Collision of Evil Page 4

  “Stay if you want. That’s your decision. But there is only so much we can do for you. Like it or not, this investigation will go ahead at its own pace.”

  “I have time.”

  The detective pushed his chair away from the table, the wooden legs scratching the varnished wooden floor. “That leaves your visit to see your brother. We don’t have a morgue here; his body is in Rosenheim. If you drive to the police station this afternoon, you can follow me there. After that, you will be on your own. Guten tag.” The detective departed with a nod of his head but without shaking hands.

  It was the coolness of the room and the cloying antiseptic scent of the air that Robert noticed. A morgue, he thought distantly, is the anteroom to the grave, a brief pause before the finality of being placed in the indifferent earth. The room was cavernous and bare of furnishings except for metal gurneys and tables, lit by bright tubular lamps overhead that glared off the white-tiled walls. Waldbaer had ushered the American into the chamber without comment, his silence not betraying whether it stemmed from respect for the dead or annoyance with the living.

  There was only one other man in the room. He was balding and middle aged, with a thin frame wrapped in light blue, disposable surgical attire. The man’s complexion was sallow and the cut of his face severe, the sum effect suggesting that he had been predestined for this solemn work. Waldbaer introduced the man with the title of doctor, but Robert did not catch the long German name. The doctor nodded his head as he was introduced, muttered, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and gestured with his arm to a bundle on a wheeled gurney behind him.

  The bundle, shrouded in a white cotton sheet, was, Robert knew, the sum of his brother’s existence. He felt his stomach do a turn and wished he were somewhere else, anywhere but in this stainless place of corruption. The thought passed quickly, and Robert found himself standing ramrod straight and tense, inches away from the remains of his brother, whose countenance he had last encountered over Chinese food in a seedy restaurant in Boston’s Chinatown. The doctor stepped to the other side of the metal gurney and deftly pulled at the cloth covering.

  In a way, the form and face confronting Robert did not look much like his brother, though his brother it unmistakably was. It was not so much the awful intrusion of injuries to the head that accounted for this as the odd passivity of the features. He had, Hirter realized, probably never seen his brother in repose since they were children. Robbed of animation, his brother seemed almost surreal to him. This was what death meant; everything rendered quiet and motionless.

  “This is my brother. No question about it”. He looked first at the doctor and then at the Kommissar as he spoke. Both men nodded. The doctor moved to replace the covering over the body.

  “Wait,” Robert said. He studied his brother one final time, his attention drawn to the invasive and disfiguring attack wounds. It was clear that the skull had been literally caved in, the top of the head a distorted mélange of matted hair, bone, and congealed blood. His brother’s nose had been broken and flattened by being driven into the fence post; it remained dark purple even now.

  “You haven’t autopsied?” Robert inquired.

  The doctor answered. “We’ve conducted preliminary examinations sufficient to confirm cause of death and provide my police colleagues with whatever information could be gathered. A full autopsy was awaiting your identifying the deceased.”

  Robert nodded.

  Waldbaer spoke softly. “If there’s nothing else, Herr Hirter, we can leave and permit the doctor to resume his duties.” Robert shook the doctor’s hand and followed the detective from the chamber.

  Outside the temperature was notably warmer, but the sky had turned steel gray, perfectly suiting Robert’s mood. The two men stood together, both with hands in pockets as if they might find some object within to assist in conversation.

  “I take it from your comments earlier that you will be remaining in the hotel a while?”

  “Right, Kommissar. You can reach me there if you need me.”

  The detective sighed loudly, his chin inclined toward the sky as if searching for something. “That’s the problem, Herr Hirter. There’s no need for you here. Unless you want to try to enjoy Bavaria, visit the castles of King Ludwig or something. But have it your way.” He turned to leave, stopped, and added with a puzzled tone in his voice. “One last detail. This morning the lab boys called me, the ones who examined the murder scene; the meadow that you visited. It’s probably not important but they’ve found a piece of wood wedged into your brother’s shoes. Not a twig. A sliver of wood from a crate more than likely. Not part of the natural surroundings. It’s probably not important, but I thought I’d pass it along to show that we are checking every shred of evidence, literally.”

  Robert muttered his thanks, still not sure how to judge the policeman. As an unexpected aside Waldbaer added, “At the hotel bar you might want to try the dark wheat beer, it’s Weihenstephan, one of the better examples of that style. Auf wiedersehen, Herr Hirter.”

  Driving the autobahn south from Rosenheim, Waldbaer distracted himself by reconsidering the oddities that defined Fall Hirter; the Hirter case. First fact: a young American tourist with no known contacts in Bavaria arrives in the region for a vacation alone. Fair enough; Bavaria plays host to millions of tourists every summer. Second fact: the American has no criminal record and it is unlikely that he can be considered a “dubious person” in any sense. Third fact: interviews with hotel staff established that the young man fit the hiker profile and had not been involved in any scenes at the hotel bar, with the cleaning staff, or so forth. All very well.

