The Constant Man

by Peter Steiner

  Eberhardt von Hohenstein, Willi’s schoolboy nemesis, had outgrown his cruelty during his final years at Barzelhof and had become an exemplary university student. He was ashamed of his earlier behavior toward Willi and Andrea Welke, and eventually sought both of them out to ask for their forgiveness.

  After serving in the trenches in the Great War, Eberhardt became a diplomat, as his father had been before him. He was a devout democrat, served throughout the Weimar time in various foreign outposts, and then left the government when Hitler became chancellor. Germany’s interests at home and abroad were no longer interests he could represent.

  Eberhardt retired with his wife, his daughter-in-law and a four-year-old grandson (Eberhardt’s son was away in the army) to the estate that had been in the von Hohenstein family since the middle ages. They lived in one wing of the gigantic stone and timber manor house. Eberhardt oversaw five thousand hectares of farm and forest. His staff of foresters and farmers lived, along with the small household staff, in the dependencies built around a courtyard in front of the house. A flock of chickens pecked in the dust and six or eight dogs lay about, getting up only to move when the sun had shifted and left them in the shade.

  Willi was staying in one of the logging huts that were scattered throughout the vast forest. ‘Stay as long as you need to, Geismeier,’ Eberhardt had said. ‘You’ll be safe here.’ The hut was four kilometers from the house on a narrow, straight two-track road, which then went on for many more kilometers through endless pine forest. Eberhardt had used this particular hut himself as a sort of retreat, and Willi had stayed there during his first flight from Munich. There was a cot, a table, two chairs, a cast-iron cook stove, cookware, tableware, lanterns, and other necessities. There was a radio that worked with a crank and had a wire antenna strung between two ancient pines. Eberhardt would drive out to the cabin every so often with a basket of food and a bottle of wine or some bottles of beer. It was summer and Eberhardt and Willi would sit outside and talk.

  Willi worked for Eberhardt as a woodcutter, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Eberhardt had lost several young woodcutters to the army. Willi wanted to get his strength back, and pulling the crosscut saw helped him do that.

  Eberhardt was a reader like Willi, but he read mostly German literature. He brought Willi books Willi knew of but hadn’t read. In turn, Willi suggested some Shakespearean plays Eberhardt didn’t know.

  Willi hadn’t read Kafka before. He had the sense when he read The Metamorphosis and then The Trial that he was reading about his own life. ‘You know, Willi, in a sense Kafka’s stories are all crime stories. Perfect for an ex-cop. They’re about crime and punishment. For Kafka, of course, human existence seems to be both the crime and the punishment.’

  Bergemann had driven east for two hours. He had stopped twice to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Willi’s was the shorter trip. He had to walk the four kilometers to the house, and then drive one of Eberhardt’s farm trucks to a rendezvous point some distance from the estate. Reinhard was now obsessed with killing Willi, and he had let the Gestapo and SS know that Geismeier was public enemy number one. There were several teams of Gestapo on Willi’s trail. They knew Willi would probably be somewhere where he had connections or knew his way around, and one such place was the Bavarian Forest near Schloß Barzelhof. Eberhardt had learned there was a Gestapo team in Passau asking questions.

  Willi and Bergemann met just inside an abandoned train tunnel near Spiegelau. Willi looked better than he had the last time Bergemann had seen him. His body had thickened up again. His hair had grown back, although now it was white. He still carried a haunted look in his eyes.

  Willi had already heard about Altdorfer’s interest in Reinhard. ‘He’s been asking anyone and everyone questions,’ said Willi.

  ‘He’s pretty clueless as a detective, but he’s not stupid. I think he’s serious about finding the killer. And Reinhard looks like his leading candidate.’

  ‘Does he have the nerve?’ said Willi. ‘He’s a washed-up captain up against one of Himmler’s disciples.’

  ‘Actually, I think he does have the nerve. But there’s only one way to know. So do we keep feeding him “suggestions” that will lead him to Reinhard?’

  ‘We could,’ said Willi, ‘but in the time it might take, Reinhard could kill again.’

  ‘What if we just feed him the information?’

  ‘He’d trace it right back to you, Hans,’ said Willi.

