Reinhard stayed late in his office in Briennerstraße. When the pressure had built up and he felt compelled to act, he went down to the basement gym where the showers were. He stripped off his clothes and scrubbed every centimeter of his body under nearly scalding water with a stiff bristled brush and hard, brown soap. It was like a ceremonial cleansing before a sacred ritual.
At Karolinenplatz he got on a streetcar going in one direction or another, it didn’t matter which. He sat toward the back of the front car. Like the streetcar, the woman was random too. She had to be a particular sort, though: alone, of course, youngish, slim, large breasts. He recognized her immediately as soon as he saw her. His mother had been like that, so it was almost like he already knew her.
Most nights he rode the train to the end of the line and back again without seeing her. He felt both relieved and disappointed when she wasn’t there. Then one night there she would be. There was that look, that mocking confidence as she got on the streetcar. Her eyes would scan the car, would sweep right past him, without seeming to notice, although he could tell she had seen him and was prepared to destroy him.
She took her seat, her back to him. She crossed her stockinged legs. He could hear the whisper of the silk on silk that made him shudder. Or she casually brushed the hair from her neck. Except it was not casual at all. He felt the hair on his own neck stand up. ‘Look at me,’ she said without speaking, without looking in his direction, without even moving.
Once Reinhard was off the streetcar and behind her, the rest went very quickly. He had to be quick or she might overpower him. He struck like Abraham sacrificing the ram caught in the bush. Then it was over – she was vanquished, the sacrifice was accomplished. Reinhard took the streetcar back to the office. Sometimes, if it was a nice night, he walked.
Suzanna Merkl had almost killed him. A woman using her lethal, demonic skills. He had gotten careless, had forgotten how dangerous the enemy could be, and it had almost cost him his life. He could not afford to make a mistake like that again.
The Third Report
Heinz Schleiffer had observed Karl Juncker leaving home late the night before, and now there it was in the paper a few hours later. Another poor woman, Suzanna Merkl, had been butchered in the same way as the other eight victims, and her killer had gotten away. The paper had photos of all nine women across the top of the front page.
Heinz had suspected Karl Juncker all along, and now he finally had the proof. The timeline – Juncker leaves home at night, Merkl is dead the next morning – was irrefutable evidence. They would have to pay attention to him now. He took out a pad of paper, a pen and ink, and wrote a letter. He used a dictionary to be certain everything was spelled correctly. He wrote in what he thought of as official language.
To: Ortsgruppenleiter Gerhard Mecklinger
From: SA Mann Heinz Schleiffer
Subject: Serial Killer Herr Karl Juncker
Herr Karl Juncker, residing at Tullemannstraße 54, Apartment 21 has been engaged in suspicious activity for long durations of time. He regularly leaves the above referenced address at extremely odd hours. His professional activities are unknown. On the evening of December 19 at approximately 22:15 he departed from his residence under peculiar circumstances for parts unknown. On the following morning of December 20 the body of Suzanna Merkl was found dead in the snow. I am convinced that Karl Juncker’s suspicious activity means that it is extremely likely in all probability that he is the killer who is terrorizing the city and warrants a further investigation.
With utmost respect,
Heil Hitler.
Heinz Schleiffer
SA Mann Heinz Schleiffer was not one to violate protocol lightly, to skip over the chain of command, to go behind the back of his commanding officer, even an incompetent like Mecklinger. After all, the Reich was founded on order, and order had to be maintained. But, Schleiffer reasoned, these were not ordinary circumstances. Women were dying, and the killer was known to him. He had a responsibility.
Heinz put on his uniform and marched off to deliver this latest evidence to Ortsgruppenleiter Mecklinger – or rather, to Frau Kinski. He knew Mecklinger had been ignoring his warnings and might well ignore this memo too. But Heinz would give Mecklinger one week, and if he didn’t hear anything back by then, he would find someone who could see how dire the circumstances were and who would take him seriously. Heinz was no fool; Mecklinger was the fool. Mecklinger would eventually be shown to be the impediment to solving this crime.
Heinz had made a copy of the memo which he carried in his jacket pocket. When the occasion presented itself, he would show it to someone who could get this important information to the Führer. Well, maybe not the Führer himself. But the Führer had people who could take action on such matters. If Heinz could get his memo into the proper hands, the crime would be solved, and he would be a hero.
Imagine Heinz’s shock when the SS knocked on his door a few mornings later. Two men in black uniforms inquired whether he was the author of the complaint that had been filed a while back – it had been so long ago that Heinz had all but forgotten – about a neighbor who had been receiving mail from England.
