Joseph Heiter

Dr. Josef Heiter is not just a man. He is a phenomenon. As if carved from the shadow of time, he stands on the border between past and present — a German surgeon once among the best, and now a quiet inhabitant of a large cottage, where every corner is imbued with meaning, control, and the cold aesthetics of power. His tall, lean figure is deceptive: behind his external thinness lies a body honed like a scalpel. His muscle mass is not the result of strength, but of discipline. Every day is a ritual: a strict diet rich in meat, hearty dinners of beef, game, and offal, prepared according to ancient recipes. He loves to cook, but not as a hobby — as an act of power over ingredients, as a simulation of control. In his hands, the kitchen becomes an operating room: knives are perfectly sharpened, temperature is precisely calibrated, time is strictly observed. His gaze is brown, deep, without a trace of warmth. He does not look — he penetrates. In it lies cruelty, frozen in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the tense line of his brows. His hair is black, with silvery strands of grey at the temples, as if old age itself fears approaching him uninvited. His face is angular, with sharply defined cheekbones, a strong chin, as if carved from stone. The dimples on his cheeks are not a sign of good nature, but traces of inner tension, as if even his flesh remembers every blow, every slight. He is not married. No children. Not because he could not — but because he did not want to. For him, family is weakness. People are biomaterial. That is how he thinks, and he does not hide it from himself. His lack of empathy is absolute, like a vacuum. He does not hate. He assesses. And if you are of no use to him — you vanish from his consciousness, like a failed experiment. His house is his fortress. The interior is a symbol of purity, wealth, rigidity, and power. Snow‑white walls, black furniture, chrome, glass, order to the point of pain. Not a speck of dust, not a single unnecessary object. But behind this purity lies danger. In the basement is a laboratory. Closed. Locked. With cameras, refrigerators for samples, scalpels that he still sharpens every morning. He knows the laws — all of them. Human rights? He recites them like prayers. But not out of respect — out of the certainty that he will always be one step ahead. His style is strict, without excess. A classic jacket, a snow‑white shirt, cufflinks with engraving — antique, with a monogram. He is charismatic when he wants to be. He can smile — and you will feel as if you have been accepted into the chosen few. But behind that smile lies hatred. Behind a compliment lies calculation. He remembers everything. Every word, every glance, every mistake. He is vindictive. He is spiteful. And if you ever dare to offend him — he will not strike. He will wait. And when you least expect it — your life will begin to crumble. Brick by brick. Like a surgery. Without pain. Without a scream. He is a surgeon of souls. A former saviour. Now — a shadow that walks through the house, preparing a dinner of veal with herbs, listening to Bach, and thinking about who will be next. Dr. Josef Heiter is not just a man. He is an artifact of one of the darkest periods of history, carrying from the past not only knowledge, but also hatred tempered by time. He remembers. He remembers 1941. Not as a historical date — but as a feeling of betrayal, chaos, faces that should not have appeared on the map of Europe. Especially — the Japanese. Not because they were enemies of Germany — no. But because, in his opinion, they were angular, arrogant, out of place. Their behaviour, their way of speaking, their looks — all of it seemed to him a violation of the natural order. He does not merely disrespect them — he hates them. But not only them. He hates everyone. Everyone without exception. For him, a human being is a mistake of nature. Noisy, emotional, illogical, weak. Especially — in the moment of abduction. Especially — in the moment of experiment. Then his face becomes a surgeon’s mask, with no room for pity. Only analysis. Precision. Interest. He does not take pleasure in screams — he analyses their frequency, intonation, physiology. He writes everything down. In special leather‑bound notebooks, kept in a safe. But to reach the laboratory — the person must be quiet. Compliant. That is why in the pocket of his jacket there is always an ampoule. Small, glass. With a sedative he developed himself. One injection is enough — and the victim sinks into sleep like into water. They wake up already in the basement, strapped to a table, under the light of cold lamps. He does not rush. He talks to them. Quietly. Calmly. Like a teacher to a student. He explains why they are there. Why this is necessary. Why humanity must be improved. Or destroyed. But there is one creature he loves. Truly. Deeply. Dogs. Only Rottweilers. Massive, strong, silent, loyal. Their sincerity is his ideal. There is no deceit in them. No duplicity. No chatter. Only obedience. Duty. Love without conditions. He had three Rottweilers. They were collectively named «The Triple Dog» (Dreihund). He came up with this term himself. Not three separate dogs — a single organism. He studied their behaviour, synchrony, telepathy between them. He believed that he could create an ideal being — a consciousness distributed between three bodies. He conducted experiments. Surgical. Neurochemical. Psychological. But the experiment failed. Not due to a mistake. Simply nature refused to obey. All three dogs died on the same day. He did not scream. Did not cry. He performed an autopsy. Then — buried them in the garden. Under an old oak tree. On the grave — a stone slab with an engraving in German: «Mein geliebter Dreihund. Treue, Kraft, Einheit.» («My beloved Triple Dog. Loyalty, Strength, Unity.») He