Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  “That failed,” Chandu added. “So Yuri was murdered, and his lung was cut out as a symbol.”

  Jan sat back down. “Now we not only have the murderer’s motive, we also know why he mutilated his victims.”

  “But why go to all that trouble with the grave?” Max said.

  “His daughter died,” Jan said. “Her burial unleashed not only his urge to kill but also his desire to put them six feet under.”

  “How does that get us any closer to the murderer?” Zoe asked.

  “We can take a better look at the names we have,” Max said. “For Dr. Valburg, we’d be looking for young female patients who were with the insurer that Moritz Quast worked for. The daughter leads us to the name of the father, and then we have our murderer.”

  “The daughter is also deceased, which should help us narrow down the list,” Chandu said. “You know his stature, and we have his voice. Identifying the murderer from there is easy.”

  Jan turned to Max. “How long do you need to work this out?”

  “Two hours,” he said. “Tops.”

  Jan folded his arms behind his head and set his feet up on the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, in two hours we’ll know who the grave murderer is. Start chilling the champagne.”

  The operations room had filled up. Chairs had been removed to make space for more people. It was crowded, stuffy. Jan and his fellow cops fixed their gaze on the loudspeakers playing the SWAT team’s radio communications. The raid was about to start.

  The sound of the team leader’s voice suggested he was used to giving commands. “We’re at the location. Schwanenallee one-one-four. Begin securing possible exits.”

  The drumming of heavy boots sounded.

  They had finally identified their man. After a week of investigating, the sleepless nights would soon be over. Jan looked forward to having a weekend again and a normal work schedule. No more stress from the media. Once he questioned the killer and finished up his report, he would be ready to party.

  “Doorbell reads Elias Dietrich. Fifth floor confirmed.”

  It had taken Max less than an hour to track down the name. Elias Dietrich. An unassuming name. A spotless record. Nothing that could connect him to serial homicide. No irregularities.

  Until June 23, 2013. That date would soon describe the murder of Bernhard Valburg. And in the days that followed, those of Moritz Quast, Robin Cordes, and Yuri Petrov. Four murders. The reasons, vile. Planned in cold blood. Elias Dietrich would die in prison.

  The drone of a drill sounded. Something metallic hit the floor.

  “Reached the stairwell.”

  More drumming of boots. SWAT must be storming up the stairs. No panting could be heard over the speakers. Apparently sprinting up four flights wasn’t too strenuous for these men. Even in protective gear.

  “Reached target residence.”

  A bang sounded. The front door being knocked open with a battering ram.

  “Accessed.”

  Jan dug his fingernails into his palm. The room was deadly still. Everyone was staring at the speaker. Patrick pursed his lips.

  “Clear,” one of the men shouted.

  “Clear,” another.

  Room by room, they searched the place. No shots sounded.

  Then it was quiet. The connection hissed slightly. Jan took a deep breath. What is going on? he wanted to bark. But he kept silent.

  Bergman’s voice on the line was like salvation: “Your status?”

  “The residence is empty.”

  “The target?”

  “Not on premises.”

  “Fled?”

  “Negative,” said the SWAT team leader. “The residence is cleared out. No furniture. No clothes. Floor and windowsills dusty. Target is long gone.”

  Jan studied the photo of Elias Dietrich. Full beard, thinning hair, a hint of a smile. The jacket faded, the tie knot too small. No contemptuous smirk, no treacherous gleam in his eyes. A completely normal man. But isn’t it always that way? Jan thought.

  His résumé revealed just as little. Completed middle school. Employed by Berlin city government. Twenty-year job anniversary. That explained the photo with the suit and tie.

  “The manhunt continues,” Patrick said. “We’re also questioning his relatives. Everyone from uncles to nephews. Maybe someone put him up without knowing they were housing the grave murderer.”

  “It’s not going to be enough,” Jan said.

  “We’re not dealing with a habitual criminal,” Patrick said. “Up until his first murder, he was a dull city official.”

