The Oath

by Klaus-Peter Wolf

  ‘Tonight. Iontach. A German-Irish group. My wife and I are going too.’

  Ann Kathrin could hardy imagine a better way to get close to Volker Janssen.

  ‘Are there tickets left?’

  ‘Yeah, a couple.’

  Ann Kathrin bought the book and a ticket, which he was also selling. Then she drove through the city. She looked at the big residential towers in the Magdeburg district before parking on Bergstrasse and exploring the neighbourhood on foot. The area between Gaudenzerstrasse, Allensteiner and Bergstrasse reminded her of the mining districts in Gelsenkirchen-Ückendorf.

  *

  Odysseus felt like an omniscient being again now that he had decided to kill Wilhelm Kaufmann. It was a wonderful feeling! It was itching under his skin.

  Anyone who looked at him would think he was a normal person – he could be a teacher, a shop manager, or even a lifeguard. But he was something completely different, something that would terrify them — if they could see the entirety of his personality.

  The final battle would take place on Langeoog. He knew this like he knew that autumn would come after summer. Where everything had begun.

  Odysseus took the ferry from Bensersiel to Langeoog. He had the Langeoog Card, which also served as a ticket, in his jacket pocket next to the lethal capsule he’d bought in Thailand. It gave him the freedom to do everything he wanted.

  A person who was prepared to leave this life at any time if something went wrong was truly free. He didn’t cling to life; at least that was what he believed.

  The warm wind was good. He consciously put himself in the airstream. He’d booked a place in a central location, in the spa district, close to the salt water pool and less than ten minutes’ walk from the beach. He would rent a bicycle and would feel like the king of the island on his two-wheeled steed.

  The closer he got to Langeoog, the more certain he became that the showdown was looming.

  He climbed out of the island train. He walked the few minutes from the station in the town centre to the Island Roaster. Time seemed to have stopped in the little café, during a short, peaceful phase when the world was completely in order. If there had ever been such a moment, it was preserved here.

  But there was nothing better than the smell here. He could sit and just breathe and take in the world.

  He ordered a large coffee. Black.

  Come on, he thought, and clicked his tongue. Come to Langeoog, Kaufmann. Come to die. I’ll take care of you before you can behead me.

  In fact, Wilhelm Kaufmann had been there for a while. He was walking barefoot by the sea, his shoes and socks in his left hand, his trouser legs rolled up to his knees. The tips of the waves licked his toes like cold tongues. The sand under his soles was still warm from the sun.

  *

  David Weissberg had enjoyed the day with Bianca in the spa in Uslar. He wanted to go in the sauna with her before dinner, but she wasn’t quite ready. First she wanted to lie down for a while and talk to her mother.

  David decided he didn’t need to be there for that. Bianca only did one round in the sauna anyway, while he preferred two or three. He stuffed the fluffy hotel bathrobe into a sports bag and went ahead.

  Lying on the bed, Bianca pushed a plump pillow under her back and dialled her mother’s number. David blew her a kiss. Although he felt good, it was for the last time in his life. He’d only be alive for a few more minutes.

  His annual physical check-up had brought good news. Although nearly sixty, from a medical perspective he was years younger, more like a forty-year-old. He was planning a huge party for his sixtieth birthday.

  He wouldn’t make it.

  His murderer was already waiting in the sauna as he showered. He had overheard their short conversation in the café. ‘I have to call my mother. You go ahead to the sauna.’

  He had briefly considered entering the sauna fully clothed, stabbing David Weissberg, and then disappearing again. But then he changed his mind. He waited for David, naked and sweating, with the knife and the piece of silver fox fur lying next to him, wrapped in a white towel.

  His body was already covered with sweat. He liked it. He enjoyed waiting here. It was like a ritual preperation for the execution.

  Perhaps he should always do it that way, he thought. He needed rituals; otherwise everything would become so mundane. Of course he couldn’t wait in a sauna for everyone chosen to die, but he could purify himself beforehand and proceed clean and clear to the deed. Perhaps David Weissberg wouldn’t come alone; then he would use this round in the sauna as preparation and delay the execution until a later time.

