by Noah Fitz
“Why did you actually decide on this career path?” he asked, rolling down the driver’s window a bit because he didn’t like Tine’s somewhat sweet perfume. “Did someone from your family die and their death was never cleared up?”
“No,” she said.
“She lies.” He stopped at an intersection and looked at Tine seriously. “The mask you’re trying to hide behind is already showing cracks.”
“My uncle died in a car accident, so I wanted to work patrol first. But then it all worked out like this.”
Marc put the blinker on but did not drive off. He also ignored the wild honking behind them.
“Something tells me that you’re lying to me,” he said. “We can’t build a partnership like that. Partners must be able to trust each other. And you should use your perfume more sparingly in the future. It’s too dominant. At some crime scenes, our sense of smell can tell us something about the crime.”
“Sorry.” Tine cracked the passenger window.
“So? Why did you want to join the police?”
“That was the truth,” she said.
The driver behind them flashed his headlights. Marc got out of the car, went back, showed the man his badge and explained with deadly seriousness that he would cut off the man’s left ear if he didn’t behave himself for the next five minutes. Then he went to the other side of the car and addressed the passenger. “If you think your friend’s a wimp because he didn’t spit on me or yell at me, let me tell you something, buddy. If you keep grinning like that, I’ll cut off your right ear. It’s no joke, right, pal?” He threw a questioning glance at the driver.
The tall guy with the angularly clipped beard nodded. His dark, neatly plucked eyebrows were dyed black, just like his beard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wulf. I didn’t immediately recognize your car.”
“How many red Audi 80 ‘90s are still driving around Berlin, you simpleton?”
“You’re right, Mr. Wulf, my mistake. I vow to make amends. It’s almost a classic.”
“Are you making fun of me?” Marc stuck his head inside the car. “Have you been smoking weed?”
“Wulf, like the wolf…” The passenger laughed. He looked buff and wore a sleeveless muscle shirt even in this weather. And of course he had a golden curb chain. His square skull was shorn bald.
Inspector Wulf’s right hand closed abruptly around the man’s neck and squeezed his larynx. Marc bared his teeth and gave him a predatory smile. “What are you, a class clown?” He took out his knife and pressed it against the bald passenger’s ear. “Don’t either of you pull out your fucking phones! I’m going to prove a point to this person. Remember my name, friend.”
Suddenly a third guy sat up in the back seat. He got out of the car like a cultured poodle. He was slim, had snow-white hair and a goatee. He put his hands in the air as if to surrender. “Forgive my friend. He’s new to the area and doesn’t yet know how the rabbit runs,” the guy with the goatee explained. “My hands are up, just as you like. Please don’t cut off his ear. We want to get married soon.”
“Aha.” Wulf put the knife away. “Behave yourselves, and all the best for the future.” He patted the bald man on the cheek. “Which of you two is the bride—or is that question rude?”
“There is no bride,” the goatee man said, waving his arms merrily.
“Okay. Be good and nothing will happen to you.”
Marc strolled back to his car. With a thoughtful expression he threw himself into the seat. “These guys only understand Faust, but that’s not Goethe.”
“Your jokes are not funny.”
“I think they are. So out with the truth.”
“I told you the truth.”
“Do you know that the past determines our future and that we are constantly caught up by it? I don’t want to philosophize. I’m not good at it. What I can do, though, is read people. When we’re confronted with negative memories, our audible resonance expands, which makes our pronunciation shaky. Our voices reflect our inner state. And your left eye twitched. A micro-expression, a further confirmation of your discomfort.”
The redness in Tine’s cheeks deepened. “Are you really such an expert in your field, or do you just want to show off your knowledge?” she asked.
“I spend my time reading books,” Marc said, unmoved.
“Did they assign you this case because you’re good, or because nobody likes you?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Never judge too hastily. What do your friends call you?”
“Egyptian,” Tine said.
“You know what I suspect? Pride.”
Tine remained silent.
“You can’t exactly brag about having a large circle of friends, either,” Marc said.
Tine glared at him. “Do you really think the girl was murdered?” An obvious subject change.
Marc indulged her. “The most important clues about the mental state of an individual are usually found in his or her home environment,” he said. “Especially when it comes to children. Yara has a younger brother, but he’s still too young to tell us anything about his sister. Parents are usually the wrong people to talk to when their children are in trouble, but we’ll try our best.”
The traffic light jumped back to red.
“We’d better drive on. The two lovebirds behind us are late for the bridal store. They’re picking out wedding dresses. If at some point you decide to invite me to your home, I will show you what inconspicuous objects reveal about you. After all, we keep the things that help us remember the past.”
The light turned green again, but Marc didn’t drive off. He waited until the light turned yellow before accelerating. The engine of the flashy Mercedes behind them howled, but then the car stopped, halted by the light. Marc grinned crookedly. “Young guys these days. Always in such a hurry.”
