“Pretty sick,” Max said.
“Yeah,” Zoe replied. “Especially since Sarah Esel was still alive when the murderer cut out her eyes. Which brings me, once again, to the discussion we had before Jan ended up in the hospital. When do we go take out Patrick? Now that he’s almost stabbed you to death, don’t you think a bullet to his head would be about justified?”
“He didn’t attack me.”
“Ah, man,” Zoe said. “How much more proof do you need?”
“I didn’t see his face, plus the person spoke to me—and it wasn’t his voice. What makes you think it was Patrick?”
“Who else could it be? Patrick had set out in search of Chandu. He didn’t find him at his official residence. So he put the screws on Chandu’s renter and trailed him to his local bar. It only makes sense he finally discovered our cook’s little hideout. A man with Chandu’s build can be followed pretty easily. Patrick probably just waited till it got dark and you showed up.”
“It had to be Patrick,” Max added. “It makes sense.”
“No,” Jan said. “Too much work. He could have just stormed the apartment with a special unit and taken me in. That would have been all official too. Why should he take the risk of attacking me on his own?”
“Because you know things that could get him into trouble,” Chandu said, drying a big bowl with a kitchen towel.
“What would that be? I highly doubt he’s even noticed we found his drugs. We were too careful about it.”
“Maybe he thinks that you know something, something that you actually don’t know at all,” Max said.
All three heads turned to him.
“I told you not to give the little one tequila,” Zoe said.
“What if you, on the Saturday Judge Holoch was murdered, saw something that could either incriminate Patrick or clear you of suspicion?”
“I still don’t know what happened, though,” Jan told them.
“That’s not important,” Max said. “Just the possibility that you could remember, it could be making Patrick nervous.”
“I have a hard time believing it. Patrick was always the good cop. He was always so meticulous in sticking to the rules that it drove me nuts.”
“Maybe the Patrick that you used to know,” Chandu said. “But something made him snap, right? Maybe something to do with his sister. Who knows? So he starts in with Judge Holoch and turns into a psycho serial killer.”
“Goddamn it,” Jan said. “Why can I not remember?” He turned to Zoe. “Is there no kind of treatment for this?”
“Jesus, Jan. I’d first have to determine what sort of amnesia we’re talking about and then discover what triggered it. That could range from meds like morphine or knockout drops to things like stroke, poisoning, drugs, alcohol, or some traumatic experience. There is no treatment. Most quacks, they lure people in with promises that electroshock or drug cocktails will help them regain their memories. Nothing works. Your only hope is getting a flashback.”
“Okay, fine. So how do I get one?”
“By accident. It has to be released, through a trigger that awakens parts of your memory. It can be a smell, a sound, a place, or just a certain touch. It can’t be controlled. But it’s most likely that your memories will stay submerged forever.”
“So we have a talk with Patrick,” Chandu said. “Though I really would like to put him down, we should talk to him first.”
“Talk with a serial killer?”
“I understand what you’re feeling, Zoe. But look at it matter-of-factly. Jan is a veteran detective. We should trust his instincts.”
Zoe, sulking, lit another cigarette.
“And what if we actually are wrong? Bumping off a police officer is not a good idea.”
“How are we supposed to pull that off?” Max asked. “We can’t just invite him to talk.”
“We’ll have to catch him at home,” Jan said.
“And why won’t he just put a bullet in you?” Zoe responded.
“Because he’ll get no chance to draw his weapon.”
“There’s only one way to do that,” Chandu said.
“He’ll be looking into the barrel of a gun,” Jan added.
“I don’t hate the idea,” Zoe said, “but how do we get him to confess?”
“Interrogating is improvising. His first reactions alone will tell us a lot.”
“We don’t need a reaction, we need a confession,” Zoe said.
“He’s not that stupid,” Jan said. “Even if he is the murderer, he’s not going to stand there with a grin and confess.” He turned to Max. “I think I might like a camera on me no matter what. Can you set me up something, one that can take shots in the dark?”
“Sure,” Max said. “With a sensitive enough lens, I don’t need much light.”
“Good,” Jan said. “We’ll go wait for him tonight.”
“You did notice you had trouble making it all the way from the table to the couch?” Chandu asked him. “You won’t even make it out to the car in this condition.”
“I’m betting that Zoe has a knack for miracle cures.”
“It’s got nothing to do with miracle cures,” she replied. “It’s way too soon for much physical activity, but I can give you some nifty painkillers. If that wound of yours rips open, though, you’ll bleed to death before we can get you to a hospital.”
“I’ll take the risk. There could still be more victims, so every day we wait just puts them in danger.”
Zoe shrugged. “Just wanted to warn you.”
“Thanks.” Jan’s wound did hurt. Just the thought of walking more than five yards made him cringe, but he had no other choice. He had to be certain.
Chapter 15
Zoe’s painkillers were working. Apart from a little twitch in his gut, Jan couldn’t feel anything. But the meds made him lethargic and he had trouble concentrating.
