Blood Eagle

by Craig Russell

  Fabel looked directly over the table at the unknown man. Van Heiden caught the look and made the introduction.

  ‘This is Oberst Gerd Volker of the BND. Oberst Volker, Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel. Please sit down, Fabel.’

  Here we go, thought Fabel. The BND – Bundesnachrichtendienst – was the intelligence service, charged with protecting the Grundgesetz: the Basic Law, or constitution, of the German Federal Republic. It was the job of the BND to monitor terrorist and extremist groups, both right and left, active or dormant, in Germany’s political landscape. And, since 1996, the BND had been involved in the fight against organised crime. Fabel’s distrust of the BND was profound. Secret police are secret police, whatever initials you give them.

  Volker smiled and reached across the table. ‘I’m pleased to meet you Herr Fabel. I read a great deal about your work on the Markus Stümbke case last year …’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘And this is Innensenator Ganz,’ continued Van Heiden.

  Ganz extended his hand; the scrubbed face did not break into a smile. ‘This is a terrible business, Herr Kriminalkommissar,’ said Ganz, demoting Fabel by several ranks. ‘I hope that you are employing all means at your disposal to put a stop to this.’

  ‘Erster Kriminalhauptkommissar,’ corrected Fabel, ‘and it goes totally without saying, Senator, that we are doing all we can to catch this killer.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re aware that the press is whipping up public concern almost to a state of frenzy …’ It was the figure by the window who spoke, turning at last to face the others. A tall, elegant, lean, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, with intense blue eyes and a long, thin, intelligent face carved with vertical lines. His hair was as much grey as blond and expensively cut. Fabel, himself an admirer of fine English tailoring, reckoned that the expensive royal-blue shirt was from Jermyn Street, London. The suit was definitely Italian. The overall effect was more of taste and style than ostentation. Fabel had never met the man before, but recognised him instantly. After all, he had voted for him.

  ‘Yes, Herr Erste Bürgermeister, it has not escaped my notice.’ Fabel spun the leather chair he was sitting on around to face Hamburg’s first mayor and leader of the Hamburg state government, Dr Hans Schreiber.

  Schreiber smiled. ‘You’re the one they call der englische Kommissar, aren’t you?’

  ‘Incorrectly, yes.’

  ‘You’re not English?’

  ‘No. I can honestly say I haven’t a drop of English blood in me. My mother is a Scot, my father was a Frisian. We lived in England for a while when I was a kid. Part of my education was there. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just curious. I’m an Anglophile myself. After all, they say Hamburg is “the most British city outside the United Kingdom” … Anyway, I find it interesting – that they call you the English Kommissar, I mean. It marks you out as … well, different. Do you see yourself as different, Herr Fabel?’

  Fabel shrugged. He didn’t see the point in this conversation and its personal tone was beginning to annoy him. The truth was he did feel different. All his life he had been aware of another, non-German aspect to his make-up. He resented it and treasured it at the same time.

  Schreiber obviously sensed Fabel’s growing unease. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Fabel, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I have read your service file and it’s clear that you are an exceptional officer. I believe you are different, that you have an edge, an added perspective that others don’t. It’s why I believe you are the man who will stop this monster.’

  ‘I have no choice,’ said Fabel, and went on to explain his ‘selection’ by the so-called Son of Sven. As Fabel spoke, Schreiber nodded and frowned as if absorbing and weighing up every morsel of information, but Fabel noticed that the Bürgermeister’s gaze ranged around the room. The motion gave the hooded, intense eyes an almost predatory look. It was as if his mind were in several places at the same time.

  ‘What I want to know, Herr Hauptkommissar, is whether you actually have a strategy?’ asked Innensenator Ganz. ‘I hope we are not allowing this maniac to set the agenda. Proactive policing is what is called for here …’

  Fabel was about to retort when Schreiber cut across him. ‘I have every confidence in Herr Fabel, Hugo. And I don’t think it’s helpful for us as politicians to dictate how the police do their job.’

