by Tanja Pleva
He looked into the therapist's eyes, wondering what Dr. Jäger might think. That Sam was a block of ice, because he had not completely collapsed when his sister had killed herself?
'No, I do not think that you are emotionally cold, Sam.' Dr. Jäger smiled a little, apparently certain to have fathomed his patient's thoughts. 'You told me that you were persistently worrying about your sister, and in some manner you had always been prepared for that. Do not overlook that permanent fear for a beloved person demands a lot of strength and power. With her death, this internal strain dropped from you. That does not mean that you did not love Lily.'
Sam breathed aloud. So this was all right. He was all right. Sometimes he thought that his occupation had completely brutalized him and that he was suffering from perfect lack of emotion, exactly like those psychopaths whom he was hunting.
'And what did you feel after Lina's sudden death?'
That was the most dreadful question. Lina's death had caused him even more trouble for some time already. He had loved her dearly, and yet he had not found the courage to get engaged to her. One silly quarrel, plus inappropriate pride, had made way for another man in Lina's heart.
'It broke my heart, I felt, as if I couldn't breathe anymore', Sam listened to himself speaking, and he felt that tormenting pressure in his chest again, as if somebody was present inside his lung and jumping around in it.
'You had a nervous breakdown, and then you took a time-out for three months.'
'For four months', he corrected Dr. Jäger.
'What have you done during that time?'
'First I tried to drink. This kind of therapy I quickly gave up again, though.'
'Why?'
'The physical pains, the headaches, the feeling of sickness … That's not meant for me. Moreover, I was never able to solve a problem with alcohol, or to drown it in there.'
'What else did you want to solve then?'
Two deep vertical furrows appeared between Sam's eyes, and both hands stroked over his head, as if he might push away a shadow that was descending on his mind.
'Was there anything else to solve?', insisted the therapist.
'No, not really. Just … if I hadn't done what I did, then maybe all of this wouldn't have happened at all. I shouldn't have let her go just like that, but there was this case…' He paused.
Often he had asked himself whether he hadn't abused the case as a pretext to conceal his fears of getting too deeply involved. 'I immersed myself into the job, and after that I wanted to approach her again, but then … it was already too late.' His voice was shaky.
'It always takes two, Sam. You are not guilty for her death. You did not sit drunken in your car and smash it against a tree or so', explained Dr Jäger patiently.
'Yet I feel guilty! You know, I cheated on her. Just so. Lina saw it, if she hadn't already known it before…'
The therapist looked at Sam doubtfully. 'What do you mean by if she hadn't already known it before?'
'Well…' Sam struggled with himself. Should he really tell his therapist about Lina's transcendental powers? He had never seen her doing anything like that. But at Lina's funeral he had been standing beside her mother, and she had said something which never left his mind since.
She knew that she would die, at least where she would, that was what her mother had said.
The questioning look of the therapist was still focused on him.
'Lina was a medium.' Sam left a moment for that to settle. 'She announced her death. Allegedly', he added quickly.
Dr. Jäger cleared his throat and looked at the clock. 'Yes, some people do dream such awful things. And they get worked up into them so much until in the end it will really happen.'
'Lina was not of that kind.' Sam saw in Dr. Jäger's eyes that it was pointless to explain.
'Resume working. That would be your best therapy, Sam.' The therapist looked at his notes. 'You said that you had quickly stopped drinking again. What did you do then during those four months?'
'Sitting on the couch or lying in bed, staring holes into the walls and trying to think of nothing.' And in these very moments he had often felt that Lina was very close to him, but he would not mention that now.
Sam closed his eyes. Still he saw Lina's face clearly. Unfortunately, there were two of them. One was where Lina smiled at him lovingly, and the other was where she reproachfully stared at him with dead murky eyes. Of course, that was pure imagination. A dead body could not stare reproachfully.
Sam's mobile phone vibrated for the third time in his trousers' pocket. 'Alert code three', he told the therapist and softly apologized for the interruption.
