Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  Jan smiled. “Nice day today.” He pointed at the gray sky, which was growing darker by the second.

  The man walked past Jan without taking his eyes off him, as if expecting to be mugged at any moment. Jan kept smiling, which didn’t seem to help matters. Once the dog owner had gotten a safe distance from Jan, he turned and continued on at a faster pace.

  As a precaution, Jan chose to go in the opposite direction down the path. He saw a high fence surrounding the garden plots. A wall of bushes and trees blocked his view inside.

  After a short walk, he came to an outdoor café. Tables filled a beer garden, inviting visitors to take a break, all surrounded by a little white fence. It was pretty quiet at this hour. A man was wiping down chairs with a rag while a young woman placed vases of wildflowers on the tables. It was clear the two were related, even though the man had an impressive beer belly and his daughter looked more like she belonged in a fitness studio.

  Jan strolled through the open gate. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning to you,” the man replied and gestured at a table. “You looking for some breakfast or just something to drink?”

  “Breakfast sounds great, but unfortunately I’m here on official business.” Jan showed his badge. “My name is Detective Tommen. I’m looking for a suspect who’s been spending time around here in the last few days. We don’t know if he’s been in the nature park or on a garden plot, but maybe you saw him?” Jan pulled a photo from his pocket and held it up.

  “That’s Robin,” the man said.

  “You know Robin Cordes?”

  “We went to school together.”

  Jan was speechless—though he wasn’t sure whether it was because of his stroke of luck or because of the casual way the man admitted he knew Robin.

  “He in trouble again?” the man asked.

  “He’s wanted as a witness.”

  The man laughed. “Robin’s wanted by the cops a lot, but this must be the first time he’s wanted as the witness and not the offender.”

  “You know about his criminal past?”

  “Sure. I’ve always warned him to stay away from shady stuff, but with that childhood of his and who he hung out with, he never had a chance. It was only a matter of time before he ended up in the joint.”

  “Which is what happened.”

  “Robin isn’t a bad guy. Life just didn’t give him a chance.”

  “No offense, but that’s the excuse every criminal gives.”

  “Now, I’m not saying he didn’t earn it.” The café owner raised his hands in defense. “But jail was a lucky break for him in the end.”

  “You call that luck?”

  “Robin loved his freedom. Go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. With whoever. That kind of thing.” The owner sat in a chair. “In jail he realized what freedom really is and what happens when it’s taken away from you. No friends, no girlfriend, no phone calls, no Internet. Not to mention no live soccer games, pizza delivery, sitting at the bar with a vodka lemon.”

  Jan sat down across from the man.

  “You know what he did when he got out of jail?” the man asked.

  Jan shrugged.

  “He came here for breakfast.” The man nodded toward a table. “He sat over there, shut his eyes, let the sun shine on his face. Happy as a baby on Mommy’s breast. Meanwhile, I got to work in the kitchen and served him up a nice big spread. Coffee, rolls, eggs with bacon, sausage, cheese, jam, Nutella. Whole nine yards. And when he drank the fresh-squeezed OJ? He cried.” The man smiled. “I’d never seen Robin cry. Not even in school when he took all those knocks from the older boys. Never shed a tear. Robin is a badass. But that breakfast back in his newfound freedom, it made a different man out of him.”

  “In what way, exactly?”

  “He left his old life behind. Moving stolen goods, the drugs, all that crap. He never, ever wanted to go back to jail.”

  “You believed him?”

  “Like I said, I’ve known Robin since we were schoolkids together. So, yeah, I believe him.”

  “So what’s he doing now?”

  “Plays cards.”

  “Plays cards?”

  “Robin was locked up with a poker pro for six months. The guy hadn’t paid his taxes. They gambled all day long in jail. He got hooked on it.”

  “Gambling is illegal.”

  “Depends on where and with who,” the owner answered. “I don’t know the details, but Robin appears to be a good player. Not bringing in big money, but enough to survive on.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “How was he doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was he worked up, or nervous?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Did he say he was going underground?”

  “Nope. Why should he do that?”

  Jan looked around the beer garden. The owner’s daughter had gone back inside. They were alone. It was always a delicate balance, knowing how much information to reveal in questioning. His position was stronger the less a person knew, but sometimes you had to give something up to keep the conversation going. If this man really was Robin’s friend, he wouldn’t be going to the media with it.

  “Robin is connected to two murder cases.”

  The owner leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “I hope you’re not talking about that grave murderer who’s in all the papers?”

  Jan simply lifted his eyebrows. Let the man infer what he liked.

  “Oh, man.” The owner rubbed at his forehead. “He really stepped in it this time.”

  “If it’s any help, I still don’t know if Robin Cordes is the perpetrator or just a witness.”

  The owner leaned over the table. “Robin’s fouled up a lot in his life, but he’s not a killer. And when I read in the papers what kind of sick shit this grave murderer is doing, well, you can rule out Robin three times over.”

  “Even if I did believe you, there is some connection between Robin Cordes and the two victims. He’s involved somehow, and the sooner I figure out how, the faster we can leave him be. Tell me where he is,” Jan urged. “The longer he stays on the lam, he’s only making things worse for himself. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to fear.”