Chapter 10
Enno cries on my screen. I have his front camera fully under control, so I can watch him. He is sitting on his bed. Posters hang above it. Muscle men. Half-naked. Weight trained. Their tanned bodies shine. Enno sits on the rumpled blanket and hugs the pillow tightly against his chest. His curly mane glistens wetly. He has showered and dyed his hair blue. Despite his youthful age, his hair is naturally snow-white, like that of an old man, so the color never lasts long.
The wave of pain caused by fear and panic attacks has obviously reached its peak. Enno is devastated. He knows that he is hanging like a puppet on the threads, which I have wrapped tightly around my fingers. Yara was also one of my puppets. Now she is dead.
“Serves you right,” I say and tear up the photo, from which Yara grins at me with superimposed cheerfulness.
“Yara… I really loved you… like a sister,” Enno says. He flings the pillow across the room.
I tug at my upper lip, struggling with myself. Was what I did right? Shall I turn back? Or should I go one step further?
“I’m really sorry,” Enno says. “I shouldn’t have cheated on you.” A bubble forms on his lips and bursts silently. The gooey film on his mouth stretches to a transparent thread. “You said there’s always a way out.” He laughs cynically and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “You were wrong. The playmaker set a trap for you. Now it’s my turn. I’m supposed to plug these wires into a socket. Peer almost died in the process. He showed me his fingers. They still smell like burned feathers.”
A soft hiss. Enno lights up a joint. With the drugs he tries to contain the anxiety and fear that has haunted him the past few weeks. “Maybe I should go to the police after all? Or come out? I hardly sleep. The nightmares get worse every night. I’ll fail again this year. My mother will kill me.” He massages his temples and takes a pull off his joint.
I send him a message with a short video attached. He shifts, and the picture perspective changes. I am no longer looking at Enno from the side, but directly from below. He stares at me without seeing me.
He cries out. I hear him moaning in the
video. Funny how such a quick fuck in the men’s room can ruin your whole life.
“You still have eight hours to prepare for the challenge,” he says, reading my message aloud in a scratchy voice. “Otherwise this video goes online.”
Enno balls his right hand into a fist. “Fuck! Fuck you, asshole! Fuck you! Fuck you, motherfucker!” He screams like a hysterical woman, and a crying spasm seizes his whole body. He falls to the side and starts trembling like an epileptic.
At this point, I type, I would like to apologize from the bottom of my heart for all the trouble I have caused you, you wanker.
I tap Send. The emotional outburst lands on my computer and is saved, just like the others before it. Just more leverage to force Enno into making the right decision.
Goodbye, Enno, I type. If you pass this test—and it’s not impossible, you experienced it live with your buddy Peer—then you will get your second ribbon. You will find it at a certain place.
The message pops up on his screen. He has stopped screaming and reads the text through his tears.
After that I can stop? he writes back.
There will be no after that, but I keep this secret to myself.
Chapter 11
Marktheide
Hannah lay curled up like an embryo in her daughter’s bed and stared at the ceiling. Her face resembled a death mask. Even her eyes had lost their brilliance. Everything here smelled of Yara.
Her husband sat next to her on the floor, legs to his chest, head resting on his knees.
Unsightly images and self-reproaches haunted Hannah’s mind and left her no peace. She already thought she was losing her mind. Only fragmentary impressions remained of the funeral service, although it had been only a few days ago. But what she remembered in excruciating detail was the smell and the feeling she had felt when Yara had been a little girl. Yara had loved fairy tales. Story time before bed had quickly become a ritual. Hannah and her husband had always taken turns reading aloud.
Why had their daughter taken her own life? The question forced itself into Hannah’s head over and over, chasing a searing pain through her heart, which refused to stand still. It just kept beating. Did Yara learn from one of her friends that we adopted her? Hannah wondered. Tears rolled down her cheeks and puddled inside her ears. She didn’t even blink.
More and more questions came to her.
Another ugly scene came to Hannah. Yara had been angry that day. Yelling, slamming doors. She had stormed into the kitchen to announce that she was moving out. She was bleeding from the corner of her mouth. When Kurt asked her about it, she flipped him off and said it was none of his business.
Kurt lost his mind then. He jumped up and grabbed her roughly by the wrist. “You’ve changed. And not for the better. Since you started wearing those damn wristbands, you’ve changed.” He tore open one of the drawers, still clutching her arm. Cutlery jingled.
Yara cried out and bit the back of his hand. Kurt roared and threw her against the wall, then approached her with a pair of scissors.
“Go ahead! Slit my throat! I can’t stand this shit anymore!” Yara said.
Kurt stopped, shocked. “I just wanted to cut the ribbons,” he said. “What’s gotten into you? You can talk to us about anything!” Desperately, he knelt before the girl. Hannah stood beside him, hands in front of her mouth.
“Where’s your tooth?” Kurt asked, but the question was drowned out by Yara’s curses.
“I don’t want to live like this anymore!” she said.
Two days later she was dead.
Again, Hannah’s chest contracted. The room still smelled of her daughter, her perfume, which had been far too sweet. That had also been a point of contention.
“The whole house stinks of your scent!” Hannah had told her. Yara would fog the air with it before leaving the house, and it irritated Hannah every time. The half-empty bottle now stood on the dresser under the mirror. The white frame was peppered with small photos.
