by Noah Fitz
“Back!” Michel said, pushing the dog away from the door.
Immediately Marc felt a gentle pressure against his right leg. A tabby cat rubbed its head against his shoe and started purring, whereupon the dog began to scratch the floor with his paws.
“Knurr, back!” the man said.
The tomcat wasn’t disturbed and threw himself onto the ground on his back. Although Marc did not normally like the arrogant feline species, he was okay with cheeky cats like this one.
“Please let us in. It’s important,” Marc said.
Mr. Michel obstructed the dog’s view and stared at the inspectors with an unpleasant sparkle in his bloodshot eyes. “What more do you want? We’ve already spoken to the police about everything. More than once. My wife’s done with this. I fear that she’ll never be able to…” His voice failed. He struggled for composure and fought against obvious tears. “Was Yara forced to do this?” he finally said.
“We have to investigate the facts thoroughly, but for that we need more information. We don’t have much evidence.”
“I’ve already given you permission to take our daughter…” Once again, Michel’s voice was stifled by grief. “My wife knows nothing of this.” He pressed his face to the gap between the door and the frame. It looked as if he were trapped inside. “This will kill her,” he said.
“Please let us in. The neighbors…” Marc pointed with his head over his shoulder.
Tine gently pushed Marc aside. “On behalf of the entire police force, I would like to apologize for the inconvenience we’ve caused you. I will talk with your wife. In the meantime, you can talk to Inspector Wulf. Often certain details only come to mind afterwards. Everything is important. Even something that seems insignificant and meaningless can be invaluable to the investigation.”
“Investigation? Will the case… ?”
“Hold on,” Marc said, “don’t be hasty. We have to check everything. The statements of the parents are of enormous value. We don’t want to talk about intimate family matters between you, but I think you should want to know why Yara took her life.”
“Just a second ago you claimed she was possibly murdered.”
“That’s the point,” Marc said. “We still have nothing concrete. I know how this must feel, that everything was taken from you. Nothing makes sense anymore. But wouldn’t it be a relief for both of you to know the tragic incident had nothing to do with you? Wouldn’t it be a small comfort to know that…”
A door opened behind them. “Hey,” an old man croaked. “Why don’t you leave those poor people alone. Sell your stuff somewhere else. They’ve been through enough.” He, too, probably felt safe behind his flimsy chain lock, but Marc knew a firm impact would break the door wide open.
“We’re from the police, Mr. Tuchtowski,” Tine said. She sounded soothing.
How the hell does she know his name? Marc wondered.
The older gentleman flinched, withdrew, and quietly shut his door.
“Fine,” Mr. Michel finally said. “Just give me a second.”
The officials waited in silence as he fiddled with the chain. Meanwhile the cat sat on the windowsill at the end of the hall and watched the hustle and bustle in the yard below.
“How did you know the neighbor’s name?” Marc asked.
“I read it off the doorbell,” Tine said.
“Are you a fucking eagle?”
“No. But I’m not blind, either.”
“Well played,” said Marc. The door finally opened, and he conjured a gentle smile.
All of a sudden, the dog stormed past the cops toward the window. The tomcat clawed into the wet nose of his opponent, then jumped off the sill in a high arc.
“Knurr, get in here!”
The animal obeyed and trotted back into the apartment.
“Those two can’t stand each other,” Michel said, grabbing the dog by the collar. “Please come in.”
Marc gestured for Tine to enter first.
Inside the apartment, the stale air smelled of valerian and other agents that could turn a person’s brain into a sponge. A glimmer of hope in the darkness that had swallowed this poor family. Marc knew this darkness only too well. He had been in such a shitty situation more than once.
“You can leave your shoes on, but please dry them off thoroughly.” Mr. Michel pointed to a round mat that seemed to be woven from Knurr’s hair.
Mark let Tine go first; she wore shoes with heels that scraped the hairs of the rug into a small heap.
“Go ahead,” Marc said and waited until Mr. Michel and Tine had disappeared through the left door. He waited a moment. The deep hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock were the only sounds. Marc counted to five before venturing deeper into the apartment.
On the way to the living room, he peeked into the kitchen. He saw the Michels’ grief everywhere. Dirty dishes. An empty wine bottle. A dark stain on the floor and the empty dog dishes spoke for themselves. The dog lay in front of the empty bowls on a sheepskin rug and looked sadly at Marc. A bag of dry food sat nearby. Marc poured some kibble into one of the dishes, then filled the other with water. He stood next to the sink, which contained a frying pan with burned leftovers.
He put the bowls in front of Knurr’s muzzle. “It’s not your fault.”
“Are you lost?” Mr. Michel said, appearing in the doorway.
“Isn’t your wife at home?” Marc asked.
“She’s in the bathroom.”
“Ah.”
Marc followed Michel to the living room. There was disorder here as well.
“Please sit down.” Michel offered them a seat and gestured indecisively at the rumpled sofa. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wore jogging pants and a white T-shirt, which was no longer fresh and smelled accordingly.
With a sad smile, Marc glanced at his surroundings. “May we look around your daughter’s room while your wife is busy in the bathroom?”
