Rodion Schick: a murderer so bold as to kill in daylight.
He had to be someone with authority, someone used to wielding power. Anders Johannsen was not a bold person—quite the contrary: He was a disillusioned homosexual. It was known that homosexual murderers usually killed other homosexuals.
Rodion Schick.
Someone who was very sure of himself, very sure of his position in life.
Rodion Schick.
Rolf and Anders were tall. Putzi was a giant.
Rodion Schick.
Ro for Rodion. Ro for Rolf. Ro for Jo. Ro for Roderick . . . except that Schlussel was a born and bred Bavarian and way too old to be Della’s son. Ro for Vo, for that matter, except that Volker also was too old.
Rodion Schick.
Schick Rodion.
Suddenly, Berg’s eyes widened.
Georg had disparaged Berg’s creativity. But creativity sprang from musings deep in the subconscious. It was from that very place that the idea came to him.
FORTY-EIGHT
It all pieced together, the odd mixes of color and form assembling into an eerie portrait of hatred and revenge. Berg spoke softly but clearly, leaning close to Müller as if he were wooing a lover.
He whispered a name.
Müller’s eyes widened in disbelief and distrust. He turned ashen, then broke into a sweat. “You can’t be serious!” Berg wiped his colleague’s face with a tissue. “You shouldn’t even suggest things like that in a public place!”
“That’s why I whispered the name.”
“Don’t even do that!” A spot of color crept back into Müller’s cheeks. “Axel, I keep telling you he’s not one of ours. Yet you persist. It’s going to get you into serious trouble, my friend.”
“At this point I realize it’s conjecture—”
“Damn right! You don’t have anything by way of proof!”
“Would you like to protest his innocence, or would you at least like to hear me out?”
Müller shook his head. “I think you’re daft. But have a go at it. I’ll try to listen with an open mind.”
That was the Georg Berg knew. “Thank you.”
“Proceed.”
Berg began his tale.
Della and Dirk Schick adopted a teenager named Rodion. Maybe the boy had been a true orphan in Russia, or maybe he was the biological son Della reclaimed after losing Rupert. The only thing known was that Della took on Rodion sometime after Rupert died in 1915.
Müller held up a finger. “We can’t even ascertain if that’s true.”
“That’s what I was told, Georg, so that’s why I assume it’s true. Otherwise the Robert Schick connection goes nowhere and we have nothing on this monster. The alias fits, the approximate age fits. And even you must admit that . . .” No names, Berg reminded himself. “. . . that he looks somewhat like the man in the sketch.”
“So do a thousand other men.”
“Yes, you have said that before.”
“And I will continue to repeat it if for no other reason than to slow you down. Assuming there is a real Rodion Schick could be our first big mistake.”
Berg kept his patience. “May I please continue?”
Müller smiled. “Yes, sorry. Go on.”
Della adopted Rodion after Rupert’s death. That meant that the teenager had been brought up in the Soviet Union by a Russian father with German ancestry and a German-American mother. Hence, he could speak all three languages. That took care of one problem: how to integrate Kommunist Ro with the German Robert Schick on Anna Gross’s calling card and with the English-speaking Lord Robert Hurlbutt.
Rodion wasn’t happy living in the Soviet Union. Who would be happy living under Stalin? But there were additional subconscious reasons for his melancholy. He had lost his childhood, and even though he had been lucky enough to be adopted, he knew he wasn’t the wanted son. Instead, Rodion was a weak substitute, a replacement for the two sons Della had lost. Rodion nursed his resentments: against his dead brother, against his living German brother, but most of all against the mother who had cast him in this predetermined role. Teenagers are angry anyway; this one had a reason. His fury began to grow wildly like weeds. His wrath was soon out of control. He began to harbor unnatural thoughts of revenge.
Müller was listening with interest. Berg continued with newfound confidence.
When Rodion reached manhood, he made his way across borders, passing himself off as a German and eventually settling in Munich. Maybe he had some familiarity with the city from his parents’ recollections. It was also the city where both of his hated brothers had been born. He was charming like his mother, and certainly without scruples like his mother. He remained unmarried, for two reasons: First, a wife and children might accidentally expose his true identity. Second, lacking the tethers of family, he was able to work and work until he rose to a position of power.
The man had a distinct nose for who could do him the most good politically. He was always a political animal: as political as he was secretive. Only a secretive man could have successfully passed for all these years as a native German police official. Only a very secretive man could reinvent himself as a Russian count or an Englishman when it was expedient for him to do so.
“But why would he assume so many false personae and risk exposing his true identity?”
“A very good question.”
“So let’s hear an answer!”
“A moment, please! I haven’t entirely thought it out.”
Again Müller smiled. “Take your time. I’m just being difficult. It’s been a long week.”
“Indeed. If I were you, I’d be going out of my mind by now.” Berg collected his thoughts. “I think that after playacting all these years as Della’s son, assuming other personae must have been easy for him. I’m sure he enjoyed the subterfuge. Also, there was money to be made by posing as a Russian count. Marlena Druer was a rich, unattached bohemian enthralled with the idea of revolution. Rodion pretended to share her enthusiasm for Kommunist insurrection. He told her he was going to put into practice what they had fantasized in words; she gave him money for his plans.”
