The Constant Man

by Peter Steiner

  ‘She already told police investigators all of this,’ said Horst. ‘Does she really have to go through it all over again?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Frau Raczynski, but sometimes repeating a story jars something loose – a sound, a smell, words, gestures, something you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘A smell?’ she said.

  ‘Anything,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘He smelled like soap,’ she said. ‘Like he had recently bathed.’

  ‘It was soap, not cologne?’

  ‘No, definitely soap. That hard, brown soap you can buy everywhere. We use the same soap. Everybody does.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He was talking – muttering, more like it – but I couldn’t understand anything he said.’

  ‘Could you make out any words?’

  ‘No. It was gibberish to me.’

  ‘Could it have been a foreign language?’

  ‘No. It was German, except it didn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Do you remember any phrases or even just words?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No. Nothing. It made no sense. I wish I could. Oh, God!’

  ‘That’s fine, Frau Raczynski. I know this is hard. But we might just hit on something that makes a difference.’ Bergemann paused. ‘Can we go on?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Did he ever say your name?’

  ‘Really, Detective …’ said Horst.

  ‘Wait. He may have,’ said Erna, surprised then frightened at the thought.

  ‘You think so, but can’t be sure?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘Yes … No.’ She closed her eyes as though she were listening. ‘I can hear his voice, a soft voice. He was kind of screaming and whispering at the same time, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ said Bergemann. ‘Was it a voice you recognized, a voice you had ever heard before, or heard since?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But if he spoke my name? How …?’

  ‘Can you remember how he said your name? Was it a greeting, a threat?’

  ‘I can’t say what it was. I can’t be sure. I may just have imagined I heard my name. I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. He was angry, raging.’

  ‘Is my wife in danger?’ said Horst.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bergemann. ‘It’s been over a year. If he meant to attack her again, he would have already tried. I think he has more to fear from you, Frau Raczynski, than you do from him.’

  Erna thought about that.

  ‘The pitch of his voice,’ said Bergemann, ‘was it high or low?’

  ‘It was high, quite high.’

  ‘Did he curse, or call you bad names?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  Horst’s recollection of the killer was that he was youngish, he guessed late twenties, early thirties. He didn’t seem to Horst to be strong, so much as furious. Horst was not very big, but he said he thought he could have overpowered the killer, given the opportunity.

  ‘Did he actually try to stab you, or did you just get in the way of the knife?’

  ‘I think I got in the way of the knife,’ said Horst. ‘He actually seemed shocked and frightened that he had stabbed me. That’s when he ran off. He was a very fast runner. I knew I could never catch him.’

  Bergemann spoke with the Raczynskis for nearly an hour. Which direction had the man fled, what was the night like, the weather, what had Erna been wearing, what was she carrying, what was Horst wearing? Everything he could think to ask, he asked.

  Bergemann looked through his notes. ‘One last thing, Frau Raczynski. You were an amateur actor, weren’t you?’

  ‘That was years ago. But yes, I was.’

  ‘It’s just an idea, but do you think you could … I understand if you don’t want to do this … but do you think you could imitate his voice? Just to give me the sound of his voice as you heard it?’

  ‘Oh, God!’ she said.

  ‘Really, Detective!’ said Horst yet again. ‘You’re asking her to mimic the man that tried to kill her. Can you imagine what that—?’

  Erna suddenly jumped up from her chair. Her eyes were wide with fury, her mouth was contorted with rage, the veins in her neck bulged, her fists were clenched in front of her. She made a slashing motion in Bergemann’s direction as she screamed, ‘You filthy bitch! You slut, you goddamned whore!’ It was not Erna’s voice, it was the killer’s voice, a high growl, hoarse and venomous, and filled with hatred.

  Both Bergemann and Horst stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘It was like that,’ she said, sitting back down.

  Briennerstraße 20

  The Berlin Olympics were a smashing success, many were saying the greatest Olympics ever. Hitler had overseen the construction of new facilities, including a stadium that seated more than 100,000 spectators along with other halls and arenas for a multitude of sports. The facilities were superb, and the German athletes were triumphant, winning more gold medals than any other country, including the United States. Tens of thousands of visitors had come from around the world to marvel at Germany’s miraculous rebirth, to partake of its thriving culture and booming economy. One could imagine – and many did – that the world was entering a period of peace and prosperity.

  Hitler basked in the Olympic glow for months. And yet now his great propaganda triumph was being tainted by the exploits of a lone, sick serial killer. It was no wonder that he was furious. The Führer ranted at anyone and everyone. How could one pathetic murderer outwit the entire Gestapo, the SS, all the police in Germany? His underlings scrambled to keep a lid on the story. Everyone was sworn to secrecy. Joseph Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister, forbade newspapers from printing a word about it.

