Karya E-Book

Herwig Baumgartner

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 407

Beschreibung

The euro is the world's safest means of payment against counterfeiting - the political media announced it to their naive European readers. This optimal marketing by several governments helps anyone who, with wit and sufficient criminal charm, manages to secretly take this advertising message into account and thus dispel any doubts that the message in question is somewhat flawed. However, the fictional story presented here has real roots, as anyone who enters the world of thought of this novel and tries to characterize the story as a dream experience of criminal elements can soon imagine. It is almost certain to assume that by no means all politically motivated statements should ever be true ... - - - It is always the inspector who solves the vast majority of cases surprisingly for everyone involved. The inner feeling of an experienced detective superintendent reminds him to have something of the evidence he has collected specifically checked that no one else seems to notice. His instincts, trained over his professional years, are rewarded - not just him. The suspicion of a criminal organization behind the possible crime itself is irrefutable.

Leseprobe

Contents

Prologue

Titanium root

Eyewitness

Hustler

Victim survey

Medical reports

Fellow student

Over-Club

Cult of Aphrodite

Membership

Ciara

Lover

Cologne

Forgery

Family history

Marian

The ancestors

Pimp

Karya

Euroland

Prologue

In Baton Rouge, Louisiana, a limousine belonging to a law firm, with tinted windows of course, drove swiftly through the long, winding avenue of ancient evergreen magnolias, the state tree, to the driveway on the circular gravel driveway in front of an old Southern mansion. The occupant, who was dimly recognizable in the rear, carried a special document in an expensive-looking leather briefcase. A bank check instead of a special banknote.

Not in circulation, but still in existence as legal tender, is the Woodrow Wilson 100,000 US dollar note with his likeness. However, these are only used for money transfers between American federal reserves.

History is well known: The 28th President of the United States of America came from Virginia and was in office from 1913 to 1921. After initial neutrality, the USA entered the First World War under him in 1917. The founding of the League of Nations can be traced back to his initiative. Wilson was the second Democratic president since 1861 and the first president since Zachary Taylor to come from the former Confederate States of America.

He was a true racist and Confederate sympathizer, he was even called a mental slave owner since he introduced racial segregation in the public administration and even in the military where it had not existed before. Apartheid was not invented by the evil South Africans, although many Americans would like to believe that. His origins in the Bible belt guaranteed it, the area of the US where evangelical Protestantism is an integral part of the culture. Typically, this includes the former southern states.

The chauffeur had hurried to the rear door and opened it deliberately. A distinguished gentleman in the typical dark suit of the elite, despite the subtropical climate, got out of the black car and approached the building, from which a beautiful young lady stepped out almost simultaneously, received him and led him up the flight of steps into the portico.

She was extraordinary to look at, gorgeously dressed, fabulously beautiful like the Quadrones, also known as Moriscos, who supposedly only had up to an eighth of black blood in them due to their predominantly white ancestors, but wanted to be considered white during the decades of slavery. Their annual dance ball was the special social event in New Orleans and every self-respecting white gentleman financed such a mistress, with whom he often fathered children when he was not on pilgrimage to Storyville, often in Lulu White's Mahogany Hall, the most notorious brothel of its time.

Basically a similar type of business took place in this villa, but with a special flair. Only members were admitted and the annual club fee was one Wilson. The services offered there could therefore be classified as exceptional and worth their price.

The lady of the house welcomed the guest and politely reminded him of the inviolable rules. Smiling, they exchanged their documents. For his Woodrow Wilson, the master received a Thomas Jefferson, emblematic of the inner contradiction between his natural law ideas about the right of every individual to life, liberty and happiness and the fact that he had denied these rights to his own slaves.

In fact, with this two-dollar bill with his portrait, 99,998 dollars changed hands, but both recipients seemed happy about the membership fee for a truly select club that would have greatly displeased both presidents in their different racial attitudes. Especially as the lawyer so signed had been traveling on behalf of a lady of society, a Southern Belle.

Sally Hemings, a black woman, was a slave of Jefferson's wife Martha, perhaps even her half-sister, as well as his mistress and apparently the mother of his illegitimate children. The American Declaration of Independence, largely written by Jefferson himself, deserves special mention. Aspects of it were lived out in a special way in this club.

What a mockery of history to unite both presidents in such a piquant relationship: Woodrow with the financial aspect, Thomas with that of coding.

Not with his cipher wheel, the Jefferson cylinder from 1790, which he had invented 88 years before Arthur Scherbius' Enigma, which later became best known as the Nazi code machine of the Second World War. Jefferson's cylinder was theoretically far superior to the Enigma because it clearly fulfilled the Kerckhoffs' principle, which states that the security of a cryptosystem must not depend on the secrecy of the algorithm. Security is only based on the secrecy of the key.

