by Noah Fitz
“I’m not your henchman,” Tine said.
Marc’s painstaking control began to crumble. He clenched his teeth and tried to bring his pulse into the green zone. “That is not the point. I have a distressed woman here.” He cupped the receiver with his hand and lowered his voice. “Send two officers to help me calm her down with medication. Please. We have to work together here.”
“Copy that.” Tine hung up.
“Mrs. Parker,” Marc said in a quiet voice. He crouched down to get on her level. “Where did all this blood come from? Was there a fight?” He could not ignore the distorted smile that split Mrs. Parker’s bluish, gleaming lips. Her confused look dulled even further, and she barely moved her mouth.
“Mrs. Parker. Is there anyone else in the apartment? Your husband, perhaps?”
The steps of several people echoed in the stairwell.
“Only Dixon. It was me.”
“Dixon?”
“Yes. He came to see my Enno. The two are friends. His real name is Steven, but everyone calls him Dixon. He’s Enno’s best friend. He came up here. Something about him was off today. The boys locked themselves in Enno’s room, which is not unusual. Suddenly, he started screaming, and he attacked my boy.” She put her hand over her mouth and started sobbing. As if dog-tired, she lay down on the thin carpet and silently cried.
“How can you be sure? If the door was locked, what makes you think Dixon attacked your son?”
“The door was not properly locked,” she said.
Two paramedics in bright jackets squeezed past Marc. “Please watch your step,” he said, rising up. “The best idea is to take her into the stairwell.”
“I killed him,” Mrs. Parker said. “I did it. Me. Enno did nothing.”
The paramedics gave her a shot and led her outside. Marc waited until he was alone, then followed the blood trail. He was not about to rush anything, but he had to hurry. With his elbow he pushed the handle down and carefully shoved with his shoulder against the door. It was blocked from the other side.
“Damn it,” he said. With effort, he managed to squeeze through the gap. Marc had already expected the worst, but the sight that awaited him not only confirmed his fears but exceeded them.
A dark-skinned boy lay on the floor in a black pool. The amount of blood and the torn neck told the investigator that the teenager was too late for any help. His bent legs blocked the door. Marc decided not to damage the crime scene further and dialed the number of the prosecutor’s office. The matter had just taken on greater proportions. So was Yara’s alleged suicide just the beginning of a series of crimes? Who was behind the murders? Enno? Is that why he killed himself? Had he voluntarily jumped out of the window or had he been pushed?
Marc listened to the ringing, waited for the voice, and was about to force his way back out into the hallway when he felt a sting on his left lower leg. In the next moment a violent jolt flashed through his body.
“Richard van Tulpen,” the district attorney said.
Marc squinted downward. The tendons and muscles in his left leg trembled as if after a long-distance run. Two colorful wires had been stuck into a socket. “Another challenge?”
“Excuse me?” The always bad-tempered van Tulpen sounded suspicious and slightly annoyed.
Marc described the situation to him in concise sentences. The prosecutor listened patiently without interrupting.
“I will forward the matter to a competent authority,” van Tulpen said when Marc had finished. “I think this will soon be cleared up. My guess is that this is another internet stunt that we have never heard of before. The amount of idiocy that kids take on these days for a few clicks,” he said, yawning. He laughed humorlessly.
“Do you have children?” Marc asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have children?” Marc knelt down and nudged the wires with the back of his hand. As before, he received a brief electric shock. His fingers twitched.
“No,” van Tulpen said. “What does that have to do with this call?”
“This isn’t some silly prank. Children are being slaughtered here,” Marc said. “Make sure I don’t have to wait long for a team. I need a search warrant.” He disconnected and decided to inspect the rest of the apartment. That way he could concentrate on the details.
When the smoke detector sounded, he flinched and stopped. The air smelled of burnt food. Lasagna, he remembered. He ran to the kitchen and turned off the oven. The cheese was charred; the bubbling mass had run over the edge of the casserole dish and had left black runnels. “Should have been a cozy evening,” said Marc.
