A fictional account of Ötzi, the Iceman
Friday, September 20, 1991
Matteo DeLuca, alone in Bolzano, Italy’s Carabinieri Office, stared at the fax in his hand.
Overnight, a routine filing by the Austrian Public Prosecutor had become criminal case number ST 13 UT 6407/91.
A grainy photo of a naked corpse, accompanied this less than stellar fax copy. From the hips down, the body appeared stuck in glacial ice or submerged in gray melt water. Only the back of the head, and the upper back were exposed, and caused him to wonder how anyone determined this was a criminal case from such meager evidence. To him, it looked like a hiking accident.
They should have been alerted him yesterday, damn it, when the body was discovered. Full-time staff hadn’t seen fit to even mention it when he came on duty this morning, too pre-occupied with preparations for an extended lunch to celebrate Commissario Russo’s birthday. Their expected time of return—vague. Get over it. You’re a nobody, a part-time military police trainee and first year archeology student, the filler-in for weekends or inconvenient assignments.
Before daring to disturb Russo’s celebration, he’d first familiarize himself with the case. A file in the center of Commissario Russo’s desk labeled “International?” held promise so he opened it. Sure enough, the file’s only occupant was a fax, received yesterday when the case was still considered routine. He removed it with a flourish and said, “I predict you’re about to have lots of company in here.”
According to this, yesterday, at 1:30 PM, a couple of German hikers from Nuremberg discovered a human corpse in the Ötzal Alps. Thinking it a mountaineering accident from a year or two ago, they took a photo of the body and showed it to the landlord of the Similaun Mountain Refuge where they were staying. The landlord was the one who had called it in.
The original communique was sent to the tiny berg of Schnals, Austria, then forwarded on to Balzono, which had a police force at least twice its size. Matteo felt immediately better about not being in the loop. The loop was more convoluted than he had assumed.
The written report mentioned clumps of hair, lengths of string, hide and pieces of wood, strewn around the discovery site. The body had a head wound and displayed burns and signs of having been tied-up, possibly subjected to torture. A chill went up Matteo’s untested spine at the thought of a deranged killer hiding out in the Alps to prey on unsuspecting hikers and mountaineers.
Because the body was discovered on the border between Italy and Austria, both the Italian carabinieri and Austrian gendarmes were notified. The ultra-prompt and uber organized, Austrian gendarmes had already arrived at the site and attempted to remove the corpse from the ice by using a pneumatic drill underwater to free it, damaging the left hip. Unbelievable. Fortunately, after thirty minutes the drill ran out of fuel, otherwise, he hated to think of the destruction.
The Austrians might be prompter but they were no more competent than his office. In fact, according to this, the Austrians had committed the ultimate blunder and removed a very unusual pick axe from the crime scene. Mm. In what way was the axe unusual? He read on, hoping for clarification, only to be disappointed.
Matteo called the ristorante hosting the commissario’s party to give Russo a brief account from the latest fax. “It’s become a criminal investigation. Do you want me to head up there tomorrow for a first-hand look? I’m on duty this weekend.”
Russo, cheerful, effusive and obviously under the influence, replied, “Since it’s Saturday go, represent our team. Only fitting an Italian is present, especially if the body turns out to be on our side of the border. If it is, call me immediately.”
Early the next morning dark clouds hung low on the horizon. Definite possibility of snow, but he went up the mountain anyway. A hiker, returning from the scene, told him to go over the next ridge and from there he would be able to see down into a shallow, rock-strewn gully where the action was taking place.
Caution tape surrounded the scene, and two hikers were craning their necks to see into what looked like a pit. Although he sprinted down the ridge and into the gulley as fast as the rough terrain allowed, by the time he arrived, the Austrians had covered the corpse head to toe with plastic bagging.
He flashed his credentials and said, “Can I see the body?”
“Definitely, once it’s in Innsbruck. We’ve been instructed to cover it—protection from crowds of weekend hikers.”
Disappointment tasted bitter.
One of the Austrians leaned toward him “Hey, Matteo DeLuca, the weekend’s so busy we can’t find an available helicopter on our side, does your office have access to one?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” After numerous attempts he located a helicopter, only to be told by the pilot that the weather was too foul—wasn’t safe to fly. Now what? Couldn’t waste the trip, he had to go back with something. In his brief career as a carabinieri he’d found bars to be one of the best venues for gathering information. The Similaun Refuge had a bar and it was where the couple stayed who had discovered the body. Off he trudged.
