Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  A thousand questions raced through Jan’s head. Why was the assistant flying alone? Had the woman been tense or nervous? Was any of the baggage unusually heavy? But Bergman had warned him against causing a stir. The embassy personnel weren’t required to cooperate and weren’t allowed to be questioned without the ambassador’s consent.

  Jan hated policy, politics. They weren’t allowed to intervene, yet if anything went wrong they were held responsible.

  He turned to his coffee, feeling testy. This was going to be a long night.

  The portable radio crackled, jolting Jan from sleep. It took him a moment to realize that he’d fallen asleep in his car. The dash display read 5:31 a.m. The last time he’d looked, it was just before five.

  “Small van leaving the premises.” The police officer’s voice didn’t sound the least bit tired. Either this fellow cop had been rotated or he’d been throwing back a few of Max’s energy drinks.

  “Is the trip confirmed?” Jan asked.

  “It’s a kitchen employee. Drives to the big wholesale market every week. Departure confirmed yesterday.”

  The embassy gate opened up, and a small van rolled out. The driver wore blue overalls and a gray cap. He lowered the window to wave at the patrol car outside the embassy. The cops returned the gesture by blinking their headlights.

  It was too dark for Jan to recognize the driver.

  “Vehicle and plate match motor-pool records,” the cop said on the radio. “All okay here.”

  Jan tapped his feet, suddenly restless. The trip had been confirmed yesterday. Neither time nor vehicle was suspect, but something was making Jan nervous. Maybe he was imagining things. But he didn’t want to make a mistake. Yuri’s survival was crucial. They needed the Ukrainian in order to get at the murderer’s motive. And Jan wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if there was a fourth victim.

  Jan’s phone lay on the dash, tempting him. A brief call to Yuri and he’d know that he was safe. Yet yanking the man out of bed at such an hour could make Jan look panicky. Bergman would have to apologize on his behalf. He had promised to disrupt the embassy’s regular operations as little as possible.

  Jan pounded on the steering wheel in anger. If he followed the van, he might miss something at the embassy. But something was urging him to follow the vehicle and check whether it really was on its way to the wholesale market.

  Finally his gut won out. “Detective Tommen to patrol car,” he said into the radio.

  “Claus Plath here.”

  “I’m pursuing a lead and pulling myself off embassy watch. Might be just a false alarm and I’ll be back within the hour. If something goes down, call me immediately.”

  “Will do,” Officer Plath said.

  Jan started the car and began following the small van.

  The lack of traffic at that hour made it easy for Jan to keep track of it. He could give the van plenty of space without losing sight of it.

  Jan lowered the window and drank the rest of his coffee as he drove. A new day was dawning, and with every kilometer his weariness decreased. They drove for about twenty minutes. The canal ran to his right. The first flights were coming in toward Tegel. The van was taking a direct route. Its driver wasn’t going especially fast or slow, made no unusual signaling or stops. All normal.

  A large sign indicated the exit to Berlin’s sprawling wholesale market. Jan crept up, shortening his distance to the van. He wouldn’t turn back until the vehicle was inside the market grounds.

  Right before the exit, the van switched to the left lane and drove past the market, heading toward Reinickendorf.

  Jan formed a fist. His gut hadn’t let him down. “No clue where you think you’re going, my man,” he muttered. “But I’m behind you.”

  The detour through Reinickendorf lasted ten minutes. Jan had no idea where he was. The air smelled like chemicals and household cleaners, and the S-Bahn train clattered by. He drove over some tracks and past the old market halls to a warehouse that looked just like thousands of others in Berlin.

  The van stopped at a loading dock. Jan cursed. It was still too dark for him to see anything. The area around the warehouse looked abandoned; there were no cars or trucks or pedestrians in sight. Driving right up to the building would give away his cover, so he’d have to wait until the driver had disappeared inside the warehouse.

  Whatever this embassy employee was doing here, it wasn’t buying fruits and vegetables.

