Your Murderer with Love

By Volker Ferkau

Vincent Padock is a successful entrepreneur. The journalist Lisa Armond, traumatized by the loss of her close ones, falls in love with the impressive man. Her 15-year-old daughter, Eva, is against the relationship.

Vincent Padock is a psychopath, a merciless serial killer. He decides to settle down with Lisa and Eva and start a family life without deaths or blood. But he has to kill once more. As a gift of love!

Eva is suspicious. She wants to protect her mother from the uncanny character and hatches an ominous plan that endangers not only her.

Meanwhile, the former LKA (State Criminal Office) investigator Will Prenker is after the murderer. His pursuit leads him to the heart of obscurity because the disaster can no longer be stopped and plunges everyone involved into a deadly maelstrom.

An incredibly captivating thriller with gruesome and surprising twists, narrated in a disturbingly haunting manner from the perspective of the perpetrator.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Nov 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071576250

Book preview

Some righteous people believe they are sinners, while some sinners believe they are righteous.

All persons in this novel are of course fictitious and whoever finds a resemblance can rest assured that he or she is not meant.

Berlin 2007

Prologue

If a film were to be made about my life, then it should be done by Clint Eastwood or Quentin Tarantino. By Eastwood because he recognizes the swing or by Tarantino, who discovers the glaring truth behind colorful pictures.

Vincent Padock leaned back and read the sentences on the screen. The first sentences were good. They would provide an appropriate opening for his autobiography, for which he had received half a million euros in advance.

But he was not quite satisfied.

His search was not over yet. But so what? He had the time and could afford to be patient. Perhaps the man waiting for him in the basement knew what he was going to write. Perhaps Vincent would find that one sentence today.

He turned off the laptop. The lamp behind him was reflected on the screen. The light encircled his head, giving it a distinct aura. He looked like a somber saint. However, he was not a saint but a fallen angel.

Thinkers have known since Plato that man was neither an animal nor an angel and that whoever wanted to make an angel of him created an animal. And that was what happened. Vincent Padock had become an animal.

I am an angel! I am an animal!

Was that good as a first sentence?

Vincent grinned. Such sentences lurked deep inside people, very deep within, just like everything that is latent in a person, like an animal wanting to break free of its fetters. Those were the moments Vincent Padock was searching for. That was when he received answers.

What do you feel at that moment? What do you feel when the animal wakes up and wants to break free? When even hope is lost?

Vincent would kill for answers to these questions.

The last words, of wisdom perhaps, that the dying screamed, stammered, spat out, or whined with absolute conviction always told the truth, and the truth was never merciful.  

1

The man was tied up with gaffer tape. He sat on two metal claws, like those of a forklift, with his back leaning against a similar device. He was naked.

There was a dark stain at his feet. He had wet himself.

Fascinating! What did the man feel when his bladder let go, when he humiliated himself in fright and noticed how the warm piss spurted between his legs, wetting his feet and shins?

I’m going to remove the gag, Vincent Padock said gently. His voice sounded muffled behind the fine-dust mask, which is why he spoke softly and calmly so as not to frighten the delinquent unnecessarily for the time being. If you scream, I'll cut off all your fingers, one by one. He let his words sink in. Are you going to scream?

The middle-aged man shook his head vehemently, scattering drops of sweat.

I don't want to be cruel, Vincent said softly. I just have a few questions for you. The man nodded, and hope flashed in his eyes like a random ray of sunlight on a razor blade.

Okay. Vincent pulled the gag out of the man's mouth and let it fall. Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Siebert.

Yes, yes ..., the man muttered.

You are responsible for two victims of bullying, Mr. Siebert.

Siebert opened his eyes wide and gasped for air. His face was a living question mark.

Vincent carried on: "Do you know that one of them, Irene Ditsch, has been in therapy for over a year? No? You don’t know that?

I thought so. Why would you? Narcissists like you don't care about other people. You think you are the center of the world. Everything is about you. You go your own way without bothering about your victims, Mr. Siebert. That is how you rose from an office desk to the board of the Brainegg AG in just four years. I don't want to know many more souls you have on your conscience. Mrs. Ditsch suffered three sleepless months in which she cried far too many tears. She stood in your way."