  ‘Well, what about someone not connected to either of us?’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ Willi considered for a moment. ‘I think I know just the person.’

  Heinz Schleiffer Gets a Letter

  It was Friday. Trude Heinemann, the mail lady, was worn out. Not just today either. Every day her knees hurt and were swollen by day’s end. She needed aspirin at night just to be able to sleep. The mail bag she carried six days a week seemed heavier than ever. She had asked for an inside job, but those jobs – sorting the mail or selling stamps – were all held by men, and none of them was about to leave. So she had decided to retire from the postal service. Dieter, her son, was grown and recently married. He had a decent job in a bank, so she didn’t have to worry about him. He talked about finding a bigger apartment and having her move in with them, but Trude liked her independence. She thought she’d stay where she was.

  She would miss her people, the people whose mail she delivered. She thought of them almost as family. She had gotten to know them over the years, knew their stories, their sorrows and their joys. Some would give her little treats from time to time, chocolates or a bottle of schnapps. Of course, then she had to carry whatever it was around for the rest of the day, which didn’t help her knees.

  There were a few sourpusses on her route. Like Heinz Schleiffer, for instance. His building was next, and she used to dread even seeing him. He had been one of the worst, an obnoxious, nasty little Nazi. But then a while back something had happened and he had changed, had gotten nicer. It had been around the time that Frau Schimmel had died. Now, there was a really nice person. She had been sick for a while with cancer. Trude had decided then that she didn’t want to wait until she was old and sick to retire. Anyway, Heinz Schleiffer had gotten nicer. He had dropped the ‘Heil Hitler’ stuff. He never strutted around in his uniform these days. And he had learned to smile. Sometimes on a nice day he would offer her a glass of lemonade or beer. He’d ask how she was, ask after her family.

  Trude rang Schleiffer’s bell. He opened the door. ‘Grüß Gott, Frau Heinemann,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, Herr Schleiffer. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got a registered package for you,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ He looked worried. ‘I hope it’s not bad news.’

  ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘Sign right here.’ Heinz signed and she handed him the package.

  He looked at it, turned it over a few times. ‘Who’s it from, I wonder?’ he said. ‘There’s no return address.’

  Trude looked at it. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It looks important. They do that sometimes. Maybe the return address is inside.’

  ‘Well, I better look into this then. Thank you.’

  Once inside he got scissors and cut the brown tape sealing the flat, brown cardboard envelope. Inside was another smaller envelope with a handwritten letter attached. Still no return address. He looked at the signature: Karl Juncker. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Herr Schleiffer,

  I was very sorry to learn of Frau Schimmel’s death. I know that you and she were close and that she valued your friendship. That is why I am asking you for a favor.

  An SS Officer investigating the Munich serial killings is going to show up at Tullemannstraße, probably on Monday. He will be looking for me, but I would like him to find the contents of this envelope instead. If you would be so kind as to put the enclosed envelope inside the top desk drawer i
n my apartment, and then, for your own safety, destroy this letter to you, it will go a long way toward bringing the serial killer to justice.

  Thank you for your help in this matter.

  Respectfully,

  Karl Juncker

  Heinz Schleiffer had the entire weekend to think about what he should do. But the answer was obvious. If he decided to follow his own course and, say, take the packet to Ortsgruppenleiter Mecklinger, who was still in charge of the neighborhood, he would himself be implicated in whatever Juncker was up to. In fact, if he was connected to this plot in any way, he would be in trouble. He would be hauled in and questioned, and he knew where that would lead.

  Karl Juncker had trusted him and had given him an out. And there was the fact, which he could not easily forget, that he had reported Juncker multiple times for something he had not done. Heinz sometimes even wondered whether he had perhaps caused Karl Juncker to be incarcerated. Of course, he had not, but the thought still weighed on him. Now all he had to do to make amends was put the envelope in Juncker’s desk and say nothing.

  The inside envelope was unsealed, almost as though Juncker wanted him to look at the contents. And Heinz went so far as to slide the papers halfway out. But the first word that caught his eye was ‘Gestapo,’ and he quickly slid the papers back into the envelope and closed it up.