  Ganz’s pink cheeks reddened further. It was clear who was in charge here. The odd thing was that, although Schreiber had said all the right things, Fabel didn’t feel totally convinced that he did indeed have the Erste Bürgermeister’s trust. Or that he in turn trusted Schreiber.

  Van Heiden broke what was becoming an awkward silence. ‘Perhaps now would be a good time for Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel to give us his report.’

  Schreiber took his place at the table and Fabel ran through a summary of the case progress to date. He punctuated his report with images from the case file. At several points Ganz looked quite ill; Schreiber’s face wore a mask of practised solemnity. Towards the end of his presentation, Fabel leaned back in his chair and looked towards Van Heiden.

  ‘What is it, Fabel? Is there something else you have to report?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Herr Kriminaldirektor. At the moment it’s only a theory but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘As I’ve already pointed out, there have been no signs of forced entry into the second victim’s apartment, nor has their been any evidence of violent struggle at first point of contact between the perpetrator and either victim. This has led us to the conclusion that either he was armed and forced compliance by threat, or the victims have, well, trusted their killer in some way. The latter means one of two things: that the killer is someone they already know – we think this highly unlikely, given the profile we’ve compiled on our killer and the disparity in the victims’ backgrounds and areas of residence …’

  ‘And the second option?’ It was Schreiber who spoke.

  ‘The second option is that our killer disguises himself as some kind of figure that carries authority or implicit trust …’

  ‘Such as … ?’ asked Van Heiden.

  ‘Such as a police officer … or a city official …’

  There was a moment of silence. Schreiber and Ganz exchanged a look that was difficult to read. Van Heiden looked miserable. Volker remained expressionless.

  ‘But that is by no means definite?’ Van Heiden’s question was more like a plea.

  ‘No. It’s not. But we have to account for the victims admitting their killer without a struggle. It could be that he turns up as a bogus workman with a plausible story, but our psycho-profile would suggest that he may enjoy the feeling of power over his victims that a police uniform or identity badge would give him.’

  A deeper redness infused Ganz’s cheeks. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to point out to you gentlemen that the Polizei Hamburg is enjoying anything other than a good press at the moment. Just yesterday I had a very – shall I say “vigorous” – discussion with the board of the Polizeikommission about what they see as institutional racism in the Polizei Hamburg. The last thing we need is some maniac wandering the streets of Hamburg pretending to be a policeman and ripping women apart …’

  Fabel’s patience snapped. ‘For God’s sake man, we can’t help it if some psychopath has chosen to masquerade as a police officer – and it’s a big “if”. It’s not something we are responsible for or have control over …’

  ‘That’s not really Innensenator Ganz’s point,’ said Schreiber. ‘The point is that the public is going to become even more distrustful of police officers if they think there’s a psychotic killer disguising himself as one.’

  ‘Only if we’re right, and then only if it gets out. Like I said, it’s only a theory as yet.’

  ‘I sincerely hope it’s the wrong theory, Herr Fabel,’ said Ganz; he was about to continue but a look from Schreiber seemed to silence him.

  ‘I’m sure that it won’t become an issue,’
said Schreiber. ‘I have every confidence that Herr Fabel will track down this monster before long.’

  Do you? thought Fabel. I’m not sure that I do.

  ‘Of course,’ Schreiber addressed Van Heiden directly, ‘I do expect us to be able to report some progress as soon as possible. I know it’s difficult for you gentlemen to take public concern too much into account – and nor should you – but I have to think about the press-generated perception of violent crime in Hamburg. Another serial killer is just one more reason for our female citizens to feel disempowered.’

  Disempowered. Shit, thought Fabel, these people don’t even speak plain German. Schreiber made towards the door. Ganz took the hint and rose from the table. Volker, the BND man, Van Heiden and Fabel all rose too.

  ‘Please keep us fully informed of your progress,’ said Ganz.

  ‘Of course, Herr Innensenator,’ answered Van Heiden.

