“If that is what you want, sir, I’d appreciate cooperation from Rudolf and Heinrich.” Berg turned to his colleagues. “Any help that you can give me would be welcome. May I ask a few questions?”
“Go on,” Volker said.
“Did you recognize the victim as Regina Gottlieb?”
“Not at all,” Messersmit said. “We had no picture of her to work from.”
“So who identified the victim as Regina Gottlieb? The husband?”
Messersmit shook his head no. “We passed a postmortem picture around the area. The Schoennacht family lives very close to where the body was found. It was Frau Julia Schoennacht who identified Regina Gottlieb as her former seamstress.”
“Which explains why we didn’t associate this body with Regina Gottlieb, the immigrant Jew,” Kalmer said. “She wasn’t dressed like an immigrant Jew. She was attired in beautiful clothing. Not the kind of dress a poor Jewess would wear.”
“But now that we know she’s a seamstress, it all makes sense. She could make her own clothing.”
“Was she wearing expensive fabric?” Berg asked.
Kalmer frowned. “How would we know anything about women’s fabric?”
“Surely you can tell silk from wool,” Berg said.
“We didn’t take her as a Jewess,” Kalmer said stiffly. “Besides, she didn’t look at all Jewish. Black hair . . . blue eyes . . . very pale skin.”
“Everyone’s skin is pale in death.”
“You are hilarious, Berg. Perhaps you should be onstage with Karl Valentin. Your leanings are no doubt similar.”
“Let’s avoid making this a personal issue, Rudolf,” Volker chided.
Kalmer said, “I’m just saying that she didn’t look like a Polish peasant Jew.”
“Even with her head bashed in, you could tell she was beautiful once,” Messersmit said.
Berg’s ears perked up. He spoke softly, more to himself than anyone else. “The others died of strangulation.” He regarded his colleagues. “But this one died of a head wound. Is that what you’re telling me?”
His question remained unanswered, interrupted by the arrival of Herr Professor Kolb. He was wearing a lab coat over his suit. His curly gray hair was unruly, and spectacles had slid down on his nose. Leaning on his cane, he took out his pocket watch and squinted. “Good afternoon, meine Herren. I trust I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Volker regarded the wall clock. It was close to four in the afternoon. “Right on time.”
“Yet you have started without me.”
“Axel arrived quicker than I thought,” Volker said. “His recovery has been nothing short of miraculous.”
“A supernatural feat that rivals the Shroud of Turin,” Berg said flatly. To Kolb, he said, “You have found something of interest in this woman’s death, Herr Professor?”
Kolb laughed. “Why else would I be here?”
“We were just getting into your area of expertise,” Messersmit spoke up. “About the latest victim’s head wounds, Herr Professor.”
Kolb began pacing the floor, thumping loudly with his cane. Since there wasn’t much area to pace, he was more or less turning in circles. He pointed a finger at Berg. “Frau Gottlieb was struck in the back of her head. But . . . she also had ligature marks around her throat. Frau Gottlieb was beaten and strangled.”
“Lovely,” Berg said. “Which came first?”
“An interesting question,” Kolb stated. “I have tried to put myself in the murderer’s mind. If I had been him, perhaps I would have tried strangulation first, hmmm?” His eyes became animated. “More personal . . . eye to eye.”
“Why would he make killing a personal thing?” Messersmit asked.
“These ‘repetitious killers’ as I call them—they often make it personal. But that’s for another discussion. Let us get back to the scene of the crime.”
“Let us indeed,” Volker put in.
Kolb nodded. “Suppose that as she was strangled, she put up a fight. Not a light, fragile flower, this one. Two of her fingernails were broken off. The others had skin underneath. She clawed like a tiger.”
Berg said, “We should check her husband for scratch marks.”
“A good idea, Inspektor; she got that skin from someone’s arms and face.” Kolb ran his knobby fingers through his wild gray hair. “I think at some point, she might have been strong enough to pull away. But then, if I were the murderer . . . thinking swiftly, I would not want her to get away. I would not want her to scream. I would grab her full and flowing skirt.”
