She would miss her people, the people whose mail she delivered. She thought of them almost as family. She had gotten to know them over the years, knew their stories, their sorrows and their joys. Some would give her little treats from time to time, chocolates or a bottle of schnapps. Of course, then she had to carry whatever it was around for the rest of the day, which didn’t help her knees.
There were a few sourpusses on her route. Like Heinz Schleiffer, for instance. His building was next, and she used to dread even seeing him. He had been one of the worst, an obnoxious, nasty little Nazi. But then a while back something had happened and he had changed, had gotten nicer. It had been around the time that Frau Schimmel had died. Now, there was a really nice person. She had been sick for a while with cancer. Trude had decided then that she didn’t want to wait until she was old and sick to retire. Anyway, Heinz Schleiffer had gotten nicer. He had dropped the ‘Heil Hitler’ stuff. He never strutted around in his uniform these days. And he had learned to smile. Sometimes on a nice day he would offer her a glass of lemonade or beer. He’d ask how she was, ask after her family.
Trude rang Schleiffer’s bell. He opened the door. ‘Grüß Gott, Frau Heinemann,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, Herr Schleiffer. How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a registered package for you,’ she said.
‘Really?’ He looked worried. ‘I hope it’s not bad news.’
‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘Sign right here.’ Heinz signed and she handed him the package.
He looked at it, turned it over a few times. ‘Who’s it from, I wonder?’ he said. ‘There’s no return address.’
Trude looked at it. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It looks important. They do that sometimes. Maybe the return address is inside.’
‘Well, I better look into this then. Thank you.’
Once inside he got scissors and cut the brown tape sealing the flat, brown cardboard envelope. Inside was another smaller envelope with a handwritten letter attached. Still no return address. He looked at the signature: Karl Juncker. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Herr Schleiffer,
I was very sorry to learn of Frau Schimmel’s death. I know that you and she were close and that she valued your friendship. That is why I am asking you for a favor.
An SS Officer investigating the Munich serial killings is going to show up at Tullemannstraße, probably on Monday. He will be looking for me, but I would like him to find the contents of this envelope instead. If you would be so kind as to put the enclosed envelope inside the top desk drawer in my apartment, and then, for your own safety, destroy this letter to you, it will go a long way toward bringing the serial killer to justice.
Thank you for your help in this matter.
Respectfully,
Karl Juncker
Heinz Schleiffer had the entire weekend to think about what he should do. But the answer was obvious. If he decided to follow his own course and, say, take the packet to Ortsgruppenleiter Mecklinger, who was still in charge of the neighborhood, he would himself be implicated in whatever Juncker was up to. In fact, if he was connected to this plot in any way, he would be in trouble. He would be hauled in and questioned, and he knew where that would lead.
Karl Juncker had trusted him and had given him an out. And there was the fact, which he could not easily forget, that he had reported Juncker multiple times for something he had not done. Heinz sometimes even wondered whether he had perhaps caused Karl Juncker to be incarcerated. Of course, he had not, but the thought still weighed on him. Now all he had to do to make amends was put the envelope in Juncker’s desk and say nothing.
The inside envelope was unsealed, almost as though Juncker wanted him to look at the contents. And Heinz went so far as to slide the papers halfway out. But the first word that caught his eye was ‘Gestapo,’ and he quickly slid the papers back into the envelope and closed it up.
Heinz got his keys and went up to the apartment. It had not been opened for many months. There were cobwebs, dust and dead flies everywhere. One of the pictures was hanging crooked. How did that happen in an empty apartment? he wondered.
He opened the desk drawer. There was the box of medals. He looked at the medals again and was encouraged that he was doing the right thing. He debated whether he should put the medals on top of the envelope, but decided then he should do exactly as instructed. He tiptoed out of the apartment and carefully turned the lock. He could almost have believed that Karl Juncker was watching him.
The Evidence
Hauptsturmführer Altdorfer had called hospital after hospital, clinic after clinic, before he had finally come up with the clinic that had sewed up Friedrich Grosz’s hand. The nurse and the doctor there both wondered that, with so many different authorities coming with all their questions, why this killer had not been caught. Four more women had been killed in the meantime. How could it take this long?
‘What authorities?’ Altdorfer demanded. Nurse Grosz said he was the third one. One he recognized from her description as Willi Geismeier. It made the Hauptsturmführer want to go after Geismeier all over again. Then he