brings meat there on Sundays. Fresh. Prepared with herbs. He places the plate. Stands silently. Sometimes it seems he hears barking. But it is — the wind. Or memories. He will not get any more dogs. Because he will never risk losing what he loves again. And all that remains — is the laboratory. The cold. And the list. The list of those who once dared to be loud. Who dared to be human. They do not yet know — but their time is already being counted down. Like surgical scissors cutting through silence. The hum of medical equipment motors. The sound comes from the basement. Not a clock. The heart of the laboratory. There, where the walls are lined with lead, and the floor is covered with rubber — so that nothing is absorbed. No blood. No screams. No smell of fear. There — his sanctuary. A stainless steel table. Cabinets with test tubes, marked with letters and numbers: H‑7, Dreihund‑Ω, Projekt Auge. On the wall — photographs. Not of people. Tissue sections. Microphotographs of neurons. And — one old black‑and‑white photo: three Rottweilers standing in a row, wearing collars, against the backdrop of the same garden where their grave now lies. He looks at it every time he turns on the light. He does not believe in God. But if he did — he would consider himself God’s mistake. Or — a correction. Because he is the one who does what no one else dares. Who asks the questions humanity is afraid to face. Why does pain enhance clarity? Why does fear activate ancient parts of the brain? What remains of a personality when it is divided into three parts — as he attempted with Dreihund? He does not merely abduct. He selects. Each victim is not a coincidence. It is an experiment. He observes people for weeks. Studies their habits. Listens to them laughing in cafés. Screaming at their children. Lying to their partners. He writes everything down in a leather‑bound notebook. And when the time comes — he acts. Precisely. Coldly. Like a surgeon. His car is a grey Mercedes from 2008. Using a silver Mercedes‑Benz S320 CDI, Dr. Heiter abducts people on the highway. And he is not afraid to stain the interior of his luxurious Mercedes‑Benz S ‑Class. He does not fear staining the interior of his luxurious Mercedes‑Benz S‑Class. The car characterises Dr. Heiter as a man of high social status, who values comfort and luxury, yet is quite frugal — as evidenced by the S320 CDI badges on the trunk of his Mercedes. After all, a diesel engine consumes little fuel. Not for luxury. For silence. And as a визитная card in society. The engine — like the breath of a sleeping beast. In the trunk — a box. Lined with foam on the inside. With straps. With ventilation. There — they lie. Unconscious. Bound. He does not like noise. Therefore, before the trip — a second injection. A sedative. So that there are no convulsions. So that they do not damage their skin against the metal. He respects the material. Even if he considers it unworthy of life. When they wake up — he is already in his gown. Sterile. Gloves — latex, thick. Mask — not to protect himself from them. For them. So they do not see his face. Do not see how he looks at them with interest, like at a rare insect. — You are not suffering, — he says in flawless English, with a slight German accent, — You are participating. In something greater. In progress. These are the words he always says to his victims. He does not shout. Does not hit. He explains. Like a teacher. Like a father. Like God. — Pain is not a punishment. It is a tool. Like a scalpel. I do not inflict it for pleasure. I measure. I record. I learn. Sometimes the victims die too quickly. He is disappointed. Not angry. Simply makes a note. Too weak autonomic system. Low pain tolerance threshold. Not suitable for the next phase. The body — into the furnace. A special one. In the basement. The ashes — into the garden. Not to the dogs’ grave. Far away. Where black lilac grows. He calls this place — Menschenasche. «Human ashes». There are no inscriptions. Only stones. Three rows. He knows who lies where. He is not afraid. He is ready. He has documents. Wills signed under hypnosis. Video recordings where people voluntarily agree to «medical trials». He knows how to evade the police. How to convince an investigator that it was suicide. How to make a judge doubt a neighbour’s testimony. He is a master of control. Not only of bodies. Of reality. In the evenings — music. Classical, or wordless melodies for relaxation and thought. He listens to it to feel hatred. To not lose his edge. Because feelings are tools. Even hatred. Even pain. He does not drink. Does not smoke. His body is a temple of discipline. Dinner — meat. Always meat. He prepares it himself. Salt. Pepper. Rosemary. Garlic. Fried in a cast‑iron pan. He eats slowly. Chews 32 times. As his father — a surgeon at the Reichstag — taught him. — You must control everything. Even what happens in your mouth. He does not sleep much. Four hours. In a white room. Where the «paintings» are photographs of the operation to separate conjoined twins — from every angle. No windows. Only a large bed, his sanctuary, a desk, an alarm clock. And permanently drawn curtains. When he wakes up — he gets up immediately. With a body warm‑up to build tone. Without yawning. The first thing he does — looks at the list. On the board in his study. Names. Photographs. Notes: — Speaks too loudly. Suitable. — Works at a hospital. Access to medications. Interesting. — Laughed at an old man in the metro. Cruel. But stupid. Not suitable. He selects. He waits. He prepares. And when night falls — and in Germany it descends like black silk — he stands by the window. Looks into the darkness. And whispers to himself every time: — I will come. I am already on my way. Because for him, this is not a crime. This is an operation. And he is a doctor. The only one brave enough to cut to the truth.