Page 20 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘Wait,’ I decide. ‘I don’t know how Michelle will react if I turn up with someone else unannounced.’ I get out. ‘But thanks for your support, I’m really grateful,’ I add before closing the passenger door.
I wander along the path to the door as if to the scaffold: with heavy steps, tense shoulders and bowed head. To my right is a playground covered in snow. Maybe Larissa used to play here. Scarcely has that thought crossed my mind than my imagination effaces the snow and a green meadow sprouts in its place. Larissa is dangling her legs from the swing and squinting into the sun, when, against the light, the dark silhouette of a man looms menacingly before her. I shake my head and the image dissolves. The playground is as it was: in the grey snow of the early morning and without Larissa.
When I get to the front door, I look for a bell beside the name Meller. There are twenty flats in this ugly, bright yellow block. I have to ring several times before I hear a buzz and push open the thick, streaky glass door. When I get to the seventh floor, Michelle is already standing in the doorway. She’s made up as ever, but her dyed blonde hair hasn’t been styled. She’s wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a light top with dots on it, which seems to be part of a pyjama set. I get the impression her tentative smile is wavering between uncertainty and a hunch.
‘Come in,’ she says, stepping aside. I thank her and take my boots off on the mat.
Even the hallway gets to me. The walls are hung with photographs, almost all of them showing Larissa in every stage of her life, from infancy to her school induction.
‘I hardly took any photos of her in the last few years,’ Michelle says, shutting the door to her flat. I turn around to her in shock.
‘That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? Because of Larissa?’
‘I. . .’
‘Only a couple of days ago there was this newspaper article, an interview with Saskia’s dad. It said the alleged killer also has a daughter.’
Two days ago– now it flashes through my mind:Continue reading on page 3. An article I was so keen to avoid I demolished the newspaper dispenser instead. I give an indecisive shrug. There are lots of daughters in Berlin, hundreds of thousands of them.
‘What’s more, two days ago you signed your cash receipt at the end of your shift with “Lesniak” instead of “de Groot” like usual. You were so all over the place that day you didn’t even notice, did you?’
I purse my lips and my heart begins to gallop. How could I have made such a stupid mistake? At least I’ve been saved the trouble of having to gently let Michelle know who I really am. But I’m even more ashamed. How must she have felt when she realised her work colleague had been deceiving her all these weeks?
‘Do you know what comes up first when you search for “Lesniak” and “Berlin” on the internet?’
I nod apprehensively. My father– that’s what you find. Walter Lesniak, a university professor, just like the alleged killer who’s in custody. ‘So you put two and two together.’
‘I wasn’t completely sure. But when you called this morning, so upset and so early, I knew, yes.’
‘And even so, you’re prepared to help me?’
‘Looks like it. Come on.’
She takes me into her sitting room. It’s small and untidy, and here too there are lots of photos on the walls. Only some of them show Michelle’s sons: two boys, redheads like Larissa, looking grumpy. Michelle removes an overflowing washing basket from the sofa and invites me to sit down. She remains standing and looks down at me, her jaw muscles twitching.
‘About four weeks ago I was told that Larissa’s death was probably linked to the series of killings, and a few days ago this was confirmed as definite. I should be shocked, no? But I’m not. It’s as if I suspected this long ago. Only I can’t make out where you come into it. How’s it possible that the daughter of my child’s alleged killer gets a job in the very place where I work? I mean, it can hardly be a coincidence.’
Although I’m still wearing Dad’s thick jacket, I suddenly feel cold. I can understand Michelle’s mistrust and yet I don’t have another explanation except for the fact that it’s just that: a coincidence. A totally crazy, unbelievable coincidence of the sort that only fate can cook up when hatching plans for people. When two paths have to cross.
Set on being honest with her, I tell Michelle about the weeks since the arrest. That I didn’t want to go to uni anymore because I was worried about the looks I’d get and the gossip. But that I couldn’t sit around doing nothing at home, where my despair and memories were on the verge of driving me crazy. This was why I looked for an undertaking, something to attach me to the real world, to give me a reason to get up in the morning. An undertaking that I found in the job at Big Murphy’s. I don’t know if she believes me, but at least she doesn’t immediately ask me to leave.
