The fat man: Thriller

By Wolfgang Armin Strauch

1967. The brutal murder of a woman sends shockwaves through the city of Krakow. Young detective Andrzej quickly determines the case in question could be connected with the victim's espionage activity during World War II. Alina, the deceased woman's sole relative, is not much help. That is, until she finds one of her mother's letters, a list of names, as well a document in Hebrew script.
Andrzej and Alina then join forces to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and discover the love affair between Alina's Polish mother and her German suitor during a turbulent time in history in the process.
But how does all of this pertain to references to the "fat man"?
A riveting, high-octane thriller that confronts a complicated predicament head-on with unorthodox methods, yet without a moralizing undertone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: tredition
• Release date: Aug 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9783347381612

Wolfgang Armin Strauch

Wolfgang Armin Strauch wurde 1953 geboren. Bereits in der Schule schrieb er erste Gedichte, mit denen er sich an lokalen und überregionalen Wettbewerben beteiligte. Es folgten Liedtexte, zu denen er auch die Musik komponierte. Nach dem Abitur wollte er Musik studieren. Wegen fehlender Studienplätze entschied er sich zu einem Jurastudium. Nach seinem Abschluss 1985, begann er sich mit der Entwicklung von Software zu beschäftigen. Einige seiner Programme sind bis heute bundesweit im Einsatz. Ab 1990 schrieb er wieder Songs und trat mit ihnen als Solokünstler auf. Eine Auswahl seiner Titel nahm er 2010 im RedCube-Studio Hamburg auf und veröffentlichte sie 2011 auf dem Album „NESAYA – Wie soll ich Leben“. 2012 bekam er den VDM-Award beim internationalen Grand Prix für Musikschaffende. Im selben Jahr wurde ein Titel bester Funk- und Soul- Song beim Deutschen Rock- und Pop-Preis. 2014 nahm er das Debütalbum von Denise Blum „Denise im Radio“ auf. Der Titel „Radio“ wurde zum Durchbruch für die junge Sängerin. Eher zufällig stieß er beim Schreiben der Familiengeschichte auf interessante Schicksale. Sie veranlassten ihn, sich intensiv mit europäischer Geschichte zu beschäftigen. Im Ergebnis umfangreicher Recherchen in deutschen, polnischen, britischen und schwedischen Archiven veröffentlichte er 2018 die umfangreiche Biografie „Dr. Aegidius Strauch: Gefangener des Kurfürsten Friedrich Wilhelm von Brandenburg“. Auch der Roman „Der dicke Mann“ basiert auf Informationen aus deutschen und polnischen Archiven sowie Aussagen von Zeitzeugen. Der Roman "Scribent - Sapere aude" entstand, nachdem er Kupferstiche gefunden hatte, die nachweisen, dass das Grabmal von Hadrian VI. entstellt wurde. Das deutsch-spanische Kinderbuch "Der hölzerne Vogel" betrachtet das Thema Heimat aus ungewöhnlicher Sicht. Ein deutsches Kind findet in Nicaragua eine neue Heimat.

Book preview

1. Chapter

It hit him completely unprepared. Only a few meters away from him two women were sitting at a table. Had they already discovered him? Were they perhaps talking about him?

It is hardly possible for a two-man to hide. He turned away and lowered his head. But out of the corner of his eye he watched what was happening.

Jadwiga had aged noticeably. She should be around 50 by now. Eva, however, seemed to have retained her youthfulness. He saw her in profile and only with the help of the mirror that was mounted above the counter and distorted her image. Under other circumstances, he would have tried to contact the women. But these two people were now life-threatening for him.

He did not believe in fate. Divine providence was a term without value for him. Too often he had already decided on life and death. He used to seek absolution for his sins in the church. But when a priest put him under, he sent the chatterer to his Creator, still in the confessional.

Eva laughed out loud. Was she mocking him? The women looked at a photo. He was too far away from them to see details. Cold sweat made him shiver. He hadn't thought about his filigree situation for a long time: a breath of wind was enough to destroy his house of cards. Everything would be over. Had chance lured him into the trap?

His friends were waiting at the table. They belonged to a travel group from Warsaw. He had met them only yesterday at the Wawel. He had gladly accepted the offer for a drink because he had nothing planned and his accommodation was uncomfortable.

A few meters separated him from the two women. The man pushed his massive body through the crowded restaurant and sat down on the uncomfortable chair. In this place, it was inevitable that visitors to the toilet would see him. If they hadn't recognized him before, they would see him at the next toilet visit at the latest. He was too big and too fat to go unnoticed. The other chairs at his table were occupied.

While his friends were amused about an unequal couple who insulted each other drunk at the bar with swear words, he was looking for an escape route. Only the window was left to him. The performance alone made him shudder. If the police came, he would have to take that route. He was trapped. In his pocket he had a heavy pocketknife with which he could smash the windows. If the house was surrounded, he would run into the arms of the militia. Cold sweat ran down from his forehead.