  *

  There was even Irish beer at Kasch, and the guitarist, Jens Kommnick, tuned his guitar so gently that several thought the concert had already begun and gave him a spontaneous round of applause.

  Ann Kathrin greeted Veit Hoffmann and his wife Iris. The two of them bought the musician a beer and pointed out Volker Janssen, who was looking a little lonely and lost in the crowd, holding his Guinness tightly.

  Ann Kathrin walked over and spoke to him. She said she’d bought his volume of poetry and wanted an autograph.

  He was standing very straight and still. A whiff of garlic surrounded him, and although he seemed shy, there was something in his gaze that she didn’t like. She suddenly felt naked. Normally she would have asked him to dress her again after he’d undressed her without asking, but she didn’t tonight. She thanked him for the autograph and asked if he was planning to keep on writing.

  The hint of a smile flitted across his face. ‘Will you,’ he replied, ‘keep on breathing tomorrow?’

  ‘So writing is like breathing to you?’

  He nodded. Then he brought his mouth very close to her right ear and whispered, ‘I could paint your favourite poem very slowly on your naked body.’

  He took a step back and stared at her, as if trying to inhale her reaction.

  She tried to stay cool and tolerate his gaze.

  ‘Believe me, it’s a very special, highly erotic experience,’ he promised.

  ‘Are you usually successful with your offers to women or do most of them end up punching you?’ she asked.

  *

  When David Weissberg entered the sauna he greeted the only other guest and sat on his towel opposite. He tried a little small talk but only received very curt responses.

  When he saw the blade he flung both arms high in the air. But he in no way surrendered to his fate.

  He tried to survive.

  David Weissberg dodged the first thrust and could do nothing but grab for the blade. It went straight through his right palm. There was so much adrenaline coursing through his body that he didn’t feel the pain.

  He kicked his attacker in the shin and yelled. ‘Are you crazy?’

  The tall, thin man attacked David Weissberg’s neck. He thrust firmly but Weissberg turned away and the blade hit his jawbone and slipped off.

  Weissberg collapsed. His killer bent over him, thrust the knife into his heart and stuffed the silver fox fur between his lips.

  Weissberg’s blood had decorated the stomach and face of his murderer with tell tale red. He washed away the other man’s blood in the shower, carefully cleaned the blade, got dressed, and left the sauna without being discovered.

  *

  A scent of jasmine and mango hinted at wellness and relaxation. When Bianca Weissberg joined her husband in the sauna after a rather unpleasant telephone conversation with her sick mother, she collapsed to the floor, screaming.

  *

  By then, the executioner was already on his way back. The radio was at full volume and he was singling along to ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door.’ The news came on after the Guns N’ Roses cover of a Bob Dylan song.

  The DJ with the gentle voice and the slight Franconian accent announced the horrors as if they were truisms: according to the Washington Post, the FBI and the Department of Justice had examined 268 trials in which FBI forensics had provided a DNA or hair analysis. In ni
nety-five percent of all cases they were wrong or at least very unreliable.

  Thirty-two convicts had been sentenced to death on the basis of incorrect lab results, and fourteen had already been executed.

  He slammed the steering wheel in fury. ‘Sure,’ he yelled, ‘you think we don’t know why you’re announcing this shit? It’s a huge propaganda show on the part of death penalty opponents! Now we’re even supposed to feel sorry for those fuckers!’

  Sandra Droege commented on these findings. She spoke of the greatest scandal ever for the US criminal justice system and accused the judges of being so uncritical of lab investigations having often watched the popular television series CSI. She claimed pencil pen-pushers and lab rats had been irresponsibly turned into movie heroes, and the nearly religious belief in those reports led to this devastating situation.

  ‘And you don’t say how many criminals have gone free due to incorrect analysis! Typical! You pack of liars!’

  He screamed with such fury that foam from his mouth flew onto the windscreen. It slowly rolled down, leaving a trail of slime.

