The Devil Of Münster: Crime Novel

By Alfred Bekker

The Devil Of Münster: Crime Novel

by Alfred Bekker

 

 

 

A serial killer is on the loose in Münsterland, and his latest victim is found at Telgte's famous medieval market. But while Chief Inspector Sven Haller of the Münster Criminal Investigation Department and criminal psychologist Anna van der Pütten are groping in the dark, an investigator is hot on the heels of the mad killer, who seems to be insane himself: he calls himself Branagorn the Elven Warrior and claims to come from another world. But he seems to be the only one who can take on the killer ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Aug 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223330493

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

Prologue

Who is capable of judging what is the dream, what is the delusion and what is the real world - except the Lord? And don't many of us feel like the possessed man in the story of the pigs of Gerasa, whom Jesus asks the name and who answers: My name is Legion, for many we are. Branagorn of Corvey (also known as Fra Branaguorno d'Elbara), in the years 989-1002 teacher, educator and advisor to Emperor Otto III.

––––––––

Sire, give fool's liberty!

Mynona (alias Salomo Friedlaender; 1871-1946)

The dead woman in Telgte

The view through the scope shows the body of a young woman. Only at second glance do you see that it is a woman, because her skull is completely bald. She is leaning with her back against the wagon wheel of a trailer. Her gaze is fixed and dead, her eyes wide, her features a mask of pure horror. The crosshairs are aimed precisely at the neck, where blood still leaks out and is then absorbed by the clothing.

A man approaches. He wears the garb of a medieval merchant. His drinking horn falls off in fright. Mead spurts out. He shouts loudly, trying to drown out the sound of the medieval rock band with its annoying lyre. His voice sounds hoarse. It doesn't take long for others to approach. A small crowd forms.

Emergency! someone shouts.

No, it's too late for him.

Much too late.

The horror spreads like a contagious disease. Only one soul now feels something like satisfaction. No, rather satisfaction. And that, too, only for a very brief, rare moment that quickly passes. A few heartbeats - that's all it takes.

Finally, the gaze lowers through the scope, although it is hardly possible to break free from the spell of events.

One hand reaches into the wide pockets of the robe and feels for the tufts of hair inside. Dense, thick hair it is. Almost more reminiscent of a horse's mane than a woman's hair. In any case, it feels good.

A thought suggests itself.

Now it's mine!

*

Thank you for being so kind as to take me with you, said Anna van der Pütten. She was 31, a criminal psychologist, had dark brown, shoulder-length hair, which she had pinned up with a few pins to form a hairstyle that seemed to her to be rather battered at the moment. It had all had to happen a bit quickly, and to make matters worse, her car had just been in the shop today. But unfortunately, murderers didn't take such things into consideration. And serial killers seemed to be particularly ruthless in this respect. Half a year's break without a murder and then unerringly picking a day when it didn't suit you. One could almost suspect evil intent behind it. Or rather a projection on my part, Anna thought, who was busy arranging the contents of her handbag. Not that it was necessary to tidy it up. Rather, it was a kind of ritual for her that served concentration. Orderly bag, orderly mind. A little trick to be able to switch and forget for a short time everything that had seemed important until a few minutes ago and now represented nothing but mental ballast that had to be gotten rid of as quickly as possible in order to collect oneself for the next requirement. In Anna van der Pütten's profession, this was a recurring problem. In a conversation with a patient, one had become very involved in his or her particular problem, had gone deep into the traumatizing experiences of a person who had been assaulted, and then had to adjust at lightning speed to a potential suicide who had willfully been driving the A1 as a wrong-way driver, only to meet his death in the process, and in whose case it was necessary to determine the extent to which the danger to self or others still persisted.

At the wheel of the Volvo sat Chief Inspector Sven Haller of the Münster Criminal Investigation Department. It had been a good quarter of an hour since the phone had rung in his office at police headquarters on Friesenring and he had received the news that there was a new victim of the 'barber'.

