Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  Tim grumbled to himself.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Chandu lifted a threatening finger. “I’m expecting results within the next thirty-six hours. That’ll spare you another visit. You know how to reach me.”

  Chandu left the apartment without turning around. He’d put the Rat on the scent. Hardly anyone in Berlin knew its seedy underbelly better. If the man in the picture was involved in any dirty business, this little snoop would find him.

  Chandu closed the door and glanced at his watch. He had to hurry.

  As he headed down the stairs, he heard tires screeching outside. A man was shouting something in a foreign language. He thought he heard a gun being cocked.

  He cursed to himself. Time was up.

  Chandu ran to the second floor, rammed a door open with his shoulder, and rushed inside. The apartment stank of grease and cheap schnapps. An old man sat on a shabby couch. He wore a stained undershirt and wagged a beer bottle at Chandu’s face.

  “Get outta here!” the man hollered.

  “Gladly,” Chandu replied, crossing the room. He opened a window, positioned himself on the window frame, hung down, and let go. The ground wasn’t too far, about ten feet. He rolled away, hauled himself up, and ran into the building’s rear courtyard. With any luck, the thugs would search the building first before they were on to his trail.

  He headed deeper into the tenement blocks. Three more buildings and he’d reach the safety fence at the train overpass. The area beyond that was vast and offered little cover. His only chance was along the fence line to the neighboring buildings and through their backyards.

  Chandu came to a run-down playground. The swings were torn off, and the wood on the jungle gym all weather-beaten. A teen boy rode up on a dirt bike. He wore faded jeans, an old jacket. Chandu could tell at a glance he wasn’t carrying a gun. Maybe a concealed knife, but Chandu wasn’t worried about that.

  The kid brought his motorbike to a stop two yards from Chandu, straightened up, and shouted, “Here he is!”

  Chandu overcame the distance to the kid and connected a solid haymaker to his temple. The kid flew from the motorbike and landed next to the jungle gym.

  “Always wear a helmet, kid.”

  Chandu pulled up the motorbike, got it in gear, and rode off. A shot rang out. He ducked and revved the engine.

  Another shot. Dust sprayed up next to him.

  He raced on across the footpath and yanked the motorbike hard to the right. A bicycle rider appeared and saved himself by veering into the bushes. Earth and pebbles filled the air as Chandu raced toward the street. He laughed as the wind rushed past his face.

  Maybe being an informant wasn’t so bad after all.

  Jan paced back and forth in the investigations room. His conversation with Vanessa Ziegler hadn’t told him anything new. Zoe was still analyzing the last of the evidence, Max was comparing the patient list with the police database, and Chandu was out looking for the possible perp from the sketch.

  An image of Dr. Valburg was starting to emerge, however. The better Jan knew a victim, the easier he arrived at his killer. But he had not yet found the decisive clue.

  The way the murder had been carried out remained unclear. The grave, the cross, announcing the victim’s death in advance—it all had to mean something. He could rule out that testy Dr. Ewers, along with the possibility of a dealer. Neither of them would go to so much trouble. It was something personal. Someone who knew and hated Bernhard Valburg.

  Jan’s phone rang, jolting him out of his thoughts. He looked at the screen. Bergman. Jan moaned.

  “Jan Tommen here.”

  “Get your ass in my office,” Bergman said. “We have a new grave.”

  Chapter Four

  The man in Bergman’s office was visibly upset. He’d rumpled the jacket of his dark suit, unbuttoned his shirt, and loosened his tacky paisley tie. He sat hunched over a cup of coffee, staring into the dark brew like he was trying to read his fortune in it. His brown hair was damp with sweat, as if he’d run all the way to the police department.

  Bergman rose from his chair. “Herr Quast, allow me to introduce you. This is Jan Tommen. He’s my lead investigator.”

  Jan shook the man’s hand. It was moist and frail. “What happened?” Jan asked.