  Heinz got his keys and went up to the apartment. It had not been opened for many months. There were cobwebs, dust and dead flies everywhere. One of the pictures was hanging crooked. How did that happen in an empty apartment? he wondered.

  He opened the desk drawer. There was the box of medals. He looked at the medals again and was encouraged that he was doing the right thing. He debated whether he should put the medals on top of the envelope, but decided then he should do exactly as instructed. He tiptoed out of the apartment and carefully turned the lock. He could almost have believed that Karl Juncker was watching him.

  The Evidence

  Hauptsturmführer Altdorfer had called hospital after hospital, clinic after clinic, before he had finally come up with the clinic that had sewed up Friedrich Grosz’s hand. The nurse and the doctor there both wondered that, with so many different authorities coming with all their questions, why this killer had not been caught. Four more women had been killed in the meantime. How could it take this long?

  ‘What authorities?’ Altdorfer demanded. Nurse Grosz said he was the third one. One he recognized from her description as Willi Geismeier. It made the Hauptsturmführer want to go after Geismeier all over again. Then he reminded himself who was killing women, and it wasn’t Geismeier. It occurred to him then to ask Nurse Grosz and Doctor Rosenberg if they could remember the questions Willi had asked them. Whatever else he was, Geismeier was smart. Maybe he could use Geismeier’s questions to speed up his own investigation.

  It had been a long time, so neither one could remember much. Doctor Rosenberg remembered Willi asking about drugs. Nurse Grosz remembered that she had described Friedrich Grosz to the detective’s satisfaction, but she didn’t think she could come up with the description again. However, Altdorfer had thought to find a photo of Reinhard Pabst. ‘Is this the man?’ he asked. Doctor Rosenberg couldn’t be sure, but Nurse Grosz was certain. ‘That’s him. For sure. I remember those eyes,’ she said.

  The following Monday, Altdorfer was about to begin canvasing pharmacies when he got an urgent call from Detective Sergeant Gruber. Gruber had received an anonymous tip that Willi Geismeier had been spotted in his old neighborhood. It seemed like a long shot, but every criminal slipped up at some point. Gruber had caught Geismeier once. Maybe he could do it again.

  ‘Where are you off to, Sarge?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Gruber as he was strapping on his Luger.

  ‘You don’t want back-up, Sergeant?’

  ‘No,’ said Gruber. ‘Not necessary.’ He hurried out of the office.

  Hauptsturmführer Altdorfer was waiting at the corner of Tullemannstraße when Gruber arrived. They walked to number fifty-four and rang the bell. Heinz Schleiffer let them in. They showed him a search warrant to get into Karl Juncker’s apartment.

  Heinz blinked. ‘It’s no longer Juncker’s apartment,’ he said. ‘It’s unoccupied, but his furniture is still there.’

  ‘Have you seen anybody go in or out?’ said Gruber again.

  ‘I haven’t, no. As far as I know, nobody has gone in or out for a long time. I tried to put the place up for rent, but I haven’t …’

  ‘So, you haven’t seen Juncker around?’

  Schleiffer swore he hadn’t.

  ‘Just open the apartment,’ said Gruber. ‘And do it quietly.’ He pulled his gun, although he already knew they were on a wild goose chase. Geismeier wasn’t stupid enough to show up at his old apartment in broad daylight.

  The blinds were pulled, there was dust everywhere. They searched the apartment, first the bedroom, the closets and dressers. Heinz was afraid they’d skip the desk, so he stood beside it. Eventually, though, Hauptsturmführer Altdorfer came over and opened the top drawer. He took out the envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Gruber, taking out the small metal box.

  ‘Those are his medals,’ said Schleiffer. Gruber and Altdorfer both gave Schleiffer a look. ‘He showed them to me once,’ said Schleiffer.

  Back at his office, Altdorfer went through Willi’s notes. They had been written recently and presented a damning case against Reinhard Pabst. It began with the prostitute Pabst had abused those many years earlier. She had not died after all, but had recovered and had eventually returned to her trade, telling everyone who would listen, including the police at one point, that the Pope had raped her. It turned out on further research that Reinhard had abused other women in a similarly frenzied manner. Willi had also included an account of the attack on Lola without mentioning her name.