A voice boomed into his ear, 'Sam O'Connor?!'
'Speaking.'
Sam got up and went to the window while listening to the voice at the other end of the line without understanding the meaning. The view outside was bleak. Dirty walls, narrow windows, a grey backyard, hidden in twilight even in broad daylight.
'Where are you right now, Sam?'
Now he realized who was speaking to him. 'In the center of Munich.' He added quickly, 'But I don't know whether I'm fit for … for working again.'
Just then, speaking those words, his doubts grew monstrously. But – when he really looked deep down in himself, he found that he was quite ready in fact. He had cared enough for his injured soul; it was time to return to the world.
Dr. Jäger seemed to read his thoughts again and nodded encouragingly.
'Sam. I need you. We need you. I am asking you bluntly to kick yourself in the ass.'
Such was Peter Brenner, a veritable chunk of wood, whose only concern was his job and who regularly rounded up his sheep. And this was the very first time since Sam was working for Europol that Brenner had really asked for anything. Of course he had enquired a few times how Sam was feeling, but those talks had been brisk and concise, leaving Sam with the impression that he was a broken engine lacking more than a few loose screws.
'Welcome back then', he heard Peter Brenner saying. 'Tell me where you are precisely, then I shall get you picked up in ten minutes from now. I want you to have a look at a scene as soon as possible.'
Sam raised his right eyebrow in amazement. 'What? Right now?' He looked down at himself. He did not look too comforting. 'Where is the scene of the crime?' he asked carefully. But Peter Brenner had already hung up.
4.
Barcelona The Barcelona Arts hotel was a modern building of glass and steel, distinct by elegance, comfort and contemporary design. It was at the seaside, and Sam suddenly felt a longing for sand, sun and salt water. He was ready for a holiday in spite of his long time-out. A rushing waterfall at the entrance welcomed the hotel guests before they entered the lobby that was decorated with a white chandelier and hundreds of equally white roses.
He had just entered when a uniformed Guardia Civil officer headed for him, unabashedly examined him from top to bottom and doubtfully asked, 'Sam O'Connor from…?!'
'… Europol, indeed.' Sam stroked his unshaven face and put his hands in the pockets of his trousers, but they were so worn that his fingertips stuck out from the lower end. 'I'm an undercover version.'
'Follow me then', said the Spaniard unflustered and led Sam to the elevators.
Sam observed the red digital figures, which indicated the floors in second intervals and felt like standing outside his own body. Those last three hours had rushed past like a movie at too high speed: the car which had fetched him from Dr Jäger just after Brenner's call, the plane which he had boarded without his role of peppermints - a new tool that he had discovered for helping him to get rid of motion sickness – scanty briefing on the case, landing on the second-largest airport of Spain and finally the ride through the busy capital of Catalonia, to the entrance of the Arts hotel.
On the thirty-fourth floor he made his way through guests, standing curiously in the corridor, and investigators from the Spanish police, until he arrived at the room in which he was expected.
The duplex a
partment, furnished in contemporary style, had a large window screen, which was looking down at the illuminated Port Olimpica marina, the spacious beach to the right and left and the deep black sea on which far away the tiny lights of a few ships were barely visible.
He retreated two steps from the window. The sea disappeared, as if someone had pushed another scenery in front. Now he saw himself and the Spanish officer who had guided him upstairs and was waiting impatiently, reflected in the window.
A narrow, wooden staircase spiraled to the upper level of the duplex, where there was nothing else but the bedroom of the suite.
Sam took his time. He almost crawled step by step upstairs. His feeling to be 'ready' again was utterly lost. A lump stuck in his throat. He wished to turn around on his heels and leave all of that behind.
After all, the Spanish colleagues had for the most part finished their search for evidence already, and they were only waiting for him that they might begin cleaning the room and removing the body.
