The Inspector

Ronald Hofstätter was finally transferred to the Vienna Criminal Investigation Department. He had successfully completed his first assignment as an undercover investigator, and the Vienna police criminal investigation department was experiencing a critical staff shortage. Ron was promoted to detective inspector, despite the reluctance of senior colleagues who had spent years serving as rookies. Ron had powerful advocates in the Ministry of the Interior; his father was a retired ambassador with extensive connections. The criminal investigation department rented an entire wing of the Rossau barracks; the young Minister of the Interior had insisted on it. The goal was to create a completely new criminal investigation department, staffed by young people with state-of-the-art equipment. This was something the minister had brought back from his time in the USA.

Ron walked toward the door of the new office. Detective Inspector Ronald Hofstätter was standing there by the door. This filled him with pride. He entered, finding two desks with computer monitors and a color laser printer in the corner. The telephone system was in the center, easily accessible for both employees. It was a cutting-edge digital telephone system for two people, offering all the bells and whistles: caller ID, voice recording, witness communication, speakerphone, and direct connection to a mobile phone. For the time being, he was alone in the office; it hadn't yet been decided who would get the second desk. Most of the other offices were already occupied. At the very back was the office of the former director, President Johannes Wallner. He was supposed to have retired by now, but they hadn't found a suitable successor. And: Wallner was still one of the most cunning and successful criminal investigators of the post-war era. He was at odds with modern technology; he could make phone calls with his mobile phone, but that was about it. Nevertheless, he was fiercely determined to carry out the minister's order. He didn't understand, of course, what a mass spectrometer did, but the people in the lab wanted one, so they got one. The criminal investigation lab in the Roßauer barracks was now by far the best in the country. A glass wall separated Wallner's office from the conference room, which was jokingly called the aquarium. Wallner attended the morning conference every day, Monday through Saturday. On Sundays, the offices were barely occupied; you needed at least one day off.

Ron went from office to office, introducing himself and shaking hands. Everyone knew him; he knew most of them, at least by phone. He was outwardly very modest, but inwardly immensely proud of his great achievement. He was the one who had succeeded in dismantling the Turkish mafia in Vienna. His colleagues looked him up and down. Ron was 29 years old, a native Viennese, and quite handsome, at least compared to some of his colleagues. He watched his weight, ran his kilometers at the crack of dawn, and ate mindfully. He liked good food, but he knew how to restrain himself when necessary. He rarely smoked during the day, but in the evenings, when his Turkish girlfriend visited, he smoked more. He was muscular and athletically built, but not a muscleman. Eating wisely, a run in the morning, and a girl in the evening kept him fit, or so he thought. He only carried his service weapon when something unexpected was anticipated. In the more than two years he spent undercover, he had only taken his pistol once, and that was also the first and only time he had shot a guy in the thigh.

Ron still lived in the small apartment where he had stayed during his previous assignment. A small collection of vintage records and a television were all he needed, and when he read a book, he borrowed it and returned it. A personal library wasn't necessary; he kept everything in his head. His girlfriends all came from the Turkish community where he had spied for over two years as Hakim Elbagr. Hakim is both a first name and a title reserved for academics or legal scholars.

The girls often stayed with him for months at a time, and the fact that they were prostitutes and had pimps didn't bother him at all. He never paid the girls, and the pimps believed they had him under their thumb. It was important that they left the small apartment spotless in the morning when they left. He didn't need a cleaning lady. And Fatme, his current Turkish girlfriend, had been his lover for a long time, and they had become very close.

He had met Fatme almost two years earlier. His success in significantly weakening the Turkish mafia in Vienna had earned him the respect and admiration of the Turkish community. He was warmly welcomed to sit with them and sip Turkish tea. They still respectfully called him by his alias, Hakim Elbagr, even though they knew he was a police officer named Ronald Hofstätter. The pretty, young Fatme sometimes served the tea, and that's how he struck up a conversation with her. There had been an instant connection between them. Confessing their love wasn't necessary. Ron strictly adhered to cultural norms and often sat modestly with Fatme on a bench in the courtyard, talking for hours. She was a very pretty and slim girl, she was always neatly dressed and only lightly made up, and she always smelled so good, like some kind of flowers.

