The Air Raid Killer (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 1)

by Frank Goldammer

  Heller held her by the shoulders. “I promise you.”

  December 24, 1944: Early Morning

  Klepp gave Heller a weary look. “You’re doing it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “What’s not to understand? You’ll coordinate it. You’re responsible. I can give you four men for good measure. No more. Go find things out for yourself. I don’t know what to do about all the people coming here now. Supposedly typhus has broken out at Alaunplatz. They’re butchering horses on the streets. Stealing each other’s grub. What good are they if they’ll just flee? Fight hard is what they need to do.”

  Klepp had balled his right hand into a fist. “Me, I’ve got other things to take care of. We were clearing these two Jew houses, and a Jew got away from us in the process, the bastard, damn filthy Jew. They’ll be hiding out up in the Elbe Sandstones. And who knows what else is hiding out there in those mountains? And here in town we’ll need to get excavating soon, start digging split trenches. Arm ourselves for the final battle. Over in Silesia—in Breslau, they’re already forming Volkssturm units. The people’s militia! Once it gets to that point here, you’ll need to get onboard with all your frontline experience. We must hold out until the wonder weapons come. That’s when the mighty German fist will smash them all to bits!” Klepp clobbered his desk with his fist.

  Had Klepp been drinking? Heller couldn’t be sure. He also noticed the button on Klepp’s leather holster was undone. “Herr Obersturmbannführer, let me ask you again if—”

  “You’re doing the night shift from now on, going on patrol. Four people is what you’ll get. They’ll report to you starting this evening so you can start patrolling the neighborhood. Stop anyone who crosses your path in the dark, get their names. You’ll get a whistle and a flashlight, help yourself to an overcoat from uniform supply. Anyone acts suspicious, don’t mess around. You shoot, understood?”

  “But it—”

  “No wasting time being soft, not on anyone. Anyone who runs away in the dark is a suspect. That’s an order, understood?”

  Heller took a breath. “Understood,” he said. He felt like someone was playing a joke on him. Klepp was drunk; that, or he was sick. Just a few days ago he was shouting at Heller for spinning fantasies; now he was providing him with extra men. Maybe the Christmas season had helped change his mind. Even though no one dared say it out loud, it was wholly obvious that this was to be their last Christmas under the swastika. Klepp’s time atop the mountain would be over soon enough. All his purpose, his prestige, his authority—it was all slipping from his hands. The city was bursting with refugees, and supplies, even the most common items, were running low. Disease was breaking out. And where was Klepp? Clearing out the last of the Jewish houses. Absurd.

  “Why are you standing there gaping like that? Dismissed!”

  Heller clacked his heels together and stretched out his right arm. Klepp returned the salute in a sloppy manner, like the Führer liked to do.

  Heller could certainly do with an overcoat. He did still have his, which worked well enough in the deepest of winter as long as he had two sweaters on underneath. But Karin didn’t have a winter overcoat. He had no ration coupon for it, nor had Klepp written down the order, yet maybe his word would be enough.

  Heller went to the upper floor, took the long hallway where he had to yield for busy police officers rushing from office to office, carrying stacks of paper, handing out telegrams.

  “Herr Detective Inspector?” someone asked, sounding surprised. It was Rosswein, a younger man who’d been rejected as unfit for the military because of his curved bones. He came hobbling up to Heller. “May I help you find something?” he asked. These days Rosswein had taken to compensating for his disability with jubilant subservience, all because the Nazis hadn’t sent him off to an institution like the Sonnenstein euthanasia center in Pirna as someone they liked to call “dead weight.”

  “Here to pick up an overcoat.”

  “For that you’ll have to go down a floor, just take these stairs right here!” Rosswein took Heller by the arm as if escorting an old woman across the street. “Head down there, then right, and right again. Just look for the sign: ‘Uniform Supply Office.’”

  Heller, somewhat unnerved now, nodded and freed himself from the young man’s grip. Then he heard a muffled scream, followed by dull thuds and a loud clatter like a chair tipping over.

