The Bone Man Page 3

  “My wife’s disappeared!” he shouts, right at Brenner.

  “And you are—”

  “Löschenkohl,” Löschenkohl’s son says and offers Brenner his hand. “You don’t know where my wife’s at, either?”

  Brenner was struck by how soft his hand was, and above all, how at first glance Löschenkohl junior looked nothing like his father. An unpleasant man, that you could tell right away. The way he talked, you know—insulting and demanding at the same time. And so fat and bloated that, next to him, his purpled father looked damn healthy.

  No wonder he didn’t resemble his father, though. Because his father was born in 1929, and he’d enlisted as a sixteen-year-old during the final days of the War. And compared to those who didn’t come back, Löschenkohl was well-served by his mangled lower abdomen. And maybe later, that even proved to be part of the secret to his success—it’s often the case with these ambitious business types that they’re emboldened by a minor set back like that. Anyway, shortly after the War he married a woman who already had a son. Who he was now giving a dressing-down to: “She’ll turn back up. It’s not the first time she’s disappeared for a few days.”

  “But she called me the day before yesterday. Said I absolutely had to come this morning. So that I could talk with the detective.”

  He had to be between forty and fifty, but somehow he reminded Brenner of the baby that Oberascher’s wife had with Schmeller, and everybody knew about it—well, except for Oberascher. And now old man Löschenkohl was really giving his son a talking to, like he was a small child:

  “The bigger problem is that she called Herr Brenner here. And now she herself isn’t even here. And nothing’s been settled, not even how much Herr Brenner charges.”

  The giant baby looked at Brenner now with an injured expression—and all the more aggressive for it, said, “Charge whatever you want.”

  “The Porsche,” Brenner nearly said, just as a joke.

  But he thought better of it because—a serious situation. Two streams of tears had started forming in Löschenkohl junior’s alcoholic eyes. And so Brenner thought to himself: better if I don’t make a joke. Even though he’d come to deeply regret it later.

  CHAPTER 3

  Back before everybody could afford a TV, people went to the bar to watch TV. That, of course, turned into a real meet-and-greet, let me tell you. World Cup in Mexico—all of Klöch was at Löschenkohl’s. And not everybody even got a seat when the Brazilians dizzyingly played the Italians.

  Four to one—I still know it to this day—and all of Klöch on Brazil’s side because Pelé, needless to say, a wizard. And very black, he was a very dark black man, because there are lighter ones, too, but Pelé, black as coal. And white eyes that sparkled, and an artist—you just don’t find that anymore today.

  And you’re not apt to find it anymore, either, none too quickly, because—them over there, they’re doing far too well for themselves. And these days if you grow up in a slum, you’ve already got everything—color TV, VCR—they’ve got it all already, people in slums. And so a boy doesn’t apply himself to his kicking that much anymore—unless it’s a real slum, the motivation’s simply lacking. And let’s say he even goes on to become a decent soccer player—no Pelé, though.

  They could only dream of color TV back then at Löschenkohl’s. And with black-and-white, well, you were just glad if you could even get a picture at first because—often just sound, no picture. And then it’d just be picture, no sound. Or a compromise, bad picture but a little bit of sound. Or, you’d have those pesky stripes, half the picture above the stripes, half the picture below—and Pelé walking on his own head in his Pumas.

  But that was a long time ago, and people have had their own TVs at home for some time now. And those people who were young then are old today. With every World Cup, you think: another four years have gone by, life is but a flash. You buy a radio, then a TV, then a VCR. And then you order a fax machine and the fax mechanic rings your doorbell and you open up the door, but it’s not the fax mechanic—no, it’s the Bone Man come to pick you up. Isn’t this the way it is, if we’re being honest with ourselves?

  Don’t get glum, though. Because even if everything’s changed, one thing today’s still the same as it’s always been. Every fourth Friday of the month, Aktenzeichen XY on TV. And that’s the reason, too, why all of Klöch was back at Löschenkohl’s again on this Friday night—to watch TV. Because whenever the town of Klöch gets a mention on TV, you go to Löschenkohl’s. Because, these days, when everybody’s got everything at home—needless to say, no fun watching TV by yourself.

