Mark of Cain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  “Oh, so, what, you just quit after you gave me that burn mark?”

  Christian shrugged, acting indifferent. “Like I said, I was a kid. I grew up. And you can’t go comparing that with what you did. We’re totally different in that respect.”

  The disparaging tone—it put Stefan over the edge.

  “It all started with that—with that mark of Cain! You—it—determined my whole life!” Stefan was screaming now.

  Christian was clearly startled. So Stefan reached behind his back and pulled out the gun. Yet Christian had quick reflexes from years of police training. Instead of gaping into the barrel all cowed, he threw his wineglass at Stefan and struck his twin’s cheek. Stefan shot anyway. The bullet bored into his twin’s forehead, the force of it hurtling him back until he slumped down, dead.

  “Shit! You fucking asshole!” Stefan shouted.

  His brother had died far too fast.

  When Stefan finally calmed down, he had a look around Christian’s house. The furnishings said a lot about his brother’s income, but the precise way Christian had arranged the furniture didn’t give Stefan the impression of comfort.

  Down in the basement, he found a gun safe. It wasn’t locked. Inside he found a precision rifle, a night-vision device, and an excellent hunting knife, along with other useful weapons. Stefan deduced from this that Christian had inherited his stepfather’s passion for hunting. A large freezer chest stood in the same room.

  Up on the second floor, the bedroom—like the living room—felt cold, however tastefully decorated. It led to a neat study with dark wood furniture. Out of curiosity, Stefan opened a drawer of the file cabinet by the desk. He ended up immersing himself in his brother’s notes. Poking around in various files, he stumbled on photos of a really attractive woman. What Christian had written about her made two things clear to Stefan: Christian had been in love with her but was somehow tortured about it, and he had spent at least one night with her—a night that only added to Stefan’s lifelong envy of his twin. Hoping to learn more about the woman, he went through all of Christian’s writings. He eventually found details regarding the four serial murders his brother had worked on, all meticulously recorded, as well as characterizations of the detectives with whom Christian had worked. What really stood out for Stefan, though, were the descriptions of the crimes and how the serial killers went about them. On top of that, Stefan read how totally burned-out Christian had felt. The prostitute killer case was making him want to give up on police work completely.

  By the time dawn was breaking outside, Stefan had created his plan.

  He removed the meat stored in the freezer chest and methodically packed his brother inside. Then he showered, slipped into a pair of Christian’s pajamas, and lay in his bed.

  So this was what it felt like to be Christian.

  To test if anyone would notice anything, Stefan spent a lot of time in the surrounding village over the next few days. He got his hair cut and styled and went shopping, and he noticed that people greeted him pleasantly. He spoke with a neighbor, who didn’t seem to suspect a thing. Eventually Stefan felt confident enough to e-mail the various agencies with which Christian had been in contact. He notified officials that he would not be making himself available for police investigations anymore. He received a good deal of replies expressing regret, but no one was surprised or tried to dissuade him from taking such a step. Christian Moll had been replaced completely.

  He sat on the sofa and thought about what had happened.

  Most of all, about when he and Christian were kids.

  His twin had pressed a burning cigarette to his thigh and marked him with a brand. Years later, long after his murder fantasies had taken control of him, he began to interpret this scar as a mark of Cain, stamping him as the brother cursed to commit fratricide. From then on, his course had even seemed predetermined.

  Reflecting on that, he lit up a cigar. His index finger felt at the scarred-over wound. He could even feel it through the fabric of his—Chris’s—expensive thin cotton pants. It was only just an ugly memory now, of all that had gone down between them—no longer as significant as all the developments it had ended up setting in motion.

  He stared at the glowing end of his cigar. An idea was forming in his head. With a steady hand, he directed the stogie to the exact same spot. The burning embers ate up the cotton. The initial sting made him start. But rather than save himself, he pressed the cigar even harder to his skin. He gritted his teeth together but had to scream out loud anyway. After he counted to five, he couldn’t hold out any longer. He yanked his hand up and stared at the burn wound, entranced by it. He had revived his mark of Cain.

  24

  Katharina reached Moll’s neighborhood right before her requested backup. She parked a street away, waiting for two special-unit vehicles to show. On the way over she had called for a twelve-man team since she couldn’t rule out that a multiple cop killer was holed up in the house. By radio she’d informed the officers posted outside the house—originally assigned for Moll’s protection—of the current situation. They reported back that a few lights were on in the house, but apart from that there was no other activity to be observed.

  “I see the following two scenarios,” Katharina said, laying it out for them in an improvised briefing. “One, the person we have inside really is the criminal psychologist Christian Moll. As it stands now, we can charge this man for withholding crucial information. Two, the identical twin of Christian Moll, name of Stefan, has taken his brother’s identity. In that case, we have to assume we’re dealing with a serial killer.” A third variant seemed too improbable for her to suggest. She couldn’t imagine Chris was the killer. If she was wrong, it wouldn’t make any difference to her police officers anyway. They couldn’t care less what the murderer’s name was.