  But things started to fall apart with the fourth fact. The young hiker was murdered in a postcard-perfect alpine meadow after a thunderstorm early one evening. Fifth fact: as far as could be determined, nothing was stolen from the deceased nor was there any other suggestion of motive for the crime. Sixth fact: there were no witnesses—no wonder, given the isolated location of the murder, inclement weather, and time of day. Seventh fact: the police had no suspect.

  Random murder. The words had always filled Waldbaer with professional skepticism. How many people in the world were actually murdered at random? Some, doubtless, but not many. It was statistically unlikely that the notion of “a random murder” had any application to Fall Hirter. Eighth fact: the victim’s brother arrived in Bavaria not only to identify and claim the body, but to watchdog the investigation. Waldbaer had briefly entertained Robert Hirter as a potential suspect or someone with special knowledge about what happened, but quickly dismissed the notion. Robert Hirter was becoming an irritant, like a small pebble lodged in a shoe, but was neither murderer nor conspirator.

  But where did this assembly of facts lead? Nowhere, Waldbaer concluded, braking expertly as a museum-vintage truck with faded Turkish license plates pulled out in front of him. “Scheisskopf,” he muttered unheard at the lorry driver. If no other information developed over the coming days, it would become a mathematical certainty that the murder would not be solved. This irritated him; murder offended his sense of order and he viscerally wanted the murderer found and made to pay. He felt himself beginning the descent into a foul mood and wanted to arrest it; ill-temper jibed poorly with a criminal investigation. A beer, perhaps a few beers, would certainly help, he concluded.

  Robert Hirter swung his car into the hedge-trimmed Alpenhof parking lot and sat for a while before locking it and walking into the building. The air in the lobby was colder than outside, the air conditioner a concession to tourists who insisted that seasonal temperatures be steadily arrested at around mid-April.

  As he picked up his room key at the main desk, the young dirndlclad desk girl passed him an envelope that had his name broadly scrawled in blue ink across the front.

  “What’s this?” he mumbled.

  The girl raised her eyebrows and shrugged her strong country shoulders. “I don’t know, sir. It was dropped off by a gentleman who said to give it to you as soon as possible.”<
br />
  Waldbaer again, Hirter thought automatically.

  “Was he about fifty, rumpled, a bit heavy?”

  The girl shook her head sideways with the conviction of the just. “Oh no, sir, I took the letter from him myself and I’d guess that he must be in his late seventies with white hair. And the gentleman is not heavy, quite trim in fact.” She smiled and Robert returned the courtesy, knowing there was nothing more to be clarified with her.

  He decided to read the unexpected missive in the lobby. The envelope was unsealed and the slip of paper slid out easily. Robert unfolded it, translating the broad, jerky handwritten scrawl into English as he went along.

  Herr Hirter,

  It has come to my attention that you are staying at this hotel and are engaged with the circumstances surrounding the death of your brother nearby, an event covered in some detail in the local newspaper. It could be that I can add something to the limited information that the police have likely provided you. Let me ensure that there is no misunderstanding: I have nothing to do with the murder nor do I know who the murderer is. But I do perhaps possess some historical background that might prove of interest to you.

  This is strictly a private initiative of my own. If you choose to involve the police or show them this note I will—as is my right—decline to speak to you since, as I have noted, I have no knowledge of the crime itself. If you choose to meet with me, you should be at the Alte Post restaurant this evening at seven. If you are not present by seven fifteen, I will conclude that you have no interest in conversing and my offer will be from that point void.

  August Sedlmeyer

  Robert read the message again. The letter was odd. It was an offer to provide information, but only vaguely suggestive of relevance to his brother’s death. Historical background. The tone was odd as well. The phrasing in native German was imperious, as if from someone accustomed to giving orders. The handwriting was unsteady, supporting the hotel desk girl’s observation that the person who delivered the note, presumably Sedlmeyer himself, was an older man. Perhaps Sedlmeyer was a crank who had simply read newspaper articles about his brother’s death and wanted to rant.

  Meeting with Sedlmeyer could prove a waste of time. Still, Robert considered, it was hard to envision that meeting with the old man could be a real mistake. Other than time, there was little to lose. The proposed meeting was in a public place and Robert hardly felt physically threatened by someone who might be a deranged septuagenarian. So why not? He would need to eat somewhere at any rate. He returned to the still-smiling desk girl and inquired as to how to get to a restaurant called the Alte Post.

  Chapter 6

  The ancient slash in the mountain dolomite that comprised the cave had always been a cold place; had been that way for millions of years. Day or night caused little difference in the temperature of the cave and there was dampness in the mildly fetid air. He had placed a lamp on the floor of the cavern and the light it cast was spectral against the creviced stone. Glancing around, he noted that nothing appeared amiss, the rows of dusty wooden crates lying undisturbed as they had for so long. Still, there had been an intruder, an unfortunate and potentially disastrous turn of events. Danger had been averted only due to the sheerest luck, that most fickle of commodities.