  Once Reinhard started killing, there were the muddy footprints, the all-night streetcar lines, the focus on Briennerstraße. There was Erna and Horst Raczynski’s accounts of the attack, their description of the assailant, including the sound of his voice. Then there was the chronology after Suzanna Merkl had stabbed him, the streetcar driver’s description of Pabst and his wound, his arrival at the clinic, with Nurse Grosz and Doctor Rosenberg’s descriptions, his cold demeanor, his bitten fingernails, the bloody rag he kept, the jagged cut around his hand, then the pharmacy with its registry and the SS number and the signature. Willi had even found witnesses who saw Pabst go in and out of Briennerstraße 20. Despite the late hour, two witnesses – one a streetcar monitor stationed near the building, the other a newspaper vendor at the train station – had seen someone fitting his description. And his arm was in a sling. The streetcar monitor had noticed his ‘ruined, bloody coat sleeve.’

  ‘Did you think to call the police?’ Willi had asked.

  ‘Are you joking?’ said the man. ‘It was Gestapo headquarters. No, thank you.’

  ‘Did you see him again?’ said Willi.

  ‘Well, not right away. But then, after a while, I watched for him and thought I saw him again, also late at night.’

  ‘Why would you notice this particular man?’ said Willi.

  ‘Well, at first his arm was still in a sling, then his hand was bandaged. Anyway, it’s my job to monitor the streetcars to make sure they’re on schedule. There’s lots of time between streetcars. Watching people come and go helps pass the time.’

  Willi had written finally that, while in Dachau, he had been interrogated by SS Standartenführer Reinhard Pabst, who had become aware of Willi’s suspicions about him. The peculiar and savage scar circling Pabst’s right hand had confirmed Willi’s suspicions that Pabst was the killer, and when confronted with Willi’s accusations, Pabst had all but admitted that he was the killer.

  Hauptsturmführer Altdorfer sat for a long time contemplating what he had just read. Geismeier presented a convincing case. There could be little doubt that Colonel Pabst was the perpetrator of multiple br
utal attacks and these thirteen perverted and heinous murders of innocent women. Altdorfer also knew, however, that Pabst was a close disciple of SS Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, and Himmler was not likely to accept the testimony of a renegade police detective, an enemy of the Reich and a Dachau escapee, against the word of his fair-haired boy.

  Heinrich Himmler was in Berlin at the Prinz Albrecht Straße SS headquarters these days, occupied with other far more important matters. The Führer was finalizing war preparations, so messages were flying back and forth between the two men. Himmler had three aides whose job it was to arrange and oversee his communiqués and meetings with the Führer. A junior aide, an SS lieutenant, was responsible for monitoring all incoming messages and mail. He opened everything to make certain it was worthy of Reichsführer Himmler’s time and attention. He made certain no mail from cranks slipped in, no dangerous packages, and then delivered the appropriate pieces to Himmler’s desk.

  Himmler leafed through the stack – starting with the Führer’s messages – to see whether anything required immediate attention. Everything else went back in the inbox where it sat until the end of the day. There were always messages from various politicians or other interested parties offering suggestions or asking for support for this or that project. These messages usually commenced with flattering phrases, praising the Reichsführer’s perspicacity or expressing gratitude for his kind attention on this matter or that.

  Today the Gleiwitz matter was at the top of his agenda. Himmler’s minions had staged a false flag incident, an attack on a German radio station by ‘Polish soldiers,’ who were, in fact, German prisoners forced to dress in Polish uniforms and then killed. Hitler feigned fury. ‘This night for the first time Polish regular soldiers fired on our territory. Since five forty-five a.m. we have been returning the fire, and from now on bombs will be met by bombs.’

  By the time Himmler had finished dealing with Gleiwitz, it was almost ten in the evening. A manila envelope without return address was the last thing left in his inbox. Himmler thought he would leave it for another time. He turned the envelope over a few times, trying to see whether there were some identifying marks. Seeing none, he slid the papers out. It was a handwritten document on ordinary letter paper, but it had a business format.