  Still, rumors sprang up and grew wilder with each retelling. Every effort to suppress the lurid details and damp down speculation inspired new rumors and intensified the fear. Before long the papers had to publish the facts of the case, as terrible as they might have been, in order to keep rumors and conspiracy theories that were even worse from taking over. The Völkischer Beobachter wrote:

  ‘That such criminality should have been allowed to run rampant for more than three years is an unforgivable betrayal of the Führer’s vision for our great German Reich. It is moreover a grave betrayal of the purity and sanctity of German womanhood. The perpetrator of these eight brutal murders must be brought to justice. Unspeakable crimes such as these sully our noble German blood, and blaspheme against the essence of our German existence. These crimes are so grotesque, so counter to everything that is good and pure in the German spirit, that a Jewish cabal must be behind them. Only the Israelite sinks to such depravity. He must be caught and cast into the deepest pit of hell.’

  People were afraid to leave their homes. They started reporting false sightings of the killer, even though no one had any idea what he looked like. And because denunciation had become popular in Germany, people began denouncing one another. The man next door was acting suspiciously, or the likely killer was lurking at the train station. The police were running in circles chasing down endless stories like these.

  That the police, with all their resources and control, had been unable to solve the case and bring an end to this reign of terror was no mystery. The German police and security establishment, from the lowliest patrolman all the way up through Heinrich Himmler himself, was now completely politicized. Genuine communication among different (and often rival) departments about ongoing crime – about anything, in fact – had all but ceased. Prevailing politics made even the most basic communication dangerous to careers great and small. What passed for communication consisted entirely of administrative orders and political directives up and down the chain of command. And there was also the fear, widespread in official circles, that the killer might be one of their own.

  Bergemann had repeatedly warned Willi that getting too interested in any police investigation, particularly this one, would be foolhardy for him. He reminded him
that Sergeant Gruber was now obsessed with catching him, and this obsession was to be taken seriously. Willi was in serious danger even without taking into account Heinz Schleiffer’s imaginings about Karl Juncker or the fact that his reports on Juncker had finally gotten the attention of the SS. Bergemann gestured around the bicycle workshop where he and Willi stood. ‘You have the perfect cover, Willi. Karl Juncker is a certified bicycle repairman. Don’t jeopardize it.’

  The trouble was bicycle work was not in Willi’s blood. Fixing a bicycle, while it had its satisfactions – tuning a machine to run smoothly depended on a delicate touch and meticulous sensitivity to the machine – it had none of the allure of detective work.

  Bergemann tried again. ‘You’re still on the SS list of enemies of the Reich. If the police and the SS make common cause, if they somehow stop interfering with one another and getting in each other’s way, you’ll end up in Dachau.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hans. This case in particular is important to me,’ said Willi.

  ‘Important?’ Bergemann was annoyed. He was trying to keep Willi safe, and Willi seemed to be going out of his way to make his task even more difficult and dangerous than it already was. ‘Why? What makes it so important to you?’

  Willi reminded Bergemann why he was in Munich in the first place: Lola had been savagely attacked.

  ‘What?’ said Bergemann. ‘You’re not saying that every violent attack on women is this one guy?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that.’ Still, Lola worked at the Mahogany Room six days a week starting at three in the afternoon. And depending on how busy they were, she sometimes didn’t get out of there until two in the morning. At that hour most buses and streetcars had stopped running, and she had to walk more than half an hour through dimly lit and sparsely peopled streets to get home. And now there was a killer prowling those same streets. Lola was frightened and so was he.

  ‘Tell her to get another job,’ said Bergemann. He knew, even as he said it, that it was a ridiculous thing to say.

  Willi just gave him a look. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said, and pulled a city map from the drawer beneath his workbench and spread it out between them. There was a lamp above them on a pulley, and he drew it down so that it illuminated the map.

  Bergemann shook his head in exasperation. ‘I shouldn’t have told you about it,’ he said, as though he might have been able to keep Willi from finding out. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to let it alone.’

  Willi ignored Bergemann’s frustration. ‘Look here, Hans. I was trying to find a way home for Lola so she wouldn’t have to walk. Only a few buses and streetcars run all night. These here.’ He slid his finger across the map in various directions.

  ‘So this has nothing to do with the killer?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘None of the streetcars go in her direction,’ said Willi. ‘Then I noticed this.’ He pointed out small circles he had drawn here and there.

  ‘What are these?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘They mark where the women were attacked or where their bodies were found.’

  Bergemann sighed, but Willi went on. ‘Here’s Gabriella Mancini,’ he said, ‘and over here, Erna Raczynski.’

  Bergemann cast one last angry look in Willi’s direction, then turned back to the map. It took him a minute before he saw what Willi had seen. ‘They’re all near streetcar stops,’ said Bergemann. ‘Erna Raczynski was coming home from seeing her mother. She had just gotten off the streetcar. So, do you think all the women got off a streetcar right before they were killed?’

  ‘We can’t know that for sure. But it’s possible, maybe even likely,’ said Willi. ‘They might also have been going to or waiting for a streetcar. But, if you think about it, it seems more likely they’d gotten off, that the killer was on the streetcar with them and followed them off.’

  ‘Why more likely?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘Because the killer staking out different streetcar stops around the city, picking out a woman and then killing her there makes no sense. Unless these women all fit together somehow, unless they were all connected to the killer in some way. But this feels way more random than that.’

