Page 8 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘Oh, Anni.’ Over the table, Ludwig reaches for my left hand and turns it so the palm is facing upwards. Then he pushes my watch strap so he can stroke the little scar on my wrist with his thumb. I was very little when I hurt myself there. ‘All of us get the odd scratch and scrape over the course of our life. And not every one is visible on the outside.’
I yank back my hand, speechless.
‘You can never see into someone’s mind, my child. Not even the mind of those you think you know best. All I want is for you to be prepared for everything. The clues—’
‘The clues! Are you listening to anything I’m saying?’
‘Anni—’
‘You’re all so fixated on him that you’ve become blind to another possibility.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know, another killer! Are the police investigating every angle? No. It was Dad and that’s that, case solved. And if I say that this can’t be right, I’m treated like an idiot who can’t handle the truth.’ I begin chewing my bottom lip. ‘Maybe I ought to give an interview after all.’
‘What? For God’s sake, get that out of your head at once.’
‘But if the public understood what kind of a person he really is, it might put pressure on the police to be more thorough in their investigation and so find the real guilty party.’
‘No, no, no!’ Ludwig says, emphasising each word. Then comes a long speech. The press are an unruly mob. Very few journalists these days feel like they’re on a mission, still keen to uncover the truth and look for facts. On the contrary, most just go for the entertainment value; they’re out for blood and drama, circulation figures and ratings. This– and only this– is what drives them. If I were to speak to them, Ludwig warns, I might only make things worse. ‘You’d be the most help to your father trying to keep your own life under control. That way you’d take a lot of worry off his mind.’
I roll my eyes and utter a drawn-out, ‘Blah, blaaaah. . .’ but this time Ludwig is unfazed.
‘And you would help me by appealing to his conscience and getting him to cooperate.’
‘I thought it was forbidden to discuss the charge.’
‘And you shouldn’t do it directly. You should only say what’s necessary to make him aware how serious the situation is. The department of public prosecution knows the reason for your visit, so don’t worry, okay?’
I nod, even though I don’t have a good feeling about this. Something doesn’t seem right.
Us
I know you’re used to better. The big beautiful house. The lovingly decorated children’s room in the attic extension. The big garden with the pool. . . You’re a real water baby, aren’t you, princess? In summer I watched you wearing your plump armbands, splashing around in the pool and squealing with pleasure. Your lips had turned slightly blue; perhaps one ought to have been stricter, made you get out of the water and wrapped you in a thick towel. But seeing your enthusiasm, that innocent, genuine liveliness which only a child can display, made me forget my misgivings and plunged me into the moment. No, I didn’t have to worry about you; you weren’t stupid. You would get yourself out of the pool when you began to freeze and no longer felt comfortable. I secretly hoped that wouldn’t happen for ages; I wanted this moment to last for ever. The sun laying itself over all the colours like a filter, making them rich and vibrant. Your unrestrained joy. Drops of water flying through the air as if in slow motion. I felt as if I were watching a film; I was desperate to press ‘pause’ and for ever freeze the image of you looking so happy.
Now we’re here and I know you don’t particularly like it. You’re the princess from the big beautiful castle; you don’t belong in this dump. But sometimes you simply don’t have the choice, and surely the most important thing is that we’re together. Just as you are everything for me, I am everything for you. Only through me can you stay alive; if I abandon you, you’re dead.
Ann
Berlin, 25 December 2017
Meeting my father– in this concrete room with the neon ceiling light that flickers nervously and the sparse furnishings, a table and two chairs; in this bloody cold, bleak place where he doesn’t belong– feels like being crushed under foot. Mentally it wrestles me to the ground, this feeling; it assaults me with blows to the stomach so overpowering I can barely stop myself from retching. Opposite me, slouched, is a man who used to sit upright, his back always straight. He was tall and dignified, his short grey hair neatly parted and combed.
‘I’m so pleased to see you, my Beetle,’ a stranger says with sunken, narrow shoulders, hollow cheeks, messy hair and vacant eyes. It doesn’t sound as if he’s pleased; there’s no trace of emotion in his voice, monotone like a machine’s.
I say, ‘Dad,’ and start to howl because I’m so horrified at what’s left of him. Only then does his dead face stir.
‘How are you?’ he asks. ‘Tell me. No need to be brave.’
I shake my head because this isn’t about me.I’mnot the one who’s been framed and locked up.I’mnot the one being accused of ten counts of murder. ‘Ludwig told me you’re refusing to cooperate. You’re not saying where you were when the crimes were committed, nor are you making any effort to explain the evidence. But you’ve got to, Dad. Listen to me!’
I look around uncertainly. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen my father since his arrest. But we’ve never met without a prison warder in the room. Today, though, I’d be grateful for a reprimand or at least a clearing of the throat when I step on to forbidden territory. I’m not allowed to talk about the charge, but I’ve got to try to make my father break his silence. I don’t want to do anything wrong, especially as all conversations between prisoners and visitors are recorded on video. ‘I know it all seems so stupid. You must think it’s ridiculous to have to clear yourself of something so absurd. But please believe me, your pride isn’t going to get you anywhere here. On the contrary, youmusttell the police you’re not the killer, you justhaveto.’
‘Oh. . .’ He gives a feeble shrug. ‘They’re not interested in protestations of innocence here. They’ve made up their minds, they’ve got a clear picture. Like the prisoners in Plato’s cave.’ Again something darts across his face, maybe the memory of how only six weeks ago he was still giving lectures, trying to make the great philosophers accessible to his students. He taught at the university for thirty years, was invited to all the big conferences, and received countless international accolades. He’s a luminary in the field of philosophical anthropology, a branch of the philosophy of human nature. Professor Dr Walter Lesniak, the former renowned anthropologist, who since his arrest has seemingly been paralysed with shock, and has forgotten one of the basic human skills: speech. The ability to explain yourself. To protest.
‘Dad, for God’s sake,’ I say, grabbing his hands, which feel limp and cold. He lets me take them without squeezing mine back. ‘Don’t you understand what your silence is doing? They see it as an admission of guilt! You’ve got to help Ludwig refute the evidence! He can’t do anything for you if you won’t cooperate. For Christ’s sake, make a bit of an effort, however hard it is for you.’
He stares at me through narrow slits, as if on drugs, an understandable feeling. I’ve often felt like I was on a bad trip recently. But his eyes are unnerving. They’re both dreamy and somehow piercing.
