Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  Chandu was toiling away in the kitchen. He opened the oven, and a whiff of Alsatian tart wafted through the room, a wave of pure delight. Jan closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma of the thin, pizza-like delicacy. His friend’s culinary talents never ceased to surprise him.

  “Just about done,” Chandu called over to him. “Sit yourself down.”

  Jan smiled back, feeling a rare contentment. It was so much better to meet here than in the conference room at the station. He was about to sit down at the table when someone knocked on the door and rang the bell aggressively at the same time.

  “One brief moment of bliss,” Jan muttered. He took a deep breath, then went to open the door.

  “Well, finally,” Zoe said, stepping inside.

  “And a good evening to you too.”

  Zoe replied with a grouchy grunt and lit up a cigarette. Max followed her in and shrugged as if to say, It’s not my fault.

  Zoe went into the kitchen and bent over the tart, eyeing it critically. She stayed there a moment and then sat down at the table, scowling and silent.

  While she blew smoke rings at the ceiling, Jan helped set the table.

  Chandu turned to Jan as he cut his masterpiece into wedges. “Did you find out anything else?”

  “Not much at first. I spoke to the assistant, Vanessa Ziegler. She only had good things to say about her former boss. I questioned her about unhappy patients or colleagues, but Dr. Valburg appears to have been a well-liked and respected physician.”

  He bit into a piece of tart. “Then it got more interesting. Vanessa Ziegler told me about an argument the doctor had with an unknown man. Four weeks ago. There was a violent exchange of words, and the two of them did not part amicably.”

  “Could she describe the man?” Chandu asked.

  “Better than that. Vanessa Ziegler is a portrait painter. She and our sketch artist got together and produced an amazingly good picture of the man—crooked nose, scar over his eyebrows, and all.”

  “So?” Zoe asked, sighing impatiently. “Who is the guy?”

  “No idea,” Jan said. “Not yet. We’re comparing the picture with suitable Berlin-area offenders, but we don’t have any hits yet. We’ve distributed it to all bureaus, informed patrols.”

  “Do you have the picture on you?” Zoe asked.

  “I’ll show you after we eat.”

  “Any idea what this dude’s turf is, what scene? Drug smuggling? Prostitution?” Chandu asked.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have anything apart from his appearance.”

  “I could probably help you there,” Zoe said with her mouth full.

  The three men’s eyes turned to her.

  “The good Dr. Valburg was taking drugs.”

  Jan started. “What? His assistant never told me any of that.”

  “Maybe you’re not as irresistible as you think.”

  “What was he taking?”

  “Coke.”

  “Was he on drugs the day he died?” Jan asked.

  “No. I only discovered it when I was testing his hair. His blood had nothing. From the amounts, I’m guessing casual user.”

  “What about knockout drops or some other narcotic?”

  “Nope.”

  “How’s it looking with any defense wounds? Did he try and defend himself?”

  “Nope again. Nothing points to a struggle. He got one on the back of the head and was done for.”

  “And the eyes?”

  “What about them?”

  “Post- or premortem?”

  “The former.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “In what way?” Chandu asked.

  “Gouging out the eyes can mean a million things. One murderer doesn’t want the victim looking at him, while another is scared of the eyes because they’re the mirror of the soul. All that crap. A profiler could fill a book with the possible interpretations. Since the killer gouged out Dr. Valburg’s eyes after he died, he’s likely not the type of maniac who wanted to make his victim suffer. It was a quick death, remember, from the blow to the head—not some drawn-out torture.”

  “But why gouge out his eyes, then?” Max asked.

  “That takes us back to where we started. It must have a meaning. What, I can’t say.”

  “Maybe Dr. Valburg saw something that he wasn’t supposed to see,” Chandu said.

  “Possibly,” Jan said. “But this piece of evidence isn’t helping us much right now.”

  “Let’s keep an eye on it, though,” Zoe added, chuckling.

  Chandu and Max laughed along with her.

  “Real grown-ups here,” Jan said, rumpling his brow at them. “Murder weapon?”