This is probably the real reason why Alan Turing succeeded in decoding with his tools. The limitations in the Enigma reduced the number of possibilities, which is why the duration of one calculation phase was sufficient for decoding.

Titanium root

Poppelsdorfer Allee lay as if deserted in the light of the few stars that sent their fleeting glimmer into the Main night. The dense foliage of the chestnut trees offered good protection from prying eyes. An old lady peered out of the window of her founder's house into the darkness because, as usual, she couldn't sleep, all in keeping with her age. No one was to be seen. It was a dead zone in this part of the former capital, where the old people, the pensioners, the widows were in charge. Those who tolerated absolutely no noise.

The event in the Bonn Botanical Garden attracted a lot of attention. Three flowers sprouted from a tuber in May 2006. This titanium root flower was simply sensational. The tuber, which weighed over a hundredweight, had already sprouted a record-breaking flower in 2003 and 2005, but this time the spectacle was truly magnificent. That's why everyone who felt important was there.

"You're about to feel it, my arum, the Amorphophallus titanum," she heard him whisper hoarsely against the shell of her left ear. Behind the mighty chestnut tree, he had her bent over in the shade in front of him, her pert miniskirt flipped up. The turquoise thong panties would no longer prevent anything. His paw had clawed into her slender neck, wordlessly threatening to break her neck in a fraction of a second if necessary.

Her whole body shivered despite the warm summer night. Horrified, she felt her sex getting wet, no, soaking wet, deceiving her and her fear. She signaled her willing readiness to the guy behind her as if he were an aroused male. With the musky smell of her sex, she stank like a bitch in heat, she thought. The tall man fascinated her and had quickened her pulse ever since she had first laid eyes on him that evening. In the botanical garden, by the Titan's Root, the phallic symbol that had aroused her despite the cadaverous smell that this stinking flower exuded. What had prompted her to follow him, to accept his suggestion to take a stroll on the night of the Main?

He had charmingly wooed her, mistaking her name for Chiara, which means the shining one, the famous one. It hadn't mattered to her, because she was just passing through. Season in Europe, the vacation trip through the old continent before she finished her studies. There would be no more time after that, she knew from her sister.

She had raved about the gentlemen in Old Europe, experienced gentlemen who did not adhere to the prudish petting rules of US boys, but gave the naive college girl a practical education in exploring her own reactions to erotic advances. As well as getting rid of the obstructive hymen, which none of her US dates had ever really dared to jeopardize. Inexperienced boys, in every sense of the word.

"He rode me in and out so that I didn't know whether to neigh or moan," she had told her. The prudish sister who had been considered untouchable in Texas. Was that what she had instinctively been looking for and hoping to find in this guy? Her body confirmed this, receptive in every way.

His other paw obviously set the course for the planned ride and nimbly slipped under her sweater and blouse, unhooked her bra, peeled her breasts out of the cup and unerringly grabbed the front between her thighs. Two of his fingers gripped her labia, pressing them together firmly. The middle finger between them conquered her cleft, measured the moisture, delicately lowered itself into the opening and felt the still intact skin of her virginity.

Her bottom pushed against his erection due to the forced position, which she could already feel between her buttocks. He gripped her tighter and at the same time bent her further forward. His hard-on protruded between her ass cheeks and felt plump and ready. A slight twist of his body brought him between her thighs and throbbed against her labia. A soft moan escaped her as he dug himself steadily into her wetness, making her suddenly feel as if she was rubbing herself on a man's bicycle pole, while a heat rose inside her like she had never felt before.

She greedily pushed herself onto the shaft and wanted it, now, to deflower herself, to feel this guy inside her, to willingly offer her sheath to his sword, to take him, to ride him, to submit to him, now! The first thrust almost knocked her over, had he not fixed her in front, her pussy in a firm grip, completing the conquest. Obviously it wasn't the first time he had cracked a maiden. What maiden could claim that was a memorable event. Her friends had warned her not to even assume that she would enjoy it.

The guy was now riding her with all his might, having let go of her everywhere as she braced herself against the tree trunk with both hands and rhythmically thrust her buttocks against him. Her suppressed sounds had become more violent, which is why she felt his hand on her lips to prevent the scream of pleasure that seemed foreseeable. At the same time, he took her even more firmly, raging inside her and conquering the territory that had kept her safe from the horny boys for years. She thrust against him like a cat in heat, taking what she could get, feeling the lust building up inside her and driving her to the peak, which only sounded like a muted scream through the hand in front of her lips.

In her lust, she was barely aware that he pulled back a little, slipped out suddenly and unexpectedly and took her rosette in a flash, taking it again before she could even waste a thought on it. Again he penetrated her up to the hilt, again she felt the rough fabric, metal parts on her jeans, wiry pubic hair on her cheeks, pushing herself towards him, regardless of the fact that she realized how she was now being deflowered again, a second time.

