Don't Forget Me

by B C Schiller

  ‘Oh my God, I’ll call an ambulance!’ Olivia shouted, battling the shock. With trembling fingers, she punched the number of the emergency services into her mobile.

  Then she knelt down next to Jonathan, feeling for his pulse, but he was beyond help. Stunned, she glanced up at the window to see a shadow move away from the opening. Without a doubt, there was somebody else in Jonathan’s flat.

  She sprang to her feet and raced towards the block of flats, hit by a waft of musty air as she pushed open the heavy front door.

  ‘Hello, is anybody there?’ she called into the dark entrance hall and up the staircase. A door slammed somewhere upstairs, just as the front door fell shut behind her with a loud squeak of the hinges. Suddenly she was shrouded in darkness and she groped for a light switch. A dim light flickered on as she entered the glass-sided lift. With a jerk, the old-fashioned mechanism started its journey upwards. Hurried steps echoed on the staircase and through the frosted glass she could see a blurred figure running down the stairs. Frantically she tried to stop the lift, but the button would not respond. After what felt like an eternity, she finally reached the top floor. There were only two doors. On one of them was a piece of paper with the name ‘Stade’.

  The door to Jonathan’s flat stood ajar and Olivia ran into the room with the open window. A light gust of wind blew away the musty smell. She squinted against the bright sun and looked down. Four floors below she could see the strangely distorted body of Jonathan on the concrete. No one was running away. Several people were rushing towards the body, and two policemen had already arrived and were pushing the onlookers back. Someone pointed upstairs. Hearing an ambulance siren on its way, Olivia instinctively stepped back from the window. The lift was called to the ground floor and with a groan started moving downwards.

  Slowly she retreated into the room, trying to get her thoughts in order – and to suppress a rising panic. There was no doubt about it; she’d seen the shadow of a person behind Jonathan and a hand pushing him out of the window. She cursed herself for not having arrived earlier. Maybe Jonathan would still be alive.

  She looked around the room. It was a living room with old-fashioned furniture – a beige three-piece suite and a coffee table with a smoked glass top. A large rubber tree stood against the back wall, extending its branches over the sofa. The walls were covered with prints of landscapes in heavy gilt frames and a TV magazine lay on the table. The television on the dark brown sideboard was not plugged in. The room was spotless with not a speck of dust, and nor did there seem to be any personal items belonging to Jonathan. Something in this sad room was bothering her, although she couldn’t put her finger on it straight away. Then she realised: it was the utter tidiness of the place. There was nothing to indicate that there’d been a fight. She stepped into the hall, lost in thought.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Two policemen blocked Olivia’s way. ‘Who are you? Do you know the dead person? Do you live here?’

  She searched in her bag for her ID card. ‘My name is Dr Olivia Hofmann. I’m Jonathan Stade’s psychiatrist. No, I don’t live here.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ one of the policemen asked.

  ‘I had an appointment with my client. He wanted to show me something.’

  ‘What did he want to show you?’

  ‘A rucksack he’d found.’

  ‘A rucksack? Are you kidding us?’

  ‘Of course not. Apparently the rucksack belonged to a girl who was murdered five years ago.’

  The policeman pushed his cap back and rubbed his forehead. ‘What was the name of this murdered girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Lisa Manz.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ His colleague looked at Olivia. ‘You wait here. I know someone who has never forgotten Lisa Manz.’

  7

  Sitting in his office in the police academy, Levi Kant yawned. He’d been working his way through the essays by the police cadets since early morning, but the pile of papers was not getting any smaller. He glanced out of the window, taking in the uninspiring view of the tram station. Today a man was sitting in the shelter throwing breadcrumbs to the pigeons.

  That could have been me, Levi thought, if I’d taken up the offer of early retirement.

  His wife, Rebecca, would never have allowed it, however. She’d urged him to quit the police and take on the job as a lecturer. ‘It’s fate. You have to change your life,’ she’d said. After the accident, he’d been trapped in a black hole of depression for weeks and had turned more and more cynical. Rebecca had found it increasingly difficult to bear and had given him a choice: either he left the police and took up the post as lecturer or their marriage was over. And that was why he was sitting here now, marking essays.

