The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  “The medical examiner sent me, and the rest . . . no idea. Please sign this and point me in the direction of the vault. I’m tired and want to get home to bed.”

  “The evidence vault is at the end of the hall. Just around the corner. Last door on the left,” Mandl explained, and the deliveryman started to take his load there.

  “Wait a second.” Mandl came out from behind the desk and pointed to the barrel. “Open it!”

  The courier made a face filled with disgust. “Get out of here. The barrel and the body were stored in a warm warehouse for a long time. And my stomach is not so strong. Understand? If you don’t want me to throw up all over your place here, then let’s just leave the top on.” Mandl thought for a moment. “Have you ever smelled a rotten corpse? I have. Summer of 1916, Brussilow Offensive. I can tell you. The smell really gets to you. You never get it out of your system. But if that’s what you want, go right ahead.” He took a few steps back and held a filthy handkerchief in front of his nose and mouth. “Go ahead.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Mandl went back behind the reception desk again, signed the form, and handed it to the deliveryman.

  The man stuck the clipboard under his arm. Before he disappeared in the direction of the evidence vault, he knocked his knuckles on the top of the barrel.

  “Be back in a minute.”

  Emmerich waited a moment and then slipped out of the barrel. “Phew.” He gasped for air and stretched.

  Light-headed from the rum fumes, he took a peek out into the hallway. Kolja’s call had indeed had the desired effect. The offices of Leib und Leben were empty.

  He crept out, smiling. He liked the idea that the entire elite division of the Vienna police department was out looking for him tonight while he was strolling around their offices. On tiptoes he snuck to the next door, and his grin broadened. CHIEF INSPECTOR C. HORVAT was written in chunky letters on the door. Exactly what he had been looking for.

  With Kolja’s skeleton key it was a piece of cake to get into Horvat’s innermost sanctum, and Emmerich whistled quietly through his teeth when he turned on the lights. It made the station house where he and his lower-ranking colleagues worked look like a run-down broom closet. He locked the door and looked around: the floor of the spacious room was covered with carpeting, on the huge desk was a personal telephone, and the walls were lined with file cabinets and shelves.

  Emmerich sat down on an upholstered chair, opened the desk drawers, and inspected the contents. A pistol, a leg holster, a silver picture frame with a photo of a woman in it . . . Who was she?

  Doesn’t matter. He didn’t come here to investigate Horvat’s private life. He had to find out whether there really were cases in which women had been gutted. On a whim, he grabbed the pistol and tucked it into his waistband, then he stood up and turned his attention to the file cabinets.

  Horvat had organized his files by district, and Emmerich mulled things over. Where should he begin? Not in the neighborhoods where the elite and well-to-do lived—that was clear. A murder in those circles would have caused such an uproar that he would surely have remembered it. If there were cases, the victims would have to have been women from workingclass areas. Favoriten, Simmering, Ottakring . . .

  Following a hunch he grabbed for files for Ottakring. He just had a vague feeling. Some fragmented thoughts from the not-so-distant past. He put the surprisingly extensive stack of folders down on the desk, sat down, and started to leaf through the papers. Strangled, shot, poisoned, crime of passion, suicide, infanticide . . . , he read. A chronicle of horror, clinically sorted, labeled and noted.

  He leafed on—and there it was. Exactly what he was looking for: The Vienna Slasher. A newspaper clipping stared up at him.

  “Of course,” he mumbled. He could vaguely remember. Back in 1898—he was just fifteen when forty-one-year-old Francisca Hofer was discovered murdered in Haymerlegasse. Because of the brutality of the crime, everyone had talked about it.

  She was completely unclothed, her feet dangling down from the divan. The entire body, up to the chest, was cut open. The innards spilled out of the abdominal cavity, Emmerich read, looking at the attached sketch with disgust.

  Professor Alwin Hirschkron had undertaken the autopsy and noted in the forensic report: The murderer went out of his way to mutilate the body in an extraordinarily ghastly and unusual way. The cause of death was loss of blood, which occurred as a result of the hideous wounds to the abdominal wall and entrails.