  “I have no idea where he’s hiding,” the owner replied. “I didn’t even know he was on the lam till now.”

  “Did he mention anything the last time you talked?”

  The owner shook his head. The news that his friend was a murder suspect had really hit him hard, Jan could see.

  “Maybe you know of some secret hideout he uses?”

  “Look, I want to help you,” the owner insisted. “But if Robin’s gone underground, you won’t get to him. He’s too clever for that.”

  “We’ll find him eventually. If he really has become a different person, then he should turn himself in.”

  The man wiped at his brow, which was now damp with sweat. “You have to understand. The police were always the enemy to Robin. Changing his life and quitting his crooked ways, that’s one thing. But trust the cops? No way. It’s like a dog’s reflex to bite. His survival instincts come into play.”

  “I’ll leave you my number.” Jan set down his card. “Call me if you see him. He can’t hide out his whole life. If his freedom means anything to him, he should be talking to us. If he’s innocent, then he’s got nothing to be afraid of.”

  The owner took the card and stood. “I’ll do my best.”

  Jan shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for your help.”

  He left the outdoor café and headed back to the open-air museum.

  He would leave checking out the garden plots to Patrick Stein’s people, possibly helped out by patrol cops. He wasn’t going to get very far covering twenty-six hundred parcels all on his own.

  He hiked back up the embankment, waited till a light-rail train passed, and hurried across the tracks into the woods. />
  The café owner really seemed to care about his friend. Maybe he could convince Robin to talk to Jan. If Robin told them what he knew, they might get that decisive lead.

  Jan was just about to head back on the path to the open-air museum when a man sprang out from behind a tree, wielding a pistol.

  “Hey there,” Robin said, aiming at Jan’s forehead.

  Jan had lost count of the number of times he’d been threatened with violence. Clubs and knives were dangerous, but a pistol was in another league altogether. Just a twitch was enough to unleash a round. You couldn’t dodge a bullet, and your chances of dying were far too high.

  Robin Cordes looked nervous, a sign that he wasn’t used to threatening people with a pistol. Which only made him more dangerous.

  Jan held up his hands and made no move to fight him. Robin was four yards away. It didn’t matter how quick Jan was—Robin would be able to get off a shot.

  “Get rid of the gun!” Robin shouted.

  Jan carefully reached for his holster and pulled out his pistol, its safety on.

  “Toss it in the woods.”

  The gun flew into the underbrush.

  Robin kept pivoting around, as though fearful that some hiker would accidentally come strolling through the woods. He was trying to keep an eye on Jan at the same time, which made him spin his head frantically.

  “What do you want?” Jan asked him. His pulse had begun to slow down after that initial shock. “If you were planning to kill me, you could have ambushed me. This spot was a good choice. A shot would be tough to locate with any precision. By the time someone found my body, you’d be long gone. You could have just stood behind a tree and I would have walked right on by without even seeing you.” Jan shrugged, which was a bit awkward with his hands up. “So, you want something from me.”

  “You must be that wiseass cop.”

  Jan nodded.

  “So, Herr Wiseass, why don’t you tell me why you’re all searching for me?”

  “We have two dead. Bernhard Valburg and Moritz Quast. You had an argument with the first one, and the second put you in jail. A wiseass cop would call that a motive.”

  “I’m no murderer, goddamn it.”

  “So why did you go underground?”

  “Because I don’t trust fucking pigs.”

  “Don’t trust how?”

  “You’re looking for a scapegoat because you’re too stupid to find this grave murderer. So me with my jail time, it fits perfectly.”

  “Bullshit,” Jan replied. “We don’t want a scapegoat. We want the person who did it. And at the moment? You’re the only suspect we got.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Robin came a step closer and waved the pistol in Jan’s face. He was now maybe two yards away. Jan could’ve risked charging at him.

  “You’ve as good as sentenced me,” Robin said.

  “Just because a person has a motive doesn’t mean he committed a murder. But a motive gives us enough to question a guy.”

  “You have no clue what’s going on here.”

  “Then fill me in. Why have it out with Bernhard Valburg?”

  Robin lowered his pistol a little. It was the perfect moment to strike, but Jan kept his hands up. Wrestling over a gun was just too risky. Maybe he could get Robin to talk some more. It would spare the both of them.

  “Shortly before I went into the slammer, I was supplying the doctor with drugs.” Confessing this seemed to distress Robin. It was probably the first time he’d ever admitted committing an offense to a cop. “That’s what they ran me in for. After I got released, I gave all the shit up. But Valburg, he wouldn’t leave me alone. I kept telling him he needed to go find another dealer, that I was done with that scene. Eventually I went to his office and threatened to bash his brains in if he didn’t stop.”

  “What about Moritz Quast? You certainly had a reason to bump him off.”

  “Sure did,” Robin replied. “I actually did want to give it to him real good, but then they’d run me in again. That shithead just wasn’t worth it.”