The heated melee continued unabated, her lust increased and once again she surrendered to her feelings, this time only moaning throatily. They gasped for minutes, wedged into each other, before he slipped out of her. He caught most of her mess with a paper handkerchief, slipped the thong back over her cleft and the miniskirt over her thighs.

With a quick grip, he forced her to her knees, grabbed her hair, turned her so that the back of her curly head brushed against the tree trunk and pushed his hard-on between her lips. He had anticipated her involuntary reaction. At the same time, his paws grabbed her breasts and held them irresistibly tight. That strange heat rose up in her again, overcoming her instinctive revulsion and paralyzing her will to resist. She wanted it now too, to return the favor for the first real orgasm of her life from before. The lack of freedom of movement also prevented her from escaping this gentle conquest and so she began to do her nutcracker's bidding.

She was no longer quite so inexperienced at this. Although she had protected her little plum from all attacks by lustful boys in Texas, she had no choice but to give her partner a petting climax that made him stay willing. After all, every curious girl has to kiss many princes to find out which one won't turn into a frog. This one didn't seem to turn into one, because he took her like she had never imagined. Energetically, but only inches wide, he pushed himself into her mouth, conquered it, let her tongue work and enjoyed her sucking, which became more and more intense, more rhythmic, the shaft more and more plump, until it filled her up, flowing out in bursts.

Instinctive swallowing as an involuntary reaction was the only way to control the outpouring and not drown from it. Now she was completely in heat, sucking him dry, robbing him of his last drops of semen before him suddenly withdrew. He tucked his member into his jeans, Levis 501, where he had only undone the rivets. He was built big enough, she now realized with satisfaction. That's why she hadn't felt a thigh or a muscle on her buttocks before, only the rough denim fabric with these metal parts. Taken on the open street. Like a cheap whore who had to earn her food on her knees with her treasures.

She was taken completely by surprise again. His hand went into his trouser pocket, pulled out a banknote, stuffed it into her brassiere with the words "Call me", turned around and went on his way. Stunned, she remained silent and stared at the banknote in her hand. 50 euros. The going rate for a quick fuck in the park, as the mostly colored asylum seekers call their clients. He walked steadily as she watched him, then turned right around the corner and was gone. She still held the bill in her hand and looked after the disappearing man.

Suddenly a strap wrapped around her neck, choking her and robbing her of air. At the same time, she felt a hard cock in her rosette, which mercilessly forced its way in and made her cry out. Or rather, it initiated her futile attempt to do so. She grabbed her neck and felt plastic, the cable tie that was strangling her. She knew instinctively that she had no chance of surviving this attack. The killer enjoyed her random convulsions and continued to take her with all his might. While she was already beginning to lose consciousness, she felt him explode inside her, once, several times. Then it went black around her eyes.

The old lady had gazed intently into the night, following a moving shadow under the chestnut trees. There had been two figures, one of which appeared to be female, suggesting a pair of lovers. There was not much to see behind the mighty trunk under the low-hanging leaves, except that these figures were moving in time. Lenz had probably unleashed its power, she thought silently, remembering her youth. A good fifteen minutes later, the dance of shadows followed another choreography. She could dimly make out that one was kneeling in front of the other. Were gays at work? Here? That was really cheeky. But somehow interesting. She smiled quietly to herself. Why not?

Then she saw from the slightly blurred movements that one of them was zipping up his pants again, arranging his clothes and then moving away. The bill in the hand of the remaining man caught her eye. She had never experienced this before, despite her years. Sex for money, in front of her old eyes. She breathed heavily. Not because anything about it bothered her, no, because she was aroused, really aroused. Something had stirred in the long-dried realms of her womb. It brought back memories that she had chastely suppressed for years.

She continued to focus her gaze on what was happening. The remaining shadow stared motionlessly after the departing one until it disappeared from both of their field of vision. Suddenly, a second figure appeared behind the still kneeling one, embraced her, it seemed, and bent her forward until she offered herself to him on all fours. The guy rammed himself into the body of the bent woman and took her in the doggy position. Again she stared at the somehow macabre yet somehow arousing, violent, sexual action in the distance.

She was horrified when she saw the frantic, uncontrolled movements of the conquered man, which resembled those of a drowning man. She fumbled for her cell phone and dialed 112, the emergency number. The cell phone almost fell out of her hand when she heard the questioning voice.

"I'm watching a terrible thing happen. I don't know how it will end, but it looks like a rape. Poppelsdorfer Allee, under the chestnut tree in front of the Wilhelminian style house with the antique columned porch, right next to the yellow brick building. I live opposite and can't see the house number. It's urgent"!

