Programmed

By Mike Monczunski

A series of grisly murders by deeply troubled young men has Frankfurt on edge. Pressured by growing media attention and hindered by his bosses’ skepticism, gritty detective Lars Kubach believes the murders are related.
His investigation uncovers multiple suspects, a doomsday cult, a doctor prescribing experimental medicine, and a mysterious youth counselor, all of whom may be involved.
Battling his growing alcoholism and falling for a woman with a questionable past linked to the case, Lars has his faith in everything challenged as he struggles with the recent loss of his mother and brother and feelings for his ex-wife.
Dealing with a heat wave and a crime wave Lars must save Frankfurt’s image in time for a major upcoming tourist event before his personal demons threaten to plunge his life out of control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369423172

Mike Monczunski

Mike Monczunski is an Army veteran. He majored in history and journalism at Wayne State University, Detroit Michigan. A father of two children, in his spare time he enjoys reading, writing, and classic board wargaming.

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Copyright © 2024 by Mike Monczunski.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book is a work of fiction set in Frankfurt Germany. All fictional locations and organizations are italicized. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons is unintended.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/11/2024

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

860555

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

German / English Equivalents

CHAPTER ONE

D IE BROTCHENSTELLE IS SERGEANT JÜRGEN Detweiler’s daily first stop.

Inhaling fresh coffee and warm baked goods, he nods curtly at the familiar faces waiting in line.

Please respond to a one ten about bodies at the Frauen Helfen Zentrum.

The shrill alert quiets the café, a woman stops sipping tea, a suited businessman slowly lowers his newspaper.

Stern faced, Detweiler unhooks his belt radio.

I’m on the way.

Customers step aside as he hurriedly leaves the line.

Their curious faces follow his Polizei cruiser zipping past the café’s window with lights flashing.

Is that an abortion clinic? the businessman asks.

Yes, it’s by the Red-light district. the woman answers.

Anxious hushed conversations sweep through the café.

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His flashers left on, Detweiler flings his door open.

A brunette in a beige pantsuit and high heels waits for him with a horrified face.

Oh my God, oh my God! she screams through her hands.

Detweiler unsnaps his holster.

Where are they?

She doubles over with coughing spasms, her trembling hand waving to the clinic entrance.

Where inside? he barks.

In his office.

He brushes past her, ignoring her choked vomiting.

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Gripping his pistol, Detweiler gently pushes the door.

Skinny ribbons of morning sunlight filter through the office window’s closed blinds.

His darting eyes scan the office.

A computer tower hums quietly on an oak desk.

He picks up and reads a brass nameplate.

Doctor Mikel Klinsmann OB/GYN.

The office bathroom door is wide open.

Detweiler freezes, staring at a pair of ankles in slacks jutting out-the wingtip shoes pointing up like skis.

His peek inside makes him glad he missed breakfast.

Doctor Klinsmann lays face up, legs together, arms stretched wide, his unfocused eyes fixed at the ceiling.

Jagged bloody trails trickle from a metal wire wrapped around his throat.

The second body lays face down across his chest. Blood matted hair, shattered bone fragments and brain pulp cover a gaping head wound.

A Sig Sauer compact pistol lies in a congealed pool of blood next to the bodies.

Detweiler unhooks his radio, crouches over them, and spots a bullet hole bored through a ceiling tile.

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Rocking back and forth on the curb with her knees pulled to her chest, the brunette flinches when Detweiler offers a tissue from his pocket.

Can you tell me what happened?

Dabbing her tear puffed cheeks, she sighs without looking up.

I’m his secretary, when I arrived our security door was unlocked.

Did doctor Klinsmann forget to lock it?

I don’t know. He’s usually a few minutes late after me.

"There’s a red x spray painted on the door. How long

has it been there?"

It wasn’t there Friday when I left.

What did you do next?

I knocked and entered his office. The bathroom door was open…I saw his feet…I thought maybe he passed out… that’s when…

She buries her face in her hands, trembling with choked sobs.

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A WEEK LATER SATURDAY AFTERNOON

A tinkling pentacle door chime announces a visitor.

Frau Horst glances at her watch. Four fifty, ten minutes to closing.

Sniffing fresh spray paint, she bookmarks her page, setting Life of The Goddess on the glass counter.

Back turned, his face hidden by a navy-blue hoodie, the visitor lingers at a display carousel of ankhs, birthstones, and amulets.

He doesn’t return her friendly Guten Tag.

Sir, may I help you?

He spins around, pulling a gun from his waistband.

Frau Horst gasps, stumbling backward.

Her last memories…his vacant eyes and a blinding flash.

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The visitor drags Frau Horst’s body behind the blood-splattered counter, carefully arranging her-face up, arms wide, legs together.