  In addition, the file contained various witness statements, which offered no usable evidence, as well as sketches of the crime scene and the report of a psychiatrist who spoke of an extraordinary case of sadism. A handwritten note referred to similar crimes which had taken place in 1902, 1905, and 1907. As a result of the panic that broke out among the citizenry after the Francisca Hofer case, the public was left in the dark. When no further murders occurred after 1907, it was assumed that the perpetrator had either died or been conscripted, until . . .

  One other note, very recent, concerned body parts that had been found by coincidence in the Danube floodplains just a few days ago. The identity of the woman had yet to be established, but the modus operandi was clearly the same as the other murders.

  Wiesegger’s assessment: probably a cigarette roller, Emmerich read, shaking his head. How small the world was.

  A clock striking the hour startled him. He didn’t have a lot of time, and he still had no concrete information.

  I am operating under the assumption that all the murders were committed by one and the same perpetrator, Horvat had written. The long gap between murder number four (1907) and murder number five (1919) can in my judgment be explained only by a prison stay and/or military service during the war. Given the sparse evidence, potential perpetrators include L. Elsner, A. Stephan, H. Damian, C. Liebert, C. Hendrich, and J. Rau.

  Emmerich thanked his stars for Horvat’s meticulousness. The guy was incredibly well organized. He had attached the criminal files of all the potential suspects, with personal descriptions and photos.

  Ludwig Elsner was out of the question because at nearly two meters in height he was a head too tall. Andreas Stephan’s chin was too prominent. Emmerich flipped the pages and then froze. There he was. He looked younger than now and didn’t yet have a scar, but it was him. Definitely. The Beast of Lemberg, also known as the Vienna Slasher, finally had a name: Heinrich Damian.

  A noise outside reminded Emmerich of the time. Time he didn’t have left. He stuck Damian’s file into his shirt, hurried to the door, and peered out.

  “What is that supposed to mean . . . prematurely approved?” he heard the voice of the young policeman echoing down the hall.

  “Sorry. But it’s not my fault. I just do what I’m told.”

  “So what does it mean exactly?”

  “That I have to take it back. Apparently the assistants didn’t clean out the barrel properly and they’re missing a few pieces of the body. Whatever. All I know is that I have to take it back. It’s better for you and your colleagues, believe me.”

  Emmerich smirked as he crept back into the evidence storeroom.

  “A wise decision,” was the last thing he heard before he curled back into the barrel.

  39.

  So? Success?” asked Simon.

  The “deliveryman” had loaded the barrel back onto the horse-drawn carriage in which they’d arrived. Now he lifted up the top and looked inside, where Emmerich was hiding—bent like a pickle.

  “I think I found what I was looking for.”

  “Wow . . . broke out of the Landl and into the coppers’ offices. The world is going to hell in a handbasket.”

  Emmerich waited until Simon had swung himself up onto the coach box and then wriggled out of the tight container and stretched. He had really pulled it off.

  “Where to?”

  “Wait a se
cond.” Emmerich pulled the stolen file out of his shirt and scanned it in the dim light of a match. Heinrich Damian . . . born Dec 23, 1870, in Vienna . . . widowed . . . carpenter by profession . . . remanded to the Landl from 1908 to 1913 for grievous bodily harm as a result of a bar fight . . . during the war stationed in Galicia and Poland . . . residence . . . “Richard-Wagner-Platz!” he said to Simon as he continued to read.

  Damian apparently lived in 16th district and owned a successful carpentry shop and an apartment above it, where he lived.

  Simon flicked the reins and the carriage started off bumpily. About a quarter of an hour later he whispered, “We’re here,” and stopped the carriage. “No police in sight. Coast is clear.”

  “Thanks.” Emmerich climbed to the front and shook Simon’s hand. “You’re a hell of a lot better at acting than you are at tailing someone. You should think about a career in the theater. It’s also more legal than working for Kolja.”