  “Just as I thought. A hammer.”

  “Hmm.” Jan stared at his plate with its half-eaten slice of tart, deep in thought.

  Chandu interrupted his musings. “O great thinker, enlighten us with your wisdom.”

  “I was just matching up the various reports in my head. The crime-scene investigators at Dr. Valburg’s house didn’t find any evidence of a break-in. So the perp is a capable intruder. That, or he had a key. What’s still unclear is whether the murderer was waiting for his victim or let himself in after Valburg came home. In any case, he surprised Dr. Valburg and struck him dead from behind. Dead before he knew what was happening.”

  “How did the murderer get the body to the cemetery?” Chandu asked.

  “We don’t have much on that,” Jan said. “Zoe already mentioned that you can’t lift an over-two-hundred-pound man onto your shoulder and carry him out of the house like a sack of lawn fertilizer. One thing that sticks out is that we haven’t found any traces of blood outside of the living room, so I’m guessing the murderer wrapped up the body somehow.”

  “There could also have been a case or a barrel,” Chandu added. “If the killer couldn’t carry the body out himself, he’d have some means to help him. A wheelbarrow, a handcart, something like that. Even a corpse wrapped in plastic would be noticeable because of its odd shape.”

  “The murderer struck at night,” Zoe said. “You don’t see anyone in a neighborhood like that at that hour.”

  “There’s always someone heading somewhere,” Chandu argued. “Street cleaners, newspaper carriers, bus drivers on the late-night route. But since we’re assuming that the job was long in planning, the killer would have taken that into account.”

  “So he’d have chosen something inconspicuous for transport,” Jan said.

  Chandu nodded. “I’m betting it’s an oil barrel or a large box or crate. The killer wraps up the corpse so as not to leave behind any more clues. Then he schleps the body to the back door and heaves it into this container. Using a wheelbarrow, it’s easy enough to get the corpse to the car.”

  “So how does this help us?” Zoe asked.

  “It does tell us something about the vehicle,” Jan explained.

  “Bingo.” Chandu gave them two thumbs up. “A corpse wrapped in plastic? You can stuff that in any kind of car. A box that has to be big enough for a corpse? We’re talking about a small van or SUV. Which narrows our search a lot, if you think about how few vehicles are on the road at that time of night. And he was certain to have a vehicle. It’s not like he walked over a mile to Dorotheenstadt Cemetery.”

  “Did you check the property for tire tracks?”

  “The area surrounding the house isn’t exactly detective-friendly. Valburg had a wide flagstone path that led all the way up to both the front and rear exits. You can forget about footprints or anything of the sort.” Jan sighed. “Just once, I’d like to have a murder take place in an apartment building with surveillance cameras.”

  “Maximal?” Zoe said. “Do you have anything to add?”

  “Maximum,” the young hacker said, correcting her. “Maximal is a major bullshitter from Nuremberg.”

  “Good to know.”

  Ignoring Zoe’s taunting, Max rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and cleared his throat as if he was about t
o give a speech. “Once I alerted Jan to the fact that Dr. Valburg ratted out Ewers, I scoured his personal computer. The victim didn’t use his computer much. Barely twenty minutes a day. He checked his personal e-mail and browsed medical sites now and then to find an article. That was it. Nothing suspicious.”

  “What about the solo stuff?” Zoe asked.

  “What solo stuff?”

  “Oh, you know, the sites where desperate types like you go. Porn, online singles, Giantboobs.com. That kind of stuff.”

  “You have the wrong impression of ‘types like me.’”

  Zoe chuckled. “No, I don’t. Those calluses on your hand do not lie.”

  “What calluses—”

  “Can we just stick to the matter at hand,” Chandu cut in. “I really don’t need these images in my head while I’m eating.”

  Jan steered the conversation back to the case. “You find anything else, Max?”

  “A few letters, of little interest to us. Otherwise, no hidden sectors or things like that to make me suspicious.”