  Sandra Droege now said that these findings would revive the debate about the death penalty. Innocent prisoners could now simply be released, false convictions reversed, but the dead couldn’t be resurrected.

  ‘Shut up!’ he shouted, and turned off the radio.

  Just after passing the city limit sign in Uslar he stopped and looked for Svenja Moers on his phone.

  The way she looked scared him. He didn’t want to be seen as someone who had let a prisoner starve.

  How long could a person survive without food? At least he had provided her with water, but she looked sick. Did she need medication? Maybe he’d gone too far with the heat in her cell.

  He didn’t want to be unjust and cause a needless death. Life in prison was her sentence. But such a sentence only worked for people who had sufficient life expectancy ahead of them.

  His GPS suggested a route via the A7, but he assumed there would be roadworks before Hanover and Bremen, which is why he intuitively chose a different way, via Osnabrück, Rheine and Lingen.

  In contrast to his usual habits, he didn’t pay attention to speed limits. He didn’t usually like getting caught on camera and didn’t like to attract attention by violating traffic laws. But at that moment he didn’t care.

  Hold on, Svenja, he thought. I’m coming! And he felt like a knight in shining armour.

  *

  Weller was looking forward to his evening at home. He’d purchased a herring sandwich at Weissig’s shop, which was more than enough for his evening meal. He needed a couple of hours to himself. He knew himself very well. He became unbearable if he didn’t get the chance to sink into a good crime novel from time to time.

  Basically he needed three things in life: the feeling of being loved, a couple of chapters of exciting literature and at least once a week a herring or prawn sandwich – he called it ‘East Frisian sushi’ – then he was a happy and satisfied man.

  Two crime novels were awaiting him, and a third, by Moa Graven, was lying in his letter box. The book had a dedication to him: Have fun reading and thank you!

  Weller remembered. A couple of months ago a young author had called and asked questions as research for her new novel. She wanted an accurate picture of police work. That alone pleased him. He enjoyed answering her questions.

  He opened a bottle of red wine and placed all three books on the arm of his reading chair: Moa Graven’s Pub Children, Shadow Oath by Nané Lénard and Murderous Monaco by Jule Gölsdorf. Three crime novels by three women.

  He was looking forward to a nice evening and grabbed two cushions. One for his back and one for his feet. Once he was comfortable, he considered reading the first sentence of each book and then deciding which one he would start. He loved first sentences! He even collected them. He had collected the best ones in a small black notebook.

  He opened Shadow Oath, and just then his phone rang. He reached for it and immediately regretted the decision because Büscher was on the phone.

  ‘He’s struck again.’

  ‘Well great,’ Weller said, ‘and I’d almost read the first sentence.’

  ‘Huh? What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Where did he strike?’ Weller set the wine glass on the pile of books and lifted himself out of the chair.

  ‘Somewhere in southern Germany. The name of the place is Uslar or something like that.’

  ‘Uslar is in the Weser Uplands, not in southern Germany. It’s in Lower Saxony!’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I mean.’

  Weller groaned. He had pictured a completely different evening. ‘Who’s the victim?’

  ‘A certain David Weissberg. He was stabbed to death in the sauna.’

  Weller focused his mind and hoped he would still have time for his red wine, his crime novels and his fish sandwich.

  ‘That can’t be our man. There’s no David Weissberg in Ubbo’s book.’

  Büscher sounded strangely excited, almost asthmatic. ‘I’ll remind you of Faust. He wasn’t a character in Ubbo’s goddamn book!’

  ‘Yes,’ Weller said, ‘but we all know him. I don’t know any Weasel.’

  ‘Weissberg!’

  Weller sipped his red wine. It was a little heavy, but maybe just the thing to calm him down.

  Weller tried to stop Büscher. ‘I don’t know a Weissberg either. I don’t think it’s anything to do with us.’

  ‘But Ubbo Heide knew him. He almost went crazy when I mentioned Weissberg. Ubbo investigated him.’