Ron would have guessed Fatme was 19; she was always meticulously made up, and that deceived him. She laughed softly, cooing that she was 15, almost 16, and that her father had already been forced to sell her to one of Madame Florence's pimps because they were dirt poor and starving. Ron immediately became serious. Her father had made love to her for years because her mother had turned a blind eye and was now dead, and he had been forced to sell her to Madame Florence years ago, even though she was far too young for prostitution. Ron memorized the pimp's name. Days later, she let Ron invite her to his apartment. That's how their love story began. "You're the second man after Dad to take me so lovingly to his heart, Hakim," she whispered. Ron was appalled by Fatme's lack of general knowledge. He borrowed books from the library, which he gave to her to read. They discussed their contents at length, and Fatme absorbed knowledge and wisdom like a dry sponge. Ron grew increasingly annoyed each time Fatme lay down beside him, exhausted, drained, and drained. He ambushed her pimp and gave him a good dressing-down. He shouted that Fatme belonged to him and that the pimp had to release her, or things would get serious. The pimp wasn't used to such treatment and cowered under Ron's fists. "Okay," he stammered, "but I have no control over Fatme's owner, Madame."

Only after some time did he explain the situation to Fatme. She lowered her gaze; she had already suspected as much. Her father was desperate because she wasn't bringing home any money. And he was clinging to Fatme in his bed. As long as she couldn't stand on her own two feet, she had to endure it patiently, Fatme whispered, her eyes downcast. And she begged Ron not to mention it to her father. The poor father would starve and die of grief if his little girl abandoned him. She was all he had left, and the name of a family of national heroes. He was dirt poor, but highly respected.

Fatme now read all day and lay down with Ron in the evenings. He tried not to think about the fact that when she went home around midnight, she would have to lie down with her father. He was proud of her because reading had made her intelligent and well-educated. He was proud of her because she waited for him in his spotlessly clean apartment with a drink, like a lover. Yes, she was his lover, and he pushed aside most thoughts about how Fatme might move forward in the future. Of course, he could have asked for her hand in marriage, but for him, it was far too soon. And at least he had managed to get her out of prostitution. He had given Fatme a bank card to his account; she could buy everything she needed if her cash wasn't enough. Sometimes they checked her payments and withdrawals together, but she was very disciplined about it. At least once a week they went out in the evening. She loved to dress up, and Ron was very proud to go to bars with such a well-dressed, elegant, and subtly made-up lover on his arm.

Ron sat at his desk, smoking as he summarized the short reports from his informants. Tomorrow morning, he had to briefly report to his colleagues at the morning meeting that the Turkish mafia had lost all influence in Vienna. He recalled his own background. His mother had been his rock. His father worked at the Austrian consulate in Istanbul, and the small family, mother and son, had moved with him. Ron had attended St. Georg College in Istanbul for six years, then they returned to Vienna. He had attended the police academy and was placed undercover in the Turkish mafia; after all, he spoke fluent Turkish with an Istanbul accent. That was where he had his great success.

His phone buzzed; it was President Wallner. Yes, he'd come immediately. The president smiled. "Can I pull you off the bicycle thefts for a bit, right now?" the old fox asked. There was only one answer. "Yes, Mr. President, with pleasure!" Wallner smiled. "I expected nothing less. You must lend a hand to the other department, carefully, of course. Bremer, the chief, has been complaining to me about his troubles, and I want to help him. He's already got three female corpses, and they're not getting anywhere. A serial killer? Perhaps. So, go see Bremer and get on with it. Bremer's a friend, believe me!" Ron moved quickly. Finally, a detective assignment! He put the bicycle theft files in the outbox—away with them! He informed the others that he was going to Bremer's and might have to work there for a while, on the president's orders.

Bremer greeted him warmly and readily accepted Wallner's help. He summoned the investigators: Bodnar, Eisen, and Rosenblatt. Bodnar smiled as Ron was introduced. "We're actually the Three Musketeers, but they call us the 'Yiddish Squadron.' Just a heads-up, our colleagues aren't anti-Semites, they're just plain idiots." Bodnar smiled kindly. The four of them went to Bodnar's office.

Bodnar was the head of the unit. They had two problematic female corpses and one unproblematic one. An elderly man had killed his wife with an axe; he was cooperative and gave a credible confession. Ron asked if there were any open questions in this case. The three shook their heads in the negative. Ron pushed the file aside. Now he asked about the other two cases. The three looked at each other, then Eisen said, "I'm thinking of a serial killer, the other two aren't. There are several inconsistencies and several points of agreement." Ron wanted to hear about the points of agreement first. "Both women were young, blonde, naked, and strangled with wire," Eisen said. "Both are Viennese police officers, one on patrol, the other actually on sabbatical, nothing unusual. According to the autopsies, they had both been bound at the wrists for days and were apparently sexually assaulted before being strangled. One body was left in Votivpark, the other in the park in front of the Schottenkirche. All of this points to a serial killer in my opinion." Ron looked at the other two. Rosenblatt shook his head. "There hasn't been a single serial killer for 25 years; the last one was Jack Unterweger, the prostitute murders in 1973. We consider it unlikely that we have another one." Ron opened the first act. "Were they left completely naked?" "What are the photos?" he asked, seeing them. Rosenblatt nodded. "Yes, Ronald, these are the original photos, just as they were found." Ron flipped through the pages, but there was nothing unusual to be found. Thea Küngler had studied criminology, worked first as an informant, and then became a police officer in the administrative department. She was currently on sabbatical to pursue her doctorate thesis. In the photos, she was a pretty young woman. The autopsy report confirmed what Eisen had reported. He picked up the second file, opened it, and froze.

