“What can I do for you?”
“Four years ago, you issued a death certificate for Farmer Hornen’s daughter. Am I right about that?”
“Yes, you are. Why do you ask?”
“I would like to know if it was roof tile or a brick that killed the girl. Or if there was any doubt about that.” He shifted his weight in his chair.
“I have no idea why you want to ask me that. But you must have your reasons.” A pause. “There were doubts—but they were all mine. Everybody in the family and the community was sure it had been a roof tile, so that’s what I wrote on the death certificate. You may criticize me for that, if you wish. But even if I had voiced my doubts, it wouldn’t have led to anything.”
He seemed touchy about his professional integrity. But he also seemed honest.
“What do you think the more likely cause of death was?”
“To judge from the skull fracture, it had to have been a heavy bar or log. Not just a single roof tile. The fracture ran straight across the bone; it was too long to have been caused by a tile.”
“Was the tile ever found?”
“It lay right next to her, among many others. They were putting new tiles on that roof.”
“Would you be willing to admit to the error in court, and testify under oath to the cause of death you find appropriate?”
He stared at his hands for a long while. Then he looked up again.
“Yes, I would be willing to do that.”
2
“OK, then. I’ll meet you at headquarters in twenty minutes. Can you get hold of a cassette recorder by then?”
“What do you need a cassette recorder for?”
“Rare birdsongs. But it has to be one that runs on batteries.”
“I’ll try, I think we have one of those somewhere. I’ll check with my wife.”
“And hurry up.”
“All right, all right.”
Half an hour later Löff’s blue Mercedes turned into the parking lot at police headquarters. I walked across the gravel to greet him as he emerged from the car carrying a shiny black briefcase. He was wearing a suit and tie.
“Good morning, Mr. Löff. Did you find a recorder?”
He pulled an ancient little thing out of his briefcase. I took it and tested it. The recording quality was far from impressive, but it would do for my purposes. I handed it back to Löff.
“You hang on to it for now. We won’t need it quite yet.”
“Mr. Kayankaya, how about if you’d be so kind as to explain, at long last …”
“No way. I can’t explain anything to you yet. Either you help me without asking a lot of questions—or forget the whole thing.”
“How can we work together if you don’t tell me anything?”
“I think we can work together just fine.”
“How so?”
“Listen, Mr. Löff, at this point all I need is your name. It has a lot more prestige in official circles than mine does. This will become evident right here at headquarters. If you go in there with me, they won’t kick me out again, and they might even answer my questions. If I start explaining to you what it is I need to know and why, we’ll be standing here for hours, and we don’t have that much time anymore. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“Mr. Kayankaya, if I may give you some advice, based on my experience …”
“Are you ready to help me or not?”
He glared furiously at me for a second. Then he snapped the briefcase shut with a defiant expression.
“All right. Where do we start?”
“We’ll pay another visit to the Narcotics Squad, and one to the armory.”
“Let’s go.”
We crossed the parking lot, walked up the stairs to the main entrance and hall, and took the elevator to the fourth floor.
In front of Georg Hosch’s office I grabbed Löff’s arm.
“Not Hosch. We have to find someone else.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
Löff took a deep breath, then pointed to the door facing Hosch’s office.
“You go in and perform the customary salutations. I ask the questions.”
Löff knocked energetically.
“Step right into the parlour.”
The friendly voice belonged to a young lady in a miniskirt who was spooning coffee into a filter. Löff entered the room with the relaxed dignity of a superior officer. He did it well. Unfortunately, the miniskirt did not seem impressed by dignified superiors.
“Whoever it is you want to talk to—they’re all gone.”
She switched on the coffeemaker and turned to look at us. Löff crossed his arms over his chest.
“I am Theobald Löff, detective superintendent, retired.”
“Yes, and?”
“I wish to speak to the man in charge of the department.”
“Mr. Rolland is out on official business.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“God alone knows.”
Löff had finished his performance. He turned to me questioningly.
“My name is Kayankaya. Do you know the workings of this squad except for where they keep the coffee?”
“I should think so. I’ve been here for two years.”
“There is a depository where all the confiscated dope is kept before they burn it at some later date. Where is that?”
“There’s one out by the airport, a kind of halfway house, and the main depository is here at headquarters. They burn it in a special furnace in the back courtyard.”
“Who has access to that depository here at headquarters?”
“Hey, you’re not planning to rob the place, are you?”
“Sure. I just walk into the first cop shop in town and ask where and how I …”
“Enough, enough. The only person who has access is a trustee who unlocks the place when they bring in some new stuff and keeps tabs on what’s in there.”
“What’s his name?”
“At the moment, it is Mr. Sörbier. But it rotates, every month.”
“Is he also in charge of the cremations?”
“No, those are always done by Mr. Hosch.”
“Georg Hosch?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Kayankaya, please, what’s the deal here? You can’t go on leaving me completely in the dark.”
