The Oktoberfest Murders

Image of a glass of beer being poured to go with my story about murders during the annual Oktoberfest.

They found him in a dark alley the morning of the second day of the Oktoberfest.

Propped up against the wall, the dumpster shielding his body from the main road, he sat fully clothed and holding a half-empty glass of beer. It would’ve been more optimistic to say half-full, but that sounded like disrespect, since he was dead.

Detective Sybille Foss — new in the department and already a brilliant detective at thirty-one — had sent everyone to wait at the entrance of the alley, and now stood observing the scene. He looked asleep, instead of deceased. His chin rested on his chest; his arms next to his body, his fingers stiff around the glass. Between his slightly spread legs, his limp dick hung from the open zipper of his khaki pants.

Sybille bent over the body and inhaled deeply. The stench of old beer filled her nostrils.

“Fucker,” she mumbled, straightened up and abruptly turned on the heels of her sturdy boots, waving the crime scene technicians towards the scene as she exited the alley.

Two days later, Sybille stood at an identical scene, be it in a different alley. They still had no leads after the first murder, and now already had a second on their hands. Frustration was the main emotion enveloping the team of investigators and technicians, and even more so when this second crime scene seemed as clean as the first one.

That night, a team of police officers, all in plain clothes, roamed the streets around the two crime scenes, observing people laughing and drinking.

Sybille had formed the teams that morning and gave them their instructions. She now sat at a small round table in the corner of a tent with a tall beer in front of her, studying the drinkers. Gradually her glass went from full to empty, but her breath remained fresh; her mind clear.

She went from tent to tent, street to street, until she saw him.

“How could this have happened?”

Sybille’s staccato words and harsh voice silenced everyone around her. Despite the patrols the night before, they all stared at another dead man, the scene a copy of the first two.

“Leave!”

Everyone scurried away, leaving the detective to her unique way of observing the scene.

Sybille stared at the limp member of the dead man. Her expression hardened; eyes darkened. Out of sight from those at the entrance of the alley, she lifted the penis, pulled the zipper down another centimeter and repositioned the dead dick.

That night even more officers patrolled the streets, while Sybille worked behind her desk, trying to make sense of the little evidence they had collected at the three crime scenes.

A collective sigh escaped the team the next morning when no one called in the discovery of another body.

Sybille called everyone into the incident room, where crime scene photos covered a wall. One by one, they discussed the murders and tried to find something in the sparse evidence that would help them find a suspect. They failed. Frustration laced her voice when, by the time the sun disappeared behind the horizon, Sybille sent teams out on the streets again, and she returned to her office.

The patrols seemed to help, but they were still no closer to solving the three murders.

On the morning of the fifth day after they had found the third murdered man, a ripple of shock ran through the community and the police force when they received not one, but two calls of dead men in alleys.

A journalist overheard one police officer’s remark to another while they waited for Detective Sybille Foss to investigate the fifth scene. The next morning, the headline of the city’s main paper screamed in large, black letters:

Dickie Dick, The Oktoberfest Killer, Strikes Again.

Sybille forbid them to use the name, but behind her back they frequently did.

On the afternoon of the eleventh day of the Oktoberfest during their daily review of the case, Sybille posed the question: “Are the murders related to the Oktoberfest?”

Incomprehension showed on the faces in the incident room.

“The paper,” she explained, “called him The Oktoberfest Killer. Why? Do they know more than us? Will the killings stop after the third of October?”

Wheels started turning in the minds of the team members. Sybille assigned two of them with interviewing the journalist; others to check for any serious crimes during the Oktoberfest of the past ten years. Another she tasked with organising the patrol teams for the rest of the seven nights of festivities.

Sybille thanked everyone for their relentless effort, then dismissed them, and returned to her office for another night of work. On her desk, she spread out the photos of the crime scenes.

One by one, she studied the photos of the dead men, paying special attention to the soft members between their legs. Although, with rigor mortis setting in, those members might not have been soft at all.

That wasn’t the thought in her mind, though.

In each picture she saw a man with a belly who, even in death, wasn’t able to see his own dick. Every victim’s face was round and bloated, probably from years of consuming too much beer. They were copies of each other.