The food came. He pushed the plate to the center of the table. Edward teased: Well, still full of yesterday? Instead of an answer, the man poured the rest of the vodka into himself and frantically looked for alternatives. The restaurant was like a hose. The toilet was too small to stay there for a long time. The way through the kitchen was blocked by the many guests at the counter.

In the end, all that remained was the exit to leave the women's field of vision. It was time for action. If he took the initiative now, he might have had a chance. Waiting was not his thing. So, he crumpled up the half-full pack of cigarettes, muttered something about buy cigarettes and got up from his chair. He took out a handkerchief and snorted in it. Only his eyes peered over the edge. He saw that the women were paying. He had to leave the restaurant before them.

With a few jostles at the crowded bar tables, he reached the door. Without turning around, he pushed it open, jumped down the stairs and mingled with the passers-by. A cardboard sign with a slogan for the National Day blocked the view of the restaurant.

Had anyone followed him? He wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to keep an eye on the exit. The women came out.

Jadwiga turned around. Had she seen him or was he just imagining it?

The hands trembled. The heart ached. His eyes turned black. His extreme overweight drove up his blood pressure. The lungs cried out for oxygen. Supported by a street bollard, he tried to calm down. He sucked in the air deeply, reached into his pocket and took out the pipette with the nitroglycerine. After a few drops his condition returned to normal. The thoughts became clearer again.

The fat man pondered: Should he flee into one of the ancient alleys? But that would only make sense if he had not been discovered, because his body weight prevented any rapid movement. Running away did not solve the problem, which piled up before him like a dark wall.

It was Saturday, July 22, 1967, Poland's national holiday. Everywhere on the street there were stalls with food, drink, and the usual tourist kitsch. From stages droned music that mingled with the murmuring of passers-by. So far nothing had happened. The two women walked slowly through Grodzka Street towards Wawel. The man assessed his chances. If they had not seen him, the fact remained that two dangerous witnesses were still alive.

While he followed the women at a proper distance, the fat man searched the surroundings for militiamen. Many people were on the street. To be on the safe side, he stopped at a jeweler's shop window and watched the people walking by in the mirrors of the displays. Apparently, he had no pursuers. He hurried so as not to lose sight of the women.

Jadwiga was fashionably dressed, but her age was noticed by the somewhat sluggish gait. Eva was in a festive costume. It was too modern for his taste. Did she want to keep up with the students who were animating the streets? He got some doubts. Was that really her? Perhaps he was wrong. But the stature and her gait made his insecurity waver.

He was sure about Jadwiga. He could just walk away. In Krakow nobody knew him. A search would be hopeless. But out of vanity he had made a mistake that could not be rectified. While visiting the Wawel, someone had photographed him, and he was careless enough to mention his name. When the man handed him his card, he understood the faux pas. The photographer was from the Trybuna Ludu. Perhaps his picture would be printed in the newspaper nationwide. But he had initially put aside the risk that someone might recognize him. Now it was different. Because of his size and stature, he was unmistakable.

Krakow was full of tourists. But he towered above most people. So, it was easy for him to follow the two women from some distance. If they looked around, there were enough opportunities to slip into an entrance of a house. Besides, it was dawning. He did not yet have a plan but was sure that he would act.

The ascent of the Wawel came in sight. The women stopped. He joined a group of passers-by who were listening to an accordion player. To avoid attracting attention, he reached into his pocket and tossed a coin into the hat of the musician who looked up and thanked him. The fat man would have liked to listen, but he had to be careful that the two women did not disappear from his field of vision. He could barely see Eva saying goodbye. She went in the direction of the Wawel, but then turned around once more and waved to the companion.

The ascent to the Wawel offered no camouflage and was also too steep. At first it looked as if Jadwiga would return to the market, but she took the path into the park that surrounded the old town. A few steps behind a restaurant she turned off, crossed a wide street and finally swung into a passage between two houses. It was narrow and barely enough for one person. Climbing plants sprouted on the walls and seemed to swallow the woman.

The fat man feared that he had lost her, but at the level of the entrance he recognized her stature in the backlight of a streetlamp that was about to go off. Still flickering, she hesitated to throw her rays onto the street. The twilight made everything appear dim. In the sparse residual light of the day, he saw the outline of the woman. He hurried. Before she could step into the light, he whispered: Jadwiga!.

The woman turned around. The delay was enough. His strong hands snaked around her neck. She tried to loosen the grip, flailing around with her arms, scratching him, and kicking with her legs. But she had no chance. Horror was reflected in her eyes.

