Karl Webber sat in his hiding place with his headphones on as he watched different news bulletins about the deaths. There was no concert tonight, so any noise he made in the attic would alert security. He had to keep as quiet as possible.
The artist's impressions and the photographs released by the newspaper websites and other media amused him. Names of victims, suspects, and detailed photographs would never be shown on Dutch television. Karl surfed to the Belgian news sites.
Fortunately, websites outside the Netherlands were not subject to these restrictions. If they had names or other material, they would publish them. There were a couple of articles, but not much reading in them. He knew the Belgians had this love-hate relationship with their northern neighbors. They liked the Dutch to come to Belgium to spend their tourist money, but that was about it. He Googled the deaths to see how much coverage he had achieved around the world, and was more than surprised to find they were reported as far away as Australia.
The BBC website had a more in-depth picture on Amsterdam, and published their own map with the deaths marked out on the various streets.
He would have loved to have seen the actual aftermath, or better still get more samples. Unfortunately, his way into the pathologists' laboratory was now blocked. On Saturday night he had tried to get back but found the main lab door had been fitted with new locks.
Through the small round windows in the doors, he spotted a CCTV camera in the upper corner of the room.
Precautions had been taken. He would have to be more careful. The only way around it was to try and get samples of the bodies before they were discovered.
Karl looked at the Telegraaf's news site. A rush of delight came over him, something he had never experienced before. He stared at the large cross on the map of Amsterdam and smiled. Finally, he had left his mark, his signature. He would always be remembered, unlike Jeff, who had died alone and forgotten. His mother no different. His father had not only forgot him and his mother, he had walked out, and never heard anything from him again. He could never forgive him for that. His father was responsible for the death of his mother. He had murdered the only human being he ever truly loved.
Life was now a world away from how he thought everything would turn out. Karl realized he was not after companionship or friends. His cocooned life satisfied him. The fact that no one was there to talk to, was not a problem. Words and pictures always filled his head, but to die totally unknown and forgotten gave no real purpose to life at all. We are all put on this earth for something, a doctor once told him. Purpose was always there, although not everybody saw it.
With the first experiments there were no visible effects, nothing was discovered. He wondered if everything was being done right to justify what he was doing. He had to remind himself that he was living proof, and it did make a difference. The experiments made headline news all around the globe.
It gave him a sense of achievement and wonderment. He was famous. Karl relaxed against a large beam supporting the roof of the Concertgebouw, and smiled.
On the CNN site, they had a video connected to the article on Amsterdam. A female reporter with dark blonde hair, and wearing a light green dress, talked about Dort and showed the newspaper drawing published in the Telegraaf. Webber was disappointed. But then they showed more scenes from the Overtoom and the van Baerlestraat where the deaths had occurred.
The CNN report went back to the attractive reporter outside a police station. As she started to round off her report the camera zoomed in towards the police station, and the police sign on the front of the building.
Suddenly, something caught his eye. To the right and a couple of floors above the sign he saw someone he recognized. The same tall black man who shadowed and attacked someone, then bound him to a lamppost in the side street of the Kinkerstraat. He remembered following him back to the hotel and watched him in his hotel room unpack his bag.
He guessed he was a police officer, but now he knew for sure. What was he doing here? Was he working on the deaths? Why was he in that building? Was he looking for him? He let out a nervous laugh. He had a strange feeling he had made a connection with someone - a rare occurrence.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Amsterdam Chronicles: Def-Con City Trilogy Part 1 Page 29