“Goddamn it.” Jan had suspected it. But finding out for sure was horrific. He felt like throwing up.
“You going to tell us?” Zoe asked him.
Jan sighed. Something inside made him want to resist sharing the news, as if he’d be sharing some private, intimate secret about Betty. But he had to start talking.
“Betty was the daughter of Sarah and Horst Esel.”
“Oh, man,” Zoe said.
“How do you know?” Chandu asked him.
“I found an old photo.”
“I guess she changed her name? She wasn’t Esel.”
“Her last name was Windsten, but I never saw her ID. She must have changed it.”
“I hate to reopen old wounds,” Zoe began, “but this could be the reason your girlfriend killed herself.”
Jan nodded. “Judge Holoch getting murdered brought it all back to her. Doesn’t take much to guess she was abused for child porn too.”
“My God,” Chandu said. “Who does such a thing to a child?”
“At least we have a new suspect,” Zoe said.
“Who you mean?” Chandu asked her.
“Well, the brother, right?” Zoe said to Jan, “Did you know him?”
“No. Her parents supposedly moved to Bavaria and had little contact with her. She never mentioned siblings.”
“I hate to spoil your fun,” Max’s voice clanged through the phone, “but we can cancel the idea of Johann Esel as the murderer.”
“How come?” Jan asked him.
“You can thank your fellow officers in Homicide for that. They went searching for any kids of Sarah and Horst Esel. They never found Betty—they lost her trail after she was nineteen years old. But Johann, he has been in a clinic since he was fourteen. He’s got a whole range of mental disorders, the kind that keep you living in a closed institution for a long, long time.”
“That’s perfect,” Zoe said. “Now we have our psycho.”
“Actually not,” Max remarked. “According to the notes, Johann is catatonic and can’t move a finger. Jan’s fellow cops followed up. He hasn’t left his room for months. Surveillance camera recordings in his psychiatric ward confirm it.”
“So we still got nothing,” Jan said. “What we do is, we find Father Anberger and hopefully catch the killer in the act.”
“Where are we supposed to look for him?” Chandu said.
“Normally, the murderer kills the victims at their homes,” Jan observed. “Abducting him like this, it doesn’t fit the normal picture.”
“Father Anberger could have faked his abduction with the idea of trying to bolt,” Chandu said.
“He didn’t need to trash his apartment for that. He had enough time to take off. Pack a suitcase, buy the plane tickets, done. No, he was abducted.”
“Maybe the murderer dragged him to some place with special meaning,” Zoe said.
“Since we don’t know who the murderer is, we can’t know that,” Jan replied.
“Well, it could also be a place that’s important to Father Anberger,” Chandu said.
“Meaning where?”
“That church, his old congregation.”
“It’s a possibility,” Jan said. “The church is not even two minutes from here.”
“We don’t have anything better,” Zoe said, lighting up a cigarette. “Let’s head over.”
Chandu made a breakneck maneuver changing lanes and stepped on the gas.
Jan pounded on the seat again in frustration. They should have broken into the Esels’ house sooner. Then they would’ve found Father Anberger alive and would know who was behind all this.
“What’s eating you, Jan?” Chandu asked him. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m pissed off, that’s what, that the murderer’s always one step ahead of us, that my instincts have totally failed me. First I suspect Horst Esel, then my coworker Patrick, and even Father Anberger. Each one of them was the perfect suspect—and now we still have no idea who’s doing it.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Zoe warned him. “Apart from the Esels, who are certifiably dead, we can’t rule anyone out. Patrick might be a terrific actor, or maybe you didn’t know the old priest as well as you thought.”
“Anything’s possible,” Jan said. “But we’re talking about four murders at least. Judge Holoch, Michael Josseck, and the Esels. Maybe Betty’s death was no suicide. And now, Father Anberger.” He raised six fingers. “That would make six dead, and we’re still stumbling around in the dark.”
“We’re closer to him than we’ve ever been,” Chandu said. “If the killer took the priest into that church? We’ll get him.”
“Let’s hope,” Jan said.
Chandu drove past the church and parked the car on a side street. Then he reached under the seat and handed Jan a pistol.
“Please don’t lose it this time.”
Jan checked the ammo. He turned to Zoe. “Stay here.”
“No way.”
“Zoe,” Jan said, on edge. “There might be a psychotic serial killer in there. This isn’t a game. I’m not going to discuss it anymore.”
“Then don’t. I’m going in with you.”
“You don’t even have a weapon,” Chandu said.
Zoe reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a silver surgical knife. She sprung open the scalpel blade with a little click. “Damascus steel with a special cutting edge,” she explained. “Custom-made for my specific needs. Cost three thousand euros, but worth every cent. Compared to this, those scalpels from Forensics are just butter knives.”
Zoe folded up the blade and sprang from the car. Jan released the safety on his gun and followed after her.
“So what’s the plan, Mister Homicide Squad?”
“The church is closed at this hour,” Jan said. “Let’s check the doors anyway and see if we can get in somehow.”
He pointed at Chandu and himself. “We will go first and you stay right behind us. Don’t talk. If we say take cover, then jump for cover. We say get down, you’re down on the ground a second later.”
