The House on Rosalindenstraße

By Harald Lutz Bruckner

Rosalindenstraße 36 was built at the turn of the last century and withstood the vagaries of time and two world wars. Its occupants suffered through inflation of unheard proportions, times of depression, hunger, deprivation, and the highs and lows of their lives. Were it capable of speaking, the dwelling would share the tales of the rise and fall

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hideaway Park Press
• Release date: Jan 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985338478

Harald Lutz Bruckner

Harald Lutz Bruckner, author of The Blue Sapphire Amulet, Escape on the Astral Express, A Wanderer on the Earth, The Born-Again Phoenix, Harald's Garland, Lighthouse Mystery, Doretta's Damnation, A Backward Glance at Eden, Obsessive Compulsion, and Forever Greta hails from Germany but has spent his adult life in the United States. His work and educational adventures have taken him from merchandising/retailing, the teaching of German and World Literature, to a career in Audiology and the challenges of working with hard-of-hearing and deaf children and adults. Among his favorite academic subjects to teach were his offerings in sign language. In 1981, he discovered the magic of painting in transparent watercolors and has never stopped painting. Moving to sunny Arizona from the high country of Colorado in 2003, caused a major shift in his subject matter, changing from a primarily realistic orientation to one of total abstraction. Since his retirement from academia, Bruckner pursued his passions for travel, art, music, and the enjoyment of writing.

Book preview

Chapter 1

ON night patrol in Essen, Adolf and Franz approached Rosalindenstraße and turned off Rüttenscheider Straße. They heard the distant clanging of streetcars alerting late-night jaywalkers. Along the street, the market stalls were closed and rested in total silence. Smelling the faint stench of wasting meats and seafood, Adolf rolled up the squeaky window of the squad car. He glanced upward and tried to recognize familiar constellations as they peeked through the partly cloudy sky.

It was one of those nights when earthlings wonder what might be going on in the firmament. Yes, man succeeded in landing on the moon and had aspirations to explore Mars. But where did it all start? Is this the only planet populated by breathing and thinking beings? Why couldn’t there be creatures residing on all those fabulous creations surrounding us? It seems unbelievable that we on earth were singled out. Adolf rested his eyes.

No words were spoken as the two men listened to the rhythm of tires rolling over gravel patches on the crumbling pavement. Adolf stepped on the brakes, shifting the 1994 black Opel into park and turned to his comrade, momentarily breaking the silence they had enjoyed. His forehead resembled an old wooden washboard.

Did you hear that? Adolf asked. The strange sound brought his wandering mind back to earth.

How could I not. But it was sort of muffled, Franz responded. He was still not quite on the job.

The corner streetlight illuminated the scene. Dark clouds drifted intermittently above city dwellings lined up as straight as a parade of goose-stepping soldiers. Both men recalled the stories told by their parents who remembered what the street looked like after the total devastation during the waning days of the war. It wasn’t the great war, World War I, they remembered, it was World War II they often recalled with horror. How marvelous that so many old buildings had been restored to their former Jugendstil [art nouveau] glory. The house they approached was among those in question. They did a great job of restoring the structure, but it looks like it could stand the talents of a good painter, Adolf observed.

Ditto, Franz said.

You see that pale blue Mercedes ahead? Looks to me as if it’s smashed against the side of the corner house. The way it’s sitting on the sidewalk gives me a strange feeling, Franz. Let’s approach with caution.

Adolf put the car into gear, wanting to get closer to the action. He put the cruiser in park when they were next to the car in question. Adolf jumped out of the car, his hand reaching for the gun in his holster. "Come close, Franz, and give me a good flash into Pale Blue." He didn’t trust his eyes.

Franz had turned away after taking one look. He covered his mouth and knew what was about to happen. The sight and smell of fresh blood made him gag. It was moments like these when he wondered why he’d chosen to become a cop on the streets of Essen. He should have taken his father’s advice, finished high-school, and gone on to study philosophy at a renowned university. Dad was right. I did have a brain and knew how to use it. I didn’t have to fill these shoes.

The light reflected off the smooth leather covering of the dashboard. Adolf gasped. Franz, we heard right a few seconds ago. Did you get a load of the guy in the driver’s seat? That is, what’s left of him? Half his face is gone. Get on the horn and call for backup. This one’s too big to handle just for the two of us. No sooner had he said those words when he realized Franz was spilling his evening meal onto the sidewalk.

Sorry, Adolf. I c-c-couldn’t help it. Franz reached for his handkerchief and wiped his face before he jumped into the patrol car and called for assistance. Had Adolf aimed his flashlight on his partner in crime, he would have known how embarrassed the man was. His face was bleeding with perspiration and was as red as fully ripened tomatoes.