  “This morning I went to visit my parents’ grave, as I do every Wednesday. Stahnsdorf Cemetery. When I got there, I discovered that a pit had been dug next to it.”

  “Dug next to it?”

  “There’s a patch of grass to the right of the grave site. No graves are supposed to go there. You can imagine my surprise when I saw a wooden cross planted there too—with my name on it.”

  “With the date of death?”

  “Tomorrow. June twenty-seventh.” He took a slug of coffee. “I would’ve thought it some kind of sick joke if I hadn’t heard about that doctor being murdered. He was standing at his grave too.”

  “Did you know Dr. Bernhard Valburg?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “He sure wasn’t my doctor. I’ll go through my customer list, though, to see if maybe he bought a car from me.”

  “You’re a car salesman?”

  “If you’re into roomy Toyota wagons, I’m your man.”

  “Could you provide me with a list of potential customers, or is there some sort of privacy issue?”

  “I value my life more than anyone’s privacy. You’ll have more than my customer list; I’ll get you my personal contacts list too. You can even go through my underwear drawer if it’ll save my ass.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Jan pulled out his notepad. “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill you?”

  “A couple years ago? I would have guessed my ex-wife. But she’s taken off with her fitness trainer to Majorca and is now trying to become one with the universe. Plus she always hated gardening, so a grave wouldn’t be her thing.”

  “Anyone else? Unhappy customers, envious colleagues, angry neighbors?”

  “You’re occasionally going to have arguments with neighbors or coworkers. Things can always come up with a car sale, but it’s all harmless stuff.”

  “Have you recently received any threatening phone calls or nasty letters, had your car keyed?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Maybe persons from some other period in your life?”

  “What period would that be?”

  “Have you ever had gambling debts or any problems with drugs?”

  “Come again?”

  “Herr Quast,” Jan said coolly. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find out that Dr. Valburg’s murder inspired some idiot to play a cruel joke. Until then we have to take this death threat seriously. So you really should be telling us everything, even things you’re not too proud of.”

  The man hesitated. Too long, Jan thought.

  “I have nothing to tell!” he said finally, sounding offended.

  Jan wasn’t getting anywhere this way. He shut his notepad. “That’ll do for now. Please do send us your customer list and contacts. We’ll take a look at the grave and check out your background.”

  “You’ll receive police protection, of course,” Bergman added. “I’m recommending that you not go to work today or tomorrow and stay locked in at home. We’ll post a patrol car outside your house. It might well prove to be a sick joke, but for now we have no choice but to take this kind of action.”

  The man sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

  “Stay there a moment, drink your coffee. I’m going to have a quick chat with Herr Tommen.”

  Bergman led Jan into the hallway and shut the door behind him. “How’s it looking in the Valburg case?”

  “Could be better,” Jan said. “We have a possible suspect, but the killer left no clues behind. No fingerprints, no DNA.”

  “Is this the same offender?”

  “Could well be. Now that we have two potential victims, we just might find a connection that�
�ll give us some new leads.”

  “Between a doctor and a car salesman?”

  “Dr. Valburg was going through a good deal of turmoil. Maybe the cocaine was just the tip of the iceberg. I do know one thing: our new victim, Moritz Quast, was hiding something from me.”

  “What?”

  “No idea. First I have to make sure Herr Quast survives the night. I’ll take it up with him again tomorrow morning.”

  “Maybe it really is a coincidence?”

  “I doubt that. There has to be some kind of connection between the doctor and our car salesman, and it’s going to lead us to the murderer.”

  Dusk was approaching as Moritz Quast lowered the shades in the living room. He had hardly any furniture. No books or CDs. No flowers to add a touch of color to the room. No framed family photos. Just an oversized poster of Pamela Anderson on one wall. The room did sport a flat-screen standing amid assorted game consoles. A little fridge abutted a daybed. Bottle caps and beer stains decorated the battered throw rug in front of it.

  Only missing the bearskin rug and porn collection, Jan thought as he checked the windows.

