Dead Again

Tchaikovsky was playing in the room when we entered. I don’t remember which of his compositions it was, but it sounded vaguely familiar. The room itself didn’t scream “classical music fan”, but the record collection near the sink said otherwise.

His name was Maxwell Steinberg and someone had killed him, again.

December 1992

As a young cop, who had just joined the force, and whose only source of knowledge about cops were the movies he had seen, I was as green as they come. First week in, I learnt that real cops do not work like the ones in the movies. There were no “errant cops” who break all laws to uphold the justice system nor were there fast paced, flying car chases through narrow lanes of the city. Car chases usually happened on the fast lanes or freeways and almost always ended with the miscreant getting caught.

But one day everything changed for me & to a large extent for our entire precinct.

I was in the precinct that day when the call came through. A beat cop informed us that a man had been found dead in an apartment in the west side. I was with the first team on site. As we cordoned off the area, the senior detective in the homicide division came down. He was an old man and his face showed the years gone by. He was a rugged man but the years had taken their toll. He smelled of bourbon as he made his way through the cordon. He stopped near me and asked me to not let anyone inside unless they were cops. I nodded in agreement and couldn’t help stare at his eyes. They were strangely bright and twinkling under his bushy eyebrows. It seemed as if he knew some deep and ancient secret and was laughing internally because we didn’t know it. As he went on ahead I turned to the street and decided to carry on with my work.

I didn’t know the scene inside but one of the CSI guys was a friend. So I asked him about what went down inside. He narrated to me a gruesome scene. A young man was dead inside, stabbed repeatedly with a hunting knife. The killer had posed him near the kitchen sink and placed an ID card on the guy’s body. “Maxwell Steinberg” it said apparently. They guy was into all that classical music shit, mostly German composers, the CSI guy said. It seemed that there was a record playing in the hall and that was what attracted the attention of the neighbors, as they not heard from the guy in the apartment for quite some time. Strange way to go, the CSI guy said.

I thought so too.

The case was never solved. The old detective worked his last years trying to make sense of the case but failed. He took this to heart and his bourbon intake increased. Slowly we would find him more in the bars then in the precinct. I always had a special place for the man, as frankly, he was the first detective I had ever encountered after joining the force. Also, the fact that he was dedicated to solving the murder of a random guy made me respect him more. But then the alcohol took a toll on his health and he had to retire early. He died a few months after retiring, poor chap.

Nobody knew who killed Steinberg and nobody bothered anymore. He just became one of those unsolved cases sitting in the files for years.

December 1995

It was three months now that the old detective had died. I attended his funeral and was sorry to see the man go like that. He was respected in the department and his funeral saw quite a turnout. It was snowing that day and we were all standing outside in the snow, bidding the man farewell, when I got the call. A woman had called to report a missing neighbor. Turns out, the neighbor was actually dead and they just found his body. I was tasked with assisting the homicide team, though I had no idea why. The body didn’t even turn up within our precinct. But still I went along with the detective who had come to get me. We reached the location in about 30 minutes and it was already swarming with cops. I could recognize a few of the guys, but most of them were strangers.

I followed the detective inside. It was an old apartment building with wiring sticking out of the walls. The people in the apartment looked at us like we were some kind of aliens, but you could see that they were all scared. I was still wondering why I was called when I reached the scene of the crime. It looked vaguely familiar until the detective said, “Meet Maxwell Steinberg, our victim. I believe you had been present when our dear departed detective friend found another Steinberg, three years back. I know you were not investigating the case, but we would appreciate anything you remember from the last incident which might help us”. That is when it all hit me. The scene was exactly like my CSI friend had narrated. A man propped up near the kitchen sink, a collection of old records near the coffee table, all German composers & the music player was playing a Beethoven’s symphony. Hell, even the victim’s name was the same. I was too shocked to say anything, but I still managed to say something, though I don’t remember what I said. This guy was also stabbed multiple times with some kind of hunting knife. There was nothing in the apartment to suggest who he was, apart from the ID card, placed conveniently on his chest.

Like before, the case went on for two years or so. Then it was decided to move the case to the unsolved folders and everyone looked the other way. I started drinking too, maybe the whole deal was getting to me too or maybe I was too weak & pathetic to accept the fact that maybe police work was not exactly like I had hoped. Well, we would never know, like we never knew who killed Steinberg, twice!

December 2013

18 years, that’s a long time for anything, even someone like me. I am now a “seasoned” detective with the homicide division. I have solved a lot of crimes, but not the one I had hoped to. Maxwell Steinberg had become my white whale & like Ahab, I had lost everything while chasing it. Two failed marriages & a lot of alimony was what I had to show for my obsession. I now knew though why that old guy always smelt of bourbon, because I did too now. When I am on a case, I would be calm but the moment we close a case, my demons come back to haunt me.

I have chased that name for 18 years now and I have seen a pattern. Maxwell Steinberg has died almost every year, specifically in the December of each year, across the entire length & breadth of the country. Every state has at least one unsolved case with that name on it. I even traced the case back to the 1980’s, but it was always unsolved. Nobody knew the guys who died & it was always the same modus operandi every-time. They were all killed & posed the same way & had the same ID card on them. I even met a few detectives like me who were obsessed with this case as for them too; this was “that one case they couldn’t close”.

