He had done as ordered and had laid low after the murder of Landau. The police had not called him in again. The newspapers at the kiosk he used to visit when he ran out of beer at night had newspapers with headlines about a serial killer everywhere. It probably kept them busy. Attention whores. Nobody would tell them what good kids they were for finding out Landau’s murderer, but every little pervert piece of background released was applauded as detailed police work. They hadn’t even got a clue as to why it had been done. The motive rested in a metal box under Brockmann’s old bed.

Fornby had found out a lot, but it had not answered any questions. The police had indeed got an anonymous tip for a series of murders. They had even tracked down the person who made the call. Sandra Folkert. A young woman whose address had been hard to come by, even for cops. Gratefully Fornby had got it, so the legwork was not Brockmann’s problem.

The street was called Große Schulternblatt and it was amidst the so-called Schanze, the unofficial center of counter-culture and left-winged radicals. The yearly riots were legendary. Of course, that was all more of myth than truth nowadays.

Marketing experts and hipsters had conquered the place, and they were proud of living there because it was hip and showed their open-mindedness. Brockmann had also read that young left-wing girlies were the easiest to get.

Some things never changed.

Here Sandra had put up camp, right next to a rather large club that was simply called House 73. Brockmann found her door and the label said Folkert/Bleicher with a large black cross through Bleicher. Brockmann made a mental note and gave the rotten old door a little push. It opened with a crack and no real opposition. He got in and walked up the stairs.

Sandra Folkert had told the police about him and his murder of Landau, and he had spent all night and half a bottle of Korn to find out how she knew. He had come up with nothing. He didn’t know her. She was supposedly in her early twenties. Brockmann was pretty sure he knew nobody that age, at all.

So, he knew the drill. Watch her, scout her habits, and make sure he knew everything about her. Steal her post, crawl through garbage to find it if he had to. He felt too old and exposed for that. She knew about him and he knew next to nothing about her.

That, and there was this tickling in the back of his head. He had woken up with it and also gone to bed with it for two weeks now. It was the feeling that he was losing too much time and that he would regret it. This feeling had ruined the whole return to active duty for him. That and his back, which had gotten worse, were the feelings he had to deal with.

So, he would take an offensive strategy, which was the fancy military-sounding way to say he would confront her. If he had to, he would kick in that door and interrogate her.

He made it up the stairs. He had prided himself for how fit he was but had to admit the stairs had been easier for him once.

He found her door, gave himself a moment to rest, and heard her voice behind it. She was at home. Good.

He knocked at the door almost violently. She kept on talking but seemingly ending her conversation with someone now. He waited. Knocked again. Waited. His hand went to his gun and he wondered if she was the kind of girl who was right now climbing out of the window. Eventually, though, she answered it by opening the door.

Brockmann felt disheartened right away. He had imagined beating the shit out of her while yelling at her, demanding answers. Now there was a sad-looking young lady who had taken a very futile effort to look like a follower of gothic fashion.

“Yes?” she asked. Brockmann had imagined her to be a lot taller. She was tiny actually. Petite, as they called it sometimes. Skinny, he usually said.

“Brockmann,” he said. A sad smile came upon her face, one that a girl had ever given to a man and then she opened the door.

“I know. Come in,” she said as he entered the flat. It was really only a small room with a few boxes, a kitchen corner, and a lot of empty bottles. Mostly wine, he realized. This girl was drinking too much for her age.

“Well, let us start by you telling me how you know?” Brockmann said as she closed the door. At the door to her bedroom, polaroids were tabbed to the wood. She and a boy, she and an older man. The first was recent, the second was older. Brockmann made slits out of his eyes and tried to memorize them.

“You would not believe me,” Sandra said and smiled at him again.

“Try me.” Brockmann turned to her.

“I’m a psychic.” She looked at Brockmann. He didn’t laugh, ever. Though, if he had, he would have laughed at her now.

“Bullshit,” he spat at her instead.

“Why? You don’t believe in the supernatural?” Sandra asked, giving him another smile now, a wicked one. It looked trained though.

