The Air Raid Killer (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 1)
Page 9
She, Heller thought, she. Not Erwin, not Klaus. It was an unknown woman. He let out a breath. His heartbeat was calming.
“He could see . . . it? Her heart?”
The professor nodded. “Inconceivable, even for an experienced doctor like me. I’ve seen plenty of the most severe burns and skin abrasions, but that a person could still be alive after such torture—well, I would’ve thought it impossible until now. Her lungs were hanging exposed—just imagine that. But she’s alive. However, I’ve decided against a blood transfusion as there’s no doubt she’ll succumb to her wounds within hours. It would be a waste.”
“So why go to all this trouble?” Heller said.
The professor placed a hand on Heller’s shoulder, sharing an unusual familiarity. “Why? Because she’s a human being, isn’t she? And because I cannot bear being responsible all on my own.”
Heller stared at the professor, trying to comprehend what he’d just told him.
The professor nodded again. “From what I hear, you are trying to find a murderer. He’s committed something like this at least once already and will likely do so again soon. You’re dealing with a psychopath, which you’re certainly well aware of. He’s not doing this for fun. It’s pathological. What I mean is, the killer feels something by doing this. Do you follow?”
Heller didn’t respond. He only saw this half-dead woman before him. They now had to prolong her suffering in the vague hope that she might awaken to give them some kind of clue, if she even could. And what would he need to ask her? What crucial thing?
“We’d have to skip her next dose of morphine and wait until she reaches a level of consciousness where she’s responsive. Though whether she’s able to understand you, or could reply, or even nod . . . there’s no way for me to predict that, Herr Heller . . . Herr Chief Inspector.”
“Detective Inspector,” Heller corrected.
“If this were a soldier at the front, I’d give him a final blow of mercy. A bullet to the head or heart.”
Heller knew all about that. He’d experienced it intimately, one time after the heavy gas had seeped into the trenches and one of the new recruits inhaled it.
“Is there some other way to do that?” Heller asked, unable to take his eyes off the severely wounded woman. There would be too much to ask her. Did she know the man? How old was he? What did he look like, where did he come from, what did he promise her, how did he speak, where was he going? Would it even help him in this city now housing at least twice as many as normal, where chaos was routine? How would he even find such a person?
He glanced at the nurse and only now noticed that she’d been holding the victim’s hand all this time. The nurse was young yet had already seen so much suffering, her face ashen. That’s fright, thought Heller. Fright made faces ashen.
The professor had said something. Heller looked at him. “Pardon me, I didn’t get that.”
“We would turn off the resuscitator.”
Heller stepped to the other side of the bed. Three fingers protruded from the bandages, slender, with fingernails trimmed short. Heller pulled himself together. It was crucial for him to keep a certain distance from the victims. He never let himself get too close to either the dead or living victims, otherwise they would not let go of him and would follow him home, crouching in dark corners of his bedroom and robbing him of sleep with their whispers.
“Then do so. And please see that she’s taken to Dr. Schorrer afterward.”
“Schorrer?” the professor asked. “Have you worked with him much? He seems the type who’s likely lost any belief in final victory. This doesn’t have the best effect on people’s morale. The German Volk must be able to make it through the hard times as well. It separates the wheat from the chaff. Don’t let yourself be influenced by him too much. Dr. Schorrer’s transfer here seems more like a personal retreat. Still, scaremongering doesn’t help. This war is far from lost. Nurse Ilka, you’ve heard what we need to do. And you also know everything you’ve heard does not leave this room.” The professor turned, showing Heller an inquiring gaze.
“I need to take a look at her hair first,” Heller lied.
The professor shrugged and left the room.
Heller carefully sat on the edge of the bed. “Nurse Ilka?”
The nurse looked at him with glossy eyes.
“What do you know about the Fright Man?”
The nurse lowered her head as if not wanting to look Heller in the face. “He creeps around the houses. He’s not a human being. He’s an animal. An ape from the zoo, some are saying. An orangutan.”
Heller took the half-dead woman’s three slender fingers, placed them in his hand, and gently pressed his other hand on top of them. “Would an ape carry a knife?” he asked Ilka.
“It means ‘forest person,’ I think—orangutan. How can I know what he can or can’t do or what he’s even thinking?”
“But why would he need to do it?”
“Maybe he’s taking his revenge for being locked up all these years.”
“You’d prefer that it was an ape, wouldn’t you?”
The nurse nodded, and the two of them held the woman’s hands now. “Because if it wasn’t an ape, then it would have to be a demon. Herr Detective Inspector, my father was in the last war. And he said in the winter of ’17 there were demons crawling out of the bomb craters during the night and taking those left lying wounded out on the battlefield. And they started screaming and pleading for the Lord to please show them mercy, screaming for their mothers they were, and—”
“Enough! Stop it!” Heller shouted.
Nurse Ilka stared in horror.
“Please, just stop,” Heller repeated, softly this time. He didn’t want to hear it, not here, not now. “Turn off that ghastly device, and we’ll help her get to the other side. Would you like to pray?”
