Grave Intent

by Alexander Hartung

  “June twenty-third was the day his first victim died—Dr. Valburg.”

  Dr. Beringer folded his hands on the table and stared at his fingers, deep in thought. He looked ashamed. “I handled Elias on those days. Of course he was angry and might have thrown a chair over, but he didn’t do anything to suggest he could be a serial killer. If he had given any clear signs indicating that he was capable of such behavior, I never would have released him. I’m not looking to reach some quota of rehabilitated patients.”

  “What do you think happened, then?”

  Dr. Beringer appeared to choose his words carefully. It took him a long time to answer. “The first possibility is that Elias tricked me. He was fantasizing about murder the whole time and simply pretended to behave when he was with me so that he could be released from the ward.” He took a deep breath. “Unlikely, but not impossible.”

  “Second?”

  “He was released too early. In the psychiatric ward there were few aggravations to remind him of his losses—he only had photos of his wife and daughter. But in the outside world, the triggers for flashbacks increase exponentially. A child’s laugh that sounds like Charlotte’s, places they visited together, his wife’s and daughter’s graves. It might have been too much for him.”

  “When did you release him?”

  “On March first, 2013.”

  “So, four weeks before the anniversary of his wife’s death?”

  “That was a conscious decision. It would give him some time to find his way. Of the three dates, March twenty-ninth would have likely triggered the mildest reaction. I wanted to test his reaction to the day of his wife’s death.”

  “So how was it?”

  Dr. Beringer paused a moment. “I had a longer appointment scheduled for him that day, but he didn’t show up for it.”

  “That didn’t seem strange to you?”

  “It did. So I drove over to his house. But he wasn’t home. I asked a neighbor, but she hadn’t seen him. Then I drove to the cemetery and visited his wife’s grave. There was a fresh bouquet of flowers there, but no trace of Elias. I sent staff to his apartment and the cemetery regularly over the next few weeks, but Elias had disappeared for good.” Dr. Beringer shook his head. “I’m sorry if I was wrong about Elias. But after March first? I lost all contact with him.”

  Jan had just seen Dr. Beringer out when Max came running up to him. “I got something,” he said, out of breath.

  Max raised his laptop up high like a trophy, grabbed Jan by the sleeve, and pulled him into the conference room.

  “The crime techs analyzed the flash grenade and stumbled on a fascinating detail.” He pressed a few keys and turned the laptop screen to Jan. It showed a document, a form of some kind that Jan could hardly read, owing to its small text.

  “A couple years ago, SWAT reported a case of flash grenades gone missing.”

  “Someone stole from SWAT?”

  “It’s not phrased exactly like that. It turns out one of the cases in a shipment contained fakes instead of the real grenades. Since the case had already been in storage for a year, they never found out if the swap happened during delivery or in SWAT’s building.”

  Max pressed a key, and an image of grenade splinters appeared. “The grenade that took out Chandu belonged to the missing shipment.”

  “Were there any suspects?”

  Max pulled up a photo of a man about Jan’s age. He was staring into the camera with a spiteful grin as if to say, You got nothing on me.

  “The suspect was Linus Keller, who did time for owning illegal weapons and selling firearms. There was no hard evidence, but your fellow cops would’ve bet their lives that Linus was involved.”

  “We know where he lives?”

  “Better than that,” Max said. “I’ve tapped his cell phone. We can follow his every step.”

  Jan slapped Max on the shoulder. “Time for the cavalry.”

  “This is police brutality!” Linus shouted as SWAT officers led him into the interrogation room. Linus’s head was bent forward, his arm twisted back in a painful hold that gave him no chance to make a move.

  “I’m going to sue all of you.”

  The SWAT officers pushed Linus down into a chair and cuffed him. Jan sat down across from him.

  Linus tugged at the handcuffs. “What is this shit?”

  Jan didn’t address the question. “I’ll be brief,” he said. “I need some info on a missing shipment of flash grenades. Come clean and you can stroll out of here, and we’ll drop the illegal-weapon charge.”