"Please stay on the line, I can see your number, help is on the way". She gave further answers to the official questions as if in a trance, because she had just witnessed the real tragedy and the drama continued. Apparently a murder was now taking place in front of her eyes. The stooped, kicking figure began to twitch more slowly, while the guy behind her continued his act as if in a rage. He thrust into the violently reacting body again and again until he had obviously forced his outpouring. With the final thrusts, he surrendered to the experience until he suddenly stopped. She also heard the siren in the distance and involuntarily looked in the direction of the access road. When she looked back at the scene of the crime, the guy was gone. Without a trace. She looked in all directions but could see nothing, no movement, no shadow, he had vanished from the face of the earth.

Only the other shadow lay hunched under the chestnut tree. Somehow he seemed graceful, small, lost. The flashing blue light approached, casting its flashes ghostly into the night, alerting other residents. The car stopped, two policemen jumped out and ran to the prone body. One barked something into his radio, the other seemed more composed, more knowledgeable and apparently switched gears at lightning speed. She saw him pull something out of his pocket, fiddle with it and tamper with the victim's neck. Then he turned the body onto its back, felt the pulse and began to kiss the shadow. No, that looked like a proper resuscitation. First aid, the old lady stated, applied professionally. The other man had pulled out his cell phone and was taking photos from all sides, although he stayed several meters away from the supposed crime scene itself.

In the meantime, the emergency ambulance was already approaching with blue lights, as were other police vehicles, and a few shadows were slowly emerging from the surrounding houses and approaching the scene. The paramedic was first on the scene, ascertained that the police officer's efforts had been successful, felt the pulse and looked inquiringly at the doctor, who bent down, quickly examined the prone body and had it lifted onto the stretcher. The second paramedic had brought a portable breathing apparatus and, with an oxygen mask over his mouth, they loaded the victim into the ambulance, closed the doors and drove off. No sirens sounded, just the flashing blue light ghosting through the street. She took that as a good sign.

The police met the first curious gawkers with perfect routine: names, addresses and personal details were requested. No one could escape unnoticed, although some tried when they realized they would be questioned, had to waste their time on protocols and questions, made statements and did so in quickly thrown-on clothes because curiosity had gotten the better of them. Other policemen had gone on the lookout and pedantically noted down all the windows where lights were now burning, from where it seemed possible to see what was happening.

There weren't too many of them, as the chestnuts were in full leaf in May. The remaining rubberneckers were more frightened than they wanted to be witnesses. The main thing was that all visible people were documented and their personal details recorded. If necessary, detectives would take care of further details on the following days. The crime scene was cordoned off first. There, illuminated by the spotlight, white-clad figures in puffy overcoats bent down on the ground, picked up everything they could find, took samples from here and there. From the tree and the earth below. This was to take hours.

Slowly, peace returned to the avenue. There was nothing more exciting to see, the gawkers moved into their homes. Inside, some of the discussions continued. After all, no one had been able to see anything except a human shadow figure on the stretcher, who was presumably still alive. That left a lot of room for imagination and rumors.

The old lady, Hedwig Luise Fischer, a widow with more than ninety years under her belt, was visited separately and unobtrusively. Two officers told her that the chief inspector had just been woken up and was on his way to see her. He would be here soon. She offered them both a cup of coffee or tea, which they gladly accepted. One of the policewomen willingly set to work in the kitchen, while the age-unequal couple quickly discovered what they had in common, realizing that they were both genuine Cologne girls and were only stationed in Bonn by chance or living in retirement.

The coffee was quickly ready and served as a refreshment for the still agitated senior citizen as well as an essential liquid for the overworked and overtime-stressed officers.

The mobile phone rang mercilessly, because Jochen Ernst was on call. Of course, it was around three o'clock in the morning; he was disturbed in his best, deepest sleep.

"Yes," he croaked into the microphone on his smartphone.

"Attempted murder with rape. On your doorstep, isn't that a service?" his colleague teased the new inspector from Wiesbaden, who had just moved in a few days ago. In the attic garçonnière in Poppelsdorfer Allee, which was exactly opposite the crime scene. However, the windows faced the opposite side of the building, which is why he hadn't noticed the blue lights or the commotion.

The owner's real estate agent had shown him the two apartments next to each other, as the current one didn't quite appeal to him. In contrast, the other, next door, with a view of the avenue, had impressed him straight away, but was still rented for a limited period. He liked everything there. He couldn't tell whether a man or a woman had lived in it before, because the style was timeless, everything seemed comfortable and furnished with that nonchalant creativity that you hardly find anywhere else in Germany. 'At least not in Wiesbaden,' he grinned to himself and thought about his future home: the exposed attic beams were low and he would probably bump his head on them if he was careless, but the furniture and the rest of the ambience conveyed a homely feeling. He wanted to stay there for the next few weeks and then move straight away. There was only one door between the two granny apartments, which had probably previously served as a home for students and the owner's now grown-up children.

The kitchen was small but very practical, functionally equipped with everything, with access to the almost luxurious bathroom. A wide double bed at the other end of the studio spared him the question of how to spend a lascivious night for two, two comfortable armchairs and the dining table in between, along with various shelves on the street-side kneelers and dormers, should suffice for all the needs and purposes he could think of. Speaking of ideas, something had just woke him up.

