‘No, not definite. It’s just a possibility. This sense of connection may be based simply on what he has read about you, for example … about you or one of your cases and made his choice based on that.’
‘But it could be someone whose path has crossed mine in the past, perhaps significantly?’
‘I think it’s a possibility … but only that.’
Fabel turned to Van Heiden: a look laden with meaning. Van Heiden shook his head. ‘Not that old chestnut, Fabel …’
Fabel shrugged. ‘I know. It’s just I can’t help thinking that it would fit: Svensson taunting me with this “Son of Sven” crap … telling me he’s alive and that this is his work …’
Van Heiden shook his head ‘Give it up, Fabel. Svensson is dead. He’s been dead for nearly twenty years.’
‘Who’s Svensson?’ asked Dr Eckhardt.
‘History,’ answered Van Heiden. ‘Ancient history, and nothing whatsoever to do with this case. Someone long dead.’
‘Presumed long dead,’ corrected Fabel. ‘Supposedly burned to death. But there wasn’t enough evidence to prove the body was his. His name was Karl-Heinz Svensson and he was an evil manipulative bastard who maintained a cell of young female terrorists. He was a former member of the Baader-Meinhof Rote-Armee-Fraktion who set up in business for himself. At that time there were a lot of splinter groups who didn’t share the Baader-Meinhof philosophy of going completely underground. There was the Movement 2nd June and the SPK, which predated the Rote-Armee-Fraktion, and there were the Revolutionäre Zellen, who combined active, deep-cover terrorists with “legals” working in plain sight. Then there was Rote Zora – which was exclusively female. Svensson borrowed from them all. He called his unit RAG – the Radikale Aktionsgruppe. Most of the girls he operated were in their late teens. He sent them out to plant bombs in the arcades by the Alster and to hold up banks.’
‘Fabel and I have been over this before.’ Van Heiden turned back to Dr Eckhardt. ‘Because of the inconclusiveness of the identification of Svensson’s body, Fabel suspects that he may have somehow come back from the grave to carry out these murders.’
‘Is that what you believe?’ she asked Fabel.
‘No, not necessarily. Not really. I just think it’s an option we should keep open …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dr Eckhardt, ‘I just don’t understand: why are you even considering this person as a potential suspect? I don’t see the connection between a dead terrorist and these serial killings …’
‘I admit it’s highly unlikely. And I do accept what Herr Kriminaldirektor Van Heiden says – it probably was Svensson who died in the explosion. But it was the reference to “Son of Sven” that first started me wondering … and the continuous reference to eagles. Svensson’s codename was “Eagle”. Added to that is the weird relationship he had with women.’
‘In what way weird?’
‘He seemed to need to totally dominate them. He was supposedly physically intimate with all of his group. The press dubbed them “Svensson’s Harem”.’
‘And what’s the connection with you?’
‘In 1983 they tried to hold up the main Commerzbank in Paul-Nevermann-Platz. There were three women, members of Svensson’s splinter group. They were on the way out when they stumbled into two uniformed Schutzpolizei on foot patrol. There was an exchange of fire … two of the terrorists and one SchuPo were killed and the other badly wounded. I arrived on the scene as the surviving terrorist made a run for it. I chased her to the waterfront, called for her to drop her gun, but she turned and fired. She hit me in the side and I fired back: two shots in the face and head. She died instantly. Her name was Gisela Frohm. She was seventeen years old. A child.’
‘I see.’ Dr Eckhardt removed her glasses and seemed to appraise Fabel for a moment. ‘I understand you making the link, but I have to say I think that even if this Svensson had survived, he would not be a natural suspect for these killings.’
‘Why not?’
‘He just doesn’t fit the profile – in age, psychology, anything …’ Dr Eckhardt pushed back a lock of thick raven hair that had fallen over her broad brow. She donned the spectacles again before reading from her file. ‘We’ve got two indicators from which to build a profile of our killer: the physical evidence from the murder scenes and the content of the e-mails. The broad profile we have at the moment is: male, anywhere between twenty and forty, but likely to be under thirty. He is clearly intelligent, but perhaps not as intelligent as he thinks he is. Educated to at least Abitur level, he may be a graduate working in a reasonably responsible job which he nevertheless feels is beneath him. Or he may, for some reason, have been diverted from fulfilling what he sees as his full academic potential and is in a lower-grade technical position. If he is a graduate, this would, of course, nudge the lower end of our age range up to about twenty-six.