  Jan turned to Zoe. “Did investigating the body’s location turn up anything?”

  “You’re not going to like the answer.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “We didn’t find anything we could use off the corpse. The rain did its usual magic. The investigators were concentrating on the cross with Dr. Valburg’s date of death on it. But there wasn’t a shred of DNA or so much as a fingerprint on that either. You can get wood and nails in any home-improvement store, in that same color too.” Zoe slid two pieces of tart onto her plate and sprinkled them with chili powder. “So, nothing that gives us any leads.”

  “What about questioning the cemetery staff?” Chandu asked.

  “We have two officers on it,” Jan told him, “but no one was still on the premises at the time of the crime. We’re looking for connections between cemetery employees and Dr. Valburg, but we haven’t come up with anything. Our officers are questioning visitors too, but I’m not counting on anything coming of that.” Jan took a swig of beer. “Goddamn it. That’s not much.”

  “But you do have a suspect,” Max said.

  “Which is all we have. Even if we do find the man, we can’t be certain he’s the one who killed Valburg. A fingerprint, a surveillance tape, some DNA would have been nice.”

  “What about his taking drugs?” Zoe asked. “Maybe he was having a problem with his dealer.”

  “I doubt that. Dr. Valburg had enough money to procure his drugs.”

  “Plus a dealer doesn’t go to all that trouble when he wants to bump someone off.” Chandu stuck out his thumb and index finger. “Pull your piece, bang, done.”

  Jan absently twirled the beer bottle in his hand. These initial findings were dispiriting. There was no concrete proof pointing to a murderer and only one possible suspect. He knew neither the motive for the murder nor the significance of the grave.

  “I’m going to go talk with Vanessa Ziegler again. Apparently our good doctor was no angel. She had to know about his taking drugs.”

  “I’ll take this picture of the suspect and go ask around in the underworld,” Chandu said.

  “I’ll check out Dr. Valburg’s patient list,” Max mumbled, his mouth full of food. “See if I can find a match on the police servers. Violent criminals have to see doctors too.”

  “I need a cigarette, to aid my digestion,” Zoe said, getting up. “I’ll talk to the cemetery crime team tomorrow. I’m not optimistic, but they haven’t evaluated all the clues yet.”

  Jan raised his bottle. “We’d better enjoy our evening, because our manhunt starts up again first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Jan shuffled wearily up the stairs to his apartment. He got a strange feeling every time he passed Father Anberger’s apartment. The priest had been the final victim of Jan’s girlfriend, Betty. Jan missed their casual conversations in the stairway, the priest’s unshakeable optimism, his faith in Good.

  The apartment door opened, and Jan leapt aside as if expecting the deceased father to greet him. Instead, a small young woman came out. She had short dark hair, a dark complexion, and lovely almond-shaped eyes. Jan guessed she was in her early twenties. She carried two books under one arm and had a cloth tote bag hanging off the other shoulder.

  She came over to Jan and held out a hand. “Hello. My name is Lan.”

  Jan shook her hand. After a stupid-sounding “Hello,” nothing more came out of his mouth. He hadn’t realized Father Anberger’s apartment had already been rented.

  “So do you have a name?” she asked.

  “Tommen. Jan, I mean. Tommen is my last name. You can just call me Jan.” He was still holding on to her hand.

  He pulled back his fingers as if he’d burned himself and stole a glance over the young woman’s shoulder into the apartment, still half expecting the priest to come out.

  His new neighbor caught him looking in the apartment and furrowed her brow.

  “Sorry about that, Frau Lan,” he muttered.

  “Lan is my first name.”

  “Oh—then, sorry, Lan. Speaking of which: what kind of name is that?”

  “Vietnamese.”

  “Ah. You’re from Vietnam.”

  “No. Potsdam.”

  “Oh,” Jan said, and added, by way of apology, “I only thought, because you’re so . . . I meant, you look like you—”

  “My dad’s Vietnamese.”

  “Ah.” Jan squeezed out a tortured smile. “Vietnam is awesome. I could die for some bami goreng.”