He gestured his motions.
“Then I would take my cane—”
“You found a cane?” Berg asked.
“No, I did not. I am assuming some kind of walking stick because the mark in her skull came from a round, hard object. Of course, other implements could have made that mark. But what could have made that mark and have been easily carried?” He shook a finger in the air. “It must have been a cane.”
Berg nodded. A handsome walking cane would fit with the killer’s image of an aristocrat.
“As she’s escaping from my grip,” Kolb said, “I grab her clothing. Then all I’d have to do is perform a quick rap behind the head—” He held up his cane and mimicked the motion. “Then, after she fell from the blow, I could finish her off by strangulation. The skirt of her dress was ripped from behind. There’s nothing else that explains the evidence quite so succinctly.”
Berg gave the supposition some thought. “Was the victim wearing stockings?”
“Alas, her finery was superficial only,” Kolb said. “Beneath the lace and silk of the dress were very practical woolen undergarments.”
“Any of the pieces missing?”
“Again, a good question, Inspektor. I would expect some article of clothing to be missing.” Kolb looked at Messersmit and then at Kalmer.
“We could find only one shoe,” Kalmer answered. “How did you know?”
Berg turned to Kolb. “In your professional opinion, Herr Professor, does it look like the victim was slain in the same fashion as Druer and Gross?”
“Anna Gross was murdered by her husband,” Volker stated without affect. “So amend your question, Berg. Could Gottlieb’s death be likened to Druer’s death?”
“Her death is not only similar to Druer’s, but almost identical to it,” Kolb responded with enthusiasm. “Marlena had very distinct ligature marks around her neck—”
“The chain!” Berg broke in. “Both Marlena and Regina were strangled by a necklace. You could see the pattern in their skin.”
“That is correct, Inspektor!” Kolb smiled. “That is very much correct!”
“We didn’t find a necklace on Regina Gottlieb,” Messersmit remarked.
“Perhaps her husband took it after he killed her.” Kalmer smiled. “You know Jews and their gold.”
Kolb’s face went red with embarrassment. Very dark red. Berg had never thought of Kolb as being Jewish, but his profound blushing made him wonder.
“I don’t think so, Kalmer,” Berg said.
“But you don’t know that for certain, do you, Axel?”
“Why are you assuming it was her husband?”
“Why are you assuming it wasn’t? What is it to you anyway? Do you really care what the animals do to each other?”
Messersmit spoke up, interrupting the heated exchange. “Someone should speak to Herr Gottlieb again. He told us that his wife was going to the Schoennachts’ to collect wages. Frau Schoennacht was quite insistent that Frau Gottlieb never came to her house that evening and that she didn’t owe the Jewess anything.”
“Maybe Frau Gottlieb wanted to borrow money and didn’t want her husband to know,” Kalmer said. “They love money almost as much as they love gold.”
Again Kolb turned pink. “And we Germans don’t love money?”
“Not like the Jews.”
“I recall a great deal of rioting during the Great Inflation.”
“We had to eat!” Kalmer ins
isted.
“It wasn’t the Jews who hiked up the prices,” Kolb said; “it was the farmers who were anything but Jewish.”
“Can we please stick to the topic?” Volker interjected.
The room was quiet. Finally Berg said, “Where do the Schoennachts live?”
“On Widenmayer Strasse.”
The association clicked in Berg’s brain. Anna Gross had lived on Widenmayer.
“It isn’t necessary to pay Frau Schoennacht a visit, Axel,” Kalmer said. “We talked to her at length. She knows nothing. She was horrified.”
“I am sure you are right, Rudolf.” Berg smiled with closed lips. “Still, I would like to speak to her.”
Messersmit frowned. “Whatever for, Berg? You don’t trust our skills as Inspektoren?”
“I’m sure that isn’t the situation,” Volker broke in. “Berg is a mysterious one and has his own ways. Being the head of the Mordkommission, perhaps he is more intuitive about these grisly matters than we are. Let us indulge him in this matter. The hour grows late. How about if we keep this quiet, a possible link between Gottlieb and the other murdered woman, Druer, ja?”