We stood in the elevator on our way down to the basement. I fingered my broken rib. The next day I would start taking care of it. Or so I hoped.
“There’s no other way, Mr. Löff. Tonight you’ll know everything. Please be patient until then. You did really well back there. Excellent job.”
“All right, I’ll go along. But could you do me a favour?”
“What is it?”
“Try to acquire a few manners, my dear man. There are ways of talking to people without instantly offending them. Next time, say ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ when you have received the desired information. After all, your behaviour reflects on me.”
The elevator doors opened and saved me from having to reply to that. We walked across a hall that was lit by fluorescent fixtures and up to what looked like a kiosk. Behind it, instead of cases of beer and candy, was a huge room filled with metal shelves.
These in turn were filled with olive-green articles of clothing, Plexiglas shields, helmets, traffic control signs, shoes, all kinds of firearms, walkie-talkies, even bundles of whistles, all of it in relatively good order, all of it clean and new.
I pushed a silver-plated bell. In the back of the room a voice growled “just a moment”. Löff gave me a critical look. He seemed to be still waiting for some response to his request.
“I’ll try my best not to drool or burp without being asked.”
“What’s up?”
A small, wrinkled man came limping toward us, peering at us through thick lenses. Löff cleared his throat and put his hands on the counter.
“Oh, it’s you, Superintendent. What brings you here?�
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“Well, once a bear gets hooked on garbage there’s no cure.”
“Oh, so you’re back in harness?”
“Not really. I’m just helping out with a case. To pass on what I learned in my long years on the job to my juniors. Like an ambulatory advice machine, you might say.”
The little guy laughed heartily.
“That was well put, Superintendent.”
Löff stepped to one side and introduced me.
“Here is one of the up- and coming, if I may say so. Mr. Kayankaya is helping us with a case.”
The myopic eyes scanned me incredulously. He was probably thinking that the police force must have fallen on hard times if its up-and-coming members consisted of Turks covered in dried blood. Löff’s story struck me as both unimaginative and lacking in credibility.
“I see. Well, then. What can I do for you?”
To keep Löff from spouting any more nonsense, I elbowed him aside and stepped up to the counter.
“Do you keep records of the equipment people check out here?”
“Of course I do. This is all highly regulated.”
“Can an officer obtain replacements for missing items of his equipment—if, say, he has lost something, or something got damaged while he was on duty?”
“Of course, as long as he has the authorization of a superior officer. Why do you think I’m here, otherwise?”
He smiled a little at the silliness of these young whip-persnappers.
“So for instance, if I were to ask you if, during the week immediately following the twentieth of February, nineteen seventy-nine, one or several colleagues obtained a new nightstick from your supplies, you could verify that for me?”
I glanced quickly at Löff. He looked nonplussed, just as I had expected.
“No problem, except you may have to wait a moment while I find the records.”
“We’ll be glad to wait.”
The little man limped away. Löff tapped me on the shoulder.
“Otherwise you’re all right, Mr. Kayankaya?”
“Just wait and see.”
We stood there in silence until the gnome returned with a light brown wooden box under his arm.
“This is the one for nineteen seventy nine. Let’s see now.”
He started going through the cards.
“Nightsticks, you said?”
“Right.”
After a while he pulled out two cards.
“Here we are. February twenty first and February twenty-ninth. In both cases, nightstick lost while on duty, application for replacement. Authorizations from superior officers in both cases.”
He looked up.
“Will that do?”
“I would like to know the names of the applicants.”
“No problem.”
He raised the cards up to the thick lenses.
“On the twenty-ninth, the applicant was Michael Kuch of mobile task unit D dash A seventeen twenty-one. On the twenty-first, it was Harry Eiler, patrolman, number zero zero eight dash seven three. The superior officers were, in the first case, Chief Superintendent Norbert Rutel, in the second, Detective Superintendent Futt.”
I looked at Löff and said, “Many thanks. You have been a great help. ‘Bye now.”
We left the building and walked out onto the parking lot. Löff was still sulking and didn’t say a word.
“Mr. Löff, please get your car. I’ll be up there by the phone booth. I have to check an address.”
I turned the thin, torn pages of the phone book. Löff had already pulled up in his Mercedes when I found what I had been looking for. Futt, Grosse-Nelken-Strasse thirty-seven. That was in Hausen, a suburb of Frankfurt. I got in next to Löff and we drove off. The large automobile rolled smoothly down the street.
“To Hausen. Grosse-Nelken-Strasse thirty-seven.”
“What will we be doing there?”
“Is Futt married?”
Löff slowed down a little.
“Don’t tell me you—”
“Yes. Is he married or not?”
“He is.”
“So we won’t have to break in.”
“We won’t have to what?”
We came to a squealing halt by the curb. Löff turned off the engine.
