Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  Bergman looked at his watch. “Oops, got a meeting.” He turned and left them standing in the hallway.

  “He does that a lot,” Jan told Kerima.

  “Does what, exactly? Insults, threats, appears unwilling to learn?”

  “All of that.”

  Max came around the corner. He was riding a chrome kick-scooter, leaning into it like a race driver in an aerodynamic stance. He pushed off with his right foot to gain speed and whooshed by them. “Morn-eeeng,” he called out in a childlike voice, drawing out the ee until he reached the end of the corridor.

  Kerima peered after him. “Maybe I should set up a permanent office right here in the station,” she muttered. “Lots of work to be had here.” She steered Jan into to the conference room and shut the door behind them.

  “What do you want to hear?” Jan grumbled.

  “I’m interested in how you’re doing.”

  “Me? Pretty well.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  “What makes you think I’m having any problems?”

  Kerima took a file folder from her bag. “Let me go over it. In your last case—just a few weeks ago—you were suspected of murder, were hunted by your colleagues, and had to go underground. It was finally revealed that your girlfriend was the murderer and she was using you as the fall guy. She tried to kill you, so you had no choice but to shoot her dead.” The psychologist folded her hands in her lap. “Even if you’re the toughest cop in Berlin, Herr Tommen, no one recovers from all that in just a few weeks.”

  “What was I supposed to do, take time off, go into a monastery and meditate?”

  “I want to know how your life has changed since this case. How you’re getting through the day, if you’re having trouble sleeping, things like that.”

  “I have nightmares. I had to get rid of all photos of Betty and me, and yet I drive by all the places in Berlin that remind me of her.”

  Kerima nodded. “I’ve never heard anyone be so open the first time we talk.”

  “What do you expect? Of course it’s stayed with me. But the worst thing I can be doing is nothing at all. Working helps. Hanging out with friends helps. Sitting in front of the TV watching a good soccer game helps too. What doesn’t help is always having to think about it.”

  “Talking about it helps too.”

  “Who am I supposed to talk to? My buddy? He was there. He saw my girlfriend pointing a shotgun at my head. He saw me putting a bullet in her, her life flowing out of her. He nearly bought it too, that day.”

  “You can talk to me.”

  “But you don’t understand,” Jan said. “You might well be a capable psychologist, but you don’t know a thing about everyday life as a cop. You’ve never aimed a weapon at someone, and I highly doubt that you’ve shot your lover.”

  “If I don’t know how all that feels, then why not try and explain it to me?”

  “What is there to explain? Betty had a shotgun in her hand and was about to blow my head off. If I hadn’t shot back, I’d be dead now.”

  “So you had no choice.”

  “You might have that impression, but it’s cold comfort. I live through that moment again and again and keep asking myself whether I handled it right. If I had just wounded Betty, she’d still be alive.”

  “She wasn’t the first person you’d ever killed.”

  “The other ones deserved it.”

  “You don’t think that a serial killer who tried to murder you deserved it?”

  “It might look that way when you describe it like that. But she was my girlfriend and I loved her. In my dreams I saw us as an old married couple, sitting together on a veranda, watching the sun go down.” Jan looked at the floor. “I might have acted according to protocol, and I probably had no other choice, but I still won’t ever forgive myself for killing her.”

  Kerima observed Jan a moment as if hoping he would continue. Then she paged through a folder. “Has your relationship to your colleagues changed in any way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the Berlin police, you were the main suspect in the George Holoch murder case for several days. Your colleagues, one Herr Patrick Stein in particular, basically became your worst enemies overnight.”

  Jan leaned back in his chair. “It’s complicated.”

  “Try to untangle it.”

  “Patrick and I could never stand each other. I thought he was a conformist, always going by the book. He categorized me as this trigger-happy maniac who didn’t care about the rules. Not the best conditions for working together. But with this last case, it was different. Patrick was downright obsessed with catching me, ignoring all clues pointing to other suspects and focusing entirely on the evidence that incriminated me. Only after our little encounter did he finally start to have doubts.”

