The brood of evil E-Book

Lis Loren

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 513

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A cruel murderer of women is up to no good in an old smugglers' hideout in the mountains. The cries for help of his victims go unheard, nobody knows his hideout – and so the graves of the murdered women increase over the years. Through a magical blood sacrifice, the maniacal perpetrator plans to bring the legendary impaler Vlad back to life and achieve immortality himself. At the same time, an innocent man has already been sitting in prison for a whole decade for the bloodthirsty deeds. No one suspects anything until a badly injured young woman recounts her ordeal. Will Inspector Puck be able to solve the case with the help of his witness and expose the real culprit, or will the world descend into chaos?

Leseprobe

Foreword

T his work, including all its parts, is protected by copyright. All information, results etc. contained in the book have been compiled by the author to the best of his knowledge. They are provided without any obligation or guarantee. He therefore accepts no responsibility or liability for any inaccuracies.

All similarities with living and deceased persons and real places are purely coincidental.

This story was created without the help of AI.

The author and publisher prohibit the use of the text for training and commercial use by KI.

About the author

Immersing myself in the criminal energy of crime is my passion, which I share with my readers.

As "die Krimifrau" I am a freelance author of crime novels and children's books under the name Lis Loren.

My first life, family, children, job and self-employment are behind me. What matters to me now are things that bring fun and variety.

Writing thrillers and telling fairy tales.

As a late bloomer, I started my career as "the crime novelist" late, although I discovered my love of the written word as a child.

www.die-krimifrau.de

About the book

Investigate:

Inspector Paul Ulrich "Puck" Krasser

and his two best men Fleck and Falko

After "Blutacker" and "Brennende Schuld", "Der Butterfly-Killer" is her third, most brutal and most complex case.

The spawn of evil

Fear, naked cruel fear, gripped her dull brain, she was far from being able to form a clear thought. Slowly, like a creeping poison, panic entered her body and deafened her to rational thought. She had been seeing ghosts for years, her own, but in this second e felt, no, sensed, that this ghost was real. It was coming to get her. As she had suspected for a long time, over ten years to be precise: he would kill her, this time for good. Everything would have been for nothing, all her lies, her freedom bought with blood money. She knew the truth: the fact that an innocent man had gone to prison for a long time was entirely her fault, the result of her terrible fear of her tormentor from days gone by.

She, and she alone, knew the real rder. But if she had acted differently, she would no longer be alive, she would have been the third victim. The noose was already around her neck, but the killer had changed his mind and forced her to give him a complete alibi instead. In return, she was allowed to keep the ridiculous life she was so attached to. Her death had only been postponed, until now.

He had killed her a long time ago, but she had no memory of it. Everything horrible had been erased until the day he stood opposite her in the cemetery. He only had to look at her, not a word crossed his thin lips, which were pinched into a cynical grin. Even so, she knew she had to keep quiet. No one would believe her. The fear of the monster was boundless, the horror had a face again.

The memory came like a blow from a club, one look from his cold eyes, which lay on her as if hypnotized, was enough to bring her back to her buried memory of the torment and terrible things he had done to her. Since that day, she knew: Her life was over, the devil in human form had caught up with her.

There it was again - a quiet, barely perceptible shuffling behind the house, a muffled clanking that turned into a scraping sound. Now it seemed to be coming from the cellar. The helpless stupor disappeared and the panicked fear inside her subsided. She took a large gulp from the glass that stood next to her on the small bedside table.

She no longer wasted a thought on the heavy iron door, it was no longer important whether it was firmly locked. Every cursed day so far, she had carefully checked all the doors and windows before dawn until she was sure she had locked everything. This ritual had become second nature to her.

Here and now, in these seconds, she sensed that her journey was over. All she had to do was wait, wait for death. She had met him once before, many years ago. She had actually died back then, her youth and innocence had long been in the realm of the dead. All that still existed of her was an empty shell, devoid of feelings or joie de vivre.

Perhaps it was justice that she had to die on that very day, the day many years ago when an innocent man went to prison instead of the real murderer, whom she knew very well.

But he would be surprised. She had made peace with the past, would make it easy for him and not fight back. Death would free her from an unspeakable burden, she would welcome him as a friend.

The murderer of her soul would not triumph, she alone would decide when it was over.

The soft shuffling noises from the cellar had stopped and a paralyzing, horrible silence spread. There was no scream, no begging or pleading, just an eerie silence.

***

It was half past eight in the morning when cute Julia, a freckle-faced, curly red-haired girl, had just been picked up by the neighbor across the street. Julia and Niklas went to the same kindergarten. The mothers took turns every week, and today it was Monika Kleinschmidt's turn. Her older children were already out of the house, only Niklas, a child from a second marriage and an absolute dream child, still needed all her attention. Monika spoiled the moody boy rotten and didn't seem to notice what a selfish and rebellious bastard she was raising. But Julia saw through his little intrigues and didn't like the spoiled brat. She had enough other friends to play with. Thank goodness it was Thursday and her mother was back on driving duty on Monday. She was much cooler and didn't talk as highfalutin like Kleinschmidt, who always thought that her offspring would grow up to be something really special.

Today, however, it was Julia's mother Gerti who was annoying her husband. She told him for what felt like the thousandth time that he should finally go to the neighbor's house and have a look. A window on the opposite side of the street had been wide open for some time. Of all people, it was the overprotective, sometimes arrogant Mrs. Petzold. Something was wrong. Gerti could normally rely on her gut feeling.

She knew the exaggerated fear of her neighbor, who would have a crisis if one of the windows was even tilted. She usually drew the blinds in the early afternoon, regardless of whether the sun was shining or it was pouring with rain.

