JF04 - The Carnival Master (26 page)

‘Why do you think he was involved with an official?’

‘He was seen talking to a smartly dressed woman the day before he was topped. It was clear that she was immigration or police. But that’s what the call was about. She definitely wasn’t one of ours.’

‘Oh …’ Fabel sipped his coffee and desperately tried to look relaxed as he watched Cologne through the window. Maria. He turned to Scholz and held his gaze for a moment.

‘Were you about to say something?’ asked Scholz.

Fabel smiled. And shook his head.

Fabel got up early the next day and arrived at the Cologne Police Presidium before Scholz. He waited in the huge entrance atrium, a visitor ID badge clipped to his lapel. It was strange for Fabel to be in another Police Presidium. It was very different from the Hamburg headquarters and Fabel found it odd to see uniformed officers still dressed in the old green and mustard uniforms, yet the Hamburg police had worn exactly the same until just two years ago. It was, he thought as he waited, so strange how quickly one adapts to change.

Scholz apologised a little too profusely for being late and took Fabel up to his office. Fabel smiled when he saw that the old prototype Karneval head had gone and someone had pushed files, phone and computer keyboard to one side and placed a new version square in the centre of Scholz’s desk. A yellow Post-it note with nothing but a large question mark had been stuck on the snout.

‘Very funny,’ said Scholz, turning it to face Fabel. ‘Better?’

‘Different …’ said Fabel.

Scholz looked at the head again appraisingly,
sighed, and placed it in the corner where its predecessor had skulked.

‘I’d like you to meet the team I’ve got working on the Karneval Killer case,’ he said at last. He beckoned through the glass door and two officers came into the office. One was a young man who Fabel knew must have been in his late twenties to be a Commissar in the Murder Commission, but his skinny frame and pale, acned skin made him look more like a teenager. The other officer was a young woman of about thirty. She had a full figure and her hair was a mass of coppery-red coils.

‘This is Kris Feilke,’ said Scholz indicating the young man, ‘and Tansu Bakrac.’

Fabel smiled. From her name, Fabel knew that the female officer must be Turkish-German. He found himself wondering if the rich copper in her hair came from the ancient Celtic tribes who had settled in Galatia. The two officers shook hands with Fabel and sat down. Fabel noticed the informality between Scholz and his junior officers and wondered how disciplined they were as a team.

‘Okay, Jan,’ said Scholz. ‘We have only three weeks to go until Karneval. And as sure as bears crap in the woods, our guy is going to come looking for some more meat. For once I have the opportunity to prevent a murder rather than solve one. Or should I say
we
have the opportunity to prevent it. I’m afraid I just keep coming up blank. So we’re open to anything you have to suggest.’

‘Okay, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of getting a few things in motion before I came down,’ said Fabel. ‘You remember the Armin Meiwes case?’

‘’Course … the Rotenburg Cannibal?’ said Scholz.

‘Meiwes advertised for his victim. On the Internet. Gave himself the online identity of the
Master Butcher
. Twenty years ago, Meiwes might have gone through life with his fantasies remaining just that, fantasies. But Meiwes had the Internet. The Internet is the great facilitator. The great anonymous meeting place where you can share your fetishes and perversions with others. The exceptional becomes ordinary and the abnormal normal.’

‘You think there’s an Internet connection with this case?’ asked Tansu.

‘I think it’s possible that there’s some direct link. Before we go any further I think we need to understand how our killer thinks.’

‘God knows,’ said Kris. ‘He lives in a fantasy world, probably. A psycho.’

Fabel shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Criminal psychologists and forensic psychiatrists don’t use the description “psychopath” or “sociopath” the way they did. These labels have become so common in the media that they’ve lost all value. People bandy around the word “psychopath” the way they used to use “axe murderer”. What we call a psychopath is better described as someone with an antisocial personality disorder. They tend to be devoid of feelings, of emotions, of empathy for other human beings. They never feel remorse. Most of them are easily identified because they’ve exhibited symptomatic behaviour since childhood.’ Fabel paused. He thought of Vitrenko: someone completely empty of anything human. ‘Serial killers generally exhibit personality disorders, but rarely are they psychotic. They know what they’re doing is wrong. A psychopath doesn’t. In fact, many psychopaths who
have been successfully treated for their condition end up getting a truckload of remorse delivered at once and they commit suicide, unable to live with what they’ve done.’