Our life is a house of cards that can collapse at any time.
“Is everything all right?” An elderly policeman with a powerful mustache and drooping cheeks appeared in the doorway. Waving his hand in front of his mouth and nose, he looked around. “Lasagna? It always smells the same at home when I cook.”
Wulf measured the man with a meaningful look. “I didn’t have you sent up for the burnt food,” he said.
The policeman, who resembled a walrus, instructed a colleague to remove the smoke alarm from the ceiling, and then asked, “Busy?” The patrolman had obviously not overlooked the exhaustion on Wulf’s face.
“That’s how it is.” Marc suddenly thought of something. From the breast pocket of his coat, he pulled out the two photos he had taken from Yara’s bedroom. One of them in particular caught his eye. In it, Yara, Enno, and this kid Dixon all posed together. Considering how little evidence Marc had to go on, the fact that the children knew each other well formed another piece of the puzzle. He looked up. Other officials had entered the apartment, including Tine.
“Didn’t I order you to supervise the removal of the body?”
“I intended to do that, but Dr. Birkenholz had a different opinion,” Tine said. “Could you perhaps agree on who gives the orders here?” She covered her ears because the whistle of the smoke detector drowned out everything.
Marc looked around briefly and reached for the mop. With the handle he banged against the small device, which fell silent after a few seconds of abuse.
“I just didn’t want to put too much on you.” His voice sounded quiet. He put the mop back and smiled tiredly.
“I’ll decide for myself what I can and can’t handle. I have never had such responsibility before, I agree, but I’m not some little kid who needs your mothering.”
Marc felt something like relief. “That’s how I started out. Now look at how far I’ve come! I have a child, am divorced, and live with my mother. Is that what you want?”
“No idea. But I can’t shake the feeling that you aren’t an insensitive asshole, as many claim.” Tine’s face turned pale. “I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “It just slipped out. I didn’t have time to find another synonym.”
Both had to grin.
The shrill alarm went off again.
“Okay,” Marc said. “You asked for it. Once the crime scene is cleared, I’ll let you in on the secrets of our profession. But be prepared. Do you have many friends?” He approached her and put his hand on her shoulder. Behind Tine, a young policeman climbed a stepladder and removed the fire alarm.
Suddenly it was eerily quiet, though Marc’s ears still rang.
“What do you care about my private life?” Tine asked. “I have enough friends and acquaintances that I don’t have to spend my free time with them. What I said before shouldn’t cause you to—”
“You’re beginning to bore me, Pride. You have to start making shorter sentences. Soon your circle of friends will be cut at least in half.”
“Because… ?” Her eyebrows formed two arcs. A vertical crease split her forehead.
“Because the non-indexed measures, which will accumulate in the course of the investigation, are, in the eyes of most of your acquaintances, against every morality and every law in the world. In other words, sooner or later you will become an insensitive asshole.”
�
��I don’t think so.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“Don’t worry, you’ll learn to compensate for the loss through work.”
“I don’t find that funny.”
“Now let’s go out on the balcony and get some fresh air while our colleagues are busy here.” He pointed to the living room. “We should review everything and write down some key points. You type and I dictate. Does your smartphone have a transcription program?”
Tine nodded and avoided some of the men and women who were doing their respective jobs, including Dr. Birkenholz and Walter Bruckner, the head of forensics.
Bruckner cut them off. “You really do attract the dead.” He wore a white Tyvek suit and looked even bigger than when they had last met.
“Rather the other way round,” said Marc. “Come on, Pride. We’re going downstairs. With so much authority, the air is getting pretty thin here. They should take the door to Enno’s room off its hinges. Behind it is a dead boy. If you’ve had your dinner, you shouldn’t want to look at it.”
“I often dine with my dead,” Dr. Birkenholz countered. “At least they listen to me, unlike most of my colleagues.” The corpulent lady held her sides. “I should have preferred to take the elevator, but those things are even more unreliable than my husband. Where is the dead man?” She looked at Marc first, then at Bruckner.
