Not Her

by Noah Fitz

  “That’s why the area looks so familiar, even in these lighting conditions.”

  “Excuse me, could you please explain what’s going on?” Immanuel asked again.

  “All right. We’re looking for a boy named Peer. Does anyone with that name live around here?”

  The bright beam of the flashlight dazzled the man. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. “Can you please stop that?”

  Marc came closer and pointed the flashlight to the ground. “Pride, please give me one of the photos.”

  Tine handed Marc the two laminated photographs.

  “You see these children here? Do any of these faces look familiar?”

  The man narrowed his eyes to slits. “No,” he finally said.

  “You’re a bad liar, you know that?” Marc waited patiently, without putting the photos away. “This yard was a regular hangout for those kids. You work here as a janitor, you voluntarily check up on them, and now you claim you can’t recognize any of their faces? I could take you down to the station.” The threat was more like a reprimand.

  “Okay,” the man said. “That one, that skinny, tall one, he doesn’t live here. And neither does he. But as I said, I haven’t been here for three years.”

  “Can you please point your finger at the people in question?” Marc said.

  First the janitor tapped Enno, then Steve, and Marc noted something about the man’s hand. Immanuel claimed to be a janitor, and yet his nails were clean and manicured.

  “That girl…” Immanuel Kräuser pointed to Yara. “She died in a terrible accident. She lived with her parents in house number fifteen-five.”

  “How often do you go to the nail salon?” Marc asked. “I don’t mean the brothel. Your hands are not those of a handyman.” He patted Luck on the back because the kid was getting visibly impatient.

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Immanuel said.

  “Not if you stick to the truth.”

  “I’m done with you. I still don’t know who you are.”

  “Marc Wulf. I’m with Special Unit X.”

  Tine’s left eyebrow flitted up.

  Marc took his badge from the inside pocket of his leather coat and put it on the photo. “You see?”

  “Didn’t you say it was in the car?” Immanuel said.

  “That’s my gun.” Marc smiled his predatory smile.

  “Okay, all right.”

  Marc put the badge back in his pocket. “We’re all ears. What about that one?” He tapped on the photo.

  “Steve Dixon,” Immanuel said with a hostile undertone. “I caught him last week trying to mess with an electrical outlet.”

  “Where?” Marc said.

  “Right over there.” Immanuel pointed with his left hand into the darkness. Marc waved the light beam in that direction. The bright cone of light hit a framed grid.

  “Under the stairs. The old janitor kept supplies there, but the lock was constantly getting broken. Kids today. No respect anymore.”

  “Come with me. I want a closer look at the place.”

  “First,” Tine said, “did you report the offense to the boy’s mother?”

  “That’s not my responsibility. Or do I look like someone who has to keep law and order here? I look after things, but I’m not someone who holds the children accountable or tells their parents. We were all young and stupid once.” The mockery in his voice sounded bitter. “I put on a thick chain and a new lock. It’s just junk that’s supposed to be taken away soon anyway,” he added.

  “Pride, I want you to take care of my son for a minute. I’m going in to have a quick look around.”

  Tine nodded and slightly turned up her nose. The air stank of rats and other animal infestations.

  Marc and Immanuel moved closer to the barred shed. The chain lay on the floor.

  “What the hell?” the janitor said. He put the keys back in the pocket of his jeans and shook the door. The hinges squeaked like a thousand startled mice. The door was bent and the lock fell with a thud before his feet. “This was broken open.”

  “Those cheap locks were last used on Alcatraz when money was scarce,” Marc said, teasing him.

  Immanuel didn’t respond to Marc’s joke, though. He seemed distracted by a noise coming from within the darkness. “Olaf?” he shouted inside, pulling the door further open. “Are you in there?”

  Marc let the white cone wander over softened cardboard boxes.

  “Olaf?” Immanuel made no attempt to move. “I’m not going in there. I’m scared of rats. And those things are everywhere.”

  Marc snorted and pushed his way through the entrance, which was barricaded with two boards. Inside, he noticed the typical stench of such hiding places. It smelled of a person who had reached the very bottom rung. Musty, oppressive, and frightening. The softened cardboard boxes showed the bite marks of rodents.

  Marc looked down and up again to the piles of junk.

  A scurry. A cockroach. A quiet squeak and a movement.

  Something shot past Marc.

  A slight push against his shoulder.

  The damned cat jumped on his back and slipped through the gap between two boxes. Marc’s neck hairs straightened up.

  He heard his own breathing and the beating of his heart. His throat was parched. He became aware that there was something else hidden among all the rats here. He sensed the presence like a cold draft that crawled through a cracked window into a warm apartment.

  The cone of light trembled and finally revealed red cloth. A sleeping bag, Marc noted with a throbbing skull. His forehead shone with sweat. He held his breath.

  “Police!” he yelled abruptly, louder than intended.

  Suddenly everything started moving. Rats jumped out of their hiding places. Tiny paws with sharp claws tore open the skin on his hands. He almost dropped the flashlight in fright. One of the boxes hit him from the side. Marc raised his hand, trying to shield his head.

