Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  “I like yapping for no reason,” Max remarked without looking up from his phone.

  “Can it, Maximum Moron. Start up that projector.”

  Max put down his phone and turned to Chandu, standing over in the kitchen. “Would you, please?”

  The light went out. With the shades pulled down it was pitch-black.

  Zoe’s voice rang out in the darkness. “Look here. Whatever you guys got planned, I have a scalpel in my pocket and no scruples about using it.”

  Flickers of light came from the kitchen. Chandu carried in a cake with candles. Jan, Max, and Chandu sang “Happy Birthday.” And Chandu set down the cake at Zoe’s place. The light came on again.

  “How did you . . .” Zoe was clearly speechless.

  “Our good man Maximum here just happened to be in the staff database and stumbled upon your birthdate,” Jan explained. “So we thought you’d like a little something.”

  “Cherry cheesecake.” Chandu gestured to it. “I overheard that you liked the combo.”

  “Is that thirty-two candles?” Max whispered in Jan’s ear.

  “Are you insane? I told Chandu to do twenty-seven. She realizes you know how old she is? She’ll perform a dissection on you right here. Alive.”

  Chandu leaned down to Zoe and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “With love, my little charmer. You can blow out the candles now.”

  Zoe shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew out the flames. Her eyes sparkled with childlike excitement. It was the first time that Jan had ever seen Zoe smile. For a brief moment her armor had weakened, and she seemed something like happy.

  Chandu handed her a cake knife. “Here. Since you do know a thing or two about cutting things into pieces.”

  Zoe raised her head, looking into Chandu’s eyes. Her smile had vanished, but she didn’t look grim. She acted as if she were seeing them all for the first time.

  She jerked up, standing. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said and pushed past Jan. Surprised by her urgency, he took a step back and almost fell onto the coffee table.

  “Cut the cake,” she shouted at Chandu. “Be right back.”

  Jan thought he spied tears in her eyes as he watched her rush down the hallway in her high-heeled boots.

  Then she disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Several minutes later, Zoe, Chandu, and Jan were sitting on the couch holding plates of cake. Jan was stealing glances at Zoe, who appeared to have recovered from her outbreak of actual emotion. Her expressionless mask was firmly back in place. Max stood next to the couch, adjusting the projector beam. His hands were stained with remnants of cherry. Two images appeared on the wall.

  Max pushed a key on his laptop, and a little ta-da fanfare sounded.

  “Allow me to introduce . . .” He made a sweeping gesture toward the wall. “Bernhard Valburg and Moritz Quast.”

  Both photos were formal. Each man was peering earnestly into the camera. Bernhard Valburg was wearing a doctor’s coat and had a stethoscope hanging around his neck. Moritz Quast was dressed in a dark suit, looking like a serious car salesman with his red tie.

  “A grave was dug for both men,” Max continued. “Bernhard Valburg was murdered and dumped into his. Moritz Quast is still alive and is locked up in his home.”

  “This the same perpetrator?” Chandu asked, chewing.

  “Officially, we’re not certain,” Jan said, “but internally we’re going with the same perp.”

  “How come?”

  “The crosses,” Zoe said. “The type of wood is identical, as is the paint.”

  “Are there connections between the two men?”

  “We haven’t found any yet,” Jan said.

  “The first thing I did was compare the patient list with the car salesman’s customer list, but I got no hits,” Max added. “Moritz Quast was not a patient of Bernhard Valburg, nor did the doctor buy a car from Quast.”

  “Did the two know each other personally?”

  “Not according to Quast,” Jan said. “But our car salesman was quite rattled. It took him five minutes to tell us his address. We’re not going to get anything significant out of him before tomorrow.”

  “If he’s still alive tomorrow,” Zoe said.

  “We have a car outside his house; the doors are locked up and the shades down. I checked the rooms twice.”

  “It’s still not impossible.”

  “He’ll survive tonight, but I have no idea how we’re going to keep watching over Moritz Quast indefinitely. We can’t keep him locked up in his place forever.”

