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- Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
A Harry Kubinke crime novel by Alfred Bekker The size of this book corresponds to 122 paperback pages. A head is impaled on the fence of the police headquarters.found Is it a warning from the criminal milieu or what is behind it? Detectives Harry Kubinke and Rudi Meier investigate. Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, Sidney Gardner, Jonas Herlin, Adrian Leschek, Jack Raymond, John Devlin, Brian Carisi, Robert Gruber and Janet Farell.
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Seitenzahl: 130
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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The Head Of A Murderer: Crime Novel
Inhaltsverzeichnis
The Head Of A Murderer: Crime Novel
Copyright
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The Head Of A Murderer: Crime Novel
A Harry Kubinke crime novel
by Alfred Bekker
The size of this book corresponds to 122 paperback pages.
A head is impaled on the fence of the police headquarters.found Is it a warning from the criminal milieu or what is behind it? Detectives Harry Kubinke and Rudi Meier investigate.
Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, Sidney Gardner, Jonas Herlin, Adrian Leschek, Jack Raymond, John Devlin, Brian Carisi, Robert Gruber and Janet Farell.
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Bathranor Books, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of
Alfred Bekker
© Roman by Author
© this issue 2025 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia
The fictional characters have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intentional.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
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Everything to do with fiction!
1
Somewhere in Frankfurt.
A backyard.
The killer had waited patiently.
But it should be worth it.
"You're as good as dead already," he muttered to himself
Now they arrived one after the other. With their motorcycles. With their gang robes. With their weapons. And presumably also with drugs, because after all, these people made a living from dealing them.
One gang warrior took a pistol and fired into the air. Others laughed. Many of them were still very young. And reckless.
Too reckless.
The killer had resolved to end their game here and now, once and for all.
He wouldn't give them a chance.
He had to wait a little longer.
Until they were complete. After all, he wanted to catch as many of them as possible at once.
"Walla! Don't shoot around here!" shouted one of them. "You'll hear otherwise!"
"Nobody hears that here!" came the reply.
Two second gang members arrived. Both on monstrous trikes that made a hell of a racket. The gang members revved their engines and a few of them shot into the air again.
Now the killer's moment had come.
He took the MPi and fired. Thirty shots per second leaked out of the muzzle. It was so fast that none of them had a chance. The submachine gun rattled away. Fortunately, these gang warriors were vain. They weren't wearing Kevlar vests, of course, because they made them look fat. And apart from that, they were among their own kind. Who could have threatened them?
These guys wore their frocks with squiggly gang symbols on them. And they liked to show off their upper arms, which were also covered in tattoos. They didn't think much of helmets that complied with legal requirements and often enough they didn't wear them. They simply trusted that the police would avoid checking them.
But now their bodies were twitching in the killer's lead fire.
Some still managed to draw their weapons. Here and there, an unaimed shot was fired.
But that was nothing that could be dangerous for the killer.
They'll be dead before they realize where the shooting is actually coming from, the killer thought. There was a hell of a noise in the backyard. The echoes made it almost impossible to localize the origin of a shot acoustically with any degree of reliability.
One by one, they sank to the ground. They lay contorted in their own blood. Here and there there were treacherous ricochets as bullets ricocheted off the metal parts of the machines.
Maybe I can still manage to make a tank explode, thought the killer. But that kind of thing usually only worked in movies.
Finally there was peace.
The killer stepped out from his cover.
He held the MPi in his right hand.
He let his gaze wander for a moment.
His cell phone rang. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Hello, Günther," said a voice. "Is everything done?"
"I can't remember allowing someone like you to call me Günther!"
"A case of early dementia, Günther? That would be unfortunate."
"If you call me Günni, I'll come over and shoot you!"
"What's the deal now?"
"It's all done. Just a moment..." The killer switched on the cell phone camera and pointed it at the people who had been shot. "The campaign >Our city should become cleaner< is complete," the killer then said.
"This is an ongoing campaign, Günther."
"If you say so..."
"None of us should ever forget that."
2
"It doesn't get any better," said the doctor. "You took several bullets to the face in that shootout."
"If you say so... I don't remember."
"That's normal. You're lucky to have survived."
"Whether I can be happy about it, I don't know yet."
"The others are dead. All of them."
"And I've got jail ahead of me!"
"In any case, the laughter will remain crooked. That can't be helped. But at least your face won't look like that, so others won't have to be afraid of it."
He laughed.
Askew.
As we will always do from now on.
"Maybe that wouldn't be so bad," he said.