***
“How can I go on living without my daughter?” Hannah had asked days before.
A man sat across from her. He had white hair and wore a black suit. “I’m only a psychologist,” he said, “not a soul healer.” Still, he offered a gentle smile and put his warm hand on Hannah’s cold fingers. “I can support you in coping with your grief,” he said, “but without your cooperation, I, too, will fail. As will the clergyman you drove out of the house.”
Kurt had thrown the pastor out because the bald man had preached uninterruptedly about God’s love and his unfathomable ways.
“My husband and I only fight because we no longer understand each other,” she said. She sounded congested, sick, but it was just from all the crying.
“Men and women process this difficult phase in different ways,” the psychologist said. “Trying to return to a life in which the most important person is missing. Comparing themselves in this respect distances them even further from each other and makes a tense situation even worse. As hard as it sounds, you need to take a step forward. Your life goes on without Yara, but she lives on in your memory. In your memory, she will always remain your beloved fourteen-year-old daughter. And remember, you still have a son who needs you both. So I suggest you make a commitment today or tomorrow to try to get your life back on track.”
***
Make a commitment. Hannah thought of the kitchen knife she had received from her parents on her fortieth birthday. Japanese steel, sharp like a razor blade, and nice and narrow. A vague idea took shape, wrapping around her mind like a cold, damp mist.
How would it feel to stab yourself through the heart with a knife? How much strength would it take? She was not even able to stand upright, let alone walk into the kitchen without support. Tears of rage boiled up, but it was short lived. Her eyelids twitched and slowly closed, and she began to drift away. But suddenly she was torn from her twilight state by a dull thud. She jumped and gave a choked scream.
Kurt leapt up and looked around, obviously dazed. He blinked and breathed heavily. “What? What happened?” It seemed to take him a moment to realize where he was. “Honey?” He went down on his knees.
Knurr, the old dog, growled and yawned, opening his mouth. He had knocked over a glass that was now lying on the floor.
“He’s hungry,” Hannah said. She prepared to peel herself out of bed.
“Come on, let me help you,” Kurt said. There was something like hope in his words. His warm hands gently supported Hannah under her armpits. Knurr wagged his tail and waited impatiently in the doorway for them.
Hannah’s naked feet clapped on the floor.
“Where are your socks?” Kurt asked.
“I was so hot earlier.” For a moment, they seemed to forget that their daughter was no longer there. But then the doorbell rang, dragging them back into the world of horror where Yara had fallen off the bridge.
Knurr gave a muffled bark.
It’s Yara, Hannah thought, even though she knew it wasn’t.
“Honey,” she said, “you should call your parents. Please ask them how Emil is doing. I want my boy back.”
“I will,” Kurt said as he patted the sheepdog’s flank and grabbed the receiver of the intercom.
Chapter 12
“Just stay calm,” Marc said. “If you’re uncertain—” He was interrupted by a click and a hesitant “Hello?” from the intercom.
“Good afternoon. This is Chief Inspector Marc Wulf.”
“What do you want?” the voice on the intercom said. It belonged to Mr. Michel, the girl’s father.
“I have a few questions for you.”
“Please,” Michel said, “we just want to be left alone.”
“Listen…” Marc lowered his voice to make it clear to the man that he really just wanted to talk. “My young colleague here specializes in talking to traumatized parents about the loss of their children. She just wants to help.”
Tine inhaled sharply, but Ma
rc ignored her and pressed on.
“We don’t believe Yara took her own life. Which is why we desperately need answers.” He waited for the click of Michel hanging up on him. But all he heard was a mechanical noise and the man’s heavy breathing.
Marc bent closer to the speaker, but Tine tugged him back by the jacket.
“I’m not trained for that at all!” she said and pressed her lips together into a white line. Tine was one of those women who looked better without makeup, Marc noted. He raised his shoulders.
“You should have told me,” he whispered back. “You could have said no when you were assigned to me.”
“What choice did I have?”
“Everyone has a choice,” Marc said, still waiting for the click.
“Now what?”
“Tighten up your butt cheeks and just play along,” he said.
Tine’s eyes became large. “I… what?”
“It’s just a saying. Fate is an asshole, we both know that.”
“In that case, you have the fate of my career in your hands.”
“Don’t hope for too much, Pride.”
Before Tine could reply, the locking mechanism rattled.
Marc pushed open the heavy door. From the outside, the apartment building looked neglected, but inside the air smelled like floor cleaner. Despite the nasty weather, the stairs were clean, and the lemon scent from the disinfectant also clung in the stairwell. Even the walls were spotless and white.
Together the inspectors climbed to the second floor. They stopped in front of a door that was open just a crack. Through the narrow gap above the chain lock, the wasted face of Mr. Michel appeared.
“Good afternoon. Ms. Stolz and I—my name is Marc Wulf—we have a few questions for you. After that we’ll be off again, I promise. May we come in?”
A deep growl.
Marc frowned and looked down at the man’s feet. A black snout with bared teeth tried to squeeze through the gap.
