True Identity of Psyfiction Author Revealed

Sensation! True Identity of Psyfiction Novelist Benjamin Leeway Revealed!

The arrest of the novelist who has been wanted for months is complete.
During the night from Saturday to Sunday, the Intelligence Service of ID-City pulled off a spectacular coup: Benjamin Leeway was tracked down and taken into custody at one of his numerous hideouts.

And that’s not all: the investigators also managed to uncover his true identity – a mystery that had puzzled readers, fans, and literary critics for years.
So who really hides behind the pseudonym Benjamin Leeway?
The author himself continues to refuse any statement. Instead, he released a written declaration through his lawyer.

‘Shit. They’re here.’
I didn’t know where to hide my ID card.
Or the body.
There wasn’t enough time to get rid of it. It’s blood had mixed with the spilt red wine. The carpet soaked up both greedily – like a silent accomplice.

‘Open the bloody door, Benjamin!’
The special unit wasn’t here to negotiate.
‘We know you’re in there!’

I wondered whether I could finish the chapter before they came in. The author who refused to reveal his true identity. It had potential.

A dull thud against the door. Then another. The wood splintered. I took a step back, breathing shallowly.
The Neon light flickered. The music kept playing – soft and ironic. Mozart. Always Mozart.

Then the door burst open.
‘Hands up!’ one of them shouted.
I raised them slowly. Something sticky clung between my fingers.

‘He’s got blood on his hands!’ the commando officer yelled.
‘It’s ink,’ I countered. They wouldn’t believe me anyway. ‘I was just proofreading.’

One of the officers went to the table and picked up my manuscript.
‘What’s this?’
‘My new book,’ I said. ‘A satire.’

The taller of the two looked uncertain. His eyes flicked to his colleague without moving his head. Then back to me.
‘About what?’ he finally asked. ‘What are you writing about these days, Benjamin?’

‘I…’ I didn’t know how much truth they could take.

‘Hang on… what’s that back there under the record player?’
Bloody hell.
He’d found it.

The smaller one grinned crookedly. ‘That’s it, isn’t it, Benjamin? That’s your bloody ID card!’
I knew there was no point. It was over. ‘You’re right. That’s it.’

‘Up against the wall! Hands behind your back!’ The sub-machine gun lent extra weight to his words. ‘And no tricks, yeah?! I know you, Benjamin. You and your mind games. But they won’t work on us.’

The smaller one stumbled over the corpse as he reached for the ID. ‘For fuck’s sake, Leeway, you really ought to tidy this place up!’
‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ the big guy shouted to his partner, pressing my head against the wall. ‘Read out what it says!’

The little one held my card between thumb and forefinger, arm outstretched. He opened his mouth, ready to speak the name no one was meant to know. But something was wrong. He squinted. And blinked.

‘What is it?!’ The big one’s patience had run out. And I could feel it.
‘I… I can’t read it…’
‘Then put your bloody reading glasses on, you idiot!’

He did.
And that was it. The end. Years of secrecy – gone, disenchanted. Soon the two of them would know. Then their superiors. Then the press. The public.

‘It says Hanspeter Otto.’

The big guy pressed the muzzle of his gun harder against my neck. ‘You sure??’ he barked. ‘You’re holding it upside down!’

The smaller one looked baffled, then burst out laughing. ‘Ha, right! What a twat.’

He turned the little card 180 degrees and tried again.
And in that moment I knew: the game was over.

‘Otto Peterhans.’