  The phone interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Is that Chief Inspector Levi Kant?’

  ‘Not Chief Inspector any more. I’m a lecturer these days,’ Levi said, suddenly alert.

  ‘We have a body and a woman who knew the victim.’

  A wave of alarm went through him. ‘OK, and why are you ringing me?’

  ‘It’s about a rucksack that allegedly belonged to a certain Lisa Manz. Who five years ago . . .’

  ‘I know. It was me who dealt with that case,’ Levi said, interrupting the policeman. ‘Give me the address. I’ll be right there.’

  After his accident Levi had asked his colleagues to inform him straight away if any new information turned up on the Lisa Manz case, but in five years nothing whatsoever had happened. Now, as he opened the door to his office, he shot one last look at the pile of papers on his desk. He’d wasted enough time here.

  A short time later he parked his Saab 900 Turbo convertible in a side street near the block of flats. Ducking under the police cordon set up on the pavement, he glanced briefly at the outline chalked on the concrete and the dried pool of blood.

  ‘Keep out, please.’ A policeman approached him. Levi was about to explain himself when a man in plain clothes appeared at the entrance to the block of flats.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, before turning to Levi. ‘I knew you’d turn up here.’

  ‘Hello, Reiter. I had a call from a colleague.’

  ‘Levi, my God!’ Inspector Reiter rolled his eyes. ‘You simply can’t let it go, can you?’

  ‘It’s how I’m made,’ Levi replied. ‘What actually happened here?’

  Reiter quickly put him in the picture. ‘If you ask me, it’s all very simple. Someone hears voices telling him to jump. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.’

  ‘Unless you have it all wrong about this particular incident. Can I speak to the witness?’

  ‘Yes, but only briefly. Fourth floor, but I’d take the lift, mate, with that leg of yours.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’ Levi refused to be provoked and took the lift.

  ‘Chief Inspector Levi Kant?’ a young policeman asked.

  ‘I’m not an inspector any more, but a lecturer at the academy,’ Levi replied.

  ‘Sorry,’ the policeman said. ‘I called you because the murder case was quite notorious at the time. I read all about it in the papers.’

  ‘Where’s the witness?’

  ‘Here.’ The policeman opened the door to a small room.

  ‘Why am I being held?’ the woman asked when Levi entered. She was slim, with short dark hair and sensual lips. Her pale green eyes flashed angrily.

  ‘You mentioned a rucksack that might have belonged to Lisa Manz,’ Levi said, ignoring her question.

  ‘Maybe you’d better introduce yourself,’ the woman said, folding her arms. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Levi Kant. Five years ago, I was the lead investigator on the Manz case. And who are you?’

  ‘My name is Olivia Hofmann.’

  She showed him her ID card. It confirmed what she’d said, only she looked considerably younger than the thirty-nine years printed on the card.

  ‘I’m a psyc
hiatrist. The dead man was my patient, Jonathan Stade. But it wasn’t suicide – he was pushed.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Levi interrupted. ‘You’re talking murder here. What makes you say that?’

  ‘I was downstairs on the pavement and I saw someone push Mr Stade out of the window. I told your colleagues all about it.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it again. Can you describe the person?’ Levi asked.

  ‘No, but they fled down the stairs straight afterwards.’

  ‘You must have seen something.’ Levi’s eyebrows rose sceptically. ‘Was it a man or a woman?’

  ‘No idea. I was on my way up in the lift. The sides of the lift are frosted glass.’

  ‘Was your relationship with the victim more than just professional?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Olivia was growing irritable.

  ‘Home visits by psychiatrists are not the usual thing,’ Levi stated.

  ‘It was an emergency. The name of the dead man was Jonathan Stade, by the way. Please call him by his name and not just “the victim”. It’s so impersonal. Yes, he was my patient. I mentioned that.’

