TATORT FOUR - 2

II

It is warm despite the glimmer of a faint chill that lingers in the November air. The Friday sun smiles, beaming down over the parade. The breeze, thick, a mixture of both hot and cold, swirls in and out of the trees, over the road and up to the sixth floor window of the administration building that overlooks the procession route. #1 flicks his cigarette butt from the window, the wind snatching it from him and pocketing it elsewhere from its previous trajectory on the ground. He watches the street lined crowds below with a gaunt expression. He has a fantastic view from of the procession, the white collared shirts, the pink blouses, little boys racing wind-up Lincolns and the trees, teenaged girls rode on their boyfriends’ shoulders, parents rushing for ice creams and Sno-Cones on behalf of their little ‘uns. The square is a thoroughfare garden of Eden in hick town but an adrenaline creeping chill lingers in the air eager to make his presence known.

#1 snorts, splutters and sneezes into a Kleenex. He can hear it, they all can, the rumbling of thunder, the rising roar of an army of Harley-Davidsons, all in full regalia in the distance. He inserts a gloved hand into his blazer pocket, tightens his fist, and removes three blunt 6.5mm bullets and places them carefully next to each other on the floor. As he goes to place the last, he twirls the bullet, rolling it around between his thumb and forefinger and ingests on its languid perfume of cordite. #1 ekes out a smile, more a wrinkling of the cheeks than a heartfelt smile, and lays the bullet with its brothers. He’s an avid type.

Secretly #1 wonders at this point whether or not to go through with it, he has the choice, to take it or not, is an entirely different matter. But he will, we all know that. He pauses for a moment to admire the room, the floor with its carpet of sawdust, its islands of stacked book cartons and vacant filing cabinets before gazing back out into the crowds below: packing the main street from storefront to curb in sheer excitement. A million tiny flags, peppered amongst the onlookers, blossom in the basking sun unawares of the tragedy soon to occur.

Looking half-blitzed he gazes hard into the sun for warmth, only to receive a light breeze flicker his full head of hair. He thinks of Lee, he thinks of his father, he thinks of the war but most importantly, he thinks of his dying country. Then, almost rejoicing, he swivels on the spot and reaches over a barricade of boxes. With the tips of his gloved fingers he feels the crisp edge of the brown wrapping paper, the parcel fastened together with a worn piece of string, its touch excites him. He licks his lips, tasting the harsh blood in his mouth, he stifles a cough and unwraps his present. Gently, taking the Mannlicher Carcano in both hands, he positions himself. Hovering the rifle lens over the kill zone. The Harleys fly past, the limousines oozing after them slow, patient. His ears prick up, the radio crackles.

Green. Green.

#2 and #3 are in position, they’re ready to put down their target, the time is now. The vehicles creep into the clutches of the depository’s shadow, it will sound like hailstones on a cobbled streets, nothing more.

Homemade signs. Kids. Civilians. All of these things flow through #1’s mind as he raises the lens to his eye once more. He sucks in his breath, rests his finger over the trigger and braces himself for this loud motherfucking scream.