  “We’ll assume the second possibility for now,” the unit commander decided. “Even at the risk of coming down too hard on the wrong man.”

  Katharina nodded grimly. Her instincts told her Chris wasn’t alive anymore. If she was wrong about that, then the way she saw it Chris absolutely deserved the deep fear they’d be instilling in him.

  Members of the special unit rushed up to the house in an arrowhead formation. At the arrow’s tip, a man with a battering ram got into position. He struck with plenty of force, but the massive oak door withstood the shock. Only on the second attempt did it burst open.

  “Police! Don’t move!” unit officers shouted as they stormed the house.

  “Secure!” sounded from the living room.

  More of the same shouts followed in short intervals. Inside a few minutes, they had completely searched the whole premises. There was no trace of Moll.

  He had finally arrived. He got out of his car, which, to be on the safe side, he had left parked near Christian’s house a few days ago. With every step he took to the front door, his excitement mounted. He had been planning so long for what was to come.

  Stefan Moll rang the doorbell.

  “The lighting is controlled by timers,” the special-unit commander explained. “The suspect likely fled through the backyard, out into a street running parallel, without the bodyguards realizing it.”

  “There has to be a clue here as to where he’s gone,” Katharina told him.

  The officer shrugged. “Hey, that’s your job.”

  The final seconds of waiting passed. He saw the peephole darkening. He put on his friendliest smile, which actually deluded the man into unbolting the lock.

  He kept one hand hidden behind his back. For what he now had planned, there was no formulaic procedure he had to stick to. This time he could let his imagination run free.

  The door opened.

  “Christian.” The older man looked puzzled, but his voice sounded glad at the same time.

  Then, in an instant, Stefan saw him realize his mistake, his eyes wide with fright.


  “Recognize me?” Stefan hissed.

  He wore brass knuckles on his right hand. He would use them to hurt his old man till he cried out in agony. His prey tried frantically to push the door shut from the inside, but Stefan was faster. His fist shot forward and struck the vile bastard right in the face. That sharp smacking sound made up for all those years of humiliation. Blood sprayed out his old man’s nose as he dropped to the floor unconscious.

  Stefan stepped into the house where he grew up, and dragged his stepfather away from the door.

  25

  Katharina entered the room where Chris had set up his study. Along one wall was a tall, dark wooden bookshelf, similar to one in the living room. Out there she had seen just hardcover novels; here he kept his specialized literature, the journals and official studies. A matching desk stood about six feet from the shelving, next to it a file cabinet.

  Katharina took a seat in the comfortable executive chair and opened the top drawer of the cabinet. To her surprise, she saw a photo of herself. In it she was wearing white running pants she’d bought about three months ago. At that time she’d had no contact with Chris.

  Stefan gazed happily at this blood-smeared wreck of a man whose nightmares were only just beginning.

  As his stepfather struggled to regain consciousness, Stefan stepped up close to him. The fear in the man’s eyes delighted him to the core. He smiled a moment, then spat on his victim.

  “You cannot imagine how much I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  Walter Moll tried to wipe away the spit. Stefan prevented him by driving his boot into his face. The scream of pain that rang out was like heavenly music to his ears.

  Katharina clutched the photo, her hand shaking a little. It showed her leaving her house in her workout clothes. It was likely taken on one of those evenings she’d done laps in the nearby park. Deeply disturbed, she wondered why Chris had this picture. She set it on the desk, took a deep breath, and steeled herself for going through the rest of the drawer. A folder lay on top. She took it out and opened it. The sight of more photos rushed up at her. She was in almost all of them and knew that the shots could only have been taken in secret. But what shocked her more were the images of Detectives Blum, Becher, and Renner, in the same file, all apparently taken without their knowing.

  “Fucking hell,” she exclaimed, fuming. There was only one logical explanation for these photographs existing.

  She didn’t find much else relevant in the other drawers. After that, she stood up and looked through a cabinet drawer of hanging file folders. She stooped over, scanned the labels, and figured out pretty quickly that Chris had put together a folder for each of the serial murders he’d investigated. Then she spotted an additional folder, her first name written on it with a black marker. Inside she found shots of herself pasted to white paper, these definitely older than the ones in the drawer. When she was suddenly faced with a photo showing her and her daughter together, she felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. Yet that was nothing compared to the shock of seeing an image of herself at her family’s burial. She felt a wave of nausea and got so light-headed she had to sit back down. She paged through the folder, finding more photos of her along with handwritten notes, like so many journal entries.

  She is an angel. I’m in love. From the first moment I saw her, it was all over for me. I savored every second at her side. I almost wish this case might never be solved. That way I could keep working with her forever.

  Stefan hauled up his helpless stepfather.

  “Let’s ride the carousel!” Stefan howled, ecstatic. He held Walter Moll by his right arm and spun him around in place. The older man, desperately trying not to fall, tripped on his feet. Stefan let him loose and shoved him toward a wall. He bounced off a cabinet with full force and again lost consciousness.