It had been quiet for half a year. And now the mysterious serial killer, who had already murdered four women before, had struck again. Meanwhile, the tabloid press called him Barber, because he had the habit of shaving off the hair of his victims post-mortem, of which then at the crime scenes had always been almost nothing.

Women's hair seemed to be something like a trophy for the killer. Otherwise, no crime resembled the other and the investigating authorities were still completely in the dark.

It had been seven years since the first case. In the beginning, the LKA had gotten involved and a large special commission had been formed, which for a while had tied up almost the entire personnel capacities of the Münster Criminal Investigation Department. But the interest of the media and the public was fleeting - and after the investigation had more or less got stuck at some point, the case finally ended up with the unsolved crimes. There weren't many of those. At least for the murders that became known as such at all, one could count on an almost complete clearance rate.

The barber was just one of the few exceptions. He had struck again and again in the following years. The victims were always young women, and he always secured their hair as a trophy - or whatever deviant justification was ultimately given for his actions. The colleagues of the LKA had carried out a so-called profiling and tried to attribute the acts to a certain type of perpetrator on the basis of a precise analysis of the crime scene, which could perhaps be narrowed down.

But somehow the barber seemed to elude all these categorizations. No crime was like the other, the method was different each time, and in the meantime Sven Haller had already inwardly thrown the expert opinions prepared by his colleagues into the wastepaper basket. In this case, nothing fit together. Every lead only seemed to lead further astray.

And yet neither Sven Haller nor Anna van der Pütten thought of giving up.

Anna van der Pütten had only been called in for the last case half a year ago. She had familiarized herself with the subject matter, and at first Haller had hoped that her support would enable him to pick up the threads of the investigation once again.

But this hope had unfortunately not been fulfilled. In the last seven years, not a day had passed when this case had not crossed Sven Haller's mind, at least for brief moments. The thought that a murderer was not only still on the loose, but would most likely look for more victims and strike again at some point, had not let Haller go.

Now that was exactly what had occurred.

Is it really certain that it was the barber? asked Anna van der Pütten into the oppressive silence. Haller had just driven onto Westbeverner Straße. From now on, all they had to do was follow the signs that said 'Telgte' to actually get to Telgte. They had just passed a billboard pointing to the famous medieval market that was held twice a year in the small town just outside Münster.

It was precisely this event that the perpetrator had apparently chosen for his comeback as a serial killer.

According to what colleagues have passed through, all the characteristics apply. Even the ones that weren't in the press. It must be the same madman.

I know this is no consolation, Mr. Haller, but perhaps this murder will bring us a little closer to him!

No, indeed, that is no consolation, Haller muttered gloomily.

Try not to get personally involved in this, Anna van der Pütten said. Don't look at the fact that this killer has struck again and is still not handcuffed as a personal defeat.

I'm sorry, but I do, Haller replied, somewhat indignantly. I can't just do my job there. I just can't.

Maybe that would be best, though.

What?

If you just do your job. And nothing more.

I would be grateful if you would analyze this unknown lunatic - and not me, Mrs. van der Pütten! Haller's words sounded somewhat angry. The biggest mistakes in investigations were usually made at the beginning, Anna knew. Early determinations due to too much personal sympathy, individual prejudices or too much empathy with the victim. But Anna was silent now. She knew all too well that telling someone the truth was not what mattered. Rather, it depended on telling this truth at the right moment - and that was always a moment when it could also be accepted. Anything else was simply pointless.

He's like a cicada, Haller said suddenly.

Who?

Well, the murderer. Who else?

To be honest, I have no idea about how that comparison is meant. I was never very good at biology.

Haller smiled wanly. Cicadas only hatch every 17 years. In the meantime, they seem to have disappeared, but after 17 years they appear in such masses that their predators are completely overwhelmed by the large swarms. Don't you see? Disappearing into oblivion for a while is a strategy to elude one's hunters, to make them believe that one no longer exists at all. And then when the person does suddenly reappear from obscurity, no one is counting on him!

