O500 hours, Thursday. September 20
Leipzig, Germany

The icy rain pelted the Mercedes Benz with a deafening madness disturbing the two occupants reluctantly riding within. The car forced its way through the thick five a.m. morning fog that hung dangerously low to the ground putting visibility at no more than a few hundred feet ahead.
This was the same lonely stretch of dark back road leading into the town of Gatersleben that had claimed the lives of many drivers over the years. It was no wonder the fat balding man sitting in the passenger seat sucked on his cigar like it was a life preserver, and the more he puffed, the faster he would get to shore.
Senior Inspector Klaus Eichmann hated these long trips. His partner, Junior Investigator Sabine Jaeger, didn’t mind. So when the landeskriminalamt, the Criminal Investigation Bureaux of Saxony state called the headquarters of the Bundeskriminalamt, the Federal Investigation Bureaux, the BKA for short in Wiesbaden requesting assistant, she jumped at the assignment.
The local cops had found something so bizarre they had immediately called for assistance from the BKA, the equivalent of the American FBI.
Eichmann rifled through the pictures and notes that had been faxed prior to them leaving headquarters making a mental note only a seasoned law enforcement officer could.
Investigator Jaeger asked him, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
The man thought long and hard and only had one answer, “Never.”

The black silver Benz silently cruised into the small town of Gatersleben and pulled into the local office of the police.
Investigator Jaeger was first out of the car, flipped open her umbrella and ran towards the glass door of the building. Her long blonde hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail swinging from side to side felt the sting of the cold rain.
Inspector Eichmannn forced his five-eight, two hundred and eighty-five pounds hesitantly from the comfort of his car seat into the freezing rain that felt like shards of glass slicing into exposed fat cheeks. Not even the rim of his black Homburg hat could stem the blows completely.
The man lumbered towards the glass door being held open for him by his six-one lean female partner. The two looked like a mismatched pair, but for the last three years, they have been partners. They have solved more crimes than anyone else in the bureaux.
They worked well together because they complimented each other. He was the analytical observer, sharp with details and good at reading people. However, he was not good at talking to them. She was the supreme interrogator, slick when she has to be, compassionate at times and brutal when the occasion calls for it.
Together they had cracked what was called the hardest case in Germany to solve: The twenty-year disappearance of Brunhilde Kurster, a wealthy heiress of a pharmaceutical billionaire.
The girl had disappeared from her boarding school in the middle of the night. There were no signs of a struggle. No clothes or valuables were taken. It was as if she just simply vanished from her bed.
It turned out, the girl had decided one night she didn’t want to live among humans anymore and ran off to live in the woods with the animals.
When she was finally located in an underground cave, she was naked and gnawing on a human bone. The thirty-two year old woman was captured and placed in a mental hospital.
When the cave was searched thoroughly, they discovered human remains everywhere. Men, women and children were her victims. She was tried and convicted of fifty-four counts of murder and sentenced to life behind bars.
The “Man-Eating Wild Beast of Stuttgart” was actually a woman.

The officers at the local precinct wasted no time in taking the investigators to the crime scene.
The whole house was roped off with police tape giving that incessant warning about not crossing this line. Like if somebody really wanted in, the tape would stop them. The tape might not, but the ten police officers stationed at the house surely would have.
The men saluted as the two investigators entered the dark house. The first thing they noticed was the strong burning smell in the air. It was an acrid odor that seemed to be emanating from the bedroom located at the rear of the house.
Senior Investigator Eichmann surveyed the interior. It was a simple place with nondescript unmatched furniture. The walls bore the weight of the many bookshelves lining it. Each shelf was filled to capacity with all types of books. Most of them, he noticed were science books in various fields.
The plain, unpolished, mahogany dining table stood off to a corner of the room devoid of a tablecloth. Three of the chairs collected dust and cobwebs. An impression of a single plate could be seen on the rough top of the table.
No family pictures or artwork dressed the walls, only microscopic slides of what looked like bacteria and viruses.
All this was enough to know what kind of victim he was dealing with, and he made his way to the bedroom where the real crime scene was.
He didn’t go in though. Investigator Jaeger had to be with him. They have this personal rule that they follow, both of them must view the crime scene at the same time and immediately discuss their impression of it.
She was doing her thing, talking to the first officers’ on the scene, the medical response team and the neighbors. Junior Investigator Jaeger had gotten as much information as she could. It was time to see what had caused senior investigators with the C.I.B. to be so shocked.
She strolled over to the closed bedroom door where senior inspector Eichmann was waiting. He reached out a gloved hand, turned the door knob and let it open by itself.
“My God! What happened here?” Was the only response Sabine could muster when she saw what was inside.