  “What’s that?” asked Heller.

  “Interrogation, most likely.” Rosswein smiled sheepishly.

  Heller went to the nearest door and pressed on the handle, but the door was locked. He pounded on it.

  “What?” someone thundered back.

  “Heller here, from Detectives!”

  The door swung open so violently that Heller had to jump out of the way. A big man in plain clothes, sweating, the top three buttons of his shirt open, eyed Heller up and down. His hair was neatly parted, yet a strand stuck to his damp forehead. He snorted. “Yeah?”

  Heller tried to look past him. He could make out a young woman. Her head was leaning against the wall, and her hands were clasped behind her back. Blood was running from her nose and off her chin.

  “What’s going on here?” Heller said.

  “Who are you?” the man shouted back.

  Heller now recognized him as one of the Gestapo.

  “Detective Inspector Heller.”

  “From the criminal police? This has nothing to do with you!” The man slammed the door shut. Heller heard the key turn in the lock.

  “There’s stuff they do,” Rosswein said, trying a smile, “and the stuff I do, and the stuff you do.”

  Exactly, thought Heller, until everyone ends up dead.

  December 24, 1944: Evening

  SS Sergeant Strampe had joined Heller along with three other men he didn’t know. His list told him they were Elkan, Borman, and Wetzig. The three were about Heller’s age, if not older, and wore regular police uniforms. Strampe wore a dark SS trench coat and carried an MP 40.

  “What are you going to do with a submachine gun?” asked Heller.

  Strampe stared at him, emotionless. “This is my weapon. I don’t have any other.”

  Heller restrained from commenting. The other men were equipped with normal duty pistols just like he was. “As you all know, we’re seeking a man who’s presumably slain two women. I suspect that, after an air raid siren sounds, he somehow lures his victims into a specific hiding place and kills them. Up until now, he’s only been active in this general area. Witnesses have been reporting strange noises—”

  “Herr Detective Inspector?” One of the men had a hand up.

  “Yes.”

  “Does this mean we’re not supposed to go find an air raid shelter when a siren sounds?”

  “It does.” Heller checked each man’s reaction. None had a problem with it, apparently. They might actually believe the story about Churchill’s aunt, that the British prime minister intended to spare the city because she supposedly lived here. A smirk flashed across his face, which confused Sergeant Strampe the most.

  “If you spot someone suspicious,” Heller continued, “shout at them. Loud and clear. ‘Halt, don’t move, police!’ Should the person try and get away, you can then use your firearms.”

  “The Obersturmbannführer says we should fire at once,” Strampe said.

  Heller stared him in the eyes. Men like Strampe were the real ones to fear. These young guys had never learned anything except that the Führer was always right.

  “People do need to know, however, that they’re not supposed to make a move. I’ve marked down who’s to patrol which streets. Avoid taking the same route every time—mix it up. If you run into one another, be careful not to start shooting each other. If there’s an incident, use your whistle. If you must shoot, aim low! Do you all understand?”

  “What’s the point?” Strampe asked.

  Heller knew there was no answer that would satisfy the young SS man. So he punished him by not giving hi
m one.

  The city had been blacked out at night for years. The streetlights stayed off, and all the windows were sealed with blackout shades, black paper, or heavy curtains. Cars and bicycles moved along with darkened headlights, many without any light. Heller had walked these dark streets and alleys so often that he could hardly remember what the city had looked like at night during peacetime, with those high slopes along the opposite side of the Elbe twinkling and glittering, and especially at Christmas, when people put candles or festive candle arches in their windows.

  Traffic was still heavy. Many were leaving the factories after their late shifts, most on foot, a lucky few on bicycles. New bicycles didn’t exist. Cars were rare. Everything seemed normal, routine. But something had changed. People were walking faster, speaking in hushed tones, rarely laughing. Heller could sense a depressing stupor. He walked slowly, his shoulders high, his overcoat collar turned up, his scarf so tight around his neck it was nearly choking him. He had on long underwear and a second pair of socks. Yet he still felt the cold. He walked faster.

