Deep Pain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  Last fall when he planned to be gone, Marcel had given Bäcker a key to his place, so he could let the meter man in. Afterwards, they agreed that Bäcker would keep the spare key. Did the subtenant know this? She hadn’t asked him about it, and it would be typical of Marcel to forget the whole thing.

  Apartment’s empty right now, Bäcker thought, getting out of his car. He could snoop through her things. But how long would she be gone? Maybe too great a risk. He had already seen her leave the house several times in the morning. Always in running clothes, and it had taken an hour each time before she returned sweaty. Sixty minutes was quite enough time to get a feel for the woman’s life. He would wait until her next morning run.

  Whistling, Bäcker walked toward the house entrance. In addition to the week off, his sick leave had awarded him an unexpected additional advantage. Tomorrow morning, he would snoop around a bit. A thought that aroused anticipation.

  13

  To avoid another unannounced visit by the chief inspector, Till turned the tables and showed up at the LKA building Wednesday morning. After a short phone call at the entrance, he was allowed to move unaccompanied through the corridors. He found Krumm’s office on the second floor. Till knocked, and a voice told him to come in.

  Next to Krumm, another man sat in the room. Till didn’t recognize him.

  “What’re you doing here?” Krumm asked.

  “Hello,” Till said to the other man at the desk clump, since Krumm made no attempt at introductions. “I’m Till Buchinger. Nice to meet you.”

  “Bastian,” Krumm said to his office mate, “this is a colleague of the last murder victim, so to speak. I told you about him.”

  The other man, Bastian, nodded and held out his hand. “Chief Inspector Dorfer, hello.”

  Dorfer and Till shook.

  “Sit down,” Krumm said to Till. “What brings you here?”

  “I thought about it for a long time,” Till said, taking a seat in a visitor’s chair. “The information we have on Spannberg is never, ever going to be enough to track her down.”

  “Shit!” Krumm said. “But you could’ve just told me that over the phone.” His eyes flitted between Till and Dorfer, and Till got the impression that Krumm had not told his partner everything.

  “So we have to approach the matter differently,” Till continued. “Spannberg not only saw fit to assassinate Jonathan, but also burn down his office. I wonder why. The only logical explanation is that she feared the police might find a clue in the office that would put them on her trail.”

  “Tell me something new,” Krumm said.

  “We have to reenact Jonathan’s movements in the last few weeks. I knew him pretty well. We were friends. Could you get me a list, for example, of who he spoke to on the phone in the days—or rather weeks—before the murder?”

  Till noticed how Dorfer frowned at Krumm, noticed the critical look.

  Krumm crossed his arms. “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a civilian. We can’t share that kind of information during an ongoing investigation.”

  “Then why did you even come to me?” Till said. Deliberately, he did not mention the other details they had discussed.

  “I came to you,” Krumm said, “in order to get hints on how Mr. Albrecht works. Regrettable that it leads nowhere. But I can assure you that we’ve checked Mr. Albrecht’s call activity. Unfortunately without result.”

  Till stood up and tapped his forehead. “I’ll figure it out on my own. Thanks.”

  He left the office. Apparently, Krumm had not told his partner that he’d leaked sensitive details about the case to Till. This allowed only one conclusion: Krumm had consulted Till because he wanted to find clues as to how he could track down his ex.

  ***

  In his own office, Till thought about how to proceed. One of the most important tasks of a private investigator is the investigative phase. In conducting such an investigation, one often abandons legal channels and sometimes only gets to the target by telling small lies. He picked up the phone and dialed the hotline of Jonathan’s mobile phone provider. Prompted by a computer voice, Till entered Jonathan’s number and waited anxiously. Had the SOKO thought to disconnect the line? Or at the very least had they requested a notice in Jonathan’s account prohibiting customer support from providing any information?

  After a while a woman with a pleasant telephone voice answered.

  “Jonathan Albrecht here,” Till said. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Albrecht. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to update my contact information, please.”

  “Okay, I can help with that. What is your customer password?”

  Jonathan had been a big soccer fan and had previously confided in Till that he often used a password based on his favorite team’s sports club, Hamburger SV.

  “If I remember correctly, the first part is HSV,” Till said, shortening the name of the sports club.

  “Sorry,” the rep said, “but the password must be at least eight characters long.”

  Till thought for a second. Many people forgot their passwords, so he had some wriggle room for guesswork, but not much. He had only so many attempts before the representative shut him out. Next, he tried a combination of HSV and Jonathan’s birthday.

  “No, sorry,” the rep said. “Please try again.”

  Combined with the mobile phone number? Till guessed. “HSV250583.”

  “That’s correct,” the representative said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Albrecht?”

  “I need to update my email address. Also, could you email me the current call log?”

  If the police had blocked the customer account, he would not receive any further information.

  “No problem at all,” the rep said. “What’s your new email address?”

  Clenching his free fist, Till gave the employee an address that would not arouse suspicion.

  “Should I resend the connection data for the mentioned phone number only, or should I include the second phone line on the account as well?”