  “What weapon is that?”

  “The Heckler & Koch P8 we found on you, that you seem to have scratched the serial number off of.”

  “That? I just happened upon it.”

  “Don’t tell me: free prize, came with your carton of cigarettes?”

  “In my parking lot.”

  “Such a coincidence.”

  “I wanted to bring the gun down to the station. Just didn’t have time.”

  “And the hundred rounds of ammo that were lying right next to it?”

  “You said it.”

  “I’m going to try one more time nicely. We found a flash grenade that was used in a kidnapping. I need a name. Then we’ll forget all about this.”

  “And otherwise?” Linus grinned wide, exposing his yellowed, gap-filled teeth.

  “Then you end up in custody awaiting trial. I’ll stick a nasty-ass thug in your cell and pay him ten euros for every blow that lands on your face.” Jan pulled his wallet from his pocket. “I have a hundred on me. It’s gonna be a real good time.”

  Linus shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Who got kidnapped? The pope?”

  Jan leaned across the table. “My friend Chandu. And he’s more important to me than the pope.”

  “Wait, Chandu? You don’t mean Chandu Bitangaro?”

  “The very same.”

  Linus laughed out loud. “So there is justice.”

  Jan pounded on the table. “You think this is funny?”

  “I do.” Linus displayed that repulsive grin again. “Your friend Chandu tossed me out of a club a few years ago for being too drunk—the sluts in that joint supposedly said I was harassing them. I was of a different opinion and wanted back inside.”

  Linus pointed to a scar on his forehead. “This is the result of our little difference of opinion. Had to be sewn up with a bunch of stitches. Reminds me every morning how much I hate that friend of yours.”

  Linus spit on the floor. “I’ll tell you something, pig. You’re not getting a thing from me. I’ll go to jail even with a hundred thugs waiting for me in there. I’ll just lie there on my cot grinning while Chandu gets what he deserves.”

  Jan pushed over the table and rammed it into Linus’s stomach; Linus fell back onto the floor, chair and all. Jan came around and grabbed him by the hair.

  “Listen to me, you rat puke. If anything happens to my friend, you’re leaving jail in a plastic bag.”

  He let go of Linus’s hair and went to leave the interrogation room. When he reached the door, Linus shouted, “Hey, pig.”

  Jan turned to the man. He still lay on the floor, but he’d raised his bound hands and showed Jan both middle fingers. Then he laughed.

  Jan kicked at the door to their team’s room. “Motherfucker.”

  Max looked up from his computer. “No luck?”

  “Depends,” Jan said. “Linus Keller had something to do with it, but the minute I mentioned Chandu’s name, it was over.”

  “They knew each other?”

  “Apparently Chandu roughed him up good outside a club a while back. Now Linus would rather go to jail than help him.”

  “He have anything we can hold over him?”

  “Not really. Unregistered weapon. I can’t put much pressure on him with that.”

  The door opened, and Zoe came in. She looked tired out, tense.

  “Hi, Zoe. I thought you were over in Forensics?”

  She shook her head. “Corp
ses are more my game. I’ve been watching over the crime-scene techs’ shoulders while they work, but there’s nothing new, apart from that grenade. I can’t just go home on a workday, so I thought I’d see if you’d made any headway.”

  “Not really, but we still have enough time for me to go question Chandu’s employers.”

  “Employers?”

  “I know a few clubs where he used to be a bouncer. Maybe he came into contact with Elias Dietrich.”

  “As a bouncer?”

  “I don’t have any better ideas,” Jan growled. “Chandu’s neighbors are being questioned, the manhunt for Elias Dietrich and his vehicle is going full bore, and the few clues we have are being analyzed. Chandu had to have come into contact with Dietrich while on a job. Maybe one of his bosses can tell me something.”