“Because psychics don’t exist. Anyway, what you actually mean is a clairvoyant, I believe. Though, they don’t exist either.” Brockmann now brought himself up to full height. “So, I am too old, too tired, too tense, and not patient enough to listen to your bullshit. There are no psychics.“

“Did they teach you that in the Nocturne Society?” Sandra asked. Brockmann stared at her. He curled up his lip. She got him cold there. Nobody was supposed to know about it, let alone that he had been . . .

Ripping her almost off her feet, he grabbed her throat and rammed her against the wall. His gun came out of hiding and he put it right to her head. Then he stared at her.

“Who are you?” Brockmann asked.

“Go ahead, shoot me,” she just hissed, “I am tired of waiting. Let’s get this over with.” She closed her eyes, pressing them together.

Brockmann realized she was probably crazy. He let her go.

“Wait, for what?” Brockmann asked, putting his hands next to her on both sides and staring at her directly. She tried to avoid his gaze, but he followed her. “Wait, for WHAT?” He yelled again.

“The thing. The monster. I have seen it outside. Yesterday on the roof. Today it was in the cellar. It found me,” Sandra said.

“There are no monsters,” Brockmann said and pushed himself away from the wall.

“Not anymore. Yes, I was told the same. My Dad always said that. There are no monsters anymore. But one is still out there, and it’s coming to get me. I don’t . . . Want to be eaten.” She had tears welling in her eyes.

Brockmann understood what had happened. He knew the effect the truth had on people. He knew the whole truth. He knew at least most of it. For someone who had only gotten a glimpse of it, it had to be shattering. It questioned what people believed to be real. This sacred objective canon of knowledge they were hiding behind. Never seeing proof was probably even worse. So, her brain had made up the truth that she was too young to have witnessed such. She had seen a monster.

“Listen, girl. There are no monsters. There never were.” He sighed.

“Don’t lie to me,” Sandra said. “They were real. As real as you and me,” she spat. Brockmann shook his head.

“How did you know . . . How did you come up with the story you told the police?” Brockmann asked.

“The monster found me, but before that, I found the monster. It knows you,” Sandra said.

“Some of my friends are real assholes, but none of them I would call a monster,” he said and turned. “Not while I am sober.” He thought he should go. Clearly, she was mentally unstable. Him being here gave her story credibility that she would not have had otherwise.

“But you have no friends,” Sandra replied. Brockmann turned to her. “I watched you. I recognized that button on your jacket.” She pointed to the small black button. Brockmann looked down at it and then at her. It was the membership insignia of the Nocturne Society. He felt naked without it. An old habit.

“How?” he asked.

“Seen it before. Far away from here.” She smiled triumphantly.

Brockmann’s eyes turned to slits. “That was you, right? The girl leaving the newspaper on the bench,” he said. Sandra Folkert had set him up.

Sandra smiled. “I tried to get your attention to the case for a week. You are really not very perceptive. A bit rusty, I guess. I almost gave up. Thought you were probably retired and that was a good thing.”

Brockmann shook his head and sighed, “That is your monster, I see. That is why you are afraid to be eaten.” He nodded. Yes, Landau was enough to push a fragile psyche over the edge. “It's dead,” Brockmann said. “You’ve got nothing to fear of him.”

“I don’t think so,” Sandra said, “Or was this a confession?” She asked Brockmann directly.

Brockmann looked at her. Was he set up? Was she working for the police?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ll go now.” What an old fool he was. She had been trying to get him arrested before. It had been a terrible mistake to come here. If any of the others had picked this one up, he would not have exposed himself so badly. He walked to the door and Sandra almost leaped to her kitchen corner. He turned instinctively to see what she was doing and saw she had a gun. Pointing it at him, he got out his gun in one fluid motion.

“Don’t do anything stupid, girl!” He yelled at her. Her hand was shaking. Then he understood that she was still trying to get killed. Brockmann shook his head. “I won’t shoot you.”

“The monster is real and after it takes me it will get Simon Bleicher.” She said, “It knows you. It fears you, I believe.” She said and her hand grew calm.

“Put the gun down and we can talk about your monster,” Brockmann said.

“You don’t believe me. You think I made it up. There are no monsters anymore, right?”

“Put it down. Now.” Brockmann hissed and aimed. He didn’t want to shoot a poor, confused girl.

