Mark of Cain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  Later, they snuggled together under the covers. Katharina’s head lay on Chris’s chest. She felt exhausted, and satisfied. She caressed his skin, doing little circles with her fingers. They traveled from his chest to his stomach and down farther, to the inside of his right thigh. She felt something on his leg there, something not right. “What’s this?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t ever notice.”

  Curious, she pushed aside the covers. She discovered a scarred burn wound the size of a bottle cap. “Where did you get that?”

  “Do we have to talk about it? It’s embarrassing for me.”

  She didn’t reply, so Chris sighed. His defenses down in the afterglow of their lovemaking, he seemed unable to keep from telling her. “I did that to myself several months ago,” he confessed. “With a cigar.”

  His confession startled her. She definitely understood the inner urge to want to harm oneself, but she would have never guessed that he shared the tendency. He acted far too grounded for that. Shaken, she asked him, “Why—why on earth did you do that?”

  “Because I hated myself at the time. It was shortly before I quit. I wasn’t coping well anymore, not with a world full of violence and those images in my head keeping me awake. It was my weakness. Initially I’d seen it as a weakness, my wanting to get out. A cowardly retreat. One evening I was sitting in the living room, whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other. I had this overwhelming urge to hurt myself. I held the glowing cigar to my pants, just a thin cotton, and once I seared a hole in the fabric, I just couldn’t stop.”

  Katharina looked over the scar, in detail, picturing the scene to herself. “That must have hurt you like hell.”

  “And it stank. The pain did help me focus my thoughts, however. Now you probably think I’m crazy.”

  “Not at all,” she reassured him. “After Sarah died, I wanted to die too. Sometimes, I drive along the same stretch where they met their fate and I do it at breakneck speed, just to make sure that I want to keep on living.”

  She felt even more connected to him after their shared confessions. She kissed him on the mouth. Their tender touch unleashed a renewed desire in her.

  The next morning, Chris was sitting at Katharina’s little bistro table. He took one of the two cups of coffee she brought over. Since she normally skipped breakfast and her fridge was pretty empty, they decided they would fortify themselves in a nearby deli once they’d gotten their caffeine boost. After that they’d head for Neuss, to warn Detective Jörg Becher.

  They’d barely sat down when she noticed Chris’s curious looks around the room. She winced inside.

  “It looks like you just moved in here.”

  She stared down at her coffee cup, embarrassed. “After the accident,” she told him haltingly, “I kept on living in our old apartment, for a while. It almost cost me my sanity. The littlest things reminded me of Sarah. I kept breaking into tears. Like right now.” She wiped at her eyes. “I’d thought it was simply because of the familiar neighborhood. So I ended up moving. I hung the photos, had nice spots for mementos. But I wasn’t feeling any better. A few months ago, I took everything that reminded me of my little one down into the basement. Since then, it’s gone okay.”

  “You feel at ease here?”

  “This morning I do, a lot.”

  Chris gently stroked her face. “You shouldn’t block out that Sarah ever existed.” His hand slid down, to her heart. “She will always be a part of you. Don’t fight it.”

  “It’s so hard,” she admitted, choking back the tears. “I loved my little sweetie more than anything in the world.”

  “That’s exactly why there’s no sense in fighting her memory. Hold it close.”

  17

  Katharina and Chris knew it was going to be tough convincing police detective Becher that his life was in danger.

  “Well, here goes,” Chris grumbled. He took one last deep breath, then knocked on the office door.

  “Come in,” they heard a few seconds later. For a moment Becher just looked mildly curious, until they saw him realize he knew one of his visitors. He shot up from his chair and came over to meet them in the middle of his spacious office.

  “This is a surprise,” he said.

  “Hi there, Jörg.”

  As the men shook hands, Katharina eyed her fellow detective from Neuss. The man stood about five foot seven, his beefy build showing that he lifted weights at the gym regularly. His black shock of hair could use a neater haircut and his wrinkled shirt only emphasized the generally sloppy impression. His bright blue eyes stood out, though.

  “Jörg, this is Chief Criminal Detective Rosenberg from Cologne PD,” Chris said. “Katharina, may I introduce you to Detective Becher?”

  She showed him a warm smile, and he returned it. After a firm handshake, their host directed them to the two visitors’ chairs in front of his desk.

  “Have a seat. Want some coffee or tea?”

  Before they could answer, Katharina noticed Becher’s face changing. He was eyeing her more closely. His eyebrows rose.

  “Am I wrong or are you the one investigating the Matthias Blum homicide?” he said. “I saw the press conference on TV.”

  “I’m the one,” she said. “That’s also why we’re here.”

  In the minutes that followed, Katharina laid out their reason for coming. Chris quickly took over the conversation, though, leaving no room for doubt that he believed the threat was all too real. But Becher wasn’t convinced. He asked about the pimp in custody. Katharina informed him the man would soon be set free for lack of evidence.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little hasty?” Becher argued. “Do any real clues point to a serial killer?”

