The Sinner (8 page)

It was almost nine o'clock when the door finally opened. Her
vision of Gereon and his parents vanished abruptly. The man in
the sports coat, the one she'd noticed on the terrace overlooking
the lake, entered the room. He introduced himself, but she forgot his name at once and tried to size him up. She hoped he wouldn't
waste time asking her unnecessary questions.

But he did precisely that. As if there were any doubt about her
identity, he sat down at the typewriter and asked her to state her
name, her maiden name as well. He wanted to know how old she
was, how long she'd been married and whether she was employed
- totally irrelevant, all of it. Then he asked details of her parentage
and siblings, if any.

She answered him reluctantly but truthfully up to her parentsin-law Then she said: "My parents are dead, and I'm an only
child."

He looked at the plants on his desk and asked if she was fond of
flowers. Almost in the same breath, he enquired if she was in pain,
if she needed a doctor or would like some coffee. She glanced at
the old percolator and said no.

She was finding it hard to concentrate and remain calm. It seemed
to be a longer business than she'd expected. As if she needed telling,
the man in the sports coat informed her of the crime she was being
charged with, quoted from the penal code, reminded her of her
rights and repeated what Berrenrath had already told her down at
the lake - that she need not make a statement and so on.

At that point she interrupted him. "Many thanks, but I already
told Herr Berrenrath that's unnecessary. I don't need a lawyer. It
would be best if you simply took down what I say. We can start
right away."

But they couldn't. The man in the sports coat said they would
have to wait for his chief, who had already gone home.

Another fifteen minutes went by. It made her feel quite sick, being
unable to do anything but sit there, staring at the whitewashed
walls. She wasn't used to being idle: you only started brooding.
Like this morning in the supermarket, when she thought she'd
found the answer.

It really was crazy, in a way. Having made up her mind to kill
herself - having come to an irrevocable decision - she had then,
quite suddenly, attacked a stranger. Just because the blonde - she
couldn't recall her name for the moment - was playing that tape. She would have done better to ask where the woman had got it and
whether anyone could explain how the tune had got into her head.

Nobody spoke. The only sound came from the dripping tap,
which she hadn't turned off tightly enough when she filled the jug
the second time. The men took no notice of it. Berrenrath kept
an eye on the door, and his younger colleague stood there with his
hands clasped behind his back. The man in the sports coat was
looking through the notes he'd made on the terrace.

What would the witnesses have told him? That she'd gone for the
man like a lunatic. That's what it must have looked like to them.
She suddenly realized why they were spending so much time on
her: because they couldn't understand. Because they wanted, like
Gereon, to know why.

That realization transformed her heart into a lump of lead and
filled her brain with a reddish-grey mist. She felt her hands go moist
and start to tremble. Every trace of her initial relief, jubilation and
triumph had gone. She needed a rational explanation.

When the door finally opened again she started to count in her
head - eighteen, nineteen, twenty - in the hope that it would help
to calm her. The man who came in looked to be in his early fifties.
He made an easy-going, good-natured impression, said hello all
round and nodded to the two constables. Berrenrath returned
the nod, combining it with a nod in her direction that struck her
as somehow odd. The man in the sports coat got up, and the
newcomer went out again, accompanied by him and Berrenrath.

Again she waited, wondering what the trio outside the door were
talking about and what that strange nod had signified. If only the
younger policeman would say something. She found the silence
unbearable because it was only superficial. It was almost like a
Saturday night. Her head wasn't silent inside; the tune was playing
there. The dripping tap sounded almost like the drums. The tune
was always followed by the dream, and she wasn't asleep now! If
those men didn't come back soon ...

They were gone for only ten minutes, but that was six hundred
seconds, and every second spawned a new idea that gnawed away
at her mind. What alarmed her most were the feelings aroused in her by the act of killing. Any normal person would have been in
despair, horrified and tormented by guilt at having done such a
thing. And she had felt good. That wasn't normal.

At last they returned. The man in the sports coat resumed his
seat at the typewriter, and Berrenrath his place beside the window
The chief sat down facing her. He gave her an amiable smile and
stated his name, which she registered as little as the rest of what he
said. Everything inside her tensed. If she wasn't to be suspected of
insanity, she must come up with some brief, precise answers and a
demonstrable motive.

Berrenrath was holding something in his hand: her purse. She
didn't know where he had produced it from so suddenly; she hadn't
noticed it. The whole procedure was repeated: name, maiden
name, date of birth, place of birth, marital status, occupation,
parents, siblings.

"Is this a quiz?" she asked angrily. "If so, you're too late, I've
already earned my points for the answers. Or are you simply
trying to find out if I've lost my marbles? Don't worry, they're all
there. This is the third time I've been asked the same questions

- I noticed. Here's a suggestion for you: ask your colleague for a
change, he's got all the answers written down. Besides, that man
there has my papers."

She regretted having called Berrenrath "that man there"; he
didn't deserve such a disparaging designation. He'd been really
very nice to her so far, and besides, it would be more advisable to
display a polite, cooperative manner. She was being cooperative,
but they must hurry it up a bit. She couldn't endure it if they kept
up this snail's pace.

Her insolence evoked no reaction. The younger constable gave a
momentary frown, but that was all. Berrenrath brought her purse
over to the desk, and the man in the sports coat took it from him.
She became aware that she'd failed to register both his name and
the chief's. She strove to remember them, but her every thought
became entangled with the dead man's face. She couldn't say:
"Sorry, I wasn't on the ball just now, I've forgotten your names."
They would jump to the conclusion that she was deranged.

The two uniformed policemen left the room. She would have
preferred Berrenrath to stay, he was such a sympathetic fellow, but
she couldn't ask. It mustn't look as if she needed moral support.
The man in the sports coat opened her purse, removed her ID and
handed it to his boss. Then lie examined her driving licence and
glanced up quickly.