  “Then we’ll have to find the killer.” Chandu beamed, ever the optimist.

  “I’m not seeing much progress as of now.” Jan turned to Max. “Did you find any offenders among the doctor’s patients?”

  “Sort of,” Max answered after hesitating a moment.

  “So, no,” Zoe said.

  “I got one hundred and four hits. Most were petty offenses. There was one man in jail for aggravated assault, but he died of lung cancer five years ago.”

  “Like I said,” Zoe added.

  Max pursed his lips in anger. He was clearly frustrated not to have come up with better results.

  “How’s the search in the underworld?” Jan asked Chandu.

  “I’ve persuaded my contact to cooperate, put the police sketch in his hand. He’s keeping his ears open.”

  “Persuaded?” Zoe asked.

  “I clocked him right on the nose.”

  “Oh, how creative.”

  Chandu shrugged. “It’s a kind of a greeting ritual among us thugs. You don’t get far by being polite.”

  “That might be a good way to motivate some of my lame-ass coworkers,” Zoe said.

  “I’m meeting up with him again tomorrow night. Maybe he’ll have found out something by then,” Chandu said.

  “Can I come?” Zoe blurted.

  “Where?”

  “To meet the guy.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “To learn more about investigative work.”

  “It doesn’t have much to do with investigating. Either the little rat has info or I bash him in the snout again.”

  “Sounds kind of fun, though.”

  “Fine by me. I’ll call you with the when and where.”

  “I’m glad you two are having such a good time,” Jan said. “But maybe we should be thinking more about our potential victim? The murderer didn’t just pick these two out randomly.”

  Max’s laptop let out a ping. The hacker pressed a few keys and stared at the screen, transfixed. Then a grin appeared on his face.

  “I have something on our car salesman,” Max said, wiping his sticky fingers on his pants. “Not exactly something a person can be proud of. But maybe it’s the connection we’re looking for.”

  Fabian rubbed wearily at his eyes. He had drunk three cups of coffee and still felt sleepy. It was barely past midnight. He turned to his young partner, who didn’t look the least bit tired.

  “Freshman, how do you do it?”

  “What? Look so good?”

  “Don’t get cocky. All I mean is, how are you able to stay awake on the night shift?”

  “Caffeine powder.”

  “Huh?”

  “While you’re chugging down one coffee after another, I go for a little caffeine powder.” David raised a baggie containing what looked like a portion of sugar. “Got a half gram of caffeine in here. It’s the equivalent of five liters of soda.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to keep up with all the pissing.”

  “Thus the powder.”

  “Huh,” Fabian said. The little dude was cleverer than he deserved to be. A boost of caffeine would fix Fabian right up—but then he’d have to admit that David was the smarter one. And that would endanger the hierarchy in the car. So coffee it was.

  “What was that?” David asked with a start, pointing at the house.

  “Where?” Fabian turned his head but couldn’t make out an
ything unusual. The house was half in shadow. The porch light was on, illuminating the little front yard. Shrubs grew on the other side of the metal fencing, barely waist-high and too far apart for anyone to be able to hide behind. The path coming around from the little backyard door was laid out with stone pavers. The house itself was just as boring as the neighborhood it was in. Only the knee-high red garden gnome looked out of place at first glance. But if you got a little closer, you spotted its raised middle finger. Fabian saw no suspicious figures, no one lurking around or trying to mess with the premises.

  “That a light that went on there?”

  “Outside the house?”

  “No, in it.” David leaned toward the driver’s-side window so that he was practically lying across Fabian’s stomach.”

  “Easy, young ’un.” Fabian pushed him back to the passenger’s seat. “Our Moritz Quast was probably just going to the can.”

  “The last time, he reported it in over radio.”

  “True.” Fabian looked annoyed. “And when he made a sandwich, and brushed his teeth, and went to bed. So nice of him not to be a pain in our balls.” He raised his coffee cup to his ear and did a slick-talking car-salesman voice: “Hey there. Going to fart any second. Just wanted you to know.” The cop lowered his window and spat on the sidewalk. “Pussy.”