  Lowering the shades wasn’t strictly necessary, but Jan wanted to show Quast that things were secure. The car salesman was still jumpy. On the way home, even with Jan accompanying him, he had peered nervously around at every intersection. Quast had practically sprinted up the short path leading from the street to his house, and he’d barely managed to get the key in the lock with his hand shaking so badly. If Jan hadn’t been there, the guy probably would have hidden under that daybed.

  “What now?” asked Quast.

  Jan was hoping the man would start to calm down now that he was home, but no such luck. His eyes were those of a cornered animal, and his blue shirt was soaked with sweat. He clawed at the inside of his jacket with his right hand.

  “Let’s go through the routine one more time.” Jan said, doing his best to sound composed. The whole way over, he had explained how Quast should conduct himself while under police protection, but a second go couldn’t hurt. Otherwise the man might flip out at the slightest sound. “We secured the windows and pulled down all the shades. Front and back doors are locked up. You do not let anyone in. No friends. No relatives. Not even pizza delivery. At the front door are two of my colleagues, who’ll be watching out for you the whole night. Their names are David Fleck and Fabian Gisker. Both are reliable men with experience.”

  Jan handed Quast a police radio. “This is how you reach the officers out there. Press the button on the left here and speak. That saves you having to call. My colleagues have a key to your house. If you need help, they’ll be in here in the blink of an eye.”

  Quast took the portable radio in his hand and pressed it to his chest as if his life depended on it.

  “If anything strikes you as unusual, just report it over the portable. You also have the police number and my cell.”

  Jan placed a hand on the car salesman’s shoulder. He was surprised at how much the man was shaking.

  He pointed to the flat-screen. “Watch some TV. Try to relax and enjoy your evening. I’ll come back by tomorrow morning and give you the latest on the investigation.”

  Quast nodded and sat down on the daybed. He turned on the TV with the remote and began surfing through the channels. The man would do a handstand if Jan asked him to.

  There wasn’t any more to be done there. The house was well secured, and his colleagues watching the door were reliable. Jan had searched all the rooms twice, so the killer couldn’t already be in the house. Unless he was some master break-in artist, no way was he getting in.

  “See you tomorrow,” Jan said and left the house. Moritz Quast raised a hand without looking away from the screen.

  Jan went through the front yard to the street. A patrol car was parked in front of the house. At first glance, it differed little from other cop cars, but if you looked more closely, you could recognize the driver’s distinctive character. The rear window prominently displayed a Hertha Berlin soccer club sticker. The backseat served as clothes closet. Jackets, pants, and gloves were piled up next to shoes. On the middle console, a glittery little Elvis swiveled, and the cup holder was just as against-the-regs as the cell-phone tray next to it. And those were only what a passerby could see.

  Jan knew the driver from his own days in training. Fabian Gisker was a legend. He didn’t have great arrest stats, hadn’t solved any big cases, was a miserable shot and even worse behind the wheel. But there was no shortage of anecdotes about him. Jan’s favorite story involved an official reception where Fabian had barfed into his potato salad during the mayor’s speech. Back then, Jan was still wet behind the ears and had just been assigned to Fabian. It proved to be the most exciting year of his police training. Fabian had shown him the darkest corners of Berlin and explained the rules of the street. He removed any illusions Jan held that the police were always respected wherever they went. It was a tough time, but he never forgot Fabian’s favorite line: “Training with me isn’t supposed to be fun, kid, it’s supposed to help keep your ass out of the firing line.” Jan had counted the days until he was assigned away from Fabian, and yet he had never learned as much as he had during that year.

  Since the last time they’d seen each other, at the big police party, Fabian had gained some weight, and he now sported a full head of gray hair. His addiction to sweets was unchanged. On the floor of his car, Jan could see an empty six-pack of sticky buns, and a package on his lap still held one chocolate croissant. Only the family-size bag of gummy bears on the dashboard shelf was untouched. Five years from now, Jan predicted, Fabian’s stomach would have grown so much that his hands probably wouldn’t reach the steering wheel.

