The Camera Killer

  Straight ahead, standing on top of a tall closet, was a big television set of approximately fifteen years’ vintage. It was showing a view of some countryside taken from a helicopter (the sound and speed of travel made it unlikely that it was an ordinary airplane). People in the room were calling out place names they recognized. In a voice breaking with emotion, the reporter stated that the red VW Golf now being pursued by police cars belonged to a man suspected of being the camera killer, who was trying to evade arrest. “Perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, we shall very soon witness the capture of the world’s vilest criminal—let us hope so. The whole country, nay, half of the world, is behind the brave men in uniform who are even now risking their lives at 100 mph on this road in West Styria.”

  Everyone in the room was yelling wildly: “They’ve nabbed the swine,” “The bastard’s going to be caught,” “String him up,” etc. The reporter referred to a roadblock that came into view soon afterward.

  This is incredible, Heinrich shouted, just look.

  And my partner pinched me on the arm.

  A man beside me—someone I’d never seen before—turned to me and said they ought to shoot the camera killer on the spot, not let him get out of the car. A few bullets through the driver’s door and he would have had it. Self-defense—something had glinted inside the car and they’d thought it was a gun. Bang-bang—simple as that. He toasted me with his beer mug.

  The fugitive’s car came to a stop with squad cars behind and beside it. Uproar in the room. One or two more thoughtful souls called for quiet.

  The policemen jumped out of their cars and aimed their weapons at the figure seated in the sedan. After a while, the man got out with his hands up. Just as he was being handcuffed, the camera zoomed in as close as possible to the scene of the action. We could almost distinguish the man’s features. The angry yelling in the inn reached its climax. After some minutes’ noisy expressions of satisfaction, the helicopter reporter could be heard once more.

  A little while later, a police chief appeared on the screen. He was asked by jostling, shoving journalists if that was the murderer. Had he been caught? The police chief replied that the young man was only one suspect among several. He had rendered himself exceptionally suspicious by dropping out of sight on the night of Holy Thursday, and the police had finally run him to earth at a remote country inn. All further questions would be answered at a press conference scheduled for 3:00 p.m.

  At that moment, the proprietress turned off the television and called to everyone to go on with their meals. This injunction was greeted with universal hilarity. The crowd gradually dispersed.

  As my partner and I slowly returned to our table, step by step, we were engaged in conversation by total strangers. Was he from around here? Had he murdered more than once? Shouldn’t he have been killed on the spot? Would we take part in the referendum? And so on.

  Back at the table, Heinrich said it was great. Yesterday they’d televised the service in St. Stephen’s Cathedral, but today they’d cut off the pope in mid-benediction. The seculars had obviously won the power struggle at Austrian Broadcasting.

  Eva cast her eyes up to heaven. She said she was very happy at the outcome of this business and trusted that all future conversations and their guests’ last day (i.e., tomorrow) would be unspoiled by the subject of murder. My partner fervently agreed.

  Heinrich, extracting a toothpick from its wrapper, which bore the printed inscription Holz-Berger, said he wasn’t sure they’d gotten the right man. Eva rolled her eyes again and told him to stop it; he would find out soon enough.

  Heinrich grinned and asked my partner if she was now prepared to be the first to enter the Stubenrauchs’ house, possibly even on her own, and check it for the presence of some stranger who might be equipped with a video camera. Eva vigorously reprimanded him. It was time he stopped these silly games, she said; the matter was settled. Heinrich gleefully apologized. My partner brushed this aside. She wasn’t going to drive herself insane anymore and was quite prepared to enter the house on her own. Grinning, Heinrich told me in an undertone, but loudly enough for the others to hear, that the threat of the camera killer might have been dispelled, but there was still the maddened farmer roaming the countryside with his rifle and firing at anything that moved. This remark was greeted with amusement.

  My partner asked for the check and I got out my wallet. The proprietress took the money in person. While doing so, she struck up a conversation about the captured murderer. It was awful, she said; they had just announced that he was a twenty-four-year-old from the locality—the cook had heard it on the radio in the kitchen. Heinrich asked if there was any doubt about the young man’s guilt. The proprietress shrugged her shoulders, which were swathed in a black silk shawl adorned with a floral pattern, and said they wouldn’t have arrested him otherwise.

  My partner praised the quality of the dishes we had consumed and inquired if the restaurant used organically grown meat and vegetables. This the proprietress confirmed, substantiating her assurance by citing various names that meant nothing to us (Herbert Stadler, possibly a farmer, and Karl Gnam, a butcher). My partner commended this policy, and the proprietress regarded her with approval from then on. One could see and hear that my partner was a townswoman, she said, and city folk sometimes failed to appreciate natural products, though this situation was improving.

  Last of all, she turned to the Stubenrauchs. She knew of them, she said, and they were well spoken of even though they hadn’t lived in the district for long. Heinrich said he was interested to hear that; he’d had no idea they were a topic of conversation. Well, yes, said the proprietress, you know how people talk. The Stubenrauchs fitted in well locally, she went on. Johann Fleck, the mayor, with whom she was sure they were already acquainted, was someone you could always turn to in an emergency.