Adolf kept staring at the corpse behind the wheel. He closed his eyes for a split second, wanting to block out the vision of the bloody mess. He had never realized before that Franz was likewise affected by the sight and smell of the red stuff. Why are we in this bloody profession? he looked over at Franz. We ought to open a flower shop. Holy Moses, we’re a couple of pansy law enforcers. He stared at the grisly scene. Don’t touch a friggin’ thing before you put on some gloves, he reminded himself. A nervous habit, his short-clipped fingernails kept tapping on the roof of the Mercedes.

Sirens blared as backup units approached the corner of Rosalindenstraße. People poured out of neighboring houses or leaned from windows as three blue-and-red-flashing cruisers reached the area near the accident. Curiosity had awakened the interest of the whole neighborhood.

The neighbor across the street watched closely. In his beer-induced state he muttered: Looks like he’s really done it this time. That guy is bad news. I don’t remember how often he’s done a number on cars. It’s good that his folks left him with lots of money. Other neighbors who overheard him nodded in agreement.

Another neighbor spoke. Whatever happened to his folks? Haven’t seen them in years. I used to like Ferdinand Hahnenkamm. He made wonderful sausages. And she, his wife, could charm the hell out of you. No one had an answer to his questions.

Cops ran from their vehicles. An accident—at least that’s what the curious onlookers suspected. All they saw was the pale-blue Mercedes smashed against the corner of Rosalindenstraße 36. Officers Friedrichs and Meister continued to guard Pale Blue and ensured no one got close enough to glance at the dead man inside the car. Franz Meister succeeded in mopping up his vomit before the support team arrived. He’d thrown the soiled terrycloth towel under the damaged Mercedes.

Quick work, Adolf praised his partner.

Didn’t want anyone to slip and slide and fall on their ass while inspecting our find, Meister responded.

Sergeant Max Apfelbaum was the first to exit from one of the police cruisers among those summoned for backup. What happened here? Why the call for assistance? Looks like a fender bender to me! Are we dealing with a drunken bum who got too close to his house? What’s your name? He faced officer Friedrichs. Are you two new on the force?

Adolf Friedrichs, Precinct Thirty-seven. He clicked his heels. My partner is Franz Meister. We’ve been on the force since 1986. Just patrolling the neighborhood. We were about a block from the scene when we both heard a muffled, popping sound. We thought it could have been a gunshot.

So what did you do? asked the sergeant.

That familiar sound prompted us to investigate. On closer inspection, I saw the dead man behind the wheel. I instructed Meister to call for backup. We haven’t touched a thing. All is exactly the way we found it. Shall we get rid of the onlookers? No doubt we are dealing with a crime scene.

Apfelbaum retracted his earlier statement after getting a close-up view. You’re damn right; it wasn‘t just a fender bender. My mistake.

Sergeant Apfelbaum aimed his bullhorn, blasting his message to the bystanders. "Folks, you better head back to bed. This isn’t a movie set. We have no need for extras. Unless you saw or heard anything we should know, you don’t need to stick around. So clear out—schnell, schnell [quick]. We’ve got our work cut out for us."

The guy across the street thought he should open his mouth and speak. He counted the empties in the case of beer bottles and resolved he better keep quiet having consumed eight large bottles of Dortmunder in the last two hours. Not only that, he’d had a couple of shots aside his favorite beer when he’d stopped at the corner bier garden on his way home from work.

Apfelbaum’s eyes swept the crowd, he saw a guy approaching the vehicle, camera pointed at the dead driver. Did you not understand me? Hand me that camera, you damn fool. You are interfering with a police investigation!

Totally caught off guard, the man turned over his camera to the officer. With a single deft motion, the sergeant flipped open the back of the camera and ripped the film off its spool. He tossed the cellulite snake into the guy’s face. I hope this teaches you a lesson. You are lucky; I’m a Leica buff myself. Had it been any other brand, I would have kicked the shit out of it. He shoved the camera into the offender’s gut. Now beat it!

Sattler, Apfelbaum’s partner, spoke up. "Didn’t you see the sign on the guy’s hat? It said Press."

I don’t give a crap what it said. Those guys have to learn when to back off. He expectorated his wad of chewing tobacco. He winced when it struck the sidewalk.

Then Apfelbaum and his partner took a second look into the vehicle. The driver’s suit coat oozed with congealing blood. Apfelbaum opened the door on the driver’s side. He choked. Holy shit! That guy’s wearing pigskin gloves and is gripping a Glock 17 with his left hand. Don’t touch that gun until we check for prints, Sattler. He must have fired that thing with his left paw. Put your safety gloves on before searching the body and car. Check the glove compartment for registration and insurance documents. We might learn who this guy is—or should I say—was?

Moritz Sattler, Apfelbaum’s long-time partner, started searching the car. He was pleased the glove compartment wasn’t locked. He suspected the black leather folder facing him held what he looked for. He stared at the papers. The vehicle is registered to Ferdinand Hahnenkamm. Glancing briefly at the right side of the man’s face he sputtered: He’s a m-m-mess for sure, but this guy doesn’t look like he’s eighty-five years old. M-m-maybe we are looking at a st-st-stolen vehicle?