Zoe saluted.
“We’ll start with the side entrance on the left,” he said to Chandu.
All Jan’s senses were keyed up. They had the element of surprise. If the murderer was inside there, they had to get as close as possible to him before he noticed. The church was vast and offered a lot of ways to escape. This psycho could not be allowed to slip out. He owed Betty that.
They made their way around the church, but every door was locked shut.
“Goddamn it,” Jan whispered. Either the murderer didn’t want to be interrupted, or they were simply all out of luck.
“Can you crack one of these locks?” he asked Chandu.
The big man shook his head. “These must be a hundred years old. We’d need a bigger key. I can’t do a thing here with a little tool like this.”
“We’ve wasted too much time looking for a way in. We’ll have to bust in. No more element of surprise.”
Jan took off his jacket, wrapped it around his hand, and punched through a window. The shards hitting the floor made a loud clang. He laid his jacket over the frame and climbed in. Once he’d made it, he guarded the window and waited for Chandu and Zoe to come inside.
The light in the church was dusky. Burning candles prevented utter darkness. They stood in a side aisle of the nave. Two banks of pews stood facing the altar. A small Maria figure glowed golden in a niche.
“Stay together,” Jan whispered. He went out into the middle of the nave. After three steps, he stopped. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
Up at the altar lay a huge crucifix. But instead of a wooden Jesus, Father Anberger lay on it. He was naked. His hands and feet were nailed to the wood. Blood was running out a gash on his right side. Apart from the priest, no one could be seen
around. It was a ghostly stillness.
Jan had to see if Father Anberger was still alive, so he kept creeping along, ducking down. The cross lay a couple yards from the closest pew. He would have to give up his cover. He’d make a perfect target at the altar. Still, Chandu and Zoe could keep an eye out.
“You two stay here and cover me,” he whispered. “I’ll get closer.” They both nodded.
Jan kneeled next to the cross and placed a hand on the priest’s neck. The man’s glassy pupils and lack of pulse told him Father Anberger was dead. The lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling. His mouth was stuffed with pages from a Bible; its empty binding lay next to the crucifix.
“We’re too late,” Jan said.
“The murderer can’t be far,” Zoe said. “The blood is barely clotted.”
Zoe checked the body as Chandu stood guard next to her with his gun drawn. Jan went over to the top end of the crucifix. His eye caught, at the altar, a ring of intertwined twigs. He lifted it and almost cut himself.
“Crown of thorns,” he muttered under his breath. “Didn’t Jesus wear the crown on his head?” he asked them.
Zoe straightened up. “Yes. Why you asking?”
Jan’s eyes widened. This scene was not finished yet. They’d disrupted the murderer.
“Goddamn it.” He reached for his gun.
A bang pierced their ears, echoing through the nave. Zoe was thrown backward and Chandu doubled over, screaming. Jan lunged to his side as a second shot struck the altar just behind him. Splinters of stone scattered over them. He crawled behind a column while Chandu, wounded, pulled the motionless Zoe to the pews. If she’d taken a direct hit from the shotgun shell, she wouldn’t survive more than a minute.
Another shot hammered into the columns. A splinter of stone grazed Jan’s forehead.
“Bastard!” he yelled, getting out all his rage. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead. “Show yourself. Then we’ll end this.”
Chandu had squeezed in between two pews. The trail of blood along the floor was not a good sign. The big man shielded Zoe’s body, aiming his gun in the shooter’s direction.
Jan cursed himself for having left his cell in the car. It was routine not to carry a phone when called into action like this—a phone ringing at the wrong moment could pose a danger, and in the heat of action it was easy to forget to turn off the ringer. Now he’d give everything for his cell phone. He’d call Homicide, send all available units over here. Shootouts were a risky part of his job. But he’d brought his friends into it this time. And he didn’t want to be responsible for their deaths.
He pressed against the column and rose up. This was no time for tactical maneuvers. Chandu was shot and Zoe was probably dying. He had to locate the killer. Right now. Every second counted.
“You’re not getting out of here,” he shouted. His voice echoed loudly through the church. He was hoping the murderer would reply so he could get a better fix on him.
Silence. Only the crackling of broken stone and wood disturbed the calm. Chandu ripped apart his shirt and wound it around his leg, his face twisting with pain. Zoe still lay on the floor, not moving.
“I called the homicide squad,” Jan called out. He had to try. “In two minutes they’ll be storming the place. Throw down your weapon and you’ll come out of this alive.”
Still no answer. Jan thought he heard candle wax dripping onto the floor. Then a voice spoke out. It left him speechless.
“You never were a good liar,” said Betty.
Chapter 18
Jan’s heart skipped a beat. He had to be hallucinating. Betty. He had seen the photos of her corpse. With that melted chain around her neck.
“It can’t be,” he gasped.
“You really didn’t know?” A giggle echoed through the church. “Super Detective got conned by the girlfriend. That has to bruise a guy’s ego.”
“How did you . . . ?”
“A cadaver from the Charité,” she said. “There was a fire in an apartment building. The dead woman fit my build. So I faked my death.”