The refuge’s wood paneled bar was crowded, the atmosphere buzzed with news of the mysterious corpse. Two world famous mountaineers, Hans Kammerlander and Reinhold Messner were over by the fireplace, holding court and telling everyone within earshot that they’d taken a good look at the body, before it was covered.
Matteo brushed snowflakes from his jacket, and walked over to introduce himself. “I’m Matteo DeLuca and I’ve followed your impressive climbing careers. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Please do,” Messner said, “our throats are bone dry from answering all these questions,”
After he’d bought a round Matteo said, “I’m an archeology student and I overheard you say you’d seen the corpse. Can you describe it for me?”
“Naked and bony,” said Hammerlander. “There’s a head wound and what looked like burns and black marks on its back and around the wrists, as if they’d been tied. We tried to pry the body out of the ice with a stick, a ski and a piece of wood but it’s face down and buried from hips to toes in glacial ice.”
He couldn’t stop himself. “Don’t you know not to mess with a crime site?”
“Crime site?” Messner said, eyes bugging out. “We thought it was a mountaineering accident. By the looks of the guy’s leather legging and grass matted shoes, it happened a very long time ago. I mean, we saw a sketch of that axe found with the body and it appeared positively prehistoric.”
The altitude, the alcohol, the lack of sleep must have gotten to him. “Sure, it is, and I’m Mussolini.”
“You joke,” said Messner, “but a journalist we spoke with told us the clothes have to be at least five hundred years old.”
Surreal. “What credentials did that journalist have? I’ll bet he’s no archeologist.”
Hammerlander nodded. “That’s probably true. As a matter of fact, we thought the clothing looked much older than five hundred years.”
Although tempted, he refused to say another word. He was just a student with about as much credibility as that journalist. “I’d wait for an archeologist to weigh in.”
“Of course. Since you’re a student of the field, take a look for yourself and let us know what you think.”
“I will. Thanks for your time and your impressions.” He shook their hands and left.
Sunday morning, slightly hungover, Matteo watched Alois Pirpamer, Head of Local Mountain Rescue, attempt to chip the corpse free with ice picks, in an attempt to avoid more damage to it. His work was meticulous and slow, the right hand most difficult to free, since the fingers gripped something that snagged on the ice. Pirpamer rotated the forearm and finally freed the hand. The hang-up had been an object in the corpse’s grasp that resembled a dagger.
The wind picked up, the temperature dropped and the body again froze solid in the ice. He was shivering and so were Pirpamer’s assistants. How much longer could this go on? At last, Pirpamer collected the articles surrounding the corpse, and placed them into a rubbish bag. Thank God they were done for the day, he needed to warm up before the long drive home and the best place to do that was in front of a fire in the comfort of the lodge.
After polishing off two espressos, he called in his report.
“Fascinating.” Russo said. “I just received notice that the body was most likely discovered in the Italian Alps so I want you to stay up there a day or two longer, until a determination is made on the exact site of the find. If it turns out to be Italy, I’ll send a team.”
Torn, he hung up. On the one hand this had to be the find of the century, on the other, the location would be the last thing on anyone’s mind until the mysterious corpse was retrieved.
On Monday he read his first newspaper account of the “Iceman,” as named by the paper. Nothing he didn’t already know, a regurgitation of the two mountain climber’s impressions. A TV crew from Austrian National Television arrived at 12:37 PM by helicopter and by mid-day the corpse was extracted from the ice along with leather strings and the dagger-like thing.
A forensic doctor who had arrived with the TV crew, packed the corpse into a body bag, and loaded it onto the helicopter for a flight to the city of Vent, in the Austrian Ötz Valley. The axe, on its way to becoming a media star in its own right, was transferred from the Solden gendarmerie post to Innsbruck University Institute of Forensic Medicine.
The Austrian Public Prosecutor, belatedly concerned with negative press on how the corpse had been treated, ordered the body placed in a proper wood coffin and taken to the Institute. Matteo could hardly wait for jurisdiction to be transferred to Italy.