The men had all been single and lived alone. No wives, no girlfriends. They had called for eyewitnesses to come to the police station, but that also brought up nothing.

Sybille glanced through the glass walls of her office, and seeing no one else in the office, retrieved her bag from the bottom drawer of her desk. Opening her purse, she pulled out a ragged picture.

Darkening eyes stared at the man in the photo — a man wearing a khaki windbreaker which barely closed over a large belly. He held a large glass of beer in his hand — half full — and had a huge smile on his face.

She clearly remembered the moment of the picture. It was just after he had downed half of the beer in the glass, and just before he called ‘cheers’.

And also before her father had visited her bedroom for the last time.

She was seventeen.

It was the third of October.

Sybille shook her head to clear away the nasty memories and stashed the photo back in her purse. She slung her bag over her shoulder, switched off the light of her office, and left.

When a panicked restaurant owner called in the sixth murder, he had already been dead for two days.

Once again, Sybille stood staring at the victim, dressed in her signature pants, jumper, boots, long coat and gloves. All black. Her appearance was as remarkable as it was discreet. People either saw her or not.

Most didn’t.

This murder once more didn’t give them the breakthrough they needed.

“Will we ever catch the killer?” Sybille asked at their afternoon meeting, and with these words, she voiced the concern of everyone on the investigative team.

On the last night of the Oktoberfest, there were even more people in the streets than any other night of the festivities. Police officers yet again patrolled the streets, looking for men fitting the descriptions of the six victims. There were many of them — more than there were police officers.

Sybille stood in the corner of a tent, her eyes searching for potential victims, and moving on when she noticed a plain-clothed police officer nearby. With the man’s safety secured, her presence was unwanted.

She roamed from tent to tent with a plastic cup of beer in her hand. No one paid the woman in black any attention, and no one noticed she never took a sip of the beer.

They also didn’t see her chatting up a man who could barely utter a word after consuming several liters of beer.

The words ‘I want to suck your dick’ were enough to have him following her out of the tent.

No one noticed.

For that, he walked too far behind her, having difficulty to keep up with her brisk pace. He was just in time to see her disappear inside an alley and found her waiting for him on the far side of a dumpster at the back.

Staggering towards her, his eyes grew wide when he saw the large glass of beer in her hand. He downed the rest of the liquid in the plastic glass in his hand, then took the glass from her outstretched hand.

“Proost,” she said, even though she had nothing to drink.

Sybille pushed him against the wall, then applied pressure on his shoulder. In the knowledge she would suck him, he lowered himself. She softly kicked against his feet so he could spread his legs for her to kneel between them.

Something between a smile and a snarl formed around her mouth as she zipped down his fly, pushed his briefs down, and extracted his penis.

His belly and her head obscured the view of his member.

From her coat pocket she extracted the syringe, and holding his penis between her fingers, she tried to soften her voice and said: “mmm, this looks delicious. Drink your beer, big bear!”

As he took a swig of the beer, she carefully pushed the needle inside his urethra. The low light always made it difficult to follow the channel. The sharp sting deep inside made him cry out: “Watch out with those teeth, bitch! Suck, don’t bite.”

By now, a massive dose of insulin spread through his body.

On the morning of the first day after the Oktoberfest, they found the seventh victim of Dickie Dick, the serial killer.

Sybille kept all expression from her face in the daily meeting, watching the frustration bordering desperation on the faces of her colleagues, and knowing a month from now the murders would’ve disappeared into the background, and other cases taken their place.

Dickie Dick, The Oktoberfest Killer, had retired.

After all, the Oktoberfest was over.

Until next year.

© Rebel’s Notes


5 thoughts on “The Oktoberfest Murders

  1. I am such a guy. I didn’t suspect until the flashback to her abuse. I liked method, motive, and opportunity.

    Female serial killers probably succeed because no one would suspect and they wouldn’t make the male assumptions that always get caught.

  2. Brilliant. I suspected Sybille from the beginning, but only because she seemed the obvious suspect. In a man’s world, the crimes are very personal, vindictive even. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!

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