  “But less well paid.” Simon yanked off the fake mustache he’d been wearing and pointed to the building in front of which they had stopped. “Does he live in there?”

  “I think so.”

  The young man looked at the façade. “You sure you want to go in there alone? The guy’s a dangerous nut. He wouldn’t think twice about doing the same things to you he did to people in Galicia.”

  “Let him try.” Emmerich patted the gun in his chest pocket. “I have surprise on my side.”

  “I’m happy to come along. Between the two of us we’d take him easily.”

  “Thanks, but I promised Kolja not to put you or the organization in danger, and not to take advantage of your help for any longer than I absolutely needed. Besides, this guy belongs to me and only me.”

  “Whatever you want.” Simon gave a sign to the skinny nag in front of the carriage. “Good luck.”

  He sang a song from Nestroy’s Der böse Geist Lumpazivaganbundus as he slowly drove toward the Gürtel and disappeared into the night.

  Emmerich put up his collar and looked to the east, where dawn was already breaking. What would the new day bring? There was a lot at stake. Everything, really. He gathered himself and headed to the doorway.

  HEINRICH DAMIAN, MASTER CARPENTER. TOYS AND FURNITURE. EVERYTHING YOUR HEART DESIRES, it said in large letters on the door, and Emmerich spat on the ground. He knew what Damian’s heart desired.

  When he was sure that nobody was watching, he picked the lock and opened the door. A cheerful jingle rang out. Emmerich flinched. If Damian was home, he now knew he had a visitor. He held his breath and listened for a while as he took stock of the situation, then, when he was satisfied that he was alone, he looked around, happy that the moon was with him. On one side of the room were hobbyhorses, dollhouses, and wooden cars lined up neatly on shelves. On the other side were stools, tables, and chairs stacked on each other. The place smelled of resin and turpentine. Behind a sales counter that was decorated with ornate carvings hung a child’s drawing.

  Emmerich rubbed his eyes tiredly and let his gaze wander. What had he expected? A torture chamber and the stench of decomposition? The adversary you don’t recognize as one is the most dangerous of all, he heard Oberwieser’s words ring in his ears. And Damian was dangerous. There was no doubt about that.

  He pulled out Horvat’s pistol and once again looked around. With his free hand he picked up a piece of wood from a shelf. He pressed his back to the wall next to the door and waited.

  From his apartment upstairs, Damian must have heard the jingle in his workshop. A man like him was observant and always on the lookout. Just like Emmerich now.

  Time went by. Emmerich heard a dog bark, he heard the scurry of mice and . . . the creak of wood.

  Come on, he mouthed. Where are you?

  In the next instant the door opened and a hand reached for the light switch. Emmerich didn’t wait any longer. He swung the piece of wood.

  “You goddamn . . . who the hell . . . ?”

  “We meet again,” snarled Emmerich aiming the pistol at Damian’s heart. “Give me your weapon.” Damian pressed his lips together and his nostrils flared. “Don’t even think about it.” Emmerich cocked the hammer of Horvat’s pistol.

  With a look of pure hatred on his face, Damian handed over his revolver and, with a groan, grabbed his arm where Emmerich had whacked him with the wood. “You’re supposed to be dead, you bastard.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “What do you want? Why aren’t you underground? Half the city is looking for you?”

  “And for you, Vienna Slasher. Or shall I call you the Beast of Lemberg?”

  Emmerich motioned to a chair. That Damian actually sat down surprised him. “So the day has finally arrived,” he said, grinning.

  Emmerich sat down opposite Damian. Cautiously. He had to take care. Someone like Damian could pull a trick out of his hat at any moment. And then the tables would be turned.

  “Exactly. You’re finally going to pay for your crimes,” said Emmerich, aiming the pistol directly between Damian’s eyes.

  “You’re not going to kill me. Not with your own hand.”

  “True. I have something better in mind. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in jail and slowly rot. Death would be a merciful fate compared to that.”

