Berg’s conclusion was not a particularly comfortable one for any civilized member of society: Kürten was not mad within the terms of Paragraph Fifty-one, in that his acts were neither completely compulsive nor wholly irresistible, so much as pure, unadulterated cruelty.
If that wasn’t bad enough, reading Baudelaire left me feeling as comfortable in my soul as a bullock in an abattoir. It didn’t require a superhuman effort of imagination to accept Frau Kalau vom Hofe’s suggestion that this rather Gothic French poet provided an explicit articulation of the mind of a Landru, a Gormann or a Kürten.
Yet there was something more here. Something deeper and more universal than merely a clue as to the psyche of the mass murderer. In Baudelaire’s interest in violence, in his nostalgia for the past and through his revelation of the world of death and corruption, I heard the echo of a Satanic litany that was altogether more contemporary, and saw the pale reflection of a different kind of criminal, one whose spleen had the force of law.
I don’t have much of a memory for words. I can barely remember the words of the national anthem. But some of these verses stayed in my head like the persistent smell of mingled musk and tar.
That evening I drove down to see Bruno’s widow Katia at their home in Berlin-Zehlendorf. This was my second visit since Bruno’s death, and I brought some of his things from the office, as well as a letter from my insurance company acknowledging receipt of the claim I had made on Katia’s behalf.
There was even less to say now than before, but nevertheless I stayed for a full hour, holding Katia’s hand and trying to swallow the lump in my throat with several glasses of schnapps.
‘How’s Heinrich taking it?’ I said uncomfortably, hearing the unmistakable sound of the boy singing in his bedroom.
‘He hasn’t talked about it yet,’ said Katia, her grief giving way a little to embarrassment. ‘I think he sings because he wants to escape from having to face up to it.’
‘Grief affects people very differently,’ I said, scraping around for some sort of excuse. But I didn’t think this was true at all. To my own father’s premature death, when I hadn’t been much older than Heinrich was now, had been appended as its brutal corollary the inescapable logic that I was myself not immortal. Ordinarily I would not have been insensitive to Heinrich’s situation, ‘But why must he sing that song?’
‘He’s got it into his head that the Jews had something to do with his father’s death.’
‘That’s absurd,’ I said.
Katia sighed and shook her head. ‘I’ve told him that, Bernie. But he won’t listen.’
On my way out I lingered at the boy’s doorway, listening to his strong young voice.
“‘Load up the empty guns, And polish up the knives, Let’s kill the Jewish bastards, Who poison all our lives.”’
For a moment I was tempted to open the door and belt the young thug on the jaw. But what was the point? What was the point of doing anything but leave him alone? There are so many ways of escaping from that which one fears, and not the least of these is hatred.
8
Monday, 12 September
A badge, a warrant card, an office on the third floor and, apart from the number of S S uniforms there were about the place, it almost felt like old times. It was too bad that there were not many happy memories, but happiness was never an emotion in plentiful supply at the Alex, unless your idea of a party involved working on a kidney with a chair-leg. A couple of times men I knew from the old days stopped me in the corridor to say hallo, and how sorry they were to hear about Bruno. But mostly I got the kind of looks that might have greeted an undertaker in a cancer ward.
Deubel, Korsch and Becker were waiting for me in my office. Deubel was explaining the subtle technique of the cigarette punch to his junior officers.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘When he’s putting the nail in his guzzler, you give him the uppercut. An open jaw breaks real easy.’
‘How nice to hear that criminal investigation is keeping up with modern times,’ I said as I came through the door. ‘I suppose you learned that in the Freikorps, Deubel.’
The man smiled. ‘You’ve been reading my school-report, sir.’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of reading,’ I said, sitting down at my desk.
‘Never been much of a reader myself,’ he said.
‘You surprise me.’
‘You’ve been reading that woman’s books, sir?’ said Korsch. ‘The ones that explain the criminal mind?’
‘This one doesn’t take much explanation,’ said Deubel. ‘He’s a fucking spinner.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But we’re not about to catch him with blackjacks and brass knuckles. You can forget all your usual methods — cigarette punches and things like that.’ I stared hard at Deubel. ‘A killer like this is difficult to catch because, for most of the time at least, he looks and behaves like an ordinary citizen. And with none of the hallmarks of criminality, and no obvious motive, we can’t rely on informers to help us get on his track.’
Kriminalassistent Becker, on loan from Department VB3 — Vice — shook his head.
‘If you’ll forgive me, sir,’ he said, ‘that’s not quite true. Dealing with sexual deviants, there are a few informers. Butt-fuckers and dolly-boys, it’s true, but now and again they do come up with the goods.’
‘I’ll bet they do,’ Deubel muttered.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll talk to them. But first there are two aspects to this case that I want us all to consider. One is that these girls disappear and then their bodies are found all over the city. Well, that tells me that our killer is using a car. The other aspect is that as far as I am aware, we’ve never had any reports of anyone witnessing the abduction of a victim. No reports of a girl being dragged kicking and screaming into the back of a car. That seems to me to indicate that maybe they went willingly with the killer. That they weren’t afraid. Now it’s unlikely that they all knew the killer, but quite possibly they might have trusted him because of what he was.’
‘A priest, maybe,’ said Korsch. ‘Or a youth leader.’
‘Or a bull,’ I said. ‘It’s quite possible he could be any one of those things. Or all of them.’
‘You think he might be disguising himself?’ said Korsch.
I shrugged. ‘I think that we have to keep an open mind about all of these things. Korsch, I want you to check through the records and see if you can’t match anyone with a record for sexual assault with either a uniform, a church or a car licence plate.’ He sagged a little. ‘It’s a big job, I know, so I’ve spoken to Lobbes in Kripo Executive, and he’s going to get you some help.’ I looked at my wristwatch. ‘Kriminaldirektor Müller is expecting you over in VC1 in about ten minutes, so you’d better get going.’
‘Nothing on the Hanke girl yet?’ I said to Deubel, when Korsch had gone.
‘My men have looked everywhere,’ he said. ‘The railway embankments, the parks, waste ground. We’ve dragged the Teltow Canal twice. There’s not a lot more we can do.’ He lit a cigarette and grimaced. ‘She’s dead by now. Everyone knows it.’
‘I want you to conduct a door-to-door inquiry throughout the area where she disappeared. Speak to everyone, and I mean everyone, including the girl’s schoolfriends. Somebody must have seen something. Take some photographs to jog a few memories.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir,’ he growled, ‘that’s surely a job for the uniformed boys in Orpo.’