"Hey Jochen," it yelled from the micro: "Earth to Mars! Wake up. Murder, you needed, you wanted, you get dressed and come. Outside the door, coffee is waiting"!

He slipped into the usual clothes that were always ready when he was on night duty. Shirt, chinos, sneakers, a light jacket with the necessary items in the pockets. He took his revolver out of the gun safe, grabbed the cartridge magazines and holster, strapped it on and was at the door a minute later.

"Well, what do you say? Isn't that a service? No traveling by car, no traffic jams, just across the meadow and you're at the scene of the crime".

"Where exactly? Aha, thanks, I can see the barrier myself. Let me just recap where we are. This is how I've been working since I started this shit. I recite the most important facts to myself, because as a speech thinker I'm far more likely to notice where there's a mistake in my thinking, if that's the case."

"The eyewitness is waiting. She's over ninety".

"Then she will either babble confusedly and uninhibitedly or argue razor-sharp. Both will happen in five minutes, so we won't miss anything. Correct me if I'm dictating nonsense. I've only been staying here in Adenauer's capital for a short time, you've been here all your life. Please don't answer questions that I either dictate now or that arise later. This time, since it is convenient, I would like to hear the eyewitness without knowing a single word about the crime. That way I can see everything through her eyes alone for the time being and can form a completely different picture afterwards when I have the documented evidence of the crime for the first time. Thank you".

As usual, Ernst raised his Dictaphone, now in the form of an app on his smartphone, to his lips and dictated: "This boulevard in Bonn originally connected the Electoral Palace with Poppelsdorf Palace. Today, the end towards the city center has been cut off. The railroad tracks of the Left Bank of the Rhine leave the remaining section after Kaiserplatz, about 800 meters.

For the most part, Wilhelminian-style houses can be found on both sides of the avenue of horse chestnut trees. The avenue begins on the city side with a small meadow at the Buonretiro wing of the Electoral Palace. Behind the street Am Neutor, it forms the 100 m long Kaiserplatz to the north-east of the main railway station. Beyond Kaiserstrasse, a pedestrian underpass leads under the railroad tracks. From here, it runs as the actual Poppelsdorfer Allee to the palace of the same name. There it is intersected from north to south by Quantiusstraße/Prinz-Albert-Straße, Baumschulallee/Bonner Talweg and Königstraße.

North of the railroad tracks, it looks like this: Kaiserplatz consists of two vehicle lanes on the east side, pedestrian areas on the other sides and a large meadow area in the middle. To the north are several second-hand bookshops and to the west are outdoor catering areas. At the southern end is a memorial to the victims of National Socialism in Bonn. There is a fountain on the other side of Kaiserstraße. Between several small green areas, a cycle and footpath leads down to the railroad underpass, where there are several small stores.

After the southern end of the underpass, which is similar to the northern end, the main part of the avenue begins on the other side of Quantiusstraße, which, in contrast to the rest of the area, still bears this name today.

I'm standing near the crime scene. It is in the area mentioned. The avenue here is about 60 m wide. Motor vehicle traffic flows in one lane along the outer edges. A double footpath and cycle path then follows on both sides towards the inside, with chestnut trees and a meadow in the middle of the avenue.

This all ends in the south at the castle pond of Poppelsdorf Palace, which is crossed on a pedestrian bridge. Behind this is another 100 m long section of park directly in front of the palace. This clarifies two aspects. A perpetrator can only have fled either on one of the streets to the north or south as far as the cross street or the underpass or the bridge or turned into the parallel street at the end of the block of houses. However, it is more likely that he lives in one of the houses or in one of the kiosks and has declared himself a gawker. To return to the scene of the crime, as many perpetrators love to do, and watch the idiots in uniform "look for the murderer".

Jürgen laughed at what he had heard: "Analysis complete, suspects, crime scene and research situation documented. As we all know, the culprit is always the gardener, a sly Latino who barely speaks English, only Spanish. Key question: which owners are secret Hollywood celebrities and own one of these, then we'll have the creature by tomorrow morning".

"Don't laugh too soon, I haven't finished dictating my first impressions and vague ideas. According to a rough initial police investigation, the suspicions are as follows: An attempted murder with rape under the tree in the Bonn Botanical Garden during the titanium root blossom seems plausible. The emergence of three flowers from one tuber in May 2006 in the Bonn Botanical Garden is unique in the world. The tuber, weighing almost 120 kg, had last produced a recordbreaking flower in 2003, holding this record with an inflorescence of over 2 meters and seventy. This time it was the first titanium root outside its native Indonesian jungle to produce three inflorescences at the same time.