‘So this killer isn’t a psychopath?’

‘I’m not saying that for sure,’ said Fabel. ‘But I think it’s unlikely. Serial killers tend not to have a single, solid personality but drift between identities to suit the situation, who they’re with, etc. Not multiple personalities, as such, but their own personality isn’t anchored. One thing they do tend to have is an enormous ego. The universe revolves around them alone. And that, along with the loose personality,
is
something they share with psychopaths. But the important thing is they’re not mad. I think your Karneval Cannibal needs to feel that he is not a freak. That he is part of a community.’

‘And that’s where you see an Internet connection?’ asked Tansu.

‘It’s a possibility. He needs a place where he can exchange fantasies, even compare notes or advertise for victims. I think that it is highly unlikely that your guy has never sat alone in the evening, huddled over his PC, and typed the word “cannibal” into a search engine.’

‘Granted,’ said Scholz. ‘But how does it help us?’

Fabel produced a file from his briefcase. ‘Before I came down, I got one of the experts in our technical section to give me a list of possible sites and forums that might interest our killer. Or at least those we know about. There are countless dark corners on the web to hide in. Anyway, I asked them to focus particularly on sites in German, and especially anything hosted from the Cologne area.’

‘Is that significant? I thought geography meant nothing on the Internet.’

‘It doesn’t. But if we find someone uploading a site with this kind of content in the area, then we’ve located a member of this …
exclusive
little community. Someone who might be able to give us a way in.’

Scholz examined the file. He winced a couple of times at some of the images. ‘My God … there are some sick fucks out there.’

‘And the Internet brings them together. That said, our killer may keep a very low profile indeed. He may regard himself as unique. But I reckon he has visited at least one of these sites.’

‘But?’ Scholz read the caution in Fabel’s expression.

‘But … Andrei Chikatilo, the Ukrainian cannibal in the eighties, Fritz Haarman in Hanover in the twenties, Joachim Kroll in Duisburg in the seventies, Ed Gein in the United States in the forties … all these cannibal killers existed before the advent of the Internet. There is always the possibility that he has ripened his fantasies in isolation. But I hope not. Everybody feels safe on the Internet. They think they’re anonymous when in fact they’re far from it.’ Fabel turned to Tansu Bakrac. ‘I’ve already explained to Herr Scholz, my feeling is that this killer may have had practice runs in the past. He tells me you have a theory about that.’

‘More than a theory. There are a couple of cases that I think are linked.’

‘Or maybe not …’ Scholz said doubtfully. ‘There’s nothing other than a Karneval connection to link them.’

‘What cases?’ asked Fabel.

‘A girl called Annemarie Küppers was found
murdered in two thousand and three. She had been beaten to death. Whoever did it had been in an inhuman fury and had pulped her head.’

‘But she wasn’t strangled,’ interjected Scholz. ‘And there was no flesh removed. In fact, her underwear hadn’t been removed or interfered with either.’

‘You said there was a Karneval connection,’ said Fabel. ‘Was she killed on Women’s Karneval Night?’

‘No …’ said Tansu. ‘The day after. I’ll get you a copy of the file. Both files, in fact.’

‘What was the other one?’

‘This attack did happen on Women’s Karneval Night. In nineteen ninety-nine. A young medical student called Vera Reinartz was beaten, raped and partially strangled – wait for it – with a man’s necktie.’

‘She survived?’

‘Yes. And the really creepy thing is that her attacker was a clown. I mean someone dressed up as a Karneval clown.’

Fabel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s tempting to see a connection. But you say this girl was raped. Our Killer doesn’t have sexual contact. Was semen recovered?’

‘Yes. But the clincher for me isn’t just that the attempted strangulation was done with a man’s necktie … there were also bite marks all over her body.’

‘Okay, then,’ said Fabel, ‘I take it you’ve reinterviewed the victim?’

‘Sorry,’ said Tansu. ‘Another dead end, so far. Vera Reinartz dropped out of her medical studies at Cologne University. In fact she dropped out of sight too – about a year after the attack.’

‘But we must have a new address for her,’ said
Fabel. ‘She’ll have had to register with the local police if she moved town.’