  As if from nowhere, a shadow gave him a violent push that made him stagger back. An icy pain shot through his back.

  Marc’s left hand darted forward and caught the attacker by his trouser leg. The person immediately became aggressive and kicked hard. A shoe hit Marc on the elbow. The pain loosened his grip. His fingers went numb and he let go of the trouser leg.

  “Stop!” Marc said, and then he was buried under falling rubble.

  “I have him!” Immanuel said outside.

  Marc freed himself from the boxes, groaning and bleeding from his forehead.

  “Just lie still or I’ll break your arm,” Immanuel said. He sat astride a man whose face was pressed against the wet asphalt.

  “Pride?” Marc called. “Where’s my boy?” He wiped the blood from his forehead and tried to calm down.

  “I’m here,” Luck said. He was hiding behind Tine’s back.

  “Olaf!” Immanuel said. “If you don’t hold still…” Instead of finishing the threat, he bent his hostage’s raised arm even farther.

  A scream.

  A whimper.

  “Okay,” Olaf said, giving up. “Let go. I haven’t done anything.”

  The stroboscopic light of an approaching police car reflected off the windows.

  “I informed our colleagues from the KDD,” Tine said calmly. She reached into her bag and then snapped the handcuffs around Olaf’s wrists. “I brought some with me just in case.”

  Immanuel dragged the scrawny fellow roughly to his feet. “He’s always hanging around here,” he said, holding the man by the collar. Immanuel seemed on the verge of collapsing. Olaf seemed agitated, not only because of the violent altercation; something else seemed to worry him much more.

  Marc rubbed his stomach. The annoyance that he had let the guy take him by surprise grew and condensed into a burning pain in the pit of his gut.

  Immanuel stood there, looking undecided. “Can I go now?”

  “As soon as we’ve recorded your personal data and go
tten a statement.” As Marc spoke, a suspicion manifested itself in his head. “Can I have those photos, Pride?”

  “What do you want from me?” Olaf said, and then began to moan again.

  “Do you know any of these kids?” Marc wiped the blood off with the back of his hand.

  “No.”

  “That was too hasty. You have to take a closer look at the pictures.” Looking to Immanuel, Marc said, “You can let him go now.”

  “You’re bleeding.” Tine handed him a handkerchief. Marc thanked her, muttering, and pressed the cloth briefly to the wound.

  “I don’t know them,” Olaf said, unable to hide the despair in his trembling voice. “I’ve got nothing to do with them!”

  “I ask you again, and if you don’t take a look at one of these pictures this time, I’ll forget my good intentions.” Again, Marc turned to the janitor. “Let him go, would you? Pride, write everything down and check his ID.”

  Tine was frowning. “And Luck? Your son shouldn’t be here tonight.”

  Marc looked down and finally cleared his throat. “Luck? Would you like to go to Grandma’s in a police car?” Luck still did not dare to come out from behind Tine’s back. “Guys, would you please take my son home? We can handle this ourselves.”

  The two patrolmen, who approached at a leisurely pace, looked at each other, shrugged and nodded.

  “Luck, come here.” Marc went to his son and whispered encouraging words in his ear. “Tell Grandma to call me when you get there.”

  “Are you coming home tonight?”

  “Yes. But don’t wait up for me. Just go.”

  “Shouldn’t we—?”

  “No, Konstantin, take the boy to my mother.”

  The larger of the two policemen nodded.

  “Tell your grandma I don’t want canned fish!” Marc called after his son, trying to take the encouraging tone of an unconcerned father, even though he knew that, once again, he had more than failed. My mother will flay me alive, he thought and turned back to the man in handcuffs. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Olaf?”

  “What do you expect from me? What do you want to hear? An entertaining story from my carefree childhood?”

  “Save the anecdotes for later. If we find out that one of these children died by your hand, you will surely get a roommate who will be happy to keep you company. Some of the inmates are good listeners, but only after they beat your brains out.”

  Olaf’s eyes twitched nervously; naked panic shone in them with a silent plea.

  “I’m innocent,” he said.

  “Do you have identification?”

  He shook his head.

  “Your name is Olaf?”

  Nod.

  “Do you know any of the kids in this picture?”

  Olaf shrugged, swallowed.

  “Yes or no?”

  “Y-yes… one for sure,” he said.

  “Who?” Marc said. He held both photos in front of Olaf’s face.

  “The dark-skinned one. And that one, too. All of them, actually.”

  A quiet click.

  The inspector leaned closer.

  Olaf took a step back, and his right arm flew at Marc’s face with full force. Marc felt the crunch of the fist hitting his nose, and then a burning sensation as something cut through his cheek and bounced off his cheekbone. That was the damn handcuff, he thought.

  In a flash, Olaf jumped over the bench and disappeared into the undergrowth. Marc immediately took pursuit. His right eye swelled and he couldn’t see much. The dry twigs hit his face and stopped him.

  “What a fucking shit!” Marc said and stomped back to Tine.

  “Where did the other one go?”

  “He said he’d catch the guy and then he ran off.”

  “And now? I have never felt so shitty in my whole life. We failed across the board, didn’t we? Did you at least get his information?”