  “It wasn’t the can, it was the kitchen.”

  “Good God, David. Haven’t you ever hit the fridge during the night, eaten up yesterday’s leftovers?”

  David frowned. “No.”

  “Which is why I’m asking,” Fabian muttered and took a gulp of coffee. “Little proposal for you: we take that portable radio there and ask the owner of this house if he’s doing okay or if maybe the killer’s hiding in the fridge and just slaughtered him.”

  “But if he’s just been slaughtered, he can’t exactly answer—”

  “Shut it!” Fabian interrupted. “Don’t always take me so literally.” He picked up the portable radio and pressed the “Talk” button.

  “Herr Quast, Fabian Gisker here. You receiving me?”

  Static.

  “Herr Quast? You awake?”

  “But if he’s asleep, then—”

  Fabian’s irritated glance, with its unspoken threat of violence, silenced the younger man.

  “Herr Quast?”

  Static.

  “Something’s not right,” David whispered. He stared at the portable radio, tensing up. His eyes widened as if he’d just seen Martians landing.

  “Batteries could be dead.”

  “These ones hold for twenty-four hours. Even with constant use.”

  “Then it’s a bad battery.”

  “Not likely. That portable radio is brand-new. I tested it out myself.”

  Fabian held up his hands to pacify David. “Okay, okay. We’ll call in over the phone network.” He pointed at David’s cell phone on the dash. “Call.”

  The young cop grabbed his cell, pressed a couple of keys, and turned on speaker mode.

  It rang. Once, twice. Then came a brief pause. The voice-mail message started in, and they heard the car salesman: “You’ve reached the number for Moritz. Leave a message.” He sounded happy, relaxed, completely unlike the man they’d been guarding for hours.

  “Huh,” Fabian said. It was weird that the Nervous Nellie hadn’t reported in. Twice he had emphasized to Quast that he should keep his portable radio as well as his phone next to his bed. He should even take the radio in the can with him. And if he was sound asleep, there was no explanation for why the light had gone on in the kitchen.

  “Maybe he’s a sleepwalker,” Fabian said, trying to ease the tension.

  “I read an article on that,” David began. “You wouldn’t believe all that sleepwalkers are capable of—”

  “Shut it! I’m trying to think here.”

  Fabian absently took a sip of coffee. This death threat was a serious matter, above all because they already had one victim. They had to go see what was happening inside the house. If it was a false alarm, he’d use the opportunity to take a piss. Better a guest can than a tree.

  “Well, then, young ’un. Let’s do this.” Fabian opened the door and stepped out. With his massive stomach, this took him longer than it took his more slender fellow cop, but he managed the extra girth just fine.

  “Shouldn’t we call for backup?” David said, sounding nervous now as he came around the car.

  “We are backup. Now stop your blabbering and listen.” Fabian pulled out a key from his pocket and held it up. “I’m going in the front. You stay by the rear entrance in case someone tries to bolt; wait there until I let you in. Then we’ll search the house.”

  David nodded and drew his weapon.

  “Put that thing away! I don’t want you getting all gung ho and blowing away the homeowner. Use the pepper spray.”

  David holstered his pistol and started to head around to the back of the house.

  Fabian held him back by the arm.

  “Stay loose, young ’un. Don’t get scared.” He smiled confidently.

  “I’m not scared,” David replied, but his trembling hands suggested otherwise.

  “I’ll be sure to watch your ass.” Fabian placed a fatherly hand on the young cop’s shoulder. “Now go get around back.”

  Fabian headed through the yard to the porch, inserted the key in the front door, and opened up. The main floor was dark. Only the kitchen was showing some light. No sign of the homeowner.

  “Crap,” Fabian muttered and went on in.