  ‘Of course. Anything else?’ Levi was walking into the hallway with Olivia when Reiter arrived with the forensics team.

  ‘Hello, Levi,’ a blonde woman said. Even in the white overalls she looked attractive. ‘I thought you’d left our gang.’

  ‘I lecture at the police academy now, but in my mind I never left,’ he said. ‘Katharina, could you take a close look at the windowsill and the frame? I want to know whether Stade tried to grab on somewhere – any little thing you notice that might indicate he actually could have been pushed.’

  ‘Stop, Levi,’ Reiter interrupted. ‘This is my case. You can have a talk with the witness, but that’s all.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Levi conceded. ‘I just wanted to help.’

  ‘How very touching,’ Reiter replied, following his team into the living room.

  ‘What kind of emergency was it exactly?’ Levi asked once he was alone with Olivia again.

  Olivia told him about the red rucksack and the photo Jonathan had taken.

  ‘Oh, so Jonathan Stade took a photo?’ Levi said, giving her a questioning look.

  ‘Yes, I saw it on his phone.’

  Levi went to Reiter and asked, ‘Has anyone found a mobile?’

  ‘No, no mobiles here,’ Reiter answered curtly.

  ‘But we have just found a rucksack in case you’re interested,’ Katharina called from the living room.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It was hidden in the wall.’ Katharina said, pointing behind her. ‘There’s a large cavity, presumably from an old chimney. Seems our victim tucked the rucksack out of sight in there.’

  ‘Can I have a look at it?’ Levi felt the old thrill in every cell of his body. It told him he’d not become completely numb.

  ‘Here you are. It has a smiley sticker with the initials LM on it.’ Katharina passed him a large plastic evidence bag containing a red rucksack. Levi swallowed hard. When Lisa Manz disappeared, she’d been carrying a red rucksack with exactly this smiley sticker on it. It was Lisa’s rucksack. Levi tried to open the plastic bag, but Reiter grabbed his hand.

  ‘You’re not a chief inspector any more, Levi,’ he said. ‘Go back to your students.’

  ‘It’s Lisa’s rucksack.’ Levi’s voice was cracking.

  ‘We’ll investigate everything thoroughly, I promise. You can depend on us.’ Reiter pushed Levi out into the hall. ‘By the way, we also found this.’ He showed Levi a sheet of paper, also sealed in a plastic bag.

  The whole message was written in capital letters. ‘LISA WAS AN ANGEL. I AM GUILTY.’

  ‘Looks like a confession. What do you think?’ Reiter put the evidence back in his folder. ‘It does look like suicide.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Levi scratched his head and went back to Olivia, who was waiting in the corridor.

  ‘We’ve found Lisa’s rucksack and a piece of paper with a presumed suicide note,’ he said.

  ‘And what are your thoughts on that?’ Olivia slowly walked over to Levi. ‘You believe Jonathan committed suicide, don’t you?’

  ‘It looks like it. We’ll check it out.’

  ‘But you’re not a policeman any more. You failed your mission five years ago, and now you have a guilty conscience because Lisa’s murderer is still free. That’s the reason you’re meddling with this now.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Levi said.

  ‘Sorry, it came out the wrong way,’ Olivia said quietly, her shoulders suddenly drooping.

  All of a sudden she looked like a little girl, her confidence evaporated, but at least she wasn’t hurling accusations at him any more.

  ‘Jonathan was my client. He was in therapy with me, and he was getting so much better,’ she said.

  ‘No one ever really knows what’s going on in another person’s head. Some people throw themselves in front of a train, others jump off bridges or, like here, out of a window. Suddenly their view of the world gets more and more limited, and they can’t see any other way. Contrary to public opinion, it’s particularly bad on a beautiful day,’ Levi said in an effort to comfort Olivia.

  ‘How do you know?’ Olivia asked, looking at him steadily with her pale green eyes.

  ‘I did a few terms of psychology.’

  ‘You don’t believe it was murder, do you? Listen, Jonathan wasn’t suicidal. He had a new outlook on life, and it had helped him come out of the darkness into the light.’