  “And this impressed you?”

  “To understand what I’m telling you, you’d have to know Patrick better. For him there was only the proper, by-the-book way of doing things. He ignored anything outside the box. He was obstinate and refused to learn and got stuck on the completely wrong track in pursuing George Holoch’s killer. But eventually, Patrick’s intellect won out over his obsession with getting one over on me. He was man enough to own up to his mistakes and apologize. That’s when I understood that for Patrick, it’s not about his ego but about the cause. I hadn’t thought him capable of operating like that.”

  “So you’re good friends now?”

  “That might be taking it a bit far. But we respect each other and are learning to work together. I appreciate his preoccupation with details and precision work, and he admires my unconventional methods.” Jan shrugged. “If anything good came out of the last case, that was it.”

  Kerima eyed him, then stowed the folder in her bag. “Thanks a lot for your time, Herr Tommen.”

  Jan blinked at this abrupt end to the conversation. “That was it?”

  She nodded. “I just wanted to talk with you.”

  “So what’s your evaluation? Can I go back to work?”

  “You misunderstand my role. I’m not here to make a decision about you. You should simply be sharing your thoughts and worries with someone. Even if you don’t think a psychologist is useful, I’m sure that it’ll help you feel better. And if it has a positive effect on your work, then it’s in everyone’s best interests.”

  “Am I crazy?”

  She smiled. “No. But you do have a ways to go before you’ve worked through all this.”

  “Are you saying that things will eventually return to normal, that I’ll feel like myself again?”

  Kerima pulled off her glasses. “This incident will stay with you for the rest of your life. You’ll just learn to live with it.”

  “I thought time healed all wounds.”

  “It’s a nice thought, but unfortunately just that. Most scars are for life.” Kerima was biting her lower lip. Jan had the impression that she knew what she was talking about.

  She set down her card. “If you ever need to talk, call me. Doesn’t matter how late.” And with that, she left the conference room.

  Once Kerima was gone, Jan leaned back in his chair. He didn’t want to admit it, but he really did feel better. Maybe all this psycho hocus-pocus made some sense. He pocketed her card, stood, and went out to his car. It was time to go see about a killer.

  When Jan returned to the doctor’s office, Vanessa Ziegler was outside, loading a box of tchotchkes into her car—corny little figurines from vacations, decorative picture frames with fading photos. Jan noticed a deformed little plastic Eiffel Tower.

  Vanessa looked tired. Her eyes were red, her face devoid of makeup.

  “Good morning, Frau Ziegler,” Jan said.

  Vanessa turned to him and flashed a fake smile.

  “Do you have a moment to talk to me?” he said.

  She shrugged. “I’m unemployed. I have all the time in the world.”

  “It’s about a serious matter, unfortunately.�
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  “More serious than the murder of Dr. Valburg?”

  Jan hated revealing unpleasant things about a murder victim, but he had to pursue every clue. “We found cocaine in his system.”

  Vanessa pursed her lips. Jan had expected a fit of fury or at least an outraged denial. But she only lowered her head in shame.

  “You have to understand,” she said, nearly whispering. “It all started when his wife was diagnosed with cancer, five years ago. Countless operations followed, X-rays, chemotherapy, the works. Annika saw the best doctors, but she couldn’t get rid of it. Dr. Valburg spent every free second with his wife, went on vacations with her when they had a break from treatments, and even bought a new house without stairs just to make her days easier. But nothing worked. Annika died sixteen months ago. And Dr. Valburg’s will to live died with her. If he hadn’t been a faithful Christian, I’m sure he would’ve committed suicide.”

  She paused, then continued. “His patients didn’t notice the change, but I knew him better. After work he’d go into his empty house and just vegetate. One evening, he seemed so out of it that I followed him and watched him from out in the yard. He took off his coat, sat on a chair, and stared at the empty wall. His eyes blinking were the only sign that he was still alive. After a while he buried his face in his hands and started to cry.”