  Chris repeated his theory about the murderer targeting officers Chris had worked with, using the same methods to kill them as the previous killers.

  As Chris talked, Katharina felt the need to try and calm him down somehow. He was getting more agitated.

  “How do you think your colleague in Munich would have reacted,” Chris said, sounding like he was begging now, “if I told him a theory like this? He would have told me I was nuts; he would have. He—”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Becher cut in. “But at this point in time it’s hard to draw conclusions when there isn’t an actual series of murders yet.”

  “Blum and Renner are dead!” Chris shouted. “You understand that?”

  Becher held up his hands to placate him. Still, Katharina perceived the implied arrogance in his gesture.

  “You’re concerned for my well-being. I’m honored,” Becher said. “But let’s just suppose I really was in danger. The question remains how the killer carries out his plan. Especially since he copies other homicides. This Renner was attacked in his own home and got killed there. That can happen anytime, anywhere. The killer I arrested? He approached his victims out on the street like a homeless beggar, put them down with two shots. I promise you, I will be watching very closely in the future if any beggar ever gets close to me.”

  Katharina sighed in frustration. It was all too clear Becher thought this whole conversation was a waste of time.

  He turned to her. “I wouldn’t let that pimp go free. If these murders end up having nothing to do with one another, you will have let a cop killer walk all because of some fantasy. I just hope you’d be able to live with that.”

  Before Katharina could come up with a proper response, Chris leapt up. “I don’t believe you!” he shouted, furious. “How do you explain Renner’s corpse transported hundreds of miles from his home? How do you explain Blum’s book next to Renner’s corpse? Is that somehow just a result of our . . . our . . . overheated imagination?”

  Becher didn’t answer, so the profiler kept at it. “All those corpses, all that indescribable violence, they weren’t the only reasons I got out of police work. I also found it tough dealing with
that insufferable arrogance you’re displaying right now. So typical for you cops working cases. Why do you all think you’re so invulnerable?”

  Becher stood now. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said.

  “You know what? I don’t care. It’s your life! Katharina, let’s go!”

  Katharina did think Chris was acting unprofessional. But since she also realized Becher could not be convinced, they might as well start making their way home. Just as she was about to open the door, Chris turned around again.

  “Take care of yourself,” he told Becher, sounding conciliatory and something else: dead serious.

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” Becher promised him. Yet his offhand tone still revealed just how unnecessary he thought Chris’s warning was.

  As Katharina drove them toward the autobahn, she couldn’t stop thinking about something Chris said earlier. In the passenger seat, Chris was still brooding. Outside, the rain was pelting down; the squeaking wipers and the drumming downpour drowned out even the sound of the engine. She had thought about turning on the radio but decided against it. She asked him:

  “That arrogance you talked about back there—doesn’t it apply to me too?”

  “No. You’re a worthy exception. Jörg, on the other hand, was already testing my nerves back when we were working together. It took him a long time to be convinced I could be right about something, simply because I would use my intuition instead of any facts he’d discovered.”

  They fell silent again for a moment.

  “Could we put him under police protection?” Chris asked finally.

  Katharina grinned. “That’s a lot coming from you, seeing how you just said you didn’t care what happened to him. It’s not possible anyway. Only he can request it himself. He’d need reason to believe he was in danger. And Cologne PD wouldn’t let cops be reassigned just to guard some detective from Neuss.”

  “What if we got the police chief involved?”

  “Well, if the chief ends up giving Becher his official warning, the issue might get resolved. Meanwhile? Hopefully we’ve at least made him good and aware.”

  “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  Chris snorted. “You know what I mean. If I’m right about this, you’re on the list too.”

  “Not as the next victim,” she protested. “If you are right about this, that means he will stick to his sequence. If I request protection, then I’m sure to be left out of the investigation. I have to catch a murderer. You do understand that, right?”

  Instead of answering her, Chris stared out the passenger window.

  Klaus Matisek waited at Michaela’s apartment door, feeling quite pleased with himself. He was free finally. Over the last few nights he’d lost a ton of sleep, scared that the cops would find a way to use his carelessness against him. But apparently his fingerprints hadn’t given them enough to go on.

  He noticed someone peeking through the peephole. The chain was unlatched, the door flung open. Michaela beamed at him in surprise.

  “Klaus!” she shouted. Her voice revealed both joy and wonder. Not able to contain herself, she jumped at him.

  He hoisted her up and squeezed her tight to him, and in doing so he finally shed the fears that had haunted him while in custody.

  “So happy to be back,” he whispered into her ear.

  Their relationship had changed fundamentally because of what had happened between them before his arrest. He didn’t see her as one of his stable of hookers anymore. As Michaela’s lips found his, he made the decision to keep her away from turning tricks in the future. He carried her into the bedroom, where they celebrated their reunion the right way.