  They weren’t going to get the killer this way, Heller knew. Why had he even bothered asking Klepp for extra men? Was it so he could justify his position? So he didn’t lose his job? Ration cards? No, that really had little to do with it. He simply could not allow someone to murder at will while they did nothing to catch him. What would that say about this country, this German Reich?

  The shift was supposed to last until five in the morning, and Heller knew what that portended for him and his men. He was already freezing and he hadn’t even been out an hour yet.

  He’d already run into Borman twice. “No unusual incidents,” the man had reported before their paths parted again. It was fully dark out now, and a blanket of clouds covered the moon. Heller took Fürstenstrasse, intending to walk toward the hospital before taking a left at Pfotenhauerstrasse for Gneisenaustrasse, where young Alwin lived, all the boy’s fun playing war spoiled for good. Heller’s pistol rested inside his right overcoat pocket, his hand around it. Feeling its grip calmed him. His left hand held a flashlight that he’d fitted with a red lens, just to be on the safe side.

  January 1, 1945: Just After Midnight

  Seven days and nights had already passed. Futile days, wasted nights.

  Heller halted a moment. He briefly shone a light on his watch: seventeen minutes after midnight. The new year had begun, and he hadn’t even noticed. The second air raid siren of the evening had sounded two and a half hours ago, yet the all clear still had not come. Maybe the all clear was only announced over the radio again—that, or there was none. Heller looked up into the starry clear sky that was so bright it was casting shadows. There was nothing up there. Their few flak guns were silent. Could they have a guardian angel? Maybe it really was Churchill’s aunt. He shook his head without giving that another thought and moved on, his soles clacking on the granite sidewalk, his breath condensing into little white clouds. He’d run into Wetzig and Borman an hour ago. They apparently were patrolling together, counter to his instructions. He couldn’t blame them. Those two were bravely hanging on, whereas Elkan had dropped out without a replacement, reporting himself ill. SS Sergeant Strampe, meanwhile, had gotten called away to other duties two nights ago. It was plainly obvious that he’d asked Klepp to do it.

  Heller looked around. Klepp lived in this area, near Grosser Garten park—in a house taken from its owners back in ’39 or ’40.

  Suddenly Heller spotted a man. He held his breath, stopping at the intersection of Müller-Berset and Laubestrasse. The man wasn’t moving. He was leaning against the wall of a building in a strangely rigid fashion, as if lying in wait for someone.

  “Hello,” Heller shouted. “Who’s there?”

  No movement. Heller slowly stepped nearer, yet kept to the other side of the street. He was grasping his pistol tighter inside his overcoat, releasing the safety with a swipe of his thumb.

  “Who’s there?” Heller asked louder, yet the person didn’t budge. “Answer me.” He took his pistol out of his overcoat and pressed it to his side so the person wouldn’t see.

  “This is the police. Do not move!” Heller rushed across the street and ran up to the man. He only saw his mistake once he was halfway across: someone had left a grandfather clock standing there. His flashlight revealed the smashed wood and busted clockwork. Heller could feel the tension draining from him. He put his gun away and continued onward.

  Heller hadn’t even slept two hours before he heard the doorbell ring. Karin went to the door, and he heard whispering. The conversation seemed not to end. Karin was sternly talking someone out of something. He rolled over, caught between grogginess and curiosity.

  “You there, Herr Detective Inspector?” the male visitor shouted into the apartment. “It’s really urgent!”

  “Some nerve!” Karin scolded the man.

  Heller struggled to get out of bed, threw on his robe, and pulled on his slippers.

  “I told him you need to get some sleep,” Karin shouted to him as Heller came out.

  “It’s fine,” Heller said. “Who are you?” he asked the man at the door.

  “I’m from the hospital. You’re supposed to come there, please.” The messenger turned his cap in his hands, embarrassed.

  “Who sent you?” Heller asked.

  “The head physician, Professor Ehlig.”

  Heller gave the man a quizzical look.