"Susanne," Ron exclaimed, "I know her, I knew her!" He flipped through the pages again, skimming through them. "Has she been buried yet?" he asked. "No," the three of them said in unison. "She's still in Hades, at the coroner's office, down here in the basement." The three of them led him down. "The coroner is a bit of an oddball, but he's probably one of the best." Ron nodded, and they went inside. The hunchback looked at them. "The Künglers or the Stammers?" he asked, grinning. "Both," Ron replied, introducing himself. He asked his name. "Dr. Armin Gangl," said the hunchback, "but everyone calls me Quasimodo, even though none of them have ever read Victor Hugo, the idiots!" He opened two refrigerator compartments, 67 and 70. "Küngler on the left, Stammer on the right."

He sat down and waited for questions. Ron held the autopsy reports in his hand and went through each point. Dr. Gangl approached him. He pointed to the wrists; the marks were clearly visible and identical on Thea and Susanne. The mark around their necks was clearly made by a wire. "Right-handed," said Dr. Gangl. "No semen," he added, "he must have used a condom. But the marks are unambiguous: multiple brutal rapes, possibly with a dildo. Certainly over several days, absolutely certain." The doctor was very thorough. "The toxicology was the same for both. Alcohol, of course, and poppers, lots of poppers. The women showed very high doses; they must have been almost insane with desire, sexual desire. What man does something like that? What guy is so greedy and irresponsible? They could just as easily have died of heart failure at those doses!" Dr. Gangl shook his head. "Not a single trace of DNA. He must have washed her with a good disinfectant. That guy knows a thing or two about police work." Ron pulled the cloth all the way down from Susanne and examined her body. Yes, it was her, definitely. He'd met her briefly at the last police ball and had a quickie with her in the dressing room.

They went back upstairs, and Ron said he was biased. He'd had a quickie with Stammer a year ago, so he was biased. He quickly went to President Wallner. "I'm biased and can't participate in the investigation; otherwise, I'll jeopardize it." President Wallner, who for a moment feared something serious, laughed uproariously. "If that's all it is," he said, laughing, "then none of us would be allowed to investigate the case. That little one didn't miss a single guy under 60; she was very industrious!" Wallner laughed again. "Well, carry on, my boy, that's an order!" Ron went back to the Three Musketeers.

Bodnar was the most senior officer; he came from the Vice Squad, which he left when he became a father. A burly man, he looked more like a plumber or a lumberjack. A strong-willed character, like the late Friedrich Engels, with a large mustache. His 13-year-old daughter, Laura, was a pubescent nuisance. She regularly sat naked on his lap, wrapped her arms longingly around his neck, and he never knew what to do with his hands. Laura would rub back and forth until his hands were on her bare genitals, and then she would continue rubbing until she shuddered. His wife cleared her throat noisily in the background, of course. But Bodnar knew from his work in vice that this was over and he couldn't take anything further with Laura.

Eisen had actually been a graphologist at the university until a love affair lured him to the police academy. He was the typical short, bald accountant with a receding hairline and glasses, whose criminological talent was discovered at the academy. He was in his early fifties and the oldest member of the Yiddish Squadron. Everyone appreciated his clear-sightedness, always focused on the facts. He rarely fell into a trap; he recognized even the most elaborate ones. He was a confirmed bachelor and made the most of it in countless affairs. Eisen was already emotionally smitten; he wanted to try his luck at the Ministry of the Interior. He was on familiar terms with the new, young Minister of the Interior.

Rosenblatt was the squadron's best tracker. No, he didn't snoop on the ground, but on the internet, in archives, in directories of all kinds, often bringing even the most hidden things to light. He had sold the inherited jewelry store; he had no interest in it. He had been left by his wife, the slut, many years ago, and his daughter Elli, now 15 or 16, lived with him. He only ever called his ex a slut; she didn't seem to have a first name. He kept his private life private, but when his trusted colleagues pressed him directly, he readily admitted that almost five years ago, when his wife, the slut, had run off, he had resolutely brought Elli into his bed. Everything had developed quite naturally, and they lived together like a couple. No one objected once the truth was out in the open. His Jewish hooked nose on a face worthy of a Roman emperor immediately revealed that it belonged to a detective.