That is why this avenue seems to have been deserted, because everything in the castle is gathered around the corpse stench of the titanic phallus, while another, more profane one seems to have been active here. A connection will have to be examined, because a walk in the cozy Main night in this therefore lonely avenue suggests itself, if a planned murder with rape should be behind it. For hours, the perpetrator can do his work here alone and undisturbed if he manages to keep every victim quiet.

Further comments that still need to be checked - please print in italics.

In Indonesian, the plant is known as bunga suweg raksasa or generally as bunga bangkai, as a carrion or corpse flower and is only found on Sumatra, if I'm not mistaken. The titanium root belongs to the Araceae family and is botanically called Amorphophallus titanum. The Bunga-Bunga-Berlusconi immediately comes to mind.

Further questions:

Who is the victim and where does he come from ethnically?

What does the victim look like - through the eyes of a sex offender?

Is it appealing as a woman or not?

Where did it stay in Bonn? Private apartment, perhaps as a guest, or in which hotel?

Could it have known what it was like here in the avenue at night? Did spontaneous sex outdoors happen to degenerate?

Is the victim perhaps a minor or does it look that way?

Can an offense with any connection to drugs be ruled out with certainty?

Could money have been involved or attraction through power?

What relationship does the victim have to botany and the botanical garden or the "Titanenwurz"?

"You have all that in your head? Even I don't know what the street names are like around here. How do you do that"?

"It's quite simple. I take the line over there to the office every day. You can see the stop from here. I've walked around the park the last few days when I could, so I know every meter I've run under my shoes. Of course, I also know the names of the streets, because I was trying to find a suitable course where I could jog a longer distance. That's why I came to the castle and know roughly the surrounding area and the street names. I also love architecture and have seen all the facades of these avenue buildings. When I was looking for an apartment, I did some research on the internet and ended up here. The price and location are excellent, at least for Bonn. As people continue to move away, it will hardly get more expensive because there are already enough empty apartments. I didn't want to have to look again every three months. The service doesn't give me time for that, I'm already betting on it.

"All respect. I'm amazed, you plan everything beforehand, how"?

"Mostly. Let's go and see the eyewitness now. She'll be sitting on the nettles enough. That's good, because she'll be burning to describe everything and more. Hopefully not just a great-grandmother's fantasies."

They entered the foyer of an old Wilhelminian-style villa, where a uniformed inspector was waiting for them with the words. "Have a nice evening, Inspector.

"Good evening to you too, although I'm guessing early in the morning. Go and have a coffee with your colleagues if you can get one. I don't know if we'll need you anymore.

"I'm afraid so, because I was the first on the scene and my colleague took cell phone photos before I had to mess everything up because of first aid."

"Please don't talk any more now. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I promise. But it will take a while. Don't plan a vacation for today".

"Will do. See you later." He left in the direction of the crime scene.

The mobile phone rang absolutely horribly. The programmed wake-up call sounded really bad and discordant.

"We have a second eyewitness. What should we do?

"Take him to the station and entertain him, it will take longer today. That's why you're giving him an explicit warning. Accompany him to his home beforehand so that he can take something with him to pass the time. Under no circumstances talk about the crime or any of the circumstances surrounding it, not even about Bonn. It would be best if he wrote down everything he still has in his head about his view of things. He should document every detail that occurs to him so that we can form our own opinion when we question him again. But don't tell him all this until he's at the station and can't leave.

"Will do. See you later, Commissioner".

Eyewitness

On the second floor of the Wilhelminian style house, it looked as if all the years had passed without a trace. Ernst knocked softly on the door of the apartment where Hedwig Luise Fischer was waiting for her. Not really waiting, because the two Cologne girls, she and the civil servant, were engrossed in their Rhineland dialect, which none of their colleagues spoke, even though they all originated supposedly from the same federal state. They laughed uproariously and almost felt disturbed when Jochen interrupted them and introduced himself.

"Strammer Jung," attested the nineties woman, "needs a bride"!

The policewoman colored a little and looked to the side, while Jürgen burst out laughing: "I love clear witness statements." He teased his inspector and sat down, pad in hand, pulled out his pen and waited for things to happen.

"Would you excuse us for a moment," he asked the old lady and showed his colleague out.

"She can bring you coffee or tea, she brewed it too; who wants what"? The old woman was unwavering in her hospitality.

"Tea please," Jürgen said, and with: "I'll gladly accept, but coffee please, thank you. Come on." He asked the uniformed men to come out. "Have you said anything about the crime yet?"

"No, your colleague called and expressly admonished us to do so," replied the younger woman. "We were just chatting Kölsch because she hardly has the opportunity to do so and her acquaintances are all different; in the sense of a cemetery".

"Great. Please keep this ignorance, because I still need you both completely unadulterated, without a trace of knowledge about the crime".

"No problem, we really don't know anything, because we've been pinned down here. The lady has a razor-sharp mind and an equally sharp sense of humor. We've just heard men's jokes, I'd blush if I had to repeat them, but the lady delivers them dryly. Have fun with her".