It was the face that had fazed him, she felt sure. The sick, grey
face on her licence, which looked as if it belonged to an old
woman. For a moment she was afraid he would remark on it, but
he didn't speak. She swiftly tweaked her hair over her forehead
to prevent him from noticing the scar. The chief, who had been
studying the particulars on her identity card, also looked up at her.
"Cora Bender," he said. "Cora sounds like an abbreviation. Or is
it your full name?"

He had an agreeably warm, deep voice. Many people must have
found it reassuring, but it didn't have that effect on her. She couldn't
control her hands, which were trembling more and more. She put
them on her lap and gripped her right hand with her left.

"Look," she said, "I don't want to seem rude, but it's getting late.
Can't we dispense with the social chit-chat?"

The chief smiled. "There's plenty of time. Anyway, I find a bit
of chit-chat relaxing. How are you feeling, Frau Bender?"

"Fine, thanks."

"You're hurt." He pointed to her face. "We really ought to send
for a doctor."

"No doctors, thank you!" she snapped. `A medic examined me.
It's not as bad as it looks. I've known worse."

"For example?"

"I don't see how that concerns you," she retorted.

"Very well, Frau Bender," he said quietly but very firmly, "if
that's the way you want it. Please tell me if you're in pain or feel
adversely affected in any way. You may also tell me if you'd like a
coffee or something to eat. But say please, it sounds better."

She had riled him. She stirred uneasily on her chair and blinked
her good eye. "Look, I'm sorry if I got a bit heated. I don't want to
be difficult. It's just that I'm rather on edge, and I'd like to get this over. Why do I have to state my husband's name three times? It's
completely irrelevant. Take down my confession and let me sign it,
then we can have some coffee."

The chief nodded to the man in the sports coat, who deposited
a small black box on the desk. She started when she saw it was a
tape recorder. The man pressed a button. She put her hands over
her ears before she could stop herself.

Her head seemed to be on fire at that moment. They knew!
Someone had told them about the tune, and now they wanted her
to listen to it again. God alone knew what the result would be.
Perhaps she would jump up and hit one of them over the head
with the nearest plant pot.

But no music emerged, no sound of any kind. The two men
stared at her doubtfully. `Anything wrong, Frau Bender?" asked
the chief.

She gave him a strained smile and lowered her hands. "No,
everything's fine," she assured him hastily. `A sudden earache -
very unpleasant. From swimming, I suppose. I dived, and ... But
it's gone already. I can hear you perfectly well, honestly."

The chief began at last. He devoted little time to the penal code
and defined the situation as succinctly as possible. "Frau Bender,
just after six pm today you killed a man at the Otto Maigler Lido.
Several persons in the immediate vicinity witnessed the incident
and were able to make a statement. Some of these depositions have
already been taken down in writing and signed. To this extent the
circumstances are clear-cut. We should nevertheless like to ask you
a few questions. You are entitled to decline to make a statement.
You are also entitled to an attorney, and

She raised a hand and cut him short. This time she strove to
sound calm and reasonable. The black box was a recording
machine, she realized. It would register her every word and play
it back to all kinds of people. They would all hear what she'd said
and draw their own conclusions.

"I know all that," she said, "and I've already said so twice. I don't
need an attorney, I'm making a confession. I'll also sign an affidavit
to the effect that you didn't subject me to pressure or do anything else to me, and that I've been advised of my rights several times,
etcetera. All right?"

`All right, if that's the way you want it," the chief said again. He
leaned forward and looked at her intently.

She drew a deep breath, wondering how best to convey, in her
very first sentence, that she was a hundred percent in order, both
physically and - of course - mentally. She now had the tremor in
her hands well under control. If she gripped one hand with the
other hard enough, it was barely noticeable. Besides, they were
watching her face, not her hands. After a couple of seconds she
said in a firm voice: "Shortly after six pm today I stabbed a man to
death at the Otto Maigler Lido. I did it with the little fruit knife I
was using to peel an apple for my son."

The chief produced a transparent plastic bag and put it on the
desk. Inside was the bloodstained knife. "Is this it?"

She nodded, then realized that a nod was inaudible. "It is," she
said simply.

"Is that why you took this knife to the lido, to peel an apple?"
the chief asked.

"Yes, of course. We didn't have anything else with us that needed
peeling, only the apples."

"But instead you used it to stab a man. Did you realize what
would happen if you used this knife to stab someone?"

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then she grasped the
point of his question and started to smile. "Look, I may be a bit
nervous, but you don't have to speak to me as though I'm mentally
deranged. Of course I knew what would happen if I stabbed
someone. I would injure or kill them. I stabbed him in such a way
that death would be inevitable, and I knew what I was doing. Does
that answer your question fully enough?"

The chief betrayed no reaction to these words. All he said was:
"If you stabbed him deliberately, Fran Bender, can you remember
where you stabbed him first?"

She was still smiling. Did she remember? She would never forget
it - everything else, perhaps, but not that! "In the back of the
neck," she said. "Then he swung round and I stabbed him in the throat. It's a small knife. I thought I mightn't pierce his heart if I
stabbed him in the chest, but the throat contains the jugular and
the larynx. That's what I aimed for, and I succeeded. From the
way he bled, I must have severed the artery. But I stabbed him in
other places as well. The face, for instance. And once the knife got
deflected and went into his shoulder."

The chief nodded. "What made you kill the man? I have got it
right, haven't I? You did mean to kill him?"

"Yes, I did," she said firmly. And at that moment it dawned on
her that she'd meant to do it for a long time: to kill that man. Not
just any man, but that particular one.