Rage

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  She stood up and was on her way to the door when the man was shaken by a short fit of coughing that he stifled by keeping his mouth shut. It sounded strange, a bit like a cough, and a bit like a gagging reflex. She turned around. He was sitting on the bed in the same position, with his gaze fixed on the wall, but his fingers were gripping the bedsheets. She could see that he was putting such a lot of effort into restraining his coughing fit that his eyes had glazed over.

  She went closer. A wet bronchial cough, as if his lungs were trying to get rid of something. She’d heard it at the clinic hundreds of times. Trying to suppress that sort of cough was pointless—the body so often knew best in the fight for health.

  Panic appeared in the man’s eyes. As if a stupid coughing fit were a threat. He was battling as hard as he could against his bronchial tubes, and if not for the circumstances, it would have been comical.

  Shaken by spasms, he was starting to drop the act. He glanced at Angela with hysteria in his eyes, a fraction of a split second, but it was enough for her to confirm her conviction that there could be no question of insanity.

  Finally the coughing eased, and once it stopped, the man breathed heavily through his nose.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Angela nodded to Marek, who instantly came inside and gave her a questioning look.

  “Please take the patient over to the window,” she said.

  Her tone of friendship and empathy had evaporated, and now she was the chief resident. And the laryngologist. She had no disposable gloves, no speculum or spatula, but she figured she could take a look at his throat anyway. There was something disturbing about that cough.

  The man meekly got up from the bed as Marek took him by the arm. Only now did she notice that the bed had been made in a very strange way. The top end of it had been carefully covered with a blanket, so carefully that two feet of quilt and sheets were sticking out at the foot of it. Nobody makes a bed like that.

  She went closer, and pulled off the blanket with a decisive tug. Nothing. The pillow was covered by the quilt. She raised the quilt, and once again found nothing. A pillow on a sheet. She was about to put the quilt back in place, but she peeked under the pillow too.

  She gasped. The sheet underneath the pillow and the underside of the pillow were soaked in blood, as if the man had been bleeding into them all night long.

  Something was very wrong indeed.

  “Please open your mouth,” she said, walking up to the window.

  The man trembled and shook his head; there was a look of such extreme terror in his eyes that, in spite of it all, Angela felt sorry for him.

  “Please, sir, this is no time for silly games. We all know there’s nothing wrong with you and that I could just as well write my assessment today. I’m a doctor, I need to examine you. Please quit fooling around and open your mouth.”

  As she leaned forward, the man opened his mouth wide.

  She peered into the bloody hole, and instantly regretted it.

  7

  Chief Commissioner Jarosław Klejnocki had transformed. The old Klejnocki, with glasses as thick as transparent armor, a beard, and a pipe, had been the textbook example of an eccentric intellectual whose statements can be divided into incisive, iconoclastic, and thought-provoking.

  The 2013 model looked like a fifty-year-old academic, who after many years in a happy and passionate relationship with his bookshelves, has fallen in love with a busty student. He had shaved off his beard, swapped his glasses for contact lenses, his tweedy jacket for a hoodie, and his practical haircut for a gel-styled spiky look. And he was probably convinced these efforts took twenty years off him.

  He was wrong.

  He refused coffee, but took a bottle of water and a plastic container full of bean sprouts from his sports bag.

  He made a gesture as if wanting to run his fingers through his hair, but must have remembered the gel at the last moment and withdrew his hand. Instead, he ate some sprouts, the typical compulsive behavior of someone who recently gave up smoking.

  “Prosecutor Szacki, you’re lucky I have some respect for you. Normally there would be no question of rattling about on the Polish railroad all day to get to this land of eternal fog and freezing drizzle.”

  Falk shifted nervously, and to his own amazement, Szacki felt offended.

  “I thought a trip away from the land of smog, stale air, and petty bourgeois thinking would do you good. Even you people must sometimes have to breathe in something other than curtain dust and the smell of British vomit.”

  Klejnocki squinted in surprise.