"I would like to ask you to simply tell us what you experienced, saw, felt or heard tonight and when. Don't force yourself, we both know absolutely nothing about the scene of the crime, the victim or the perpetrator, except that the victim was taken to hospital and was probably alive at the time. That's why I can do a lot with your description, because what you saw probably no one else witnessed or experienced differently. I'm only recording what you say, because both of our shorthand is catastrophic and I'm sure you're narrating far faster than we could take notes.

"Oh, another true dinosaur who still knows old Franz Xaver Gabelsberger, inventor of the shorthand system, forerunner of today's German standard shorthand. As a stenographer in the Bundestag, I once mastered all three levels of shorthand, i.e. traffic, express and speech writing, but I couldn't read my shorthand fast enough, others not at all. So that was it for my political career," grinned the whitehaired lady. "But I can still manage about 60 syllables per minute instead of the previous 120 in traffic writing if I have to. After all, you have to keep your mind active, especially at my age, when others are plagued by Alzheimer's or senile dementia. Unfortunately, I did take notes, but I can tell you all this as it is, as what I have seen is very sparse. Nevertheless, it may help that I don't forget anything I've written down.

At around two o'clock in the morning, I had just looked at the clock because that's my usual time to go to the bathroom, and I had become bored in bed. I get out of bed for an hour or two, do something, move around, which allows me to sleep for another three hours at around four o'clock until usually seven o'clock. If I sleep through, from about one o'clock in the morning, the four hours are already up by five and that's too early for me. That's why I really like this interruption.

When Jürgen cleared his throat, Jochen almost killed him with his gaze, which he felt was almost physically piercing.

"Let him go, he's still young, he'll realize that sometimes you have to listen carefully to understand what you're hearing. Even if it sounds boring at first. Because if later, when it comes to the sausage, the prosecutor asks the same question in the witness box and there is no satisfactory answer, then the case goes down the drain. Oh, I forgot: after the inglorious career as a typist, I graduated and practiced as a secretary or assistant, as it is euphemistically called today. In the law firm where I met my future husband, a criminal lawyer. I stayed in civil law, where you have to be pedantic and precision is required. The public prosecutors particularly hated that, because sometimes I was a witness in commercial trials.

"Excuse me". Jürgen tried again, but she smiled cheerfully and continued: "So I was sitting in my age-appropriate clothes in my robe and thought that it was so extremely quiet outside today, which was unusual. At least at two o'clock in the morning in May when the weather was nice. I peeked out into the dark. There was no one to be seen. There was absolute silence. Not even a car or even a bicycle could be seen. The old people, the pensioners, the widows are in charge here, unfortunately those who tolerate absolutely no noise and even find children's cries repulsive. What a disgrace for this country and its inhabitants. This used to be the capital of Germany, you have to remember.

I had been gazing intently into the night, following a moving shadow under the chestnut trees. Right over there, where her colleagues were working. Come and sit in this armchair as that was my place on the stand. Big game hunting was suddenly the order of the day, because I spotted two figures, one of which appeared to be female, so a pair of lovers became the target of my voyeur act. Somehow it reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock's 'The Window to the Court', only without the camera and I wasn't Grace Kelly, who later became Princess Gracia Patricia.

Not much can be seen behind this mighty trunk under the lowhanging leaves. Now and then the figures moved as if in a kind of beat, but they didn't dance. Spring has arrived and love seemed to be in bloom. I admit that I would have liked to have seen more, because I like to watch lanky boys and pretty girls, I'll freely admit that. Anyone who doesn't like that shouldn't cuddle in front of my window or offer me visual eroticism to the point of porn. It has happened before, but it usually stops at the beginning, at a clumsy attempt, then the young people don't dare to do anything. In the wild thirties, we were a bit more uninhibited and sang the Alabama song from the Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny. Do you know it? Probably not.

The girls have lost their home and security and see their only chance of survival in selling themselves to the men of Mahagonny. They bid farewell to the moon and with it the hope of a better life, romantic love and security. From the men's point of view, the moon is the color of the American dollar and, like everything else, can be bought. We didn't know at the time, had no idea what would be in store for us thanks to this Austrian postcard painter.

But hopefully you are familiar with Bertolt Brecht's Threepenny Opera with music by Kurt Weill. Today's situation fits in with this, as he rhymed appropriately: "For some are in the dark and others are in the light. And you see those in the light, you don't see those in the dark.

Anyway, I became curious, blame it on my age and my boredom, that I was so interested in what the two shadows were up to, I thought for a long time that they might be gay, but I doubted inside myself and that usually tips the scales in the right direction. Anyway, it reminded me of my youth and some nice experiences with cheeky boys.

A good fifteen minutes later, the dance of the shadows followed another choreography. I could dimly make out that one was kneeling in front of the other. Again I was overcome by doubt: were there gays at work? That would be really cheeky. But somehow interesting. I smiled quietly to myself. Why not?

