Page 15 of Anatomy of a Killer
I nod discreetly. Larissa was the girl Ludwig told me about, the most recent development in the case. ‘She was ten when she disappeared in June 2003 on a bike ride,’ I say, repeating what I remember. ‘Her body was found three months later in a hut by the Weihenpfuhl. The police reckon she was the ribbon murderer’s first victim.’
‘How exactly did he. . .’ Eva falters, but it’s obvious what she wants to know. It’s the question whose answer is still hiding in Ludwig’s folder, deliberately sealed in a large brown envelope. An answer whose details are known by very few. Not even Jörg E., Sakia’s father, who doesn’t usually omit a single detail, has ever spoken about it; presumably the police have made him swear to keep quiet on this matter, because, according to Ludwig, they’ve got their reasons for withholding certain details. When questions are asked as to exactly how the girls died, the vague line is that they bled to death from their cut wounds.
‘There are photographs of that too,’ I say quietly.
Eva’s eyes grow large. ‘Do you really want to see them?’
‘I have to. So. . . thank your mum for the invitation. Or tell her she knows where she can stick her sympathy. Whichever you consider more appropriate.’ I essay a smile, but Eva shakes her head.
‘Forget it. I’ll tell her to make us up two plates. We’ll eat here.’
She’s out of the study in a flash, so quickly that she forgets to give me back the photo of Larissa. I can only hope she realises before she gets home and Elke catches a glimpse.
It’s a good half hour before she comes back. I’d almost given up on her and felt angry at myself for being taken in by her again.
‘Sorry,’ Eva says when she’s at the front door, carrying two plates covered in tinfoil. After she went, I carefully locked the door to the terrace and switched the bell on again. ‘I had to have a bit of a discussion with Mum. She couldn’t understand why we wanted to eat here instead.’ She hands me the plates and takes off her boots.
‘Did you tell her?’
‘Are you crazy? You know my mum.’
‘True.’ With my head, I indicate that she should follow me upstairs. One half of me has already put cutlery, napkins, two glasses and a bottle of wine on the desk, whereas the other half is just shaking its head. How can I get involved with Eva again so quickly after everything that happened? Maybe because, amongst all the emotions in my inner storeroom of rubbish, there was always the secret hope I’d see her again one day. Surely I still mean something to her; it must be true or she’d never have come back.
When Eva lifts the foil from one of the plates, the goose leg with its red cabbage gives off a Christmas aroma, an illusion that immediately feels wrong to both of us.
‘We could eat later,’ I say, ashamed of the wine and glasses, which seem just as inappropriate, as if I were trying to exploit a dreadful occasion for my own benefit. Two former friends, toasting with Chardonnay their reunion in the shadow of ten dead children. I pour the wine anyway, and I’m happy to see Eva empty her glass in one go.
‘While you were at your parents’, I started looking at some of these documents, especially the evidence that’s been gathered.’
Eva holds her glass out to me, a silent prompt.
‘And the photos of. . .’ she begins, but can’t say more than, ‘you know.’
‘No, not yet.’ We drink in sync, both eagerly and quickly in the hope it will give us the necessary courage for what’s in store. ‘Did you bring the photo of Larissa back? I have to return the folder in its entirety when we’re done or I’ll be in even more trouble than I’m already in.’
Eva puts her empty glass on the desk then reaches behind and pulls the photo from her waistband like a gun. ‘Here.’ She gives it another close inspection before handing it back to me. ‘She’d be our age now.’
‘True.’
‘Where do you think she was going when she disappeared that June afternoon?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe nowhere in particular, maybe she was just exploring the area. Would that be so odd?’
At Larissa’s age, Eva and I often went out on our bikes. Our trips sometimes took us far, down farm tracks, through woods and marshes, and to an old gravel pit which we fantasised was a sea. The best fun we had was when Eva could stay the night at ours and we didn’t have to keep an eye on the time to ensure she’d be back home punctually for dinner. Elke was reluctant to allow sleepovers; she was worried my father wouldn’t much care whether we ate healthily or went to bed on time. In one respect she was right: my father did give us a lot of leeway. Not because he was ignorant, but because he wanted to see us happy. He pumped our tyres up– clumsily, but he did it– before we set off, gave us money so we could buy ice creams on the way, and told us to have fun.
Fourteen years later Eva and I are on a journey again together. Ten stories take us through the entire Greater Berlin area, each ending at the moment the crime scene photographer pressed the button on his camera. The girls were called Jana, Kati, Olivia, Laetitia, Hayet, Jenny, Saskia, Alina and Sophie. We find them in woodland huts, cellars and warehouses, where they lie before us, their faces pointing upwards or tilted limply to the side. Some have their eyes closed and look as if they’re sleeping. Others stare horrified into the void. And then there’s Larissa– all that’s left of her is an unrecognisable black something with matted red hair.
Eva cries bitterly; she can barely speak. But I don’t want her to either. I’m the one with a clear head; I have the overview, the plan.
‘It’s essential we find out the significance of the gaps between murders. He kills in 2003, 2004, 2005, 2007, 2008, 2011, 2013, 2014, 2016, 2017. What sort of a cycle is that? And what’s with the years 2006, 2009, 2010, 2012 and 2015? Nothing happens in those years. What’s the killer doing during this time? Is he ill? Is he in prison for other crimes? Or is he abroad seeking victims there?’
When Eva swallows, I ignore it. My mind is in overdrive.
‘Whoever killed those girls must have a few gaps in his CV that relate to these very years. My father doesn’t. He was never ill for a long period, let alone ever in prison. He’s never even run a red light in his life, but nobody’s interested in that.’
Eva makes a noise again; the sight of the dead girls must have really unsettled her. But it’s what she wanted. She wanted to help with the research and the photos are part of that.
‘They just come up with their arbitrary evidence, and, in all honesty– I want to hear you say it, Eva– it really is arbitrary, isn’t it? Size 42 shoes and a dark Audi? I mean, how many other men in Berlin fit the bill? Must be tens of thousands at least.’ I point at the papers, including the document listing the evidence. ‘Otherwise all they’ve got is a partial fingerprint– smudged so it’s useless– and a few textile fibres, probably from a shirt. What they don’t have is any DNA or mobile phone data to prove my father was in the vicinity of the crime scenes. Nothing certain.’