Well, she was just fussy and conceited, at least that was the impression one got from the lady. That it could simply be fear and anxiety for her life - nobody in this rather middle-class and well-off part of town would have thought of that.

In any case, Gerti was already spoiling her poor Werner's second day with her doomsaying. He didn't feel comfortable about the whole thing himself, but he definitely wouldn't go over there and harass the woman. Only because his better half had a queasy feeling, as she put it. It wasn't his business whether she left her window open or not! Why should he interfere. Werner had to realize, however, that his Gerti was not so easy to dissuade when she had set her mind to something. He knew his better half well enough: she wouldn't rest until he had marched over there and made an ass of himself.

First, he timidly rang the doorbell, which was mounted in the brick entrance pillar on the street side. He squinted at the open window. Just then, a gust of wind swept through the street and caught in the curtain, which blew merrily out of the window as if to greet the intruder. Indecisively, Werner stepped from one foot to the other. He felt like a stupid boy caught doing something forbidden. He called himself an idiot. What the hell was he doing here?

What should he do if something was really wrong? For the first time, he felt uneasy about the whole thing. He knew just as much as everyone else in the street about the woman's strange behavior. She lived a very secluded life and hardly kept in touch with the neighbors. In all the years that had passed, he couldn't remember if she had ever opened a window all the way. If she did, it was at most tilted. Werner felt helpless. No noise, no sound came from the house. His gaze fell on the letterbox, the newspapers from the past few days sticking out of the wide slot. A sign that she wasn't there?

Embarrassed, he scratched the back of his head, perhaps the police should be called. He was about to turn back when his gaze came across something even more remarkable. This fact electrified him: the solid oak front door with wrought-iron fittings stood open a tiny, barely perceptible gap, through which at most a sheet of paper would fit. But it wasn't locked, and that was more than strange. A forgotten window might be fine, but this woman would never leave the front door open, that's how well he knew her and her manic fear. Someone must have broken in here, that much was clear to Werner. He was suddenly no longer sure whether he should go in at all, but a glance over his shoulder showed him very clearly what his Gerti thought of his hesitation. She was standing in her own garden and waving her hand, which meant 'go on, get in'. He was no hero or superman, he was a bank employee specializing in credit.

Werner took a deep breath, pulled himself together and pushed the door open a little wider with his right shoulder, just enough so that he could see into the hallway. Everything seemed to be in order.

He called out quietly at first and then, when there was no answer, a little louder: "Hello, is anyone at home? Mrs. Petzold?". Nothing, no answer, not a sound! It remained as quiet as a mouse.

At first glance, there was nothing suspicious. He entered a spotlessly tidy home, clean, neat, almost meticulous. This was exactly what he had expected from the woman, not a speck of lint, not a speck of dust, sterility like in an operating theater. His Gerti was a tidy housewife and a great mom, but she didn't suffer from a cleaning compulsion, which was apparently the case here.

The hallway with its mirror and shoe cupboard shone like new, the wooden staircase leading to the upper floor was freshly polished and smelled strongly of polish. Werner took off his shoes so as not to leave any dirt behind and climbed the stairs in his socks, as the open window was on the upper floor. His hand brushed against the banister; it felt cold and impersonal, like the whole house.

Carefully calling her name, he approached the bottom of the stairs. If the occupant was not present, he at least wanted to close everything up and later pull the front door firmly shut behind him. He was careful not to touch anything, lest anyone else get the absurd idea that he was trying to break in. Perhaps she was behind the house in her garden and was scared to death when he suddenly stood in front of her so unexpectedly.

He hesitated, his voice sounding strangely busy as he whispered, "What am I doing here?"

With one last step, he stood at the top of the landing, nothing interrupting the eerie silence.

Perhaps the good woman was already a little distracted or lost in thought, had driven off and simply forgotten to lock up. That happened every day. He reassured himself with these thoughts, "yes, that's probably how it is".

Oops! What was that? He almost stepped on something. Werner bent down and held up a silk stocking, a delicate and seductive piece. He smiled and thought: "My Gerti hasn't worn anything like that for a long time." Men liked such attributes, it was these little things that confused the senses.

He sniffed it, a delicate scent of lavender clung to the stocking. You could tell it was new, never worn before. The only flaw: the silky piece was scrunched up and felt damp. Werner took a deep breath, pulled himself together and thought about why he was actually here. He lifted his head and looked at a door a few steps away: he noticed two things at once: The door was wide open inwards, and a mop of hair was sticking out of a mountain of rumpled pillows.

His first impulse was to turn around and leave as quickly as possible. "Bloody hell!" He didn't even seem to notice that he was swearing loudly. Werner was sure he was looking at a sleeping woman. She was probably ill and lying in front of him, bound to the bed with a fever and chills. He didn't dare breathe so as not to draw her attention to himself. But the person in front of him did not make the slightest sound. He saw no rising and falling of the chest, which would be normal when someone breathed in and out. Werner crept as carefully as possible to the head of the bed. He lifted the covers with two fingers. Something was very wrong here, and suddenly he wanted to know for sure.

Werner was no hero, but neither was he a particularly fearful or even cowardly man. The horror suddenly gripped him, it seemed to jump out at him.

With a groan, he dropped the blanket as if he had burnt his fingers. "My God, oh my God!"

Wide open, dead eyes stared at him. The same fine silk stocking he had found on the stairs lay tightly tied around his neighbor's throat.

Werner stumbled down the stairs as if in a trance. His hand, still clutching the stocking he had found, was trembling. He put the thing into his trouser pocket, not even seeming to register it. Like a sleepwalker, he put one foot in front of the other until he was finally out in the open, breathing in the cool air. The shock of the past few seconds receded and he was able to think clearly again.