‘As Frau Klee has already pointed out, he seems to be highly computer literate. He is likely – although not certain – to live alone. The description in the e-mail of social isolation and marginalisation is consistent with the typical profile. He is a loner: someone with a low sense of self-esteem. He feels that his intelligence is undervalued and his potential underdeveloped by the world around him … a world that he has now declared war upon. There may also have been an event – or a sequence of events – in his childhood or youth where a woman has humiliated or dominated him. Alternatively, there may have been an event where he blames his mother for failing to protect him from a domineering or abusive father. Whatever the event, it may have coincided with puberty when masturbatory fantasies may have revolved around violent revenge against women. In which case his loathing and fear of women has become indissolubly linked to sexual arousal. He may be sexually dysfunctional and impotent except when arousal and orgasm is precipitated by extreme violence against women.’
‘But there has been no semen or even signs of penetration found at the scenes,’ Fabel commented. The beautiful Frau Doktor returned his look by angling her face and peering over the top of her glasses.
‘No. But that does not mean that he has not carried out a sexual act. He may have used a condom to prevent leaving DNA traces. What is more likely is that what this person does to achieve sexual gratification is so wildly removed from normal sexual function as to be unrecognisable. And, as I said, he may be impotent. The crime is sexual in nature, but the perpetrator may not himself recognise or acknowledge its sexual motivation. And a major element that emerges from the e-mail – and from the ritualised nature of the killings – is the religiosity of this act. It’s some kind of ceremony he is committing for reasons more abstract than simple or immediate sexual satisfaction.’
Maria Klee interjected. ‘Could this be more than one person? The way you’re talking it’s like it’s almost a ritual. If it’s not political, could we be dealing with some kind of cult?’
Werner Meyer gave a hollow laugh. Both women ignored him. Fabel gave him a warning glance.
‘That is possible, but unlikely,’ answered Susanne Eckhardt. ‘If this were to be the actions of more than one person, then the profile of our principal – the person who is doing the killing – remains the same. Any other involvement would mean a manipulator … someone whose role fills the chasm left by the uncaring or abusive parent. In such cases – like the Leonard Lake and Charles Ng case in America in the eighties – one half of the pair has no self-esteem whatsoever, while the other is pathologically egotistical. But in this case, I think this is much more likely to be a solo crusade. He has spelled that out in his second e-mail. He is a lone wolf. And that, of course, is far more common than teamwork serial killers.’ Dr Eckhardt paused, slipping the glasses from her face. ‘This person is compensating for his low self-esteem through these acts. That is why I think it highly unlikely that Herr Fabel’s terrorist would fit: wrong age, wrong motivations, wrong psychology, wrong politics …’
Van Heiden responded as if he’d received a mild electric shock. ‘What do you mean, “w
rong politics”?’
‘Well, the basic psycho-profile I’ve outlined – the blaming of society for personal failings, the belief in a personal potential underdeveloped in an unjust world … almost everything, in fact, excluding the psycho-sexual trauma – also fits with neo-Nazi types.’
‘I thought you said that this was not politically motivated?’
‘Yes. I don’t think it is. This man is probably psycho-sexually motivated to kill, but, like everyone else, he has political opinions. In his case these political opinions may or may not have become grotesquely distorted from his psychotic perspective and may even form a justification – an excuse – for these acts. At least in part. My point is that a left-wing terrorist such as Svensson wouldn’t share the same profile.’
Fabel nodded his head slowly. ‘I accept all of that, but what if I am the focus of all of this? What if he is engaging me in … well, some kind of challenge. I killed one of his women so he is killing women whom I, as a policeman, am supposed to protect?’