Siebert grunted. What does this mean? This is a bad joke, isn't it?

Vincent shook his head amicably. No, Mr. Siebert. This is not a joke. Scumbags like you are no better than murderers, do you know that?  You kill souls. I kill men. That is the difference. He who kills souls is a monster while he who destroys soul-killers is a cherub. Vincent paused and straightened up. Was it worthwhile? Are you happy with what you have achieved?

I ... I ... What the hell do you want from me? Who are you? Why am I here?

We know each other. My company installed the computer network and the corresponding servers at Brainegg AG. You and I negotiated the price. An unsuspecting secretary told me about Irene Ditsch and Petra Korhei. According to the press, Mrs. Korhei committed suicide six weeks ago, and Mrs. Ditsch, as I already said, is under treatment. The secretary will not remember this conversation with me because she said so much more, most of which were indiscretions for which I would have fired the lady on the spot had she been my employee.

Padock? The naked man recognized him. He understood, even if he found it hard to believe. Padock? You are Vincent Padock? Damn it, yes, I recognize your voice and your eyes.

Vincent ignored that. You haven't answered my question, Mr. Siebert. Was it worth it? 

The man swallowed hard. His eyes glowed with fear and sweat ran down his white-skinned body. If you think I am happy about it, no, Padock, no, I am not.

Vincent put on a winning smile and shrugged. You know, Mr. Siebert, this actually doesn't matter. I am not asking for an apology. What happened is a thing of the past and can no longer be changed. You will soon be dead anyway.

What do you mean by dead? croaked the man.

If I had only wanted to talk to you, we would have been in a coffee shop or a pub, maybe in my office. You would have gladly accepted my invitation, I presume, then you never know when you might come across a lucrative offer. But such an invitation would be noted in your files and would lead to me, which neither of us wants. He paused. Since I ambushed you and drugged you with an injection, you can imagine that I have a lot more in mind than to make you a lucrative offer. However, you can reduce your own misery by answering my questions. Maybe - yes, maybe I'll even consider letting you go.

You can't do that! the man gasped. I'd report you to the police. Your wonderful career would come to an end, once and for all. It would be the downfall of the great Vincent Padock, one of the most respected entrepreneurs in Germany, the playboy and millionaire.

Vincent said: Thank you for pointing this out and enumerating my attributes. You are a realist, Mr. Siebert, and even now as you spit out your rage and bile, your thoughtless anger robs you of your remaining dignity and brings you nearer to your death. Let's see how long you can hold this out. Maybe I was wrong about you and should rather win you over to my side instead of killing you.

Yes, yes ... that would be a good idea. The fettered man saw hope. There was another pause, during which the men studied each other intently. Vincent broke the silence.

Unfortunately, I hate people like you, Mr. Siebert. I hate men who use every means to fight their way through. There is always a choice between brutality and restraint. I always chose the latter. Vincent hesitated and ran a hand over his chin. No, I can't let you go. So we should prepare for the inevitable. Answer my questions as best as you can, Mr. Siebert. If you do that, I will shorten your suffering. If you don't, you will experience a new dimension of time and agony.

Good heavens, I beg you, Mr. Padock. What questions?

A little more patience, please.

Mr. Padock ... we are civilized people. You're bluffing, I know that. Man, you are not a killer. You are a cultivated person. You want to teach me a lesson, Mr. Padock, is that right? Okay, I got it. Yes, yes - I understand everything.

Then the first step has already been made, Mr. Siebert. Humility! said Vincent.

Siebert grinned crookedly. I'll apologize to Irene and the others. Nobody will find out about this here, nobody. I swear!

Vincent nodded silently. A charming idea.

Siebert sighed in relief.

Vincent shook his head. But not feasible.

The last two words sounded dull and heavy across the room. Vincent sensed that for the first time, Siebert was considering the possibility that this meeting was not a joke but deadly serious.

At this point, they were all alike. They opened their eyes wide and there was a kind of disbelief on their faces. They believed in nothing, neither in God, nor in angels, nor in death – an affliction of modern society. They either thought that everything could be avoided or suppressed reality. They did so until they perceived the inescapable truth and the fact that they had become a part of it. That is when faith returned and they whined or shrieked for God to save them. But then it was too late because believing in God meant understanding that life had a purpose whereas now, only death was lying in wait.

