“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you tomorrow on my break.” Zoe stood, tossed her cigarette in her coffee mug, waved good-bye, and left the apartment without another word.
Chandu opened the window, letting in fresh air. “You should teach your friend some manners.”
“Yeah? This was one of her better days,” Jan told him. “You should see her in a bad mood.”
“Can hardly wait,” Chandu growled. “I have to go take care of some business now. Make yourself at home.” He took his jacket and left too.
Jan rubbed his hands together. It was time to get things going.
After Zoe and Chandu were gone, Jan sat at the computer and searched the Internet for George Holoch. He came across a seminar the judge had offered on issues surrounding defective construction. The web page included a bio. In his photo, Holoch had dark, thinning hair and an unsympathetic, artificial smile. His suit and his tie lent him a certain integrity. Jan read the seminar description:
George Holoch studied in Munich and joined the Berlin District Court after completing his Second State Legal Exams. He’s known for numerous published works on construction law. His seminar is an introduction to the relationship between the law and construction engineering. It’s designed to illustrate practical examples based on specific trades.
Jan saved the document on the flash drive and then returned to the search engine and entered the name “Michael Josseck.” The first hit was the home page of Josseck Construction. Under the company name were pictures of construction sites.
For years we’ve stood for quality construction, the marketing copy proclaimed. We specialize in building repairs and drywall jobs. We also provide additional construction work as part of a partnership with other contractors, so you can get all services under one roof.
Below that were the physical address, a phone number, and an e-mail address. Jan jotted down the location and typed both men’s names into the search engine together. He got 1,600 hits. Apparently some blogger had the same name as Josseck, and he quickly realized that none of the results pointed to any common ground between the two murder victims.
It wasn’t hard to imagine a connection between a judge specializing in construction law and a building contractor, of course, but for now, it was only speculation. He would just have to wait for Zoe.
Frustrated, Jan shut down the computer. He lay on the couch and compared the two crime scenes in his head. Soon he fell asleep.
Klaus Bergman had feared this day. He was barely out of his car when the reporters stormed him like a horde of squealing teens. Microphones thrust into his face, questions pelted him.
“Is it true that a police detective is a suspect in the Holoch murder case?” a small, stocky woman asked him.
Bergman smiled, not discussing it, and kept pushing his way through the throng.
“Is he also suspected of having killed building contractor Michael Josseck?”
“What’s the officer’s name?” another reporter shouted.
“Do you feel personally responsible for the murders?”
Bergman balled his fists. These were not journalists, these were animals. They were just waiting for the tiniest lapse, and then they’d pounce on him like a pack of hyenas. He wouldn’t do them the favor.
A cameraman shoved toward him. A microphone brushed his head, but Bergman didn’t let it get to him. He plowed on, aiming for the door. Twenty yards.
“Shouldn’t you have selected officers more carefully?” the woman asked. “Essentially you carry a share of the blame for a murder.”
Bergman sighed. He could just see the headline: “Berlin Detectives Train a Murderer!”
How liberating it would be to drop one of these vultures to the ground with a straight jab. He pictured himself doing it.
Ten yards to go.
“Don’t you think the public has a right to know more about the murderer?”
The photographers fired away as if their lives depended on it. The flashing got to his eyes. The clicking cameras were drowning out the reporters’ increasingly hostile tones.
Five yards.
Almost there, he told himself. In front of the department, the throng closed around him, the reporters trying to keep him from getting away easily. Bergman could hardly breathe. He lowered his head and rammed himself through the wall of people with microphones. He used one arm to shove a couple of extra-pushy guys with cameras.
“You see any fallout yet from the scandal?” the woman shouted after him. And then, finally, he made it. Four uniformed men stood before the building, keeping the overeager reporters outside. Bergman pushed inside the lobby. In a rage now, he kicked at the nearest table.
“Fucking vermin!” he shouted. A few more curses later, he was feeling somewhat better.
Most of his colleagues had been able to keep well outside the range of fire now coming at him. Only his assistant was sticking by him, he thought, as he saw her waiting to speak with him. She’d been in her job far too long to feel threatened by any of it.
“What?” he barked.
“A story’s about to air on RBB—apparently, an insider wants to talk about Jan.”
Bergman shut his eyes. Whenever he thought it couldn’t get any worse, fate just laughed in his face.
“When’s it airing?”
“One minute.”
Bergman went into his office, slammed the door shut, and turned on the TV. He switched to Berlin’s regional channel.
In a studio, a young woman sat in a chair, note cards in one hand. The moderator’s grave expression didn’t match her bouncy hair and stylish suit.
“Good morning,” she began. “Everyone in Berlin has heard about the murder of Judge George Holoch. Already, rumors are making the rounds that the main suspect was working for Berlin Detective Division. Now there’s been a second murder, and we’ve heard suggestions that the same person is behind the crime. The detective division has not yet commented on the accusation, but we were able to interview an insider who has some alarming events to report.”
The camera pulled out. Just beyond the moderator was a partition of white paper. A person’s silhouette was shadowed onto it.