“Look out!” cried a man in the hallway.
Marc pulled the forensic doctor out of the way.
“All is well!” the man in the hall said. “I’ve got her, I’ve got her. I’ve got the door, I mean!” The technician in a white jumpsuit balanced the door through the frame and set it down in the hallway. “Whoa!” he said, making a choking sound. “He’s been butchered.”
“Make way.” Bruckner plucked two blue disposable gloves from a box, pulled them quickly over his hands, and shouted, “Schorschi, get the markers. Quickly. We need at least five of them. And tell Martin to get his ass up here with the camera. Hurry up!”
A gangly policeman brought the triangular markers from the stairwell and distributed them around the body. This allowed the officers to examine the crime scene without contaminating it with footprints. The men and women in white suits walked around it like actors on a small stage.
Marc felt out of place. A dark-skinned patrolman tried to usher them out. “We will inform you as soon as we have finished our work here.”
“I’ll only take one or two photos, then I’ll be gone,” Marc said. “Meanwhile, you can keep Ms. Stolz company and get her a coffee. There should be some downstairs. Ask for Anette. She’s about this tall,” he said, raising his hand at shoulder height, “and she has red hair and talks a lot. Hard to miss.”
The young official was visibly stunned and turned to his superior.
“Go ahead,” Bruckner agreed, laughing. It sounded less like laughter and more like the grunting of a wild animal.
“I just want to take a picture,” Marc said.
“It’s against regulations.” The policeman blocked Marc from entering the room. “You can’t come in until the work is finished.”
Tine stood in front of the entrance and waited.
“Leave him, Tamir. This man is stubborn as an ox. Accompany Ms. Stolz downstairs and then bring me the gray suitcase with the red sticker.”
Tamir relaxed. “Sorry, I’m just following orders.”
“No offense,” Marc said. “You’re young and I assume capable of learning.”
Tamir was a gentleman; he held the door open for Tine and made room so that she could leave the apartment.
“Lay out more markers,” Brucker said. “We need a clear trail, otherwise you’ll destroy all traces.” He pulled the hood over his head, which made him look like Bigfoot in winter.
With the diligence of a professional, Marc put the shoe covers on over his Doc Martens. Only then did he enter the room.
“Just a few photos,” Bruckner reminded him. “And you’ll stay in the doorway.”
Wulf obeyed and searched for a suitable angle. He took out his cell phone and pressed the shutter release a dozen times.
“That’s enough,” Bruckner said. “You, and you, too. You all get out of here. Where is that photographer? Georg, where is Martin? Am I the only one responsible here, or what?”
“I’m on my way!”
Marc shook his head, amused. An employee with a high-pitched voice rushed over. His posture and the movements of his arms were too graceful for a man. On top of that, his overalls were not white, but pale pink.
Marc swiped over the display of his cell phone. The snapshots should be reasonably useful.
“Martin! Come here or I’ll pull your ears out,” Bruckner said.
“I’m a martyr,” Martin said. Either the man was French, or he could very well imitate one. The guy certainly didn’t look like a son of Mars, let alone a warrior, but he was brave and didn’t let the coarse words of his hulking boss upset him. Like Goliath fighting the giant, only in a pink robe.
“Thou shalt hold the subject of the find from every angle.” Despite his enormous size, Bruckner skillfully stepped over the markers and made notes. The room was illuminated by bright lighting.
Subject, Marc repeated thoughtfully and moved toward the stairs. The boy’s corpse has become a subject, the subject of investigation. Compartmentalizing was the only way to keep a clear head and prevent insanity. At first, it was hard for anyone to cope with such a sight. Marc felt compassion for the bereaved. Even now, his neck prickled at the thought of having to tell Dixon’s parents the terrible news, but in all these years he had managed to build up a healthy distance from his work.
Lost in thought, he trotted down the stairs and rewound the day in his mind.