Please, please - what are you going to do? Siebert howled. He struggled and yanked at his bonds. He spat and his cheeks puffed out like a frog. Then he screamed - not out of fear but in anger.

Don't worry, I will allow you to blow off all your steam. I won't gag you again. Romp for as long as you want. No one can scream forever. No one can hear you so after a while, you will stop yelling and focus on my questions. These are the small advantages of this villa on the Wannsee lake.  No neighbors far and wide who might hear or see anything.

Siebert’s mouth fell shut. He said nothing.  

What are you up to? he gasped. Why don't you ask me your damned questions at long last?

Vincent frowned as if he couldn't help this turn of events. He pointed behind him to where an arm-thick, discolored wooden beam protruded from a floor bracket, about a meter and a half high, surrounded by a plate-like groove made of metal that led into a drain. He pressed a button and the two claws rose shakily, carrying the man on them. The construction ran along a ceiling rail, similar to that of an electric garage door.

Mr. Siebert - I am going to impale you!

––––––––

The shock had left the man speechless, in a way that Vincent had never seen. It was a completely new experience. That was at least something. When he realized that Siebert would not scream, beg or whine - was the man stupid, brave, or had the certainty of death paralyzed him? - he gave him a ketamine injection.

Unlike other analgesics and narcotics, this agent produced an exceptional effect by triggering so-called dissociative anesthesia. It induced sleep and relative freedom from pain while the protective reflexes were largely maintained. Unlike in the USA, where ketamine falls under the Narcotics Act, almost every doctor in Germany could easily obtain it.

By doing this, Vincent didn't have to contain someone who would be struggling and thrashing out. He could easily move him along the slide rail. The man only woke up after the stake had pierced his anus, intestines, and internal soft tissues. The awakening for the impaled was usually followed by a considerable shock, sometimes accompanied by pseudo hallucinations caused by ketamine. To Vincent’s experience, the impaled person refused to accept his fate. Some thought that they were going through a nightmare. No, no, it couldn't be. It had to be a dream!

When the effects of the narcotic receded giving way to the excruciating pain, the impaled person registered his situation with a kind of solemn finality. What was happening was irreversible. There was no return. The end was an absolute certainty. This was a humbling instance for there was no hope, which was last to die out. It was gone and each took his punishment. Every second under the effects of the narcotic was like an hour in the southern sunshine. This made one feel grateful. It's amazing how undemanding a human being could be.

Ernst Siebert was disappointing. No answers, no good statements but pathetic gurgling sounds instead.

That was when Vincent pitied the man. It was the first time he had felt pity for the agonizing victim. That was a new feeling. He knew his victim too well. The necessary remoteness was lacking.

Siebert died from the final injection. Vincent granted this mercy to the man. After all, he had been his business partner.

It didn't always go as fast as with Siebert.

He had seen cases where days later, his victims still hung on the stake with the rounded, greased tip sticking out of their shoulder as they wordlessly rolled their eyes in despair and snapped at life like tenacious carps. He would then approach the afflicted person's face and gently, calmly, ask him questions. He would wait for the answer, for the one sentence that would move, beguile, enchant him.

Some of Vincent's victims had tried to explain themselves, hoping to escape the inevitable. Others had failed to utter a sensible word.

It had always been disappointing.

How did the men feel in the last hours of their lives? Why didn't their tortured brains produce great ideas? Why did they close up? Damn it, it was their last chance to say something meaningful. Vincent sought the truth, that one sentence that had not yet been spoken, the one thought that would bring the world to a stop.

He would be patient.

––––––––

After Siebert's heart had stopped, Vincent took off the white plastic hooded overall and stowed it in the trash. He slipped the latex gloves off his hands and the fine-dust mask from his face.  He left his boots in the basement because there was still work to be done there. He had to be thorough. Forensics was so advanced nowadays that even the invisible could lead to the conviction of the perpetrator.

Once in his bathroom, he got into the shower and allowed himself to be pampered by several jets. A pity that he