  His end was near. Stefan drew the knife from its sheath. What had started with the innocent little bunny rabbits, he would now bring to a close.

  The loveliest night of my life. And now she wants to pretend it had been nothing? How can she do this to me? Do I mean so little to her? In her eyes, do I somehow share the blame for the accident? Perhaps this is my chance, however. Perhaps she’ll accept the solace I offer, since she is now so alone just like I am. It just has to happen at the right moment.

  Katharina read on.

  I’ve been waiting so long. And now this. She’s cutting me off. Won’t speak to me. Just what should I do? I hate myself. My life. All of it.

  Katharina slapped the folder shut. His entries about her had ended there. She went back to the cabinet and looked at the next hanging folders. One was labeled with the word “Personal.” It contained pages crammed with more writings.

  I can’t stand it any longer. Won’t look at any more corpses. Will not put myself inside a murderer’s mind ever again. I can’t sleep anymore. These madmen are in my head and haunt me even in my dreams.

  Katharina kept paging through, faster. Chris had recorded the date for every new entry he made. The next-to-last comment, made about five months before Matthias Blum’s murder, shed light on Chris’s dark world.

  Now, of all times, my brother gets in touch with me. For the first time in almost twenty years. He’s the reason I try to analyze psychotic criminals and their horrid deeds. And now, right as my nerves are frayed almost beyond repair, he contacts me. Just what does he want? And yet I’m eager to see what tomorrow evening brings. Where was he all these years? What was he doing? Will we have anything to say to each other?

  Katharina noticed that something was stuck to the reverse side of the page. Before she took a look, she wanted to read the closing lines.

  In less than two hours, my brother will be standing at my door. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken him up on his request that we see each other again. I fear I’m making a mistake. But if I want to get rid of him, I’ll simply remind him about that scar on his thigh. The childhood memory will surely scare him away. Pretty odd, what I was capable of as a ten-year-old. I pressed a burning cigarette to my twin’s skin and got a kick out of hearing him scream in pain. How absurd!

  For Katharina, there was no more doubt. Stefan Moll had arranged this reunion so he could take the place of his twin brother.

  Apprehensive, she turned the page over. Someone had taken a photo of Walter Moll from a distance and marked his face with crosshairs.

  She rushed to grab her phone. She dialed his number with trembling fingers, panting, and heard it ringing.

  “Pick up,” she muttered in despair. No one was answering on the other end. Her hopes of saving the kind old man dwindled. She alerted the area police station and briefed them on the situation. Her colleagues there promised to send a patrol car at once. Katharina told them she was heading over to join them.

  26

  Katharina’s thoughts tumbled around in her head as she raced to her destination at high speed. The two-man protection assigned to her followed behind. So much had happened over the last few days that she had to process. After they finally arrested Stefan Moll, she would need some time for herself to deal with all the emotional chaos and avoid plummeting into that dark hole again.

  Chris’s last entry was running through her head: Pretty odd, what I was capable of as a ten-year-old. I pressed a burning cigarette to my twin’s skin and got a kick out of hearing him scream in pain. How absurd!

  At the same time, she recalled the note left on Becher’s corpse: It started on October 14, 1982. But you don’t even see it, even when it’s right in front of your eyes.

  Chris and Stefan were both ten at the time.

  But you don’t even see it, even when it’s right in front of your eyes.

  And there was something else the killer had said, during that intensely intimate moment she would now give anything to undo:

  I was hoping you wouldn’t ever notice.

  Was he really? Or did this belong to tha
t act he had put on just to string her along?

  She assumed that his twin brother had given him his injury on October 14, 1982. Yet why would that start it all? Why would such mistreatment launch a serial murder?

  Her cell rang, jolting her from her thoughts.

  “Detective Zimmerman here,” said a voice she didn’t know. “Colleagues at emergency dispatch gave me your number. You’d alerted them about Walter Moll.”

  “He alive?” she asked, desperate for good news.

  “The officers arrived too late. Walter was brutally murdered. What can you tell me?”

  “We shouldn’t be talking on the phone,” Katharina replied. “I’m on the way to you right now. Could you please leave the crime untouched till I get there? I’m investigating a multiple-officer homicide.”

  “Well, I knew Walter personally.” Zimmerman sighed. “How long will it take you?”

  “Less than a half hour,” she estimated.

  “Then, in return for my patience, I demand all relevant information you have.”

  The living room resembled a battlefield—chairs tipped over, broken glass, newspaper sections all over the floor. In the middle of the room, under an old-fashioned lamp, a vast stain of blood had spread out on the gray rug. Katharina blamed herself for not seeing the danger to Walter Moll earlier. He had been a cop too, after all, and he’d had such a close relationship with Chris. Now there was only one police officer still alive who fit the killer’s criteria. She was the last one on the hit list.