He kneels down and rips her blouse open.

Uncapping a felt tip marker from his pocket he writes a set of numbers on her exposed chest.

He puts the pistol to his temple.

It is finished…

He squeezes–the bullet explodes through the left side of his head.

Dead instantly, he drops face down across Frau Horst’s body.

The first Monday morning customer finds the bodies.

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WEDNESDAY: BAHNHOFSVIERTEL POLIZEI STATION

A fiery oblong sun setting behind hazy motionless clouds turns Frankfurt’s skyline a dazzling red.

Alone in his windowless office, Detective Lars Kubach will miss it as usual.

A monotone voice on his office radio delivers Hessischer Rundfunk’s top of the hour news headlines.

He yawns and sets aside the crime scene photos and officer Detweiler’s notes on his desk.

He stretches, leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

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A red sharpie was found at the scene. The killer used it to write the numbers twenty-two eighteen under her left breast.

Medical Examiner Gerhard Schmidt looks up from the morgue’s steel gurney.

His gaze locked on Frau Horst’s pallid corpse; Lars vigorously scratches his silver brush cut.

Doctor Klinsmann had similar red numbers on his left palm.

Schmidt tilts an eyebrow.

Are you suggesting a connection?

It’s possible, considering the body arrangements and both killers committing suicide at the scene.

Perhaps they knew each other?

I’m not sure I’m waiting on their background checks…

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Wake up detective.

Lars lifts his head from his folded arms and blinks, trying to focus on the blurred silhouette at his door.

A peaked officer’s cap hides Hauptmann Dieter Baumann’s receding hairline. A loose-fitting shirt vainly covers his drooping stomach paunch.

He holds up a manila folder.

Here are the background checks Lars.

Wunderbar, now we’re getting somewhere.

Are you feeling all right? Your eyes are really red.

I’m just not sleeping well sir.

"You burn too much midnight oil. Better get some rest. Don’t forget my retirement party is Sunday at the Kaiser Bistro. Plenty of food and all the Weisen you can drink."

Lars matches Baumann’s chubby grin.

Wouldn’t miss it for the world sir.

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CHAPTER TWO

A SILENT TELEVISION’S SOFT BLUE FLICKERING light fills the room with dancing sha dows.

Six empty Dortmunder Union bottles surround a mustard smeared plate of currywurst remnants on a coffee table.

Face down on his couch Lars snores fitfully.

Guten Morgen sir, I am Lars Kubach your new detective.

A thinner fuller haired Baumann sets his coffee tumbler down.

Lars stands at nervous attention as Baumann reads his file.

Three years as a Bundeswehr MP, third in your academy graduating class, excellent reports from your street years, and you were briefly a semi pro boxer?

Lars eagerly nods.

Hopefully, you will never have to use your fists.

Baumann offers a handshake.

Congratulations you are now a member of the team, your area of responsibility is the Bahnhofsviertel.

Their first lunch is at Gotz’s Bierstube-curled white rindwursts and two beers, Baumann’s treat.

He flashes an enigmatic smile.

When we finish let’s take a trip.

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Lars, Baumann, and Medical Examiner Bertrand Halmer stand over a steel gurney in Frankfurt’s morgue.

On Baumann’s nod, Halmer lifts the sheet.

Lars immediately doubles over and vomits in a bucket on the floor.

Baumann and Halmer share matching slivered grins.

After a final coughing fit, Lars limply pulls himself up gripping the gurney for support.

Detective, you better learn to block these things. You will see worse I promise.

Forcing himself to stare at a half-headed corpse, Lars manages a weak nod.

This man was killed two days ago. Forensics has determined he was shot at close range and the gun placed in his hand. The killer is unknown. This will be your first case.

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A month later, Lars and Baumann clang foamy beer mugs at Gotz’s Bierstube.

Lars downs a triumphant swallow.

I noticed the victim’s refrigerator and cabinets were well organized. According to his family he was not known for such neatness.

Lars takes a second gulp.

The victim’s cousin has ocd. During my interview with him, I noticed the same organization in his apartment, so I acted on a hunch.

And you were right. We matched fingerprints from two beer bottles in the victim’s refrigerator, the cousin confessed when we brought him in.

Baumann stands up jingling change in his pocket.

Grinning broadly, he inserts coins in an old jukebox.

His selection, Beethoven’s fifth, keeps playing…and playing…and playing…

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Startled awake, Lars blindly fingers the coffee table for his ringing cell phone.

Kubach here. he mumbles in a gravelly voice.

Herr Kubach this is Doctor Kolb. I apologize for the early call but it’s your brother again.

Yawning, Lars rubs his gritty eyes; his phone screen reads four fourteen.

What is it?