  When the warehouse’s steel door slammed shut, Jan turned off his lights and drove toward the building—he wanted to keep his car close in case he had to pursue the van again. The gravel road crunched under his tires, so he approached as slowly as he could. He kept his eyes on the warehouse entrance and prayed that no one heard him coming. After what felt like an eternity, he pulled up behind a rusty Dumpster that kept him from view. He turned off his car, stuffed his phone in his pocket, and crept up to the front door.

  The door didn’t look rusty. With any luck it wouldn’t squeak. He didn’t see any cameras or other security devices, so he opened the door a crack. It swung open without a sound—the burglar gods were looking out for him. He slipped in and found himself inside a warehouse full of pallets, many of which were moldy, the wood worn gray and no good for deliveries anymore. They’d likely been sitting here for years. It smelled musty, as if the big loading doors hadn’t been opened in a long time. Beams of sunlight streamed down from the skylights. A fluorescent light lit up a single spot, in the middle of the warehouse.

  A loud screech pierced the silence. Jan recoiled and fought the urge to reach for his weapon. But nothing happened. Maybe the embassy cook was stashing smuggled goods or there was some other logical explanation. But the murder threat to Yuri Petrov—and the fact that the grave murderer was still on the loose—had put Jan on edge.

  The pallets created a big maze. They stood nearly seven feet high, and Jan couldn’t see over or through them. If they hadn’t been so rotted, he would have climbed up to take a look around. But he had no choice but to sneak around, step by step.

  He tiptoed forward, keeping an eye on the floor so he didn’t trip or step on something. Then he found himself in an area that was lit up.

  Fluorescent lights illuminated an open area about ten yards in diameter. The van driver sat in a chair in the center of it, his back to Jan. Jan followed the direction of the man’s gaze but couldn’t figure out why he was staring at a pile of pallets.

  Maybe he was waiting for someone. Maybe he’d shot up and was waiting for the drugs to kick in. That would explain his relaxed posture and the fact that his arms dangled down at his sides.

  Jan looked at the man’s feet. His shoes didn’t match his work outfit. They were leather loafers. Dapper ones, too, and not the least bit suitable for walking the big market hall.

  Then he spied the thin plastic straps around the man’s ankles. He was bound to the chair.

  Jan saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He tried to turn around, but his attacker was quicker. His neck exploded with pain. Then all went dark.

  Jan woke to the sound of a man screaming. It took a few seconds for the fog of darkness to clear. He had a hellish headache, and his neck hurt. He wanted to feel for a wound but could not raise his arms.

  As his vision cleared, he discovered that he was sitting in a chair, his hands and legs bound. The screams were coming from the man from the embassy, who was seated beside him. He was no longer wearing his cap, and Jan recognized Yuri Petrov at once. He was screaming in Ukrainian at an unknown person wearing a ski mask. Whatever Yuri was saying, it was no compliment. His hatred for his attacker was etched in his enraged face.

  The man standing before Petrov didn’t appear impressed by the Ukrainian’s meltdown. He was average size, not especially strong-looking. He wore dark jeans, a blue rain jacket, and the black ski mask. The hammer in his right hand told Jan that the grave murderer was standing before him. The tool was clean—so he’d washed the blood off after his last kill. The
shape of the hammerhead was just as Zoe had described it.

  Jan fought his restraints with all he had, but the thin plastic only dug deeper into his flesh. The murderer had done his job well. Jan’s wrists and lower arms were bound to the metal chair, as were his calves and his thighs right above the knee.

  He eventually gave up and turned to Yuri, who accentuated his latest torrent of words by spitting.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Jan said.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Petrov said.

  “I understand that you’re a complete idiot for leaving the embassy, and I understand that the man before you is the grave murderer who’s already killed three people with that hammer he’s holding.”

  The killer didn’t react. He kept his eyes fixed on Yuri. Only a finger shifted on the hammer’s handle now and then. Otherwise he was a statue.

  Petrov’s rage found a new target in Jan. “Fucking cop! You don’t think I know I fell into a trap?”