  “Please, it’s really urgent. I’m supposed to get you to the hospital no matter what.”

  Karin’s hand felt ice-cold in his. He instantly knew what she was fearing. It could be one of their sons. But at the hospital? What could that mean? Was it bad, or could it mean they were in luck somehow?

  Heller didn’t hesitate. “You have a vehicle?”

  The messenger’s look alone provided the answer—of course there was no vehicle. So Heller gently slipped his hand from Karin’s and went into the bedroom to get dressed. Before he left, he took her in his arms once more. “It’s not about the boys, Karin. Listen to me, don’t go getting your hopes up.” It was bad enough that he was getting his own hopes up.

  Karin nodded. He let go of her and followed the messenger down the stairs.

  It was a hurried march on foot to the hospital, and the cold could not have invigorated Heller more. The notion that one of his boys could be in Dresden had electrified him.

  Seeing all the people out in front of the hospital left him speechless. They were standing in tight crowds or were camped out against the walls. There was no way through. Heavy coughing, moaning, and crying children could be heard everywhere. Heller smelled phlegm, pus, blood—a brutal stench everywhere. For a moment, he thought he’d gone back in time thirty years. Now he could see their despairing looks fixed on him. In his long overcoat, he was giving off a certain impression of authority, and it wasn’t pleasant. His messenger noticed his reluctance.

  “Just you wait. There’s millions more on the way. East of us, in Breslau, they’re already starting to hear the sounds of battle. If the Russians continue advancing like this, they’ll be here in a few weeks. Then God have mercy—”

  “Be quiet,” Heller snapped.

  They cleared a path to one of the buildings. A uniformed cop met them at the entrance. The messenger showed identification and explained who Heller was, and the cop let them inside.

  The air was so foul in the hallways that it nearly took Heller’s breath away. Beds were everywhere, though they still weren’t enough. More sick were lying on the floor, on cots, blankets spread out. It smelled strongly of disinfecting agents, of ethyl alcohol, of urine.

  Heller followed the messenger as quickly as possible, squeezing past bed frames, pressing himself to the walls to let nurses or doctors pass. They eventually reached a room with the door open. A head nurse stood next to a desk, where an exhausted-looking older man sat.

  “That’s the head physician,” the messenger explained and cleared out.

  “Are you Heller?” asked Pro
fessor Ehlig.

  Heller nodded.

  The professor turned to the head nurse. “As I said: only the most urgent ones, children above all. Tell the doctors this. All others should be transferred to the infirmary. Curtail the admissions procedure to only the most crucial cases. And do inform Hofmann, once again, that we are lacking everything; penicillin is most crucial. He must press them on this, in Berlin if need be, preferably in my name. Thank you.”

  The nurse hugged a stack of papers and squeezed by Heller to head out the door. The professor stood and took Heller by the arm.

  They walked in silence to the end of the hall, stopping at the last door. The professor leaned toward Heller, to speak in full confidence.

  “I’m told you’re the right person to talk to. This was once one of our death rooms. But as you’ve seen I require all available space, so this room has been equipped with four whole beds. But in this case, I needed to make an exception.” He opened the door and let Heller step inside.

  A nurse was keeping watch at the side of the bed and looked up. “Pulse extremely weak, breathing like before, on resuscitator. Morphine on highest dosage. No sign of regaining consciousness.”

  Heller hardly heard what the nurse was saying. He stared at the bed. Someone lay there, entirely bandaged. Blood seeped through various spots. The artificial respirator panted, the mouthpiece and wide bandage over the eyes covering nearly the whole face, and only the blond hair poking out looked normal, so human and yet so disturbingly alien among all the white.

  Erwin was blond.

  The professor turned to Heller. “There’s no hope for her. They found her this morning at the tennis grounds in Waldpark. She was hanging there, tied to ceiling beams, only flesh and blood left. The groundskeeper was making his rounds and discovered her in a toolshed that had been broken into. He thought she was dead, and despite her condition he had enough composure to call the police from the clubhouse. When he returned, he saw that her heart was beating.”