Nurse Ilka nodded. She leaned down to the device and turned it off. It fell silent with one last loud hiss. Then she folded her hands to pray in silence. Heller held the dying woman’s hand and gently stroked her hair. If he never were to hear anything from his sons again, he would at least hope that they had just such a hand to accompany them out of this life.
January 1, 1945: Midday
“Karin, it’s not the boys!”
Telling Karin the news had provided Heller with a nice diversion from the horror. But Karin only pursed her lips. He could tell from watching her that she didn’t know whether to feel happy or disheartened.
“It’s good news, believe me. They’re smart boys and can take care of themselves.”
Why was he always telling her things he couldn’t quite believe himself? He still couldn’t get that final hiss of the breathing device out of his head.
Karin was nodding now, shaking off her numbness. “Another murder?”
“Yes.” She didn’t need to know any more than that.
“So you’re leaving again? You need sleep! And something to eat!”
Heller pulled her toward him. “I need to go to the crime scene.”
Karin sighed. “I know, but at least let me make you a sandwich.”
“There it is,” the groundskeeper said, panting, pumping white puffs into the cold air. He pointed to a few sheds on the far end of the grounds. “I was only here as a precaution, what with so many strangers in the city. No one’s played tennis here for years.”
“Wait—you’re Glöckner, aren’t you? Caretaker at the nurses’ quarters.”
“Who else, Herr Detective Inspector?” Glöckner was trying to act natural.
“But what are you doing here?”
“I come by and have a look now and then. Honorary post, let’s call it. Been doing so for years.”
“How often do you come by?”
Glöckner puckered his lips. “Maybe once a week.”
“Always at the same time?”
“No, only when it’s on my way.”
“Why are no cops here?” The fact that he had to ask Glöckner was bad enough.
“They ordered me to hold the fort.”
From the clubhouse, they had to walk across the whole grounds, passing the covered and locked-up tennis courts. Glöckner walked by, flinging his right leg forward.
“Are you wearing a prosthetic?” Heller asked.
Glöckner knocked on the leg; it sounded like wood. “Accident at the switchyard. Used to be a railway man.”
Soon they were standing at the door to the toolshed, which Glöckner kept pointing out as if Heller could somehow miss it. Beyond the shed was wire-mesh fence, forest beyond that. Heller glanced down at the fine reddish gravel. There had been lots of clues here, but they’d all been trampled on and covered up. No one had taken the trouble to secure the crime scene.
Heller carefully opened the shed door. Almost the whole floor was covered in blood. It was all frozen and covered with frost. The ambulance men had carelessly walked all over the place. They’d cut the rope used to tie up the woman, leaving the strands hanging.
Heller entered the shed and held one of the ropes, looking over the knot. It was a simple double knot, not a type of sailor’s knot that could give him a solid lead. The rope seemed like the same used on Klara Bellmann.
The victim’s clothing had been thrown in a corner. Heller bent down to pick it up. He carefully studied each piece. There were no clues about the victim’s identity, not even a name sewn in. He took out his notebook and flipped back a few pages, which confirmed that these weren’t Agnieszka Piotrovsky’s clothes.
The underwear was missing. The previous victim’s underwear was at the crime scene, same with Klara Bellmann’s. Heller noted that too.
“Was the lock busted?”
“Broken off. This wasn’t heavily secured. Just rakes and wheelbarrows, as you can see.”
Heller had another look around and took his time, but he didn’t spot a thing, not even a cigarette butt. “What’s that out there?” he said, went back outside, and bent down. A glossy spot the size of a coin in the red cinder. He ran a finger across it. It was ice. He carefully clawed at it, loosening it from the ground, and saw little frozen bubbles in it. He crouched, searching for other spots. He didn’t have to look long.
“Saliva,” he said.
“The ambulance guys spat over there,” Glöckner said. “I might have.”
“Look here, though.” Heller had no choice but to enlist Glöckner to test his theory. “This wasn’t just someone spitting. This is a stream of saliva.” He picked up another piece, let it melt in his hand a moment, smelled it, ground it down. “Saliva!” he confirmed.
“A dog, maybe, a big one?”
“Yours? Zeus?”
“No, he’s never here with me.”
“Ever?”
“Don’t you see? There’s no sign of dog paws. I can tell you one thing: I’m starting not to like this so much,” the groundskeeper said, lowering his voice and peering around as if he were being watched.
Heller ignored him. He eyed a stretch of fence behind the toolshed. The bushes had been stomped on, the wire mesh buckled. He stepped closer and noticed a red wool thread hanging on an end of fence wire. He plucked it off, flipped open his notebook, and placed the thread inside.
Dr. Schorrer was obviously nearing physical collapse. His eyes had dark rings around them, and his cheeks were sunken. Yet he still held himself upright and showed no signs of weakening. He also looked resentful, as if repressing all his anger. His hospital building was just as full as Professor Ehlig’s. The air was thick and sticky. No word was wasted among the passing staff, no second spent standing still. Heller had found the doctor outside his office and was expecting a stern lecture about wasting his valuable time, yet Schorrer said nothing and just waved Heller over.
