Thomas Glavinic - The Camera Killer

After breakfast, Eva and my partner took it into their heads to play badminton. Heinrich and I were agreeable to this idea but didn’t know where to put up the net, which Eva had gotten out, because the twenty-five or thirty stray cats would very probably spoil our game by jumping up, chasing after the shuttlecock, and engaging in other such activities. What was more, we couldn’t find any expanse of ground within a suitable radius because a court of adequate size was precluded by encroaching trees and bushes. Heinrich suggested returning to the spot we had visited on our walk the previous day. My partner flatly refused to go there, citing the sinister atmosphere of the place.

Heinrich and Eva hadn’t lived in the district long enough to have a detailed knowledge of the area, which confronted us with a problem. Eva hit on the idea of asking the farmer. He directed us to a spot beyond a nearby hill, saying that it would meet our requirements admirably. We made our way there after we had changed into suitable clothes and footwear and Eva had prepared a picnic and packed it in a wicker basket. The latter receptacle also contained a folded blanket. This was because we might want to play singles, so the other two would have the means to relax in comfort.

Heinrich and I erected the net. We warmed up by playing a game without scoring. Then we played a doubles match, changing partners after every game so that everyone played against everyone else. After three and a half hours or so, two of the players — Eva and I — fell prey to exhaustion.

We made our way home, deep in conversation about the most suitable footwear for playing games in. We continued this discussion even after entering the house. I maintained that sneakers were indispensable. Eva kept contradicting me. The healthiest way to play games, she said, was barefoot. She added that the heat had worn her out and she badly needed a shower. Because she had spoken so casually, I failed to grasp that she meant to freshen up on the spot.

To my utter surprise, she stripped off her flimsy red summer dress, and even her bra and panties, in front of me, then stepped into the bathroom shower stall. My response to these activities was to turn away, but I didn’t stop talking about our topic of discussion. Given that I was afforded a momentary glimpse of her dark, bikini-waxed pubic hair, this was more easily said than done. I heard the water being turned on. Commenting on the fact that I had averted my gaze, Eva gave it as her opinion that I was being needlessly prudish. When I didn’t reply, she quickly raised the subject of the prevailing heat, which was quite incredible. Even insects had already died of heatstroke, she said jokingly.

Having showered, she asked me to hand her a towel. I complied. Our conversation about the sneaker problem seemed to have lapsed, so I left the bathroom whistling the first few bars of the “Radetzky March.”

Outside the house, I sat down on a hammock suspended between an apple tree and a cherry tree and waited for my partner and Heinrich to return, which they did after another hour or so. Eva had just completed her preparations for our Easter lunch and brought out plates and cutlery. She served up smoked pork, dyed eggs, bread, and horseradish so strong that everyone at the table shed tears throughout the meal.

Eva drew our attention to a smell of smoke in the air. The first Easter bonfires were being lit. All the farmers in the vicinity were heathens, Heinrich declared. They misused this sacred occasion by seizing the chance to burn their spring prunings, which was legally prohibited on any other day of the year. At least they had burned witches in the old days, said Heinrich, whereas now everything was just an agricultural measure.

After we had chatted for a while (about the temperature, the lack of wind, the unwonted silence — which was only occasionally broken by the meowing of cats and described by my partner, whom Heinrich accused of undue sensitivity, as sinister — and the prospect of more rain that night), Heinrich was reminded of the murders. He wiped his mouth on a floral napkin and went into the house to see the news. Soon after going inside, he opened a window. (Why this wasn’t already open was inexplicable — it would have been desirable in view of the heat.) Heinrich called to us that the ticker headline read, “Video camera found — boy makes statement.”

Excitedly, he repeated that the police had found the video camera the murderer had used to film his crimes in an autobahn service area. Would these videos be made accessible to the public? he wondered aloud. He thought they would.

My partner disputed this view, arguing that such scenes would not be broadcast on ethical grounds.

Amid laughter, Heinrich thereupon expressed his belief that my partner did not appear to have a full grasp of the realities of the business world, in general, and the ratings war, in particular.

He was right, as usual, my partner replied.

Heinrich withdrew from the window, but he was soon leaning on the sill again. There was some news. The police had reconstructed the almost inconceivable sequence of events with the aid of statements made by the third child, who had escaped.

On Good Friday morning, the man previously described had accosted the three brothers in a clearing in the forest about a mile from their parents’ home. In a matter-of-fact and not-unfriendly tone of voice, the stranger informed them that their parents were in his power. It was up to them whether their parents escaped with their lives or whether the boys’ behavior would compel him to kill them in a violent and extremely painful manner. The kidnapped boys must do everything he demanded of them, he said.

Just in case they took it into their heads to run away, he would tie one of them — the nine-year-old who later escaped — to himself and, if the other two ran away, put him to death. He expressly mentioned that the cord with which he secured the boy to his belt was two and a half feet in length and ordinarily used for hog-tying.

This done, the man proceeded to film the children and question them. What were their names? How old were they? Which school did they attend, what did their parents do for a living, etc.? The fiend had spent several hours roaming the woods and fields with his weeping victims, questioning and filming them.

He eventually ordered the seven-year-old to climb the tallest tree in the area and got the eight-year-old, who was more agile, to help him. With his older brother’s assistance, the little boy managed to attain a height of thirty-five or forty feet. The older boy then had to climb down again. Still with the camera to his eye, the man ordered the little boy to jump.

This is unbelievable, my partner exclaimed.

Heinrich replied that it was true — he had seen on the Internet a detailed eight-page account of it. My partner told him to go on. Heinrich reported that the man had threatened to exterminate the boy’s entire family if he didn’t jump, beginning with his two brothers. When he continued to hesitate, the man stepped up the pressure and assured him that he would come to no harm; he even promised to catch him. So the little boy eventually jumped and died in consequence. That too was filmed.

At this point, my partner interjected that the killer would soon be caught because his voice was bound to have given him away. She now felt convinced that the video would be shown after all, if only to enable viewers to identify the man by his voice.

This wasn’t so certain, Heinrich replied, because the killer had thoroughly disguised his voice by speaking in a hoarse falsetto. He added that, thanks to the enormity of the crime, television crews were converging on West Styria from all over the world. According to the news, Frauenkirchen, the victims’ hometown, was under siege. “The Crime Goes Global,” ran one headline. A horde of journalists was on the spot, the children’s mother had been committed to the Am Feldhof psychiatric institute, and the surviving boy was in an artificially induced coma.