Her internship at the hospital. She had told him about it. She probably took the dead woman from Pathology. The theft was surely reported, but no connection would ever have occurred to him.
“It was all just pretend?” he asked her. “All those happy times together.”
“Poor Janni,” she taunted. “It wasn’t your good looks that attracted me to you.”
It all fit. The lengthy evenings spent telling her about his work. The way she had listened so attentively. Sometimes she’d even had follow-up questions.
“So I was just the fall guy?”
“Don’t act so hurt,” she said. “You had your fun.”
Jan was trying to place Betty’s voice inside the church. She was somewhere out in front of him. In an alcove, beyond the column. She had to be aiming her shotgun, waiting for him.
“So where do we go from here?” he said, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Stupid question,” she replied coldly. “I’m going to kill all of you. By the time your fellow cops find out, I’ll be lying on a beach in the sunshine.”
“You’re not going to get out of this.”
She gave a loud sigh. “I’ve been planning this for years, Janni. If I hadn’t decided to kill the good Father Anberger here at church, I’d be on a plane and you’d be dealing with his corpse right now. But I found this place somehow . . . fitting. He was actually supposed to choke on that Bible of his, the one he used to chastise me with before he did the deed on me. But then I saw that crucifix.”
A bright light flashed through the church.
“Just a little souvenir photo,” Betty said.
He heard her cocking the shotgun.
“It was fun.”
Something hit the floor next to him. Jan turned, aiming his pistol. A bent candlestick.
He cursed at himself. The oldest trick in the world. He dropped to the floor. The same moment, a shot rang out. He felt the hot draft of small shot whizzing by his face. She’d missed. He raised his gun, shooting blindly in Betty’s direction. After the third bullet, he heard moaning. He rolled onto his side, turning to look and aiming his gun.
Betty fell to the floor. She was pressing a hand to her neck. Blood flowed through her fingers. His shot had struck the carotid artery. The shotgun lay next to her. He dropped his gun, ran to her. He pulled off his jacket and pressed it to her wound, but the stream of blood would not stop.
“No, goddamn it!” he said, frantic.
Betty’s eyes raised up to him. She appeared to want to say something, but nothing came from her mouth except a gurgle. Then she smiled. She squeezed his hand. And it was over.
Jan experienced the next few hours like some silent observer hovering above the chaos. When the police reached the crime scene, he was still sitting next to Betty’s corpse. Someone put handcuffs on him and led him out of the church. Outside, a sea of lights met him. Countless police vehicles and ambulances blocked the street. Sirens pierced the night’s silence. Men in uniforms and paramedics in white coats ran back and forth. Two people were loaded into an ambulance. Someone put him in the rear seat of a car. Then they drove off, away from the noise and the lights.
He spent the ride in total silence. He didn’t know how long it lasted, had no idea where they were going. The car stopped in front of a large building, and he was pulled inside and into a stark room. A man spoke to him, but he didn’t understand the words. Another man set a glass of water on the table in front of him. But Jan could not move. He felt nothing. No thirst, no hunger, no pain, no sorrow. His head was a vacuum, aside from one word that repeated relentlessly.
“Betty.”
Around noon, Jan emerged from his stupor long enough to recognize his former boss, Klaus Bergman. The man brought him a cup of coffee, and its aroma pulled him further in
to the present. For the first time, Jan noticed how tired and hungry he was. He reached for the cup, drank, and contorted his face in disgust. The coffee tasted terrible. He had grown too accustomed to his friend’s finer blend.
He dropped the cup in horror. Coffee flowed across the table, dousing Bergman’s jacket. Chandu. The last time he’d seen him, he lay bleeding in the church.
“What about—”
“They’re doing okay,” Bergman reassured him, wiping the coffee off his suit. “Your friend and that lunatic from Forensics are both alive. I don’t have the details on their injuries, but the bullet wounds weren’t critical.”
“Zoe took a full load of shot. People don’t survive that—”
“What part of ‘wounds not critical’ do you not understand?” Bergman cut in.
Jan stood. “I have to get to them.”
“The fuck you do. Just sit there on your butt and tell me a few things.”
“You don’t understand,” Jan told him. “The two of them got shot because of me.”
“I understand one thing: you’re not a doctor, and you can’t do anything for them at the hospital. I’ve given instructions that I be told of any change in their condition. They survived, so until I hear otherwise, they are not dead.”
Jan needed to see for himself that Chandu and Zoe were doing fine—but Bergman would not let him go. He had a tough time sitting down again. He rubbed at his face, weary. The last few days had taken all his strength. He was slowly perceiving the magnitude of what had taken place the previous night. He had shot his girlfriend dead. The fact that she was insane did not make it any better. He just wanted to get into bed and sleep for the next hundred years.
“Can I have something to eat?” he asked. “Otherwise I won’t be able to get out a clear sentence.”
Bergman, clearly irritated, stood and yanked the door open.
“You guys head over to the donut shop and grab a dozen,” he bellowed into the corridor. “Two vanilla for me.”
He slammed the door shut, sat back down.
“Okay, Jan,” he said gently. “Just start from the beginning.”
Until the Debt Is Paid Page 22