“The good doctor once threatened to kill our victim. Apparently Bernhard Valburg had set tax-fraud investigators on him. And they, annoyingly, caught some things that ended up reducing the clinic’s profit.”
“So why do you need me?”
“Max found not only Bernhard Valburg’s claim of a death threat—he found others’ claims too. This Dr. Ewers is bad-tempered and has little respect for authority. He faced five charges of insulting an official before a judge eventually slapped a suspended sentence on him. He may not respect me, as a police officer, but he might just be a little more intimidated by a six-foot-six tattooed black guy with giant arms.”
“I feel like I’m being judged by my appearance,” Chandu grumbled with a twinkle in his eye.
“It happens,” Jan said, smiling.
“It’s always a pleasure working with you.”
“Don’t be so sensitive. Got your fake badge on you?”
“Sure do,” Chandu said. “It’s scored me a few free drinks already.”
Jan raised his eyebrows in disapproval. “We should have a talk about the exact meaning of the word responsible use.”
“Those are two words.”
“Fine.” Jan waved away the thought. “Let’s head on in. Try to act as threatening as possible. It’s the only way to reach a person like this. Maybe he’ll even cave.”
“Sounds like fun.”
The foyer fulfilled all expectations set by the building’s exterior, from the shiny gray granite floor, to the soft piano music flowing from concealed speakers, to a faint aroma of artificial citrus. An attractive young woman sat behind the stark white reception desk, which was graced by two substantial floral arrangements and a bowl of expensive candies.
“Welcome to Ewers Clinic,” the woman said through her immaculate teeth. “How can I help you?”
“Berlin Police, Detectives.” Jan set his badge on the counter. “We have an appointment with Dr. Ewers.”
The woman looked at a screen. “I don’t have an appointment here. When did you—”
“Thanks. We’ll find our own way.” Chandu grabbed a handful of candies from the bowl and stuffed them in his jacket pocket.
“Dr. Ewers, room one zero four,” Jan read off a wall directory.
“One moment. The doctor is in a consultation.”
“Not anymore.” Chandu popped a candy into his mouth and let the wrapper fall to the floor.
As they headed for the room, the woman hurried out from behind her desk and tottered after them in her too-high heels. She scolded Jan and Chandu, “This is outrageous! You can’t just come barging in here.”
“Sure we can,” Jan told her. “This is a murder investigation. Whatever Dr. Ewers is doing can’t be more important than that.”
“There it is.” Chandu pointed at a door, pulled down the handle, and went in with Jan.
A man in a white doctor’s coat sat on a pale leather sofa in the elegantly appointed room. He had short, thinning hair. The tawny color of his face seemed fake, almost like makeup.
A middle-aged lady sat across from him. Judging by the jewelry on her hands and neck, she was quite well-off.
The doctor balled one hand into a fist and pursed his narrow lips together. “How dare you!” he bristled. He threw the receptionist an accusing glance.
She began, “I couldn’t stop them—”
“Leave my practice at once,” the doctor told Jan and Chandu. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“They’re already here,” Jan said, showing his badge. “We have questions that can’t wait.”
“Well, I’m in a consult.”
“Not anymore.” Chandu approached the middle-aged lady. “Here, something for you to nosh on.” He pressed a few candies into her hand. “Your boobs will have to wait.”
Clearly not used to this sort of treatment, the lady emitted a startled gasp, rose from the sofa, and left the room.
The receptionist stammered an apology and meekly followed the lady out.
“This will cost you your job,” the doctor snapped at her. His bronze face had turned red, the knuckles of his tight fist squeezing white. Jan could easily imagine how those threatening incidents had happened.
Jan turned to Chandu. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“He just called me an asshole.”
“Now that you mention it, I did notice.”
“Stupid of him.”
“Really stupid.”
“Especially when he’s on a suspended sentence for insulting officials.”
“What’s going on here?” the doctor broke in. “This is outrageous. I’m going to—”
“Take it easy!” Chandu roared at him. “Sit yourself down and answer our questions, or we’ll run you down to the station. Our colleagues would be happy to see you again.”
Chandu took a step forward and pointed silently at the sofa. The man sat, clearly intimidated, and Jan positioned himself in the seat across from him.
“Are you Dr. Aaron Ewers?” Jan began.
The man nodded.
“Do you know Dr. Bernhard Valburg?”
Another nod.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
Again a nod.
“We appreciate it when a man speaks to us,” Chandu said.
“Yes,” the doctor said softly.
“So tell us about the death threat to Dr. Valburg.”
“It wasn’t me.”
Jan took his notepad from a pocket. “But it is suspicious that you called Dr. Valburg a few weeks ago and left him a message where you threatened to bash in his skull.”
“Stupid, more like,” Chandu commented.
“And now guess how Dr. Valburg died.”
“It was not me,” the doctor repeated.
“You’ll have to pardon me if I can’t simply take your word for this, especially considering your little hobby of insulting officials.”
“I get angry easily,” the doctor offered. “Believe me, I’m aware of that. But I’ve never assaulted anyone.”
“There’s always a first time,” Chandu said.