  A crowd like this, though—old man Löschenkohl couldn’t remember the last time there’d been so many people here, not since Christmas ’57, when they’d first set the TV up. Although Klöch had a hundred and twenty-three more residents back then. Because the young people don’t stay in Klöch anymore, they disappear off into the city or god knows where.

  But of those who do still live in Klöch, they were nearly all there. Even a lot of kids, because these days kids are allowed to watch everything on TV. So you can’t be surprised when they shoot off your skull, right from the playpen.

  The waitresses were under pressure, don’t even ask. Four half-chickens here, a table full of pork knuckles there, six beers over there, and another slice of the house torte, and french fries for the kids. And needless to say, each more impatient than the last: Where’s my pork knuckle, what’s with the lemonade, what’s going on with my schnitzel, do you have to slaughter the chicken first or what?

  Then, the Aktenzeichen XY theme song, and instantly, everybody silent. No shushing, no nothing, it was absolutely quiet in the dining room. Because the skin of a chicken on its way to the fryer is nothing compared to the goosebumps you get from the sound of the Aktenzeichen XY theme song.

  But as everyone was waiting for Eduard Zimmermann to start talking, Jacky started up instead—from the back of the room, and loud, as if the entire town of Klöch had come to listen to him: “Eduard Zimmermann always looks the same. Here’s a guy who doesn’t change. I’d like to think he’s an old criminal who cleared out a money train once and then had his face operated on so that no one would recognize him. And now he doesn’t change anymore.”

  Brenner knew Jacky already. The son of Löschenkohl’s bathroom attendant spent the entire day leaning against the bar with a beer in his hand and talking to people. The Klöch townsfolk were starting to turn around now, out of annoyance, but Jacky wasn’t finished yet.

  “Wouldn’t be a bad hideout if he was hiding out on Aktenzeichen of all places. In the lion’s den. On the other hand, though, what with fingerprinting, they’d get him right away—and off to prison with Eduard the face-lifter.”

  But, now: “Shhh!” and “Quiet!” and “Shut it!” Those were the polite ones. Brenner was surprised that they cut Jacky off like that. Because he actually liked Jacky. His first day there he’d even thought that Jacky was the junior manager. And to be honest, not exactly a surprise that Brenner would come up with an idea like that.

  Jacky was good-looking, in that Italian-lover type of way that women dream about—only later to be disappointed by his character, but please, I could care less. Anyway, at the age of thirty, Jacky already had silver streaks in his black hair and always had a blazer on. That alone gave off a managerial vibe. That and the fact that he chatted with everybody who came in as if he owned the place, of course.

  Old man Löschenkohl leaned over the bar now and whispered something in Jacky’s ear. Then, it was quiet. Because the old man was known for keeping the peace. When a drunkard became a nuisance, it was: pay up and out you go. Jacky caught on quick, and Eduard Zimmermann could begin.

  First, a roundup of the cases from the previous episode: they caught a German money-launderer in the French-speaking part of Switzerland. Needless to say, the French Swiss—no pardon, but be a dear and see that you get home to your high-security prison. Otherwise, not much came out of the last episode, so
they started right in on the new cases.

  “Over to you, Sabine,” Eduard Zimmermann said, because it’s a real family man who puts his own daughter on the lead story. Sabine was hunting down criminals now, too, a clean-cut girl, and she got to announce the first murder.

  And so the first segment got underway. There are always three segments, and in between they use mugshots to look for some minor crook, but the case reenactments—always the high point. Usually one rape segment, one murder segment, and then often there’s a segment where someone just barely escapes—alas only to become paralyzed.

  The first segment, though, wasn’t the Klöch segment. The dining room could relax a little now. Because a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl had gone missing. This you’ve got to picture for yourself. She rode the school bus to school every day—so her parents thought. In reality, though, high-class prostitute in Hamburg, my dear swan. And this is her purse, and please contact the police in Neumünster with any relevant information, ten-thousand-mark reward.

