The Dark Meadow (7 page)

‘Seven, our public prosecutor's putting out an emergency call. Then I'll say hearts. Seven of hearts.'

This time the landlord, Hermann Müller, brought the beer to the table himself. He exchanged the glasses, put the used one on the free table beside the card players, and stood watching until the end of the trick, then took a vacant chair and sat down with the players, who were dividing the winnings between them. Coins of small denominations were pushed over the table, and the cards gathered into a pack again. Josef Loibl, who seemed dissatisfied with his share of the winnings, said, ‘Come to think of it, this is an illegal game of chance, right?'

Dr Augustin, to whom the question was obviously directed, tipped the coins from the little mat into his purse and replied, ‘First, playing cards and the Bavarian game of
Watten
in particular is no fun without a stake, and second, I'm not on duty. And so long as we're only playing for small change no one can be cheated. Even an old miser like you can join in, Loibl.'

Then he put his purse in his back pocket, picked up his glass and drank, saying, ‘Cheers, gentlemen!'

One of the card players rose from the table, tapped it lightly with his fist, and said, ‘Well, I'm off now. First I'll take a pee, then I'll go home. Food's probably on the table already in our house – and if I don't turn up I'll be in trouble. Goodbye, all, see you next Saturday.'

‘Wait, I'll go with you to take a pee, and I have to go home too.'

Joseph Loibl also rose from the table.

Hermann Müller drew his chair a little closer to Dr Augustin. He put his hand in the breast pocket of his shirt, and produced a folded press cutting. He carefully smoothed it out and placed it in the middle of the table.

‘Here, Augustin, something for you. Someone lost this in here yesterday. Take a good look, that's you in the photograph.'

Dr Augustin took the yellowed piece of paper and studied it attentively. ‘Where did you get this? All that was ages ago.'

‘Like I said, there was a guest here yesterday took a lot of drink on board, and he left the cutting here, along with his wallet and a twenty-mark note.'

The landlord searched his trouser pocket and put the wallet on the table as well.

‘He was a strange sort. At first he was calm, and then he suddenly started talking all confused stuff. He knew about a murder, he said, and the man who did it was still walking about free. I thought he was a nutcase, but first thing this morning Roswitha found the wallet. When I looked at the photo I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought that was you, Augustin, half hidden at the back there, was I right?'

‘Yes, that's me. And you'll laugh, I can still remember, it was my first case in court right after the assessors' examination qualifying me. It was pretty much of an open-and-shut case. But I'd be interested to hear what your guest yesterday had to say.'

So Hermann Müller told him about the incident, and Dr Augustin listened carefully. After that Augustin sat there a little longer. He had become unusually thoughtful. He finished his beer and went home.

He behaved differently from usual for the rest of the day as well. He normally went home on Saturday after his mid-morning beer, sat down at the dining table, ate lunch and then went into the living room with the newspaper. There he sat on the sofa, read the paper with close attention, and then, well pleased with himself and the world, he lay down for a little nap. But that day he left his lunch getting cold on the table and went straight to his study. He searched the shelves for old files; when he couldn't find what he was looking for, he paced restlessly around the room. Finally he left his study at home, put on his jacket, and drove to his office. He sat there until late in the evening, poring over old papers.

On Monday morning he told his colleagues that they ought to reopen the case.

The young police officer was shifting restlessly back and forth on the kitchen chair. Johann could tell, just from looking at him, how uneasy he felt in uniform. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead. Now and then he mopped his face dry with a handkerchief. Then he suddenly jumped up, saying he must go out for a moment to take a pee, and he, Johann, was to stay sitting there and not do anything stupid, because even if he had to go outside just briefly he'd still be keeping an eye on him.

At first the old man stayed on his chair and waited, just as the policeman had told him to do. But then his eye fell on Afra, who was still lying on the sofa. Her clothes were soaked red with blood. What was he to tell Theres when she came back? The woman who laid out the dead must
come and wash Afra. There was so much to be done: the church, the funeral. What would become of Albert? He had to do something, he couldn't stay on that chair letting time run away. Theres wouldn't understand it if he only sat there doing nothing.

The old man rose from his chair. He had come to a decision, he would go over to the bedroom and fetch clean clothes for his daughter. When they laid her in the coffin she ought to be properly dressed. No one in the village must be able to say he'd let her go without her Sunday best on.

He would get the dark blue dress, the one with the lace collar, and a pair of clean stockings. He would get everything ready for the woman who came to lay Afra out. So that she could wash her and dress her neatly. He must find her rosary and prayer book, and cover up the mirror.

Theres was much better at these things, but he couldn't wait. They might come and take his daughter away any moment now. He must have everything ready.

Johann Zauner went out of the kitchen, across the corridor and into the bedroom. It wasn't as tidy in there as Afra usually left it. The wardrobe stood a little way open, some of her underclothes were hanging out of the drawers or lying scattered on the floor. He bent down, picked them up and tried to put them back as best he could into
the wardrobe. As he closed its door he took a step sideways and came up against the bedside table. A shoebox that he hadn't seen there before fell off it and hit the floor. All Afra's possessions lay scattered round him. Letters, buttons, hairpins and her rosary, even the prayer book lay there open.

Johann Zauner knelt down on the floor awkwardly, picked up first the mourning pictures that had fallen out of the
Order of Divine Service
and put them and the prayer book back on the bedside table, where the prayer book belonged. So did the rosary. He would have to take them both into the kitchen with him. Then he tidied up the letters as well as he could, and put them back in the shoebox. He bent down to look for the buttons, and under the bedside table he found a banknote and several coins. He picked them up from the floor, straightened up, still on his knees, and took his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers; they would need every penny they could scrape together for the funeral.