Gerti, who was still standing in the same place, had never seen such a disturbed look on his familiar face. Ashen and trembling, he walked past her and shuffled wordlessly into the house, shaking his head. He grabbed his cell phone, which was lying on the small, delicate Biedermeier table in the hallway as usual, and dialed the emergency number for the police. Gerti, who had followed him, clearly heard the words "I have to report a murder". Then he gave his name and address and ended the call. With his hands buried in his trouser pockets, he stood like a watered poodle in front of Gerti, who stared at him in disbelief. He felt the tiny piece of fabric, the silk stocking, in his clenched fist and was careful not to take it out. He didn't want his Gerti to see it. He was annoyed with himself now that he had even put this thing in his pocket.

After a few minutes, a patrol car from the local police stopped in front of her house and two officers got out cautiously. They approached Werner's garden gate with skeptical looks on their faces. There were a bunch of weirdos who were having fun playing a prank on the police, but when they stood in front of the agitated and shaken caller, they realized: this was actually about murder!

Werner crossed the street with the officers, he didn't want to go back in under any circumstances, Werner explained to them where the dead woman was lying and, depressed, crept back to his Gerti, who put an arm around him to comfort him.

After a very short time, the police came out again and called the homicide squad. Never before had there been such a commotion in this otherwise peaceful street. All the neighbors who had not yet gone to work stood outside their houses or came out of their apartments and stared over at the neat detached house of the murder victim, as word quickly spread like wildfire. The sirens and flashing blue lights scared the last of the residents out onto the street.

In a brittle voice, Werner repeated why he had gone to the Petzold house, how he had discovered the gruesome murder. From the open window, the front door that was only ajar, the suspicions of his better half, who had feared that something might have happened to the neighbor who had been alone since her husband's death. However, no one had thought of such a horrific act. How often did you read or hear about people lying helpless in their homes after household accidents and only being found days later - that's more or less what Gerti had imagined. A horrific murder, no, nobody expected something like that. Never before had there been such a heinous crime in this rather boring and staid area. Everyone was shocked, fear crept into the neighbors' guts. The fear that it could happen again was written on their shocked faces. Who would be the next victim?

This crime was a few sizes too big for the staid rural police, so the homicide squad took over the case. They sent their best man: Paul Ulrich Krasser, known simply as "Puck" by all his colleagues.

He had only recently become a dad, the happy father of a little prince, so his nights were correspondingly short. As much as he loved little "Puck", there were days when he was desperate to escape to his office. The little one kept his parents on their toes, but Puck and Ulla, his wife, didn't want to do without the little screamer for a second. The new citizen of the world had a very strong voice, but the two were certainly the proudest parents in the world. An enthusiasm they probably shared with thousands of new parents.

***

On this day, the chief was at the police station before dawn, as if he had suspected that there was a bizarre murder to be solved. After the last spectacular case, Puck had been promoted to precinct commander by Gmeiner, the police chief and Puck's direct superior. However, the promotion did not come without conditions. He was not cut out for an office chair, so no office work. Puck was a master at offloading all the tedious office work onto his employees, especially Sandra, the new recruit from the fraud squad, who was a real computer geek and fitted in perfectly with the department. The new colleague was an immense asset to the homicide department. She was the best at dealing with the paperwork, which everyone appreciated. She had a committed advocate in the senior public prosecutor, and it was ultimately thanks to him that she had been transferred to the homicide department. He was not usually used to such words of praise, it didn't suit him, as he was usually the closest to himself.

How good that he was married, thought Puck. Otherwise you could get some strange ideas ... But the man was probably far too clever to give rise to such speculation. His marriage seemed to be intact and his wife was very active in various charitable organizations. He, on the other hand, preferred to keep his distance from such activities, which was common knowledge, much to the displeasure of his filthy rich father-in-law, a successful businessman.

In the short time Sandra had been at the station, all her male colleagues, including Falko and Fleck, had managed to make fools of themselves. But every attempt to get the pretty blonde's attention backfired. Fleck quickly lost interest in his cool colleague, as he was very happy in his relationship with Marlies Berger. Was Sandra even a real blonde? Her dark eyes contradicted this theory.

It was only Fleck's macho thinking that made him try out how easy it might be to get her. To his own surprise, he realized that he wasn't really interested in her. She was equally friendly to everyone, laughed off the crude remarks and remained aloof. But as the saying goes: hope dies last. So men: stay on the ball.

Puck, on the other hand, was amused by the crude advances of his esteemed coworkers. He was the only one who noticed that Falko was becoming increasingly monosyllabic in Sandra's presence. He noticed the amorous glances he threw at the young woman when he felt unobserved. "Well, well, well, our little one isn't going to fledge after all." Puck mumbled the words quietly to himself, but apparently not quietly enough, because Fleck, who was sitting opposite him, raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Have I missed something, is there something going on?"

Puck shook his head. "I don't know what you mean," with these words, the subject was off the table for him.

He glanced furtively at the large wall clock hanging above the storage shelf, which indicated the full hour with a loud chime. His departure this morning had been more of a hasty escape from the roar of the little puck. Ulla sent him off to work in a huff. But her laughter made him cheerful, and the bitter, sad time was far behind them and no longer had any meaning. The days were bright and friendly, nothing clouded their happiness with little Puck. It was true that Ulla got on much better with the rascal than he did. Sometimes he felt old and exhausted, but he was careful not to let these feelings arise in her presence. He preferred to escape into his work, where these frustrating thoughts had no chance, where he was in his element.

He shook off the tinge of sentimental self-regret, chased away the negative mindset and reached for the coffee pot. The only weapon that could wake him up was this strong, black brew. The shrill ringing of the phone snapped him out of his lethargy just as he stretched his legs and felt ready for another busy day.

