Not Her

by Noah Fitz

  “Spooky, isn’t it?” Marc said. “I like this place. I feel isolated here. It allows me to concentrate better on the essentials if I’m not constantly disturbed by the sudden appearance of a colleague.”

  “How do you do it?”

  Marc stopped for a moment but continued when Tine did not slow down. “How do you think?”

  “Those dead children, and all.”

  “You will learn in time. You must try to keep your feelings out of it. To feel compassion for the victims and their survivors is human and acceptable. Unfortunately, empathy greatly limits your impartiality.”

  “With you as my partner, I will soon become a psychopath myself.”

  “I hope so. Being the only one in the building makes you lonely.”

  Tine laughed; Marc only smiled. Visibly in a better mood they hurried to the elevators. Marc pressed the button, and both hung on to their thoughts. This time the silence stretched out.

  “And if we’re wrong?” Tine said, finally expressing her concern. Her soft words seemed to melt and sink in the deep hum of the cooling units. “Perhaps this small group is the elite?”

  “A good approach.”

  “That’s what you originally thought, wasn’t it? You deliberately steered me in the opposite direction.”

  “That is also true. You must learn to make your own decisions…”

  “… to make unbiased decisions and not to let myself be influenced,” Tine said, finishing the sentence.

  The doors of the elevator slipped open.

  “That’s right, Inspector Stolz.” With a sweeping gesture, Marc let her go first.

  Tine felt a soft, silvery tingle of pride in her chest. “Do you have any more tips?”

  “Do not always speak your thoughts aloud. Anything you give thoughtlessly can undo what remains unsaid.”

  The doors closed. Marc pressed a button that was different from the others. It shone almost like a mirror because it was used the most.

  “I don’t quite understand that,” Tine said.

  A slight jerk, then the cabin started to move. Tine’s gaze still hung on the shimmering button.

  “If you make a report without substantiating it with evidence, or at least circumstantial evidence, it is not a representation of facts, but pure speculation. That could lead our investigation to a dead end. Do not be hasty. Weigh everything before you pass judgment. If a suspect’s head is chopped off, it cannot be sewn back on and the media would lynch you for it. And don’t try to please everyone. We’re all just tiny wheels of a complex engine; each of us is replaceable. The more you sacrifice yourself for the others, the faster you will be replaced. Because you wear out like the rest of us.”

  Tine just nodded and detached herself from the metallic shine of the button as the doors slid apart again. This button does the same job as the others but is replaced more often because it is used the most, she thought as she stepped out into the hall. I will not become this button.

  “Come on, Pride. We got a lot of work to do.” Marc walked ahead. “Our new doorman must like you.” A playful smile flitted across his lips.

  “He looks like a serial killer,” Tine said. “I don’t like him. He followed me all the way down to the basement.” She switched sides as if she wanted to seek shelter behind Marc, but she resisted the urge to accelerate her steps.

  “Hello, Marwin,” Marc said, greeting the man behind the steamed-up window. “The lady is already taken,” he added, and then raised his hand to his forehead in salute. “Her old man is in the Navy and very jealous. So keep your hands off her.”

  The deep furrows in Marwin’s cheeks turned dark. His gaze clouded. “I-I just w-wanted to be nice,” he said. His voice, distorted by the microphone, sounded tinny.

  “Nothing wrong with that. Just wanted to warn you about inappropriateness.”

  “Thank you,” said Tine as they stepped out into the cold.

  “You’re welcome. That guy gives me the creeps too.”

  “How did you know he had an eye on me?”

  “I can read faces.”

  “Why is he doing this?”

  “Do you never look in the mirror? Other men look at you, too.”

  Tine blushed. “I wasn’t talking about that Marwin guy!”

  “Oh, simple. He’s out for revenge. I strongly assume that this is a personally motivated act. But the perpetrator does it very cleverly. He manipulates his victims and, strictly speaking, he doesn’t kill them.”