  Normally the Klöch folk would’ve been excited. But today, they were only interested in their own segment. The second segment, though, still not Klöch. And then the third. Unbearable tension as Eduard Zimmermann said, “A particularly mysterious crime was uncovered in May of last year in Styra, Austria.”

  Um, he really shouldn’t have said that. He should’ve done his research beforehand into how it’s pronounced. “It’s pronounced ‘Styr-i-a,’ not ‘Styra,’ ” several tables started cursing right away. Because when you live in a small region of a small country these days, you don’t just let a syllable get taken away like that.

  But maybe it wasn’t so much the syllables. Maybe it was more the apprehension, causing them to lash out. Eduard Zimmermann didn’t let himself get needled, though: “Reporting from our Vienna studio, Peter Nidetzky.”

  “He’s aged since the moon landing,” Jacky said. Because, surely you remember how Nidetzky had been the TV commentator for the 1969 moon landing. After the moon landing fell out of fashion, though, Nidetzky was only allowed to cover dressage. And say what you will, but dressage is no moon landing. With Aktenzeichen XY, Nidetzky still only gets put on the minor scenes, briefly on location in Vienna, but rarely a slick case. Used to be Konrad Tönz reporting from Switzerland, maybe he’d occasionally get a slick case, but Vienna I don’t much remember.

  And so, needless to say, today was Peter Nidetzky’s big day. Years of only dressage, now his voice was about as nervous as it’d been on the day of the first moon landing.

  “Klöch is a sleepy little hamlet in East Styria, perched snug at the border of Hungary and Slovenia. In Austria, an idyll is associated with this landscape of softly rolling hills, an idyll the likes of which can scarcely be found in this day and age, even in the most pristine meadows. Not too far from this well-known Styrian Tuscany, Klöch’s Wine Road has been enjoying increased popularity in recent years. It’s here that you’ll find numerous sights worthy of a day-trip, as well as places to stop for a bite, or to sample the new local wines at the rustic Buschenschanken in the area. The largest and best known of which is the Löschenkohl Grill, situated right in Klöch, a town of just one thousand souls—and it was here that a discovery was made last year, suggesting that it’s anything but a perfect world down here.”

  The Klöchians should’ve gone down in the record books for this, guaranteed: five hundred people in one room, but not a sound, because no one dared gnaw on their drumsticks. They sat as though welded to their seats, not one sip of one beer, no nothing, as Peter Nidetzky spoke in his serious voice about Klöch.

  And that bit about the perfect world. Practically fouling his own nest. Why you would make yourself unpopular, even in the animal kingdom—don’t even ask. Because the people of Klöch were in agreement about all that with the bones having been an outside job.

  But then, the reenactment got under way, and the speaker with the deep voice, you know what I’m talking about: “Monday, October twenty-third, 1995. Klöch, Province of East Styria. The Löschenkohl Grill: a widely popular destination for day-trippers.”

  Now, this was a peculiar experience for the Klöchites. These days, when you see something on TV, you automatically live inside it somehow. And on TV Löschenkohl’s was shown from the outside. But the Klöch folk were sitting there, inside of Löschenkohl’s. A strange feeling to be simultaneously inside and outside, practically a mental split.

  Maybe that was the reason why Egger spilled his beer at that moment, I don’t know.

  Brief excitement, but then the Löschenkohl’s interior was shown, and old man Löschenkohl appeared. But not the real Löschenkohl—who was standing like a Kaiser behind the bar, and constantly fiddling with the volume on the remote control so that everything could be heard at the ideal volume all the time. No, on TV, an actor, of course, so they were just pretending like it was the real Löschenkohl.

  “Sixty-seven-year-old Friedrich Löschenkohl has been running a grill at this location ever since he was a young man. Over the course of the years, he’s built what started out as a modest snack bar into a full-scale gastronomic business.”

  The actor playing Löschenkohl was now handing a patron a fried chicken, nice and crispy—even on TV you could tell. The actor looked nothing like Löschenkohl at all, though, not one bit. He was a real gnome compared to the nearly six-foot-tall proprietor with the remote control in his hand. Although the Styrian tuxedo was spot-on, green lapels and all. The actor was far too chatty, though, so that was off. The real Löschenkohl was a pure stoic, you know, more Buddhist-oriented.