  “His crimes were planned too well. He gave us the shaft with Robin Cordes and lured Yuri Petrov out of the embassy despite the death threat.”

  “He’s the most wanted criminal in Berlin. At some point he’ll run into a patrol.”

  Jan scratched at his head. “I need more intel. What else is there for background?”

  “The police database doesn’t tell us much. He didn’t even have a car. Two officers are questioning his former boss.”

  Jan turned to Max, who was tapping away at his keyboard as if his life depended on it. “Got any leads off the Internet?”

  “Elias Dietrich does not exist online. No credit cards, no e-mail address for him, not even a cell phone. I’m on his bank records,” he added.

  Jan’s phone ringing interrupted his thoughts. Jan longed for the age of cable phone lines, before answering machines were invented. He didn’t recognize the number.

  “Detective Tommen here.”

  “Hello, Matthias Lerger here.” Jan had never heard the name. “I’m with Section Sixty-Four in Lichtenberg, and I had checked the main cemetery in Friedrichsfelde as part of the search for the grave murderer.”

  “What is it?”

  “We were about to be taken off the case, but an hour ago a cemetery employee called me to say they had a new grave.”

  “A new grave? That has to be some kind of a joke.”

  “That’s what I thought too, so I drove over to the cemetery and took a look for myself. Near one wall of the cemetery grounds, someone has dug a new grave. It matches the grave murderer’s specifications. Announced to no one. Between a foot and a half and two feet deep. Simple wooden cross with name, birthday, and day of death, just like with the previous victims.”

  The hairs on the back of Jan’s neck were standing up. “What’s the name on the cross?”

  “Chandu Bitangaro.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jan’s hands were trembling so much that he almost dropped his phone as he tapped his friend’s number into it. He had no clue how Chandu could be involved in this, but that was beside the point. If Elias Dietrich was responsible for the new grave, Chandu was in danger.

  He picked up after the third ring.

  “Thank God.” Jan sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” Chandu asked.

  Jan felt his heart thumping. “We have a new grave.”

  “How? I thought you sent SWAT to get Dietrich.”

  “He wasn’t there. Doesn’t matter. Is your door locked?”

  “Of course. You know that. Why are you so worked up?”

  “Your name is on the grave. The day of death, July fourth.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know anything more yet. I’m having the grave checked out, but I’m getting you to safety first.”

  “I’m safe here. This place isn’t even registered to me, and no one knows I live here apart from you, Zoe, and Max.”

  “Not risking it, old friend. Pack your underwear. You’re spending the next two days here.”

  “At the police department?” Chandu said. Jan could hear how upset his friend was. “You know how many pieces I got under the bed? Probably more than your entire armory put together.”

  “No excuses. Grab your piece, stay near the door, and wait for reinforcements.”

  “Look, please, no cops in here. I’d have to find a new hideout. Have your officers wait nearby and come up on your own.”
>
  “Okay. But do not leave the building.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it. I’m watching reruns of American football. When will you be here?”

  “Twenty minutes.” Jan was already heading out to the parking lot. “You have any idea what this guy would want with you?”

  “This Elias Dietrich? I just heard the name for the first time this morning.”

  “Your computer on?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go on Berlin.de.”

  Jan heard Chandu walking through his apartment. Then computer keys began clicking.

  “What now?”

  “Go to Politics and Administration. Then Police Ticker and click on Wanted.”

  “I’m there.”

  “The top entry is Wanted for Murder. It’s got a photo of Elias Dietrich.”

  “Hmm,” Chandu said after a pause.

  “Don’t tell me you know him.”

  “Could be.”

  Jan had reached the parking lot. “You at all involved in this meds-and-organs business?”

  “Of course not. I’ve never had anything to do with organ dealing. I was a debt collector, a bouncer. I’m not moving any lungs.”

  “Doesn’t matter for now.” Jan was inside his car. “I’m on my way. Once you’re here, we’ll figure out Elias Dietrich’s background. Maybe we’ll find something you two have in common.”