  “Why is his house so empty?” Jan asked.

  Vanessa lifted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “He bought the house over a year ago, yet the moving boxes haven’t been unpacked, cabinets not put up, no ceiling fixtures installed.”

  “That had to do with his wife dying. He bought that house for Annika. They wanted to spend the rest of their lives together there. The house kept reminding him of her. To him, it wasn’t a home, it was a grave.”

  “So he turned to drugs.”

  “Dr. Valburg’s happiness was deeply intertwined with his wife’s. The cancer diagnosis threw him off course. The drugs helped him.”

  “Taking cocaine helped?”

  “Dr. Valburg was barely sleeping after the cancer diagnosis. Some mornings he could scarcely keep his eyes open. But after lunch break, he’d be full of pep and wide awake, as if he’d drunk too much coffee.”

  “And that’s how you knew he was doing cocaine?”

  “I nearly lost a brother to drugs,” Vanessa said. “I know the symptoms, unfortunately.”

  “What kind of symptoms?”

  “Most noticeable was how his productivity would change. In the mornings, I was scared that he’d fall asleep right in his chair—but in the afternoons, as I said, he couldn’t be stopped. And his entire mood changed too—he was always in great spirits after lunch. I didn’t need to know any more than that.”

  “How addicted was he?”

  “He struggled whenever he wasn’t taking stimulants.”

  “How often did he take them?”

  “Once a week.”

  “Where did he get the drugs?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Cocaine is still being used in medicine.”

  Vanessa nodded. “In cranial surgery.”

  “Could he have procured his drugs that way?”

  “No! The medical profession was sacred to him. It might sound funny, but he never would have exploited his position for such a thing.”

  “Through a dealer, then?”

  “I’m guessing, yes.”

  “Maybe a patient?”

  “It’s possible.” Vanessa sounded unsure. “But I can’t supply you with a suspect.”

  “Our computer geeks will do that,” Jan told her. “They’ll compare the patient list with any drug-related offenses in the database. Maybe we’ll get a hit.” He noted that down for Max.

  “Could that man who was arguing with Dr. Valburg have been the dealer?” Vanessa asked.

  “Maybe. We’ll put out a search for him.” Jan put away his notepad. “Thanks for your time.” He shook Vanessa’s hand. “I’ll be in touch if I learn anything new.”

  Vanessa nodded, then went back inside the office.

  On the way to his car, Jan took out his phone and called Chandu. It was time to stir things up in Berlin’s underground.

  It was late afternoon as Chandu strolled through the old hood. He’d spent most of his time here collecting on debts and roughing up borrowers who hadn’t paid, people who’d been dumb enough to borrow money from underworld kingpins. They had all deserved it—dealers, fences, pimps, and other pillars of the community.

  As he turned a corner, he noticed the street coming to life. Nothing that a normal citizen would notice. Up on the second floor of a tenement building, a face turned away from the window. A group of kids dispersed down below and disappeared into a back courtyard. A man on a park bench discreetly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. It was more than enough warning.

  Chandu had switched overlords. He had no friends here anymore, but more than enough new enemies. He could handle these gung-ho kiddies, but it wouldn’t be long before the tough boys came marching in. Debt collectors taking his place, bodyguards wanting to protect their investment—whether it was a lucrative hooker or some little drug hideout. No one knew why he was here, but they would all assume that it wasn’t for nostalgic reasons. And they would be right.

  It was hard to predict how fast this network operated, but he was giving it ten minutes, tops. He might not be able to get back out after that.

  It wasn’t much time, but he couldn’t reveal the slightest panic. He had worked hard for his rep as one rough thug. Any show of haste would give him away. Then those little hyenas would pounce on him even before the big lions arrived.

