Brun Feel My Fury

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-3-95669-218-5
Verlag: Bookspot Verlag
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 336 Seiten

Reihe: Nathan Weiß investigates

Torn apart by countless stab wounds and soaked in blood-this is how the police discover the body of a man, brutally murdered in a fit of savage rage. Wolfgang Stöhrl, the newly appointed head of the homicide division, immediately suspects a crime of passion. But when a second victim is found, the investigation takes a darker turn. Both victims had used dating platforms to seek fleeting pleasure with a dangerous twist. Determined to pursue his original lead, Stöhrl finds himself increasingly lost in the case. Meanwhile, his retired predecessor, Nathan Weiß, takes matters into his own hands. Still haunted by an unsolved case from his career, Weiß delves into a shadowy world of hatred and desire-a world that points to a serial killer driven by blind fury. But what fuels her uncontrollable rage? And how can she be stopped before she strikes again? 'Feel My Fury' is a dark, disturbing psychological thriller that peers into the depths of a tormented soul. Gripping, chilling, and impossible to put down until the final page.

Born in Munich in 1958, Georg Brun has always remained a 'Münchner Kindl' (a true child of Munich) - albeit with a few detours. After several years at the Bavarian State Criminal Police Office and studying law, he worked for many years at the Ministry of Science. When Georg Brun published his first book in 1988, 'Das Vermächtnis der Juliane Hall' (The Legacy of Juliane Hall, in German only), for which he received the Bavarian Prize for Literature, his fulfilling double-life as a lawyer and writer began. Four years ago he started to publish crime novels and launched his Munich crime series about the young lawyer Olga Swatschuk. Olga is now investigating four criminal cases, all published by Bookspot Verlag and available in German as ebooks and paperbacks. 'Spüre meinen Zorn' (Feel my Fury) is the first gripping case of retired detective Nathan Weiss, and is also published by Bookspot Verlag. More about the author at www.georgbrun.de or on Instagram at @brungeorg

Autoren/Hrsg.