  “Nothing like healthy eating,” Jan said.

  “Janni,” Fabian greeted him enthusiastically. The cop wiped a coating of glaze off his mouth and reached through the open window to squeeze Jan’s hand.

  “Kid, this is Detective Jan Tommen,” Fabian said to David, the young cop in the passenger’s seat. “A pain in the butt and a wiseass you might just want to smack sooner rather than later, but he can drink a Russian polar bear under the table and is one of the few among us to make it all the way to the homicide squad.”

  “How’s your side job as billboard going?” Jan said.

  Fabian roared with laughter, resting a hand on Jan’s shoulder. “Ah, Janni, I’ve missed you. Want a sticky bun?”

  “There’s some left?”

  “No. I’ll have the kid go fetch some. Then it’ll just be us adults here and you can tell me about the case.”

  Next to him, David grumbled something. Jan was surprised by how young the other cop was—a smattering of stubble on a pimply face.

  “Save your money,” Jan said, waving Fabian’s offer aside. He would’ve liked to accept, but he didn’t want young David to be any more tormented than he already was. Training under Fabian was hard enough. “Not a lot to tell about the case. Our man Moritz Quast got a death threat. Someone dug a grave for him at the cemetery and wrote his name and date of death on a wooden cross next to it. Tomorrow this should all be over. Might have been a sick joke, except for the fact that we had the same incident three days ago—and now we have a corpse on our hands.”

  “I could smell how scared shitless this Quast was just walking in the front door,” David said.

  “Shut it, kid. Only the big dogs get to say the big lines,” Fabian replied. He turned back to Jan.

  “You thinking there’ll be trouble?”

  “I’m not sure. If it’s the same murderer? He’s going to try something tonight. Or it could be a copycat situation.”

  “You guys on his trail, though?”

  “There’s a few clues, nothing concrete.”

  “There’s no maniac you don’t nab.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  Fabian waved the notion aside. “Don’t worry that fine head of yours. I’ll see to it that our Nervous Nellie in there stays alive an
d you get your killer.”

  “Sounds good,” Jan said and shook Fabian’s hand again. “I’ve got to press on. Watch yourself and the freshman here, while you’re at it. We can’t underestimate this situation. The murderer, he’s clever. He’s not going to come knocking on the front door first.”

  “I may be fat and slow,” Fabian said, “but I’ve got a gun. And the little one here can do the running.”

  Jan went back to his own car. He was trying to keep calm, but he couldn’t help feeling uneasy about this. Fabian was a dependable officer, but it seemed to Jan that he was treating this case too casually. The guy knew his way around junkies, pimps, and drunk thugs, but he had never had to deal with a cunning serial killer, possibly psychotic. If they were assessing the perp correctly, nothing would stop him.

  Jan suddenly got the feeling that he was seeing Fabian for the last time. Then he brushed the thought aside, started up the car, and headed out to see Chandu.

  Jan bounded into the apartment. He was at least twenty minutes late, and he hated not being punctual. Chandu waved him in. Judging from the strong smell of smoke, Zoe had already been here a while. Max was sitting in an armchair working his phone, his body tensed up and his forehead furrowed in concentration. He was probably busy with his favorite game—something to do with zombies and plants.

  “Sorry,” Jan told them. “I had to help our potential victim calm down a bit—he’s out of his mind with fear that he’s going to end up a dead man tomorrow.”

  “How did you do that?” Zoe asked. “Stroke his head, feed him a little bedtime snack?”

  “I secured his house and put a patrol car out front.”

  “Good people?”

  “You know Fabian Gisker?”

  “The fat one? Threw up on the buffet at the mayor’s reception?”

  “The very one.”

  “That’s just great,” Zoe grumbled. “I’d better be ready to work tomorrow.”

  “He’s an experienced police officer,” Jan shot back, defending his call.

  Zoe sucked on her cigarette and exhaled, on edge. “We going to get started or just keep yapping all night for no reason?”