At 10:00 p.m., Jan and Chandu drove to the station in an inconspicuous Ford that Chandu had borrowed from his neighbor. Jan had never been afraid of facing a murderer or a violent nutcase, but this time, he felt torn. The police officer in him really wanted to get out of the car, head inside, and tell Bergman all he knew. Yet the last few days had left him doubting. If Patrick was behind it all, then the system wasn’t working. He wanted nothing more than to put an end to the murders. On the other hand, he was hoping he’d gotten it wrong. He hated to think that a homicide detective was committing such beastly crimes.
“Here he comes,” Chandu said, jerking him from this thoughts.
Patrick looked overworked, tired. He dragged his feet, his shoulders hunched forward. His hair was disheveled and his suit crumpled.
He went to his car, started it up, and merged into traffic. Chandu followed at a safe distance.
“How do you want to do this?” he asked. “Want to wait for him right inside his place?”
“That’s too tricky for me. The underground parking garage should work. We only have to get in before the garage gate comes back down.”
“You think he’ll listen?”
“I’m not fooling myself. He’ll only talk to me if he’s looking into the barrel of a piece. You bring your peashooter?”
Without replying, Chandu pulled a pistol out from under his seat. Jan let out a little whistle.
“Heckler & Koch USP40, Smith & Wesson slugs,” Chandu said. “Hey, you wanted to bring it. And this is just the warm-up act. I got big brother in my holster. If that bastard makes one false move, I take him out.”
“I want to talk first.”
“Be careful. If Patrick is the killer, he could take you out and claim it was self-defense. Plus, you’re on painkillers. Slows your reactions.”
“I’ll be on guard.” Jan worked the slide on the pistol, trying to not to notice his hands shaking.
Ten minutes later, they sti
ll had their target. Patrick’s car waited in front of them at the entrance to the underground parking lot as the gate slowly lifted. Once the car was inside and out of view, Chandu sped under before the door lowered again. He parked in the first space they saw, turned off the lights.
Jan got out and hid behind an SUV. Patrick had parked only ten yards away and was just locking his car. He hadn’t seemed to notice them coming in.
“Hello, partner,” Jan said, raising his weapon.
Patrick turned around in surprise.
“I should have known,” he said.
“That I’d be on your trail?”
“What trail?”
“Don’t lie to me, asshole,” Jan barked. “I know you’re behind the murders.”
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Patrick shouted back. “Evidence puts you at two crime scenes and you’re calling me guilty?”
“Someone’s pinning it on me.”
“Who, then?”
“You are.”
“Me?” Patrick flared up. “You really have lost it.”
“You never liked me. You resented me, my career.”
“I think you’re a Rambo wannabe who should have his weapon taken away, but that’s no reason to pin a murder on you.”
“We know about your sister.”
Patrick pinched his eyes together. “What does my sister have to do with it?”
“George Holoch and Michael Josseck were clients of Nathan Lefort. Apparently the Frenchman sold her to them, as his whore.”
Patrick neared Jan a step. “My sister had a ton of johns,” he snarled. “If I was to take out every one of them, the cemeteries would have to shut down because of overcrowding. And how does the Esels’ murder fit in? Did they procure my sister through Nathan too?”
Jan hesitated, just a split second. Patrick used it to attack. Normally Jan could ward off such a move, but the meds made him slow. A kick caught him in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. Patrick grabbed his hand and tried to wrest his gun away. Jan had always been better than Patrick in hand-to-hand combat, but this time Patrick disarmed him like he was some schoolboy.
Holding Jan’s weapon, Patrick took a step backward.
“Put down the gun, dipshit, or I’ll blow your brains out,” Chandu’s voice echoed through the garage.
“I could give a shit,” Patrick shouted back. He held the pistol to Jan’s head. “You better toss your gun over to me, or you’ll be scraping what little brain this idiot’s got off the walls.”
“Jan gets even a scratch, they’ll find your brains on the wall,” the big man growled back.
Jan held his stomach. The kick had missed the sutures, but still it hurt.
“My God, Patrick. Why did you have to slaughter all those people? It won’t bring your sister back.”
“I told you. I did not murder anyone.”
“We were in your apartment. We found drugs. There were knockout drops and ecstasy, which is what I think someone put into me.”
“You’re wrong.” Patrick stepped back, hesitating. “I’m looking out for a kid in the neighborhood who has the wrong friends. He lifted it off a dealer and thought he could sell the stuff. So I took it away from him.”
“So why didn’t you toss it?”
“I was going to hand it over to drug squad, to secure the evidence.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“I’d get asked where I got the stuff, and I didn’t exactly have a great excuse.”
Patrick had lowered the weapon. They stood face-to-face.
Jan broke the silence. “So what now?”
“You come down to the station with me,” Patrick told him.
“Never,” Jan said.
“I have your gun.”
“And I have a friend with a bigger gun.”
“This is crazy, Jan. You’re digging yourself a deeper hole.”
“Which is your fault. If you would have ruled me out as the main suspect, you’d have the real killer by now.”