  Heinrich laughed. If the camera killer showed up at their home, he said, he would be sure to notify Herr Fleck. Eva punched him in the ribs.

  They’ve caught him anyway, the proprietress muttered.

  Once my partner had finished her drink, we left the inn accompanied by good-byes all around. Several well-dressed children with smart haircuts were playing in the parking lot. Heinrich, who had gone on ahead, flapped his arms again. This resulted in a temperamental outburst on Eva’s part. She declared that she wouldn’t stand for any more of his cynicism. My partner backed her up. Eva said she meant it, and he should think before he spoke; he had made her look a fool at the inn with his talk of notifying the mayor about the murderer. Heinrich laughingly put his hands above his head as if defending himself from an assailant. Eva again said she meant it.

  We got into the car. Heinrich was once more seated at the wheel with me in the passenger seat and the womenfolk accommodated in the back. Heinrich drove off. He said he proposed to make a short detour to enable us—meaning my partner and me—to savor the beauties of the surrounding countryside. He apologized for flapping his arms. Perhaps it was his way of coming to terms with what he’d seen, heard, and experienced. He was no psychologist, but he knew that many people dealt with such matters contemplatively, whereas others, of whom he was clearly one, adopted an aggressive approach. From behind us, Eva called out that this aggressive approach contained the seeds of another problem—namely, the danger of hurting the feelings of other, less coarse-grained individuals.

  Heinrich said he was aware of this and apologized yet again; he would try to behave more acceptably in the future. He turned on the radio. Various people from the victims’ hometown were being interviewed, among them someone who claimed to know the person who had been captured in the course of the manhunt. The man under arrest certainly wasn’t the guilty party, he said; that was out of the question. All else apart, he had no idea how to operate a video camera.

  Heinrich professed himself surprised by the fact that, in the aftermath of a crime, friends and neighbors, etc., invariably expressed astonishment that the person in question had committed an atrocity, as if it were poss
ible to see inside someone’s head or stake one’s life on their innocence. It really was strange, said Eva.

  Heinrich said that none of us differed from the man on the radio in this respect. He felt convinced, for example, that none of us would believe him, Heinrich, capable of a flagrant breach of the law, and if he were arrested overnight for murder, it would be our voices that issued from the radio, churning out the I-just-can’t-believe-its and he-couldn’t-possibly-have-done-its.

  My partner objected that he hadn’t committed murder—that was the difference. If he were arrested tomorrow and she were speaking on the radio, her statement that Heinrich was incapable of murder would be true because he genuinely hadn’t committed one.

  How could she be so sure? Heinrich retorted with a grin.

  He was starting again, Eva exclaimed, and he’d promised to curb his tasteless witticisms.

  Heinrich said he was only joking, but the underlying circumstances were serious and worthy of discussion. How did my partner know he wasn’t a murderer? he demanded. It was just the same with the man’s friend on the radio. Eva started to protest, but my partner interjected that Heinrich was right; one could never tell.

  Meanwhile, we had reached the Stubenrauchs’. With all due care, Heinrich coasted to a stop in front of the house and we got out. Ominous storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, but the sun overhead was still generating intense heat. While feeling in his pockets for the front door key, Heinrich asked whether it was worth playing a game of badminton. It was 1:42 p.m. The press conference was scheduled to start at 3:00 and might be shown live on television.

  At this point, the farmer came rushing out of the house next door. They’ve caught him, he hollered, they’ve caught him, have you heard?

  Heinrich confirmed that we were in the picture and asked if there was any more news of the killer. The farmer said he didn’t know, he’d only heard of the arrest. Heinrich referred him to the impending press conference, but the farmer didn’t take this in. Instead, he called the prisoner a monster and a swine, etc., said they should give him short shrift, and promised to sign the petition for a referendum on the death penalty.

  He also ignored Eva’s inquiry as to how his wife was feeling. After a brief conversation about the weather, he turned and strode back to his house. Heinrich asked Eva how she could ask such stupid questions; it was obvious that the man had already stabbed or at least shot his wife, and she was now lying in the kitchen in her own blood. Eva punched him hard in the back and said she’d had enough of his disgusting jokes. Laughing, Heinrich unlocked the front door.

  Eva immediately betook herself to the bathroom.

  My partner and Heinrich pushed their way into the living room, where they jocularly contested a comfortable seat on the sofa. Heinrich argued that it was his regular place. My partner countered that she was a guest and that her wishes must be duly respected; she wanted to lie down for a brief rest, being afflicted with the fatigue that invariably beset her after an ample meal. Heinrich retorted that she could forget about having a rest, as they would soon be playing badminton. My partner greeted this statement with groans and laughter. Heinrich eventually surrendered the sofa to her, but not without adding that she would be permitted only five minutes’ relaxation.

  He turned on the television. “Man under interrogation. The young Styrian who was captured after a breakneck car chase is currently being questioned by the police. Press conference scheduled for 3:00 p.m. The chancellor calls for calm. No vigilantism!”

  Just imagine what would happen, said Heinrich, if the man under arrest were handed over to the inhabitants of the victims’ hometown. The result would be quite terrible. They would rip the eyes from his living, breathing body and subject him to every imaginable form of torture.

