201/398
♫ Lethal Spelicans ♫
201/398
I enter the corridor and follow an officer carrying a package toward Albo’s office. “No bomb in this one,” he says, placing the parcel on Albo’s desk. Albo nods a greeting and says, “Mail for you. Just came in.”
Today marks day two hundred since the gruesome discovery after the gruesome discovery of a human heart on a stack of papers. That’s the whole reason I showed up here today: the fear that the killer might have struck again. And now this: a package. My name is actually on it, c/o Berlin Homicide Squad. “Had it X‑rayed, just to be safe,” Albo says, eyeing me closely. I shrug, tear off the packing tape, open the top flaps, and hit fabric. Looks like a burlap sack tied at the top. I untie the knot and pull the burlap aside, but a sudden jolt of pain shoots through me and I yank my hand back. My right middle finger is bleeding—I stick it in my mouth.
Albo carefully inspects the contents and finds several razor blades stitched inside the burlap sack. On one of them: fresh blood. My blood. The one I just cut myself on.
And underneath: a stack of paper. It’s stained, and based on the last three times, I know it’s almost certainly dried blood.
“I enter the corridor,” Albo reads off the top sheet. There will be exactly fifty of them, typed on fifty different typewriters. I take my finger out of my mouth. “No heart this time?”
Albo shakes his head. “I’ll send this stuff to forensics,” he says. “Finger okay?” Just a small cut, nothing serious. Albo carries the package back out. I step over to the window. What was that about? Why is this guy sending me these texts? How does he even know who I am? And what’s with the razor blades?
Albo comes back. “Lab says we can have copies in under an hour.” Albo looks at me, a strange glint in his eyes. “Any ideas yet?”
I know what he’s driving at, of course. The killer seems to know who’s on his trail—and even that today, the exact day we expect another sign from him, or at worst another heart, I’d be showing up in Albo’s office. It’s a little eerie.
“Could he be committing these murders because of you?” Albo doesn’t look like he’s joking. He drops heavily into his chair, which responds with a groan. “Maybe it’s one of your patients. Think!” he demands.
“There’s no one,” I answer, but it came out too fast. Albo gives me a searching look. “Man, you worked as a psychiatrist for decades!”—“Psychologist,” I correct him, though it doesn’t really matter right now.
“Connect this,” Albo says, pointing at my notes, “with the fact that he’s sending the next fifty pages to you personally!”
I’ve gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb—all hundred and fifty pages we have from the killer so far—and put together something like a statistical breakdown. From that, we’ve built a profile over the last few weeks: me with my professional background as a psychologist, and Albo with his instincts as a veteran homicide detective. Two old-timers in their trade.
We assigned a probability rating to each of our theories, from 1 (highly unlikely) to 10 (highly probable).
My notepad, despite my attempt at a systematic approach, is covered in cross-outs, arrows, and circled phrases. “The killer is the author of the texts (8),” I read, and “The texts all come from a single source (7.5)”—the latter an average between my 8 and Albo’s 7. But there are also assumptions like: “In reality, these aren’t human hearts, even if forensics is sure of it (2).”
“He lives in Berlin,” Albo says, checking his notes, and in my mind I add, or the immediate surrounding area (8). Albo continues: “He’s a man”—I add (9)—“around forty years old, educated, wide range of interests, reads a lot, torn between scientific rationality and a streak of romanticism, fairy tales, fantasy, and sci-fi.” I can’t keep up with the probability numbers, but Albo only pulls out the theories rated 7 or higher.
“Raised Catholic, straight, single,” Albo quotes from our text breakdown. “Has a bone to pick with authority, experienced with psychoactive substances, smokes and hates smoking at the same time.” Albo looks up at me. “Impulsive character, possible psychotic episodes, wants to bring happiness to humanity as a do-gooder…”
“Though about that…”—I scribble over my notes as I raise my objection—”…I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe the whole ‘new guiding vision for the 21st century’ thing is just sarcasm.”
Albo gives me an annoyed look. Right, we’ve been over that. But this isn’t a simple, black-and-white, one-dimensional case.
“This line: ‘I am not alone. For we are many! And we share the same goal.’ The guy can’t possibly mean that seriously. If you ask me, it’s pure bullshit. He’s mocking the world-savers.”
Even though I haven’t given him a new number, Albo erases something in his notes and pencils in a correction. “Either way,” he looks back up at me, “he writes about visions and seems to consider himself some kind of mystic. Now for the million-dollar question: does that ring any bells?”
Yet, nothing comes to mind. A client from the past few decades? A research subject? A colleague, maybe?!
“I’ll leave you to it, my friend,” Albo says, pushing himself up from his chair. “By the time I get back, you’d better have thought of one to three people in your orbit who fit that profile.” He doesn’t say it as a question or an invitation. It’s the tone that takes no backtalk. He stomps out of the office.
I flip my notepad over and start a blank page with the word “College” and the years, setting up a timeline. Somewhere between my freshman semester and today, the killer is hiding—the package sent to me leaves no doubt about that. Then the names surface. I write them down as they come to mind. Pretty soon, I need more paper.