“That’s bullshit! We have a binder full of evidence on you. What was I supposed to do?”
“Believe me, I’m not behind this.”
“That’s not a hell of a lot to go on.”
“But it’s true. Once the Esels died, you must have realized you were on the wrong track.”
“So, what are we supposed to tell the police chief, and all those snooping politicians? Much less the reporters. I’m supposed to go to Bergman and say, ‘Sure, we know the first two murders have conclusive evidence. But it was someone else, a guy we got no clues on’?”
“What you guys have been telling the public doesn’t matter. Internally, you could have been tracking down other suspects.”
“Why? We have no evidence on other suspects. It all fits, and the evidence clearly convicts you.”
“My word will have to be enough for now. It was not me. The psycho is still running around out there.”
“I’m still not going to let you walk.”
“But you will,” Jan stated. “I’m not going to the pen and put my fate in your hands. I’m going to march on out of here and go underground again.”
Jan eyed Patrick. A hint of uncertainty had crept into his eyes.
“Tomorrow morning? You’ll get an e-mail with all I’ve found out. Maybe it will help.” Jan turned around and went back to the car. It was the longest walk of his life. If he was wrong, Patrick would shoot him down right there and come up with a story.
Behind him, Patrick cocked the weapon. Jan clenched his teeth. Every step was torture. His knees trembled, and he had trouble keeping his hands steady. After an eternity, he was at the car. He opened the door and sat down inside.
The gate moved up, clattering. Chandu jumped in, started the motor, and raced off.
Jan looked in the rearview mirror. Patrick had disappeared.
“I would’ve shot him in the knee.”
“Zoe, for the third time,” Jan said. “He’s not the murderer.”
“Why not? Because he told you so?”
“It’s hard to explain. When you’ve interrogated actual murderers, you come to know when someone’s lying or hiding something. You develop an instinct.”
“And you’ve never made a mistake?”
“I have. But it’s not about what he said, but rather what he did.”
“So what did he do?”
“Not shoot me.”
“And that’s why he’s not the murderer?”
“Disarming me was his perfect chance. If I’d died, investigations into the first two murders would have been shelved. It would have taken all of the pressure off him.”
“Huh,” Zoe said, sucking on her cigarette. “He still remains an asshole.”
“I hate to spoil the mood,” Max cut in, “but did we just lose our one and only suspect?”
“Maybe Patrick can get something going with what we’ve found out,” Jan said.
“I can’t believe you’re helping the piece of shit.”
“This is about solving the case, Zoe. When that happens, not only is the murderer caught, but I’ll also get my old life back.”
“Isn’t it a little lame to just sit here and hope Patrick succeeds?” Chandu remarked.
“That’s not exactly my plan.”
“So what then?”
“We have no all-encompassing motive. With Judge Holoch and Michael Josseck, it could have been a hooker. You could throw Horst Esel in there too, on a hunch. But when it comes to Sarah Esel? It doesn’t fit anymore.”
“What if she was into some kind of perverted sex acts?” Zoe said.
“Possible. But we can’t even prove that for Horst Esel.”
“We should take another look at the construction angle,” Chandu proposed. “If the murder of Judge Holoc
h has nothing to do with those hookers getting beat up, then Michael Josseck’s concrete comes back into the picture.”
“Fine, but toy swords and costume rings?” Jan asked.
“Sarah Esel could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Max said. “So the murderer turns it into a killing spree.”
“The thing is, Sarah Esel’s murder was too personal. Someone cut out her eyes with surgical precision and replaced them with cheap rings. Those baubles weren’t just lying around. The murderer brought them, which means her murder was planned out too.”
“But how does it all add up?” Chandu said. “The way she was killed, it’s supposed to say something. Judge Holoch, he beat up women. That’s probably why he was beaten to death with a hammer. Michael Josseck was a building contractor. Not hard to make the connection to concrete. But when it comes to jewelry in the victim’s carved-out eyeball sockets? Me, I pass. And I don’t even want to talk about those toy swords in Horst Esel’s organs.”
Jan scratched his head, uneasy. “That one’s a mystery to me too. Costume jewelry, toy swords? Doesn’t bring any sexual deviation to mind.”
“Maybe you lack imagination,” Zoe said, adding a grin.
“Oh, wise medical examiner, do enlighten us,” Chandu scoffed at her.
“I don’t know either,” she snapped at the big man. “But why aren’t we looking in the Esels’ house? We might find something there.”
“Judging from the report, the crime scene was thoroughly combed over. The apartment was pretty small, so I wouldn’t count on striking gold, not like with Judge Holoch.”
“Not their hideaway, Janni,” Zoe said, “but their actual home.”
“That’s where we’re supposed to find clues?” Chandu said.
“We’re not looking for the clues, but rather a motive,” Zoe explained.
Jan thought over the plan. It was possible that the place hadn’t been checked out yet.
“It doesn’t please me to say this,” Chandu added, “but Blondie here might just be right.”
“Thanks. And since I am so brilliant, you can go top off my coffee.”
Until the Debt Is Paid Page 20