Deep Pain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  Maybe he should have put more consideration into the fact that Spannberg might recognize him through his contact with Jonathan. If the woman who just marched past him was, indeed, the multiple murderer, had she recognized him?

  Till reached for his camera and looked at the picture. He enlarged it using the function keys on the display. Later he would take a closer look at it on his laptop and compare it with photos of the former prison psychologist. But for now…

  Till intuitively decided on his next step. He pulled the ignition key, opened the car door, and ran after the couple. He slowed down at the corner and peered carefully around the wall of the house. The couple still followed the street arm-in-arm. Till took the camera and looked through the small viewfinder. He set the greatest possible zoom, then put his finger on the shutter release. The digital camera took eight pictures.

  Done, Till withdrew around the corner of the house. The road the couple were walking along headed straight for a kilometer or so. Some side streets intersected with the main road, but he had no guarantee that the walkers would turn down one of them, which made it impossible to follow them unobtrusively. If the woman turned around on a straightaway, she would notice him.

  Till analyzed the first photo again. He concentrated on the man whose face was much clearer. There was still the question of whether Spannberg was working with an accomplice. This picture: was Till holding the evidence of a co-conspirator in his hand?

  8

  For the second time in the last few minutes, Spannberg looked over her shoulder. No one seemed to be following them.

  “What’s wrong?” Bäcker asked. “Afraid your ex is following us?”

  “Excuse me?” she said, just to gain a few seconds.

  “This is the second time you’ve looked back. Almost like you’re being followed. By Erwin?”

  Spannberg laughed. “No,” she said, deciding to tell a different story. A stalking ex might scare Bäcker. “My ex-husband is either doing gymnastics with his secretary, or he’s working. This is embarrassing, but… I’m terrified of big dogs.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Since I was a child. I was bitten in the calf by a German shepherd. You never forget something like that.”

  “How awful!”

  “Pretty annoying that I keep turning around, isn’t it?”

  “You do this when you’re jogging too?”

  She laughed again. “Sure. I would probably finish five minutes earlier every day if I didn’t always give dog owners a wide berth. Do you do any sports?”

  He claimed to be quite athletic, but because of his job, he said, he usually couldn’t find the time to be active. This sounded like the excuse of a man who preferred to watch pornography or rummage through the dirty clothes of strange women.

  After five minutes, Spannberg stopped and turned around. Surprised, Bäcker followed her example, almost tripping over his own feet. Spannberg found it difficult to suppress a grin.

  “I’m getting too cold,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  “I’ve got nothing against that.”

  No one was chasing them or hiding in an entrance. Spannberg walked faster.

  “You in a hurry?” Bäcker said.

  “Oh, you know how women are. Hot one moment, then cold feet as quick as lightning. Is your apartment warm?”

  “The heaters in the house work great. How hot do you want it?”

  “Snuggly.”

  After a while they turned the last corner of the house. Spannberg immediately noticed the empty parking space at the roadside. The gray car had disappeared and was nowhere else along the road.

  Bäcker unlocked the front door and they went inside. “Hey, uh…” He cleared his throat. “What did you mean by that other form of physical activity earlier?”

  “I’ll show you in a minute,” Spannberg said. Then she leaned into him and breathed into his ear: “I bought new lingerie last week. The old pieces I wore for my husband all ended up in the trash. Would you like to see what I bought?”

  He nodded, looking at her with big eyes.

  “Then shower and go warm up your bed for me. I’ll just get ready at my place. By the way, I’d love it if you’d give me your key. I don’t want to have to stand around in the hall.”

  He opened his apartment door and willingly pressed the whole ring of keys into her hand.

  “If it takes a few minutes longer, don’t be surprised,” she said. “Putting on the straps can take time.” She kissed his cheek.

  “Won’t bother me,” he said in a husky voice. “I’ll be waiting in bed.”

  “That’s where you belong.”

  Bäcker entered his apartment and closed the door. Headed to her own place, Spannberg played through her options. Her suspicion that the man in the car was someone watching her had been strengthened during the walk. Not a cop, but maybe Albrecht’s friend, the Hamburg private detective. She concluded that a police raid was not imminent. Nevertheless, time was running out. She needed a new hiding place.

  In her apartment, she opened the hallway closet. Behind cleaning utensils and the vacuum cleaner she had hidden a small suitcase that she didn’t want to store right next to her bed. But then she changed her mind. She could bring the things in it to Bäcker’s apartment later.

  From the bedroom wardrobe she fetched her larger suitcase and opened the double bottom. She reached for the rope, then undressed. Somehow she had to hide the fact that she was not wearing any lingerie, that, in fact, she didn’t have any. Among the things Marcel had left in the closet was a bathrobe. Spannberg took it off the hook and slipped into it. She took a pair of black nylon pantyhose out of her own clothes and put them on. This made the overall picture look more coherent. She went into the bathroom. Here, too, there were still things that Marcel had not taken abroad. Like a small bottle of massage oil. Spannberg put the oil and the rope into a toiletry bag.

