The team gathered in a special room in the headquarters canteen for their Vespers meal, a light supper of bread, cheese, sliced meats and pickles. No alcohol was allowed. “I’ll treat you all to a good drink at the end of this evening’s assignment,” Inspector Rautz said as he raised his glass filled with mineral water. Then he offered a toast. “To a complete success.”
The other officers all lifted their glasses. “To complete success.”
Shortly after eight, the team was taken to the area of operations in two police vehicles. After dropping off the members of the team, the vehicles drove off; they didn’t want the suspect to see two police cars sitting together and get suspicious.
The group then broke up into its three components: the café, the bench north of the bridge, and just south of the bridge. By 8:40, they were all in place, guarding their positions as if guarding a patch of sacred ground.
Inspector Rautz, however, took up his post in the café itself, towards the back. He had decided to supervise the operation from a safe distance. But he served another important function there, as he explained to the front-line officers. He had to sit there with the café owner and keep him calm, assuring him as often as need be that his establishment was safe, that there would be no gunplay in or around the café.
While there had been anticipation, even excitement, from the time they first left for the Ebersdorfer Bridge until they had taken their places, as nine o’clock neared, the mood had changed radically. At about ten to nine, it was a free-floating uneasiness; five minutes later, this uneasiness had increased considerably. Then, as the minutes squeezed ever closer to the top of the hour, it swelled into raw tension.
Stebbel could read it in the face and neck of Officer Koubek, the young cop chosen to stand post with him. He also noticed that Koubek was doing flexing exercises with his right hand, the one he used to fire a gun. Was this a good sign for a sharpshooter? Or just the opposite?
He then noticed that his own hand was shaking. When he turned and saw that their “waiter” was also flexing his hands and fingers, he decided to do likewise.
Not too far from where Stebbel was sitting, Dörfner felt his old army injury acting up. This sometimes happened when he was extremely tense, but it was especially unwelcome then. The inspector knew that he might need to move quickly and deftly when the suspect appeared, and an old pain throbbing in his leg was the last thing he needed.
But that wasn’t the only pain he felt. His neck was also starting to ache, something that occurred only when he was extremely tense. He rubbed his neck vigorously, hoping to work out the ache. When he gazed over at his own partner, Officer Schildhauer, he saw extreme nervousness in his face. He also saw his lips moving and then realized that Schildhauer was praying. Dörfner himself then made the sign of the cross, closed his eyes briefly, and asked for guidance in the task to come.
Then it was nine o’clock, the time the caller claimed Brunner would arrive. But as the bells tolled nine in a nearby church, no one had come. No one at all. All the policemen breathed a sigh – a sigh equal parts relief and impatience.
There was no heightened tension from the previous high level until another five minutes had passed – and no suspect had come by. In fact, no one at all had come by. Another five minutes later, Brunner was still a no-show and when 9:15 arrived and there was still no prime suspect, the entire stakeout team was nearing the breaking point.
Inspector Prenger started counting backwards from thirty. When he reached zero, he turned to his junior, Officer Kern, and said, “Well, he’s now officially fifteen minutes late. Das akademische Viertel. If this were a classroom, we could leave immediately.” Then, with a wry smile: “Don’t you wish you were back at school?”
From the back of the café, Senior Inspector Rautz gazed at his watch for about the fortieth time in the last twenty minutes. He had seen no movement from the three officers outside, so he could only assume that the suspect had not appeared yet. Gingerly, he moved a little closer to the front window and craned his neck to see what he could see. What he saw was a quiet evening scene, dimly lit, with no one in view other than Inspector Stebbel, Officer Koubek and Officer Griesser in waiter’s dress.
Rautz then looked at his watch again, the second time in less than a minute. He decided that if this Brunner person did not show up in the next five … well, maybe ten minutes, he would call the action off. He didn’t want to waste the time of his own best people and the highly praised street policemen they had with them.
There would always be other opportunities, he decided. This whole thing had probably been a very mean, tasteless joke by someone who did not have the proper respect for Vienna’s police force and its men.
Across the river, Prenger had just bent over to check a security rope placed under the bench when Officer Kern tapped him lightly on the shoulder and cautiously pointed towards a figure approaching along the river bank.
Within moments, it was clear this figure was a male. A fairly tall and burly male. At the bridgehead, the man stopped, looked around, then started onto the bridge. About ten meters in, he turned … looked around again. Prenger and Kern, facing each other, pretended to be involved in a heated discussion. As Prenger’s back was now turned to the bridge, he whispered to Kern, “Tell me if starts coming back.”
“No,” Kern replied. “No. In fact, now he’s started walking again, towards the middle.”
“Then let’s count to five, get up slowly, and join him.”
Both officers pulled out their revolvers, index fingers pushed against the triggers. They were ready for any thing that might happen, expected or unexpected.