Murder, a bestial murder, in a fine residential neighborhood. Fleck poked his head through the office door, his questioning gaze glancing at Puck as if to say "the day's off to a good start". Puck reached into the small wall shelf, fished out a clean cup and poured it to the brim for Fleck.

"Here, I think you could do with this, you must have had a pretty short night." He grinned sympathetically, his allusion to Fleck's love life seemed to have hit the mark. The long lout was actually blushing. "Still the doctor, seems to be something serious."

Fleck swallowed his retort and just mumbled "you me too".

The two of them got on really well and kept no secrets from each other, just like the third member of the team, Falko. In this well-coordinated team, everyone could rely on each other blindly. It got to the point where the others in the department jokingly referred to them as "the cloverleaf". They formed a small, close-knit community and tricky cases were their specialty.

But this time it would be made damn difficult for them! This murder would lead them into the past, to heinous crimes in which innocence and guilt were closely intertwined. This case seemed to be the prelude to a gruesome, downright perfidious series of murders that would demand everything from Puck and his men.

Would they even be able to solve this convoluted puzzle?

***

The church clock struck ten when the inspector and Fleck arrived at the crime scene. In the meantime, the immediate vicinity of the murder house had been cordoned off by the police. The gawkers were not to be given the opportunity to destroy any traces left by the murderer. The narrow road was closed off without further ado and traffic was diverted to a side road.

Puck got out and looked around. The neat houses and manicured gardens stood in stark contrast to the heinous crime that had taken place here. Not the slightest detail escaped his scrutinizing gaze. He remained glued to the open window for seconds. The curtain, a dark brown voile blind, hung out, and the slight movement in the wind was reminiscent of a funeral pile.

Why was there a window open on the top floor? It was hardly possible to get in there without a ladder, unless you were a damn good front climber. The perpetrator or perpetrators must have entered the house by other means, for example via the patio door at the back. Or perhaps the dead woman had opened the door herself and let her own murderer into the house, who was probably no stranger. It was still only possible to speculate. They had to wait for the results of the search for clues, which was still in full swing.

Puck stood at the foot of the bed. The body was lying there exactly as the witness had found it. The medical examiner had finished his preliminary work and released the body for removal to the pathology department. Surprisingly, it was still Dr. Weinberger who took it upon himself to carry out the first examinations on murder victims. Meanwhile, there were two hard-working assistants in the forensic department, eager to take over the old curmudgeon's job. After a brief nod of the head in Puck's direction with a squeezed out "Hello, now it's your turn", the doctor closed his bag.

Even as he walked, he mumbled casually and briefly: "I'm done for now. All I can say for sure," now he looked directly at Puck, but refrained from commenting on his dark circles under his eyes and the tired expression on his face, as he knew about his sleepless nights with the baby, "the woman has been dead for at least twenty-four hours. She was most likely brutally strangled with a silk stocking". He held up a plastic case containing the supposed murder weapon and added: "For fuck's sake, this case reminds me of something! I just can't figure it out."

Judging by the grim look on his face, he wouldn't rest until he found out what this murder reminded him of. Sighing, he grabbed his forehead. "I'm sure I'll remember, then I'll get back to you." Weinberger seemed to rummage in the past for a moment, scratched his thinly overgrown skull and grumbled: "There's something I don't like here at all!"

He leaned over to Puck's ear.

"The poor woman must have survived a terrible accident, her body is horribly disfigured by old scars." The old codger had already had quite a few strangled bodies on his dissecting table in his long professional life, but this one struck him as odd. He tucked his worn bag under his arm, hurried to the stairs with an agility that one would not have expected of him, and disappeared from Puck's field of vision, shaking his head.

He took a very thorough look at the crime scene, there were no abnormalities, no torn out drawers, no ransacked cupboard. There was nothing to suggest a robbery or anything like that. One look in the bedside cabinet was enough to rule out a robbery. No burglar would have left a gold ladies' watch and delicate pearl earrings with a matching necklace lying around so easily. But what was it then? An act of jealousy?

Puck looked at the woman's face and took the photos from the chest of drawers. She didn't look like a reckless femme fatale, rather sad, as if she had suffered a heavy fate. His thoughts revolved around the possible motive for the crime, but he couldn't come up with anything. So he first wanted to speak to the man who had reported the murder.

Fleck was standing on the landing, talking to one of the patrolmen who had been at the scene first. Puck said what the others were also thinking: "Why are there no signs of a break-in or struggle? There's nothing to suggest that the woman put up a fight. Did the guy surprise her in her sleep, or did she know him?"

At first glance there was no motive, the woman lived a secluded life, was apparently well off and didn't seem to have any money problems. There was nothing to suggest that she had had a series of male acquaintances or other debaucheries, and there were no ashtrays or alcoholic drinks anywhere in the house. She didn't seem to have any vices at all. Everything indicated a certain affluence. The whole apartment was meticulously cleaned, tidy, almost in a sterile state.

Werner and all the neighbors confirmed Puck's impression. Mrs. Petzold hadn't had any arguments with anyone, rarely had any visitors, and certainly not from men. A former work colleague was the only one who regularly dropped in on her. She helped with the garden from time to time or popped in for a coffee. There was nothing else to say about her, so the dead woman was a completely blank slate. But who murders someone who doesn't give anyone the opportunity to hate them so much?

At that moment, Puck had no idea how much weight was attached to the expression "blank slate".

The inspector was certain that it was necessary to dig deeper here, to shed light on her past. As the saying goes: "Everyone has a skeleton hidden in their closet, you just have to dig deep enough."

Puck's gray mane seemed a touch grayer and more unruly today. Fleck called it "graveyard blonde", which earned him a scathing look from his boss. He ran his fingers through his rebellious hair, fished his cell phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket and tapped the saved number of his second "best employee".

