Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(60)

She picked up the laptop and saw something that confirmed her worst suspicions. On the desk blotter there was a drawing of a heart. And inside was a name in curlicue letters: Tobias.

* * *



“I’m worried about Thies,” Christine Terlinden replied to the angry question from her husband about what could be so urgent that she would ask him to come home in the middle of a special board meeting. “He’s … completely distraught.”

Claudius Terlinden shook his head and went downstairs to the basement. When he opened the door to Thies’s room, he could see at once that his wife’s use of the word “distraught” was a vast understatement. With a vacant stare Thies was kneeling on the floor stark naked in the middle of the room in a carefully arranged circle of toys, and he kept hitting himself in the face with his fist. Blood was running from his nose down his chin, and there was a sharp stench of urine. The sight was a shock and a painful reminder to Terlinden of episodes in the past. For a long time he had categorically refused to accept that his eldest son was mentally ill. He hadn’t wanted to hear the diagnosis of autism, even though the signs were all there in Thies’s alarming behavior. Worse still was the boy’s repellent habit of ripping everything to bits and smearing it with feces and urine. He and Christine had faced this problem in utter helplessness, deciding the only solution was to lock up the boy and keep him away from other people—especially his brother Lars. But as Thies grew older and turned more and more maniacal and aggressive, they could no longer close their eyes to the truth. Reluctantly Claudius Terlinden had taken a good look at his son’s syndrome and learned in conversations with doctors and therapists that there was no outlook for a cure. Daniela Lauterbach, their neighbor, had finally explained what Thies needed to be able to cope with his illness reasonably well. Familiar surroundings were important, in which nothing was ever changed and the unexpected rarely occurred. It was equally important for Thies to have his own strictly ritualized world into which he could retreat. For a while all went well, until the twelfth birthday of the twin brothers. Something happened on that day that completely derailed Thies. Something snapped in him so violently that he almost killed his brother and seriously injured himself.

That was the last straw for Claudius Terlinden, and the boy was taken raging and yelling to the locked psychiatric children’s ward, where he remained for three years. There they treated him with calming medications, and his situation improved. Tests had shown that Thies was of above-average intelligence. Unfortunately he had no idea what to do with this intelligence, because he lived as a captive in his own world, completely isolated from his surroundings and his fellow human beings.

Three years later Thies had been allowed to leave the facility in which he lived for a visit at home. He was calm and peaceful but had seemed in a virtual stupor. At home he immediately went down to the basement and began to set out his toys from long ago. He did that for hours, a disconcerting sight. Under the influence of the medications he didn’t suffer a single outburst. Thies even opened up a little. He helped the gardener, and he began painting. Although he still ate his meals using his childhood utensils from his teddy bear plate, by and large he ate, drank, and behaved normally. The doctors were quite pleased with this development and advised the parents to bring the boy home. Since then, now over fifteen years later, there had been no incident. Thies moved about freely in the village but spent most of his time in the garden, which he had single-handedly transformed into a symmetrically designed park with boxwood hedges, flowerbeds, and lots of Mediterranean plants.

And he painted, often until he was exhausted. The large-format pictures were impressive works: unconventional, disturbingly somber, oppressive messages from the hidden depths of his autistic inner life. Thies had nothing against exhibiting his work, and twice he had even accompanied his parents to openings. Nor did it bother him when he had to part with the paintings, as Claudius Terlinden had feared at first. So Thies continued to paint and tend to the garden, and everything was fine. By now Thies was even able to handle contact with the public without reverting to disturbing behavior. Now and then he even spoke a few words. He seemed to be on the right path to opening a tiny crack in the door to his inner self. And now this. What a setback! Without a word and deeply disturbed, Claudius Terlinden regarded his son. The sight of him pained him to his soul.

“Thies!” he called in a soft voice, then a bit more sternly: “Thies!”

“He hasn’t been taking his medication,” Christine Terlinden whispered behind him. “Imelda found it in the toilet.”

Claudius Terlinden went into the room and knelt down outside the circle. “Thies,” he said softly. “What have you got there?”

“Whathaveyougotthere,” repeated Thies tonelessly and rhythmically hit himself in the face like clockwork. “Whathaveyougotthere … whathaveyougotthere … whathaveyougotthere…”

Terlinden saw that he was holding something in his fist. When he tried to grab his son’s arm, Thies jumped up suddenly and fell upon his father, pounding and kicking him. Claudius Terlinden was surprised by the attack and instinctively defended himself, but Thies was no longer a little boy. He was a grown man with muscles steeled by gardening work. His eyes were wild, spittle and blood dripped from his chin. Panting, Claudius Terlinden fended off his son and as if through a fog he heard his wife screaming hysterically. Finally he managed to force open Thies’s fist and take away what he was holding. Then he crawled on all fours to the door. Thies didn’t pursue him but emitted a ghastly howl and curled up on the floor.