Page 1 of Anatomy of a Killer
Prologue
It’s a Thursday when Ann dies– the most miserable of deaths. She lies on her back, her legs stiffly outstretched, pressing her trembling hands to the gaping wound in her chest. The men have removed her heart; they just cut it from her body and took it with them. She wants to scream but can’t, as other sounds are coming from her throat: gurgling, wheezing. Lights explode on her retina– it’s a strain, such a terrible strain, and she just wishes it were over; she can’t cope anymore. And so she lets go, she falls, closes her eyes, ready. . . Behind her closed eyes, it’s a better place. There the sun glistens, the sky is blue and she sits on her father’s shoulders, waving her arms around as if she could fly. It’s long in the past– she’s seven and Dad calls her his ‘Beetle’. He holds her tightly and securely by the legs; she doesn’t have to worry, not anymore.
So this is what it’s like, she tells herself. This is death.
And it can happen so quickly.
A moment ago this Thursday was just a Thursday. They were waiting for their dinner, a pizza delivery from Casa Mamma. Dad had put some music on, a Lou Reed record from the 1970s, before Ann was born. A time when her father was young, reckless and foolish. She would grin when he said such things. Dad, foolish? Never! How preposterous was that? But all the same she liked the record, which he must have played more often than any other; it was a backdrop to Ann’s childhood. Wood was crackling in the fire and it smelled as if Dad had lit it with paper. Ann hated this smoky tang with its hint of acute danger. As if the entire house could go up in flames at any moment.
‘Where’s our dinner?’ came the typical whinge from Ann, which Dad poked fun at.
‘While we’re waiting, why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch some more logs?’ he said, handing her the wood basket. Ann pulled a face. When she was hungry, she wasn’t in the mood for banter.
In the garden, November had created shapes that looked even stranger in the shadowy glow of the terrace lamps. The bushes, bent under the weight of the snow like hunched old ladies, seemed to be heading for the mountain beneath which her old trampoline was hiding. Ann trudged over to the woodshed, tossed a few logs into the basket and returned to the house.
That was when the dying began.
First the light shooting through the window from the other side of the house, the front. Blue circles suddenly dancing in the room. Ann, standing there in bewilderment with the basket, and her father, joking about their pizzas now being delivered express by the emergency services– the restaurant must have sensed how distraught his Beetle got when she was hungry.
But then. . .
The front door bursting open and the men storming in. Throwing themselves on Dad and wrestling him to the ground. There must have been a whole lot of shouting because Ann saw wide-open mouths. But she heard nothing; all of them were bellowing silently under the high-pitched tone that filled her head like tinnitus. The men yanked her father, yanked him to his feet, yanked him towards the door. Ann clutched her wood basket. She saw Dad flounder backwards and turn to her. His utterly empty face. Then they took him away, out into the night. Two of the men stayed inside the house, trying to explain to her what had just happened. Their words sliced into Ann’s chest, gouging deeper and deeper until they finally reached her heart. She fainted. The basket fell to the floor. The thudding of logs was followed by the clunk of her skull. Ann’s body began to convulse, to twitch; she wheezed, whimpered, and it felt really bad until she got here: the world behind her closed eyelids, where her heart is still intact, where it’s summer and with Dad’s help she can fly. She’s seven years old, his ‘Beetle’, and Lou Reed is singing about a perfect day.
‘We need a paramedic!’ An unfamiliar voice cuts in from somewhere, getting louder. It orders Ann to breathe: breathe in on one, out on two, and to stay calm, as calm as possible.
‘Here, the asthma spray!’
She feels her head being moved. Rough fingers force open her mouth and push something hard inside. Her throat turns cold, her chest relaxes. Sluggishly she opens her eyes. Someone is bending over her.
‘It’s good to have you back,’ the happy fool says. He has no idea of hell.