  A loud crack sounded.

  “What the hell?” Chandu began. Then came an explosion.

  “Chandu!” Jan yelled into this phone.

  They got cut off.

  Jan dialed the number again but his phone couldn’t reconnect. “Shit!” he screamed in frustration.

  He tossed his phone onto the passenger’s seat, started up the engine, and gunned it.

  Patrick was paging through precinct reports. Elias had few relatives in Berlin. One cousin, a brother of his wife’s. His parents had died long ago. Looking into family members wouldn’t take long. He’d check into Elias’s relatives’ real estate at the same time. Maybe one of them had a little lakeside bungalow or a summer cottage.

  Patrick was pulling up a photo of Elias’s cousin when his phone rang.

  “Hi. What’s new?” he said to Jan.

  “Send all units to Oranienburger Strasse, corner of Tucholsky!” Jan barked.

  “What is—”

  “No time,” he cut in. “I’ll explain later. I need every man. Quick!” He hung up.

  Patrick froze. Jan often resorted to frantic hustle and barked instructions into the phone, but a new sound—fear—permeated his voice this time. Something serious must have happened.

  Patrick got up and stood on the table. All heads in the room turned to him. “Drop everything!” he shouted. “Send all available units to Mitte. Seal off Oranienburger Strasse and be on the watch for Jan’s car. Wherever he is, send him a patrol car to follow as backup.”

  He leapt from the table, grabbed his jacket, and ran to his car.

  Jan ignored the pedestrians’ angry shouts, cut off a bicyclist going the wrong way, and steered his BMW into the lot next to Chandu’s building. He jumped out of his car and drew his weapon from his holster.

  The trip had lasted twelve minutes. Twelve minutes during which he’d gotten no connection to Chandu’s number. Twelve minutes that felt like a goddamn eternity.

  This time he wasn’t going to jump right into the fight without backup. On the way, he’d requested more reinforcements. The approaching sirens told him that his fellow cops were driving just as fast as he had been. The Oranienburger Strasse would be sealed off within a minute. Two minutes later the block would be surrounded. Then not even a fly would be able to escape.

  The front entrance door was slightly ajar. Jan ran upstairs. No time for weighing tactics or sizing up the premises. His friend might be fighting for his life. Every second counted. He’d already lost twelve minutes. Too many seconds.

  The stairwell was empty. In a building like this, residents didn’t go calling the cops when something blew up at the neighbor’s. They bolted the door and hoped it would be over soon. No one wanted to get trapped in a mob feud or stuck between two gangs battling it out.

  On his way up, Jan kept his eyes peeled. He intended to take care of Elias Dietrich, and fast. Didn’t matter if he was armed or not—the man was going to take a beating. Fuck the regs. The bastard had earned it. For a second he regretted that his weapon wasn’t loaded. Then he remembered the moment when he’d last shot it, and all regret vanished.

  The door to Chandu’s apartment was busted open. It was broken off at the frame, as if it had been smashed in with a sledgehammer. Even the big crossbars securing the door had been ripped away. Jan ran in and ducked, ready to attack anyone harming his friend. “Chandu!” he shouted.

  No answer.

  Jan pivoted.

  Chandu’s apartment was practically untouched, in stark contrast to the demolished door. Only the chair at his computer was tipped over. But instead of that gentle scent of incense, a stink of blasting powder filled the room. That explained the explosion Jan had heard over the phone.

  “Chandu . . .” Jan stormed into the bedroom. The bed was made. Jan ran to the bathroom, gave the door a kick, and dropped to his knees.

  Empty.

  Shouts were coming up from the staircase. Boots sounded on the steps. A moment later, two uniformed cops were storming the apartment.

  Jan met them. “We’re too late,” he said. He was in no state to elaborate.

  Patrick showed Jan a bag of plastic shards. “A stun grenade.”

  “Where did Elias Dietrich get a stun grenade?”