The doctor raised his eyebrows questioningly. "What?"
"If people were afraid of my face."
3
"Dr. Wildenbacher, why are you here?"
"I wonder that too!"
"It's always good if the patient knows why they are seeing a therapist. That makes it easier to work together."
"I'm not a patient," said Wildenbacher. "That's where it starts. Patient means 'sufferer'. But I don't suffer from anything."
"But others may suffer from you, Mr. Wildenbacher."
"Then they should go to the therapist and have >talks<. They are actually patients in the truest sense of the word. But not me. I'm only here because I've been ordered to."
"We have also started talking about clients recently - so I agree with you that our professional perspective has also changed somewhat in this respect."
"That's just as dishonest. I'm not your client! Your customer!" Wildenbacher laughed. "I'm not paying you and you're not acting on my behalf."
"Well, we don't need to argue about terms. Let's get down to business - and the reason why you're here."
"I'm here because my line manager wants me to be," said Wildenbacher. "And because a few oversensitive, touchy souls have complained about me."
"There is talk of bullying."
"Bullying? Because I said so clearly to a coworker who did a terrible job? Because another employee, with whom I was forced to share the same premises, has since been transferred - which is for the good of us all, by the way?"
"Listen..."
"No, listen to me: I'm a forensic scientist. I deal with corpses and have to find out what they died of. The facts are literally on the table here at the institute. That's where you express yourself clearly."
"You've been told to be a little more mindful. A little more sensitive."
"I'm the wrong person for that," said Wildenbacher.
"Mr. Wildenbacher, you have already mentioned two colleagues who have explicitly complained about you...."
"Sissies!"
"Recently, more serious allegations have been made by an employee of the institute."
"I don't know who you're talking about."
"I'm talking about Mr. Schmidtbauer."
"Mr. Schmidtbauer has disregarded fundamental rules that must be observed during an autopsy! If expert opinions are drawn up in this way, wrong judgments are inevitable! I have told him very clearly on several occasions that there is no place for someone like him at our institute!"
"Mr. Schmidtbauer believes that your continued and massive criticism is transphobically motivated."
"Trans what?"
Wildenbacher raised his eyebrows. He seemed surprised.
"Mr. Schmidtbauer was Mrs. Schmidtbauer until a few years ago, before he underwent the appropriate treatment. At that time, however, he was already working at the academy of the Federal Criminal Police Office in Quardenburg."
"Yes, but not in our department!"
"As I said, Mr. Schmidtbauer disputes the factual motivation for your continued, massive criticism and has called in the staff representatives because he feels bullied by you. He accuses you of transphobic resentment."
"Until today, I had no idea that Mr. Schmidtbauer used to be Mrs. Schmidtbauer. Do you think I look so closely at all employees in all departments? I already have enough to do with my corpses..."
"Yes, that's perhaps part of the problem, Dr. Wildenbacher."
"How?"
"That you don't pay enough attention to your fellow human beings. Not enough attentiveness and sensitivity! And that's exactly why you're here: To remedy this shortcoming and avoid difficulties in communicating with other employees in the future."
"What nonsense," said Wildenbacher. "I don't have any problems with anyone. And anyone who has problems with me should get out of my way! Then there won't be any problems."
"Mr. Wildenbacher, where does this aggressiveness come from?"
"What kind of aggression?"
"The aggression that is deep inside you and that keeps bursting out of you and interfering with your dealings with colleagues."
"I'm not aggressive! And I've always been the most sensitive of all! Every time I have a corpse on the table, I cry a little. And I do the same before I eat a steak or white sausage! Then I have an inner conversation with the pig on my plate and ask it to forgive me for being hungry!"
"Now you are trying to ridicule our joint work, which began so constructively."
"I'm not ridiculing anything! The whole thing >is< simply ridiculous. I don't need to pull anything else!"
"Mr. Wildenbacher, when in your life did this rage that fills you begin?"
"Now you want to talk to me about my childhood?"
"That would be something we could continue to work on."
"You know what, to talk about my childhood, we just don't know each other well enough."
"So..."
"But there is indeed one thing that makes me angry!"
"Let it out quietly, Dr. Wildenbacher!
"It makes me angry that I have the freezers in our institute full of bodies, all of which I should be autopsying, all of which are suspected victims of violent crime and where there are relatives who want to know who killed these people - but instead I'm sitting here ranting about an anger that doesn't exist and about problems that only exist in the imagination of people like you."
Wildenbacher looked at the watch on his wrist.
After a pause, he said with a bright red face: "This should take three quarters of an hour."