  Jan turned to the murderer. “What do you want? Why kill those people?”

  No reaction.

  “I asked him that already,” Petrov said. “He hasn’t said a word since he put you in that chair.”

  Petrov, trying to master his rage, spoke firmly to the murderer: “If you think I’m going to beg for my life, then you’re wrong. Untie me and we’ll settle this matter like men.”

  The Ukrainian flexed his muscles against his restraints with all he had. Blood ran from Petrov’s wrist, which only seemed to make him angrier. The straining plastic made a creaking sound.

  The stranger took a step forward, as though sensing that the situation was getting too dangerous. He struck Petrov in the face with his free hand. The Ukrainian’s resistance broke for a moment. He convulsed, glared at his assailant, and screamed something in Ukrainian as blood dripped from his wrists to the floor.

  The stranger gripped the hammer tighter. “For my daughter,” his voice droned over Petrov’s cursing. He held the hammer up over his head and swung it down toward Petrov’s head.

  Seeing the hit coming, Petrov jerked his head to the side and pressed his feet to the floor. The chair shifted sideways, only a bit, but just enough that the blow found his shoulder instead of his head.

  A loud crack sounded as the hammer broke the collarbone. Petrov screamed in pain and tried to keep moving away. The chair fell over, but the restraints held him fast to it.

  The stranger was clearly thrown off by his miss. He recoiled a step, as though unsure how to deal with this screaming man. The Ukrainian must have been suffering unbearable pain, yet was trying to crawl away, despite his constraints. With every pain-filled thrust, he came closer to the pallets.

  Jan fought the restraints that gouged into his own flesh. But distress made him impervious to the pain. He had to free himself. He balled his fists, squeezed his eyes shut, and summoned all his strength, but the straps held.

  The murderer had recovered from his initial shock. He stepped up to his victim, swung the hammer, and struck again. Lying on the floor, it was harder for Petrov to avoid the blow, which landed on his cheekbone. His screaming amplified. Blood squirted from the wound, ran down his face. He kept sliding along, but the murderer set after him.

  The third blow landed on Petrov’s forehead. The screaming stopped. His head rolled to the side, and his empty eyes found Jan. Yuri Petrov opened his mouth. A slight gasp escaped from his throat. Like a last request.

  The fourth blow ended his suffering.

  The murderer turned away from Petrov. He dropped the hammer, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a cloth. He wiped off his hands, but blood still stained his fingers. He took the fabric in his right hand and rubbed fanatically at his left. When that didn’t work, he spat on his fingers and rubbed even harder.

  He finally gave up and dropped the cloth on the floor. His eyes showed his revulsion for Yuri Petrov’s blood.

  He bent forward, breathing heavily as though he had to throw up.

  “Why?” Jan asked.

  “Because he deserved it.”

  “What about Valburg, Quast, and Cordes? They deserve it too?”

  “Yes.” His voice was cold, matter-of-fact, as if discussing spreadsheets.

  “Why kill these men and then mutilate them?”

  The stranger didn’t answer. He disappeared from Jan’s view. Jan heard a rustling sound, a pallet being moved. A minute later the murderer returned. He was dressed in a big plastic suit, like the ones Forensics wore, and was pushing a pallet jack with a large blue plastic barrel tied to it. The jack’s supports were reinforced with metal tubing.

  Chandu had been right. The murderer transported his victims inside a barrel.

  Jan tried to get him talking again. “We’ll get you. The fact that you’ve caught me will only gain you a few more hours of freedom.”

  The man didn’t respond. That could only mean two things. Either he didn’t care about getting caught, in which case Petrov was his last victim—he would drive to the cemetery and be led away in handcuffs. Or he didn’t care that Jan had seen him finish off Petrov, because he planned to kill Jan next.

  Jan checked how his straps were holding. His wrists hurt. The plastic straps were cutting into his skin. Blood soaked his sleeves. Maybe the blood would help him slip out of his restraints. Fighting them certainly wasn’t doing him any good.