Then I guessed from the movements that the one was zipping up his pants again and then walking away. A banknote changed hands. Now I was really stunned. Oh, you won't know that word, it's Austrian and means astonished. This bill caught my eye.

Appeared to be a 50. An orange euro bill. I could be completely wrong, though, because the light was very dim. Maybe I'm just guessing because that's supposed to be the price for sex on the street. At least that's what I heard a few days ago. Is my imagination playing tricks on me? I really don't know. In any case, the figure remaining under the tree stared after the other, the banknote in his fingers, frozen, as if paralyzed. Horrified, I would guess. At least that's how it seemed to me.

My gaze continued to fix on what was happening. I felt sorry for the abandoned man. Just with each other and now disposed of. If that was a woman, I could understand her. They had harmonized quite well before. Even then, even with cash for sex, this was certainly highly offensive.

Just as I was trying to work out what might have really happened, a second figure suddenly appeared behind the kneeling woman. It hugged her fiercely. She bent forward jerkily until she was on all fours. The guy rammed his hips into the bent woman's bottom, somehow furious, it seemed, and by then I was already reaching for my smartphone and typing 112. I had a vague idea and an extremely bad feeling. That never deceives me.

The newcomer took the shadow in the puppy dog position, without a second thought.

I stared at the somehow macabre, yet violent events at this distance. Horror rose up inside me. These frantic, uncontrolled movements resembled those of a drowning man.

I pressed the dial button. Everything I said is on your tape. The emergency service answered incredibly quickly and my cell phone almost fell out of my hand. I don't know what I stammered, because my eyes were fixed on the two shadows. They were fighting, no they weren't fighting, because the lower one was writhing as if in agony. Then the upper one threw himself at it again, riding the kicking one like a cowboy rides a bronco, an untamed mustang at a rodeo. That's what it actually looked like. But its twitching seemed horrible to me. That's why I suspected what it might be. It somehow looked like a brutal rape. But the movements didn't match, because even then there would be an even movement of both bodies, which wasn't the case here. Now I suspected with horror that I was watching a murder.

The lower figure began to twitch more slowly, while the guy behind her continued his attack as if in a rage. He thrust himself into the victim over and over again, regardless of the victim's desperate thrashing.

Suddenly the perpetrator stopped. I also heard the siren in the distance. When I looked again, the guy was gone. Without a trace. I couldn't see anything, no movement, no shadow, he had disappeared from the face of the earth. Only the other one lay hunched under the chestnut tree, somehow he seemed graceful, small, lost.

The flashing blue light approached, casting its shadow, ghostly in the night. The car stopped, two policemen jumped out and ran to the prone body. Your colleagues will tell you the rest. My eyes were no longer able to see clearly because of the bright light.

More vehicles with blue lights arrived. I know the area here very well. As I hadn't noticed anyone stirring beforehand, the perpetrator must have been hiding in a passage to the cellar or basement. As the first people started to approach, I noticed one of them diagonally opposite. Only nobody lives there who would go out on the street at night. These people think they are much better, former aristocrats or something. They don't talk to me or other plebs either. So I would assume he may have been hiding there. Although I don't know if it really had to be man. Emotionally, yes, but who knows today?

A policeman seemed more composed and shifted gears quickly. I saw him pull something out of his pocket, fiddle with it and tamper with the victim's neck. Then he turned the body onto its back, felt the pulse and began to administer resuscitation, first aid, I realized, professionally applied. The other had pulled out his cell phone and took photos from all sides, but stayed several meters away from the crime scene itself.

Meanwhile, the emergency ambulance approached with blue lights, more police, more shadows from the surrounding houses. The stretcher arrived and the body was carried away. I saw a person trying to make sure that the victim was dead. He was pushing hard against the stretcher, ignoring the paramedics. I would estimate him to be about one meter and eighty, jeans, T-shirt, black sneakers, no visible light stripes or hooks like Nike has. Dark hair, short, but he could have been wearing a hair band, like the one the Brazilian footballer Ronaldinho used to tie around his head, not a band in the original sense, but more like a scarf. Like a ninja. Now I can think of the right word. Somehow it seems that way to me, but my imagination could be deceiving me.

As they loaded the victim into the ambulance, the shadow melted into the other gawkers. I tried to locate him and was successful. He stayed very close to the avenue trees and was therefore not seen by the other police officers as he left until he disappeared near the crossroads towards the railroad underpass.

He wouldn't be there anymore, I think, with this rush to the stink root in the botanical garden that they're celebrating today. He seemed to know that, it occurred to me. But I know that there is a surveillance camera in operation in the underpass. Anyway, it always annoyed me until I imagined I would fall down there and someone would see me and call the Red Cross. Since then, I see things differently and with more understanding. The hope factor, you could say, changed my attitude.