Chapter 19
If everything goes according to plan, the whole thing will end in a catastrophe at some point. Nothing has gone according to plan today. Enno chickened out, only to throw himself out the window.
My palms are damp. My fingers are scurrying across the keyboard. I delete all connections to Enno and Dixon.
That idiot should have noticed when I interrupted the upload of the video. Also, Yara’s video was not streamed because I didn’t want to cause a panic. I was inwardly celebrating today’s result, but then Dixon showed up. Had he smelled a fuse? But how?
The computer makes a pling sound.
Done.
A heavy weight falls from my chest. I have erased all digital traces—all visible traces anyway. The internet never forgets. Slightly exhausted, I lean back in my chair and listen to the sounds that penetrate through the tilted window into my room.
I close my eyes and try to shake off the tiredness, stretching my fingers and letting my knuckles crack.
I lift my heavy lids and look at the screen. My right hand rests on the mouse. With my index finger I scroll the wheel and let the screenshots and video segments slide past me. Dead, distorted faces with broken eyes and bones flit past.
In my head I hear the voice of my psychiatrist.
Yes, I admit, I’m a bit out of my mind. I owe that to an accident, and since then I’ve had a crack in my bowl.
I smell my psychiatrist’s fruit tea, hear the creaking, and feel the cold of the leather sofa on which I have sat for many hours.
“There is always a way out,” the old man said. His mustache, as thin as if he had drawn it with a pencil, moved with his lips. “You just have to find the right door. I will help you find it.”
I laugh cynically and enlarge the photo of Dixon until all I can see is his dark eye. I have already opened three doors wide. My mouth twists and turns into a grin. I can see my face in the reflection of the screen.
Yara, Enno, and Dixon. I close the laptop and decide to go for a run. No, I don’t want to jog, nor do I want to meet any shady characters. I just want to go for a walk, collect my thoughts, and plan my next step through another door.
Chapter 20
Berlin | Police Headquarters
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br /> Tine massaged her nose with thumb and index finger. Her steps echoed through the long corridor. All last night—there had been perhaps four hours she had spent in bed with her eyes closed—she had dreamt of a crying woman. Mrs. Dixon. When asked what her son had been like, the woman had only offered standard platitudes. Steven may not have been a model student, but he was nice and knew how to behave in public. He had never been particularly negative, at least not more than the others. A lively boy who’d lived through a bad time. He was in the middle of puberty and had been abandoned by his father.
Tine was the one who had spoken to the woman and held her tear-stained hand. Wulf had just leaned against the doorframe and listened. When an uncomfortable silence arose and Tine could think of nothing more to say, Wulf had said something that tore Mrs. Dixon out of her state of deep sadness: “Your son lived his life, now you must try to live yours.”
Tine felt the twitching of Mrs. Dixon’s fingers as the bereaved mother sniffed and gave Wulf a scathing look. “I Imagined the aversion I feel toward you could not possibly be increased. But now I know you’re an unfeeling pig.”
Marc remained unmoved. “I know that time does not heal wounds. One simply learns to live with loss. This pain in your heart will eventually subside. The sting will eventually get smaller. You mustn’t blame yourself.” Wulf pushed himself away from the doorframe and walked with small steps toward Mrs. Dixon, who sat next to Tine on the soft edge of the sofa. “You believe something has gone decidedly wrong in your life, but you don’t know what mistake you’ve made. You mustn’t blame yourself. It happened, and there was nothing you could do about it.”
“What do you know about feelings?” Mrs. Dixon said. “Have you ever lost someone close to you? Someone who meant more to you than your own life?”
The inspector took his time with his answer. Tine sensed how breathlessly Mrs. Dixon waited for a response. Her fingers seized up, squeezing Tine’s hand painfully.
“I was seven at the time,” Marc Wulf began.
Mrs. Dixon dabbed her eyes with a damp, ripped handkerchief and sniffed loudly. Her entire body trembled.