  They hurried to Marc’s car. Fine raindrops pattered on Tine’s face. The cooling down did her good.

  “His actions make me suspect that he planned his deeds long ago,” Marc said. “Nevertheless, I can see a latent uncertainty in his actions. He is not a professional. Much depends on chance.”

  “You mean the double homicide wasn’t on purpose?”

  “No. I think that was more or less an accident.” Marc sat down in the Audi, bent over the passenger seat and pulled the lock up so Tine could get in.

  It suddenly occurred to her that she did not have that much cash on her. In fact, none at all. “Can we drive by an ATM?”

  “A coffee and a sandwich are on expenses. The rest we are allowed to pay from the flat-rate movement allowance. We are, after all, with the criminal investigation department.” He smiled a little.

  Tine strapped herself in and leaned her head back.

  Chapter 21

  Berlin | Eichwalde

  “Grandma, when is Daddy coming?”

  “I don’t know, my dear. He’s with the police and has to hunt criminals.” She tousled Luck’s blond curls and kissed him on the head. She had been doing that ever since he could remember. “Is your throat still sore?” she asked.

  “Nope. He hunts murderers, not criminals.” Luck made a proud face. “I’m already nine, you don’t have to talk to me like a baby.” He stirred his spoon in his hot cocoa, which his Grandma had sweetened with wildflower honey. Actually, he wasn’t sick at all, but he didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He didn’t want to see his father only every two weeks, so he had convinced his mother that he had a sore throat. His mom had to go to the hairdresser, or a makeup artist; Luck didn’t know which one for sure. In any case, he was finally at Grandma’s. He was even allowed to spend the night with her.

  “What are those funny bracelets on your arm?” his grandmother asked. She grabbed his wrist with warm, gnarled fingers to take a closer look. Although she was old, she did not wear glasses. Her chunky fingers trembled slightly.

  Luck was silent because he couldn’t think of anything to say. “These are fake,” he said finally.

  “Isn’t that a nasty word?” His grandmother let go of Luck’s hand and sat down on the chair. She straightened the white tablecloth.

  Luck laughed. “Grandma! I said fake. Not… the F-word. It means these things aren’t real.”

  She tilted her head. In her hair there were big rollers. “What do they mean?”

  “I’m going to secondary school soon and these things are a big thing there. They’re all the rage.” Luck took a big sip of his cocoa. The glass was still half full.

  “You think those bracelets are hot and you’re into it?”

  Again, Luck had to laugh, so hard that the cocoa even ran out of his nose and started to burn, but he couldn’t stop. “Grandma, you’re so smart.” He snorted and dabbed his face with a kitchen towel.

  “Now you’ve stained your nice shirt.”

  It was just a cheap T-shirt, but Luck didn’t want to be super smart and constantly correct his grandma.

  “Wait,” she said. Shuffling quietly across the floor with her slippers, she left the kitchen. Luck seized the moment, jumped off the chair and hurried to the sink. The glass was quickly emptied; the sticky milk disappeared in the drain.

  “Didn’t you like your cocoa?” Grandma was in the door again.

  “I did. I just wanted to rinse the glass.” Luck turned on the tap
and left the water running.

  She smiled as proudly as only a grandmother could smile. “Look what I have here.” She was even more radiant.

  Only now did Luck notice what his grandma was holding in her hands. A small box. She put it on the table and returned to her chair. She sighed and smoothed the tablecloth again. She did that all the time.

  “I am getting old.” She smiled tiredly. “Rheumatism is getting to me,” she added and took off the lid. “Look, Lucky, look what I have here.” She knocked on the table and waited until her grandson was seated too. Her eyes shimmered like two murky puddles.

  Luck squatted on the chair with bent legs and leaned his slender upper body over the edge of the table, supporting himself with his hands and stretching his neck.

  “Here. I kept them all. Some I got with an envelope and some with a parcel. How do you like a bracelet like this? Must be long enough.” She untangled one of the ribbons from the ball and held it up to the light.