  ‘Crap!’ Weller put his wine glass back down. ‘That would mean that the culprit actually does come from our ranks because this case isn’t described in Ubbo’s book.’

  Weller’s own deduction hit him in the stomach.

  ‘Or the murders have nothing to do with each other and it’s all a coincidence,’ Büscher said.

  Weller could picture Ann Kathrin in front of him, how she would have reacted to that suggestion. He’d often heard the phrase ’I don’t believe in coincidences and especially not of this sort,’ from her.

  Weller quickly ended the conversation with Büscher and called Ann Kathrin.

  *

  Ann Kathrin Klaasen had put her phone on silent during the concert. She was listening to the music.

  Volker Janssen sat two rows in front of her. Veit Hoffmann and his wife Iris were seated next to Ann and were sipping their drinks. Veit Hoffmann noticed that Ann Kathrin perceived her environment very precisely. She was interested in people who came close to Volker Janssen or even looked at him from a distance. This was more than mere interest in a poet. But for Veit, Ann Kathrin didn’t look as if she was in love. Her interest in Volker Janssen was different.

  Perhaps, Veit thought, she was a private detective checking him out. There was supposedly – according to the rumours – trouble surrounding the inheritance.

  Ann Kathrin had just come to get a good impression of Volker Janssen and his environment. But she liked the music from Iontach. She caught herself dreaming of Ireland.

  She warned herself not to close her eyes now. From her perspective, Volker Janssen was the ideal next victim, and she played with the thought of how long it would take until the man who called himself the executioner would get Volker Janssen or one of the two witnesses.

  Perhaps, Ann Kathrin thought, he’s already here in this room. The killer had struck again with extraordinary speed. In her experience, serial killers often shortened the time between their crimes. Sometimes ten, fifteen years went by between the first and the second murders. Then the spaces became shorter and shorter.

  Here she was dealing with a man who was under tremendous pressure and acted quickly. Bernhard Heymann. Yves Stern. Svenja Moers. Joachim Faust . . .

  She pictured a restless person who believed he had to fulfill a task. Perhaps he heard voices, was motivated by inner pressure, or was afraid he’d soon be caught, and wanted to do as much as possible before then.

  Some k
illers were glad when they were finally caught and everything came to an end. They left signs, whether consciously or unconsciously, for the investigators, so that they could better find them.

  Had her killers also done something like that long ago? And had she overlooked something?’

  He wants us to see connections. He wants us to know that it was him and not anyone else. That’s why he had enrolled for the cooking class as Yves Stern. So we had to make the connection. To be completely certain, he sent us the pictures. He wants us to connect one crime to the next. He’s proud of what he does.

  She let herself be carried away by the music. It was as if the notes took her thoughts away.

  She pictured Wilhelm Kaufmann disguised as an old woman.

  Sometimes, she thought, he actually does have some feminine traits. He could be hard, but once in a while she had perceived a softer side.

  Was he a master of disguise? If he was in the room, he would have noticed her long ago and retreated.

  Her thoughts drifted. While her eyes searched the room, she began internally to consider whether she should delay the start of her new diet. She hadn’t wanted to eat any more carbohydrates after six o’clock, but Veit Hoffmann had recommended an Italian restaurant. It was called Da Vito. She got hungry for spaghetti the way he had talked about it.

  She thought of Weller when she had told him about her new diet and had wanted to motivate him to participate: he’d asked her with a grin, ‘How do the carbs know how late it is?’

  She liked his ironic way of handling things. Sometimes he acted much more stupid than he was, and the way he came to the point by asking questions – was that typically East Frisian?

  During the interval she went to the ladies and checked her phone. Weller had tried to contact her with all available means of communication.

  She had several text messages, simultaneous WhatsApp messages, emails, a Facebook message and two missed calls. Either he missed her greatly or something bad had happened. Probably both, she thought, and he was only using the case to get in touch. The thought flattered her a little.

  But after she’d read the messages, she knew that she wouldn’t spend the night in Achim and wouldn’t visit Da Vito.