  Damian smiled wider. Aside from the scar he really was a small, unremarkable man. Someone who could melt into the masses without inspiring any negative suspicions. He didn’t look like a sadistic killer, more like a friendly uncle.

  And then the thought that had been trying to work its way back into Emmerich’s consciousness for a long time finally succeeded: Big and broad-shouldered, he was. An attractive man. He looked a little like Emil Jannings . . . only he was older. That’s how Josephine Bauer had described the third man, but that didn’t fit Damian. So why did she have to die?

  “And now? What are you going to do now, August Emmerich?”

  “Talk,” he said, leaning back without lowering the gun.

  Damian crossed his legs. “I’m not sure where I should begin. So much has happened.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Emmerich’s tone made clear how serious he was.

  “Then we’ll begin with Francisca Hofer. She was my first. I was still a little awkward back then, which is why it got so much attention.”

  “Forget the slasher murders. You can chat with Horvat about those. I’m not interested in Lemberg, either. I want to know what happened with your comrades. Why did you kill them?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He smiled broadly again.

  “It was about the war crimes commission, right? If everything had come out, Horvat would have put two and two together and you’d have been caught. So you had to get rid of the witnesses.”

  “Why do you ask if you already know the answers?” snapped Damian.

  “I’m asking the questions here,” barked Emmerich. “And I want to know why Josephine Bauer had to die, and why you dragged me into the whole thing. That was no coincidence.”

  Damian laughed. “True. I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?”

  “If you answer one more of my questions with a question of your own . . . ” Emmerich gestured to the piece of wood and Damian’s arm. “Now talk.”

  “Do you really think your life will ever be the way it was before? Are you really so naïve? Do you have no idea what is really behind the whole thing?” When he saw Emmerich’s agitated look, he broke out laughing. “Poor August Emmerich. You’re going to spend your whole life on the run or in prison. Or what’s even more likely: you won’t live past Christmas.”

  Emmerich’s rage gave way to uncertainty. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Damian didn’t answer. Quick as lightning he pulled a long knife from his sleeve.

  Emmerich shot to his feet. “Put it on the ground! Now!”

&
nbsp; Damian leaned back, grinning, and breathed calmly in and out as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Get rid of the knife!” shouted Emmerich. “Do you think you’ve got a chance against this?” He motioned with his head to the pistol. “Believe me, I know how to use it. You’re definitely not fast enough.”

  “But smarter . . . and more determined.”

  “Enough with the cryptic blabbering. Got it? What do Josephine and I have to do with it?”

  “So many questions . . . ” Damian laughed loudly.

  “That’s enough. Do I have to shoot you in the leg? Either you talk voluntarily or I’ll make you talk. I’ve got no scruples when it comes to you.”

  Damian nodded approvingly. “You really mean it. I’m impressed.”

  “What is it now?” He released the safety on the gun.

  “No need for that.” Damian put the knife to his throat. “I’m not going back to the Landl. You said it yourself a minute ago: death is a merciful fate compared to that.”

  “Stop, don’t do it!”

  “I’ve prepared for this day for years. Since Francisca Hofer. I never thought it would take so long for someone to find me out. Be well, August Emmerich. See you in hell.”

  Damian winked, and before Emmerich could do anything he slit his own throat.

  40.

  Lost in thought, almost as if he were in a coma, Emmerich walked aimlessly through the streets in the soft light of the new day.

  There was nothing more he could have done to keep Damian alive, and so he died without giving Emmerich the answer he needed so desperately.

  He could still hear the gurgling sound Damian had made as the life seeped out of him. Emmerich stared at his hands, which were soaked with blood. Evil. Inhuman. The Beast. In the end he was just a man. It was this thought that troubled him most.

  He knelt down next to a puddle. He scrubbed off the blood, splashed dirty water on his face, rubbed his chin, nose, forehead, and cheeks in the hope that he could wash away the horror, the fear, and the grief that had settled on him like a deadly disease.