  “I’ll go through video footage from the traffic and surveillance cameras,” Max said. “Maybe I’ll find the van. Then we can narrow the search area.”

  “Can I help somehow?” Zoe asked.

  “I got the records from Dietrich’s psychiatrist, Beringer, and I don’t understand a single word. But all that jargon might not be a problem for you.” Jan pointed to a stack of paper. “I printed them all out. Maybe you can find something in there.”

  “And if it starts to get late, I got this here.” Max set down an energy drink for Zoe.

  She picked up the weird-looking can and studied it like it was some alien technology. On the tin was a cartoon character with a wide mustache and a blue hat. Jan expected her to make some snide remark, but Zoe looked like she was out of words. She blinked, sat down at the table, grabbed Dr. Beringer’s notes, and started to read.

  “I’m heading out,” Jan told them. “If anybody out there from Chandu’s world knows Elias Dietrich, I’m going to track them down.”

  Chandu opened his eyes. He could hardly remember a thing. The phone call with Jan. The noise at the door. That ear-splitting explosion. A trip in a minivan. But these were just flashes of memory that he couldn’t piece together too well.

  The dim room was spinning. Chandu shook his head, but his dizziness ebbed only gradually. Not even the nastiest bout of drinking had ever given him such a headache.

  He tried to stand but found he was bound to the chair. Several wide belts were strapped around his arms, legs, and torso. He tried to flex his muscles, but he lacked the strength.

  As his vision cleared, he saw a table before him with a small lamp that illuminated a photo of a child. Next to that lay a hammer.

  Then Chandu noticed a digital alarm clock resting against a table leg. It was counting backward. And in twenty-four hours, it would reach zero.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jan was on his way to his old hood. Before becoming a detective, he had been a patrol cop in Kreuzberg. Back then, he’d gotten called out to this disco every weekend to deal with angry drunks and customers who’d started fights with the bouncers.

  The place hadn’t changed. The walls were plastered with posters and graffiti; cigarette butts, beer cans, and empty bottles littered the sidewalk outside. Not exactly a place you’d like to loiter during the day, and yet few clubs in Berlin were more popular at night.

  This was where he’d first met Chandu, back when he worked there as a bouncer. A coked-up nut job had pulled a pistol and shot Chandu in the shoulder. The shooter hadn’t seen enough blood, so he pointed the gun at Chandu’s head. But Jan had been quicker and shot the crazy man dead. Chandu never forgot Jan’s good deed, and they eventually became friends. A cop and a prominent underworld type. It wasn’t exactly something that would help his career as a detective, but Jan had never regretted their friendship. Not too long ago, the big guy had returned the favor by saving Jan’s ass. Now it was Jan’s turn again.

  Jan hadn’t been back to the club for years and didn’t know the new bouncer. So he flashed his badge and the bouncer showed him inside. The music was louder than a blasting operation, and Jan could feel the bass in his stomach. He fought an urge to plug his ears as he was led down a narrow hallway to the owner’s office. Once the door shut behind him, the worst of the noise was blocked out.

  The bouncer left Jan with a man who was watching the dance-floor action through a small window. Jan put the man in his late forties. His hair was clipped short, and he wore a black jacket over a white shirt. He had on faded dark jeans and leather biker boots that creaked as he approached Jan.

  “Herr Tommen. Nice to see you again.” The man shook Jan’s hand.

  “Sorry,” Jan said, “but do we know each other?”

  The man laughed. “I was still assistant manager when we had that shooting outside the club. I had long hair back then and a beard.”

  “Jo Mafeld,” Jan blurted in surprise. “I didn’t recognize you. Back then you were . . . more in-your-face.”

  “That would be one way of putting it.” He gestured to the couch. “My days of rhinestone jackets are over, though. The wife broke me of that.”

  He poured them each a glass of water. “I hear you’ve made detective.” He raised a glass. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Unfortunately, this visit is of a professional nature.” Jan took a sip of water. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the serial killings in Berlin?”