  “What second phone line?” Till almost asked. Fortunately he managed to stop the question before he blew his cover.

  “I’m glad you remember that,” Till said. “Also for the second connection, please.”

  “This is my job,” the representative replied. “The data has been sent. How can I be of any further assistance today?”

  “That was it. Thank you very much.”

  Till ended the conversation and launched his email app, which allowed him to retrieve messages from all accounts. In fact, the data had already arrived. He printed it out. Curious, he glanced at the fourth page, which listed the mysterious second phone line. With this phone, Jonathan had made only one call in the last accounting period, exactly four days before his death.

  Till flipped back to the main number. He checked all the calls and took almost an hour to identify the other callers. Unfortunately the results revealed nothing suspicious. So he turned to the only number Till had dialed from the second line. The phone call had lasted only seven seconds. Till typed the phone number into Google. The number belonged to a prepaid provider. That’s all the search engine could tell him.

  Should he just call? Till’s instincts held him back. What if this was Spannberg’s number in front of him right now? A phone call with a blocked number would alert her. Till went over the other possibilities. The police could arrange for a trace. But he was reluctant to report this to Krumm. Not least of all because he had illegally obtained the call data. He was not allowed to peddle it.

  Till decided on a different approach. He dialed the prepaid provider’s hotline. Perhaps with his talent for eliciting information from people on the phone, he could find out the name of the subscriber. The first five attempts failed miserably. Each time, he claimed to have forgotten the password for identification. The support representatives all reacted the same way.


  “If you have forgotten the password, we can verify the account a different way. Please give me the name of the subscriber, the date of birth, and the address on file.”

  “I’m just not sure who the connection is to,” Till replied. “Is it me? Klaus Haase?”

  “No. Sorry. You have to tell me the right subscriber. Otherwise I can’t help you.”

  The fact that the first attempts failed by no means frustrated him. From his professional experience, Till knew that sooner or later you always get a badly trained or less motivated employee.

  It wasn’t until the sixth call that he got lucky.

  “Is it my name on the account?” he asked again. “Klaus Haase.”

  “No. The connection is in the name of Frank Müller,” the rep said.

  “Ah, this is my colleague. Then he can take care of it himself. Thank you.” Before the employee could react, Till hung up and pressed redial. The next step was to find out whether an email address was stored in the system. He answered with the number and the real name of the subscriber.

  “Is an email address already activated with my contract?” Till asked.

  “Please give me the customer password.”

  “I don’t have that on hand right now.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Without a password, I can’t give out information like that.”

  “Why not? I just want to know whether an email address is stored. Frankmueller@web.de?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Okay, thank you. Have a nice day.” With every unsuccessful phone call, Till said goodbye in a friendly manner to prevent the rep from flagging the account.

  In the next run, he needed only four attempts to reach the right kind of representative. No sooner had he given the email address than the rep told him that another one had been entered.

  “You are using our email address provided with the account, sir.” The man gave the cell phone number in broken German, suffixed by the at symbol and the name of the mobile phone provider. “Should I change that?” he asked helpfully.

  “That’s fine,” Till said. “I’ll pass this on to my colleagues. Thank you very much.”

  Till hung up. He had a cell phone number and an email address. With this information, he would work over the next few days to uncover more.

  14

  Franka Spannberg laced her running shoes tightly. Fortunately the weather had been pleasant since her escape to Leipzig. There had been no snow or ice in the morning, so after a few days she had resumed her running routine, which she had grown fond of in Hamburg.

  Before the prison riot, she had hardly participated in sports. A bit of yoga, plus a membership at a fitness club, where she usually shone by her absence. When she recovered from the physical consequences of her rape, however, she had developed an urge to move. One day she spontaneously bought running clothes and went to Outer Alster Lake. The circular route there was seven and a half kilometers long. She had not even managed one kilometer, but the experience had awakened an ambition within her. After nine days of continuous training, she ran the course again, and after three weeks she had doubled her distance and endurance.

  The jogging route she had chosen in Leipzig was not quite as beautiful as the route in Hamburg around the lake, but she was able to jog for sixty minutes in one stretch. At the turning point of the route, she usually took a short break. Her physical fitness had made her escape from the police possible in the first place, because despite the e-bike motor, fitness had been required. All that pedaling.

  Since the temperature that morning was only just above freezing, Spannberg donned a cap and a slightly warm jacket. She completed her warm-up program in the apartment, stretching her leg muscles and thinking about how to proceed. Every night she spent in exile seemed like a betrayal of her own plans. She couldn’t wait any longer than absolutely necessary.

  The teenager, Florian, had apparently been identified by the cops as a potential target. Spannberg did not believe in coincidence. Apparently, the police had seen through her selection process. How should she react? She had several options. Re-target Florian, kill the next victim in order, or proceed more randomly.

  Spannberg put her cell phone and keys in her jacket pocket before stepping outside. She took three deep breaths to get used to the cold air. The thought of acting arbitrarily did not appeal to her. The order of the victims represented a message to her tormentors that held great importance for her. So first she had to decide whether there was any chance she could return to her old pattern. Still thinking, Spannberg ran off.