Susanne Eckhardt laughed. ‘Now we’re swapping roles, and I have to say that’s pretty lousy psychology. It’s a tenuous link to say the least.’ She laid her glasses on the table before her, straightened her shoulders and tilted her head back, her dark eyes focused on Fabel. He felt awkward under her relentless gaze, fearful that his attraction to her might show. ‘But if you’re going to play psychologist,’ she continued, smiling, ‘then let me play policeman. You admit yourself that we’re talking about someone who is more than likely dead …’
‘Yes.’
‘And in this latest e-mail he has described himself as having “lived his life on the edge of other people’s photographs”. It doesn’t exactly fit with a headline-making terrorist with a harem of young female acolytes …’
Van Heiden laughed. ‘Dr Eckhardt, maybe I should give you Herr Fabel’s job …’ He turned to Fabel, the smile disappearing as he did so. ‘Now, Fabel, let’s focus on living suspects.’
Fabel was still watching Dr Eckhardt. Her smile remained and she held Fabel’s gaze, a hint of dark fire in her eyes.
‘Well, as I said, I saw it only as a remote possibility.’
Dr Eckhardt donned her glasses again and scanned through her report. ‘Another thing we should be looking at is previous unsolved rapes or attempted rapes. Our killer may have committed sexual assaults in the past as a prelude to the main event.’
‘Have we looked at recent attacks such as the ones Frau Doktor Eckhardt has described?’ asked Van Heiden. Werner looked across to Fabel, mimicking a ‘now why didn’t we think of that?’ expression. Another warning look.
‘Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor,’ Fabel answered. ‘We have interviewed all known sex offenders that fit the broad profile. Nothing on them. Although there was a number of attacks on women in the Harburg and Altona areas last year that we haven’t accounted for. We’re re-interviewing the victims, just in case.’
‘All right, Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel,’ said Van Heiden, ‘keep me notified. In the meantime we have an appointment to keep.’ He checked his watch. ‘See you upstairs in ten minutes?’
‘Fine.’
Fabel stepped over to the wall covered with the scene-of-crime photographs of the victims. The flash photography made the images unnaturally vivid: nauseous colours exploding across the glossy prints. They looked unreal, Goyaesque. But they were real: four long months ago Werner and Fabel had stood on a cold and wind-blasted Lüneburg Heath, collars turned up against the sharp edge of a wind born in Siberia that had swept unimpeded across the low, flat Baltic plain. It had been like a moonscape, the night illumined by the stark glare of portable arc lamps, the chill air crackling with the sibilant chatter of police radios. They had gazed down at the mutilated body of the first victim, Ursula Kastner, a twenty-nine-year-old civic lawyer who had stepped out of her office and straight into hell. She had lain before them on the heath with a gaping blackness in the middle of her chest. The next day the first e-mail had arrived for Fabel.
He became aware of Maria Klee standing beside him.
‘Why do they do it?’ Fabel spoke as much to himself as to her. His eyes ranged over the images.
‘Why do they do what?’
‘Why do they comply? The first victim seems to have met with the killer by arrangement. Her car was found parked and locked up in an autobahn rest station and there was no evidence of a struggle or violent abduction. This second victim … it’s like she invited her killer in. Or that he had a key. There’s no evidence of forced entry, or of a struggle at or near the threshold. I suppose, to a certain extent, you can understand a prostitute being, well, welcoming. But Ursula Kastner was an intelligent and safety-conscious young woman. Why did they both comply with a complete stranger?’
‘If he was a stranger,’ said Maria.
‘If he follows the typical serial-killer profile then, as you know, he will not pick victims that have prior knowledge of him …’ Susanne Eckhardt now joined Fabel and Maria.
‘So why did Kastner go with him and “Monique” let him in?’ Fabel repeated his question. Maria shrugged.
‘Maybe there was something about him that invited trust …’ Susanne paused, as if weighing up her own words. ‘Do you remember the case of Albert DeSalvo?’
Maria and Fabel looked at each other blankly.
‘Albert DeSalvo. The Boston Strangler. He murdered a dozen women in Boston in the early sixties …’
‘What about him?’ Fabel’s confusion was genuine.