Going up the stairs was like climbing a mountain. When he had finally scaled the last step, he arrived on a bright carpet, and the first thing he saw was the dead body of a naked woman on the bed.
Her skin was white, and at first sight it seemed unharmed. But her wide open eyes seemed even now to contain the horror that this woman had looked upon her death with.
Creeps came down his spine like some insect with many long legs.
Her legs were closed, and her arms lay relaxed beside her body. No trace of ties on her legs or wrists. This still life appeared as if the killer had tried to undo his deed, symbolically, out of a feeling of remorse. Emotional reparation. Which might imply that the victim and the murderer had known each other.
Sam looked at her face again, secretly demanding her to talk to him, and then it seemed as if her eyes were following his movements.
He abruptly turned away to take a deep breath. So hallucinations it was now? He poked around in hope that nobody else had been watching.
Shopping bags of different labels were lying on the floor, featuring expensive labels, such as Gucci and Burberry. Their contents were scattered in the room. Probably she had hit her opponent with the bags, and by consequence; the clothes had been flying all over.
Sam looked at the watch. It was eight o'clock in the evening.
Somebody came fleetingly upstairs. 'Time of death: probably between three and five a. m., señor!'
The Spanish forensic expert approached from behind. She introduced herself as Zita de las Herras. Her hair was long and black, bound up to a high plait, her fringe, a little too long, was tickling the lashes of her brown eyes and forced her all the time to wink. There were freckles on her small and pretty nose.
'Her husband and the chambermaid found her that way. It was her first corpse, poor wretch.'
'What is the exact cause of her death?'
'If she didn't have this irritating stare, you might think she was asleep, wouldn't you? But look at that.' She passed Sam a few gloves and gave him a sign to help her in turning the body around.
Sam was not eager to touch the corpse, but Zita's look at him left no other choice.
Together they turned the body on its side, so that only now the full extent of the crime became visible.
Sam exclaimed in amazement and, disbelieving, looked at Zita from aside.
'But they found the body lying on the back?'
'Yes, and covered with a white sheet from the hotel's laundry room. Just ironed.'
Sam stroked back his wavy hair and wondered what this was all about. After all, the killer had invested some effort into his action. Why was one not supposed to see that at the first glance?
'He must have used something like bolt cutters that can cut a heavy lock. You know already … first he peeled skin and muscles to expose the spine … this here is the first lumbar vertebra, do you see it?' Zita de las Herras pointed with her bloodstained-gloved finger to a bump.
Sam was vaguely familiar with human anatomy, but not enough to identify specific innards, tendons, muscles and vertebrae names. He nodded anyway.
'Well, then he worked his way upwards. Letting his victim suffer to the very last gasp. First he cut a few vertebrae down here … and then up there … there you see the vertebra prominent…' Again she pointed at a whitish protrusion which Sam supposed was the seventh cervical vertebra. It was regarded as an anatomical landmark, because it was that part which could easiest be found when touching the outside.
'… Further up, he finally dissected her completely, like a thick metal chain. It was her ultimate doom to die.' Zita sadly smiled at Sam and gave two officers a sign to take away the body. She pulled off her gloves and threw them in a bag without releasing Sam from her gaze.
'And all this happened here in the bed? Well, that's a pretty bloody matter, isn't it? Or did he take time to clean up afterwards?'
'The bloody mess he left in the bathroom.'
The bathroom door was ajar, obscuring any direct view.
'Has she been raped?'
'Doesn't look like it. No trace of sperm, which doesn't mean they did not have had intercourse, but…'
'Who are you?' A tall guy with broad shoulders, short black hair and a bulbous nose interrupted them. His eyes were just slits.
'Europol', answered Sam briskly.
'You got no right to be here', the guy snapped and looked at Zita angrily. 'And you know about the procedure. First it's us, then your specialists will get the body for autopsy!'
Sam silently paid thanks to Zita with a twinkle and preferred from this point on to ignore the chief inspector of the murder squad, Edgar Vargas.