  The murderer was in no hurry, and his every move looked deliberate. He released the barrel from the pallet jack, crossed Petrov’s arms across his chest, and hauled him into the container with an expert grip.

  Jan felt a surge of despair. True, Zehlendorf Forest Cemetery was hermetically sealed. The hearse ruse wasn’t going to work a second time; when the killer showed up there, they’d catch him. But nothing here suggested that this man was bothered by Jan’s arrival on the scene. He wasn’t acting as though his plans had been thrown off course—it was almost as if he had some ace up his sleeve.

  He had managed to summon Petrov to his own execution, and the man had come. Judging from how angry he had been, the Ukrainian had been lured here under some kind of pretense—but what could have induced him to sneak past the guards when he was supposed to be the grave murderer’s next victim? It was complete madness. Whatever the reason, it must have been significant for Yuri to risk his life for it.

  Ten minutes later the dead man was stowed away, the barrel tied to the jack, and the plastic suit stuffed into a bag. Petrov’s blood had made a large pool on the floor, but the murderer didn’t even bother with it.

  The hammer was the only thing he picked up. He turned to Jan and eyed him indecisively. He walked around Jan and stood behind him.

  Jan yanked at the straps with all he had, trying to slip free. One hand would be enough for him to defend himself.

  “Sorry,” the man said.

  The plastic straps wouldn’t budge.

  Then came the pain.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jan woke to the rising sun shining down on him. The red had turned to a soft yellow and streamed down from the warehouse skylights, blinding him. He bit his lip to confirm to himself that he was still alive. The pain in his head had become a frantic staccato. The grave murderer had not killed him but Tasered him again instead.

  Jan had no idea how much time had elapsed, but he had to warn his colleagues. He was still tied to the chair. He knew he wouldn’t get his arms free, so he braced his chin on his chest and pushed off with his feet to propel himself backward.

  Hitting the floor wasn’t as painful as he’d feared it would be. He moved his legs back and forth until the plastic restraints slid off the chair’s metal legs.

  Sighing, he stretched out his legs. With his back still tied to the chair, he hauled himself up and hobbled over to the nearest metal girder. He stood next to its sharp edge and rubbed one wrist’s plastic restraint against it. Each touch stung, but Jan maintained a constant pace.

  Just when he was beginning to think it would never work, the plastic strap popped apa
rt. He stepped over, picked up a jagged pipe, and used it to work off his other restraints. A minute later he hurled the chair across the floor. His jacket was empty. Wallet, badge, and phone gone. The murderer must have pocketed all of it. But his gun was still there, still in its holster.

  Jan ran out to his car, figuring he could warn his men over the two-way radio. When he got outside, he saw the BMW’s hood open. The cables had been severed from the battery—Jan wasn’t going anywhere, nor would he be able to use the car radio. He gave the bumper a swift kick.

  He ran out into the street and turned left. The street was empty.

  Valuable time was slipping away. Every minute worked to the killer’s advantage.

  At the first intersection, he peered around but saw no activity. He ran on, cursing. The sweat stung his wounds. His breathing turned to gasping, but he didn’t even consider slowing down. His lungs would have to collapse first.

  At the next intersection, he spotted a parked delivery van. A man was hauling beverages into a little food stand. Seeing Jan, he set aside his box.

  “You all right there, buddy?”

  “Police officer,” Jan gasped. “I have to make a call, it’s urgent.”

  The man stared at him with a look of surprise on his face but pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Jan.

  Jan dialed the Detectives Division main number. He cursed whoever invented the automated phone system. He used to know all the numbers by heart. On the third ring, someone picked up.

  “Berlin CID. Hello.”

  “Detective Tommen here!” Jan was practically screaming into the receiver. “Connect me to the officer in charge at Zehlendorf Cemetery!”

  “One moment, please.”

  Jan stopped himself from adding that he didn’t have a moment. Classical music played as he waited. Ten seconds had never felt so long. The lead officer finally answered.

  “Detective Tommen? Again? What the hell is going on now?” The static sounded harsh.