  Meanwhile, David headed to the rear of the house. This case has been creepy from the start, he thought. What kind of sick bastard digs out a grave to bury his victim in? The path’s paving stones were so sloppily placed, David had to watch that he didn’t stumble. It was noticeably darker here than out front. The branches of the beech trees separating Moritz Quast’s property from his neighbors’ hung menacingly over the path, as though trying to prevent the moonlight from revealing David’s way. The rear of the house was lit by only one small spotlight, the one they normally used to help cordon off traffic accidents—planted here so they wouldn’t have to use flashlights every time they came around the back. But the light wasn’t all that bright and barely reached the edge of the property. David would’ve given anything for two super-bright halogen spots.

  He wished that Moritz Quast’s house was located on a busy street. The silence of these rows of single-family homes had been making him crazy the whole night. He was a city kid. He’d seen a lot in his two years as a cop. Drunks on a rampage, mass brawls, domestic violence. One time he had to help pull a critically injured person from a car wreck. He was no scaredy-cat, but a murder was something else. He had trained plenty for entering a house, but in training, the worst abuse came from your instructor. A real murderer was a different story.

  David peered in the kitchen window, which had no shades. The light was on, but he couldn’t see anyone. He tried the lever on the rear door leading to the kitchen, but the door was locked.

  “Herr Quast . . .”

  He heard Fabian’s voice but only faintly. The light in the living room came on. David tried to make out his partner, but the door from there into the kitchen was only partially open and he couldn’t see much. He’d have to wait till Fabian passed through the house. Then he heard a grunt and something falling to the floor. The light in the living room went out.

  “Fabian!” David shouted. He shook the door lever. “Fabian, stop this shit.”

  He pressed his face to the window. The kitchen light was still on. No sign of his partner. A carton of milk stood on the kitchen table next to scraps of white bread. A jacket hung on a chair; dishes were piled up next to the sink. He thought he smelled burnt scrambled eggs—probably the homeowner’s sorry attempt at cooking himself something warm that evening.

  David cursed under his breath. The back door was all there was back here. No other windows to see through besides the one in the kitchen. To locate Fabian, he’d have to l
eave his post and go around to the front.

  Maybe he was wrong and his mind was playing tricks on him. Fabian had probably just gone upstairs to check in on Moritz Quast and, in the process, had knocked over a vase or whatever.

  David paced back and forth at his spot. He wouldn’t be surprised if this was just one of Fabian’s stupid jokes. The murderer could not be inside the house. Detective Tommen had checked all the rooms. The back door was locked and there were no signs of a break-in. All the windows were closed, and they’d been keeping an eye on the front entrance this whole time.

  But if the murderer was inside, every second would count. Maybe Fabian was injured and needed help. Or Moritz Quast.

  David banged on the window frame in frustration. He had to get inside. He instinctively reached for his weapon but then remembered his partner’s words of warning. He grabbed hold of the pepper spray instead and went around to the front entrance.

  The door was open. Slightly ajar. Practically an invitation.

  He pushed the door wider with his foot, waiting on the porch. Feeling his heart thumping. He really should be running over to the car and calling for backup—but then he might be in big trouble with Fabian, and for good reason. Fabian would call him a gutless little girl, and the whole department would know about it by first thing tomorrow.

  The living room was dark. Some light was coming through the gap of the kitchen door, but there was no sign of Fabian. David took a step inside and hit the switch. It clicked, but the light didn’t come on.

  “Fuck.” Something wasn’t right here. David wanted to scream.

  “Fabian?” he called into the shadows. “Herr Quast?”

  No reply.

  His flashlight was back in the car. Of course. David fought the urge to draw his weapon and fire into the air. But that might wake the whole neighborhood.

  He moved toward the kitchen in hopes of finding a light switch or a lamp.

  Then Moritz Quast stepped out of the kitchen. David instinctively jumped back a step.

  “God, you scared me.” David sighed in relief. “We were getting worried. You all right?”

  Moritz Quast was looking down at the living-room floor. David saw tears on his cheeks. His left hand trembled. His right was concealed behind his back. David took a step closer to the car salesman. Within the shadowy light coming from the kitchen, he now saw Fabian slumped on the living-room floor, lying against a chest of drawers, his flabby chin pressed to his chest. His eyes seemed to be closed, but David couldn’t quite tell in the near darkness.