Karsten Krepinsky - Berlin 2039 - The Reign of Anarchy

What’s awaiting me on the other side? God or some other higher being? Or just nothingness? Honestly, my friends, I couldn’t even begin to guess.

LKA Berlin, central division, Headquarters at Oberbaumbrücke, X’berg. Two days later.

Detective Natasha Lieberknecht runs her hands across her tired eyes and takes a deep breath.

Then, she knocks on her superior’s door, and when she’s told to come in she enters the office on the top floor of the high-rise. Her eyes wander past her supervisor to the Ghetto beyond River Spree. From three hundred feet up crime is just a vague notion.

“Congratulations, you did a great job,” Commissioner Richard Volkner greets her from behind his desk.

“Congratulations?” Natasha repeats.

“I had my doubts at first, but your Operation Martyr turned out to be a tremendous success. The Imam is dead and his spawn won’t come crawling out of the Ghetto so fast.”

“I don’t really feel like celebrating.”

“Our punitive measure also enabled us to track down quite a number of arms depots,” the Commissioner continues, ignoring her protests. “The clans have been dealt a devastating blow. It’ll take months for them to regroup.”

“And then we’ll be back to square one,” the Detective points out with a frustrated sigh.

“So what?” the Commissioner retorts. “We’ve bought time.”

“But there were so many casualties…”

“Yeah,” the Commissioner agrees. “But don’t forget how many lives we’ve saved in the end.”

“…and also keep in mind the victims in my team,” the Detective pensively adds.

“Well.” The Commissioner looks up. “Will he make it? Your snitch, I mean.”

“He’s got a sturdy constitution.”

“I really hope that he’ll pull through. Very much. Maybe we’ll need to use him again in the future,” he continues, his voice reflecting cold calculation. “You shouldn’t let things get so close to you,” he tries to cheer up his subordinate.

“I try my best not to.”

The Commissioner studies her carefully. “You look a bit pale.”

“It was a tough week.”

“You know what Franz’s told me? That you actually sat at this guy’s bedside the whole goddamn night!”

The Detective nods. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Why?”

“I…” She falters.

The Commissioner frowns. “You’d better not get… well, you know what I mean.”

“No, no,” the Detective is quick to assure him. “It was all strictly professional.”

“Right.” The Commissioner takes a file from a stack and starts turning the pages. He shakes his head. “Hauke Jablonski. A schizophrenic madman.”

“Strictly speaking he isn’t schizophrenic,” the Detective protests.

“Say that again?”

“He’s suffering from an imprinting identity disorder.”

“I still can’t believe that he actually decapitated Bansuri. And he chopped off his hands, too?”

“He didn’t stop at that. He also impaled the Imam’s head on a poker. Who can tell what he really saw? Hallucinations are part of his illness.”

“I don’t understand how he even got access to Bansuri. The Imam was surrounded by bodyguards.”

“Hauke neutralized half a dozen of security men.”

“Jesus! This psychopath seems to be impossible to control.”

“Only if you don’t catch him in the phases between his episodes. That’s when he’s susceptible to imprinting.”

“Imprinting,” the director repeats. “That was the plan, at least. Even though I don’t really know how it works,” he admits. “You once told me that another word for his illness was histrionic personality disorder.”

“This term is obsolete.”

“But there’s always a dominant personality, right? The man you see on a regular basis, I mean. Is the Pusher his—how shall I put it— original personality?”

“It’s his constant personality, remaining after each episode.”

“As compared to the other personalities that are obliterated during these episodes?”

“That’s how the doctor explained it to me.”

“Well, never mind. Your experiment… pardon the expression… was extremely successful. As risky as it might have been to take him off his meds, the strategy was highly innovative. To imprint him on two of the Salafists’ victims. Simply brilliant. What were their names again?”

“Lucas and Quasim.”

“You leaked their stories to him?”

“Hauke always hung out in the abandoned kiosk in Samariterstrasse subway station, leafing through the old cartoons and magazines that were gathering dust there. Thus, it wasn’t difficult to smuggle in the reports about the ISIS massacres that got him interested. Some photos of the people murdered and their bios did the job.”

“And he… well… identified with them?”

“The official term for it is imprinting, I think. They became integral parts of his personality.”

“And when did he see this group photo of Al Bansuri and the other ISIS thugs we had received, courtesy of the Federal Intelligence Service?”

“Four days after his medication was discontinued. When the imprinting phase was over, I thought that the time was right to steer Hauke’s hatred toward the killers of Lucas and Quasim. In the hope that he’d kill the Imam and the other Salafists to avenge them.”

“Brilliant. I can only repeat myself.”

“However, the angle with the crucifix on the playing cards wasn’t part of the plan. No idea why Hauke planted them at the scenes. The situation would have almost gotten out of control.”

The Commissioner turns the pages of the informer’s file. “Well, here in the medical test reports it says that Herr Jablonski is a character given to extremes. All or nothing , is the way they put it.”

“Hauke invests all he has into everything he does,” the Detective explains. “I tried to talk him out of the business with the poker cards. I even took him along to see the dead whorehouse manager. But the experience doesn’t seem to have gotten through to the rest of Hauke’s identities. I should have… the whole thing is… it’s really…”

“Natasha!” the Commissioner emphatically cuts in. “Stop looking so miserable. There are camera teams waiting in the lobby downstairs. The reporters want to interview you. You’re the city’s new hero.”

“Hero? You must be joking! I’ve betrayed almost everything I’ve ever believed in. All my ideals. When I started to work here…”

“Nonsense! The Ghetto scum has been taught a lesson. The Chancellor wants to see me later… and… you, too, of course. Wear a nice skirt suit with lapels wide enough for the decoration.”

“Decoration?”

“What else? Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“And Hauke?” the Detective quietly asks.

“What about him?” the Commissioner is surprised. “The public can’t ever know about him. He’s an informer…”

“…who deserves an award.”

“A drug dealer?” the Commissioner asks, not trusting his ears. “Natasha, Natasha, what are you talking about? What we need is heroic figures like you. Not some seedy pusher character. People want idols they can look up to. Who inspire them. Are you going to freshen up a little now?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate…”

“A hint of blush and some of this new-fangled skin spray my wife’s recently started to use,” the Commissioner interrupts her. “Take my word for it, nobody has use for a broken hero.”

Heartfelt thanks to all who have supported me during the publishing process of this novella, especially my wonderful crew: Ingo, Michael, Sylvia, Ilona, Janet, and my dear mother. In memoriam to my dear father, Fritz Krepinsky.