“Don’t you need a search warrant for that?” Mr. Michel seemed skeptical, and then fear sparked in his eyes, as if he had just realized something. “Your badges. You haven’t identified yourselves.”
“Sorry,” Marc said. He reached into the turtleneck of his black shirt, pulled his ID card out by the chain, and left it dangle in the air. Mr. Michel took it in his hand and concentrated on the details. Tine reached into her handbag with a serious face and handed her badge to him as well.
“Hmm,” Michel said, frowning. “And the search warrant?”
“Search warrant. No. We only need it if you object to our request.”
Mr. Michel’s gaze wandered over to the hallway door. He was obviously still undecided. Marc supposed he was one of those men who lived under the wings of their wives. They suffered for it, but without a strong woman at their side, they seemed lost, like now.
“You know,” Michel said, “my whole life used to be about helping other families… I used to…” He lost the thread of his thoughts and tried again. “I helped families deal with their difficult-to-raise children. And in doing so I left my own child alone with her problems. I was too focused on the issues of others.” He spoke hastily, as if he was afraid of being smothered again by grief. In the end, he stood there with his mouth open and struggled for composure.
A wooden creak broke the silence.
“Honey?” Kurt Michel rushed into the hallway.
A cold breath of air brushed against Marc’s neck. He and Tine did not move. The young policewoman looked at him sadly.
“You take the woman. I’ll take the man,” he said and left the living room.
The dog slobbered noisily at its water. Tine shook her head and hurried into the hallway, where she stopped as if rooted to the ground.
Kurt Michel clasped his wife’s shoulders. Wearing only a nightgown and a robe, she was only a shadow of her former self.
A chest of drawers, which stood under a large mirror, had literally become an altar. Tine saw
numerous photos from the time when the Michel’s world was still in order. In each of them, Hannah Michel and her family beamed with joy. She and her husband had aged decades in the last few days.
Mrs. Michel, breathing heavily, supported herself on the edge of the shrine. “I threw up,” she said, as if she needed to apologize.
“If you show me where the kitchen is, I can make you some tea,” Tine offered.
Jerkily, Mr. Michel raised his head. His tired eyes radiated something like gratitude. “On the left,” he said.
Tine offered her arm, and the grieving mother held onto her, shuffling across the floor in her slippers.
***
“May I see your daughter’s room?” Marc put his hand on Michel’s shoulder, and the man flinched in surprise.
There are slugs with more backbone, Marc thought, but he gave Michel an encouraging smile. “I just want to have a quick look around.”
“Yes, I guess that’s fine,” Michel said. Silently they walked down the hall. On the right-hand door hung a metal sign with a warning in big red letters:
CAUTION
BITCH ZONE
“She wasn’t a bitch,” Kurt said. “But we all found it funny, including Yara.” His dark hair with silver temples shone greasily and was flattened on one side. “Sorry, I’m really uncomfortable with this.” He scratched his chest.
Marc remained silent for a moment. In front of the door it stank of dog piss. “I’m not a psychologist, but you and your wife should take the dog for walks more often. It would do you all good.” He held his breath.
Kurt Michel pushed down the door handle. “I guess we should.”
The door swung open slowly.
“You can look around as long as Hannah is busy with your colleague,” Mr. Michel said. “I’m going to take a shower.” He started to leave, but then stopped. “Before my daughter died, I had a feeling something was bothering her. I wanted to have a father-daughter talk, but I could never bring myself to do it. Something like that just isn’t easy.”
“That wouldn’t have changed anything, I suppose,” Marc said, a lie to comfort the broken father.
Kurt Michel nodded and left. From the other room, Marc could hear muffled female voices and the growing bubble of the kettle.
Yara’s room was sparse. He pushed the door shut with his elbow and crossed the bright space with three steps. He stopped in front of the mirror and first looked at the countless pictures pinned to the frame. The snapshots could provide an important clue as to why Yara had gotten involved in the reckless video shoot that had led to her fatal fall in front of a running camera. Had she suffered from attention-deficit syndrome? Maybe, but that would not explain why the railing had been weakened. The girl had fallen backwards into the ravine. Someone had wanted her to die.
A team of specialists needed to investigate the crime scene more thoroughly. Marc planned to go there himself and have a serious talk with the employees of the company carrying out the repair work, but right now he focused his full attention on this room. Once again the photos drew his eyes and a bigger picture began to emerge. The penny had dropped.
I’ll start with this, Marc thought. He had a guiding principle that he shared with no one: Sometimes the obvious is so obvious that it is easily overlooked.
Chapter 13
Up to now you all had a carefree life.
You thought nothing would happen to you.
You still don’t understand that soon I will punish you all for your arrogance.
You wanted a game?
Now you have a game. But this time we play by my rules.
You had no real worries.
Your life was boring.
You needed a kick.
You wanted excitement.
Even now, most people just stand there and stare at the glowing screen of their smartphones. Their faces are frozen in stupid masks. Hypnotized, they only perceive the image segments that match your profile. You are being manipulated, and now I take advantage of that state to take revenge on you.
A boy rides his skateboard over the curb and falls violently.