“I can understand your anger,” Jan continued. “Bernhard Valburg was a colleague of yours, but his patients didn’t come from Berlin high society. Instead of allowing you to bask in your success, he goes and fingers you. That can make a guy angry.”
“Outrageous,” the doctor said, fighting his fury.
“How did you know it was Bernhard Valburg? His tip-off was anonymous.”
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time,” Chandu said. He took a candy from his pocket, unwrapped it slowly, popped it in his mouth, and let the wrapper fall to the floor.
“Bernhard and I studied together at Berlin University. For him, becoming a doctor was a calling, a duty to alleviate suffering. For me, it was always just a job, an opportunity to earn money, have a nice life. We were at odds from that very first semester on. He couldn’t understand why I’d want to be a cosmetic surgeon. Our studies were barely over before we starting seeing each other at medical conferences . . . and other events.”
Dr. Ewers folded his hands together, staring at the floor. “The last time we ran into each other was at a reception. I’d bought a round; I was having my best year ever as a doctor and wanted to celebrate. Instead of leaving me to drink with my friends, Bernhard came over and started going on and on about a doctor’s obligation to society. Talking about ethics and bitching about cosmetic surgeons. As drunk as I was, I just laughed at him, comparing my practice to his, making fun of national health-care patients.”
“The classic competition—my dick’s bigger than yours,” Chandu remarked.
“Call it what you will, but this time it hit a nerve. Bernhard lunged at me, knocked the champagne glass out of my hand, and blatantly threatened that there would be consequences. A week later, the tax man was at my door.”
“Which cost you some money?” Jan asked.
Dr. Ewers nodded.
“How much?”
“Too much.”
“What’s too much?”
“I had to sell one of my houses and give up my share in a private jet.”
“Alas, cruel fate,” Chandu said.
“Where were you last Sunday evening?”
“At one of those conferences. In a hotel downtown. My assistant can write down the address for you.”
“On a Sunday?”
“National conventions are always on weekends.”
“What was the focus?”
“It wouldn’t interest you.” Dr. Ewers waved away the thought. “Thoroughly boring stuff. But you have to be seen at these things, keep up appearances. I was actually preparing for another round with Bernhard; I was surprised he wasn’t there.”
“Did anyone see you at this conference?”
“I can give you a list of my colleagues who saw me. I spent the evening there, then an old friend from Brazil came to visit me. We drank until the hotel bar closed, around three a.m. I could barely stagger over to the taxi stand after that. Ask the concierge who was on duty then.”
“Hm,” Jan said. “That’s it for now. We reserve the right to come back if we have further questions. It would be nice to be given a warmer reception next time.”
Ewers glared at the two men but nodded obediently.
As Jan and Chandu turned to leave, the doctor called after them.
“You know something? Bernhard was a pain in the ass, but I’ll miss him.”
His words seemed genuine.
“Don’t you worry,” Jan replied. “We’ll find the murderer. We’re just getting warmed up.”
They left the room.
“You don’t think he was the murderer,” Chandu said on their way back outside.
“What makes you say that?”
“You let him off the hook too quickly.”
“I can’t say exactly what it is,” Jan began. “Guys like him, they think the world belongs to them. They love exercising their power over others, bullying everyone around them. Dr. Aaron Ewers is quick-tempered and touchy, probably beats up his wife and screams at his staff. But preparing a murder for days on end, digging out a grave, depositing the corpse, gouging the eyes out . . . None of that fits this asshole’s style. I’d trust him to beat someone to death in a fit of rage, but anything beyond that is too calculating for him to manage.”
“Maybe he’s cleverer than we think.”
“Possibly. I’ll check his alibi, but to my mind, he’s off the list of suspects.”
“What do we do now?”
“I’ll head back over to Dr. Valburg’s office and speak to his receptionist. Maybe other people threatened Valburg, people he didn’t report. Plus I’ll get that patient list.”
“I’ll go fishing around in the drug scene tonight,” Chandu told him, “and see who tries swimming away. Could take a few days, but if this Dr. Valburg was up to any funny business, I’ll find it.”
Jan gave Chandu a warm pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for your help.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“We’ll see each other tomorrow evening. Your place.”
Chandu nodded. “Till then, happy hunting.”
When Jan returned to Dr. Valburg’s office, Vanessa Ziegler was struggling through a stack of files.
“I’m almost finished. I have your list too.”
“Perfect,” Jan said and handed her his card. “Could you send the documents to this e-mail address?”
She pocketed the card. “Will do.”
“I was just at Dr. Aaron Ewers’s office.”
“That’s too bad.”
“You don’t like him?”
“No one does. He’s a vain, smug douchebag and only half as good as he thinks.”
“Did Dr. Valburg butt heads with him a lot?”
She nodded. “The two of them knew each other from university. I was always warning my boss to take it easy. Talking to a man like Dr. Ewers about medical ethics is pointless.”
“But he tried anyway?”
“Dr. Valburg was an idealist, sacrificing everything to care for his patients. That’s why I liked working for him.”
“That mean we should rule out any of his patients as a potential murderer?” Jan asked.
