Grave Intent

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Grave Intent Page 26

by Alexander Hartung


  “Will do.”

  “And give Chandu a kiss on his nice big nose for me,” Zoe added.

  Then she hung up.

  Jan parked his car out on the street and headed down a dark footpath that ran alongside a large industrial building. As he headed into the darkness, he knew he never would have found Elias Dietrich’s hideout without Zoe’s directions. At the end of the path, he came upon a rusty and dilapidated corrugated metal outbuilding that must have once been used for storage or as a garage. The Sharan was parked right beside it.

  As soon as he caught sight of the minivan, he wanted to run right at the building, kick in the door, and shoot at anything that wasn’t Chandu. He forced himself to be patient. Dietrich was clever—he might have set up a cam or a motion detector. But Jan couldn’t waste too much time either. Thanks to Zoe’s call, an army of cops would be descending on this spot in no more than five minutes.

  Jan worried about how Elias Dietrich would react once he realized he had no way out. He might kill Chandu, might blow them all sky-high. Jan didn’t want to give him those options.

  He’d left his flashlight in the car, knowing that even the dimmest beam of light could give him away. The weak moonlight would have to do. The ground around the shed looked parched. Dry branches and leaves littered the area, forcing Jan to consider his every step.

  He was ten yards away when he spied light coming from inside the shed. Someone was home. Jan crouched down and pressed on. He closed in, step by step, his pistol trained on the door in case Dietrich opened it.

  Two yards from the shed, an LED started blinking next to the door. Seconds later a chiming sound kicked in.

  Jan cursed the darkness. Dietrich had a motion detector hidden somewhere.

  He sprinted forward.

  So much for stealth.

  The howls of hyenas accompanied them as they made their descent. The howls were not as deep as lions’ roars, nor did they sound like the hiss of jaguars—they were more like the spiteful laughter of children.

  They came with torches and started setting the first huts aflame. His friend Amaru lived in one of them. With his mother and brothers and sisters. There had been no rain for days, and so it wasn’t long before the fire had consumed their home. He heard their screams, the firing of machine guns.

  Chandu’s mother came running over to him. She had his little sister in one arm and she pulled him from his bed. He wore only shorts and an old T-shirt. She grabbed his hand and ran out with him.

  “Run,” she cried. People were scattering in all directions, wild with panic. They were his friends, his neighbors, his relatives. Their screams were deafening.

  His aunt ran up to him. Her dress was coming off. She grasped at the hem as she tried to tell his mother something. Then her head exploded, spattering blood everywhere. A jeep’s headlights closed in on him, and he stared at them as though mesmerized. He wanted to keep running but his legs wouldn’t budge. The lights held him captive.

  His mother grabbed him by the arm, yanked him away. The jeep raced on, accompanied by the sharp hammering of a machine gun. They ran between huts, past the school and the goat corral, into the jungle. Stones bored into his feet. Branches struck his face. He began to cry, but his mother kept pulling him onward. Tears ran down his sister’s cheeks. Only two of them would survive the night.

  And the hyenas laughed.

  A loud bang woke him.

  The tiny room spun. His head pounded, and he thought he might throw up. He felt the restraints on his arms, his legs.

  It was all a blur. He was still sitting in that strange room, the hammer and photo on the table, the digital alarm. Then the door opened, and Elias Dietrich came rushing in with a pistol in his hand.

  Jan expected a hard impact as he threw himself shoulder first at the corrugated metal siding, but the section of wall gave way surprisingly easy. He rolled inside and drew his pistol.

  Around him stood countless blue barrels. Tall enough for him to hide behind but low enough to allow him some visibility.

  Jan pivoted around. One corner of the room had been cleared, and a cot and bare lightbulb were evidence that someone was living here. Next to the cot were an old fridge and a gas cooker. The floor was glossy with grease. It reeked of used motor oil and some kind of stinging chemical that reminded him of bleach. To the right was a room partitioned off by more corrugated metal and a small wooden door. There was no sign of Chandu.