‘No trace of anyone with that name. But I’m still following it up.’

‘Maybe she’s dead. Shouldn’t this be a missing persons inquiry?’ asked Fabel. Kris had made coffee and handed him a mug. It had a printed clown and the motto ‘
Kölle Alaaf!
’ emblazoned on the side. Fabel knew this was Kölsch for ‘Cheers, Cologne!’

‘She’s not dead,’ said Kris. ‘She’s written to her parents a few times to let them know she’s alive and well but living, as she puts it, “a different life”. The letters have no return address but carry Cologne postmarks. The parents live near Frankfurt. That’s where she was from.’

‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘I think Tansu may have something with one or both of these cases. Let’s make finding Vera Reinartz a priority.’

‘What else did you do before you came down?’ asked Scholz.

‘I had profiles done.’

‘On the killer? Of course we did that …’ Scholz’s expression clouded.

‘I don’t mean on the killer. I have had psychosocial profiles done on the victims. I take it you checked out any possible points of convergence?’

‘Yes. Their paths never crossed, as far as we can see. Unless you can tell me something different.’ The clouds still hadn’t cleared.

Fabel smiled disarmingly. ‘Listen … I haven’t been going over the same ground as you because I think that you haven’t done your jobs properly. I’ve done all of this because you asked me to get involved and I have to do my own homework. Also, my perspective is different.’

Scholz nodded. ‘Fair enough, Jan.’

‘I know you’ll have done something similar,’ said Fabel, ‘but I’ve also had a psycho-geographic assessment done.’

‘Yes … we did the same. With only two killings to go on, our profilers said there wasn’t enough to plot a pattern. But they expressed an opinion that we’re not looking far from the city’s Altstadt.’

‘Did they pick up on the proximity of churches?’ asked Fabel.

‘It was mentioned, but dismissed. There are so many churches in Cologne. If there’s some religious significance, then I would expect the cathedral would figure. But even that would be difficult to assess. Cologne Cathedral is at the heart of the city and the layout of the streets radiates from it. You think this is a religious nut?’

‘Maybe. Not especially. It could be churches as buildings, rather than as institutions. As you say, Cologne has more than a few.’ Fabel grinned. ‘How do you three fancy being Cologne city tour guides for the day?’

It had been a week. Nothing. Maria had listened to the radio, watched the TV news, bought a
Kölner Stadt-Anzeiger
newspaper every day. She had probably taken the life of another human being, or at least seriously wounded him. Yet there was no mention anywhere of a body being found, or even of a BMW full of bullet holes being uncovered in a ditch somewhere. The Ukrainian had vanished into thin air. What she did find in the paper was a small piece about the murder in the kitchen of the Biarritz
restaurant. She had made Slavko Dmytruk think that he could trust her. That she would keep him safe. Instead he’d been butchered because she had coerced him into talking to her.

The body of the Ukrainian had probably already been disposed of by his own people, or he had survived and they were nursing his wounds. In either case, they would be looking for her. But as long as she didn’t go near the bar or Viktor’s apartment, she reckoned she should be okay. And if they really had no idea about her identity or where to find her, then there was always the chance she could slip out of the city. Back to Hamburg. Back to her job. Back to her own identity.

But there had been a value in coming here: becoming someone else, something other than the object of self-loathing she had been for months, had allowed Maria to step out from under the phobias and neuroses that had piled one on top of the other until they had threatened to crush her to death. All around her were reminders of the forthcoming Karneval in Cologne, and only now was she beginning to understand how these people revelled in a few days of insanity, of chaos. The city became something else, the people in it became someone else. And after it was all over and they stepped back into their normal lives, they seemed to keep something of Karneval alive inside them. Maybe, she thought, that was what she had achieved.

God knew she had achieved nothing else. Whatever had possessed her to think that she could come here alone and track down one of the most dangerous and sophisticated organised-crime bosses in Europe? She saw now how hopeless and half-baked her pathetic little crusade had been. She would
drop out of sight for another week or so; stay in her friend’s apartment, then go back to Hamburg. She would find a decent hairdresser and dye her hair back to its normal colour. She would don the clothes and personality of the old Maria, but without the neuroses. No one in Hamburg need ever know she’d been here.