“Kommissar, even if this murder makes its way into the papers, who will care about a Jewess?” Kalmer said.
“A good observation, Rudolf,” Volker agreed. “If the connection is discovered, we can always link it to the recent outbursts in the streets. We have just calmed the good people of Munich. There is no need to alarm the city now that order has been restored.”
Berg said, “Especially since we so conveniently ascribe Anna’s murder to her dead husband. It would not look good for us to backtrack.”
Volker’s eyes darkened with anger. He turned to Messersmit and Kalmer. “I thank you for your time, meine Herren. You may go now.”
The two baffled inspectors did not react right away, but no one spoke until they were out the door. Then Volker lashed out, his anger a gush of whispered fury. “I defend you in front of those two and this is how you repay me?” Volker clenched his fists. “I was hoping a holiday would temper your cynicism. I see I was wrong. Another snide comment and I will fire you for insubordination. Are we clear about this?”
“Quite,” Berg answered.
“Then you may go.” A pause. “Now!”
Berg looked down at his feet. If he wanted to get to the bottom of these murders, he’d have to be more conciliatory. “Herr Kommissar! I apologize for my outburst!”
Volker stared at him, sizing up his sincerity. Decided it was real . . . more from fear than from wrongdoing. He nodded acceptance.
“If it’s all right with you, sir, since Professor Kolb is here, I’d like to talk to him . . . to go over the autopsy report.”
Volker thought a moment. “That’s acceptable.”
“We can talk at my desk then,” Axel said. “That way I can take notes.”
Volker said, “You two can talk here . . . in my office.”
Berg said, “Sir, I wouldn’t want to keep you here any longer than necessary.”
“You’re not. I have no appointments and if you two are discussing the case, I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
Berg couldn’t help himself. “Why do I feel that you don’t trust me entirely?”
“It’s not a feeling, it is reality. I have many reasons for not trusting you, Berg. Starting with your insolence.”
“So why give me Frau Gottlieb’s Mordakte?”
“Because you are the most competent of my men to do the task. Because I need you to catch this phantom before he kills again. We both know another murder would send the city into chaos. Can we get on with the case, Inspektor? Can you let go of your petty tantrums for one moment in order to do a greater good for your city and its citizens?”
“I will if you will.”
In a flash, Volker whacked Berg across the face with an open palm. The room fell into dark silence, Volker daring Berg to respond. But the suddenness of the Kommissar’s attack had stunned Berg into paralysis.
When he recovered, Berg spit at him.
Not on him, at him. And not exactly at him but next to Volker’s shoes.
Still, the message was clear. Berg knew this was a line drawn in the sand, his own fury rendering him blind to the consequences of his behavior.
The seconds ticked on.
Finally, Volker smiled contemptuously. “Throat problem, Axel? You should really see a doctor for that.”
Berg didn’t answer. And that was that. They had reached another cold, distrustful truce: like the truce between Berlin and Munich . . . between Berlin and the Yanks. A truce that begged to be rewritten and ultimately broken.
Kolb cleared his throat. Both of the men turned to the sound. They had forgotten that the professor was still there.
Volker turned to him. “You have something to say, Herr Professor?”
“Whenever both of you are ready.”
“Ready, Inspektor?” Volker asked.
Berg nodded, slowly withdrawing his hand from his cheek. It was still hot and sore, but not nearly as sore as his pride. The murderous rage had passed . . . for both of them. The consolation prize was that, for the time being, Berg’s job was safe.
TWENTY-SEVEN
What Volker wanted to do was fire the bastard. But it would be a mistake to give in to impulse. For one thing, who would he have to blame if these irritating murders remained unsolved? No, cooler heads would prevail. When this phantom killer was discovered, then he’d take care of Axel. Without looking up, he said, “Now what was it you wanted to say, Herr Professor, but not in front of Messersmit and Kalmer?”