  Chandu hated these ugly prefab tenement buildings. The gray walls were cracking and washed out, and the glass of one building’s front door was shattered. A cheap satellite dish hung at every window. The place reeked of piss and vomit. Chandu stepped over a man propped up next to the door. He was holding a bottle of rotgut and muttering nonsense to himself.

  Chandu headed to the fifth floor. Taking the elevator was too dangerous; he might get stuck there, unable to move. So he walked slowly up the stairs. There was neither a fire escape nor a second stairwell. The ideal conditions for a hunter. And he was still the hunter—but that would be changing soon.

  Nine minutes, tops.

  On the fifth floor, Chandu stopped in front of a door made of cheap pressboard, but he knew it was reinforced with extra deadbolts, a steel bar, and metal plating. At any rate, you couldn’t just walk on in. Chandu was hoping his old trick still worked; otherwise he was going to lose valuable time.

  He knocked three times, waited a moment, and then knocked twice. On the other side, a key turned and a chain pulled back. A clicking sound.

  A little man with unusually thick glasses opened the door. His unwashed dark hair gleamed in the corridor’s fluorescent light. His protruding teeth were more rodent-like than human. A tattered T-shirt hung off his scrawny shoulders.

  Chandu landed a straight punch to the nose. Man and glasses flew, arcing backward, into the apartment.

  “You should change your secret knock, Rat.” Chandu stepped in and shut the door behind him.

  He had three minutes—max. He’d need the rest of the time to clear out of the hood. So as not to give away his sense of urgency, he sat on an old armchair, crossing his legs. Never be in a hurry; never show weakness.

  Tim’s apartment hadn’t changed in the last few years. Dark curtains kept the light out, though a small hole in the fabric gave him a sneaky glance onto the street. The kitchen consisted of little more than a sink with a dripping faucet and a microwave oven. Enough for Tim to warm up his dearly beloved ready-made tortellini, which had to be the only food in the droning fridge next to his folding camp table. There was no TV, much less flowers, photos on the walls, or any sort of decoration at all. At odds with the scant, rickety furnishings, a high-tech coffee machine stood on a stool next to the broken-down bed in the corner. Tim’s second love
—caffeine.

  “You broke my nose,” Tim shouted, pulling himself up. He felt around for his glasses with one hand while the other found his bloodied face.

  “That beak of yours always was crooked. Can’t be any worse than before.”

  “You know I hate that nickname.”

  “Your problem.”

  “My name is Tim.”

  “Can I get you anything else? Maybe some dessert?”

  “What do you want? I don’t have any debts.”

  “If you did, I wouldn’t be treating you so nicely right now.”

  Tim picked up his glasses off the floor. The bridge was busted, the glasses in two pieces. He tried setting one piece on an ear while holding his nose with the other hand.

  “You broke my glasses,” he whined.

  Chandu sighed. “Sometimes I ask myself how you survive in a hood like this.”

  “Why’d you have to hit me?”

  “For old time’s sake.”

  Tim stared at the blood streaming down his hand and forearm and pressed his lips together. He looked like he might start bawling.

  “I don’t keep any stuff at my place and no money here. If you want to rob someone, try the seventh floor. That pimp, he—”

  “Spare me your bitching. Give me some info, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Tim’s expression switched from sniveling to all business. He straightened up, his broken nose apparently forgotten.

  “I won’t rip your ears off, that’s what.”

  “I’m not doing jobs anymore,” Tim began. “So it’s hardly like I’d—”

  “I’m not here to chat.” Chandu rose from the chair. He positioned himself before the little man, whose head only reached Chandu’s chest. The threat did the trick. Tim’s gaze found the floor.

  Chandu pulled the police sketch from his pocket and thrust it at him. “I want to know who this is.”

  Tim squinted with one eye and stared at the picture with the other. “Why come to me?”

  “You know every cockroach in Berlin. If you don’t disappoint me, I’ll send you a teddy bear for Christmas. Maybe stuff it with a few bucks—if the info’s any good.”