Tuesday morning, September 24th, the Institute positively identified the axe as from the Early Bronze Age. The next day a quiver, along with an unfinished long bow and a full set of clothing, was discovered at the edge of the gully. The Institute analyzed these items and determined the victim had to be least 4,000 to 5,000 years old. Everything of importance was now elsewhere so Matteo headed home to Bolzano.
September 26th, journalist Karl Wendl created the name Ötzi for the corpse and Matteo approved—archeological finds should be named after their geological location and this referenced the Ötz Valley.
Russo had originally wanted him to remain at the site of the body’s find until the exact location was pinpointed. Good thing he hadn’t complied because for that to happen, the border between Italy and Austria had to be redrawn. There were problems inherent in the process, since the initial demarcation lines drawn in 1919, after World War I, had been redrawn in 1922.
This third border demarcation didn’t begin until October 2nd and determined the site of the Iceman’s corpse was in the Province of South Tyrol, Italy. Yes! Adrenaline, pulsed through Matteo, infusing his mind with ideas for a doctoral thesis. All he had to do was transfer to the University of Innsbruck’s Institute for Primeval and Early History and of course graduate.
Ötzi would eventually be transferred to Bolzano because it was nearest to the location of his final day alive. Tuscany could have the axe, the copper in the prehistoric blade came from there but the Iceman belonged here, his probable home.
He, Matteo, vowed to dispel the rumors and misinformation that abounded—the whole thing was a hoax—the mummy was castrated and from Egypt. No and no. The Iceman was fully intact and it was the only “wet” mummy in the world, having been preserved in snow, under a glacier. So many possibilities awaited discovery.
December 1991
A fierce, frigid wind pushed Matteo toward the Carabinieri office while his brain contemplated emerging theories about Ötzi’s murder. Which ones deserved pursuing, which scrapped? Had the murder been some kind of ritual execution? Not in the Alps, those were more likely to occur in South American cultures and no ritualistic symbols were found anywhere near the site. Why had this balding, 46-year-old man, with 61 medicinal tattoos, aligned to acupuncture sites, been murdered? He would have posed no threat to anyone.
Ötzi was a man on the run, evidenced by his long bow, which was not completely finished and neither were some of the arrows in his quiver. The victim of a robbery? Not likely—his most valuable possession, the copper axe, was still with him. Perhaps he’d been killed because he was a shaman and predicted something his tribe didn’t want to hear. Again, there were no ritualistic objects with him to support that theory.
One of Matteo’s student friends suggested it had been a crime of passion, a jealous man offing his rival out in the wilds without witnesses or consequences. But Ötzi was very old for the time period, had bad teeth, arthritis, lice and worms. Not only did he rule that out, he never mentioned it to Russo or any of the other carabinieri.
July 2001
A radiologist from Bolzano discovered an arrowhead lodged in Ötzi’s scapula bone and deduced he had quickly bled to death because the subclavian artery had been pierced. Ötzi, was murdered 5,300 years ago, killed by an arrow shot from a great distance, as if the hunter feared his prey.
Ötzi must have removed the shaft, for comfort, but it was hard to believe he could have done that by himself, face down on a slab of stone. Removal under any circumstances would have been excruciatingly painful and reaching it would have been difficult if not impossible because the arrowhead had entered the left the brachial plexus, a bundle of nerves in the shoulder area, undoubtedly paralyzing that arm.
As the years passed, research on Ötzi revealed a larger picture of the man. Because of his stomach contents, researchers knew the Iceman died in the spring or early summer. His tattoos, unlike modern ones which are applied with needles, instead used fine incisions into which charcoal was rubbed. DNA and other evolving forensic tools would eventually solve many of the mysteries surrounding the corpse and the time had come for Matteo to wind down his investigation.
August 30, 2001
Matteo’s last day with the Carabinieri Office. He had saved for ten years until, he could
leave police work behind and attend university full time, in pursuit of his dream of a doctorate in archeology. As he filed the last fax and packed his espresso cup into his backpack, he reconsidered his most fascinating, unsolved crime; Ötzi.
He had studied every aspect of the case from all angles, in search of a motive for Ötzi’s murder. Absent that and a suspect, he had nothing. In a final attempt, he resolved to put himself into the head of the 5,300-year-old murder victim and imagine.