Falko seemed to have been waiting for the call, because he was on the other end of the line in less than three seconds. Puck briefly explained the situation, gave him specific orders and then discussed the next steps with Fleck.

The colleagues were still searching every nook and cranny, every corner from the cellar to the attic. Behind the house in the spacious garden, which was difficult to see from the street, they did their work particularly thoroughly. The opportunity to hide and wait out the darkness was most favorable here, but the victim's lack of defense spoke for a different version. It really seemed as if the woman had voluntarily opened the door to her murderer. Had she also voluntarily followed him into the bedroom? She was only lightly clothed under the covers. Had she had an erotic adventure or had she been raped? Weinberger had not wanted to commit himself at this point. Only a closer examination in his laboratory could confirm or deny this assumption. He usually used the phrase "only when I have her on my table can I say with certainty what the matter is, anything else would be pure speculation, gentlemen".

In the meantime, Falko had also arrived.

"I ran the name Petzold through the computer, and voilà: it actually spit out a few things."

He triumphantly waved a few loose sheets of paper in front of Fleck's nose, which really drove him up the wall. He impatiently tore the papers out of his hand.

"Give me that stupid piece of paper!"

The more Fleck read, the more puzzled his expression became, as if he couldn't believe what was written there in black and white. "Now that's what I call a motive. But after more than ten years, who waits that long for their revenge?"

He passed the sheets to his boss. His gaze flew over the lines, then he nodded thoughtfully, brushed the small unruly curl from his forehead and grumbled to Falko: "Check whether this boy is still in prison or whether he's already enjoying his freedom again."

The convicted murderer who was the subject of the documents had strangled two women in the same way as the current victim, Ms. Petzold. The link between the crimes was established by a witness statement made in court by the woman who had just been murdered. She had thus exonerated another suspect by giving him an alibi, although there was a lot to be said for this man as the perpetrator. But her credibility was never in doubt, so the husband of the second victim, a certain Walter König, was convicted.

The case back then had developed into a circumstantial trial, the whole thing had been very delicate and confusing. The murder tool was identical to the current one. The special thing about it: this brand of stocking has not been manufactured since. The company belonged to the second victim, the wife of the convicted murderer.

Puck vaguely remembered the headlines. His boss at the time, Chief Inspector Fasnacht - that was his real name - had put the perpetrator behind bars, but didn't really believe in his guilt himself , but he lacked the evidence to exonerate him.

Puck knew what to do: he had to go and see his old boss. He had long since retired and was enjoying his well-earned retirement, but Puck knew his address. The old curmudgeon still lived in the small terraced house at the end of Pestalozzi Street.

"Falko, you visit our hard-working lab rat, and the two of us, Fleck, make a little house call."

He threw his car keys to the last person he spoke to. "You're accompanying me to my old boss."

At the same time, he dug a notebook out of one of his countless jacket pockets, opened it and scribbled in it. Lately, he seemed to be more absent-minded than usual, taking notes more and more often.

"Uh, Falko, you take a good look at the stocking that was used to strangle the woman." The funny dachshund wrinkles formed on Puck's forehead, as they always did when he was pondering something. Falko turned to leave, but Puck's voice caught up with him again.

"Watch out: if there are little glittering butterflies woven or printed into the material, let me know immediately!"

Falko and Fleck raised their eyebrows in astonishment.

"Oha!" What did the old wolf know that they didn't?

Had the clever terrier already picked up the scent, did he suspect a direct connection between the murders?

Oh yes, Puck remembered the case well, even though he hadn't had much to do with it himself. Back then, he had still been the little errand boy who, as his boss at the time had always emphasized, "still had a lot to learn". But Puck also remembered that his boss had not been at all happy with the way the investigation had gone.

There had been two murdered women: a professional who went procuring in the brothel and the successful wife of the convicted perpetrator.

Puck's mind wandered back, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle back together. He could safely strain his little gray brain cells to do so, because Fleck had to drive through almost the entire city. He knew that his boss didn't want to talk now, he knew the signs. When Puck was brooding, it was better to keep his mouth shut.

Fasnacht thought someone else was the murderer. Unless Puck was mistaken, the guy had even been a close friend of the Königs, i.e. the convicted man and his wife. Both men frequented the luxury brothel and knew each other. Although Walter König swore he was innocent, there was too much evidence against him. The judge wanted to close the case quickly, the press was breathing down his neck and a guilty party was urgently needed.

It was rumored that the judge's son was the other regular customer in the brothel. However, nothing leaked to the public, the man was not charged, but only questioned as a witness after he was able to prove a watertight alibi. The rumors persisted, however, and peace only returned after the verdict was handed down and the killer was imprisoned for many years. It would be difficult to overturn this court decision. The judge from back then had died, his son had disappeared somewhere abroad and all efforts to track him down had come to nothing. Mrs. Petzold, of all people, had provided the alibi. But she had been someone else back then: a woman with no memory!

Why a young girl disappeared from the König family home at the same time as the two women were so brutally killed could never be clarified. Walter König had had a hard time with the scrappy girl, who was his half-sister and had often run away from home. She was eighteen and didn't allow herself to be patronized by her big brother. She usually came back after a few weeks, sometimes months. She came and went as she pleased.

Puck suspected that the cases from back then were closely connected to the current one. A coincidence would be too absurd, the connection was there, he just had to find it.

The dead woman could no longer give him any answers, but perhaps she had left a clue. He resolved to go back to the Petzold house after his visit to Fasnacht. Perhaps he had overlooked something, a detail, a tiny detail. Something that didn't seem important, but at second glance could perhaps lead to a clue that would help to clear things up.