Rape using a condom might suggest that the killer had either disposed of it or taken it along or flushed it down the toilet. Yet some traces of him would be found on the woman. A hair, dandruff, sweat - something they might find.
He looked around for some time. The woman had just returned from shopping, that was evident. Had she been surprised up here? Then the killer would secretly have gained access all on his own. Most likely with a key-card. Another option: She had known her murderer and let him in, went upstairs, maybe to freshen up, and then was unexpectedly overwhelmed.
The corpse was placed in a white body bag, and two young men carried it down the narrow stairs.
Sam kicked the bathroom door open with the tip of his shoe. It gave way slowly, almost reluctant to reveal what was behind. He remained in the doorway. The bathtub and its edge were full of blood, so was the entire floor and the basin. Interspersed were lumps of skin and muscular tissue and blood-soaked, originally white towels, spread on the floor like cleaning cloths.
Sam turned away, he had seen enough. Quickly he went down the stairs in urgent need of fresh air. Up there was a stench of human feces, blood and sweat of fear. He wanted to get rid of that smell.
Before stepping again out into the corridor he cast one last look into the room.
In the very back corner there was now a man sitting in a dark grey armchair, staring petrified at his feet. Sam slowly approached. 'Dr. Rewe?!'
'That is me', answered the man exhausted, without looking up.
'I'm terribly sorry about what happened to your wife. I know …'
'… how I feel?', the man remarked disdainfully. 'Actually I prefer to doubt that.'
Sam abstained from any comment.
'You are probably the German officer whom they wanted to send me?'
'Likely so.' Sam avoided staying formal and pulled up a chair, to be at eye-level with the victim's husband. 'When did you checked in?'
'Yesterday.Yesterday at noon.'
'You are a doctor? That is what the files say.'
'I told her that I would not have a lot of time for her, but she absolutely wanted to come along with me.'
'Where were you today between three and five?'
'I was out all afternoon, actually. First I had lunch, together with a colleague, then I prepared for tomorrow's conference.'
'That was when
?'
'At about five o'clock.'
'And where?'
'Why? Downstairs, here in the hotel.'
'There are certainly witnesses for that?'
'Well, I don't know, actually. I think so.'
Sam did not fail to notice that Dr. Rewe became a little hesitant about his replies. He decided to leave it at that and return to the matter of alibi later. 'When did you see your wife last time?'
'When she crossed the lobby with her shopping bags.At about half past three, actually.'
His reply was without any emotion. Some people needed more time to realize a situation like this, some took less, Sam thought.
He called for a doctor to make sure that Dr. Rewe would not suffer a hazardous shock.
A doctor entered less than a minute later and began to measure Dr. Rewe's blood pressure.
Sam stood aside, taking his chance to have a closer look at Dr. Dennis Rewe. A long-shank fellow, his upper body was elongated as well. Say, about six foot two, very slender. Jeans with crease, elegant brown shoes and a deep-blue jacket - presumably cashmere -, a light blue shirt underneath with cuff links, one of which was missing. His thin light brown hair was parted on the right and on the back of his head he had a small hair crown, which raised a few hairs uncontrollably upright, as if they were tiny aerials.
'You are without your left cuff link, Dr. Rewe.'
Dr. Rewe twisted his arm to get a better look and was visibly surprised. 'Oh! I must have lost it somewhere. This morning I still had it.'
Sam wondered where that might have happened. He would check the scene of crime again before leaving.
'You are a gynecologist?'
'Yes. Why do you ask? Do you think that this was the deed of a gynecologist? If you want to suggest …'
'Dr. Rewe, I don't want to suggest anything at all. I'm trying to understand this deed', Sam interrupted, slightly annoyed.
'Well, you are not the only one.'
The doctor had finished his examination and stowed away his equipment again. With a nod to Sam he indicated that the patient was physically all right.
'Do you always take your wife along to conferences?'