  After the two politicians had left, Fabel turned to Volker. ‘May I ask, Herr Oberst, what the BND’s interest in this case is?’

  ‘Hopefully none.’ Volker’s over-broad smile did not somehow seem to reach his eyes. Fabel felt his distrust of the BND man deepen. ‘I am working with the Besondere Aufbau Organisation set up here in the Präsidium. Herr Van Heiden has alerted me to the fact that there may be some kind of Rechtsradikale extremist political element to these crimes.’

  Fabel nodded slowly as he processed the information. Why would a BND secret-service man working with the Besondere Aufbau Organisation have an interest in this case? The BAO was set up by the Bundeskriminalamt after the embarrassing discovery that a tiny apartment at 54 Marienstrasse in Hamburg had been the base for the terrorists who launched the September 11 attacks in the United States. At least eight of the terrorists, including the cell’s leader, Mohammed Atta, had passed through the Hamburg apartment. The German government’s response was the BAO. There were seventy Bundeskriminalamt specialists, twenty-five Polizei Hamburg detectives and six American FBI agents operating from the BAO; their exclusive focus was gathering intelligence on al-Qaeda and other Islamic terror groups. Fabel found that he resented having to discuss his case with someone whose brief was totally unrelated.

  ‘I’ve already made it clear to the Kriminaldirektor that it is highly unlikely that these are the actions of some kind of neo-Nazi.’ Fabel struggled, unsuccessfully, to keep his irritation out of his tone. Volker’s smile remained in place.

  ‘Oh yes, I understand that, Herr Fabel. Nonetheless, if there is any likelihood whatsoever that there is a political element to this, I think it best that the BND is kept up to date on the progress of the case. I promise to get in your way as little as possible … if you could just keep me informed, particularly of any developments that might signal a political element …’

  ‘Of course, Herr Oberst Volker.’

  Van Heiden stood up. ‘Well thank you, Herr Fabel, I think everyone found your report informative.’ He moved towards the door to see Fabel out. Fabel gathered his files and shook the hand Volker extended before making his way to the door.

  Van Heiden held the door open for Fabel and as Fabel passed through, Van Heiden followed him out into the corridor. He lowered his voice conspiratorially as he spoke. ‘And for God’s sake, Fabel, let me know if you find anything that proves your theory about this lunatic impersonating a police officer. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. Particularly when this latest victim seems to have been a prostitute run by an ex-Polizei Hamburg officer.’

  ‘I will, Herr Kriminaldirektor.’

  Fabel started to move away when Van Heiden placed a gently restraining hand on Fabel’s arm. ‘And Fabel … make sure you tell me first … and inform me before you pass anything on to Oberst Volker.’

  Fabel frowned slightly. ‘Of course, Herr Kriminaldirektor …’

  As Van Heiden slipped back into his office, Fabel stood for a moment in the corridor gathering his thoughts. There was something about the whole setup – the involvement of Volker the BND man, the intensity of Innensenator Ganz’s concern about any possibility of the killer masquerading as a policeman, and the way he felt the entire meeting had been ‘managed’ by Schreiber – that made Fabel feel that there was something more going on than his hunt for a serial killer. It was as if there were some other agenda to which he was not party.

  Wednesday 4 June, 12.00 p.m. Mortuary of the Institut für Rechtsmedizin, Eppendorf, Hamburg.

  The Institut für Rechtsmedizin – the Legal Medicine Institute – was responsible for all forensic medicine in Hamburg. All of the city’s sudden deaths found their way to the Institut mortuary.

  Fabel’s gut lurched at the morgue smell with which he had grown familiar but to which he had never become accustomed: it was not the smell of decay, as one might expect, but a faintly disinfectant-rinsed stale odour. There were no bodies on the stainless-steel post-mortem tables and the bleaching striplights bathed the mortuary with a cheerless, unrelenting glare. When Fabel entered, Möller, still dressed in his green scrubs, was sitting at his desk, referring to handwritten notes and then peering at the screen of his computer. In between, he absent-mindedly scooped forkfuls of a ready-made pasta salad into his mouth from a plastic tub. He did not acknowledge Fabel’s arrival.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought eating was allowed in here.’ Fabel pulled up a chair without waiting for an invitation.

