Page 61 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘To be honest, I don’t feel like I know anything anymore.’
I trudge off towards the house through the crunching snow, metre by metre. My heart seems to be ahead of me, its tempo has left me far behind. I get to the simple black steps, which the cold of the night has covered with a layer of ice, and I move slowly, carefully, but, most of all, quietly. As if I were doing something illicit. As if I shouldn’t be here.
Now I’m outside the front door. In the moonlight I can make out the bell. It’s still possible for me to turn around and go.
‘Decisions, my Beetle,’ I hear my father say with a smile. The sound of his voice in my head soothes me at once. ‘“Our reason can tell us what we should avoid doing. But our heart can tell us what we have to do.”’
Who said that? Blaise Pascal?
‘Joseph Joubert, my love. And now. . .’
I nod at thin air and press the bell.
Nothing. I try again and listen. Has the bell been disconnected? Perhaps– I mean, that’s exactly what I did at home. I knock, tentatively at first, then slightly louder. ‘Nathalie?’ I try to call out, but it’s no more than a hoarse whisper. I look at my mobile; I’m still on the line to Jakob. ‘I don’t think the bell’s working,’ I say in a hushed voice.
‘Come back, then, forget it,’ says Jakob, my voice of reason.
But my heart sends me around the house. Logs for the stove are piled up against the wall. Instinctively I look up. No smoke drifting from the chimney. I continue to tiptoe, passing a corner. To my left is another wall of firewood and on the other side, a strip of land beneath the thick layer of snow which could be a garden. I try peeking through the slats of one of the shutters, but see nothing, only darkness. Then a noise. I freeze. Listen. A faint clatter. It’s not coming from inside, but my ears tell me it’s very close, behind the next corner of the house. I go on. As quietly and cautiously as I possibly can, always one foot in front of the other. A tawny owl shrieks. And then there’s another noise. A clicking, like someone using a lighter. In my ears I now hear the rushing of blood, like a waterfall, that masks everything else. ‘Do it!’ my heart screams. And I obey. I take the final, decisive step around the corner.
First I see the tiny red light, on the ground to my left. Then the black shape of a person getting up from a sitting position as if in slow motion. I hear the hissing voice asking who’s there. My mouth opens, but I merely croak. Then the figure reaches for something. A long handle; something metallic scrapes across the icy ground. I see the flash of the steel blade of an axe. I want to run away but it’s too late.
RECORDING 07
Berlin, 10 May 2021
So, I’m back.
Of course you are. . .(coughs)I’m sorry. Did you make use of the weekend to think about our last meeting?
Yes, I did. I listened to the recordings as well. We were talking about the girl with the roller skates.
Do you remember her name?
Yes, Laura. Her name was Laura. You lured her into your car under the pretence that you were going to show her a good place for skating. What happened then?
I took her to the Kuhlake in Spandau. Do you know the area? Really pretty. There was a hut there, so overgrown that it looked as if the walls were made of ivy and brambles. As if nature herself had made the hut sprout there and someone had recently nailed a few wooden slats to it. I told Laura that the hut was on the way to the roller-skating place, and she believed me. She even put her hand in mine as we walked. If we’d bumped into anyone, they’d have thought it was a father going for a walk with his little daughter. That did actually happen a few times. Someone seeing me with one of the girls, I mean.
And nobody ever got suspicious?
Well, I don’t look like a dangerous person. Even you remarked on that at the beginning. You said you’d imagined me differently. And that’s why you feel guilty.
What? Why should I feel guilty?
Because you’re another of those people who failed to notice anything. But console yourself with the fact that nobody did, really, nobody at all. You feel guilty most of all, however, because you can’t find me repulsive, no matter how hard you try. My crimes, maybe. But as a person you find me fascinating, you like being here, you enjoy our conversations. And you think that’s wrong. After all, I’m a criminal, a serial killer, shattering your ideal image of the world. Let me remind you that the world cannot be controlled and it has a number of cracks that can’t be patched up. You’re not only wondering how I came to kill the girls, but more importantly, what it must be like to act outside of all norms. Am I right?
I haven’t thought about that.
Yes, you have. You’ve done nothing else since you first met me three days ago.
No, I’ve been dwelling on something different.
Such as?
The nature of our conversations, the constant feeling that you’re playing with me, making me dance like a silly monkey.
Dance, oh, dancing. Maybe I ought to have danced more often in my life. People who dance usually look so relaxed, as if they’re in a different sphere. I’ve always enjoyed watching people dance, and have even tried it myself, just as I’ve tried out lots of things that I thought might make me happy. But, because I couldn’t find my way into this sphere, I soon gave up dancing.
But killing, did that make you happy?