‘What are you doing here? Get right back to your chair in the kitchen!'

Johann Zauner turned to the door in alarm. The young policeman was standing in the doorway, his face bright red, shouting at him. Johann got to his feet, with difficulty, supporting himself on the bed with his elbow. Confused,
he held out the hand in which he was still holding the money he had picked up. The policeman was beside him in an instant, tearing the banknote from him and getting him to hand over the coins too.

‘This stays with me. Disposing of the evidence – that won't do. It's against the law. Why did you do that, Zauner? I suppose you were planning to make it look like robbery with violence, but I'm here, see? Mind you get back into the kitchen, and don't you touch anything else in here. And you'd better give me that wallet.'

Johann Zauner apologized humbly and did as he was asked. He left the prayer book and rosary lying on the bedside table.

From the statement of public prosecutor Dr Augustin, eighteen years after the events concerned


I was a very young public prosecutor at the time, full of enthusiasm for my profession, and convinced that I was making an important contribution to the construction of a just legal system with a clean record. I was idealistic and a little naive, as one can be only in one's youthful years.


Accordingly, the Zauner case still lingers in my memory, even after such a long interval of time. However, for safety's sake I have called up the old files and reread them. Here I would like to summarize the image we had formed at the time of our investigation.


The old records show that when we were first faced with the crime, Johann Zauner made an entirely indifferent and apathetic impression. He did not seem to be in the least moved by the tragedy, at least to outward appearance. According to one witness statement in the files, he even made himself a mid-morning snack soon after committing the murder. He also made stupid and primitive attempts to pretend that the situation was one of robbery with violence, by scattering money and other small possessions of the dead girl around her room. When the absurdity of this act, which took place in the presence of a police officer and after the first police investigation, was pointed out to him, he initially apologized at length and said he would tidy it all up again.


Herr Zauner was questioned on various occasions in the course of the investigation. His few explanations of the act matched the clues that had been found. At the time of the investigation we never had the least doubt of his guilt. In addition,
he confessed to the murder in front of an officer. A confession weighs a great deal in court, it crowns the evidence as the clearest and pre-eminent means of proof. While the investigation was in progress he never retracted his statement, nor did he offer mitigating circumstances, and not just once but several times he was offered an opportunity to distance himself from it. True, it is a drawback that he said nothing clearly about his motive, but given the very simple structure of his personality that is not necessarily surprising. He said he had been furious, and indeed, literally, that he had been ‘in a murderous mood', repeating several times that in that state he did not know what he was doing. Asked why he also killed the child, he said that the little boy, as he put it, ‘was always getting underfoot', and that it had been ‘all linked together'.


Even when he was first questioned, his ponderous manner and mental lethargy were noticeable. Consequently, Zauner was sent to a psychiatric institution. The findings
of the investigation were before the court at the time.


It all seemed perfectly clear, and most important of all the defendant had confessed. There is no getting around a confession. It may be that the confession is a highly simplified view of what happened, but confession by the defendant is an act of mental cleansing comparable to spiritual cleansing by confession to a priest. The guilty man, like the sinner, acknowledges his guilt and thus achieves relief and peace of mind. Or so at least we were taught when I was studying.


As I said, I was still at the beginning of my career, but many years have passed since then, and I have learnt to question many things. I have learnt that there can be very different reasons for confessing to a crime, and the person concerned may sometimes confess fervently and very convincingly even when he never committed that crime at all. It can be difficult to recognize the truth, and sometimes even conscientious police officers hear only what
they would like to hear; in that, they are no different from all the rest of humanity. What was ultimately left was the fact of Johann Zauner's confession. And so proceedings were brought against him.


Towards the end of the trial, when all the witnesses had made their statements and all the expert opinions had been heard, there was a sudden change. All at once Zauner rose to his feet and retracted his confession. Suddenly he might have been a different man. He proved obstinate and refractory. He denied what he had said, showing not the least understanding of it. There were tumultuous scenes in the courtroom when he ‘called God to witness' that he had not committed the murder. The presiding judge threatened to clear the court if those present did not calm down. Not one of them believed a word the defendant said. Johann Zauner shouted that he was not guilty. The judge tried again and again to induce him to relieve his conscience by repeating his confession. However, Zauner was obstinate, and even offered to make a
statutory declaration swearing to his innocence, being unaware that he could not call for such a declaration. Even counsel for the defence was unable to pacify him. I would be lying if I were to say that at the time I was not entirely convinced of his guilt. Johann Zauner was convicted on the grounds of a heavy weight of proof and the statements of countless witnesses. But as in all trials depending on circumstantial evidence, there is always a lingering remnant of uncertainty.


I do not know whether today I would still call, as I did eighteen years ago, for a prison sentence of eight years in a penitentiary for each of the two murders, and with judicial approval for a total prison sentence of twelve years.


The court finally decided on sentencing him to ten years in prison, and subsequent preventive detention. It was stipulated that after he had served his sentence he should be confined in a psychiatric institution on account of his mental deficiencies and the resulting danger of his reoffending.
The medical experts had decided that Zauner's derangement meant he was not entirely responsible for his actions.


I was satisfied with this decision of the court. We had no other option, in view of the findings of our investigations, and the sentence was correct in law; whether it was just is another question.


No court in the world can do perfect justice, we can only come to our decisions in line with the evidence available at the time of the trial, and of course in the context of the legal possibilities. Unfortunately, we are too often wrong in our interpretation of the truth, or from where we stand we see only a small part of the whole. Truth is a shy child, and its mother, justice, is usually depicted as blind.