“Once more, and slowly. We won’t do what?”
“Take it easy. We’re going to Futt’s apartment to have a few words with his wife. That’s it. Nothing to it. You stay in the car.”
“I must not have heard you right.”
We got going again. I rolled down the window and held my hand out into the rushing air.
“Do you know the lucky lady?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Ever hear anything about her?”
“Yes.”
“What did you hear?”
“Rumours.”
“What kind?”
“When Futt was the head of the Narcotics Squad, there were rumours that his wife was an alcoholic. Silly gossip.”
“How so?”
“Just because talk like that is always silly gossip.”
“I see.”
Not much later we pulled up in front of number thirty-seven.
“Why don’t you find another place to park, a little farther away? But you have to be able to keep an eye on that front door. I’ll be back in half an hour, if not before. Should a familiar face appear before then, hit the horn twice. That’s all for now. See you soon.”
I slammed the car door shut. Futt lived in a green stucco apartment building dating from the Fifties. I rang the bell. The door buzzed, and I walked up to the second floor. A brass plate bore the engraved name Paul Futt. The apartment door was ajar.
“I’m in here, Horstilein!”
I went in. The entrance hall was full of old and expensive furniture that didn’t match. A sunset with a sailboat hung on the wall. The floor was covered with three or four layers of Persian carpets.
“In here, in the bedroom. Tee hee!”
I proceeded through the entrance hall to the bedroom. For a moment, we stared at each other in utter confusion. She was blown away because I was not her Horstilein but a Turk with a battered face. I was blown away because what I saw in front of me was a fat, garishly made-up woman who lay on the bed spreading her legs wide, naked except for a golden silk scarf.
“Kayankaya’s the name. How do you do, madam.”
Slowly, staring at me all the while, she covered up her white body with a bed sheet. On a night table stood the silly old rumour: a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker.
“I need to talk to you. I’ll step outside while you put on some clothes.”
I grabbed the bottle, went out into the hall, and sat down on a sofa upholstered in silk. Late eighteenth century was my guess. I treated myself to a drink at Futt’s expense. His wife was getting dressed in the bedroom. Five minutes later she stood in the doorway. Her obese body shook and her eyes were glazed. She looked more than a little smashed.
“Who are you? What do you think you’re doing here?” I set the bottle down on the floor and got up.
“As I said before, Kayankaya’s the name. I’ve come to ask you a couple of questions.”
She had put on a white kimono embroidered with dragons. Her right breast hung out of it.
“Who gives you the right to bust into my apartment?”
“I rang the bell and you buzzed me in.”
She waved her hands in the air.
“So what? I was expecting a friend. How was I to know some stranger would just walk in here? You can’t do that! I’m expecting a dear friend, and you just walk in, just like that. You can’t do that!”
The alcohol made her rather repetitious.
“You’re Paul Futt’s wife, correct?”
“What do you mean by that? Did that asshole send you here? He knows all about it. He doesn’t give a shit. I’m a woman, right? That impotent bag of lard is no use to me anymore. I have a right, don’t I? I have a right to a little fun. How could I
know he was such a washout? No one told me that in church. How could I know. I have a right …”
She covered her face with her hands and burst into sobs.
“Mrs. Futt, I don’t care a damn if you have a lover or not. That’s not what I’m here for.”
“Fucking! Why don’t you just say it, you asshole? That’s what’s on your mind!”
“Mrs. Futt, I don’t care who you fuck!”
She laughed hysterically. I took her arm and sat her down on the sofa.
“Pull yourself together. Now, tell me which is your husband’s room.”
She stopped laughing and gave me a conspiratorial look.
“Are you from the police? Are you for him—or against him?”
“How am I supposed to understand that?”
She pulled back quickly.
“Nothing to understand. I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything at all!”
“I’m against him, if you wish.”
“No, no, never mind. I don’t know anything. He’d kill me. He told me so.”
“Your husband?”
No, Santa Claus. Tee-hee!”
“Why would he kill you?”
Her lacquered nails curled around my arm. Then she pushed her ass against me and rested her boozy head on my shoulder. She smelled of an unsuccessful blend of Scotch and eau de cologne.
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
Her hand slid across my navel and down. I let it slide, tongued her ear, and whispered, “That asshole’s making a lot of money selling dope, isn’t he?”
She giggled. “You really are something … tee-hee …”
I did my best to play up to her.
“But if they ever found out about it, you would have to tell them what you know.”
“He’ll kill me.” She giggled.
“He can’t kill you when he’s behind bars.”
“Swine like him never end up behind bars … Never mind him now, he’s not important.”
She was having trouble with the buttons.
“All right. Just tell me where he keeps his stash.”
“I saw some once, in his wardrobe. That’s all.”
I tore myself from her embrace and got up. She looked at me, dumbfounded. I slapped her face.
Happy Birthday, Turk! Page 11