His fat body pressed her against the wall. The leaves of the climbing plant rushed. His thumbs shattered the sensitive structures of the hyoid bone. Once again, he increased the pressure. All his hatred broke out of him at that moment. The woman was already dead.

The attacker loosened his hands. A residual air escaped from her lungs with a rattle. The mouth had opened slightly. The cry for help remained silent. The brain had stopped working. The decay of the body had already begun.

It was done. Only now did the man notice the deep wrinkles in her face. Some make-up and lipstick tried to hide the age. He noticed the scent of the German perfume Kölnisch Wasser 4711, which his wife also used. Jadwiga fell to the floor like a sack. Bizarrely, her legs twisted. The fat man pushed his feet against the face, whose open eyes stared at him. He tore the chain with a large amber from her neck and picked up her bag. He shoved the booty under his jacket. It was like a rush.

Only now did he think of possible witnesses and an escape route. He looked around. Behind him on the street, passers-by scurried by now and then. That they saw him was unlikely. He stood in the dark. When a truck drove by, he stepped on the sidewalk. He looked back only briefly. The alley hid the crime scene. Nothing revealed that he had just killed somebody.

After about two hundred meters he sat down on a bench. As if in passing he checked the surroundings. Then he searched the bag. He took out her purse, an identity card and the key to the apartment. He threw the rest into the trash. He put the chain in his jacket pocket. It was his trophy. It would remind him of the victory over the past.

Ten minutes later he was sitting in the restaurant again. His glass was filled. He stood up and toasted with his friends. He ordered several rounds of vodka on his bill. Then he paid and left. The accommodation was not far away. Despite the alcohol he felt fit. On his arms were some scratches from Jadwiga's fingernails. Half asleep he thought of Eva.

2. Chapter

The call came in at 02:00. With difficulty Andrzej Mazur turned to the side to stop the annoying ringing. The militia officer on duty reported the murder of an older woman. The crime scene was in the city center and already secured. The coroners and forensic were informed.

While he was getting dressed, his mother showed up. Her fine hearing had awakened her.

Gotta go?

Yes. Pack me some sandwiches, please! I don't know how long it'll take.

He shaved to appear halfway civilized. His shirt was freshly ironed, and a matching tie was provided by his mother. Instead of putting on the formal jacket, he took the leather jacket off the hook. It was more practical on the motorcycle. He would change in the duty room.

Then he put bread and a thermos in his briefcase. With a kiss on the cheek, he said goodbye to her and disappeared in the hallway. He had bought a Czech motorcycle from a small inheritance. The 350 Jawa was wine-red. Chrome parts reflected the street lighting. At the first kick the engine started. Powerfully the vehicle vibrated. He turned the handle and let the clutch come. The machine accelerated and pulled the driver into the night.

His colleagues had given Mazur the nickname Jawa. He did not resist. Maybe he was even a bit proud of it. He was more upset by the arrogance of some veteran militiamen who, at twenty-eight years of age, still considered him a newbie. He had a university degree and had already been involved in significant cases. The fact that he was now called to a murder was, however, because many colleagues had the Sunday after the holiday off. It was fine with him. Murder is murder.

The crime scene was easy to secure because the narrow alleyway had only two entrances. The patrol had used a few bucks from the nearby construction site. Additionally, militiamen stood on both sides. Spotlights illuminated the crime scene. Forensic technicians searched everything for traces. But in view of the gravel path, the plastered house walls and the climbing plants, the effort seemed pointless. Nevertheless, they checked centimeter by centimeter. The coroner was already waiting.

The victim was an approximately 50-year-old, well-groomed woman with pronounced strangulation marks on her neck. Further injuries were found on her face and upper body. Broken fingernails and hematomas on arms and legs indicated that the victim had defended herself. Dr. Zeman ruled out a sexual offence for the moment. He bent over the face of the corpse.

Do you smell that? I'd say it's cologne 4711.

Mazur also heard the sweetish scent, but he did not know about perfume.

An ambulance stood at the side of the road. Paramedics took care of a man who was visibly gasping for air. He had discovered the dead woman.

Mazur had the date and location confirmed. Since no papers were found with the body, he asked the witness to look at the body.

It's Jadwiga Klimek from 32.

Number 32 was a three-story old town house with a small portal and a huge door framed with Art Nouveau elements. The squiggled bell board was made of brass. The victim lived on the second floor. Only after a long ringing did a window open. A drunk man shouted incomprehensible words into the street. When Mazur nevertheless rang the bell again, someone from the ground floor apartment answered.

Klimek is drunk. Try noon tomorrow. Maybe he'll be all right then.

Mazur did not let up and shouted: We are from the militia, and we absolutely have to talk to Mr. Klimek. Please open the door!

The neighbor opened the front door. Did something happen?

The criminalist and two uniformed militiamen entered the house.

When did you last see Mrs. Klimek?