***

The petite bird pecked at the small crumbs of bread that she threw out of the tiny hole - you could hardly call the gap that connected her to the outside world a window. The opening had probably once been a ventilation shaft, but that was all she had had for years. When he left the house, he even closed this bridge to freedom. She could scream as much as she wanted until her vocal chords gave out and only croaking sounds came from her throat. No one heard her, not a soul knew about her. But the most terrible thing was that no one seemed to miss her.

Sometimes, when he came back days later, he was not alone. She heard muffled cries caused by pain, but they died down so quickly that she thought she had imagined them. Her mind was playing tricks on her again. At least that's what he claimed when she dared to ask him about it. He grinned maliciously and had his way with her. He raped her as he had done thousands of times before. She, who was vegetating in this hovel. Why was she still alive? He was a bestial murderer. She knew it, she had seen him kill.

Did he let her live because he wanted to? Or because she had been in love with the monster many years ago, had not recognized the devil he would always be. My God, she had almost been a child. He had looked good, had been in and out of her brother's house. She had trusted him, hadn't seen through his perfidious game.

He had returned a few hours ago after she had spent days in complete silence. Her dungeon resembled a tomb. The heavy iron door, the only connection to life, only opened when he came to torment her.

She loved it when he was gone, even if it meant she might die of hunger. She often asked him why he didn't finish it: "Why don't you kill me?"

The answer was always the same: "Because you belong to me, I can do whatever I want with you. You're my property and one day I really will kill you like all the other sluts."

He had long since stifled any thoughts of escape in her with brutal, brute force. The first attempts had ended with him beating her almost to death.

His rage knew no bounds. She wished so much that he would finally beat her to death. But that would deprive him of his perverse pleasure. He could no longer torture, humiliate and mock her, because it was precisely these things that gave him the greatest satisfaction.

She didn't know how long she had been under his control. Every day was like the next. Most of the time she vegetated in a twilight state, in complete isolation. At the beginning of her ordeal, he had given her injections to make her submissive and unwilling. He had grinned like Satan himself, calling her "my wingless pigeon". The things he had then done to her had been disgusting and cruel.

She had long since lost her tears, no real memory of her former life. She was numb and far from hope. The only moments that reminded her that there was another life were the brief moments when he took her upstairs, into his world . He watched her with suspicious eyes. Sometimes their "excursion" lasted only minutes.

When he had plenty of time, he tortured them for hours. Then he would put her in the bathtub, an iron monster from the last century that farmers used as a drinking trough for their cattle. He chained her to the drainpipe. Under his supervision, she had to wash her hair and soap her whole body: If she took too long, he would put her head under the water until she was struggling and twitching for air. If he liked it, he would give her an ice-cold or scalding hot rinse, the more she screamed in pain, the louder he laughed.

Once she had managed to escape from the house. Afterwards she knew that he had let her go on purpose, he called it a new game. He had chased her, beaten her senseless, his sadism and cruelty knew no bounds.

She was torn from unconsciousness by the raging pain. She tasted blood, every breath was agonizing, every movement caused new insane pain. She tried to get up, but her legs would not obey her. Her feet were covered in thick, blood-soaked bandages. There was no sign of her tormentor, she was lying on the bare floor. She now knew with deadly certainty what he had done to her. Why hadn't he let her bleed to death? Why did he bandage her wounds? His sick mind, the deviant games he was playing with her, getting worse and more brutal, left her no hope. Was there even a spark of humanity left in this monster?

He had carried out his threat to cut her Achilles tendons the next time she tried to escape. Now it was certain: she could never escape him! Desperation overcame her and she screamed like a wounded animal. Since then, she crawled up the stairs on all fours when he called her. He feasted on her agony, mocking her as a wingless sparrow.

She was the only one who knew about his murders, heard the noises from upstairs in his torture chamber and the doubtful screams of death as she lay motionless in her cellar dungeon. She had long suspected why he did not kill her: he needed her to brag about his murders and deeds. He feasted on the horror and horror in her eyes when he described to her the terrible details that his victims had to endure.

This hut would never be found, it lay in impenetrable thicket, far from any hiking route, surrounded only by forest and rock.

Her only ray of hope was the little bird that fed on her breadcrumbs. It sang and chirped particularly loudly as if it understood the woman's plight.

***

"Hello Jako, hi Doc, any news yet? Anything we can do with, a tiny lead, a clue, fingerprints or other evidence that could lead us to the perpetrator?"

Falko stood next to the body lying on one of the stainless steel tables in the forensics department. The sight still gave him a queasy feeling. Everyone lying here had died a violent death.

The new assistant Jakob Simmel - Falko had noticed that the chief pathologist only called him Jako and now did the same - was busy closing the open chest of the corpse with a few rough stitches. Falko knew what was going on here, but it still made him gag. The pungent, sweet smell of blood lingered everywhere, he would probably never get used to it and was always glad when he could leave this place behind him again.

It was the old doctor who answered him: "There are indeed some things, my boy."

He walked around the table and asked Falko to stand next to him.

"Do you see these scars?" He lifted one of the corpse's feet slightly, pointed to the area he was aware of and ran his fingers along the scarred tissue. "Here and here," now it was the second leg's turn. "The Achilles tendon was severed on both heel bones."

The doctor took an X-ray image from the table, held it up to the light and pointed to the areas. "The tendon connects the heel bones to the calf muscles, it's the strongest tendon in the human body, it doesn't tear that easily." The experienced pathologist seemed very sure of himself. "It was deliberately severed with a sharp blade on our deceased, as the even cuts show." He shook the almost bald skull as if he couldn't believe what he suspected. "The coarse scars are old, they were only operated on professionally later. The smooth, fine scars are proof of that. Where was the woman, how could she exist and, above all, who did this to her?"