Sandra nodded. “I know how I can make you believe me,” she said.

“No. Don’t,” Brockmann said.

Sandra fired a shot and Brockmann instinctively pulled the trigger. She was hit in the chest and thrown back against the fridge. She gasped and slid down, leaving a red slur of blood on it. Brockmann closed his eyes and lowered his gun. He knew he should run before someone called the police. The good thing in Germany was that there was a chance nobody knew what a shot sounded like. He had to trust that. He took quick steps over to her and saw that she was growing pale. Smiling at him, she opened her mouth to say something.

“Stupid little girl, why did you do this?” He took the gun out of her hand. Already when he touched it, he knew it was a prop. Blanks. She had shot blanks at him. Looking at her she was dead, her eyes glassy. Brockmann knelt in front of her.

“You stupid little girl.”

****

“Your turn,” Simon said, looking at Brockmann. Brockmann looked back and the boy could not keep eye contact. If he asked his next question, he knew what Simon Bleicher would ask. He would not let him.

“I'm done.” Brockmann stood up.

“No, no way am I gonna let you leave.” Simon jumped to his feet.

“There is no way you can keep me from leaving.” Brockmann sighed. “Listen. Don’t follow this any further. Get outta town. This will be taken care of.” He saw that it had not given the boy comfort.

“I want to help,” Simon said. Stupid bravery of the youth.

“Help with what?” Brockmann asked.

“Find the killer. Find the monster!” Simon said. Brockmann stared at him. He was indeed going to hunt the monster because it could not exist and yet because he knew it did. Simon seemed to see it in his eyes.

“You have seen it, Brockmann. Haven’t you?” he asked. Brockmann shook his head.

“No more questions, kid. I’m leaving.” He went to the door and Simon followed him.

“I know where it got out. Out of the subway system,” Simon said. Brockmann turned towards him.

“How would you know that? You said yourself you only saw it once.” The boy was clearly lying to make himself appear valuable.

“Well, simple logic. S-Bahn Königstraße, the tunnel I saw it in was leading in the direction of Altona central station. Quite a busy place, even at night. Lots of homeless people, but also train traffic, police, all that. I doubt it could walk out there and tell people it was all just makeup,” Simon said. Brockmann turned and nodded. He agreed.

“It is a very short distance, very short indeed between the stations. There is actually only one maintenance entrance, which is in the sewer at Alte Königstraße, a small side street . . .”

“I know Alte Königstraße,“ Brockmann said. He had spent weeks there waiting for Landau to reveal himself. It was where someone had painted the sign. It was where Landau had tried to kill the homeless. It was now where the monster left the subway system and probably vanished in the shadows or even the sewer system. A lot of things happened on that small street.

“The only exit. It had to go out there,” Bleicher said. He gave Brockmann a smile. “I can help. Think about it.”

Brockmann looked at him. The boy was smarter, much smarter than him. Brockmann disliked him for it. But he also felt the boy didn’t deserve any of this. This hunt seemed like the type in which the hunter would never return.

Nevertheless, Brockmann nodded and opened the door.

“You’ve seen it too then, haven’t you?” Simon asked.

Brockmann turned one last time around, facing him.

“A question for a question, you said,” Simon insisted.

“I asked no question,” Brockmann said.

“You asked how I could know where it got out, right? That was a question,” Simon said. Brockmann sighed. He had not asked about the murderer.

“Yes, I have seen it.” He left through the door, knowing he had made it unlikely that the boy would let it be. He had to find the monster before he got himself killed.

“So, it is real?” Simon yelled after him.

“You bet it is,” Brockmann said to himself as he walked down the stairs.

****

Brockmann was staring at Sandra while processing the conversation, thinking of a solid reason why she committed suicide. There was a knock at the door. Dammit, he cursed in his head. A neighbor checking on her, perhaps. Someone had heard the shots, but it was too soon for it to be the police.

He pushed himself up, which was harder than he wanted it to be, and went to the door and looked through the peephole.

There were no monsters.

He had to remind himself of that.

Because he looked at one and his blood froze in his veins.

A terribly inhuman voice from the outside said just one word.

“Hi.”