"Right."
"That's over now."
"Well, we..."
"Which means I'm leaving now." Wildenbacher stood up. "And now don't complain that I've become aggressive! Because I'm the calm one!"
The door slammed into the lock.
Wildenbacher was gone.
And the therapist made a concerned face - and then took a few notes. We still have a long way to go, he thought.
4
Frankfurt, early in the morning...
The estate of Gunnar Bellenborn, the police chief of Frankfurt, was located directly on the river. Mist had drifted across the lawn from the river overnight and had shrouded the area between the sandstone main house and the man-sized boundary wall with the cast-iron gate. You could barely see a few meters away.
"Come on! I'm the chief of police and I have my say!" Bellenborn was almost two meters tall and, even in the worn-out jogging suit he was wearing at this time of day, was an imposing, respectable figure. His dog hardly seemed impressed. As a rule, he didn't obey, and Bellenborn had the impression that the animal could be taught anything by anyone - except him.
The dog barked and ran towards the gate.
"Yes, what do you want to show me?" growled Bellenborn.
The animal could no longer calm down. Again and again it disappeared into the gray cloud of mist and then returned to Bellenborn.
"You've educated me now, haven't you?" he growled, walking after his dog.
Then he was close enough to the gate to be able to see it.
"Oh, my God," he whispered as he looked up at the cast-iron spikes. Blood dripped onto the floor.
5
For a moment, Gunnar Bellenborn felt as if someone had punched him in the pit of the stomach.
The dog sniffed at the blood that had run along the cast-iron bars. Blood - and something else. Gunnar Bellenborn knew exactly what it was. He had seen it himself at dozens of crime scenes, knew the look, consistency and smell of...
...brain matter!
Gunnar Bellenborn had started out in the patrol police at Frankfurt police headquarters and later gradually worked his way up. He had joined the homicide squad, the department for organized crime, and later moved up to management level and finally made it to the top. The police chief of a large city like Frankfurt was even more respected and popular than the mayor for some citizens.
And the fact that many of his colleagues held him in high regard certainly had something to do with the fact that Bellenborn had really learned this job from the bottom up. Nobody had the feeling that someone was talking down to his subordinates. After all, Bellenborn had once been one of them and knew where the police officers' shoes pinched.
Bellenborn's thoughts were whirling around at that moment. They literally began to race in his brain. The dog whimpered and looked up at the spikes on the cast-iron gate.
A human head could be seen there. It had been impaled on the middle and therefore highest point. One eye was just a gaping wound. Presumably from a gunshot. The exit wound was probably much larger. Bellenborn didn't even need to see it to imagine it. After all, this kind of thing had been routine for him for many years.
"Pigs," he muttered, "those bastards!"
6
The head on the coroner's table didn't look good. This was the kind of footage that bad dreams are made of, but Rudi and I had no choice but to look at the details.
"Well, apparently that's all that's left of the guy," said Gerold M. Wildenbacher in his characteristic Bavarian accent. The forensic scientist from our identification service investigation team at the BKA Academy in Quardenburg wiped his hands. He was wearing latex gloves, overalls, protective clothing, a face mask and goggles, which possibly prevented infectious liquid splashes from coming into contact with the mucous membranes of his eyes. Something indefinable was stuck to his latex gloves. I didn't want to know what it was. "To call a post-mortem complete under these circumstances somehow makes me reluctant, no matter when you say that," said Wildenbacher.
"You mean because the body isn't complete?" I concluded.
"You must have the disposition of a journeyman butcher, Harry."
I was perplexed.
"Me?" I asked to make sure.
"Yeah, sure!"
"You're really talking about me?"
"You speak cold-heartedly of a corpse. Call him a victim. Then show him the respect he deserves."
At that moment, I seriously wondered whether Wildenbacher had taken any substances capable of altering his personality. Wildenbacher was normally known for his butcher's temper. Someone with rough Bavarian manners who showed little consideration for the sensitivities of others. Especially not those of a corpse - or rather a head, because, strictly speaking, there was nothing left of the dead man that we could use as a starting point for our investigation.
Wildenbacher looked at me first, then at Rudi. And then me again.
"Somehow I had imagined that your reaction would be a little stronger," he said.
"To what? To the brainwashing you seem to have been subjected to?" I asked.
"We're used to hiding our emotions behind a facade of cool objectivity," added Rudi. "What happened? Did FGF, alias Mr. Förnheim, persuade you to attend a boot camp for good behaviour late and we're now seeing the results?"