A good comparison. But I'm afraid it won't take our killer 17 years to resurface. If it really was the same perpetrator for all the murders in this series, then his threshold of irritation must have been considerably lowered by now. He'll need that special thrill his acts give him more and more quickly.

*

Several meadows had been converted into parking lots during the medieval market in Telgte. But Haller didn't even think about walking the last stretch to the so-called Planwiese, which was all about medieval army camps and an extensive market. He drove all the way to the actual market. Stewards who tried to stop him were held up to his badge.

Eventually, however, even with the help of this pass, it went no further. Haller put the car with a few other service vehicles that had arrived earlier. Anna van der Pütten got out a moment before him.

She let her eyes wander over the medieval market. Both many of the exhibitors and numerous guests had thrown themselves into medieval garb. They wore doublets, cloaks, pointed leather boots that had the shape of an upturned beak at the top. The women wore laced dresses and on every corner there were swords, drinking horns and other things that were either actually or supposedly medieval. Sometimes this was mixed with accessories of the gothic and fantasy scene, and so between all the upright warriors, fair castle maidens or colorful jugglers who knew how to entertain the people with their tricks, now and then an undead vampire or a more or less well made up orc could be found. Anna had already been to the medieval market in Telgte once - but in the pre-Christmas season, when a completely different, no less charming atmosphere prevailed there and the noble knights and fair maidens fought the cold with plenty of mead. After all, at least they were so natural in their historical garb that they stuffed their clothes with horse hair, for example. Now it was summer, and since it hadn't rained in the last few weeks, at least you didn't sink into the mud up to your ankles on the meadow.

It was noticeable that many people stood together and talked, while a medieval rock band on stage tried rather in vain to excite their audience. But that was by no means the fault of the musicians. Just as it was not the fault of the merchants that at the moment hardly anyone was interested in daggers, swords, robes or CDs with original Minnesang in historically correct Middle High German. Apparently, word had spread that something terrible had happened. The relatively large number of uniformed police officers was an indication of this. In addition, part of the market had been virtually cordoned off. Markings with flutter tape indicated which area was no longer allowed to be entered.

There you are at last, one of the uniformed men greeted the two arrivals. He was in his mid-fifties, had a gray beard, and appeared somewhat sedate. Anna had the feeling that she had seen this face before at some point, but that could also be a deception. She often dealt with policemen and there were many in those years and with similar gray beards.

Haller frowned.

Who are you? he asked.

Detective Chief Ternieden. I'm running the operation here.

I see.

But I know who you are for that - namely, from the colleague in the baggy corduroy jacket.

Commissioner Raaben is here already?

Yes. For quite a while now.

And where is the dead woman now?

Behind that booth up ahead. Follow me. Before they left, Ternieden turned to Anna van der Pütten. You're probably the medical examiner?

No, criminal psychologist. My name is Anna van der Pütten.

Oh sorry.

What?

No one told me someone like you was coming. I always say that if someone is already dead, it's actually too late to call in a psychologist. Anna wasn't sure if that had been meant jokingly. Ternieden seemed to be a little unclear himself. In any case, he looked a bit embarrassed and uncertain. It's best if you two just go and see what's going on, he finally said. Well, I've been around for a long time and I've seen a lot of things. From accidents on the A1 to whatever else - but this will certainly rob me of sleep for a few nights! he was convinced.

*

The dead woman was leaning against a trailer wheel. Anna was involuntarily startled. It wasn't the crime scene that frightened her, and if Haller was right in his assumption, it wasn't even the first one for which this particular perpetrator was responsible. And yet Anna couldn't stop a cold shiver from running down her spine. There were things that you just couldn't get used to, despite all the professional distance. And maybe that was just as well. You just couldn't let yourself get so caught up in the gruesome circumstances of a crime that you couldn't do your job anymore. As is so often the case, the dose was crucial. A little empathy was good, too much of it pure poison when it came to getting a little closer to the truth.