‘I dream about it almost every night,’ she says instead, wandering over to the window and peering out. ‘I see my little girl running through the woods, desperately trying to escape her pursuer. She stumbles, trips and keeps hitting her shoulder because she can barely see anything in the dark. In her thoughts she’s calling for her mummy, but I’m not there. She’s all on her own. Eventually she gets so tired that she slumps to the ground behind a thick tree trunk. She makes herself as small as a mouse, just like when she used to play hide-and-seek here at home, always squeezing herself into the gap between the back of the sofa and the wall. She knows she has to be very quiet to not give herself away. Maybe he’ll give up if he doesn’t find her, or at least he’ll go off in another direction. And in fact sheislucky: from somewhere in the distance comes a loud crack that catches his attention. He follows the noise and moves away from her. She gets to her feet and keeps running; she’s so brave– Mummy’s big brave girl. Then the miracle occurs: the woods end in a road. She’s made it, she’s escaped from him! And there’s something else, two shining circles, getting bigger and bigger: a car. She sets off on a final sprint, flailing her arms about, her whole body screaming for attention. Sitting in that car is someone who can help her. Someone who’ll take her back to her mummy. The driver stops the car right beside her. The door opens– but it’s too late. It’s him: the man who chased her through the woods. He drags her to the car and locks her in the boot, where it’s cramped and stuffy, and just as black as it was in the woods. She feels they’re driving on a bumpy road. She knows it leads back to the hut, where terrifying tools hang on the wall. Old screwdrivers, an axe with a rusty blade and a saw with sharp teeth. The car stops. When the man lifts her from the boot, her body is completely limp, abandoned by all hope, no fighting spirit left. She allows herself to be carried back to the hut. In her head she sings herself a lullaby.Goodnight, Mummy. I love you anyway. . .’
Michelle, who was standing at the window with her back to me, turns around so abruptly that I jump. Black trickles of mascara are running down her face; it’s hard to look at. Feeling uneasy, I shift my position on the sofa Larissa used to love playing hide-and-seek behind, and try to find the right words. There was nothing in the forensics report to suggest that she did try to flee before her death and almost managed to escape the killer. But I can understand that it’s painful for Michelle not to know how the abduction took place and what really happened while Larissa was at the mercy of her killer. All she’s got is the outcome: her dead child, murdered by a stranger and left for months in a remote woodland hut until there was scarcely anything left of her apart from a rotting black body and her dishevelled red hair. I assume that Michelle’s subconscious is trying to fill the gaps in knowledge in its own way, and making her suffer from the never-changing reality that, as a mother, she wasn’t there when her daughter needed her most.
‘I’m so dreadfully sorry, Michelle,’ I say softly. It’s stupid, banal and worthless– I realise that. But I can’t think of anything better to say.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she says, sounding composed again, and sits on the arm of the sofa at some distance from me. ‘No child can be held responsible for what their parents do.’
‘But that’s precisely why I’m here, Michelle! It wasn’t my dad! There’s no proof, just a few tenuous leads, most of which are based on coincidence.’
‘Nobody gets thrown in custody just because of a few coincidences. What kind of state would we be living in if that happened?’
‘The problem is, he simply won’t say anything, which the investigation team take as an admission of guilt.’ Craving understanding, I look at her, but her eyes return to the window.
‘After Larissa’s death, everything fell apart. I was pregnant with Ben at the time and Toby had just turned one. I was good for nothing, I spent all day crying in bed. I couldn’t even cook for Toby. Rainer, my ex, couldn’t watch this happen. He was almost manic in his attempt to find out what had happened to Larissa, especially who did it to her.’ She gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘You remind me a bit of him.’
I ignore her comment, but it’s good that she’s the one to bring up the subject of her ex-husband. ‘At the time he suspected a friend of yours: Marcus Steinhausen.’