  ‘Like I said, my colleagues will investigate all of this,’ Levi said. ‘Shall I call you a taxi?’

  ‘No, thanks. I came on my bike.’

  ‘Oh right. Will you be OK?’

  ‘Do I look that unfit?’

  ‘It was a stupid question. I mean, of course, are you happy to cycle after what’s just happened?’

  ‘Yes. I find cycling relaxing. It helps me think things through.’

  Levi pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, watching as Olivia, head lowered, walked off down the stairs. A psychiatrist on a bike, he mused. He hadn’t been expecting that today.

  8

  A hunched or crouching position may indicate someone’s extreme mental burden, even guilt, so Olivia tried to sit as upright as possible. ‘One of my patients died today in terrible circumstances,’ she said. ‘I blame myself. I may have contributed to it.’

  ‘Tell me what happened and why you think you might somehow be responsible,’ Ulf Karlsson said in encouragement. Ulf was Swedish but had grown up in Austria.

  After the conversation with Levi Kant, Olivia had rung Ulf to make an appointment. She’d known him since her university days, first as her tutor, then as her supervisor. In the past five years she’d spoken to him exclusively about her private tragedy. She’d tried to come to terms with the incomprehensible through talking about it, and step by step had found a way back to some kind of normality. Today, however, she’d come to his office to discuss a client.

  ‘So you believe someone pushed Jonathan out of the window?’ Ulf asked, folding his hands in his lap.

  ‘Yes, I saw a shadow behind him. And when I went up in the lift, someone ran down the stairs.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes, but it all happened so quickly, and I was still in shock.’

  ‘Understandably.’ Ulf closed his eyes briefly to reflect on what she’d said. Finally he said, ‘Could it be a protective statement? You blame yourself for the death of a patient because your therapy hasn’t helped him. You would find it far more bearable if someone had murdered him. You wouldn’t then need to feel responsible.’

  ‘But it wasn’t like that.’ Olivia involuntarily clenched her hands, but immediately relaxed her fingers when she saw the surprised expression on her supervisor’s face. ‘I didn’t imagine it. Not even you believe me – it’s driving me mad!’ She told Ulf about the goals and targets she’d agreed with Jonathan. ‘Someone with that kind of timetable
, an agenda for life, doesn’t kill himself. You must know that.’

  ‘Yes, but sometimes people commit sudden irrational acts. And that is in no way your fault,’ he said, trying to calm her down.

  ‘But I feel terrible.’

  ‘Why don’t you write everything down and reflect on it again,’ Ulf suggested. Then he abruptly changed the subject, asking, ‘What about Michael and Juli?’

  ‘Why do you mention them now?’

  ‘Yesterday was the anniversary. Did you get another postcard?’

  ‘Yes.’ Olivia nodded and slumped in her chair. ‘It was like falling into a deep black hole again.’

  ‘Next time we’ll talk about your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m so glad I can talk to you,’ Olivia said, clutching a tissue, desperately trying not to cry in front of Ulf.

  Olivia saw clients for the rest of the day, only finding time to relax as evening closed in. She took her notebook from the middle drawer of her desk and began to write down the main events of the day in brief sentences, as Ulf had suggested. Rereading her notes didn’t help her disquiet – she needed to find out precisely what had happened but had no idea how to go about it. She delved into her pocket and pulled out the card the inspector had given her. After a moment’s hesitation she called the number.

  Inspector Reiter answered on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting for her call. ‘Reiter here. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Doctor Hofmann here. Any news on the Jonathan Stade case?’ Olivia asked, knowing immediately that her question was incredibly naive. The police were not allowed to give out information. But she was wrong.

  ‘Frau Hofmann, good of you to call. I looked again at your witness statement about the person you believe you saw in the window and on the stairs. There’s not the slightest evidence that anyone else was there. No one apart from you saw anybody and there are no traces on the windowsill, nor on the frame, that could indicate a struggle.’