In the background, Anna heard, as if from afar, one of the police officers asking over the radio why the coroner's office wasn't there yet and that the dead woman could be picked up slowly now, please. It was probably due to one of the regularly occurring traffic jams that would almost certainly trap you if you tried to leave Münster at certain times or if you wanted to enter the city from the outside. It was all a matter of timing. And if Anna interpreted what she heard from the radio traffic correctly, her colleagues had probably chosen the wrong time and the wrong route.

Anna walked up to the dead woman, who had been given a terrible wound on her neck. A cut as if made with a scythe or a long knife. Her dead eyes stared into nothingness. The dead woman was wearing dark pants, white blouse and a dark blazer. The clothes were full of blood.

The skull had been shaved very carefully.

Just like the other victims of the barber!, it went through Anna's head. The last victim - number four in the barber's series - Anna had only seen in the morgue. As far as the women were concerned, whom the unknown serial killer had killed before, she had been dependent on the photo material shot at the respective place of discovery of the corpse. But this material comprised several thousand photos in total, which captured every detail on the memory chip that had been considered important at the time. The problem, of course, was always that it was usually only later that one could tell what was actually relevant and what was not. In any case, Anna had been looking at these photos for days, hoping to find some detail that might tell her something more about the perpetrator. After all, every person gave a sample of his or her personality at every moment through his or her behavior. A sample that, to a certain extent, was always representative of the whole and allowed one to draw conclusions about the personality - as long as one knew how to interpret this sample correctly.

And the behavior of a perpetrator at the crime scene was - all experts agreed - the most meaningful behavioral sample imaginable. Nothing about it was simply random or the result of any circumstances.

Do we know the name of the dead person? asked Haller, addressing his colleague Kevin Raaben. Raaben was perhaps in his early thirties, a good ten years younger than Haller. He was wearing a leather jacket and tattered jeans. There was also a tattoo on his neck. Some squiggly mark that Anna, who knew Raaben only slightly, did not know how to interpret. It looked Chinese. Anna suspected that Raaben somehow wanted to do something about the staid, uncool official image that came with his job.

Jennifer Heinze, Raaben stated. She had an ID on her. Lives in Ladbergen. She also had a car key with her.

That means we now have to check all the cars in the parking lot and see if the key fits! sighed Willi Ternieden. But maybe we can have this easier.

I'm always open to suggestions, Haller said.

I suggest just calling her home. She will probably have relatives. Lerchenweg in Ladbergen - there are only single-family houses there. She's still too young to own one herself. After all, she's only 26, so I assume the victim still lived with her parents.

And you're going to tell them on the phone that your daughter's neck has been slit, and then ask what make of car her daughter drives? asked Anna between them. Doesn't sound like much tact, Mr. Ternieden.

The chief detective shrugged his shoulders. They'll find out eventually, after all. And you have to think about how we're going to make ends meet here, I think ...

I don't think the car is the most important thing right now, Haller said. Above all, we have to secure the personal details of the witnesses. Otherwise they'll be gone and we'll have to go through the media to drum them up again, which experience shows never really works!

*

At that moment, a commotion was heard. Anna saw a man in a gray doublet made of flowing fabric, who clutched a sword with both hands. He wore tight-fitting pants and high leather boots. As he rushed forward with the sword, he uttered a piercing battle cry. The hood that had covered his head until then slid back to reveal shoulder-length, white-blond hair. His face appeared finely cut and was very pale. The double-edged blade whirled through the air with murderous speed and precision. The necessary strength was hardly to be trusted to the tall, but nevertheless delicate and delicate-looking man. Only by a hair's breadth the blade brushed over the head of a plague doctor covered with a beak mask. A muffled sound came from under the mask. The plague doctor staggered back, while the pale, long-haired warrior lunged for another blow.

Two of the uniformed police officers approached.

Stop it! shouted Kriminalobermeister Willi Ternieden, who was also on his way there. The plague doctor pushed his way between the people who had gathered around the place where the body had been found. Meanwhile, the warrior's sword stroke came to nothing. He lost his balance, almost stumbled. Then several officers seized him. One of them took the sword from him.