  “That’s Indonesian. Maybe you mean some báhn mi?”

  “Right.” Jan coughed in embarrassment and changed the subject. “Anyway, sorry for peeking into your apartment—it’s just that I knew the renter who lived there before you.”

  “The priest who was murdered?”

  “You know about that?” Jan was surprised. The tenants’ association had asked the residents to keep it quiet so as not to scare away potential renters.

  “Sure I do. That’s the reason I got the apartment so easily.”

  “I didn’t think anyone knew about it.”

  “The Internet helped. I followed the case online, Herr Detective,” she said with a wink. “I posted in apartment-seekers’ forums that the victim had lived here. Once I did that? All the potential renters bailed. Apart from me.” She shrugged. “Made up a few extra-bloody details, and the pad went down two hundred euros.”

  Jan had to cough again. His new neighbor was nobody’s fool. Plus, it was pretty ballsy admitting to a detective that you’d run what basically sounded like a con.

  “Well, have a good night, Jan. A little sleep would do you good,” she said, gazing into his eyes.

  “Thanks.” Jan wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for.

  “I have to go to my study group.” She held up her books. “Number theory.” She smiled at him, shut the door behind her, and went down the stairs.

  “Good night,” Jan said, still confused, and waved after her.

  Today was just not his day.

  Jan had lain awake thinking about the case half the night and only fell asleep around two a.m. Now he sat at his desk in the police department, rubbing at his eyes, exhausted. He was badly in need of caffeine, and he could read up on the facts just as well over in the police department’s coffee lounge. As he was leaving his office with his notes, he nearly collided into Bergman, the head of detectives.

  “I was looking for you.”

  Jan sighed. Those words were never a good sign.

  Bergman pointed a thumb at the woman next to him. “Let me introduce you to Dr. Kerima Elmas. Clinical psychologist.”

  Jan shook her hand. She was a petite woman with a friendly smile. Her brown locks matched her dark eyes. Only her large nose and old-fashioned glasses detracted from her attractiveness. Jan put her in her late thirties.

  “Kerima will be spending the next hour with you.”

  “I thought we agreed I’d be spared all that.”


  “We did?”

  “You gave me your word.”

  “Then I must have been lying.” Bergman flashed his radiant smile.

  “Nothing to be afraid of, Herr Tommen,” Kerima said. “So far? No deaths or injuries have resulted from my little conversations.”

  “It’s not that. I’m in the middle of an investigation, and I don’t have the time to talk about my childhood or my relationship with my mother.”

  “You must not have a very high opinion of psychologists.”

  Jan stuttered, “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that—”

  “In any case,” Kerima went on, “we always hold these conversations during work time. Possible post-traumatic stress disorder occurs during situations of stress, not while golfing.”

  “What post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  Kerima briefly glanced behind them, down the hall. Some of Jan’s fellow cops just happened to be leaning in doorways, trying to look busy. “I’m not sure we should be discussing this here.”

  Jan turned to Bergman. “I have to get over to Dr. Valburg’s office.”

  “You’ll have to take a short detour first.”

  “There’s a murderer on the loose out there.”

  “He’ll still be there in half an hour.”

  “I’m really not up for this.”

  “Tough luck. I’m the Chief of Detectives. So you’re going with Dr. Elmas right here and now. Don’t come back out until a half hour’s up.”

  The psychologist turned to Bergman. “Afterward, we should talk about your management style.”

  “Hey, I’m not the patient here, Jan is.”

  “It’s no problem,” Kerima said. “I don’t have anything else scheduled for this morning.”

  “Yeah, you should definitely talk to Herr Bergman here about his management style,” Jan added, grinning. He might just get to like this woman yet.

  “Shut it, Jan, or I’ll use your Christmas bonus to bet on horses. And as far as you’re concerned, Dr. Elmas? When I feel the need to interpret inkblots, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Doesn’t work that way—in my position, I can suggest a consultation and all the staff have to comply.” She allowed herself a smile.