  Robin had lowered the pistol by now. Everything he was saying sounded sincere enough, but criminals like him, they lied for a living.

  “I’m not into anything crooked anymore,” he said as if trying to convince himself.

  Jan wasn’t buying his story of changing for good. No upright citizen went around carrying a gun. He said, “So that gun you got there’s for shooting wild mushrooms?”

  “It’s for self-defense.”

  “Against who? Nosy cops?”

  “Against the guy who put down Valburg and Quast.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “Got no clue, man.” Robin ran his hand nervously through his hair. Jan noticed that his shirt was damp with sweat and his hands were shaking. “Maybe it’s some lunatic getting revenge on health insurers. Or Batman. I don’t know and I don’t care. Valburg and Quast are dead. I don’t want to be next.”

  “Are you next?”

  “I did some illegal shit with those two. Maybe we stepped on someone’s toes and that someone is real pissed now. When I read what the killer did to Moritz? That’s when I bolted. There’s a maniac running around out there, and I’m not going to sit at home and wait for him to come for me.”

  “Then come with me,” Jan urged him. “We’ll help you.”

  Robin laughed. “You pigs made my life hell. I’d rather go it alone.”

  “We can protect you.”

  “Like you did Moritz Quast. I also read what the killer did to those guards you put on him.” He shook his head. “No, I’ll pass.”

  “Come down to the station. I’ll show you the case files. Maybe you can help us catch the killer. Then you’ll be able to sleep again at night.”

  “Nice try, pig.” Robin raised the gun to Jan’s head again. “Now turn around and walk toward the tracks. You turn back around, I shoot. I’m no killer, but I’m good for a bullet in your leg.”

  Jan turned around, keeping his arms raised. “Think about it,” he said as he walked off. “In our hands you have a much better chance of surviving.”

  Right before reaching the tracks, Jan’s phone rang. He glanced over his shoulder. Robin was gone.

  His screen showed Bergman’s number.

  “Get down to the station right away,” Jan’s boss barked. “And use the back door.”

  Chapter Seven

  “A state of siege” best described the situation outside the station. Jan had ignored Bergman’s advice, which was proving to be a bad idea.

  The front entrance was surrounded by a waist-high barricade. Four uniformed officers were trying to keep the premises off-limits, in spite of the pack of journalists pressing into them.

  The chaos of cameras, cables, and microphones on long booms made for an impenetrable jungle of newsgathering. Photographers stood on ladders, TV reporters had their assistants dabbing their foreheads, and the print journalists jockeyed for the best position. Surrounding them all was a cluster of onlookers, rubberneckers, and people like Jan who didn’t want to be standing there but could not get through the crowd. Ten yards away, a Mercedes driver was honking in anger at being stuck at a green light. No traffic would be getting through here for a good hour.

  Jan stood atop a planter to get a better view of the entrance. On one step of the stairs was a podium sprouting several microphones. Judging from the logos on them, every broadcaster in Germany was present.

  An operation like this would have been worthy of Barack Obama. Instead, Bergman came out the door. The police chief himself hurried out in front of Bergman. The chief wore a dark-blue uniform without much insignia. Only his epaulets and name badge indicated his position.

  Jan had thought the chaos couldn’t get any worse, but the appearance of the police chief set the group in motion once again. The uniformed cops at the barricade dug in their heels as the police chief stepped up to the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the media. Citizens of Berlin . . .
”

  The mob came to an abrupt halt. The cameras had been switched on and the voice recorders turned up; the photographers began shooting madly, their flashes creating a bizarre strobe effect. Reporters screamed questions as if the loudest voice would win a prize. The racket was deafening—but the police chief, unfazed, presided over it all as if over a class of obedient and curious schoolchildren hanging on his every word.

  “We would like to bring you up to date on the latest in the case.”

  This launched a new round of questions, but the chief just ignored them.

  “The so-called grave murderer, as he’s described in the media, has not been apprehended. We are certain that this person is responsible for the homicide of Dr. Bernhard Valburg as well as that of Moritz Quast. This means we are dealing with the same sole perpetrator.”

  “Tell us something new!” a reporter roared.

  “Our top investigators are on the case, and they’re all working under enormous pressure. We’re following more leads. Please understand that we cannot make the details public for fear of jeopardizing the case.”

  Jan glanced at Bergman. He knew how much the man hated reporters. It was looking mighty tough for him to keep calm, but as head of detectives he had to attend media events like this. He was a man to be avoided today. Jan didn’t have a choice, though.

  “In addition, we believe that these murders were of a personal nature. The grave murderer is no crazed serial killer choosing his victims at random.”

  “Is that supposed to comfort people?” the reporter yelled.

  “We’ve postponed all officers’ vacations and extended their shifts. Every cemetery is being watched by uniformed patrols and their fellow officers. All cemetery staff have been instructed to report any suspicious persons.”

  The police chief raised his eyes from his prepared remarks and looked directly into the cameras. “We are asking for the public’s help in Berlin. If you knew either of the victims or witnessed anything during the nights of June twenty-third and twenty-seventh, please contact one of the police precincts.”