  ‘Did he know them?’ said Bergemann. ‘Erna Raczynski thought he might have said her name.’

  ‘But you said neither she nor her husband knew the man. I think she might be mistaken about hearing her name. Erna sounds like many other sounds.’

  ‘I had the same thought,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘I think these women had nothing to do with the killer, and he has nothing to do with them. He rides the streetcar, alone, late at night, and looks for women. He picks one out and gets off the streetcar with her. I think that’s their entire connection.’

  ‘So, you think these are the lines he rode …’

  ‘Because they run late at night. It’s just a theory, Hans. But look here.’ Willi drew another circle on the map.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘It’s where Lola was attacked.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘She was riding that line,’ said Willi. Bergemann just stared at the map. ‘She wasn’t stabbed,’ Willi said. ‘But the guy’s hand came through the umbrella and got caught. Think about it. I’m pretty sure even a strong man couldn’t just punch his hand through the fabric of an umbrella.’

  ‘So you think there was a knife,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘I do. I’m an idiot for not having thought of it earlier.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Bergemann again.

  Both men were silent for a long time.

  ‘OK,’ Bergemann said finally. ‘So what’s his connection to the streetcar?’

  ‘One obvious possibility is he works for the Munich Transportation Authority,’ said Willi.

  ‘But you don’t think so,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘Well, a streetcar man would fear that the tram routes might lead back to him. I think a streetcar man would avoid streetcars when committing his crimes. There’s a good chance he’d be recognized by a conductor or a driver. Killing where he works would be stupid.’

  ‘But he knows the system in detail. That could be useful.’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll keep an open mind on this …’

  ‘But?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘Well, regardless of who he is, there is another tantalizing … possibility.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘If we’re right about the victims and the killer getting off the streetcars where the women were then killed, we may also know where the killer gets on.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bergemann. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, look at the map. There are six streetcar lines that run through the night.’ Willi pointed them out again. ‘And of those six he only used three. Why those three?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘Well, I think we can safely assume he’s an orderly killer. The murders not only look similar. He kills exactly the same way each time; he is savage in the same way, he cleans the knife the same way each time – it’s almost ritualistic. In any case, being involved in a very risky scheme, a man like this – compulsive, systematic – wouldn’t deviate from his familiar ways any more than he has to. He wants to avoid surprises. He wants things to play out the same way each time. So he probably sets off from the same place each time.’

  ‘Near home?’

  ‘Maybe, but not necessarily. But somewhere secure, some place where he’s familiar with the setting and feels safe. He might be anonymous there, or there might be crowds. But one place, the same place each time. Where the ritual begins.’

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘That would be where the three lines cross.’ Willi pointed to the map. ‘Right here: Karolinenplatz. This is where he starts his hunt. It’s central, near the train station.’

  ‘Karolinenplatz?’ said Bergemann. ‘A safe place? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why?’ said Willi. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Bergemann slid his finger east from Karoline
nplatz on Briennerstraße. ‘Briennerstraße twenty,’ he said.

  ‘What’s there?’ said Willi.

  ‘Gestapo headquarters.’

  The Green Dress

  It was ten in the evening. Big, wet snowflakes swirled around the street lights and were sticking to the ground. This had the makings of a substantial snowfall. Willi turned up his collar and pulled his hat down to his ears.

  Heinz Schleiffer was out front clearing the walk with a broom. ‘Guten Abend, Herr Juncker,’ he said, trying to sound friendly. He had decided to treat Karl Juncker respectfully, even though he took him for a suspicious character. That way, Schleiffer figured, he wouldn’t arouse Juncker’s suspicions in return.

  Schleiffer had lately reported to Ortsgruppenleiter Mecklinger (or rather to Irmgard Kinski, since the Ortsgruppenleiter would no longer see him) that he suspected that Karl Juncker might be Munich’s serial killer. Frau Kinski had written down Schleiffer’s ‘information’ and given it to the Ortsgruppenleiter. Mecklinger had read her note, snorted, and thrown it in the trash.

  Heinz Schleiffer watched Karl Juncker walk down the street until he disappeared into the blowing snow. He made a mental note to check the newspaper in the morning to see whether another woman had been killed. Willi turned the corner and got on the streetcar that was waiting there at the end of the line. He walked to the back of the second car. The conductor punched his ticket. After a few more minutes the streetcar rumbled off down the street.

  Willi understood that there might be dozens of security people – SS, Sicherheitspolizei, certainly Gestapo – working on finding the serial killer. Himmler would probably have seen to that by now. And if he, Willi, had figured out the streetcar line connection, then they would soon figure it out too, if they hadn’t already. In any case, he understood it was dangerous for him to be prowling around this way.

  The streetcar’s iron wheels squealed as they rounded corners. More people got on at the next station, and more at the station after that. They were mostly men on their way to or from work. They dozed or gazed absently through the windows at the falling snow. After several more stops Willi got off and transferred to the line along which Erna Raczynski had been attacked. There were twenty-five or so passengers in the two cars. They were heading toward the center of Munich. There was a uniformed policeman in the second car. Willi took a seat toward the front of the first car.