Bergman shook his head. Cheap sensational journalism. It worked without fail. The man behind the paper wall was likely more of a scandalmonger than any insider. Probably just a coworker from the TV station’s editorial team.
“To protect our whistleblower, we’ll call him Herr Müller,” the moderator continued. “We’ve also disguised his voice.” She turned to the shadow.
“Herr Müller. You’ve worked at the detective division for several years. Is it even conceivable that the murderer could be a police detective?”
“Detectives are only people too,” a mechanical-sounding voice replied. “When you’re working in an environment involving violence, you can become capable of violence yourself.”
“But isn’t this a horrifying notion, that even the police cannot be trusted?”
“It is. It’s unsettling. The alleged murderer worked on the homicide squad. There can’t be a better training ground for killing than that. After years learning investigative techniques, it would be possible to map out a strategy that would leave behind no clues.”
“Are you saying that this cop could commit the perfect murder?”
“Well, this murder was not perfect. But it’s always going to be tougher to catch an experienced officer than a simple criminal.”
“Didn’t the police already fail by hiring this person to work for the department? Are selection criteria too lax?”
“I wouldn’t condemn the police as a whole. The fault lies with the Berlin Detective Division, who laid the worst of all possible eggs right in its own nest.”
The moderator turned to face the camera.
“We’ll take a short break. When we come back, our whistleblower will
reveal more misconduct inside the Berlin Detective Division. I promise, you will be shocked.”
Bergman turned off the TV and fought an urge to smash the remote against the wall. His phone rang. He didn’t have to look to know the chief of police was on the line.
“What a lovely morning,” he muttered and lifted the receiver.
Jan’s ringing phone jolted him from sleep and he quickly pressed it to his ear, despite not being fully awake. “Hell-o,” he mumbled, drowsy.
It was Zoe. “You still sleeping? It’s ten a.m.”
Jan yawned, sitting up. He had slept twelve hours but still felt wiped out. “Find out anything?” he said, rubbing his weary face.
“No.”
“Why not? There still no reports up on the server?”
“There could be.”
Jan sighed. “Man, Zoe, I’m not myself yet. Okay, what’s going on?”
“I’m not getting in with my username.”
Jan was afraid of this. “They removed your access.”
“So, what now? Without those homicide files, we’re nowhere.”
Jan stood and stretched. His brain was starting to work again. “Here’s the deal. I know someone who can help us. Can you come by again this evening?”
“I’ll be there at seven.” The line went dead.
Jan put his cell aside and went into the kitchen. Without his coffee right after getting up, he was only half a man. He thanked God that Chandu believed in the power of caffeine. The African blend he favored was so potent it probably violated certain weapons laws. He started brewing the coffee and savored the aroma that filled the room. He would do research the whole day long. And that evening, he would bring a brand-new player into this game.
Chapter 7
Jan, Zoe, and Chandu climbed the stairs of the old prewar building. The stone steps were worn down, the ornate metal railings looked to be a hundred years old, and the old brown wallpaper on the walls really needed replacing. It smelled of onions and garlic. The happy shrieks of children filtered right through the door to the second floor.
“Good God, how much farther?” Zoe growled. Climbing stairs was clearly not her thing.
“I can’t help it if the elevator’s out,” Jan told her.
“Smoke less, you’ll walk easier,” Chandu remarked.
“If I need advice, I’ll ask my hairdresser,” Zoe replied.
Chandu looked around the stairwell. “I like it here. It’s got a certain . . . permanence.”
“You mean it’s old.”
“Old doesn’t have to be bad.”
“Old is crap,” Zoe said. “My apartment has an elevator, it’s soundproof, and it came with air conditioning. I wouldn’t even dump my garbage here. What the hell are we doing?”
“I told you,” Jan said. “We’re meeting a friend who knows his way around computers. He might have an idea how we can get to those files in Homicide.”
“I just hope, for you and your front teeth, that this hike is worth it.”
Jan stood at a door, catching his breath. “We’re here.” He rapped on the door. “Max? It’s me. Jan.”
Two tiny cameras in the corners of the doorframe pivoted on him. A robot-like voice sounded: “Identify yourself.”
“Who is this guy?” Zoe said. “Yoda?”
“You mean C-3PO,” Chandu corrected her.
“What, you think I fucking watch Star Trek?”
The big man sighed.
“Cut the crap, Max,” Jan said into a camera. “Let us in.”
“Who are the others?” the mechanical voice asked.
“They’re with me and it’s fine.”
“Show me your IDs, please.”
Chandu nudged Jan aside and stood before the camera. Despite the tall door, he was almost eye level with the lens.
“Listen up, Robot Man. We’re not here for some kid’s birthday party. Open up this door or I’ll kick it in, grab you by the ears, and stomp all over you so long that not even your mama’s gonna know you.”
For a moment, silence prevailed in the hallway. Then a short click sounded and the door opened up.
“There you go,” Chandu said.
Inside the apartment, Jan held a hand over his mouth. It reeked like food going bad, onions, and something indefinably sweet.
Zoe scrunched up her face. “Your friend doing experiments on rotting meat?”
“Some fresh air would help,” Chandu remarked.