  15

  Behind his living room curtains, Ronald Bäcker watched the street. His new neighbor was entirely predictable. At the usual time, she stepped out of the house and jogged away.

  Bäcker set a countdown on his cell phone. Normally she was on the road for just over an hour, but, conservative estimate here, he gave himself only twenty-five minutes. Five of which he spent in his apartment, waiting for her to gain some distance.

  He paced. The idea of rummaging through her things excited him. He had never done that with a strange woman before. Theresa. That was her name. Bäcker wondered if he could discover her last name too.

  After a couple minutes, he went back to the window. Theresa had disappeared. He couldn’t wait. Bäcker cut the waiting period short, giving himself a little more time in her apartment.

  In the hall of his apartment hung a silver-colored key cabinet. Bäcker took Marcel’s key off the hook and peeked through his peephole. Nobody in the corridor. Carefully he opened the apartment door and listened. Everything lay quiet. Bäcker rushed to Marcel’s apartment and put the key in the lock. He had worried that Theresa might have secretly changed the lock. She hadn’t. It was like she wanted him to come in.

  Bäcker entered the strange apartment and took a deep breath. Theresa apparently didn’t use perfume, because he didn’t smell anything that gave the entryway a feminine touch. She hadn’t changed anything in this vestibule, not even the decor, keeping everything just the way Marcel had left it. Bäcker assumed he would find the most interesting insights in the bedroom. Nevertheless, he visited the living room first.

  On the coffee table was a laptop. Next to it he discovered a wallet. With his cell phone, he photographed the exact position of the wallet before opening it. The wallet contained over three hundred euros in cash and a black prepaid credit card. Bäcker’s first card had been from the same company. Why use a prepaid card though? Did she have bad credit? Or was she just as suspicious of credit card companies as he was? The name printed on the card was not Theresa, but Erwin Schumann. Who might that be? Her ex-partner? Maybe even the ex-husband? Was Theresa’s last name Schumann?

  To Bäcker’s disappointment, she kept neither an ID nor any other cards in her wallet. He put it back, photographed the table again and compared the two pictures. They were identical.

  Against one wall sat a sideboard. Bäcker opened its various drawers, finding only objects that belonged to Marcel—including a chess set and a wooden millboard. Where were Theresa’s things?

  Bäcker checked his watch. Fourteen minutes left. Although he would have liked to know her last name, that wasn’t his main concern. He entered the bedroom and opened the closet. At last he came across objects that clearly belonged to a woman. To get a better overview, he took two steps back. On the floor of the closet lay a wide suitcase. Blouses, pants, and skirts she had hung on hangers. Sweaters and T-shirts lay folded in three storage compartments. In another compartment Bäcker found a pair of dark-blue panties. He growled discontentedly. No lace, no thong. Just a comfortable piece, like his grandmother would wear. The other undergarments disappointed him as well. She seemed to have bought only the boring pieces in a supply pack. He held two of them to his nose. Freshly washed.

  Bäcker turned to her bras. Theresa didn’t have a pronounced bust size and apparently did not care to package her breasts attractively either.

  He had expected
more from the secret visit. She seemed to be a boring woman without a sex life. Could this circumstance play into his hands? Maybe she longed for a man she could dress sexy for.

  The bed was made up. He didn’t see a nightgown or pajamas. So he ventured into the bathroom. There, two nightgowns hung on door hooks. One could have belonged to his mother. The other one, though, was dark green, had spaghetti straps, and looked at least a bit more provocative.

  He opened the small vanity cabinet in which she had stashed toothpaste, a few creams, and a surprising amount of make-up. At least in this respect she seemed to understand what men expected. When he bent down and inspected the base cabinet, he blinked in confusion. Why so much soap? Or did it belong to Marcel?

  Bäcker turned to the laundry basket next to the washing machine. He took off the lid. The basket was half full. Carefully he pushed the top T-shirt aside and discovered another dark-blue pair of panties underneath. He took it out and held it to his nose. Bäcker sucked his breath deeply and noticed a faint smell. He smiled. Since he had entered the apartment, this was his first success. Would she miss the panties?

  He rummaged through the dirty clothes and noticed two more of the same color. He placed a pair under the top T-shirt and stuffed the first pair into his trouser pocket. She would hardly keep count. He, on the other hand, would have a very special use for the garment in just a few minutes.

  16

  Halfway through her run, Spannberg took a break and pulled the cell phone out of her jacket pocket. She wanted to check something. She had gotten into the habit since, at all times, she had to anticipate police intervention. In Hamburg, she had bought small spy cameras and installed them in various rooms. On the day she moved into Leipzig, she had quickly distributed the devices. In the living room, the bedroom, and in the hallway. Via an app, she could watch live feeds and also check the permanent recordings. The cops would never manage to surprise her within her own four walls. This measure meant that she would always be informed in advance if uninvited guests lay in wait for her. The lock on the door wasn’t enough. A lock only feigned security, but the cameras provided the real protection she needed.