  Before she entered the hallway, she looked through the peephole. Then she secretly opened the door and listened for footsteps or other noises. Everything was quiet. Spannberg rushed to Bäcker’s apartment and unlocked it. Inside, the door to the bedroom was open.

  “I’m in here,” he said. “Come here!”

  She followed the voice and immediately confirmed her previous assumption: she could access the garden terrace through the bedroom.

  “Why still in your robe?” he asked.

  Spannberg giggled. “Just be patient. I didn’t want to walk down the hall like a hooker.”

  “Then take it off now.”

  “In a minute.” She reached into her bag and presented him with the massage oil, “By the way, I’m a fantastic masseuse. For me, stroking a man’s muscles is the perfect foreplay. Turn on your stomach.”

  He hesitated.

  “Trust me, you’ll like it. I love to massage with more than just my hands.”

  “I’m curious,” Bäcker said. “But don’t take off your lingerie.”

  “I’ll leave the robe on for now. Until I’m warm enough.”

  He flopped onto his belly, and she straddled his back, running her hand through his hair. The oil disappeared back into the bag. The rope came out.

  “Close your eyes and enjoy. It’ll be the best sex of your life.”

  He moaned, and she flashed back to seeing him on camera, leaving his stink in her apartment.

  She yanked his head up by the hair and wrapped the rope around his neck. Before Bäcker realized what was happening, she cinched the rope. Again he grunted, but this time not out of excitement. He struck back, bucked, tried to throw her off, but the mattress was too soft and his position too unfavorable to apply enough pressure.

  “You motherfucker!” she hissed. “Did you enjoy my panties?”

  He gargled. With his left hand he reached backward, but he only caught her bathrobe.

  “Die already!”

  She increased the pressure and felt a splash of hot moisture on her l
egs as his bladder emptied. Despite her disgust, she stayed on him. Bäcker’s other hand lifted a little before it flopped back down onto the mattress. His wheezing also died. Nevertheless, she continued to squeeze. Only after her arms began to ache and burn did she loosen the rope and feel for a pulse.

  9

  Till copied the photos from the camera to the laptop. He enlarged the picture of the woman in the scarf and compared it with the material he found about Spannberg online. He recognized certain similarities in the nose and eye area. Certainly not irrefutable proof.

  Till got up from his desk and paced around the apartment. To convince Chief Inspector Krumm, he probably only had one shot. Should he do it now, or hope for better photos? He took a bottle of Fritz-Kola from the refrigerator. He sat back at his desk, took a big sip, and weighed the pros and cons one last time. Then he picked up his cell phone and dialed the number of the Hamburg chief inspector.

  “Krumm,” the inspector said.

  “Buchinger speaking. Do you have a moment?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I think I found Spannberg,” Till said.

  There was a moment of surprised silence. Then Krumm coughed briefly. “Is she back in Hamburg?”

  “I’m in Leipzig right now. I managed to take some photos from a few meters away. Would you like to check them?”

  “Yes.” Krumm gave him his professional email address.

  “I should warn you,” Till said, “it might be her, but I’m not entirely sure myself.”

  “Suppose you’re right,” Krumm said. “How did you manage to find Germany’s most wanted woman? A task in which all police departments have failed so far.”

  Till told him that he had found an email address in his research and had gotten to the bottom of the matter. He deliberately remained vague in his statements. “The photo has been sent,” he finally said.

  “I’ll check it and get back to you. Until then, don’t do anything at all. This is not a request. I hope we understand each other.”

  “One hundred percent,” Till said. “I took an apartment in Leipzig. Until I hear from you again, I’m staying here.”

  10

  Krumm and Dorfer examined the enlarged photographs.

  “Stature’s the same,” Dorfer said.

  His partner nodded and switched to the shot of the woman’s face. “Damn cap! Damn scarf.”

  “That is precisely what I find suspicious. She walks around in a disguise while her companion is normally dressed in winter clothes.”

  “I wonder if that’s her accomplice,” Krumm said.

  “Possibly.”

  The two men studied the picture for a while. Krumm zoomed in on the face. “My gut tells me it’s her.”

  “We could request administrative assistance in Leipzig,” Dorfer suggested.

  Krumm groaned. “Please don’t. Leave the Ossis to take credit? Are you serious? Afterwards, they’ll claim that in just a matter of days they accomplished something that we’ve been failing at for over a year.”

  “Do you have problems with our East German colleagues?” Dorfer said, sounding amused. When Krumm didn’t answer, Dorfer added, “You know we can’t just go to Leipzig and arrest her.”

  “I guess that’s for Dellhorst to decide.” Krumm picked up the phone and dialed his supervisor.

  ***

  Five minutes later they were sitting in Dellhorst’s office. In his late fifties, Dellhorst was in charge of the Special Commission 41, which was responsible for homicides. He took his time quietly examining the pictures. Finally he took a sip of water.

  “So, Krumm,” Dellhorst said, “these photos. They were taken by a private individual with whom you shared information?”

  “Buchinger is a colleague and friend of Johnathan Albrecht. I contacted him weeks ago in order to get clues about Albrecht’s working methods. That Buchinger is investigating on his own is something we’ve never explicitly discussed.”