  “Eleven lakes within the city limits,” said Szacki, unable to believe he had actually uttered those words. “Two months of fog is a small price to pay for living in a tourist resort, don’t you think?”

  “I think rheumatism is a terrible affliction. But you’ll soon find out for yourself.”

  “Let’s get down to business,” said Falk.

  Klejnocki pulled out an iPad. He delayed unblocking the screen long enough for them to see a picture of a chubby brunette in a halter top. Well, she wasn’t exactly Lauren Bacall, but she was probably unrivaled when it came to filing and indexing.

  “I’ve familiarized myself with all the material, and I have several theories that might help you. But I must ask a few additional questions.”

  For the next half hour Szacki specified in minute detail the findings of the investigation, sometimes supported by Falk, who was able to demonstrate his analytical mind to such an extent that Szacki felt envious that he hadn’t been as brilliant at Falk’s age.

  When they were done, Klejnocki mulled it all over, while eating sprouts instead of lighting his pipe. He peeped into the near-empty box with the expression of a smoker who only has one cigarette left in the packet, and set aside the rest of his snack for later.

  “My answer is the stake,” he said.

  They gave him quizzical looks.

  “You, I understand, are a native of this locality as yet untouched by civilization?” he said, addressing Falk, who nodded, and then he continued. “Then your mom and dad will surely have shown you the castle at Reszel—it’s only forty miles from here in the direction of Kaliningrad. Did they?”

  Falk confirmed that they had.

  “So at this castle, in the early nineteenth century, the German powers, famous for their enlightenment, imprisoned a woman called Barbara Zdunk for four years in terrible conditions, apparently pimping her left and right to while away the time until there was a verdict in her case. This verdict was finally reached in Königsberg, where Germany’s most enlightened judges condemned the woman to burn at the stake. Yes, my dear Warmian sir, the last time anyone was burned at the stake in Europe was in Holy Warmia.” He dug a small sprout out of the box and ate it. “Why am I bringing this up? Because I think what happened to your victim is today’s equivalent of the stake. A modern stake, a chemical one, without any smoke or fire. If we accept this hypothesis and take a look at the history of burning at the stake, we can, by analogy, draw some conclusions about your culprit. Do you follow me, gentlemen?”

  “Yes,” said Szacki.

  “Which doesn’t mean we agree with you,” added Falk.

  Klejnocki smiled.

  “Well, I never, the Prince of Reason in person. You probably believe in hard evidence, DNA tests, indisputable statements, and fingerprints left on the doorframe. And you probably regard my field as shamanism, the ravings of a lunatic who didn’t fancy working in a hospital and who’s too nutty for private practice, so he had to find himself a niche. Am I right?”

  Falk made a polite gesture implying that he could only agree.

  “I don’t mind, very few people think otherwise. But please allow me to finish, seeing the taxpayer has already shelled out for my journey from Kraków.”

  Szacki decided that if Falk provoked Klejnocki into digressive effusions again, he’d turn the little punk out.

  “Treat this like an intellectual exercise,” said
the scientist, a little sourly; evidently his role was rarely questioned so blatantly. “That’s all. It won’t hurt, and it might mean you fall upon something that turns out to be important.”

  “Doctor,” said Szacki, unable to stop himself, “please get on with it.”

  “I’ve found several analogies. The first is that those who burned others at the stake in Europe were convinced they were acting righteously. Of course they were deranged, murderous madmen, just like your culprit. But there was a form of logic in their madness—it had an ideological, legal, procedural foundation. The prosecutors and judges went to bed with a sense of having done their duty, and the next morning they felt pleased to be helping society, purging the world of the bane of witches.”

  “Like in Seven,” said Falk.

  “Exactly. But in this version, don’t go looking for Hannibal Lecter and his ilk, who kill for the pleasure of inflicting suffering. Look for someone who believes he’s the only righteous man alive. He’d rather be enjoying a quiet barbecue at home, but what choice does he have when the world needs purging?”

  “So that means Najman paid for a crime he had committed?”