But the fact of the matter was that no one knew who Maxwell Steinberg was and why he was killed or who did it. I know I might be losing my mind over something like this but then, don’t we all have some addiction? For some it was alcohol, for some drugs or food or music or women. For me, it was this case and like all addictions I was fighting a losing battle.

December 1982

When I heard about someone like me, I was thrilled. For years I was trying to find a cure for my affliction & when I found someone like me, I was overjoyed. Maybe he would know a way.

I went to meet him in this dingy apartment building that reeked of urine and lost hopes. I could see the people living in that building and I felt a shiver run up my spine. I knocked on the guy’s door and waited for 10 anxious minutes, as I imagined getting mugged or beat or both. Finally the man opened the door. Entering his apartment I could realize that he was one of those guys who couldn’t accept the fact that the hippie decade was gone. I could see all the trappings of a man who was unable to let go of the past. I had little faith now that he could help me, but I still had a tiny sliver of hope.

“So, you know why I am here right?” I asked of him.

“You want to be mortal again, don’t you? Hah! We all do, don’t we, yet when we weren’t like this, we all hoped to be Gods and live forever. Now it doesn’t feel that great does it?” he spoke, in a strangely halting tone, as if he was gathering his thoughts while he was speaking.

“You are right and I want to know. Is there a way?”

“There is no way man, none at all. I have tried everything, from trying to drown myself to OD-ing to shooting myself square in the face. Nothing works! It is all hopeless, it is like the hamster on the wheel who knows he can’t escape but he still keeps running. Go away man, there’s no hope for us lost souls.”

I knew that despair. It was the worst thing to happen to anyone. I knew, for I have been living that life for the past 150 years, cursed to be immortal and not having a clue about what to do. I tried killing myself numerous times and failed miserably. But one thing that separated me from that filthy piece of human trash was that I still had hope. I knew that somewhere, someone had a cure and one day I would find it.

I tried to leave and that was when I saw it. A little girl, not more than 15, sprawled on the bed. She was crying and I could see that she had been crying for quite some time. I turned to that animal who unfortunately shared my affliction. He didn’t deserve to live, but I knew I couldn’t kill him, but I could at least hurt him. So I looked around and saw what I needed. A hunting knife, a beautiful piece of art and it seemed to beckon me. I walked up to it and picked it up. The man was semi-awake, living as he was in a haze of drugs and alcohol. I had no problem getting close to him and stabbing him in the heart. I half expected him to jump up and grab me, but he just screamed in agony.

Wait! How can that be? He is not supposed to feel any pain whatsoever. Was he lying to me? I was not sure so I kept on stabbing him, repeatedly, until slowly I could see myself in his eyes; his eyes which were slowly turning lifeless and as he was dying I realized something. This was not him, this was me. I was killing myself and finally I could die.

The realization hit me like a gut punch and I laughed uncontrollably. My years of pain and grief and suppressed madness seemed to calm down in that moment. I knew I had to feel this high again.

Then when he was finally dead, I didn’t know what to do, so I propped him near the sink and washed my hands. The girl was beginning to stir and I didn’t want her to see me. I quickly decided to move away & that was when I saw his record player. Even though he was a piece of filth, he apparently had good taste in music. 

He had a Chopin record in his player. I couldn’t resist the urge to listen and switched the player on. As the music calmed my nerves, I looked around and saw his pictures on the wall. He had pictures of events dating back to the First World War and that confirmed my suspicions that he was like me, an immortal. So an immortal can kill another one but not themselves and maybe I would find someone someday who would be worthy enough to kill me.

But until then, I needed to keep killing myself, for I see no one worthy enough in the horizon. So I left an ID card with my name on the man, “Maxwell Steinberg” was dead, until the next time.

January 2014

As I sit in the bar, nursing my sixth drink of the evening, I see a man walk up to me. He seems familiar but I can’t place him. He smiles and waves to me. It is my friend from CSI. I hadn’t seen him in ages, though he looks quite the same.

“Hey, how have you been?” he asks me.

“You can see, but the years have been kind to you. How are you?”

“Oh well, you know. I take care of my health. Heard you are retiring, is that true?”

“Yeah, it is time now. I need a break from chasing murderers.”

“You sure do man, and cut down on the drinking.”

I smile at him and return to my drink. I see the man entering the bar out of the corner of my eye. He looks just like he did when he posed next to Hitler during the invasion of Poland. But no one knows that now. He is a school teacher now, specializing in European history, figures!

He doesn’t see me, but I do and I could smell the years of corruption on him. He doesn’t deserve to live, not anymore. Outside the rain had started again. It had been a bad couple of days, with intermittent rain and snow, making it difficult to get out; but for me, it is the perfect weather.

It is January, but what the hell, I am retiring for good and I can’t wait until December… 

Pic courtesy: www.oliverfluck.com