  Dietrich could be hiding anywhere. Behind a barrel, beyond the door, or back in some corner—even inside a barrel. Jan kept his pistol aimed in front of him and began marching through the sea of blue plastic containers. Chandu had to be on the other side of that door. Jan didn’t even want to think about what might happen if Zoe’s informant had gotten it wrong. Time was almost up.

  Jan made some noise as he cleared a few barrels out of his way. He didn’t need to be quiet anymore, and yet he had to consider every step he took for fear of a trap.

  When he finally reached the door, he pulled it open and peered inside. A table lamp illuminated a small room. Chandu sat on a chair, bound with straps. His gaze was dull, as though he’d been drugged. Dietrich knelt behind him, hiding behind his captive, a gun to Chandu’s temple.

  “Detective Tommen. I should have guessed.”

  Jan kept his pistol aimed at Dietrich. “It’s over. Gun down.”

  Dietrich laughed—a dry, contemptuous laugh devoid of humor. “You didn’t wonder why I stole your phone back in that warehouse with Yuri and then disabled your car—but left you your gun?”

  Jan didn’t reply.

  “I noticed that it wasn’t loaded. I have to admit, I was a little surprised. But then I did some research on your last case.”

  Using his free hand, Dietrich pointed at Jan’s weapon. “Is that the one? The pistol you used to kill your girlfriend? Tell me, do you get nightmares? Keep reliving that moment again and again and again?”

  Jan tightened his grip on his weapon.

  “Explain one thing to me, Detective—how do you think you’ll stop me with an unloaded weapon?” Dietrich laughed smugly, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ll make you a proposal. I’ll give you ten seconds to clear out of here. In which case I’ll finish the job quick. Otherwise, I’ll let Chandu suffer. He’ll die either way. You just get to decide if it’s going to be quick or agonizing.”

  Dietrich lowered the pistol to Chandu’s right side. A shot into the abdomen would be fatal, but only after a long and painful struggle.

  “You do a thing to Chandu, it’s your death that’ll be agonizing.”

  “Is that a threat?” Dietrich sneered. “My whole life is an everlasting Hell. Dying like that would be all too fitting. Besides, my mission is fulfilled.” He pulled back the hammer on his pistol. “Eight seconds.”

  “Do you think that your daughter would want you avenging her death like this?”

  “That psych crap doesn’t work on me. Six seconds.”

  Jan studied Chandu’s eyes, which were blurry and vacant. His friend was barely conscious and had no idea what was happening. Jan couldn’t expect any help from him.

  He changed the subject. “You know the problem with all those crime shows?”

  “Don’t care. Four seconds.”

  “We detective types are always portrayed as too sensitive.”

  “Two seconds.”

  “In reality, we get over the worst experiences all on our own. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Jan pulled the trigger.

  Jan finally felt the stress begin to ebb as Chandu was being lifted into the ambulance. His knees buckled and he had to sit down on the ground.

  He had done it. His friend was alive and the grave murderer had been captured. The doctor had assured him that the drugs in Chandu’s system would wear off soon and he’d be back on his feet in no time. One of his eardrums had ruptured, but he was otherwise unhurt.

  The entire Berlin police department seemed to have descended on the corrugated metal she
d that evening. His fellow officers from Detectives, other investigators and techs, the patrol cops. The scene was more packed than a Christmas festival with free beer.

  Even Max had abandoned his spot at the computer. His sister had apparently left, since his jeans had ketchup stains on them and his Star Wars T-shirt was thoroughly wrinkled. Only his clean-cut short hair hinted at his recent transformation. It was a start, in any case. The young hacker came over to Jan and sat down next to him. He handed him an energy drink and then opened a can for himself.

  “Nice shot.” He toasted Jan. “I hope for Dietrich’s sake that he’s left-handed, because his right one isn’t going to be good for much.”

  “At least he won’t be able to hold a pistol anymore.”