“Very good, Herr Kommissar!” The Professor pounded the floor with his cane for emphasis. “You have deduced my true mission. May I ask now if you are familiar with the Psychological Wednesday Circle—the group later known as the Vienna Psychoanalytical Society?”
Volker frowned. “I know nothing about psychoanalysis. Nor do I follow anything associated with that swarthy Austrian Jewish Doktor.”
“Ah, but you should, Herr Kommissar. His theories have much to say about the subconscious, the inner workings of the mind. I’m quite sure Professor Freud would have much to postulate about our fiend.”
“Such as?” Berg said.
“This is a man who takes sexual pleasure from raping women, ja?”
“I think that’s evident.” Volker snickered.
“More importantly, Kommissar, he takes even greater sexual satisfaction from killing them. He is imbued with Lustmord.”
Volker’s look was skeptical. “Why not a man killing the primary witness against him? If the woman is dead, she can’t accuse him of rape. Furthermore, Marlena Druer was not assaulted. And lastly, we don’t know for certain that Anna Gross was raped. The sex could have been a consensual act. No, I don’t think you are correct at all.”
“Herr Kommissar, none of them consented to being strangled. And Regina Gottlieb fought off whoever assailed her. And even if no rape had been involved, it just makes my point stronger. Sex wasn’t enough satisfaction for him. The fiend had to murder. Furthermore, he collected objects from his victims—a silk stocking, a shoe, a boot. This is clearly someone who experienced trauma during the anal stage of development, as evidenced by the man’s inability to give up anything he has produced. This is definitely the result of poor mothering. If you couple a rejecting mother with a traumatizing event, the results are devastating.”
Before Volker could object, Berg broke in. “What kind of traumatizing event?”
“The first thing that comes to mind is battle in the Great War.”
“We all were soldiers,” Volker said. “Killing in battle does not a murderer make.”
“Exactly what I am saying, Kommissar.” Kolb held up a finger. “Most of us can discern the difference between killing in war and killing in general. Another possibility is that the man did not participate in the Great War either because he was too young or because he was infirm, making him feel inadequate as a man. But even the
se deficiencies would not have made him a murderous fiend. It took the combination of trauma and a bad mother to make this man a killer. Ja, no doubt this man hates his mother because of what she did to him.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Volker said, “Are you serious, Herr Professor?”
“Indeed, I am dead serious.” Kolb laughed at his own joke. “Perhaps this man’s mother was overly seductive. Perhaps she was cold and rejecting. Whatever the trauma was, we have, meine Herren, a perfect, living example of destrudo. He is not killing randomly. He is killing young women. Every time this monster kills a woman, in his head he is killing his mother.”
Berg integrated Kolb’s words into his brain; he found them very distasteful. “Why all the substitutions, Herr Professor? Why not simply kill his mother?”
“Inspektor, you have just touched upon the fiend’s psychological conundrum. He doesn’t murder his mother because his desire to kill her is hidden deep in his subconscious. He is not even aware of it. Instead, he murders other women, taking out his hatred on them.”
“And he doesn’t feel guilty about killing these women?”
Kolb shrugged. “Perhaps, but even if he does, it can’t be helped. He has an obsession to kill.”
“Honestly, Herr Professor,” Volker scoffed, “couldn’t you say that the man murdered these women in order to rape them . . . or . . . or rob them? The women he murdered were rich.”
“Regina Gottlieb was not rich.”
“But she appeared rich,” Volker said. “Perhaps he thought she was wearing expensive jewelry.”
“She didn’t own any jewelry,” Kolb said. “She was a peasant.”
“He couldn’t tell from a glance,” Berg countered.
“Gentlemen, this is a man who has murdered three times. He will not stop at three because he has a compulsion to kill. The irony is that this compulsion will never be satisfied because the woman he wants to murder, he cannot.”
Kolb gathered his thoughts further. “Witness the fact that he takes things from the scene of the crime. Holding the purloined object in his hand, the fiend tries to relive the satisfaction of his latest conquest. But after a while, the item fails to evoke the joy he feels when he murders. So he kills again. He will not stop at three, Kommissar, I can tell you that much.”
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