They went down a narrow hall, the only light coming from the room ahead of them. It grew unusually warm. Jan heard the soft hum of numerous fans.
They entered a room that had windows covered with aluminum foil. Across an entire wall were tables set up with monitors connected to computers of various shapes and sizes. Hundreds of yards of cable snaked along the floor. A large flat-screen TV was mounted to the ceiling with chain. On it, a cartoon show flickered in English, with two strange-looking mice in the lead roles. Piled in front of the tables were blank CDs along with magazines and small mountains of printouts. This was striking enough. Yet dominating one end of the room was a man-high mountain of pizza boxes surrounded by a sea of empty nonreturnable cola bottles.
“Classy,” Chandu muttered.
“Glad I got the heavy-duty hand sanitizer,” Zoe added. She turned to Jan and gestured into the room smiling. “After you.”
“Hi, Max!” Jan shouted.
A young man peeked out from between two narrow cabinets. He had a full cola bottle in one hand, brandishing it like a truncheon. His long, black hair hung down his forehead in strands. His pale, hairless face probably hadn’t seen any sun for weeks. He wore thick, dark sunglasses, the frames held together with white tape. Fluttering from his gaunt upper body was a tatty black T-shirt printed with the words “There’s No Place Like 127.0.01.” His too-wide jeans were worn out, and faded sport socks could be seen under his Birkenstocks.
“Put the bottle down, and take it easy,” Jan said. “And open a window.”
“The windows are screwed shut,” Max said in a hushed voice. “The CIA is everywhere.”
Jan turned to Chandu and Zoe. He forced out a pained smile. “May I introduce—Maximilien, or simply Max?”
“You can call me Maximum,” he said, straightening up.
“Maximum?” Zoe asked, raising her eyebrows. “Like, Maximum Loser?”
“Maximum Power, more like,” Max corrected her. “The name is famous in all the hacker community.”
“Rather be stuck in the lab,” Zoe grumbled and lit up a cigarette.
“Smoking is not allowed here.” Max seethed, wagging his cola bottle.
“Shut your trap, Maximum Moron, or I’ll come shut it for you.”
“Be nice to him,” Chandu said, grinning. “You’re probably the first woman who’s entered his apartment willingly.”
“And I’ll be the last too.”
Jan changed the subject: “We need your help.”
“With what?” Max said, still looking to defend his life with that cola bottle.
“Well, you are one of the world’s best hackers, and we have a problem that only the best can solve.”
The flattering words had the desired effect. Max squared his shoulders and lowered the bottle.
“Don’t you have police people for that?” he said.
“Sure, but not as good as you.”
Max scratched at his chin. “I be paid for it?”
“At the moment, I’m having a little trouble with my account.”
“Is it illegal?”
Jan nodded. “You’re going to hack the police server.”
“Ha!” Max shouted. He let the bottle drop and sprung into his office chair. He pushed off and rolled over to a computer screen. “That’s not a problem. Berlin police admins, they think their firewalls and anti-Troj
an software are getting it done, but I’ll jimmy their servers faster than they can say ‘Atari ST.’ ”
“Did you get anything that freak just said?” Chandu asked.
Zoe shrugged.
“Have yourself a seat,” Max told them. “But not that brown chair. The spring’s shot and I don’t know what’ll happen if you sit on it.”
“We’ll remain standing,” Jan replied, eyeing a plastic chair with pizza sauce smeared all over the backrest.
Max’s fingers flew over the keys. Then he pushed off to another computer and typed something in with preposterous speed.
“What should I hack for you? You want the latest police reports? Or a wanted list?”
“I need access to the Homicide server.”
Max drew in a deep, noisy breath. “The Homicide server, that’s a tough nut. Almost a puzzle of its own. Not much you can do there.”
“I thought you were the best hacker in the world,” Zoe sneered.
“This isn’t WarGames,” Max snapped at her. “It takes a lot more than pressing a few keys to get us that kind of info.” He turned to Jan. “Give me five minutes. I got something to try out.”
He pointed at his cardboard pile. “You want, you guys could have a piece of pizza. Anchovies and onions. It’s this morning’s.”
“Thanks.” Jan declined with a wave. “We’re not hungry.”
Max sank into his work. His eyes lit up and he hammered at the keyboard as if his hacking alone could prevent an evil mastermind from destroying Planet Earth. Now and then he rolled around the room on his chair and typed on various keyboards.
“Oh, man,” Zoe said, lighting another cigarette.
While Max was busy with the computers, Jan found it hard not to fall asleep. It felt like the stale air and Max’s nonstop typing were putting him in a trance.
“He going to get there some time before tomorrow?” Zoe asked after her second cigarette.
As if in reply, young Max whirled around in his chair. “I’m not getting in,” he said. “But while Smoker Lady there was spouting her stupid comments, I did come up with an idea.”
He reached for a tiny circuit board. “I crafted this little wonder a few weeks ago. I’ll have to do a few mods to it, but if you just hook it up to a Homicide computer, I’ll only have to hack the password. Won’t take an hour.”
Until the Debt Is Paid Page 9