“Wouldn’t she have known who he really was?”
“She was not from Munich, precisely the reason he had chosen her. She certainly wasn’t familiar with the upper echelons of the police department. To Marlena, the Russian count who signed his name ‘Ro’ was set upon bringing Kommunismus to Munich as Kurt Eisner had done nearly a dozen years ago.”
“All right,” Müller said. “That makes some kind of sense. Now, how does Anna Gross fit in?”
“Ro could never marry because his identity was too much at risk. He needed a woman.”
“That’s why there are whores, Axel.”
“I’m sure he went to whores. But a man such as he would also court risk because it gave him a thrill. What is more exciting than taking another man’s wife? Impostors play roles because they enjoy doing so. In his role as Russian count, he was a thrill seeker: the rebellious Kommunist and a bohemian. What a contrast this must have been to his mundane daily life as a proper German public servant.”
“But surely Anna, who lived in Munich, would know who he was.”
“Not necessarily. Mostly, he is out of the public eye, operating behind the scenes. And what if he took great pains to go out only in disguise? When you are seeing a Russian count, you don’t see a Munich policeman, eh? Whether Anna knew his true identity or not, we will never know. But we do know that Anna was pregnant at the time of her demise. And we do know from Anna’s maid that Anna and her husband had been trying unsuccessfully to conceive a child.”
“The baby wasn’t the Jew’s.”
“Exactly. And perhaps all would have been well if Anna had pretended that the child was her husband’s. But let us suppose that she didn’t want to pretend anymore. Let us suppose that Anna had fallen in love with her glamorous Russian count and wanted to marry him. That would never do. First of all, she had already been married to a Jew
, which would have made her a very undesirable wife for someone in politics. Second, Rodion knew that if he married her, eventually his facade would be discovered. He had to get rid of her.”
“But Druer was murdered first. How does that figure into your tale?”
“I’ve given that some thought,” Berg said. “I think that Marlena found out about his affair with Anna and threatened to expose him and cut off his funds. So he wrote Marlena a letter promising a romantic relationship with her once he settled his affairs. The letter mollified Druer, enough for her to bring a large sum of money to Munich for him. Once Rodion had the money in his pocket, he took care of Marlena first . . . then Anna.”
Müller said, “But it doesn’t make sense, Axel, when you consider how much money we found in Marlena’s strongbox.”
Berg considered Müller’s objection. He lowered his voice again. “When we took out the cash, I made sure to leave some bills there because an empty strongbox would look suspicious. Maybe that’s what he did, Georg. Suppose that originally there was even more money than we found? He knew that we would go through Marlena’s room, so he left cash inside the box so we wouldn’t get suspicious.”
Müller was quiet. Then he said, “Even if I believed such a tale, it still doesn’t explain why he continued to murder after Anna Gross.”
“Because he developed a Lustmord—”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“The two murders emboldened him,” Berg said. “Feeling a new surge of power, he was ready to enact his revenge, and who better than Regina Gottlieb? The third murder was a truly diabolical deed because Regina was not a threat to him. He killed Regina only because he wanted to lead us to Rolf Schoennacht, his mother’s true son, a man he utterly despised.”
Müller laughed. “But how would he know about Schoennacht’s alleged lecherous desires for Regina?”
“We know that he and Rolf are members of the same political circles. He belongs to many Vereine, and so does Rolf Schoennacht. He could have befriended Rolf. It’s possible that Schoennacht confessed his unhealthy desire for Regina Gottlieb.”
“Axel, you have no proof the two men ever met, let alone that they are confidants.”
“It’s not so hard to find out which clubs they belong to,” Berg countered. “And even if Rolf had never been told about his adopted brother Rodion, Rodion would know about his lost brother Rolf. At last, Ro had discovered a way to set up his brother—by blaming him for the murder of Regina Gottlieb.”
“All right,” Müller said. “I suppose if we stretch things considerably, I can accept that theory. Now, Axel, you must explain how the last two victims fit in—a solid German workingwoman and her little daughter? Rolf Schoennacht was out of town, so he couldn’t possibly be blamed for them. And those two murders inflamed the people and incited riots in which people died! It made the police look very bad. Why would he want to foul his own nest?”
“To stir up the department. Max Brummer is in deep trouble. Our man is now in a position to seize more power for himself.”
Müller responded with a shrug. “Interesting, Axel. You have created a saga of mythical dimensions: the seduction of a young girl and forbidden love.”
“That was told to me by Della’s sister—I did not make it up.”
“But this invention of a quest for revenge, brother against brother.”
“It is as old as the Bible.”
“Yes, that is certainly true.” Müller let out a small laugh. “All right. I like the story. I admit you may be on to something. But before you make any accusations, you need verification. You mustn’t repeat any of this to anyone until you have more proof. Loose lips could make you deadly enemies!”
Berg took a deep breath and let it out. “That’s precisely why I’m only telling you my theories . . . to give you a chance to mull over what I’ve said. Even if you can’t actively work, you can certainly think.”
Müller laughed. “I suppose sometimes that’s true.”
