‘What made you think that, Doctor?’
‘He had a way about him. I thought he was Gestapo.’
‘And what made you think that?’ said Willi.
‘I’m Jewish, Detective. I’ve seen the Gestapo. Why would I not think that?’
One of Munich’s all-night pharmacies was across from the train station and one stop from Karolinenplatz. Willi rode his bicycle the three kilometers on back streets. Except for the drunks and vagrants around the station, the streets were mostly empty now.
Sure enough, the pharmacist had filled the Eukodol prescription within hours of Friedrich Grosz’s visit to the doctor. Grosz had said he was in pain and immediately took one of the tablets even though Doctor Rosenberg had given him one a short time ago. The pharmacist had not paid much attention to what the man had looked like, although he recalled that his hand was heavily bandaged and his arm was in a sling.
He found the prescription and showed it to Willi. He then looked it up in the logbook where all controlled substances were registered. The false name was there along with the same bogus address he had given the doctor. ‘What additional information is required for controlled substances?’ Willi said.
‘The prescribing doctor’s name, address, the reason for the prescription, and exemptions and exceptions.’
‘Exemptions and exceptions?’ said Willi. ‘What’s that?’
‘Well,’ said the pharmacist, ‘that’s for special uses, for instance, scientists or doctors working with controlled substances, certain military and government officials who have … a privileged … dispensation …’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Willi. ‘Are you talking about addicts?’
The pharmacist was silent for a long time. Finally he said, ‘In recent years, Herr Detective, the uses of some of these substances, and the laws controlling them have … evolved, shall we say, so that more people now have access to them than was once the case.’
‘And Herr Grosz had such an exemption or exception?’
‘He did, Herr Detective. A police and military exemption.’
‘Is he an addict?’
‘There’s no way for me to know.’
‘So this number here?’ Willi pointed to the number the pharmacist had written beside Grosz’s address.
‘That is his exemption number,’ said the pharmacist.
‘And you have this number how?’
‘It was on his ID card.’
‘And he showed you his ID?’
‘Certainly. That’s required by law.’
‘And it had his picture and the name Friedrich Grosz?’
‘It did.’
‘And you looked at the picture to make sure it was him?’
‘I did.’
Willi turned the logbook toward him and read the number aloud: ‘SS47840. An SS number.’
‘Yes,’ said the pharmacist, and for some reason only he could have known, he clasped his hands over his mouth, as if to indicate there was nothing more he could say.
The Mind of a Killer
Reinhard Pabst was just thirty years old. He had only been in the Gestapo for a few years, and in a very short time had achieved the rank of Obersturmbannführer, lieutenant colonel. He had been extraordinarily successful in exposing and arresting various enemies of the German people, including a small group of army officers who had been planning a coup d’état, which he had prevented from even getting off the ground. Thanks to Reinhard, three army colonels had been liquidated and two brigadier generals now found themselves crushing stones in Dachau.
This had been a triumph for Reinhard, a man who only a few years earlier had been a confused young man, riven with self-doubt, and trying and failing at one thing after another. And now he had just been put in charge of the Gestapo’s largest ongoing investigation, the pursuit of the serial killer bedeviling Munich and unsettling the entire country.
Since Reinhard was himself the killer, he had thought it urgent that he take over the case so that he could direct the investigation away from himself. And he had been brilliant yet again in accomplishing this objective. Reinhard’s unique combination of gifts – an innocent face, a modicum of intelligence, and an effortless and lethal duplicity – had allowed him to maneuver other more senior Gestapo officers aside to get the assignment.
Reinhard, taking the Führer as his model, had looked into his rivals and then spread the word about their insufficiencies – real or imagined, it didn’t matter. The rumors he started inevitably found their way to Himmler and then to Hitler. When these candidates were interviewed, they suddenly found themselves on the defensive. ‘No, Herr Reichsführer, I did not fail to accomplish the assignment. There was no failure on my part. It was an administrative failure.’ An administrative failure? That was almost like blaming the Führer himself! One by one Reinhard’s rivals were eliminated from consideration.
Reinhard was the last candidate to be interviewed. ‘Thank you, my Führer, and you, Herr Reichsführer, for this opportunity to serve you and the German people.’ Reinhard summed up his accomplishments since joining the Gestapo, being careful to repeatedly give the Führer credit as his inspiration and model.
Reinhard laid out in detail several interesting things he knew about the serial-killer case that Hitler and Himmler were both unaware of. For instance, Reinhard had discovered that someone had been posing as a detective and interviewing people about the case. Reinhard believed that this person might himself be the killer. Reinhard also said he had evidence that the killings were part of a Jewish plot to destabilize the Führer’s regime as a step on the way to Jewish world domination.
Hitler looked at Himmler. Himmler nodded.
‘So, Pabst,’ said Hitler. He clapped his hands together, and smiled. ‘I think we’ve found the man for the job. What will it take to bring this pig to slaughter?’
‘I have a very sharp knife, my Führer,’ said Reinhard. The Führer laughed at the joke. ‘I will formulate a plan of action, my Führer.’
‘This must be accomplished quickly, Pabst. Do you understand me?’ said Himmler.
‘I understand you perfectly, Herr Reichsführer.’
‘Do you think he will kill again?’ said Hitler.
‘I am certain he will, my Führer.’
Since that first time long ago with the prostitute when he was still a Jesuit, Reinhard had had many