Brun, Georg

Leseproben

1
The straight, dark brown hair hung greasy and stringy, the sharp hooked nose with its unsightly bump directly under the furious crease at its bridge recalled a vulture’s beak, the pencil-thin lips drew bloodlessly into the drooping corners of the mouth, the brown-green eyes lay shadowy and deep, the cheekbones set high above sunken cheeks, and the chin pointed far too sharply. She would have preferred avoiding a glance at the skinny, wrinkled neck, but her eyes inevitably caught it once the defiant chin came into focus. And suddenly, displeasure became rage. What had life made of her? Karin Fellermayr’s reflection in the unforgiving mirror forced her to confront the toll exacted by the years – a currency spent with little return. She stood there, a vessel emptied by fate’s disdain, an embodiment of wasted time. As if the whole world had conspired against her, now she was even restricted from visiting her dementia-ridden aunt Irma in the nursing home because an alleged pandemic required a complete ban on contact and the shutdown of public and social life. A shake of her head, fueled by a mixture of disbelief and anger, dismissed the notion that a nation deemed civilized could be brought to its knees by a mere germ, an insignificant cousin of the common cold. The irony hung heavy in the air – a world paralyzed by an invisible foe, leaving Karin Fellermayr isolated, scorned, and powerless in its wake. Until now, she had at least been able to manage her anger by going to the mountains whenever she wanted, letting off steam on ski trips in the Tyrolean Alps or embarking on challenging mountain tours. But now the border was closed, and she was only allowed out of the house with a valid reason – not to mention that the Alpine Club urgently asked her to refrain from mountain treks. This had been going on for just under a week now, the existential pressure raging ever more fiercely. “You have to try to release your anger,” her therapist had advised her a long time ago, and taught her a technique using a specially designed pillow. For just over thirty euros, she had bought the “rage pillow” on the Internet, which had been aptly advertised: the pillow can be hung on the wall or placed on the floor. Perfect for letting out pent-up anger. Thick padding and soft fabric prevent injuries. Since then, the rage pillow hung on the wall in the bedroom right next to the bed, the clear indentation of its center serving as the evidence of its regular use. Depending on her mood, she imagined one or the other face from the row of her tormentors and then thrashed away at it. But now, Karin felt abundantly clear that the therapist’s recommendation was a weak substitute, no-thing more than infantile gratification. From now on, she would vent her anger more effectively. Defiantly, she jutted her pointy chin out, then began cutting off her hair. When all that was left was a disheveled bob, she reached for the long-hair clippers, set them at nine millimeters, and carefully shaved her head into a postmodern buzzcut. Next came the plastic gloves, which she used to rub her skull with bleach, which she let work for ten whole minutes before washing it out. She admired the results. A buzz-cut, blond, somewhat angular woman’s head gazed back at her. She applied the green contact lenses and began to commence the perfect color correction with the selection of concealers she had collected. Finally, the sallow complexion was masked, the bronzing was subtle but effective, and the bags under her eyes were gone. She left the bathroom for the bedroom, examining herself in the dressing room mirror as she passed. Her boyish figure could have enjoyed being been three pounds fuller, but at least her stomach, thighs and buttocks were fairly toned for her age. That brightened up her mood bit. And while slipping into the long-sleeved latex bodysuit, which clung to her body like a second skin, she noticed the tingle of restrained anticipation. • • • Rolf glanced at his gold wristwatch. He still had ten minutes left. He checked the sheets one last time on the queen-size bed in the corner of the small apartment where he had lived since moving out of the place he had shared with his wife. Pure white and meticulously smooth, that’s how it had to be. The champagne cooler with the sparkling rosé from the Rhineland took center stage on the glass table, with a white napkin elegantly placed over the neck of the bottle. Two champagne flutes stood immaculately on their lace coasters. Not a speck of dust clouded the glass tabletop. The decorative pillows on the love seat were carefully formed and placed as if for a high-fashion photo shoot. Not a speck of dirt could be found on the carpet. Everything was perfectly prepared for the rendezvous. One final glance in the mirror, a ritual to steel himself for the impending encounter. Sucking in his gut, he grappled with the truth – the bulge above the waistband was a stubborn reminder of indulgences that defied concealment. The black leatherette pants, chosen for the dating platform’s rendezvous, paradoxically accentuated the excess. But agreements were agreements, and the glossy allure of black patent leather wouldn’t yield to the casual comfort of stretch jeans. No, tonight demanded a certain aesthetic. His Audemars Piquet Royal Oak wristwatch would surely impress his visitor and distract a little from his unenticing paunch. Flaunting the luxury watch was also important because although the rendezvous was obviously focused on erotic adventure, the neat Juliane, who would be standing just outside the door, seemed not only to be attractive, but assuredly a woman spoiled for success. In this intricate dance of desire and expectation, the mirror reflected not just a man adjusting his appearance but a player in a larger game where looks, luxury, and allure were the currency of the night. If her chat promises came to fruition in bed, the prospect of repeating such thrills danced on the edges of possibility – despite her hint at a one-time dalliance. If only he could weave the threads of influence, perhaps bend her resolve to a more favorable direction. In any case, he wanted to enjoy this encounter confidently. Since he had separated from his wife nine weeks ago, he tried using dating sites to find a woman who was more interested in eroticism than in any kind of love relationship. Unfortunately, he had to come to terms with the fact that his age was quite a buzzkill, and now, in the midst of this damned Corona lockdown, no dates could be made at all – at least not officially. All the more gladly, therefore, had he yielded to Juliane’s advances. Black leather, uncomplicated but persistent, she had formulated as her wish, and, most importantly: no interest in a permanent relationship. She had therefore demanded that he delete the chats before her visit today. There are, in fact, women who know what they want and who want to know, Rolf thought, stroking his belly and hiding the box of Viagra. If I impress her, maybe she’ll want to go to bed with me more often after all, without us turning it into a relationship, he imagined with increasing excitement. She looked stunning in her tight silk costume, through which a shiny black bodysuit shimmered, matching the black gloves. Her blond hair fell loosely to her petite shoulders, her green eyes sparkled with promise, and the smile of her thin lips excited him. As she sat down, her gaze grazed his wrist before lowering to his crotch. Rolf sucked his belly in as best he could, pushing out his chest and pelvis, feeling a pubescent pride as his manhood bulged clearly in his faux leather pants. She nodded in approval. Whether she meant the sparkling champagne or the shiny bulge was not entirely apparent, but he hummed as he filled the flutes. She pointed to the seat next to her, raised her glass, and in a low voice gave him a beguiling toast: “Let us quench our lustful longing!” She sipped discreetly from her glass and placed a hand on his thigh. Now his pants became doubly tight. Wow, does she ever go for it, Rolf was pleased and put his arm around her shoulder. She turned her head gently to the side, laid it lightly on her neck and offered him her lips. He kissed them. Her mouth felt hard, but willingly opened and received his tongue. Her bite was unexpected. He flinched back. She let out a throaty hiss and placed her hand centrally in his lap. Right, he admonished himself, she wants it hard and fierce. His arousal grew. “Do you have a bed, too?” What a question. He stood up, took her hand and led her around the shelf dividing the room to the sleeping corner. “Neat and inviting. Shall we?” She unbuttoned the jacket of her silk costume, tantalizingly slowly, button by button. Gradually her black latex bodysuit emerged, an artificial second skin on a boyish body. The small bulges excited him very much. He wanted to open his pants, but she shook her head. “Lie down,” she whispered, “That’s my job. First, there’s a little show.” He lay down and watched her take off her costume in slow motion, then kneel over him in the black catsuit. Everything about her was black. Even her feet were in tight rubber stockings. Greedily he looked at her body, which he would soon possess: boyish with a mixture of innocent and wicked. This body was different from Gabriele’s fullness, and it was just the change of scenery he wanted to experience. Her hands were now playing with the button on his pants. Rolf banished thoughts of his wife, closed his eyes...