“I’m a doctor’s assistant, not Sherlock Holmes. Of course there was trouble with some patients. Some weren’t satisfied with their recovery process; others couldn’t understand it when insurance didn’t cover all the costs.”
“About how many unhappy patients were there?”
“Tough to say. Three or four a month.”
“That adds up to quite a lot over the years.”
“Compared to other practices, it’s a ridiculously small number.”
“Were there patients who were especially unhappy? Say, someone who threatened Dr. Valburg?”
“A quibble over extra fees here, a door slammed there. Nothing that would justify a murder.”
“Was there ever a misdiagnosis that harmed a patient?”
Vanessa narrowed her eyes in anger. Nothing a casual observer would notice, but it was exactly the type of thing Jan was looking for. He’d hit a sore spot.
“Medicine is not mathematics,” she told him. “Of course, in over twenty years of practicing as a doctor, you occasionally don’t recognize an illness or give the wrong diagnosis. But Dr. Valburg was a conscientious pulmonologist.”
Jan was careful here. He didn’t want to further anger the woman. He asked, “How severe were these erroneous assessments of his?”
“What do you mean by ‘severe’?”
“Did anyone die because of a wrong diagnosis?”
“No.” She sounded certain of it.
“So none of Dr. Valburg’s patients ever died?”
“My dear Herr Tommen,” Vanessa began as if speaking to a three-year-old. “A lung specialist doesn’t just treat asthma patients and cure bouts of bronchitis. Many people come to us severely ill. In the case of, say, an advanced bronchial carcinoma or pulmonary arterial hypertension, there’s not much more you can do to help. Of course some patients die.”
“Let’s move away from patients to other individuals Dr. Valburg dealt with.”
“What kind of other individuals?”
“Friends, neighbors, pharmaceutical reps, or other caring colleagues like our Dr. Ewers. Especially anyone Dr. Valburg might have had a dispute with.”
Vanessa rubbed at her lips in thought. Her forehead wrinkled up as if she was trying hard to think. “Maybe there was someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know him,” Vanessa explained. “He wasn’t a patient. It was evening; the office was closed. Dr. Valburg had just left, and I was tidying up the waiting room. When I went to lock up the door, the doctor was still standing out in the parking lot. He was arguing with a man.”
“Could you hear what it was about?”
“No. They finished arguing. The man screamed, ‘Quit bothering me!’ and took off down a side street. Dr. Valburg got into his car and drove off.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Four weeks.”
“You know the man?”
“That was the first time I saw him. And I haven’t seen him since.”
“What did he look like?”
“About five foot eleven. Slender. Short dark hair.”
“A fellow doctor?”
Vanessa shook her head. “I know most of Dr. Valburg’s colleagues. Plus, he was too seedy-looking to be a doctor.”
“Too seedy-looking?”
“He was wearing worn-out jeans and a leather jacket. His nose was crooked, and he had a scar running above his eyebrows.”
“You can remember that so clearly?”
“My passion is portrait painting. I can size up a person’s looks quickly, and I have an eye for small details.”
“Would you be able to sit down with a police sketch artist? Using your skills, we’re sure to get a good picture of
the man.”
Vanessa nodded. “As good as any photo.”
Jan Tommen smiled at that. He had his first suspect.
Chapter Three
Jan jolted awake screaming. His heart was racing, and he was panting as if he’d run a marathon. It took a moment for him to recognize his surroundings. The light from the hallway shone faintly on his bedroom—the large wardrobe, the bed, and the dresser. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. With every breath, his beating heart slowed, his panting calmed, and his hands relaxed. Sometimes when this happened, in an effort to forget the nightmare, he’d try to recall the latest soccer scores or even take a cold shower—but when the nightmare was this intense, not even that shock to his system made a difference.
Jan’s weapon lay next to the bed on the nightstand, not securely stored like it should be at home, flouting regulations. The gun was dark and heavy. A constant reminder of the day he had shot his girlfriend dead.
A hundred times he had entertained the thought of throwing the thing out the window, but he was terrified of what the person who found it might do with it. As a cop, he was supposed to carry his duty weapon on him when it wasn’t locked up for safekeeping. Always. No exceptions.
He used to like to practice at the shooting range, but today he felt sick just looking at the gun. So he took the pistol off the night table, yanked out the magazine, and removed each cartridge. Carrying his weapon without ammo was a severe breach of regulations as well, but as long as the pistol was in his holster, no one would know. Besides, he couldn’t imagine shooting anyone again, even if life depended on it.
He tucked the cartridges inside the drawer. Then he lay back down, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep a little now. He had so much to do before they all gathered at Chandu’s that evening.
He left the light on in the hallway, just in case the nightmare returned.
It was a weird feeling for Jan, being back in Chandu’s apartment. He had hidden out here for several weeks when he was wanted for murder. It had been his safe harbor, and he had felt at home immediately.
Nothing had changed since he’d moved out. He recognized the sharp aroma of incense that greeted him as he walked in the front door. The leather couch—Jan’s ad hoc bed—shone as if polished. The flat-screen was set to the sports channel.
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