  “Pink is for girls,” Luck said.

  “It used to be the color of the young kings,” his grandmother said and plucked out two more. “Blue or green?” She raised her brows questioningly. The wrinkles on her forehead became deep furrows.

  “Green,” Luck said with little enthusiasm. He let himself sink back into his chair. “But it’s not the same, Grandma.”

  “Would you like one with kittens? That’s for boys, isn’t it? This is what’s left of your last present.”

  “Can I call Dad?” He wiggled his legs and tugged at his bracelets.

  “He’s not going to answer, anyway.” His grandmother was busy rearranging the ribbon snippets. She sounded sad now. “Marc, your dad I mean, is a busy man. But that doesn’t mean he loves you any less than your mom or me. You know how much your grandma loves you.” She caressed his cheek.

  Luck pushed her hand away. “Grandma! I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “Shall I iron this green one for you now?”

  Luck shook his head. He decided to cut the three ribbons in red, black, and purple from his wrist. “Do you have scissors?”

  “Yes. They’re in the drawer. But I better get them myself. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

  Luck jumped hastily from his chair and pulled at the drawer. The big scissors were by the knives. He reached for them and cut all three ribbons at once.

  “Lucky!” His grandmother clapped her hands over her head in shock. “Never do that again! Your daddy will scold me!”

  “I can do that at home too, Grandma.” Luck threw the ribbons in the trash and ran into the living room. “Can I watch TV?”

  “Yes,” said his grandmother.

  The boy hopped on the bulky sofa and grabbed the remote control. Suddenly he remembered there was no internet in this house and therefore no Netflix. Bored, he zapped through the channels and finally switched off the TV again, letting himself fall on his back, sulking. His cell phone still had battery power and his data was not yet completely used up.

  Luck wiped across the screen and logged in.

  BE BRAVE OR DIE.

  The four words appeared on a yellow background and changed colors from black to red. Luck had learned of the game from his schoolmate, Tarek. He would have loved to be part of the games as well, but so far he had only been allowed to watch two of the challenges. He was new and had registered only three weeks ago. His fingers were tingling. He went through the rankings. There were only the nicknames. Some were crossed out in black.

  “Would you like some candy?” Grandma was in the doorway again.

  Startled, Luck logged out and stuffed the cell phone in his pocket. “No,” he said. “I’m tired.” He really was. His neck was itchy. He pulled at the cuddly blanket.

  “Let me help you, son.” Grandma covered him and put a second pillow under his head. Luck was seized by a pleasant heaviness. He drifted away and imagined himself crossing the street at a red light or riding his bicycle into a roundabout without paying attention to the cars. Just like Peer. Tarek had told him how Peer had been zapped by an electric shock without dying. Peer was his idol, and Luck wanted nothing more than to become like that boy. He opened his eyes.

  “Grandma? Do you have a piece of wire somewhere?” he said in a husky voice.

  “Your grandpa had some in the basement. But don’t you dare go down there in the dark,” she called from the kitchen. “I’ll make us some dinner.”

  Luck would not go down to the basement. His grandpa had hanged himself down there and it had been haunted ever since. Peer was much older, too. Playing with electricity was much too dangerous, Luck decided. He turned on his side and fell asleep.

  Chapter 22

  Marktheide | October Street

  Tine breathed some warmth into her hands. The Parkers’ apartment was empty. Soulless. The cold air that came in through two cracked windows did not smell fresh.

  Marc consulted his watch and took notes.

  The door to Enno Parker’s room was still leaning in the hallway. The puddle of blood had dried up at the edges of the room, though in the middle the mass was still slippery. An ugly feeling, intensified many times over by the cold, made Tine shiver. “The boy was murdered by his best friend,” she said.

  “Shhhh.” Marc listened intently to a noise in the background.

  Tine followed him into the narrow corridor.

  A soft, short clatter behind a closed door at the end of the corridor made the two of them spin around. Tine heard herself breathing heavily. Marc reached for his service weapon without taking the safety off. He kept the barrel pointed at the ground.

