Free The Camera Killer by Thomas Glavinic Page A

away ten wasps or so.
    Just as the farmer emerged from the stables, the Stubenrauchs’ car drove into the yard. Heinrich got out with a bundle of newspapers under his arm. The farmer came over to us. He said good morning, more to Heinrich than the rest of us. Heinrich only just had time to nod to us before the farmer, in his usual, overly loud way of speaking, launched into a conversation about the murders. Eva and my partner reacted with unconcealed displeasure, but Heinrich promptly seized on the farmer’s assertion that the killer couldn’t be a local and that such a thing was out of the question.
    While driving, said Heinrich, he had read in the paper that the police were looking for a red sedan of Japanese manufacture with old Styrian license plates. Eva took him to task. He was mad to read while driving, she told him. With a grin, Heinrich pointed out that nothing untoward had happened.
    The farmer said that, although he might believe the bit about the Styrian license plates, the murderer certainly wasn’t from the neighborhood; there were no such persons anywhere in the locality.
    Depositing the newspapers on the table, Heinrich retorted that one couldn’t see inside people’s heads.
    I opened one of the papers. It featured a big picture of a boy pointing with an outstretched arm to a spot at the top of a tree. A black, downward-pointing arrow had been drawn from that spot to indicate the jumping-off point, the victim’s trajectory, and his point of impact. My partner, who had initially averted her gaze, leaned over and asked if that was the surviving child.
    No, I said, it was a faked photograph; the tree was authentic but not the boy.
    Incredible, that tree, said the farmer. He knew the forest, it was a good place for picking mushrooms, he’d been there more than once but had never guessed that something so terrible would happen there someday—how could he? The killer must be found at all costs and made short work of. So saying, he turned and ambled back to his house.
    Heinrich sat down at the table at last. Hurriedly, he poured himself a cup of coffee, then took a bite out of a dry roll and immersed himself in a newspaper. Wouldn’t he at least put some butter on it? Eva demanded. Heinrich merely grunted, said Hmm, and remained totally incommunicado.
    She said he should restrain himself. He mustn’t forget that their guests hadn’t made the long journey to Styria just to watch television and read newspapers. This was a day for relaxation and amicable conversation, she said, so put the paper away.
    Heinrich laughed and did as he was told, but he said he couldn’t detach himself from the tragedy completely. He had at least to keep abreast of events during the day or his curiosity would choke him. Eva and my partner rolled their eyes but conceded this, whereupon he jumped up and hurried into the house. She hadn’t meant it that way, Eva called after him, but he had disappeared.
    Pretexting a visit to the bathroom, I likewise went inside, pursued by the women’s cries of disapproval. Heinrich, with anewspaper open on his knees, was seated in front of the television perusing the news. In a conspiratorial tone of voice, he said he was acquainted with a policeman who performed his duties in Frauenkirchen. He felt strongly tempted to call him, or even to pay him a visit; we might be able to glean some information that hadn’t been publicized by the newspapers or on television.
    I reminded him that such a course of action would inevitably result in protests from the female members of our foursome. Shaking his head, Heinrich said they must be given some incentive for taking an equal interest in the progress of the case. When I inquired about the nature of this incentive, he replied in one word: Fear.
    It would be reprehensible of us, he said with a grin, but we could at least inspire a certain uneasiness, for instance by reporting rumors that the killer was on the loose somewhere nearby; I need only remember