  “When did you last hear from Sandra?” Matisek asked Michaela. Their passion had subsided for the time being, and they lay cozily together in bed.

  “Several days ago,” Michaela said, still troubled about it. “I went over to her place multiple times and rang, but she was never there. I think she’s deserted her apartment. Her car’s not there out front and there’s a neighbor who’s been needing to talk to her too. I’m worried.”

  He inhaled deeply before handing Michaela his cigarette. “Me too.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’m scared Sandra could get desperate and go running to the cops, tell them stuff that will make things tougher for me.”

  “She wouldn’t do that. She’d never give up our secret.”

  Matisek looked out the window. Deep black clouds warned of another downpour. “There is no secret,” he said in a hoarse whisper, ashamed. Then he told her how he had found Blum already murdered, inside the man’s own garage.

  Once he did, he saw the relief in her eyes. She didn’t seem to resent him for letting her believe the wrong thing, not at all. Instead, she was clearly happy he hadn’t gotten his hands bloodied. Her kisses spoke volumes. The next time they made love, though, he got distracted. All he kept thinking of was Sandra. He had to find her and tell her he wasn’t the one who’d killed Blum.

  18

  Patrick Albrecht stared into the bathroom cabinet mirror. He was thinking about his stretch in the slammer. Now was that time again. He would be heading out, to honor his promise. Soon he’d be free of his debt, but until then what counted was following through with the plan.

  Albrecht opened the cabinet door, where Lydia had deposited the painkillers. He pushed one of the capsules out of its protective foil and swallowed the pill down dry. When a knock sounded on the door, he opened up, and Lydia slipped into the small bathroom.

  “So you’re going now,” she said.

  He nodded. She looked at her watch to note the exact time. In court she would be able to swear, if need be, that he had spent the night at her place.

  “Best of luck,” she muttered.

  Albrecht squeezed by her, saying nothing, and pulled on his jacket. The car key lay on the shoe rack. He picked it up and left the apartment.

  The two cops were beating back boredom by playing a video game on a tablet when the subject stepped out of the building. The officer on the passenger side immediately set the device on the backseat. Their assignment was not to lose sight of this ex-con Albrecht under any circumstances—Detective Rosenberg had made that crystal clear.

  The man was walking in a hurry through the pouring rain to a silver midsized car. As he got in, the officer on the driver’s side started the engine of their unmarked car and turned on the wipers. Albrecht drove off, and the surveillance team followed him at the requisite minimum distance. Their route took them onto the autobahn, leaving Cologne. Shadowing the man proved tough in the dense holiday traffic. When the silver vehicle exited the autobahn, the cops only noticed it at the last moment. From here on out, it would be easier to observe him.

  Albrecht eventually parked on a side street and stayed in the car, just sitting there. So they looked for a parking spot too, where they could keep their eyes on him.

  He stroked the cold steel of his pistol. A nice feeling. Although, for him, shooting someone dead was actually too impersonal of a method. Two shots, extinguishing a life. He went over the last murder in his head, recalling how he’d gotten to use tools that involved closer contact with the victim. That was more to his taste. But he had to proceed according to the prescribed pattern.

  He carefully screwed a silencer on the barrel, and he waited.

  Becher cursed, annoyed. He hated rain. Especially when he didn’t have an umbrella with him, and the defogger was pretty much useless in his car—which was getting up there in years. The windows were fogged over, and it wasn’t making his search for a parking spot any easier. He braked, rubbed at the side window with his sleeve, and kept looking for a spot that wasn’t too far from his building.

  He finally found one that just might fit his car. He turned on the blinker and put it in reverse. He ably backed the vehicle into the tight sp
ace. Before he got out, he reached for his briefcase to help shield him from the rain. Outside, he held the briefcase over his head and hurried for his apartment building.

  Albrecht watched the man getting out. He looked at the photo he’d found on the Internet and printed out using Lydia’s PC, so that there’d be no mistaken identity. Then, he counted to five.

  Becher had made it halfway to the door when he noticed the person there. Despite the rain, Becher halted on the spot. “I don’t believe it,” he snorted. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “But I thought everything was said that there is to say.”

  “In that case . . .”

  The man suddenly pulled a pistol. Becher instinctively swung his briefcase at him but missed. The man, unfazed, aimed at Becher’s stomach and fired. The impact hurled the detective backward. Becher doubled over in pain and dropped to the wet sidewalk. He automatically thought of those victims who had died before he’d caught the serial killer. A shot in the stomach had put them down; a bullet in the left eye killed them. Fighting unconsciousness, he sensed his murderer’s silhouette looming. The man bent over him, pressed the gun to his eye, and—as Becher screamed—fired once.

  19

  The man stood at the building’s front door, pulling his keys from his overcoat pocket.

  “You Clotten?” Albrecht called out once he’d come within a few steps.

  The man he was talking to turned and looked him up and down. “We know each other?”

  “Glasch sent me. Don’t make trouble. We’ll go into your apartment.”