Hold him! Stop the dream master! Seize the messenger of death or you will regret it! the gaunt warrior shouted at the top of his lungs. He was obviously referring to the figure in the beaked mask, who a little later disappeared into the crowd.

The warrior let himself be held by the officials only with difficulty. He mobilized the utmost of his strength to break free and seemed to be filled with the desire to follow the messenger of the Black Death like a madman.

What kind of a madhouse is this? muttered Haller.

Raaben, on the other hand, froze and Willi Ternieden shouted, Handcuffs! What are you waiting for?

Anna van der Pütten meanwhile walked with determined steps towards the long-haired warrior.

Wait, stay here! demanded Haller.

I know the man!, Anna explained tersely.

And who's the crazy one? asked Haller.

His real name is Frank Schmitt, but he thinks he's Branagorn the Elven Warrior!

Well, thank God it's not Jack the Ripper!

That's not funny, Mr. Haller!

Is he under treatment with you?

Yes.

Haller followed Anna and tried to catch up with her.

Let me through! she then shouted with a firmness that at first glance was hardly believable to her, at a policewoman who tried to stop her from further approaching the warrior, who was still trying to wriggle out of the uniformed woman's grasp, screaming like a madman. He was now shouting unintelligible words in a foreign language - but maybe just meaningless strings of syllables. No one among those present was completely clear about that.

Branagorn, stop that! shouted Anna. How dare you strike at someone with your sword!

The man looked frozen when he saw Anna. In the next moment, he gave up his resistance to the officers who were holding him.

One of the officers brought out handcuffs.

That won't be necessary!, Anna assured.

That just looked a little different! the officer opined.

I know the man! And you can believe me that I control the situation. Let him go. He won't hurt anyone! She turned to Willi Ternieden. Please! If you want escalation to be avoided, you should listen to me! Mr. Schmitt is my patient! Why he couldn't control his impulses here and now of all times, I don't know, but there will be a reason. He is not dangerous.

Ternieden finally nodded. Don't do anything stupid, he urged.

Branagorn aka Frank Schmitt was let go and actually seemed to have calmed down a bit. I know who killed that woman! I know the messenger of death!

Always in order, Mr., uh ... Schmitt, Ternieden then said somewhat awkwardly.

It's the dream-henchman! And you let him run away unmolested. The elven warrior stretched out his hand with his scrawny and very long fingers in the direction where the plague doctor with the beaked mask had disappeared. The footsteps of the messenger of death are still clearly heard, and you do not follow him, although it would be your duty to fight evil!

Calm down! demanded Anna. You know me, don't you? We can talk about anything and I'm sure we'll find a solution to your problem.

He looked at her. How could I forget your face, dear Cherenwen! the elven warrior now said in a much gentler tone. But you are mistaken, it is not I who have a problem, but all of you! For the dream-hender is among you. The death-in-shape! The pure will to the evil and the corruption! And he takes possession of you! He creeps into your souls until he is one with one of you and makes him an instrument of corruption, because that is his nature! I know him! I know this bringer of death and corrupter of souls!

The important thing is that you calm down now, Branagorn! said Anna. She had had to examine him a few months ago to determine whether he was a danger to others or to himself. After a temporary inpatient stay in the Westphalian regional clinic in Lengerich, his condition had improved. Improved in the sense that he seemed able to cope with his daily life as a Hartz IV recipient in an assisted living project in Münster-Kinderhaus. She had first encountered him when he had stood on the roof of the Signal Iduna high-rise building at Servatii-Platz near the main train station, about to throw himself into the depths. He was probably suffering from a disease called weariness of life, had been the diagnosis he himself had later made during their conversation together. Not exactly a psychologically recognized technical term, but completely accurate in the matter. Anna van der Pütten had continued to accompany him therapeutically afterwards. Even though he was no longer in acute danger of suicide, Schmitt was still far from out of the woods, especially since Anna had also diagnosed a number of other symptoms and clinical pictures in him, some of which were difficult to classify