  Then, there was a sudden burst of excitement in the Löschenkohl dining room.

  “As in most provinces, there is a rather limited range of things to do in one’s free time. As such, an even greater emphasis is placed on the local organizations—above all, soccer.”

  For this they had filmed the actual Klöch soccer team in practice, as the Haller boy took a shot on goal—a sweet shot, I’ve got to hand it to him. And the Haller boy—crowning point of his life, don’t even ask. But the goalie was played by an actor again, you could tell right away, because this guy wasn’t the type to merit a parade.

  “Because of its proximity to the border, this minor-league club can draw upon a proud legionary contingent. The star of the team is goalkeeper Goran Milovanovic from the former Yugoslavia.”

  Now the goalie was portrayed walking down the steps to the basement of Löschenkohl’s.

  “When Goran Milovanovic isn’t standing in the goal for FC Klöch, he works at the Löschenkohl Grill. Because Löschenkohl’s is known throughout the region for its fried chicken, the business generates many bones. These bones are then put through a bone-grinding machine located in the cellar of the inn. Among Goran Milovanovic’s tasks: manning the bone-grinder.”

  Now the actor-Milovanovic was shown turning on the machine.

  “When, on the afternoon of October twenty-third, Goran Milovanovic went about his duties as usual, he made a gruesome discovery.”

  The actor playing Milovanovic reached into a mound of chicken bones and pulled out a human femur bone, including the knee, from the machine.

  They pulled a good trick with that one, though. They showed the knee joint in a close-up in the Yugo’s hands, as he bent it back and forth a little. And all of a sudden, they weren’t the Yugo’s hands holding the knee joint anymore, but Peter Nidetsky’s, back in the studio, and the segment was over.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Nidetsky said, “it was this very knee that Goran Milovanovic found, and further search efforts turned up an even greater number of human bones, which, as the forensic analysis has revealed, came from a middle-aged man. The bones are the only evidence we have in this highly mysterious case. We’re searching not just for the perpetrator—of even greater urgency is our search for the victim. Particularly important to us are missing persons from that point in time, who, to this day, haven’t been reported to the police.”

  “If only every one of us who w
ent missing got reported to the police!”

  That was Jacky again who said that. And he was right. As if I even have to say that Jacky was often right. He was more often right in his beer stupor than someone who’s always sober. And it’s the simple truth, even if you don’t want to hear it: every other young person down here disappears, more or less, overnight. Out into the great wide world, as a waiter bound for Tirol, or a construction worker in Linz.

  Saudi Arabia, less so. It’s got its bonuses, but you have to commit to a certain number of years. Nothing’s lacking down there. Women, they’ve got it all there—and back home you’ve got money in the bank. You’d like to think that after a few years you come home and you’ve got it made. But then, when you do come home, you find you’re already more used to Saudi Arabia—often the case that you can’t find your way back into normal life anymore.

  I know of a case like this in the town of Straden—screwed the neighbor’s kid, just a seventeen-year-old boy. They caught him, the kid went to Graz—I don’t know what ever happened to him, but that was twenty years ago. They found the Straden-gone-Saudi a few days later, dead in his workshop. Needless to say, rumors. Just a way of explaining how it can be a problem when you stray too far from home.

  A restlessness was gradually resuming in the dining room now. The Klöchites were disappointed about there not being anything new on Aktenzeichen, not one thing, but of course there hadn’t been anything—nothing they hadn’t known themselves for some time already.

  And then Nidetsky went on about Horvath, who, if it were up to Klöch, could go to hell. “In connection with this case, the Graz Criminal Investigation Bureau is also interested in the disappearance of this man whom you see pictured here. This is renowned artist Gottfried Horvath. After attaining considerable fame, nationally and internationally, he returned to his hometown in East Styria a few years ago. Other artists have followed in his wake, buying up area farms, which, over time, had become unprofitable. Thus, the East Styria of today is home to a not insignificant artists’ colony. Nearly one year ago, Gottfried Horvath disappeared without a trace. There’s been no sign of him to this day.”