Peter is angry and insists on talking with you.

Put him on the phone.

Lars hears muffled voices in the background.

I apologize again sir, but he demands to speak in person.

Lars releases a sharp sigh. I’m on the way.

Slumped on the couch, he points his remote, clicking off Tagesschau Morgenmagazine.

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The quiet streetcar glides past rows of dark silhouetted buildings.

Lars stares out the windows at a pink dawn sky casting long shadows on the roofs.

Some riders read newspapers, others listen to headphones, the rest, like him, sit in blank faced silence.

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Peter has severe PTSD. That…and the loss of his left leg has made him violent and suicidal. We recommend that he be permanently admitted. A grim-faced Doctor Gammadi says.

Lars gently nudges his frowning mother.

I think it’s best for him. He whispers.

Doctor Gammadi nods.

Don’t worry Frau Kubach he will receive the best care.

I hope so I’m not sure how much more I can take.

Remembering his mother’s haunted face, Lars blinks away a tear as a digital voice announces his stop.

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SAINT TIMOTHY KRANKENHAUS MENTAL WARD

The visitor room is pure white-the ceiling, walls, floor tiles, even the flimsy plastic chair that Lars sits in with his knees nearly touching.

A sleepy orderly pushes Peter Kubach’s wheelchair in the room and leaves without a word.

What’s the matter Peter?

Religion is bullshit.

Our mother didn’t think so.

What good did her Hail Mary’s do me? After praying and kneeling in pews she dies of a stroke.

His face reddening, Lars glares at Peter.

I didn’t come here to debate religion. he says tight lipped.

Then why are you here?

Because you called for me. The doctor says you are uncooperative and refusing your medicine.

Peter snorts.

They always say that. And big brother is here to see that I behave.

I understand how you feel.

No, you don’t! You weren’t there when the IED blew up our Dingo! The fuckers used an artillery shell! You didn’t see my friend’s shredded bodies!

A chubby faced man with severe down’s syndrome peeks in the room, mutters to himself and keeps walking.

Leaning forward Peter furiously massages his right knee.

…the loss of his left leg has made him violent and suicidal.

Peter sighs deeply.

I’m tired of taking orders from nurses and priests, and idiots who think drugging me is the only answer.

Life is about taking orders we do it every day.

Peter folds his arms defiantly.

Well, I’m not anymore.

Look Peter what do you want? It’s almost six I must be at work soon.

Of course…you might get in trouble for being late.

It’s about dedication! Lars snaps, Something you used to have.

Dedication? Where is my dedicated girlfriend who left me? Or the buddies who promised to visit?

I’m here. Look Peter, you did your duty, and you should be proud.

Peter raises his arms in mock worship.

"Oh, I’m proud! Proud that God chose to test my faith, by leaving me a cripple, very proud indeed."

It could have been worse. You could have died.

And spend eternity burning in hell, some choice.

Quit blaming God Peter, he did not do this to you.

He didn’t prevent it either. I’m trapped in this fucking wheelchair and this building! I’m drugged and told I can’t fit in society! This is my hell!

Lars glances at the wall clock. The next streetcar arrives in ten minutes. He might catch it if he leaves now.

Peter, please take your medicine, and give these workers a break I’ll talk with them, ok?

Peter throws up his hands.

Whatever.

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His mood swings are getting worse. An orderly says in the lobby.

Striding briskly, Lars nods, his eyes focused on the exit doors.

He looks up to you, perhaps you should visit more.

I will try to make the time.

Arms folded she watches him sprint to catch the arriving Strassenbahn.

CHAPTER THREE

THURSDAY MORNING: BAHNHOFSVIERTEL POLIZEI STATION

S IPPING HIS USUAL BLACK SUGARLESS Jacob’s Coffee, Lars scrolls through his computer case n otes.

Victim one: Doctor Mikel Klinsmann, fifty-two, unmarried no children.

Licensed OB/GYN with internal medicine PhD from Heidelberg School of Medicine.

Opened private practice as a reproductive crisis counselor at the Frauen Helfen Zentrum.

No driving offenses, or major debts.

Time of death, Friday evening according to medical examiner. Cause of death: Strangulation.

Victim two: Angelique Horst, aka Frau Horst.

Age forty, owner of Nether Realms new age bookstore.

Philosophy degree from Central University Vienna, Austria.

Entered Germany on a work visa in the late nineteen nineties.

Worked series of odd jobs before opening Nether Realms New Age Bookstore several years ago.

Time of death, Saturday evening. Cause of death, gunshot wound to face.

Lars types in some final notes.

Neither victim robbed, both killers’ young white males.

No security videos of the murders, Klinsmann’s off, Frau Horst no camera.

Recent protests noted at both places

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After a