  My partner, who was stretched out on the sofa with a hand over her eyes, told him in a low voice to desist from such descriptions.

  Heinrich loudly rejoined that she mustn’t take it into her head to go to sleep. Yesterday it had been she who tried to prevent Eva from going to bed by arguing how seldom we all got together. Anyway, he could hear the toilet being flushed, and that was the signal for badminton. My partner said he was awful, but she sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  Heinrich called to Eva, saying that she was bound to have made a stink in the bathroom and should open the window.

  The target of his injunction came into the living room. Shaking her head, she said he must be suffering from brain fever, his behavior was so appalling. He seemed to be losing his wits. What manners, what idiocy! Were we really going to play badminton? she asked. If so, she must get the picnic basket ready.

  Yes, Heinrich told her, but we would only have until shortly before 3:00 p.m.

  Eva laughed and tapped her forehead. If we were going to play at all, she said, we would do so properly; our game was not going be cut short by some stupid press conference. She strode firmly into the kitchen to organize the drinks. Heinrich glanced at me with a smile that implied he didn’t consider the last word about the press conference to have been spoken.

  My partner helped Eva to get the wicker basket ready. Heinrich and I got out the badminton net, shuttlecocks, and rackets. We took up our position outside the house. It was becoming steadily sultrier. Heinrich pointed to the clouds, which were growing ever darker. Perhaps we would be in luck, he said, and the storm would curtail our game at 2:55.

  Catching sight of the fancy-dress cat in the shade of the Stubenrauchs’ car, he cautiously approached the animal in order to stroke it and, so he said, divest it of its idiotic ruff and the rest of its apparel. Before he got close enough, however, the cat darted away from the car and hunkered down in the grass some twenty-five feet from us. On your own head be it, said Heinrich.

  He was reminded of a children’s book in which some youngsters tormented a cat by tying a tin can filled with pebbles to its tail. The cat had fled from the resulting din—to no avail, of course—but it had gone mad and eventually died. Children are brutes, he said with a laugh.

  Eva had overheard the last words as she emerged from the house. Coming over to us, picnic basket in hand, she called Heinrich a monster; he was clearly incapable of thinking of anything other than atrocities and horror stories. This tickled him.

  In atonement, he volunteered to carry the picnic basket, although he was already carrying the rackets. Eva handed him the basket without a word. Just as silently, but with a grin, he passed it on to me. I unresistingly took the basket in which, on top of the blanket familiar to me from the previous day, lay bottles of lemonade and mineral water and some sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil.

  However, this prompted Eva to move away from Heinrich with a disgruntled air. She tried to take the basket from me, but I declined her offer. She called Heinrich impossible. He laughed and tried to put his arm around her, but she eluded him, so he asked me to give the basket back and apologized.

  For my part, I refused to surrender the basket, because I wanted to make myself useful. Consequently, when my partner emerged from the house, she encountered three people whose intentions were diametrically opposed. She laughingly pointed this out, thereby bringing Heinrich and Eva to their senses, and they allowed me to carry the basket.

  On the way to our makeshift badminton court, Eva gave vent to fears that we would not be able to play for long. The storm clouds were rapidly approaching. My partner said we must take things as they came, and we should simply start playing.

  Heinrich and I put up the net. We marked out the court with discarded articles of clothing and broken twigs stuck in the ground (those of the previous day that had been dislodged by the wind or the nocturnal rainstorm). We also flattened the grass at the edge of the court by treading it down.

  The wicker basket was unpacked by my partner and Eva. My partner extolled the fact that our short walk there had refreshed her and said we should at once devote the time that remained before the storm broke to playing doubles. We duly did so. Team Heinrich/self beat Team Eva/my part
ner 15:6. Heinrich pronounced this pointless; the difference in level of ability was too glaring. So we changed partners. My partner and I were narrowly defeated (11:15) by the Stubenrauchs.

  The court was now in shadow. Heinrich wanted to make a bet as to when it would start to rain. However, the imminence of the rain was so obvious that no one took him up on it. All four of us sat down on the blanket. We refreshed ourselves with mineral water and ate our sandwiches. Heinrich and I warmly thanked the womenfolk for making the latter.

  Eva rested her head against Heinrich’s shoulder. Would he now be a good boy and spare their guests his black humor? she asked him.

  Heinrich, with an expressionless face, called this emotional blackmail. He took a bite out of his sandwich and said, with his mouth full, that he would think it over. Eva sighed.

  Big, fat raindrops began to fall. Haste was advisable, so we quickly gathered up our things. It was now as dark as it would have been at approximately 7:00 p.m. on a fine evening. Heinrich whispered to me on the way home. Hadn’t he said as much?

  It was 2:50 p.m. and the press conference was saved.

  As soon as we were back in the dry house, the women saw to the wicker basket and its contents. Carelessly depositing the badminton net and rackets on the freezer in the hall, Heinrich hurried into the living room. I followed him. He already had the remote control in his hand and was about to turn on the television when it occurred to him to inquire if I would care for something to drink. I asked for a glass of lemonade. He got up and brought me what I’d requested, having also fetched a bottle of beer for himself. Then he turned on the television.