Berg said, “My first objective must be to watch his movements in case he strikes again. When I know positively that he is at work, I will quietly look into his false registration papers. Also, I must investigate Schoennacht’s clubs and see if I can find people who can attest to a friendship between Rolf and him.”
“Quite a substantial load for one man, Axel. How do you propose to be in two places at one time?”
“I can’t. That’s why I need you. You’ve got to get better, man! I need help.”
• • •
AS BERG WAS LEAVING, at the main door of the hospital, he met up with Volker, who regarded him with keen eyes. “Inspektor.”
“Kommissar.” Berg felt his heart pound against his chest. The last person he wanted to talk to right now: someone high in the department.
“How are they doing—Müller and Storf?”
“Actually, they are much better, sir. Storf is responding to simple commands.” Berg looked at the ceiling, trying to calm his breathing. It wasn’t just Volker who was setting him on edge, it was everything he had talked about with Müller. “Georg is doing very well, I think. I believe he said something about being discharged tomorrow.”
“Good news.”
“Yes, it is.”
The silence that followed seemed to linger past what was acceptable.
“How did the research at the registry go?”
“Good, sir. Very good.”
“Then you are close to finding out Schick’s identity?”
He hoped he wasn’t stuttering out loud as badly as he was stuttering mentally. “Not as close as I had hoped. But tomorrow is a new day.”
A good, neutral answer.
“Really, Axel, I don’t know how much more advantageous it would be for you to pursue such an avenue.”
Berg said, “I was thinking the same thing . . . that perhaps it would be best if I went back to basic police work.” Volker waited for him to go on. “You know, talk to more people who knew Edith Mayrhofer. Maybe there was a mystery man in her life.”
“The same mystery man involved with the others?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Berg worried that he was being too obvious, too ready to drop his first line of investigation. “I would like to show her friends the sketch I made from Gerhart Leit’s description—the man who was with Anna Gross. I’m still not ready to give up on Rupert Schick. Still, if he turns out to be a dead end, I must have another plan of inquiry.”
“I agree,” Volker said. “And if you find a different mystery man in Edith’s life, one who appears to be a good suspect, then you will assume that Edith’s and her daughter’s deaths were not related to the others.”
“Possibly.” Berg managed a smile. “Right now, I’m not sure what to think. That’s why I’m a good Inspektor. I take in all the facts before I come to a conclusion.”
Volker’s thin lips moved upward, the expression halfway between a smile and a sneer. “I don’t know if that’s entirely true, Inspektor. I seem to recall your making many wild assertions in the past.”
“Assertions possibly, but not conclusions.”
“I believe you are nitpicking, Axel.”
This time Berg’s smile was real. “But, sir, if you don’t nitpick, how do you get rid of lice?”
FORTY-NINE
As he boarded the Triebwagen, Berg’s head was spinning with newfound suppositions and what-ifs, backed up so far by nothing but zeal and verve. The short encounter with Volker had left him reeling. He knew he had to go through Records and Registration to give his theories some credence, but in order to do that, he needed a signed request from Volker.
That would be impossible, considering whom he was investigating.
He’d have to do it surreptitiously. He was now alone, without recourse, because aside from Georg, whom could he trust?
As the streetcar pulled away, he realized he was still standing. He grabbed a strap, deciding he was too nervous to sit. His mind was running lap after lap of futility: a circular, endless c
onundrum.
There was always Ilse Reinholt. Berg knew that the redheaded clerk could be bribed, although this time it would take a lot more than a lunch at a beer hall to get what he needed. He still had almost all the stolen money from Marlena Druer’s strongbox, not to mention the bills that Gottlieb had shoved into his hands before he left. What better use of pilfered lucre than to solve murders?
He checked his watch.
Records had closed hours ago. He would go tomorrow morning. . . .
Someone jostled him, bumping him hard on the shoulder. Berg spun around only to face a group of seated passengers with disinterested eyes.
Was he imagining things?
Easy, Axel, easy. Take a deep breath.
He knew he shouldn’t go home, that he should be spying on Rodion. It was monstrous to leave him running loose in the city. But logistically, how could he do that? Should he walk ten paces behind him, waiting for him to go in or out of a theater or restaurant? Was he to prowl around Soviet Munich, where surely he would stand out as a foreigner? Must he keep an all-night vigil at the man’s apartment? Just a half-hour ago, he had been inspired by his vivid play of ideas. In the reality of afterthought, he wasn’t so sure of himself. He had too few facts embellished by much too much speculation.
Abruptly the streetcar stopped and Berg lurched forward.
He was only a man—a simple, frail human being who needed basic things: food, water, sleep . . . love. His body ached with pangs of hunger and loneliness. He needed to go home and nourish himself physically and emotionally. He needed to kiss his wife’s forehead and hug his children. He needed to rid himself of thoughts of blood and lust and murder because something inside his brain kept reminding him that he also had played God and snuffed out life. Had he endured the same upbringing as Rodion, he might have become a madman as well.
So immersed was he in his own waking nightmare, he almost missed his stop. He jumped out of the car just as it was pulling away from the stop, the conductor’s scolding voice ringing in his ears.
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