  “That grave murderer?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you caught him?”

  “Not yet. He’s kidnapped another victim.”

  “Who?”

  “Chandu.”

  “You mean, our Chandu? Who watched the door here for years and whose ass you saved?”

  “The very one.”

  “Goddamn,” Jo said. “How did Chandu get mixed up in this?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Jan pulled the photo of Elias from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Know this man?”

  Jo set his glass aside and studied the photo. “No. I’m afraid I don’t. Who is it?”

  “Elias Dietrich.”

  “The grave murderer?”

  “Probably.”

  “What’s the connection to Chandu?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I don’t know the face, but I’ll go show the photo around to the staff. Maybe one of the bouncers or a bartender knows him.”

  “The name’s not ringing a bell?”

  “Elias Dietrich.” Jo shook his head. “He’s not a regular. I’ll go through our contacts list right after this. See if I can find something.” He shifted his gaze from the photo to Jan. “Why come to me?”

  “It’s more about the club than you. Chandu crossed paths with the man at some point, and the encounter did not go well. My guess is, Elias wants to get his revenge.”

  “It happened here?”

  “Could have.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know the man, but we’re still the hip club these days. We end up having to throw out troublemakers every night. We see a brawl now and then, but an incident that would justify murder? No way. The only time a fight really escalated was with that shooting a few years back, and you shot the attacker dead.”

  Jan shut his eyes and sighed. He’d been hoping to get more out of this conversation.

  “How bad is it?” Jo asked.

  “Real bad. Twenty-four hours left. Then Chandu’s a dead man.”

  “And this guy in the photo abducted him? How did he do it? With a bazooka?”

  “With a flash grenade and a stun gun. Maybe an injection too. This Elias busted a hole in Chandu’s door with a hammer and threw in a flash grenade. That was enough to take him down.”

  “How did the murderer get Chandu’s address?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was always peculiar about that. I only ever had his phone number. Even his girlfriend didn’t know where he lived.”

  “That had more to do with his debt-collector gig. He was worried someone might come around who wasn’t too happy with his meth
ods. But it’s a good question—how could the murderer have gotten his hands on Chandu’s address?”

  “Definitely not out of the phone book.”

  “I know of three people who know Chandu’s address. I’d trust each of them with my life. I’ve never seen anyone else at his place, ever.”

  “It must have been someone from the red-light scene.”

  “Those are the ones he was hiding his whereabouts from.”

  “I’ve had my share of dealings with characters like that,” Jo said. “They’d know just how to play it, find out exactly where they could seize him should it become necessary.”

  “So one of them gave Elias a tip.”

  Jo nodded. “Find this traitor, and he’ll lead you to the grave murderer.”

  Jan called Zoe from his cell phone.

  “Got anything?” she asked without preamble.

  “Not yet. But remember that guy you paid a visit to with Chandu?”

  “The Rat.”

  “That’s the one. You know his real name?”

  “Tim Ratinger.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “I’m going to pay our Rat a visit. Someone leaked Chandu’s secret address to Elias, and I want to know who. You know where we can find this Tim?”

  “No idea. We met in a public place.”

  “No worries. I’ll go rattle the bushes, see what my informants can tell me. If I find anything, I’ll be in touch.”

  Jan hung up and ran to his car. It was time for a little detour to Kotti—Kottbusser Tor in Kreuzberg, which was less than three minutes away by car.

  Jan couldn’t help checking his watch. Midnight. Twenty-four more hours and Dietrich would bash in Chandu’s skull. Jan clamped his fists around the steering wheel. He couldn’t let thoughts like that distract him. He would track down the grave murderer. Chandu might even escape on his own. His friend was stronger than anyone he knew. A measly pair of plastic cuffs would never hold him back, and once he was free, he would rip this Elias Dietrich to shreds.

  Jan slowed down as he approached the entrance to the Kottbusser Tor subway station, then cruised around the surrounding square, which looked busy for a Tuesday night.