  It was close to a mathematical impossibility that he, the protector of this place, had been in the woods near the cave when the intruder found his way here. Waiting outside in the slapping rain and darkness, he had watched the pale flicker of a flashlight within the stone chamber. And he had waited, not patiently, but angrily, but he had waited nonetheless. It would not have been prudent to rush in. What if the intruder had been armed? He had kept his head and thought the situation through with dispassion. Kill him when he leaves, when he isn’t expecting anything. Then think about next steps.

  It would have been preferable if the body had never been discovered. He had thought of that at the time, but there were no other solutions. With the crime committed, with blood and other DNA traces on his clothing, he did not want to risk dragging the body somewhere. Killing was the main thing. Death brought with it one virtue: silence, pure and chaste.

  He had believed that with the intruder dispatched, he would have a few days to figure out what to do with the body before anyone stumbled upon it in that remote meadow. He had been wrong, but again, luck, this time bad, had to be held accountable for the rescue worker appearing in the area so unexpectedly. The discovery of the body had ensured predictable consequences: police and forensic experts wandering around, news broadcasts, and requests for potential witnesses to come forward. He allowed himself a thin smile. There were no witnesses other than him and no evidence that would lead anywhere. This meant that the crates and their cargo were safe. The cave was well concealed and far enough from the murder scene to remain secure.

  Still, the episode carried a warning. Perhaps the contents of the cave should be moved to another location, possibly to a warehouse in Rosenheim. The items would have to be moved sometime soon anyway if they were to be put to use. The mountain recess, this primordial fissure, had served well for decades. But there had now been a total of three murders in the vicinity. Best not to tempt fate indefinitely.

  The first two bodies had never been discovered and now lay, not far removed from the stone chamber, in improvised graves dug into the moist, pungent earth of the pine forest. He recalled how the victims had looked; mouths open in stupefied amazement, as he had slashed the life out of them in wide-arced gouging strokes. In their late teens, both of them, male and female looking so much alike; studies in pale skin, long, oily hair, and dilated pupils. Drug addicts with nothing on them but their narcotic and some needles, the clothes on their back, and a handful of soiled Deutsche marks. That had been almost a decade ago. This meant that nature and its attendant court of insects had doubtless done their work. The corpses would be nothing more than shreds of denim and fabric, and a collection of bones.

  The couple had been camping under a tarpaulin in the woods, no doubt retreating from the society that they thought they had rejected but that had, in fact, cast them out. Their great misfortune was to have seen him as he made his way one late afternoon to the cave.

  “Hi, man,” the male had said with a total lack of cognition.

  It had been instantly clear that the two had to die. He could not risk any chance that they might follow him to his destination.

  The rest had been simple, over in a couple of brutal, screaming minutes. He had walked wordlessly up to the two, pulled from his backpack the machete he used to cut through the brush, and started to slash. The male went first. The first slash was straight to the neck and delivered swiftly before the boy could raise his arms to ward off the blow. He went down, blowing a mist of blood with a gurgling wheeze. The female just whimpered during the seconds it took to kill her mate and didn’t even attempt to run. He swung his blade with full force into her dirty black sweater and she let out a loud, surprisingly baritone “Ooohh,” as she crumpled to her knees.

  He had gone to the cave, taking the pairs’ tarpaulin with him, fished out a rusting shovel from a crate of tools, and returned to bury the sacks of dirty flesh. He had been careful to cover the site with generous mounds of pine needles, fir cones, and twigs. He had done this in such an accomplished manner that the area seemed undisturbed and he had difficulty finding the spot a week later. With trepidation he had read the newspapers for weeks after the murders and listened to the hourly radio news on Bayern Funf. But there had been no mention of a twin disappearance. He had concluded that the victims were such societal detritus that they enjoyed no family ties and were missed by no one. And so the circle of life and death for the two dropouts had closed seamlessly and quietly.

  But all of that had been long ago, his memories of those moments less vivid, as if the color had drained from his recollections, leaving only a sepia trace. He now had to focus on the future and on moving the crates. He might be required to kill again, but he was content to let fate arbit
rate that particular matter.

  Chapter 7

  Gamsdorf slumbered in the waning sun of a long-shadowed late afternoon, its buildings looking much as they had for decades. The village was arranged in typical Bavarian form; a centuries-old church at its center, a whitewashed stone steeple rising high above it. The steeple was topped with a green-patina copper dome, shaped like a gigantic onion. A cemetery surrounded the church on all sides, braced by a low wall designed either to keep undesired visitors out or restless spirits in. The permanent residents of the churchyard comprised a democratic selection of the recently deceased and those who had lain in their graves for centuries. Some gravestones were so old that time and the elements had rendered them nearly blank stone slates, with only a gothic letter or two still discernible.