Meanwhile, Dörfner and Schildhauer started moving across the bridge, on the opposite side from the large man. The man had now reached the middle of the bridge and taken up a position in front of the John of Nepomuk statue, as had been forecast by the anonymous “friend of justice”.
When he saw this pair approaching on the other side, he turned and pretended to be looking into the Danube, admiring the view. Across from him, Dörfner briefly turned and pointed towards the river. This was the signal for Stebbel and the two sharpshooters at the café to commence their advance.
Meanwhile, Schildhauer clutched a small rock he had brought along and threw that into the river, as close to the north side as possible. A quarter century before the invention of the walkie-talkie, this was the way police and military personnel communicated with each other on operations such as this one.
But Prenger and Kern had already vacated the bench and started across the bridge, treading the same side as the late arrival. As soon as he saw them out of the corner of his eye, Dörfner whispered to Schildhauer, “Now!”
Both officers spun around, guns drawn. Dörfner barked out: “Herr Brunner – it’s the police. Please turn around, raise your hands and put them high in the air.”
The man across the way spun around abruptly. For the first time, Dörfner saw his face. And he could see that, except for the cold fear now etched there, it was the same face as in Herr Hitler’s sketch. He also saw that the man had moved his right hand to his chest, the fingers just sliding under the jacket. He shouted once more. “Brunner – raise your hands. High! Right now!”
Instead, the man started back in the direction he had come from. But after just a few steps, he saw the other two officers advancing on him, guns drawn. He stopped and leaned against the railing as a smile spread slowly across his face. And then, he started humming. A waltz tune, with the smile on his face broadening as he hummed.
He then started swaying his shoulders, in rhythm to the tune he was humming. Dörfner tightened the pressure on his trigger. His throat almost painfully dry, he managed to yell again. “Herr Brunner – last chance. Raise your hands. High!”
Instead of following this order, Brunner reached into his jacket and started to pull something out. There was no possibility they would wait to see exactly what he was pulling out. Dörfner shouted, “Open fire!” At almost the same moment, he heard Prenger shout the same order.
By the time Dörfner had taken aim, the suspect had swirled just as the first bullets, from the guns of Prenger and Kern, tore into his left leg. He let out a scream of pain and fell awkwardly against the bridge railing. But even though wounded, he managed to pull out what looked like a gun.
Dörfner again barked: “Fire!” He and Schildhauer started firing, one right after the other, as if taking turns in a shooting gallery contest. Four bullets ripped through the left side of the man’s chest; a large blotch of dark appeared where they had entered.
A look of shock filled that face Dörfner had seen repeated times in roiling dreams and the man pitched forward. Seven policemen quickly converged on the large figure, now sprawled over the walkway. Stebbel, Koubek and Griesser had rushed up, but got to the action just as the shooting had ceased. By the time they arrived at the scene, Schildhauer and Prenger had turned the man over, onto his back. As Stebbel approached, he peered at Dörfner. Dörfner nodded.
“Brunner. It is Brunner.” Stebbel looked down at the figure on the ground and nodded in agreement. “He’s gone. It’s over. It’s all over.”
The two partners then knelt down and stared closely at the face of the man who had obsessed their lives over the last few weeks. His eyes were wide open, staring upwards.
Dörfner pointed down at the face. “Look at those eyes. Like he still sees something. It looks like he’s …”
Stebbel finished the thought. “Like he’s staring out at something terrifying.” Dörfner nodded.
As they rose, they stared at each other. Dörfner then spontaneously reached over and put both arms around his partner and lowered his head against him. “We got him, Steb. We got him. The whole mess is over.” Stebbel squeezed him in return. The other five officers on the detail looked away for a few moments, allowing these two men who had spent so much energy and emotional capital trying to capture this killer have the moment to themselves.
But it lasted little more than a few moments. Stebbel and Dörfner then broke their embrace and stepped away, both of them embarrassed at this spontaneous show of stored emotions. Prenger stepped over and gave a comradely pat on the shoulder to both men. And then Stebbel croaked out a downbeat note.
“But I wanted him alive. I wanted to interrogate. There were so many … things left unanswered.”
“We had no choice, Inspector,” Prenger said. “He drew his gun. He was not going to give up. It was his life or ours.” Stebbel looked at Dörfner, who nodded sadly.
By this time, Inspector Rautz had made his way out of the café and was moving as quickly as he could to join the others. He still had no idea what had gone down, but he saw a body sprawled across the pedestrian walk. He started counting the men standing around the body. Five … six … seven. It wasn’t one of his men; he was exulted.
He finally reached the group and put his arm around Stebbel’s shoulder.
Stebbel then shook his head, still awash in regret. “But I wanted to interrogate him. I had questions. I had so many questions I needed to ask him.”
Staring down at the face, Prenger said, “Don’t worry: it looks like wherever he is now, he’s being called upon to answer some very difficult questions.”