The neighbor hesitated.

I don't know. Maybe yesterday afternoon.

After long knocking and ringing, the door of the apartment where the victim had lived opened a crack.

What do you want?

Mazur showed his identity card. We're from the militia, Mr. Klimek. It's about your sister.

The man stared at him as if he came from another world. He stank of alcohol and urine. His nightgown was covered with vomit.

What is this? Leave me alone, you dogs!

Without waiting, Mazur pushed his way past Klimek into the apartment.

When was the last time you saw your sister?

I don't know. If she's not in the room, she's not here.

He pointed to a door. It was locked. Klimek claimed not to have a key. With some force, a militiaman managed to open the door. The room was very tidy. A bookshelf dominated the place. On the walls hung some family photos. Mazur searched for ID cards or other papers for identification. In a drawer there was a company ID card with a photograph. The victim was Jadwiga Klimek.

Questioning her brother had no sense. The criminalist put a business card on the table, on which he noted an appointment for 13:00 o'clock.

Forensic and coroner had nothing surprising to report. So, Mazur wrote a short report for his boss. On the cover page it said, Murder case Jadwiga Klimek.

Around eight o'clock he was called to his boss, who asked him about the current state of the investigation. In view of the brutality, Mazur suspected a relationship crime. If it was a robbery, the perpetrator would have grabbed his bag and run off. However, strangulation is a different category: you get very close and there is always the danger that the victim will call for help and resist massively.

The offender was obviously physically superior. The intense strangulation marks spoke for this. The hands had left large deep blue marks in the skin. The coroner had certainly ruled out a sexual offence. As expected, no fingerprints or footprints were found at the crime scene.

Does the victim's brother qualify for the crime?

It is not to be excluded. He was drunk. An interview is scheduled for 1:00 p.m.

The boss officially assigned the murder case to Mazur. Three people were at his disposal as homicide detectives. In addition, there were militiamen who were responsible for the district. Among them was Adam Krawczyk, who had already begun questioning the neighbors with his colleagues. Since the dead woman did not have a bag with her and the key could not be found, the task force searched the neighborhood. On Sunday morning, there were few passers-by, so Mazur saw good chances for the use of a tracking dog.

The survey of the neighbors only revealed that Mrs. Klimek worked in the university library. For most she was the nice sister of a former officer who was constantly drunk.

The homicide squad was given access to the personnel file via the university management. Jadwiga Klimek had already worked in the library before the war. According to an official certificate, she was arrested by the Gestapo in 1944. She was one of the survivors of the Auschwitz concentration camp. After the war, she got her old job back in the library. Evaluations described her as diligent, friendly, and courteous. Originally, she came from a small town near Graudenz, but she lived at the same address in Krakow since the 1930s. She had inherited the apartment from an aunt.

There were some entries about her brother Tadeusz Klimek in the militia archive. Before the war, he worked for the city councils in Graudenz and Krakow. In 1939 he was drafted into the Polish army. After the defeat of Poland, he lived in the Soviet Union. There were no records about this time. From 1943 he belonged to the 1st Polish Army as an officer. Under Division General Stanisław Popławski he took part in several battles. After the war he worked in the building department of the city of Krakow but was disabled in 1963 due to a war injury. A transcript of an interview suggested that alcoholism was the actual reason for his dismissal.

In the city administration, there was evidence that he was the legal guardian for his granddaughter Alina Klimek, but she no longer lived here. In the militia archive there were numerous complaints about disturbance of the peace. On several occasions he had insulted neighbors while under the influence of alcohol. Violent acts occurred, as a result of which he was sentenced to fines.

Around 10:00 o'clock arrived the tracking dog. Mazur had high hopes for Alex. The dog picked up the trail at the scene of the crime, stopped briefly at No. 32, but kept then moving. At a park bench he sniffed at the waste basket. Via some detours they landed near the Marienkirche at the marketplace. There the trail got lost. To be on the safe side, the handler returned to the scene of the crime and led him to the other side of the alley. From here he first ran in the direction to the Wawel and then again to the marketplace. He stopped at the Café Elena.

Since there was only one cleaner in the café, Mazur had the manager get out of bed and asked him about the visitors of the previous evening.

Yesterday we had a full house. Because of the holiday, even the chairs at the counter were full. I didn't notice anything special.

Mazur showed him the photo of the dead.

This is Mrs. Klimek. She was sitting at the table for two with her granddaughter as usual.

Mazur asked astonishedly: "But you can remember them well?

Yes. She meets with the girl every other day. Usually, they eat a piece of walnut cake and drink coffee. Yesterday they didn't stay there as long as usual. About 9:45 pm they left. Except for the order I did not talk to her. I am sorry. She was such a nice woman.

Mazur asked for the names of some regular guests.

Tadeusz Klimek