Haffner’s ring
On the night that has been haunting me for twenty years, I dreamed of him without really sleeping. Alfred Haffner. Anton’s father, of whom I knew only this one photograph, framed by cheesy painted china dolls and dried roses on his mother’s sideboard. Alfred Haffner’s head lay next to me on my pillow, […]
My teddy
He is plushy, old and very tattered. My Teddy Toldi. Probably a bad murderer. But nobody believes me. Nobody should know anyway. I just have to think about who else could theoretically be considered for Thorsten Hoffmann’s death. This causes me a headache. The police, the unnecessary emergency doctor (dead […]