The young detective was speechless. There were always new heinous things that people did to others. There was really only one explanation for him. Suddenly everything he had found out about Ms. Petzold, or rather hadn't found out, made sense. He wondered whether he should talk to Weinberger about it. Perhaps together they could uncover the secret of this bizarre story?

"A good ten years ago, the woman was a witness in a murder trial and, strangely enough, there are no records of her existence before that." He suddenly shivered. "Bloody cold here with you."

Dr. Weinberger seemed to be waiting for him to continue talking, he made no move to continue with his work. Falko buttoned up his jacket and continued to ponder.

"It didn't seem relevant or important, after all, the woman is a victim and not a perpetrator."

Weinberger nodded a few times and scratched his chin. "That's about right, the surgical scars are probably about that old, but the incisions that led to the severing of the tendons are older, at least a few years. She must have been very young at the time."

Without another word, Weinberger went to the corpse and pulled back the green tarpaulin covering the body. What Falko hadn't seen before, because Jako had been bent over the woman, absorbed in his work, now jumped out at him. He involuntarily took a step back in horror. He couldn't stop a loud curse from escaping his lips, followed by a quiet "Jesus Christ, what is that?".

There was hardly a spot on the dead woman that wasn't covered in scars, old scars that had long since healed. There were countless of them.

"There are burns among them, undoubtedly caused by cigarettes, she has been tortured and subdued. Some perverted asshole abused her as an ashtray over a long period of time." Weinberger blurted out the words with an irrepressible, fierce rage.

"These scars here," he stroked the overgrown tissue with his gloved index finger, almost gently, as if the dead woman could feel it.

"Such injuries occur when falling over rugged rocks or gravel from a great height. The top layer of skin was partially abraded down to the bone." He shook his almost bald skull in disbelief at the thought.

"The last time I saw injuries this serious was on a dead mountaineer. The poor guy had fallen a hundred meters, he was just a bleeding bundle of human. The needle-pointed scree had the effect of someone putting him through a meat grinder."

Falko had turned rather pale; just the thought of high mountains and the exertions involved in getting up there made the city dweller feel nauseous. But Weinberger was in his element, it reminded him of his youth in the mountain troops, what felt like an eternity ago.

"Back then, I was still a real firebrand in the paramedics, I can still remember a similar case." He turned to Falko and wanted to tell the young snob a really gruesome story - but there was no one left. He had secretly made off. Like everyone else at the station, he of course knew the stories from Weinberger's memories and had no desire to hear the rehashed tales of the old philanderer for the thousandth time.

Not a Christmas party or any other celebration went by where the pathologist didn't have a good time, and Falko had absolutely no desire to do so. He was delighted to have escaped the stench of death and to be able to take a deep breath again. But his breathing had to wait, a short but fateful movement behind him stopped his escape.

The owner of the rumbling voice had caught up with him.

"I'm not finished yet, my young friend."

Falko closed his eyes for a few seconds and hoped desperately not to hear any more gruesome details. It couldn't get any worse, could it?

"The woman was already dead when her alleged murderer put the stocking around her neck and tightened it."

Now Falko was speechless, his face a single question mark. His incredulous amazement made the doctor chuckle.

"You look like a sheep that's had its grass eaten."

The otherwise tough and cool cop no longer understood anything. Had the woman been murdered or not? Then what had she died of?

His thoughts were swirling wildly in his head, he couldn't get anywhere on his own. The first thing he had to do was break the news to his boss. As soon as he had closed the forensics door behind him for the second time, he remembered his boss's words. "See if there are any little butterflies made of gold or platinum thread woven into the stocking used to strangle the victim."

Reluctantly, he turned back.

Weinberger couldn't help but grin broadly. "Didn't think we'd see each other again so soon."

Falko didn't respond to his joking tone and asked about the murder tool.

"Ha, now I remember," a smile crossed his wrinkled face, making the old doctor look years younger. "I knew right away that this thing reminded me of something. I just didn't think of it, it was the murder weapon, but not today, more than ten years ago."

He pulled the delicate stocking out of one of the countless drawers and held it in front of Falko's nose.

"Just like back then, the killer preferred the same parts to send his victims to the afterlife. I remember it very clearly."

Falko took a very close look at the "instrument of the crime". He even sniffed it, because there was still a delicate scent of lavender on it. The pathologist's voice snapped him out of his stupor with a disappointing announcement. "There are no useful traces on it, nothing that could point to the perpetrator. There are no dactyloscopic traces. The forensic colleagues found nothing, neither skin excretions nor dandruff or foreign substances on the stocking. The bastard must have been wearing gloves, which suggests that the murder was planned in cold blood."

He pointed to the corpse and said: "He's a routine killer, this woman is certainly not his first or last victim." His gaze seemed to be directed into the distance as he said quietly with an almost embarrassed smile: "The media called him the Butterfly Killer because of those fine and expensive stockings."

Falko marveled at the delicate, delicate butterflies on the heel and top.

"A normal housewife couldn't afford these things at all." With a wry grin, the topic seemed to be closed for the doctor, he let the piece of evidence disappear back into the drawer and turned to his work.

***

Puck was sitting in a bright, friendly living room. The sun contributed to this impression, warming the room with its rays. He chatted with his former boss, at first they talked about trivial things, banal everyday worries, until Puck got to the real reason for his visit.

With a thunderous blow and a force that caused the ashtray to somersault, the retired inspector struck the table, earning him a stern look from his better half. He immediately sent a contrite look in her direction, begging for an apology; he knew her aversion to noise and foul language.

"Yes, for crying out loud. Finally something's moving in this matter, an innocent man has been in jail for far too long."

