Thomas Glavinic: The Camera Killer

They won’t find a soul, said Heinrich. Eva asked why he was so annoyed. Heinrich condemned the incompetence of people who allowed a murderer to roam around on the loose. He took a swig of beer and shook his head. Chuckling, he said he was going to tell their neighbor to reload his rifle. Eva gave him a warning glance.

Silence fell.

My partner drew our attention to the impressive amounts of rain falling outside. Eva shivered. Heinrich rubbed her arms and told her to shut the window. My partner wanted it left open, saying she liked the sound and the atmosphere it created. For all that, she added, she had a bad feeling — a sinister presentiment — though she couldn’t be more precise about its nature.

Another silence fell.

Eva asked whether we felt like a hot meal tonight or if bread, spreads, eggs, and smoked ham would suffice. After a while, Heinrich said he didn’t mind. My partner said a cold buffet would be quite enough, and I seconded her.

Because none of us could bestir ourselves sufficiently to engage in conversation or some other form of activity, Heinrich turned back to the television. This time, the women raised no objection.

Several channels were transmitting live reports from Frauenkirchen, which was also affected by rain. Heinrich switched to the channel that had broadcast the murder video the previous night. There too a reporter was speaking from the victims’ hometown. Standing beneath a big umbrella, he stated that, at this moment, while a positively biblical tempest was descending on the sorely afflicted community like a sign from heaven, the police were seeking a definite suspect in the vicinity. The trail was warm, it had been announced, and the reporter added his personal opinion: In conversation with a senior police officer, he had gained the impression that the police were very sure of themselves this time.

Heinrich said he could hardly wait.

Back at the studio, the anchorwoman referred to the protests against the transmission of the murder video. The broadcasters had handled the subject responsibly, she claimed. They had received endorsements and other favorable responses from various quarters. They had asked themselves what had happened within the Austrian community and whether everyone was fully aware of it. At a time of alarming moral decline, when human life was merely a statistical quantity that was devaluing every day, people should display the courage shown by those in charge of the TV station. It had been, and still was, their duty to publicize the full dimensions of the crime.

At this point, reference was made to the station’s fundraising drive for the benefit of the bereaved, whose account number was given. There followed a brief summary of what had happened.

They’re like a dog with a bone, said Heinrich.

The screen was now showing some shots of Frauenkirchen. A spokesman briefly recapitulated the course of events. His report finally reached the point at which reference was made to the murders themselves. This child was doomed to die, he said. In slow motion, with the original soundtrack replaced by unearthly music, we were shown a long shot of the weeping, snot-nosed, gap-toothed brother up the tree. The music steadily increased in volume and became more dramatic the longer the shot lasted. An account number appeared.

After some three minutes, another patch of forest came into view. The death of the second boy was imminent. To the same unearthly music, the despairing face of the long-haired brother was shown as he crouched in the tree with his eyes screwed up and his chin adorned with snot and saliva. Once more, the music rose in a dramatic crescendo until Eva, when the account number was inserted, asked Heinrich to change channels or, better still, to turn off the television altogether. Heinrich complied without hesitation.

They would stop at nothing, he said; showing something like that at this time was the bitter end.

My partner went over to the window and looked out.

Heinrich stared into space, cracking his knuckles occasionally. After about five minutes, he suggested a game of table tennis. Eva didn’t feel like it. Neither did my partner, who went to the table to light a cigarette and returned to the window.

After another five minutes or so, Heinrich said we could always play rummy. Thirty or forty seconds elapsed before Eva replied that she had no objection. Heinrich called to my partner to tear herself away from the window and join in. She nodded and returned to the table. I also announced my willingness to play.

Eva stood up and went to get the playing cards, which she deposited on the table with a weary gesture. Then she went out. Heinrich called after her. Where was she off to? he demanded. She was only fetching a jacket, she replied. She was back within two minutes.

Heinrich had meantime gotten out the cards, together with paper and a ballpoint pen for keeping the score. After we had been playing for around twenty minutes (Eva was in the lead, followed by me, my partner, and Heinrich, in that order), we heard a voice ring out outside. It grew louder. My partner, who had been hunched over the low coffee table while playing, straightened up and asked whom it could be. Her question was promptly answered: The voice was now coming from inside the house.

Moments later, the Stubenrauchs’ farmer neighbor strode into the living room, heedless of the fact that the filth on his rubber boots was soiling the wooden floor. Had we heard? he asked, looking at Heinrich. That youngster wasn’t the killer, he went on, waving his arms about. He’d thought as much — it couldn’t have been anyone from around here. He’d heard it on the radio it wasn’t that boy.

Heinrich asked if there was any new information.

It wasn’t that youngster, the farmer reiterated; that had been obvious from the outset. How could they have gone and arrested a young man from the neighborhood?

Heinrich inquired whether the farmer had spoken with his friend in the police. The farmer said they might never catch the killer, who was bound to be long gone. Heinrich rose and towed the farmer outside, saying that he had to show him something; he didn’t know how to carry out a certain repair to the house.

After the two of them had left the living room, my partner expressed surprise that the farmer had simply breezed into the house like that.

It was the custom around here and far from unusual, Eva replied. One morning shortly after they’d moved in, when Heinrich was still on leave because of the move, they were in bed together. Suddenly, the bedroom door opened to reveal the postman standing there. It’d taken them an embarrassing few seconds to disentangle themselves and pull up the bedclothes. The postman hadn’t turned a hair. Far from beating an apologetic retreat, he’d handed over a certified letter and, in the overly loud voice typical of the locality, insisted on Heinrich signing for it. Heinrich blew a gasket, said Eva; he got out of bed and signed for the letter stark naked. As if that were not enough, the postman had spent a while talking, in his uncouth voice, about their move and the characteristics of the local weather at various times of year. He had also introduced himself and, with an eye to business, drawn their attention to his private poultry farm. Then, and only then, had he finally left the bedroom and the house.

My partner inquired if the postman had displayed any other signs of mental derangement. None, Eva replied; such behavior was quite customary here. Workmen, chimney sweeps, mayors, sports clubs, brass bands, ticket sellers for the firemen’s ball — all entered without knocking. If they found no one in the living room or kitchen, they blithely combed the whole house without evil intent.

My partner said she wouldn’t stand for such behavior; in the Stubenrauchs’ place, she would keep the front door locked at all times.