  ‘It’s not. So arrest me.’ Möller didn’t look up from his notes.

  ‘What do you have on the girl?’

  ‘You’ll get the report this afternoon.’ Möller tapped the page he was writing with his pen. ‘I’m doing it now.’

  ‘Just give me the main points.’

  Möller threw his pen down onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, sweeping his hands through his hair and then placing them behind his head. He eyed Fabel with his practised, superior look. ‘Have you heard from your penfriend yet?’

  ‘Möller, I don’t have time for this. What have you got for me?’

  ‘This is an interesting one all right, Hauptkommissar.’ Möller picked up his notes. ‘The victim is female, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, one metre sixty-five tall, blue eyes, with brown hair dyed blonde. Cause of death was heart failure caused by shock and massive blood loss, in turn a result of the massive trauma to the abdomen. She was dead before the lungs were excavated.’ Möller looked up from his notes. ‘You reckon this young woman was a prostitute?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘She had not had sexual intercourse in the forty-eight hours prior to her death. The other thing is that she obviously took very good care of herself.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Her muscle tone was extremely good and there is a very low body-fat-to-muscle ratio. I would say she was either some kind of athlete or that she visited a gym frequently. She didn’t smoke and there was no trace of alcohol in her blood. Looks like her diet was good, too: her last meal was some kind of fish with pulses and her blood lipids were very low.’ Möller flicked through his notes. ‘We’ve screened her for narcotics – nothing. Notwithstanding genetic influences, if this young lady had not crossed paths with your “correspondent”, she would have more than likely lived to a ripe old age.’

  ‘Anything on the killer?’

  ‘No forensic evidence of the killer’s presence. As I said, no evidence of sexual intercourse nor of any other sexual activity. It’s definitely the same killer as the other one – or at least, the method of killing is identical. The killer made a single incision which was caused by a powerful but incredibly accurate blow to the sternum, probably with some heavy, large-bladed knife, or perhaps a sword, after which the ribs were prised open and the lungs excavated. There were stress indicators and splintering on the sheared bone edges, suggesting a sweeping, forceful blow downwards. The separation of the ribs would have taken considerable physical strength, as would the single-blow incision. This is a man all right … and the arc of penetration suggests probably not less than one metre sevent
y tall, with at least a medium build.’

  ‘That narrows it down to about ninety per cent of the male population of Hamburg,’ said Fabel, without sarcasm and more to himself than to Möller.

  ‘All I deal with is the physical evidence, Fabel. Although I am intrigued by the victim’s obvious regard for her own health and fitness.’ Möller laughed. ‘I don’t have the benefit of your experience of the underside of our city’s life, but I wouldn’t have imagined that the average Hamburg prostitute places much importance on her health – or that of her clients.’

  ‘That depends. She appears to have been high-end – taking care of her body would be an investment in … well, her product. But you’ve got a point. There’s not much about this victim that fits. Did my guys take her prints?’

  ‘Yes, they were over earlier.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Herr Doktor Möller,’ Fabel made for the door. ‘I’ll get your full report this afternoon.’

  ‘Fabel.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s one more thing …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s an old wound on the right upper thigh, outer aspect. A scar.’

  ‘Bad enough to be a distinguishing mark that could help us identify her?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think it increases your chances considerably. But it has more significance than that …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Möller turned back to his computer and punched a few keys. ‘I’ve got the photograph from the digital camera loaded into my report. Here it is.’

  Fabel looked at the screen. A picture of the woman’s thigh, the skin bleached white. There was a round mark with a lateral scar and some puckering around it. It had the look of a faint and ancient lunar crater. Möller punched a key and another image appeared. This time it was the back of the thigh. Instead of being pale, it was a lurid purple-red. Post-mortem lividity: the body having lain on its back, gravity had drawn the blood to the lowest points.