Apfelbaum yelled, Keep searching. After all the years of working with Sattler side-by-side, he was still puzzled by his occasional stuttering.

Two of Apfelbaum’s rookie officers dragged the bloody remains out of the Mercedes. They placed the corpse into a black plastic body bag. Apfelbaum shook for a second when he heard the zipper being pulled. I’ve got to get away from the smell of blood. That metallic odor put his olfactory nerves in overdrive. His voice carried over the noise of the siren from the approaching paddy wagon that would carry the dead man away: Don’t leave any stones unturned, Sattler. Keep your eyes wide open when they strip him at the morgue. Under the circumstances, a thorough search of anything he wears must be conducted to learn who he is. You ride with the corpse. I’ll see you at the morgue.

Why do you always do that to me? Moritz Sattler thought.

No sooner did the sound of the departing vehicle fade in the distance when a tow truck appeared around the corner and hauled Pale Blue away. Windows darkened as gawking neighbors retired one by one. For the disappointed onlookers, the late-night show was over. For the men in blue, solving the mystery of the dead man found at Rosalindenstraße 36 had just begun.

Apfelbaum looked up and noticed that there were neither open windows nor lights on at the house in question. None of the inhabitants of the corner house had paid any attention to what had happened at the base of the building. Just for a moment, he wondered if the place was perhaps unoccupied.

On the other hand, the man across the street made his final pronouncement. Man, this time he’s really done it. Looks like he got himself killed. He took the last slug from his tenth bottle of beer and burped, loud enough to call attention to himself. He slammed the window. Still mumbling, he went to relieve himself. His bladder drained, he stumbled into his bedroom. The drunkard’s body struck the unmade bed. Hahnenkamm, may you rot in hell! the crusty old neighbor said before he passed out.

Chapter 2

SERGEANT Apfelbaum entered the tunnel connecting the police station to the morgue located in the basement of the adjacent hospital. The poorly-lighted connection always bothered him. He found it depressing. There were times he felt as if he were headed to the world of Hades. Unpleasant antiseptic odors filled the air. The place was much too cold and Apfelbaum shivered as he confronted his cohort Sattler. "What’ya find in his pockets? Anything? And don’t give me that shit about nothing! He must have had something in all those damn pockets."

Nothing, absolutely nothing that tells us anything about the man on that gurney, Sattler said. I’m just as anxious as you to get to the bottom of this.

Apfelbaum reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He regretted not having brought backup of his chewing tobacco with him.

The Coroner watched him. You know better than that. No smoking in here. If you need it that badly, you’ll have to step outside. You can use that door. Dr. Diebel pointed at the emergency exit. "In here, the pleasures of enjoying coffin nails are on the verboten list."

Sorry! I don’t know what made me forget. He stepped outside, using the emergency door, and lit a cigarette. His right hand, holding the lighter, shook with anger. Or was it frustration? The first drag calmed his nerves. Dammit, I needed that. He inhaled deeply, savoring the nicotine buzz.

More relaxed now, Apfelbaum joined Dr. Diebel who came to Sattler’s defense as they stood beside the naked corpse covered with a clean white sheet. Being in the presence of mutilated bodies didn’t appear to bother Diebel. Dead was dead. Those delivered into his care were past the stage of hurting anyone.

Diebel looked straight at Apfelbaum. "He helped me strip this guy. Sattler turned every pocket inside out. That’s the wallet we found in his right back pocket. Its contents were two hundred and twelve Marks and fifty Pfennige. The only other things we located were a dirty handkerchief soaked in blood. It was tucked in the left breast pocket of his suit jacket."

That’s all? Apfelbaum asked, still annoyed at not having anything tangible to go on. He hated being left empty-handed.

Just about. Eight chips from the Siegburg Casino were in his left front pant pocket, coated with his blood and only identifiable after we washed off the sticky goo. We checked the gun for fingerprints. There were none. Wiped clean. Apparently. The guy carried neither a driver’s license nor mandatory personal ID. Sattler could not have been more thorough in his search, the coroner concluded his recitation.

Apfelbaum considered Diebel’s comments. There was no immediate response. Instead, the sergeant seemed pensive and then looked back at Diebel. What makes you say ‘wiped clean’? Are you inferring someone did him in? Tell me exactly what you think, Doc. You got any ideas? Apfelbaum fired his questions without a break.

The coroner closed his eyes, concentrating on what he wanted to say. At this point I’m unwilling to call it suicide, although one might assume that’s the case from how he gripped that revolver with his left hand. Sure was a direct hit to his artery. Either he or whoever shot him knew what they were doing.

Is there a possibility to suspect murder? Apfelbaum kept pressing.

Diebel ignored the last question. "You know your next step. Find out who Ferdinand Hahnenkamm, the apparent owner of the car, is. That’s the best lead you have at the moment. Your buddy, Sattler, was right. It ain’t the guy lying on that table. This man is