He stands up with a limp. His face seems frightened, his eyes flit back and forth. Hopefully nobody filmed me! The pain becomes a minor matter. He looks around and realizes he was wrong.
No helping hand stretches out to him. He is surrounded by hands that point at him but offer no help. How could they? They are all armed with smartphones. Some of the smiling faces have already turned away from him; the video must be put online as soon as possible. They are all addicted to the hunt for Likes.
Limping, the blond boy removes himself from the center of attention to a bench and only now examines his injury. His left knee is bleeding heavily.
You are naive. Each of you tries to convince yourself that nothing will happen to you.
Why me? you think. I’ll be fine. Things always happen to others.
The boy’s face is twisted in pain. Several of you still hold the camera on him. The blond boy shouts: “Go fuck off!” He throws a plastic bottle at a girl with dark braids and bronze skin. Despite the cold, she wears a short-sleeved shirt. Instead of shoes she wears red rollerblades. Her shirt is wet. She ducks. The bottle flies over her head in a high arc and lands on the asphalt. The girl does a pirouette and performs a cool stunt. A shout from several throats elicits a victory smile from the girl. She applauds herself and takes a running start.
Her legs move faster and faster. The hush-hush of the little wheels is drowned out by whistles. A second girl bends until her back forms a perfect arch. The dark-skinned girl heads straight for her. All eyes are on them. Cameras follow their every move. The first girl does the splits and rolls sideways under her friend.
A cacophony of shouts of enthusiasm and loud whistles shakes the air.
“Shut the fuck up, for once!” a woman with a smoke-torn voice shouts. She hangs out of an open window. A cigarette juts from the corner of her mouth. Her hair is blonde, almost white, and straight. It hangs over her face. “You brats are supposed to be in school!”
“Today’s Saturday!” some of the kids scream back, flipping her off. “Go to work!” others shout, without even looking up.
“I’m calling the police!” She takes a long drag. Retorts fly at her.
“Go ahead!”
“Fuck off, you victim!”
“Why don’t you come down here?”
“Yeah! Come down and you can tell the cops what you do for extra money! Then they’ll take your tomato plants away.”
“Fuck you!” she yells, starts to cough, and slams the window.
I remove myself from my hiding place. I don’t want to arouse suspicion. It’s showtime.
Chapter 14
Marktheide | October Street
“I have to retake the test,” Peer said. His cheeks were glowing red.
Steve Dixon raised his bushy eyebrows. He was a dark-skinned kid with dreadlocks, and everyone called him Dixon. He wanted it that way. No one called him Steve. Only once had a classmate called him Dixie. Dixon had broken her right index finger. Not on purpose, of course. He had just pulled it violently so she would stop teasing him.
“For real?” Dixon said, scratching his forearm.
“Yes, man,” Peer said, depressed.
“Why? You’re almost done with it.” Dixon grabbed Peer’s wrist, so he could take a close look. “Your fingers still have burns. It’s unfair.”
“I didn’t quite play by the rules,” Peer said.
“Huh?” Dixon dropped his skateboard on the ground. “Oh. Understandable, I guess.” Originally from Munich, he had a strong Bavarian accent.
“Anyway, I have to retake the test.” Peer took his cell phone out of his pocket. “Look.” A fine crack ran across the lock screen. A clown with a bloody mouth laughed at the two boys.
“Will you watch the second part? I didn’t find the first one so creepy,” Dixon said, without averting his gaze.
Dixon looked first at the timer and then at Peer. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Yes. Right here. There’s an electrical outlet under the stairs.” He pointed over his shoulder at a set of concrete steps. The yard, lined with several houses, was a meeting place for the local youth, who roamed the paved patch almost daily. Mostly out of boredom than for fun.
Dixon, a bit shorter than Peer, stood on his tiptoes to see where Peer was pointing. They had reached the same level in the game.
“Watch out!” Dixon said.
An old janitor in patched overalls strolled along the floor. The sharpness in his gaze had dulled years ago.
“Don’t worry,” Peer said. “That alky can’t see much without glasses.”
Dixon raised his right hand and placed it on the two ribbon bracelets, as if he wanted to count them again. “Sometimes I want to get out of the fucking game. But some asshole filmed me in the bathroom…”
“Did you wimp out?” Peer asked. The fear in his eyes gave way to mockery for a brief moment.
“No. Look.” Dixon pulled his sleeve up higher, past the crook of his arm. Where a thick vein ran under his dark skin, Peer could see several punctures.
“You—”
“It was only an attempt. I’ll be okay.” Dixon pulled the sleeve of his gray hoodie down. “It stays between us,” he said, raising his eyebrows tellingly.
“We were all drunk,” Peer said.
“It’s rape, man! If anybody finds out, I’ll die. I never know what’s going on, but I can’t get rid of the thought…”
“Hey, what are you doing?” It was Sarah. She waved to them.
“Nothing,” Dixon called back. “Same old, same old!” He pushed the skateboard with his right foot in her direction. She caught it with her foot and started riding it around.
“He’s blackmailing you with that now?” Peer asked, looking over Dixon’s shoulder. The janitor disappeared from his view; he sighed with relief.