“You see it?” Schorrer asked. He pointed around him. “You see it? This is our great German Volk now.” He marched off and led Heller down to the cellar, where Klara Bellmann had been laid out to be examined. It was calmer down here, the nurses darting by, nodding at Schorrer. “This is what we’ve become. Constant state of emergency, unbearable conditions. Ripping up old sheets for bandages and cleaning rags, medications only for extreme emergencies, no penicillin. I’m telling you, Heller, this is only the beginning. The people see the signs yet they don’t see a thing. They think they’re suffering through adversity now, but they’re about to get one nasty shock. This isn’t hell yet, not like everyone thinks, not even limbo. It’s only when the real end nears that the demons come crawling out of their holes and—”
“Don’t you get started too,” Heller said.
Dr. Schorrer froze. “Forgive me. I don’t mean actual demons, despite everyone talking that way. People have gone completely insane. We’re all so-called national comrades? Don’t make me laugh. The German Volk? One giant gathering of mental deficients!”
“Dr. Schorrer!” warned Heller, his voice hushed.
Schorrer got ahold of himself, walked on, and pushed open double doors with both hands. He strode into the dissecting room with attitude. “Out, everyone out!” he commanded, and the two nurses cleaning tools at a sink rushed out of the room.
“What else can you expect?” Schorrer continued, his voice lowered. “Have you seen the latest posters? ‘Hold On, Wonder Weapons Are Coming!’ Don’t make me laugh. I recently overheard two privates telling each other that Hitler has an underground city built where we’ll all retreat to. Everyone’s relying on Churchill and Stalin to start fighting one another. But I’m telling you, they’ve already divided up Europe, and our Reich is not in it, oh no, not anymore!”
“Dr. Schorrer, control yourself. Professor Ehlig has already been saying certain things about you.”
“Ehlig! You know he was one of the first to join the Nazi Party? He knows Hitler personally. Nazi to the core. You can hardly expect the likes of him to make much sense.”
Heller placed his hand on the doctor’s forearm. “Listen. You’ve gone far enough. I don’t want you risking my life too.”
“All right, all right. Then come on.”
Schorrer crossed the room, and pushed open a second door. The third victim lay on a dissecting table. They had mercifully spread a white sheet over her. Heller still only saw that blonde tuft of hair.
“The same scenario as with the previous victim. Those very sharp knives, large and small, which can be detected in various places. Possibly even the use of scissors. I’ll spare you the sight; you can trust me on that one. Same with the eyes. The same killer, indisputably. But I did spot one thing, and I do admit I’m a little annoyed at myself for possibly not examining the previous victim thoroughly enough in this respect. I’ll find you a spot where you can best see it.” Schorrer moved over to the end of the table and yanked the sheet back far enough to expose the feet. Here the skin was still intact. The toes were black, frostbitten during the night.
“Here, look.”
Heller moved closer and leaned down. “Bite marks?”
Schorrer nodded. “It’s in other spots. I was reminded that you’d asked about any evidence of a cannibalistic act involving Frau Bellmann—and I’d rejected the notion quite harshly. I’m sorry about that.”
Heller opened his overcoat and took out his notebook. He began drawing a sketch of the bite marks, as best he could. The odd formation of the upper incisors was quite noticeable: the incisor sat at a near right angle to the other teeth.
“But these are only bites,” he said. “It doesn’t exactly mean cannibalism.”
“Well, I never said it did, did I?” The artery along Schorrer’s neck had swollen. He still seemed upset, struggling to control himself.
Heller looked at his sketch again, adding one tiny change. “What about the other victim?”
“Cremated long ago.”
“May I?” Heller asked, pointing at the head of the table. Schorrer gave him room. Heller pulled back the sheet and saw the young woman’s face for the first time. Imprints still showed from the breathing mask and bandages that had covered the lidless eyes.
Klepp rubbed his face with both hands once Heller finished reporting everything to him. Klepp was sweating, and he smelled as if he hadn’t changed his uniform in days. Heller had to wait a long time to see his superior, because Klepp was off doing “questioning,” as his secretary, Frau Bohle, had informed Heller. Klepp had eventually entered the office with his knuckles red and sore; he dropped heavily into his chair while Heller recalled the blood he’d seen on that interrogation room wall.
All in all, Klepp was acting like he had far more pressing problems. “There are bites?” he said. “Possibly cannibalism? Do not let that be made public.”
“It’s between me and Schorrer. I found a wool thread that could be a clue.”
Klepp thrust out his hand. “Give it here.”
Heller flipped open his notebook, and Klepp plucked out the thread, took a good look at it, then placed it back.
“I also found traces of saliva. Right at the crime scene. Someone must have been expending a considerable amount of saliva. I couldn’t detect any trace of an animal, but Glöckner, the groundskeeper, he owns a dog. I’ve instructed Oldenbusch to take any footprints he finds around the location. I can only hope it doesn’t rain in the next few hours.”
“You’re using Oldenbusch? That’s fine. Keep in mind, he’s getting called up next week.”
Heller thought he spied a perverse delight in Klepp’s eyes. “Called up?”
“Our Volk now needs any and all hands who can use a weapon.”
Heller was speechless. No Oldenbusch meant losing his last capable man.
“So, saliva traces?” Klepp continued. “From a human?”