  “Black market. Not too hard to get.”

  “That’s what caused the explosion.”

  “It’ll knock down even a tough bull like Chandu,” Patrick explained. “The thing is one hundred and eight decibels. A human’s pain threshold is about one thirty. Add in the flash of blinding light, and Chandu was disoriented for at least thirty seconds, probably even unconscious.”

  “Tell me how it went down,” Jan said.

  “Once again, the grave murderer was precise, and really clever.” Patrick pointed at Chandu’s doorway. “Even with a sledgehammer it would have taken him some time to get through here, so he used a heavyweight rock hammer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a sledgehammer with a point on one end. Most of them are over ten pounds, used for splitting stone. He would’ve had no problem bashing a hole in the wood door and throwing in the flash grenade. The door shielded Dietrich from the flash blast, and he probably wore soundproof headphones.”

  “Chandu was at the computer when we were on the phone. So not far from the door. The apartment has no hallway. You walk right into this big living room. So there was no way to escape it.”

  “I’m guessing that the perp was listening at the door and waiting for just the right moment. After the explosion, he had enough time to smash the door off its frame without Chandu being able to defend himself. Then he probably injected Chandu with something. That wouldn’t have taken more than two minutes.”

  “How did he get him out of the house?” Jan asked. “The kind of barrel he used to get Yuri Petrov to the cemetery is too small.”

  “In a wheelchair.”

  “Wait, a wheelchair? What makes you think that?”

  “We have a witness. A construction worker was patching the street nearby. After the explosion, he came over to the building and noticed a man pushing a large black man in a wheelchair into a vehicle. The description matches Elias Dietrich as well as Chandu.”

  “Wheelchairs are too small for Chandu.”

  “No, those days are over. People are getting fatter and fatter, so the wheelchairs have to fit.”

  “What kind of vehicle can you get a wheelchair into?”

  “A minivan. Converting one isn’t a problem. You can get a ramp for a couple hundred euros.”

  “Do we have a plate number?”

  “Unfortunately n
ot. The man was focusing on the explosion, not on what he thought was ambulance service.”

  “The vehicle?”

  “A dark-colored VW Sharan. The APB is out. Streets are blocked.”

  “It might already be too late for blocking streets.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’s holed up somewhere,” Patrick said.

  “Let’s go over it.” Jan went to the door. “From the moment of the explosion till the door was knocked off its hinges, we’ll give Elias two minutes.”

  “At the most.”

  “Giving Chandu an injection and tying him up, another two minutes.” Jan counted it out on his fingers. “A minute for hauling him into the wheelchair.”

  “Hard to imagine with such a big, powerful man.”

  “I saw how fast our murderer did it with Yuri Petrov. Let’s say two minutes.”

  “Which puts us at six.”

  “I needed twelve to get here from the station. So he had six more minutes to get Chandu downstairs and into the vehicle . . .”

  “Two more minutes. Three tops.”

  “Then up the ramp and out. One minute.”

  “Which brings us to ten minutes.”

  “Those last two minutes were just enough for him to make a break for it.” Jan pounded on the busted door frame.

  “We have all available units on it,” Patrick said, trying to calm him. “We’ll get him before he can do anything to Chandu.”

  Jan nodded. “Thanks.” He exhaled deeply. He needed a clear head. Rage would only get in the way. Time was too short.

  Smoke from Zoe’s cigarette floated toward the ceiling. Smoking was forbidden inside Detectives Division, even in their team’s little room, but it wasn’t bothering Jan. The smell of Zoe’s Gauloises provided the comfort of familiarity.

  “What’s the date of death on the cross?” Zoe asked. She looked uncommonly tense. She held a cigarette between her fingers for a minute without taking a drag. Her free hand was clenched.

  “July fourth.”

  “Day after tomorrow?” Max asked.

  Jan nodded.

  “Why Chandu?” Zoe’s voice was almost a whisper. “How does he fit this scenario?”