Page 12 of Anatomy of a Killer
Is that how you feel? Threatened by me? Intimidated? Inferior?
(audibly swallows)I didn’t come here to play games, but because I wanted to know who you are.
‘Wanted’? Are you saying you do know now? Well, that was quick, I take my hat off to you.
No, I. . . I mean. . .
Good God, why don’t you relax, and let’s get this done with a modicum of dignity. It is the grand finale, after all! It would be a real shame if, after all the effort you’ve put in, you failed now, wouldn’t it?
Ann
Berlin, 25 December 2017
It’s like a scavenger hunt, only there’s no treasure at the end, only the discovery of a dead child. Red ribbons pointing the way to the bodies, and now a red ribbon tied to a branch of the old oleander on our terrace. For a few seconds I just stand there, rigid, staring and unable to comprehend. It’s like a tsunami: all my thoughts and feelings retreat into the distance, where they gather and tower up to come surging forth and crush me.
Then I suddenly realise: the killer.
He’s free and he was here.
He’s left me a sign.
Slipping from my hand, the coffee cup crashes to the floor and breaks. I stagger, check my balance on the armrest of the sofa, then teeter backwards until I feel the wall behind me– a cold, hard wall that offers support, its firmness reassuring.
Nonsense, it’s all nonsense. Now I’ve thought it through, of course the ribbon murderer wasn’t here, that’s absurd. What would he want from me? Why would he provoke me, given that he must be thrilled my father’s in prison in his place? No, what must have happened is what I’ve been fearing for a while: my father’s identity has been revealed. He’s no longer a disguised face in a photo by the name of ‘university professor (55)’; now he’s Dr Walter Lesniak, a verifiable individual with an address and a daughter who’s being tracked down. Maybe by Jörg E., the man who’s always doing the media rounds, father of little Saskia, victim number seven. It was him, or another father, mother, grandfather. Someone who’s lost a child to the serial killer. Who’s now found me and wants to torture me just as their own child was tortured. Because I’m someone’s daughter too.Hisdaughter. An eye for an eye.
I tense my jaw; fear and helplessness give way to blazing anger. Marching to the terrace door, I yank it open and inspect the red ribbon. It looks new, barely touched by the weather, as if it’s only just been tied there. My eyes flit around. Footprints, definitely a man’s. I follow them through the snow; they lead from the rear garden door to our terrace and back. Suddenly I find myself standing on the little path that runs behind our garden. The footprints are mingled with countless others; lots of neighbours go walking here or take their dogs out. It’s impossible to work out where the intruder came from or in which direction he fled. I turn around a few times, wheezing alarmingly. I ran out without any shoes on and now my socks are soaking up the wet. The cold, the distress. If I don’t calm down, this is going to end in another attack. Breathe, no matter how. Cautious movements, back inside the house. I don’t know if I’ve shut the terrace door properly; I can only think about my asthma spray. A reverberation of the cold pulses in my feet, niggling me. But it’s no good, I lurch into the hallway, over to my rucksack. Only in emergencies, the doctor said. Shake the cartridge, put the mouthpiece between your lips, lean your head back, breathe in slowly and deeply while pressing the spray button, then hold your breath for five seconds. 5– 4– 3– 2– 1. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m all right again; I don’t suffer as badly as others. My asthma is more like a rubber band that can be stretched and stretched and stretched until it finally breaks. I drop to the floor; I want to sit down, just for a moment, until the rubber-band sensation has eased a little. Then I put the spray back into the rucksack and take my mobile out. My first attempt goes straight to voicemail; the second time Ludwig answers immediately. From the background noises I can tell that he’s still in the car. I try to sound as composed as possible: the red ribbon on the oleander, the footsteps in the garden, someone was here.
‘What? What are you talking about, Anni?’
Once again. The red ribbon, the footsteps.
‘They’ve found me, Ludwig!’
‘Who’s found you?’
‘Some relatives, I imagine! Don’t you get it? We need to inform the police!’
‘I fear there’s very little they’ll be able to do. Nothing has been damaged, nor has anyone physically assaulted you. Trespassing on private property– no more than that.’
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Listen. I understand you’re shaken up, but the situation is like this: someone was in your garden and tied a red ribbon to the oleander—’
‘The message is: we have found you.’
‘Anni—’
‘Are you saying I just ought to accept it?’
‘Once again: someone was in your garden and tied a red ribbon to the oleander. Nothing else actually happened. At most, the police will tell you to be circumspect and get in touch if anything worse happens, if the person comes back or if you feel threatened. . .’
I hang up in consternation. But Ludwig’s probably right; calling the police won’t help. They’ll only think I’m being hysterical and deal with me exactly as he said: monitor the situation, get in touch if somethingreallyhappens. Areallythat’s based on more than just a state of mind, the oppressive feeling that, in crossing the boundary to their property, someone has also violated a personal boundary. My home, the place where– at moments in my imagination, at least– everything can be as it used to be. My old home, it’s all I’ve got left. I slip my mobile into my trouser pocket and take the grey cardboard file from the rucksack.
I’ve got to be quick. It won’t be long before Ludwig realises that something important is missing. He’ll run back over the day and soon remember that he left me alone in the car at the petrol station, alone with his briefcase on the back seat. He’ll also recall that only a few minutes earlier I’d asked if I could see these papers.
This isn’t the only reason why there’s no time to lose. Somebody was here, if only in our garden this time. All the same, this person is one of those I have to convince of my father’s innocence as soon as possible, before they go further next time and I find myself in serious danger. Who knows what desperate people are capable of when they believe they’re in the right and become impatient? Who knows if the red ribbon isn’t just a means to pressurise the man that they believe to be the killer to finally break his silence, having refused to make a confession till now?
Dad’s study. Where he prepared his lectures and wrote his papers. Where he was inspired and we weren’t allowed to disturb him. A room the real world had no access to, a place that seemed to be from another dimension. Maybe I’m secretly hoping that something of the particular intellect enveloping this room will rub off on me as I climb the stairs with Ludwig’s file and another cup of coffee. The room is at the end of the landing, beyond the bedrooms and the two bathrooms. Its windows look out on to the garden, offering the perfect view of me as a child, whooping and roaring as I leaped around on the trampoline down there. The perfect view if the intruder were to return.