  “If the press finds out about this, how will we look?”

  “Is there a way to leave the Saxons out of it?” Dorfer asked. “That way, Buchinger’s role could be made out to be smaller than it is. Or we leave him out altogether.”

  “Leave the Saxons out of it? How is that possible?” Dellhorst said. “We’ll be lucky if we can be present at their briefings.”

  Krumm narrowed his eyes.

  “That’s just the way it is in a federal system.” Dellhorst steepled his fingers. “We have to stay in the game. Who knows how they’re going to fuck it up over there? Is it possible for you to leave for Leipzig right now?”

  Krumm nodded. “No problem.”

  “Uh,” Dorfer said, “can I have a little time to prepare?”

  “Call as soon as you get there,” Dellhorst said. “I will make sure our police chief contacts his colleague in Leipzig. We will insist on your presence. The rest will be what it is.”

  ***

  Back at the office, Krumm informed Till Buchinger of his boss’s decision.

  “My partner and I are coming to Leipzig today to organize the arrest on-site with the local authorities.”

  “You’re sure this woman is Spannberg?” Buchinger asked.

  “At least we see a reasonable chance that you’ve got a hit.”

  “Should I set up an observation post in the meantime?”

  “Not a bad idea. Provided Spannberg doesn’t catch you doing it.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Buchinger promised.

  “Okay. Then I’ll get in touch with you as soon as we’ve coordinated with the Saxons. Please give me the address of the suspects and the suspected accomplice. Perhaps the man is known to the police.”

  After the call with Buchinger, Krumm called Dellhorst to forward the address. He hung up and sat back in his chair, listening to Dorfer, who had phoned his wife to say that he was going on a short trip for work.

  “I’m sorry, honey. It can’t be postponed. It’s about Spannberg. We need to be there when they arrest her. If only to identify her.” He listened for a while and nodded repeatedly. He deliberately avoided eye contact with Krumm. “We’ll probably spend the night in Leipzig.” Once again, Dorfer remained silent for a moment. “I’ll make it up to you,” he finally whispered. “I promise. I love you.”

  Krumm groaned when Dorfer ended the call. “Oh my God! You’re completely under her slipper. How embarrassing was that just now? This is your job!”

  “Ulrike is also working,” Dorfer said, defending his wife.

  “She’s a freelancer. Her own boss! She can be a little flexible.”

  “What do you know about family life? How many police marriages break up on the job? I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Listening to you, I’d rather be single forever.”

  “So there’s no new woman in your life? You’ve been keeping pretty much to yourself in that regard lately.”

  The two men put on their leather jackets.

  “All I need is Tinder,” Krumm said.

  “When you were in love with Sandra, you seemed more balanced.”

  “Whatever. Are you finally ready, or do you have to inform your parents that you’re sleeping abroad for the night? I’m sure they’ll remind you to bring jammies and a toothbrush.”

  Krumm let Dorfer take the lead. Even with the blue light atop the car, the trip would probably take well over three hours. Enough time to craft the arguments they would use to convince the Saxons. But also the ex, Krumm thought. If Buchinger had succeeded in tracking down a murderer, he should be able to locate Sandra. Once Spannberg was behind bars, Krumm would intensify the search for his ex. Perhaps he would even hire Till Buchinger to help him.

  11

  After an hour’s drive, Krumm’s phone rang.

  “It’s Dellhorst,” he said before taking the call.

  Dorfer nodded and Krumm answered the phone.

  “Krumm, listen,” Dellhorst said. “I’ve changed
my mind. I’ve informed our colleagues in Leipzig.”

  “Why?” Krumm said, unable to suppress his anger.

  “They need adequate lead time. I followed all the rules, even if you don’t like it. The Leipzig police chief explained to me that in such cases the LKA from Dresden needs to be called in. So in two and a half hours, there will be a meeting in Leipzig. You’ve been invited to attend.”

  “Well, that’s generous.”

  “Make sure you get there on time. I’m sure the East Germans aren’t waiting around for you.” Dellhorst gave him the address and ended the conversation.

  “Bureaucratic asshole!” Krumm said. He programmed the new destination into the navigator. According to the system’s calculations, they would arrive just minutes before the meeting. “Step on it,” Krumm said.

  ***

  They reached the police headquarters ten minutes before the agreed time. A uniformed officer led them into a large meeting room, where eight men looked over at them expectantly.

  “Ah, our Hamburg colleagues have arrived. We can finally start. Welcome. I am Police Chief Walther.”

  The man shook their hands and introduced everyone present. Besides Senior Chief Inspector Frank Starke, LKA members made up the bulk of those in attendance.

  “We’ve already reached an agreement with our colleagues from Dresden,” Walther said. “The Saxony LKA insists on managing the raid.”

  Starke snorted, and Walther shot him an angry look.

  “Frank, we’ve discussed this at length.”

  “I’m against it. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “Exactly,” said a man whom Walther had introduced as Chief Inspector Röder. “We thank you very much for your legwork on this. The LKA is simply better equipped for the raid.”

  Krumm got the distinct impression that those present were trying to pin the progress of the investigation to their own lapels.