  “He won’t be able to hold a thing with that hand.”

  Jan opened the can and took a slug. He’d never tasted anything so disgusting. It tasted like a mixture of lemon candies, Play-Doh, and toilet cleaner. “How can you even drink this stuff?”

  “You get used to it. Gets better after a couple sips.” Max drained the can in one chug.

  Jan looked at the weird character on the side of the can. Jan was probably too old for junk like this, but the drink did live up to its name. He felt his weariness evaporating.

  Max raised his empty can. “A toast to the Berlin Police. May our friend recover quickly and may the grave murderer rot in prison.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Jan took another sip and shuddered. “I thought it was supposed to get better.”

  Max shrugged. “Okay, I might have lied.”

  Bergman was pushing his way through the throngs of cops. He stopped before Jan with arms folded over his chest. Sawdust coated Jan’s shoes, his pants were splattered with old motor oil, and he hadn’t changed his shirt in two days. He hadn’t seen a shower in a while either. He must have looked pitiful.

  Bergman reached into his overcoat pocket and tossed Jan his badge. Then he gave a slight nod and disappeared.

  “What was that about?” Max asked.

  “A compliment.”

  “All he did was nod.”

  “From Bergman, that means, Great job and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” Max said. “He’s an emotional one, isn’t he?”

  Jan looked at his detective badge and ran his thumb over the dull metal. He allowed himself a smile and closed his eyes. A few hours’ sleep would be a fine thing.

  After that, he would interrogate the grave murderer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Elias Dietrich sat motionless in the interrogation room. He stared at the wooden table before him as if engrossed in a book. Only his blinking eyes gave any indication he was alive.

  His hands lay in his lap. His right was heavily bandaged. The bullet had passed clean through it, breaking bones and shredding tendons, but Dietrich had refused to take any painkillers.

  “So there he is.” Patrick stood next to Jan, observing the grave murderer through the one-way glass. “Neighbors will describe him as friendly and reliable. He always paid his taxes on time and never even got a traffic ticket.” Patrick shook his head. “What made him do it?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” Jan said, and he entered the interrogation room.

  As Jan shut the door behind him, Dietrich’s gaze remained fixed on the table. Jan sat down across from him. Over the years, each offender Jan had interrogated had been different, but they always fell into one of two groups. The first group was unrepentant and filled with hatred—they were the born criminals. That type had to be locked away and never let out again. The second group was remorseful or at least cooperative, acting as if they’d only just now grasped the gravity of their deed. For them, there was still hope.

  Elias Dietrich didn’t fit either of these two groups. He was apathetic and indifferent, seeming not to fear punishment nor showing any contempt for the man who had snatched his last victim from him and shot his hand to pieces.

  “Silence isn’t going to help you,” Jan began. “We’re going to sit here for as long as it takes me to understand exactly why you committed those four murders. A day, a week, a year. This room will be your home for however long it takes.”

  “You don’t have children,” Dietrich said. His voice was calm, void of emotion. He didn’t even bother to look up.

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “You’d understand if you did.”

  “I doubt I would. You’re not the only person who’s lost a child. But not every grieving parent mutates into a serial killer.”

  “I didn’t neglect my daughter. I didn’t lose her in an accident. She died because of inept and greedy people with no respect for life.”

  Elias Dietrich raised his head and looked Jan in the eye. Jan couldn’t detect any anger or hatred in the grave murderer’s gaze; in fact, he displayed only a startling lack of concern.

  “When I first held Charlotte in my arms, I thought my heart was going to burst. It was such an overpowering moment that no words can describe it. Whatever you had thought happiness was up until then suddenly paled by comparison. When she reached for my finger with her tiny hand, I swore to her that I’d protect her and do everything in my power to provide her with a good life, even if it cost me my own.” Dietrich shut his eyes. “Charlotte had so much energy. She had such a zest for life, sometimes so much that you couldn’t hold her back.” He looked lost in memories now. “One day, I took her to a performance of The Nutcracker. When she saw the tin soldiers marching around, well, that was it for her. That very evening I had to sign her up for ballet so that she could dance like Svetlana Zakharova.”