That was Detective Chief Inspector Fasnacht as he lived and breathed. Retired for years, he was still the same honest, blustering guy he used to be. The stern look of his Anne, who had just brought in cake and fragrant coffee on a large tray, muffled his voice. She put everything down in front of the men and discreetly moved away, not wanting to disturb them at their reunion. It wasn't often that former colleagues barged in on them.

Fasnacht continued in a measured tone: "I always knew that the real murderer was on the loose. But why is he killing again, after so many years?"

A slight shake of the head from his counterpart showed his perplexity. "I have no idea, but maybe he never stopped."

Puck had no other answer to Fasnacht's question. He was praising the cake when the cell phone buzzed in his pocket. On the other end was Fleck, whom Puck had sent to the police station after he had let him drive him to his old boss, with an important message. When he had finished talking, Puck stirred his coffee, lost in thought. His gaze wandered over the lovingly decorated living room, the light oak furniture, the colorful curtain strewn with small scattered flowers and lingered on the orchid with its lush, delicate pink blossoms. Fasnacht, who was only too familiar with the brooding expression on his visitor's face, insisted on finding out what was bothering Puck so much.

"Well, it looks like we have the killer".

But his look showed justified doubts about these words. It would be too easy! Puck shook his gray mane and said what Fleck had just told him. However, his gut rebelled against it, alerting all his senses. Something seemed to be making him feel very uncomfortable, the news didn't fit at all.

"Exactly four days ago, the ... butterfly killer ... was released." After these words, there was an eerie silence in the room, you could have heard a pin drop.

"But no one is stupid enough to go straight back to murdering." These words came out in a whisper, as if he were speaking to himself.

***

Eleven years, four months and twenty-three days before her death, she had already died once, at least for her murderer. He had been convinced: "Damn, now the bitch has actually died!"

All he wanted to do was play, as he had done so often before. So far, every time he ... played ... she had perked up again and squealed like a little piglet, gasping for air like a carp on dry land. It had certainly amused him.

Damn it! This time he had probably squeezed too long and too hard. What a mess! Now he'll have to get himself a new toy. He sent a few hearty curses after the "dead bitch" because he was really annoyed. Today, of all days, he didn't have time to bury it, urgent appointments required his presence in the city. An ugly, dirty grin flitted across his face, which was contorted with rage. "Well, I'm just a very busy, very popular man."

He dragged her to his car, still cursing, and heaved her onto the back of his pick-up. Sweat ran into his eyes and down the back of his neck, after all, it was a few hundred meters, no road led to his hiding place, the cabin was far from any civilization.

It was ideal for him as he never had to worry about uninvited visitors. Nobody knew this place, no pigs would stray into this inhospitable area and if they did, the house-high overgrowth and jagged rocks would block their view. It had been pure chance that he had found the overgrown entrance to a former smuggler's path and the secret rock cave. This hiding place had apparently been given to him by the devil himself. What had protected wild fellows from their henchmen and persecutors hundreds of years ago served as a dungeon for him, a secret place where he could let off steam with his perverse and deviant urges.

He lashed her lifeless body to the loading area with cable ties; he might lose her when he drove down the bumpy slope. How often his so-called "friends" had laughed at him, dismissing his penchant for these big American vehicles as complete nonsense, but he alone knew why he needed these off-road vehicles. His latest acquisition was an SUV, a real cutie, a tank for rough terrain, in a class of its own and just right for his purposes. These idiots were all bums, not one of them meant anything to him. He used them all, these fools, these morons who were still basking in his glory. How cool was that!

He drove like a madman over hill and dale, across country to the edge of a deep ravine. From below, the gurgling, hissing sounds of an ice-cold mountain stream drifted up to him. Here he could "dispose" of them without running the risk of being discovered. No carrion would ever find her. He pulled and dragged her body to the edge, pushing it down into the gorge with his foot. The murderer didn't wait for the sound of the impact, probably nothing would be heard anyway, the roar of the wild water suffocating everything around. Nor did he care how she hit the bottom. He had already forgotten about her, his thoughts were already turning to a successor. Why did she have to croak just when things were going so well with them, that stupid bitch!

With the image of a new toy in his perverse thoughts, he drove contentedly into the city, completed his important appointments and enjoyed life as a respected citizen. Nobody knew his dark secret and it was to stay that way.

***

But he was too sure of himself, basking in his superiority! A storm that came up suddenly and with brute force - not uncommon in the mountains - hit the country with elemental force. Nobody had expected the strength of the storm, and one paraglider was blown far from its usual flight path. The hurricane-like wind blew him across the gorge, playing with the man like a puppet. Although the man was fighting fiercely for his life and screaming for his life, he did not miss the lifeless body hanging in a tree across a jagged gorge. The blue plastic tarpaulin had come loose, waving like a flag, two arms swinging out as if they were waving back and forth. At first he thought his fear of falling was fooling him. But as much as he rubbed his eyes, the image remained the same. As if the winds had seen sense, they died down again as quickly as they had risen. The miracle happened, the paraglider Josef Petzold arrived on the soft forest floor unscathed, but far from his original destination. The impact only left him with a few bruises. His cell phone was still working, thank God, and he immediately alerted the mountain rescue service.

At first they thought it was a bad joke, but the man was credible and most of the mountain rescue team knew him to be a level-headed and extremely reliable sportsman. Many of them shared his passion for paragliding. Once the weather had calmed down and there was only a gentle breeze, they recovered the supposed body by helicopter.

No one had thought it possible, but a tiny pulse flashed through the badly injured body. There was no explanation as to how she had ended up in this inhospitable area. All she was wearing was a tattered shirt and sweatpants. Her body, disfigured by scars, revealed her to be the victim of a sadist and cruel murderer. But she had no memory, she didn't know her name or remember any details of her past. Her memory had been erased.