New lead in Berlin Ribbon Murders case:
55-year-old arrested after thirteen-year manhunt
Berlin (JW)– On Thursday evening a 55-year-old man was arrested in relation to the series of dramatic murders dating back to 2004. The man is suspected of having abducted the victims, whose ages range from 6 to 10, taking them to various remote locations in the vicinity of Berlin and then killing them. The suspect left red ribbons to ensure the bodies were found. Most recently, the body of schoolgirl Sophie K. (7) was discovered in a cabin in Königswald. The week before, the girl had been kidnapped from a playground in Berlin-Schmargendorf. The police revealed that a witness statement led them to the 55-year-old.
Ann
Berlin, 24 December 2017(Six weeks later)
It’s as if the city has been cleared out; I can’t see a single car or person, not even a stray dog. The shop windows are black, the entrances obstructed by roller shutters. Berlin is dead, everything is. Except for me. The last survivor, the only person left after the end of the world. Only me and Berlin and the festive lighting hanging everywhere, which flashes deceptively in rhythm, as if the city did have a heartbeat, after all, a last hint of life.
I’m in a hurry; my steps are rapid and ungainly. Slush splashes up to my knees. So what? My trousers ought to have been washed a while ago. I used to be vain, but that’s in the past now. Zoe changed the locks to our flat and just left a small travel bag for me on the landing. From time to time I imagine her sitting at uni in my dark red velvet jeans or wearing my golden sequin top on a date. It’s okay, or, as Saskia E.’s father recently said in an interview:The pain threshold shifts. At some point, things that used to hurt like a flesh wound only feel like a scratch. Saskia E. was victim number seven, murdered three years ago at Christmas 2014.
I quicken my pace, chasing away shadows and footsteps that aren’t there. Sometimes there’s a splash of blood instead of snow. Saskia’s father was right about this too:Inevitably you go a bit mad. He does the rounds of the media as a distraction. I have a distraction too, but it’s work. Although I’ve no idea who’s going to drift into a grubby fast-food joint like Big Murphy’s today of all days– they would have to be very, very lonely. The truth is, the city isn’t dead. It’s still alive, of course, and how. It has merely withdrawn into its warm, lovingly decorated sitting rooms. It’s sitting at tables laden with food, folded napkins and the best cutlery. It’s giving each other presents and revelling in eyes that light up. It’s happy, this city, and the only ones left out today are those at the very bottom. It’s Sunday. And Christmas Eve.
‘There you are! Finally!’ Behind the till Antony flails his arms about. He’s Cuban, just turned twenty-one, and he’s been in Berlin for two years all on his own, without his parents or four siblings who still live in Moa, an industrial city on the north-east coast of Cuba. He needs the money he earns at Big Murphy’s to finance his studies and his room, but most of all for the transfers he sends home every month via Western Union.
I close the glass door behind me and look around. A single table is occupied, by an old man whose face appears to be nothing but eyes and a beard. He’s wearing a dirty brown coat, and as he bites into a floppy burger, I can see fingerless gloves full of holes. Ketchup drips out of the bun like thick, red tears.
‘Yes, thank God, given the rush on here,’ I mutter as I wander past him and into the changing room.
My uniform consists of a short-sleeved, green polyester shirt and brown trousers that open at the sides: ventilation slits. You come to appreciate them when, in the cramped kitchen, oil at 180 degrees is bubbling in five deep fat fryers at once.
It’s not the best job in the world, but it was almost criminally easy to get. No written application, no references, no CV. Just a phone call and the next day a job interview using my dead mother’s maiden name. The manageress liked me at once; I came across as uncomplicated. Working hours, overtime, even the salary: I didn’t care. All that interested me was having my wages paid in cash. And that was fine so long as I signed for it. After some rudimentary training in hygiene, infection control and accident prevention, I was shown the ropes.
Today there are only three of us here: Antony, who’s looking after the till and the drinks; Michelle, who’s preparing the burgers in the kitchen; and me, who right now is helping her, because nobody’s coming to the drive-in that I’m responsible for. Of course not: it’s Christmas Eve.