  A ghostly silence crept toward Tine over the pale walls, breathing on her with icy breath.

  On tiptoes, Marc crept forward. Tine followed him hesitantly. When something clattered again, she uttered a sharp scream. A scurry. Silence. A violent slamming and the bloodcurdling scream of an animal.

  “Police!” Marc shouted. He let a moment pass before reaching for the door handle. Before he could grab it, though, the door opened.

  “Why are you making all this noise?” Walter Bruckner said, blocking the passage with his massive body.

  Marc aimed his service weapon at the man.

  “Wow!” Bruckner said. “Get that thing away from my head!”

  The chief inspector put his gun away.

  The forensic scientist puffed and pressed his fleshy hand to his chest. “You gave me a fright,” he said.

  Marc tugged at the sleeves of his coat. “Why are you still here?”

  “I hadn’t left yet,” said the tall man. He looked paler than usual, and his tired eyes were red rimmed.

  “What are you doing here?” Marc repeated. He sounded serious and authoritarian.

  “I just wanted to check on something.” Bruckner made room. After the investigators’ thorough search, Mrs. Parker’s bedroom looked as chaotic as the rest of the apartment. “We forgot to check the window for signs of burglary. A neighbor on the second floor reported that the Parker family had been broken into before. But that was two years ago.” Bruckner sounded meek, as if the omission was unforgivable.

  Tine found her voice again. “And the scream earlier?”

  “Just a cat I scared. It was on the prowl and had jumped down on the skylight. The pigeons got away.” He took off his right glove and scratched noisily at the stubble on his chin. His inquisitive eyes pierced Tine. “You’re new to the police. Can you feel that tingling sensation? The feverish desire to solve a case as quickly as possible? I used to love that feeling. The smell, the omnipresence of death. Oh, how quickly you get older. Now every case is routine.”

  Tine remained silent.

  “But this crime,” Brucker continued, “this crime’s different. It looks like a series.” His eyes took on a feverish glow again. “Would you like to be the first to catch the killer while the trail is still hot? Would you like to be the one who provides the decisive clue, who makes the breakthrough in the investiga
tion and completes the picture?”

  Again, Tine did not answer.

  “Leave her alone, Walter,” Marc said. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

  “I would love to be twenty again,” Bruckner said.

  “I’m twenty-eight,” Tine corrected.

  Bruckner smiled, almost like a father humoring a child. “I’ll deliver the preliminary report tomorrow. Take care of yourself.” With those words, he left the apartment.

  Marc and Tine returned to Enno’s room.

  “Why do serial killers remain undiscovered for such a long period of time?” Tine asked, making her way deeper into the bedroom. She trod carefully, making sure to stay on the step markers.

  “They’re like chameleons,” Marc said. “They don’t really stand out in their social environment. That type of person integrates into society and adapts quickly to the circumstances.”

  “Before I forget!” someone shouted behind them.

  Tine spun around.

  Walter Bruckner stood before them once again.

  “What?” Marc said.

  “We found traces of sperm on the clothing of Enno Parker.”

  “And?”

  “On the wrong side of his boxers,” Bruckner said. “So Martin was probably right, the boy was at least bisexual. Furthermore, we did not find any active or passive defensive injuries on the forearms of Steve Dixon. Also, no serious flesh wounds, except for those on the neck. Only on the mother. A deep puncture in the palm of her hand. Obviously she wanted to reach for the blade or protect her face with her hand.”

  “I interviewed her myself,” Tine said. “She claims she cut herself on the face and later on the hand because she couldn’t get the door open. So she went through the living room to the balcony to see what had happened to her son.”

  “The door was blocked,” Bruckner recalled.

  Marc straightened up. “What else?”

  “Blood stains on the back of the dark-skinned boy. This Enno tried to turn him over onto his back. He also covered the wound with both hands for a while. I don’t think it was intentional. He didn’t want to kill his friend.”