  “Yes, but we cannot predict the extent of the Righteous One’s mental disorder. Perhaps the victim illegally dumped toxic waste in the lake, and the killer is an eco-warrior? Please don’t forget for an instant that we’re dealing with a deranged mind. A seriously deranged mind.”

  Klejnocki reached for the sprouts—there were only a few left.

  “The second analogy is the public arena. Even if the, uh, inquisition-style preparatory proceedings were conducted in a dungeon, the executions took place in public, to entertain and act as a warning to the crowd. And to advertise the executioners.”

  “That’s not an analogy,” said Falk, shrugging. “Najman most probably died in some godforsaken spot, and then his remains were hidden in a long-forgotten bunker. And, unfortunately, the culprit isn’t standing in the marketplace waiting for applause.”

  “I think you’re wrong, Mr. Falk,” said Klejnocki. “The remains weren’t hidden—you found them a few days later.”

  “By coincidence.”

  “Do you really believe in coincidence? You, a man of reason? But let’s skip the nasty jibes,” he said, seeing Szacki’s glare. “Even to begin with, when you thought the bones belonged to a single person, it wasn’t very likely that anyone was trying to bury them there. And since you’ve known that the skeleton was carefully composed from several people, it has become totally unlikely. Nobody goes to such lengths without a purpose. This skeleton was meant to be found. And quickly. If there hadn’t been roadwork in progress, the culprit would have found another way.”

  “I can agree with that,” said Falk, “but it still isn’t analogous to a public execution. The act was performed in secret, and hardly anybody knows about it apart from us. You’re wrong.”

  Szacki clenched his hands so hard under the table that his fingernails pressed painfully into the base of his thumb.

  “Excuse me, but this is the twenty-first century, our latter-day inquisitor has to act in secret because otherwise you’d have locked him up at once. And then how would he deliver justice? But as for a public execution, please give him a chance. It wouldn’t take much for all the media to leap on it, as you’re perfectly well aware. These days it’s harder to steer a radio-controlled car than the media.”

  “So why hasn’t he done it yet?” Falk refused to let up and finally ran into Szacki’s gaze. Addressing his supervisor, he added, “It isn’t even a theory, it’s some sort of hallucination. I’m afraid we’ll be taken in by it, and get led down the wrong path.”

  “You could say the flames aren’t high enough yet,” Klejnocki continued. “The culprit wants his deeds to be noticed in all their glory. First you found the remains. Later you discovered they’re fresh. Then you found out about the horrible death inflicted on the victim. Then that the remains are ‘multiperson.’ Soon you’re sure to find something that makes his deed even more spectacular. And then it’ll be running across the news ticker on every TV screen in the country. That’s the best-case scenario.”

  “Best-case?”

  “That you’ll discover something that has already happened. The worst-case scenario is that he’ll present you with another corpse, or several—he’ll go for quantity, rather than quality. He’s crazy, let’s not forget.”

  Szacki didn’t like the sound of Klejnocki’s argument. He sincerely hoped the colorful hypothesis had nothing to do with reality.

  “Third, he’s not a lone hunter . . .”

  “Bullshit!” said Falk. “The behavioral analysis is unambiguous—serial killers always act alone.”

  “You’re insulting me by putting me on a par with those charlatans from the FBI who claim they’re capable of predicting what tie he’ll be wearing and which nostril he’ll be picking when he’s arrested.” The scientist had lost his temper. “What I do is not behavioral analysis. It’s an attempt to think in parallel, as a means of getting you out of a rut, opening your narrow prosecutor minds to something other than what you’ve already thought of.”

  “If this conversation costs you so much energy,” said Szacki in an icy tone to Falk, “I would remind you that you’re not actually involved in this investigation, and your presence is not compulsory.”

  For a moment Falk looked as if he might explode, but then he did up the top button of his jacket and nodded by way of apology.

  “Third,” repeated Klejnocki, “in this narrative, the culprit is not a lone hunter. The stakes were set alight because the force of an institution stood behind them. Also the law, as I have mentioned. Have you considered the existence of a sect?”

