear. ‘Yesterday evening. I put a note in your pigeonhole . . .but then I didn’t see you. Anyway, I thought I’d tell you now. Perhaps it’s important . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Hella,’ he said. She stood where she was until he pressed a one-mark coin into her hand. She curtseyed again, flashing him a smile as she returned to her family’s table. He gazed after her. The way she lifted her skirt as she sat down . . .

  So Böhm had called. Well, he’d just have to wait. He focused on his beer; the local brew wasn’t so bad. When the band took another break he leaned over to Kowalski. ‘How did you get on with that list of names?’ he asked.

  ‘I had my hands full with the reading you gave me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Zip. Nothing in the paper that might’ve grabbed Radlewski’s attention, and the books you gave me are all about North American Indians. The curare poison comes from South America.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning there are no recipes for poison.’

  ‘Perhaps the librarian overlooked something.’

  ‘District library’s closed today.’ Kowalski gestured towards a table in the shadow of the marquee. Maria Cofalka, lady of letters, sat in the company of various men and women, obviously teachers, among whom Rath spotted Karl Rammoser. Rammoser looked over and raised his glass. It seemed the band were taking a longer break; at any rate the musicians’ drinks were being replenished.

  ‘What about the list?’

  ‘Give me a few hours.’ Kowalski gazed across the site and lowered his voice. ‘They’re all here, and the tipsier they get, the more likely they are to share.’