  “More or less.”

  “Come along. You back me up while I look around this shithole.” Marc stomped to the barred hiding place. He ignored the bleeding wound on his cheek.

  “You really want to go back in there?”

  “The man had something to hide, and I want to know what.” His selfish compulsion to prove something to himself drove him on. Energetically, he pushed the stuff aside and fought his way to the concrete wall where he suspected the socket Immanuel had spoken of. After a few gasping breaths and curses, he finally found what he was looking for. The socket was demolished. Marc knelt down next to it and looked at the floor.

  “Two wires. At least better than returning empty-handed,” he said. He fumbled in his breast pocket and found the small plastic bag that he always carried with him. Carefully he maneuvered the wires into the plastic bag and closed it. The colorful wires awakened a memory. They were the same as those found in Enno’s apartment.

  Finally, Marc fought his way back to Tine. “We have to seal off the yard. I found something that should make us look less stupid in front of our colleagues.” He waved the bag. “Tomorrow we start with the door handle. I want to pay this janitor a visit.”

  Tine looked exhausted. “Should we notify the associates from the permanent service?”

  “I’ll do that myself. I have to make sure the yard is being watched.”

  “Don’t you want to consult the prosecutor, first? That was one of our boss’s conditions. What do you think she’ll say when she learns you’re once again acting at your own discretion?”

  “To put it mildly, I don’t care about that. We have to act now. The bureaucratic nonsense can be done later.”

  “But I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “You won’t. This is on my head. I will die two deaths if I have to.” With those words, Marc fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

  Chapter 29

  Even before Immanuel could knock, the door opened a crack. The chain tightened.

  Eleonora’s frightened face appeared. “What happened? I saw blue lights. And now you show up at my apartment in the middle of the night.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, but it’s about your son.” Immanuel breathed heavily.

  “About Peer?” She put her hand to her lips and threw a searching look over her shoulder.

  “Can I come in?” The dim light in the stairwell flickered and went out. Immanuel quickly pressed the switch, as if he were afraid of the dark.

  “I think this is a bad idea.” She looked at him with a worried expression.

  “I ran away from the policemen,” he said.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s not important right now.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Mom?” called Peer.

  “Is he there?” Immanuel said, trying to see through the crack in the door. “Can I talk to him for a moment? Please, Eleonora. Just five minutes?”

  “Mom! Who are you talking to?” Peer’s voice grew louder.

  “It’s Mrs. Marktwart,” she said with feigned cheerfulness and exaggerated volume. “She has no more sugar!” She turned back to Immanuel. “Go now,” she whispered.

  “I ran from the police just for you.” He banged the door with his flat hand. “Because I felt obliged to make amends.”

  “Go now,” she urged and tried to close the door, but Immanuel’s shoe was stuck in the crack. “You’re scaring me,” she said.

  “Life consists of many puzzles. I have chosen a detour to find my way back to life. You were my ray of hope. What happened back then hurts my heart. Pia was such a sweet girl. I don’t want Peer to throw his life away, too.” He pulled out his foot and slammed the door. “Good night, you two,” he said and then he ran down the stairs.

  Chapter 30

  Berlin | Police Headquarters

  Gabriela Meierbach tore open the window as if struggling to breathe through her rage. “So you ‘felt forced’ to take matters into your own hands?” sh
e asked Marc.

  He leaned back against the wall. “It’s not very helpful for me if you doubt my decisions and question every one of my actions,” he said with a lack of concern.

  “I gave you another chance, and what did you do?”

  “Took that chance?” he said.

  “By risking your life and that of your colleague. You both could have been killed!”

  “That risk is my constant companion. I only arranged an investigation in your name. Nothing more. How do I look now in front of my colleagues? And Stolz thinks I have no say in the matter! I’m not your errand boy. Look at me.” He pointed to his battered face.

  “You should have informed me immediately. And your son! He had no business being there at all.”

  Marc laughed sarcastically. “You want a lap dog.”

  “I could take your outburst as an affront and suspend you.”

  “I don’t care,” Marc said.

  “Do not push this argument any further, Chief Inspector Wulf. Hold your tongue.”

  A violent knocking sounded at the door.

  “Yeah?!” Gabriela tugged at the sleeves of her mint green jacket, and her stern gaze softened a little.

  Tine entered the office. She seemed rushed. “We’ve got him. Olaf Stamm, the homeless man. He just turned himself in.”

  “All right.” Gabriela Meierbach coughed and took a sip of water without offering Marc anything. She put the glass back on the table next to the half-full carafe.

  “He says he’s willing to testify,” Tine said.

  “Fine.” Gabriela threw a disparaging glance at Marc. “I think Ms. Stolz has developed very well in this short time. She’s already ready to take over this part, don’t you think, Chief Inspector Wulf?”

  Marc smiled smugly and turned to Tine. “Does the word axiomatic mean anything to you, Pride?”

  “It’s something that, no matter how insignificant, must not be doubted,” she said.

  “Very good. You may call the gentleman—what was his name?”

  “Stamm,” Tine said, but she seemed uncertain about something. “There is one tiny problem.”