  Szacki shook his head.

  “I’m aware that it’s a fantastical hypothesis. But we’re living at a historical turning point. The financial crisis, social inequalities, relativism, a move away from religion, the insane Putin just across the border. These are traditionally the times when all sorts of psychics, prophets, and shamans come out to prey on human uncertainty. Besides, if we accept the idea that the culprit isn’t acting alone, a lot of things about this case become easier to explain. For one person, a kidnap, an elaborate murder, and then dumping the corpse is a huge undertaking—only a genius could do all that alone. With several people to help, it wouldn’t take a genius, just an efficient manager.”

  “I understand,” said Falk with artificial calm, “but I’d like it on record that I don’t agree with you. The killing of Najman and the others is the work of a lone madman, and it’s impossible to share madness with others.”

  “Tell that to the Holy Inquisition and your Warmian forebears who joined the Hitler Youth.”

  “I object to that. I come from a long line of Warmian Poles who were persecuted by the Germans.”

  “I see,” said Klejnocki, smiling wickedly.

  Szacki counted down from five to stop himself from exploding.

  “Gentlemen,” he said very calmly, “as far as I’m concerned you can debate this for hours when we’re done. But please, let’s finish first.”

  “Fourth and last,” said Klejnocki, holding up four splayed fingers. “This hypothesis assumes a motivation that we could call systematic. For the culprit, purging society is the overriding aim, and that’s the key to his choice of victims. But in the process he’s guided by some particular code, or the principles for specific and general deterrence as known to us from theories of law. In other words, he wants to punish a criminal or send out a message to potential criminals, to say that he and his code are on alert, and that they should watch out because his methods are much more stringent than those applied by the regular forces of law and order. This theory supposes that personal motives play no role at all. The avenging angel is not guided by such inferior motives as family injustices.”

  “That brings us back to the same point of doubt,” said Szacki. “If the principle of general deterrence is going to apply, then the case has to be publicized.
If society doesn’t know about it, the action makes no sense.”

  “And it brings us back to the same answer. Perhaps the case is going to be publicized in a while. It’s worth considering whether you’d prefer to publicize it sooner yourselves, on your own terms. An overtaking maneuver, putting a spoke in his wheel. This madman seems neurotically well organized—foiling their plans usually has a bad effect on that sort of person. Perhaps he’ll make a mistake.”

  For a while Szacki considered this proposition. It made sense. The case was too unusual, and the way they were proceeding was too ordinary and predictable. Doing something unexpected could bring a positive result.

  “Women were burned at the stake,” said Falk. “But our victim is a man. Very masculine, too.”

  “Equality cuts both ways,” said Klejnocki, shrugging.

  “And what if you were tempted to produce the typical profile?” said Szacki. “To create a portrait of the culprit, according to the theory you’ve put forward. In this version he is, as you said, neurotically precise, planning it all very carefully, and he’s convinced his actions are right. Anything else?”

  The psychologist ate the last bean sprout. He thought for a while.

  “Fair, shoulder-length hair,” he said in a confident tone. “Two kids, the older one’s astigmatic. His wife works for a paint-mixing service. He suffers from gephyrophobia, a rare psychological affliction manifesting itself in a pathological fear of crossing bridges. That’s why all his victims will be found on the same side of the river.”

  Szacki and Falk stared at him in silence.

  They didn’t even blink.

  “Jeez, you guys are so humorless!” said Klejnocki. “I’ve thought of two things that in practice would have to be present in the profile of this sort of culprit. One, he has definitely experienced personal injustice. But, nota bene, not just from another person, but from the system too—for some reason it didn’t work for him. That’s why he has decided to give the system a hand. And two, this sort of activity demands knowledge of people, of their lives and doings. He has to have a way of seeking out those who deserve to be punished. If it’s not about polluting the lake or screwing someone on the side, but about punishable offenses, he has to know enough to get to that person before the law does.”