‘The Boston police asked exactly the same question you’re asking: “Why did the victims let him into their apartments?”’
‘So why did they?’
‘DeSalvo was a plumber by trade. He would call at the door and say the apartment-block supervisor had asked him to call. If the victim was suspicious or protested, DeSalvo would simply say, “Okay,” and walk away as if it was no big deal to him. Because the victims didn’t want to cause trouble with their landlords, because DeSalvo obviously had the authentic tools of his trade with him and because he didn’t push the issue, they would call him back and open the door.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Maria. ‘That we should be looking for a plumber?’
Susanne sighed impatiently. ‘No, not necessarily. But it is possible that he is masquerading as something similar. Something that invites trust, even though he is a stranger to the victim.’
Maria tapped her pen against her teeth. ‘We know that this guy is, by his own admission, anonymous in appearance. Maybe he gets off on dressing as someone in authority before killing …’
‘Now, that, Herr Fabel,’ Susanne Eckhardt revealed her perfect teeth in a broad smile, ‘is much better amateur psychology than yours.’
Fabel’s eyes ranged over the images on the wall. ‘Let’s say he does embellish his ritual by dressing as an authority figure. What would epitomise authority to the victims, as well as gaining their implicit trust?’
Maria Klee stared at Fabel for a moment. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper. ‘Oh, shit.’
‘Shall I break the news to the Kriminaldirektor or will you?’
Before making his way up to Van Heiden’s office Fabel made a call to LKA7, the special division of the Landeskriminalamt dedicated to the fight against organised crime. He arranged an appointment to see Hauptkommissar Buchholz, who commanded the team that targeted the Ulugbay organisation. There was something about Buchholz’s tone that made Fabel feel that his call had been expected but was not particularly welcome. Buchholz agreed to see Fabel at half past two. After he had made the call, Fabel pulled out Klugmann’s blue file – the one containing his Hamburg police-service record. There it was, as he had expected: Klugmann had spent six months – in fact the six months immediately before his departure from the force – working under Buchholz’s direct command as a member of one of the Mobile Einsatz Kommandos.
Fabel had just gathered his papers together before heading up to Van Heiden’s office when Werner stuck h
is bristle bullet head round the office door.
‘Jan, we’ve had another message in from Professor Dorn. He’s asking again if he can see you.’
‘Did you get his number?’ Fabel did not look up and continued to gather his files.
‘Yep. He says he can help us with this case. He’s very insistent, Jan.’
Fabel still did not look up. ‘Okay. Arrange it.’
Werner nodded and disappeared. Fabel tucked the files under his arm and made his way out of the office and towards the elevator. As he did so he felt an unpleasant stirring deep in his gut, as he recalled the face of his old tutor. He could see it quite clearly. Then he tried to recall another face, a face that he also associated with the name Dorn, but found he could not.
Van Heiden’s office was on the fourth floor of the Polizeipräsidium. Leaving the lift, Fabel was immediately faced with an attractive and smiling young receptionist in civilian clothing. Her butter-blonde hair was brushed back from her face in a ponytail and she wore a sober white blouse and black suit of skirt and jacket. Fabel could have been walking into a bank, except he knew that the pretty young receptionist was a Polizistin and would have a nine-millimetre SIG-Sauer PG automatic clipped to the waistband of her skirt. After confirming his appointment, the receptionist led Fabel along the hall to a large meeting room: a long rectangle with large windows along one side which looked out, as did the briefing room below, over the Hindenburgstrasse. A long cherrywood table was flanked on each side by black leather chairs. Three of the chairs, towards the top of the table, were occupied: Van Heiden sat between a squat, powerfully built man with short black hair receding at the temples whom Fabel did not recognise and an overweight man with sandcoloured hair and a mildly florid complexion that looked as if his skin had been recently scrubbed. Fabel recognised him as Innensenator Hugo Ganz, Hamburg’s Interior Minister. Over by the window a fourth man stood with his back to Fabel, looking down at the flow of traffic below. He was very tall and wore an elegant suit that was not German, probably Italian. The three men at the table were in detailed, mumbled discussion, continually referring to notes that lay before them.
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