They went through the files very methodically for a week. But there was nothing more to them than what was already there. They had done a good job so far and gathered everything. Thea Küngler's file was completely clean. She had grown up in modest circumstances in Favoriten, was the first in her family to graduate from high school, and was studying criminology. She had graduated from the police academy with excellent grades and was already working on a doctoral dissertation, the thesis. She didn't have a steady boyfriend, according to her file. Not a word about her sex life, if she had one.

Susanne Stammer grew up in comfortable middle-class circumstances in the 9th district. She had passed her high school exams (after retaking one), was also studying criminology, but there was no indication whether she had known Thea Küngler. Her juvenile file contained two entries that had long since been deleted. One was for possession of a small amount of marijuana, the other for disorderly conduct. Clearly, what that meant back then, it was promiscuity at the age of 14. Ron scratched his head; he'd fallen for Stammer at a police ball and had a quickie with her. It was just superficial, casual sex without any meaning. Ron still felt a deep sense of regret. Even if Susanne had been a loose girl, she simply hadn't deserved death, that angry, evil death. Neither Ron nor the Yiddish Squadron discovered anything or anyone that pointed to Thea's or Susanne's murder. It could have been a madman, a serial killer, or just anyone.

Then, after a week, pure chance came to the rescue. Residents had alerted the police; screams had been heard coming from the empty building next door, and by the time the officers arrived, the screams had long since died down. The police discovered a woman's body, and the three musketeers raced across the city in their ambulance, flashing blue lights and sirens blaring. The perpetrator had long since fled, but he had been interrupted.

He hadn't yet used the disinfectant. He left behind the body bound with wire, the garrote, and the disinfectant. Dr. Gangl estimated she must have been murdered less than an hour earlier; the body was still warm. The crime scene was examined methodically, millimeter by millimeter, and half a dozen used condoms were found. Dr. Gangl analyzed the semen in the condoms, the DNA on the garrote, and on the body of Theresa Stanzl, 28. Theresa was also a police officer; she hadn't shown up for duty for several days, but she hadn't yet been officially reported missing. It had happened several times before that she went on a "honeymoon" with a lover for a few days, even a week, as she later admitted with an embarrassed smile. And now she was dead.

Rosenblatt and Eisen immediately set to work researching her background. But there was nothing unusual. She had graduated from high school in Josefstadt and lived with her widowed father. There had been several anonymous complaints alleging that the two were engaged in incest. Theresa was 14, 17, 18, 19, and 20 years old at these times, and the anonymous writer seemed to be a jealous neighbor. The reports were very detailed, some of them downright pornographic. Eisen put the papers aside in disgust. It was completely irrelevant whether Theresa was having sex with her father or not; that was unimportant for police work. Nobody investigated the matter back then. Incest was essentially a minor offense that no police officer wanted to take seriously. Rosenblatt read the report her superior had written when she was hired three times. The supervisor had spread the five incriminating anonymous complaints out on the table and then said, "Everyone has to live with hostility and smear campaigns, I understand that. I just wanted to know what was going on from the start. You still live alone with your father. In these documents, in this drivel, you are accused of incest. What do you have to say to me about that?" Stanzl had asked in return, "Will this have any bearing on whether I get hired or not?" He denied it. So Stanzl didn't take a position. Theresa had a boyfriend on record, an inconspicuous and pale student in her year. Rosenblatt concluded from the wording that it was more of a study company than a sexual relationship. No direct connection whatsoever to Thea Küngler or Susanne Stammer.

Dr. Gangl shook his head as he read the toxicology report. Theresa had a blood alcohol level of 3.2 per mille; she was completely drunk at the time of her death. She had ingested three times more poppers than the others; the levels were incredibly high. "In my opinion, this alone would have been enough to cause her heart to fail. I can't definitively conclude that she was 'only' raped. Perhaps she herself incited her attacker and pushed him into brutal sex. Here I have to slightly revise the initial autopsy report." Dr. Gangl wiped the sweat from his brow. "No one takes that much poppers voluntarily, that's for sure. Your perpetrator is not only a cop killer and serial killer, I also classify him as a completely deviant sex offender who deliberately plunges his victims into a hurricane of sexual urges." Dr. Gangl pressed for the DNA analysis to be performed as quickly as possible in the lab. The DNA clearly belonged to Frank Halter, who was imprisoned in the Karling prison near the city of Graz.

Ron immediately called Graz.

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