  He opened his eyes. “Four years ago I buried Charlotte. And with her, her dreams.”

  “So that’s why you killed those men?”

  “I believe in atonement, Detective Tommen. Whoever takes a life should pay with their own.”

  “But you’ve taken four lives.”

  “Every one of them could have saved Charlotte. None of them did so.”

  “So you blamed all of them for her death?”

  “They were all to blame. I can accept that you might not like my idea of punishment. But every one of them was a nail in Charlotte’s coffin.”

  “Let’s begin with Dr. Bernhard Valburg, your first victim.”

  “What is there to discuss? He made the wrong diagnosis. That was the start of Charlotte’s suffering. If he had detected sarcoidosis right away, Dr. Valburg would still be alive and I would not be sitting here.”

  “As tragic as that misdiagnosis was—don’t you think it’s a bit extreme to kill the doctor for it?”

  Elias laughed. A fleeting, derisive laugh. “Did you look into the victims’ histories during your investigation?”

  “Thoroughly.”

  “Then you must have noticed something about Dr. Valburg, something that did not make him a respectable doctor.”

  “You mean his drug use?”

  “I’m no junkie, but I’m pretty sure cocaine impairs coherent thought.”

  “According to his assistant, he only did cocaine occasionally.”

  “And of course you believed that.”

  “I’m with Homicide, not the drug squad. It was my job to track down Dr. Valburg’s murderer, not investigate his cocaine habit.”

  “We saw Dr. Valburg daily for a while. I have no experience with drugs, so I didn’t see his strange behavior for what it was. I’d never seen him any other way.”

  “So when did you start to notice?”

  “Far too late. A patient made a random comment to me that got me thinking. She didn’t care herself; she just wanted her usual prescription. He was able to do that much for her.”

  “Did you confront him about it?”

  “No. I left his office and took Charlotte straight to the hospital. Getting the proper diagnosis took several days, but they finally confirmed that she had sarcoidosis.”

  “So that’s why Dr. Valburg had to die?”

  �
��Of course!” Dietrich sounded outraged. It was the first time he had displayed any emotion. “If he hadn’t been snorting coke, he would’ve diagnosed her correctly.”

  “Dr. Valburg had personal problems.”

  “We’re not talking about some coke-addicted salesman who pressured me into buying an ill-fitting suit. In that case, I’m just losing money. With a lung specialist, it’s another matter altogether.”

  “His wife had died.”

  “You’re really going to offer that up as a legitimate excuse? I buried my wife too. Unlike Dr. Valburg, I didn’t have the salary of a pulmonologist. Plus I had a daughter. I never resorted to drugs, nor did anyone get hurt!” He continued in a calmer voice. “I did the world a favor by killing him. Who knows how many more people he might have misdiagnosed?”

  “So what led you to Moritz Quast?”

  “Moritz was my contact at the insurance company. He helped me out when we first went to the hospital. But when the treatment wasn’t working, I had to consider alternative options. A clinic in Switzerland was having some success with a new form of therapy. Nothing that would have cured her entirely, but it would have slowed down the progression of the illness and reduced the symptoms.”

  “And Moritz Quast rejected it?”

  “Insurers have degenerated into business operations. They don’t care what happens to their customers. It’s all about profit, not the health of their customers. If he had only had the courage to tell me that. But he kept hiding behind regulations and assessments. He couldn’t approve treatment abroad that wouldn’t result in a comprehensive cure. But it was never about a cure for him. It eventually became clear to me that Charlotte wouldn’t survive without a transplant, but she wasn’t even on their list of organ recipients. Not to mention the waiting period for a lung.” Dietrich shook his head. “The insurer made millions upon millions in profit that year—and dividends increased.”

  “You were denied the chance to do it the legal way, so you went looking for other channels.”

  “Robin Cordes, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

 

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