Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  “You had a mental blackout lasting thirty-six hours? What the hell were you taking?”

  “I wasn’t taking anything,” Jan replied. “Okay, I may have one too many sometimes, but I’m clean otherwise.”

  “You seen yourself in the mirror? Look me in the eyes and tell me that again.”

  “Damn it.” Jan pounded on the table. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Homicide squad is still at Holoch’s house. They found blood. Probably from the murderer. We’ll get a DNA sample from you, then compare it with what we found. That way we’ll keep you out of the woods. Once the crime scene is secure, KT will examine your car.”

  KT was the Kompetenzzentrum Kriminaltechnik. The department’s crime-scene investigators. Real clever people who knew their way around securing evidence, analyzing DNA, and investigating ballistics, among other things. If someone else had used his car, they would find out.

  Bergman stood and opened the door. “Ricky,” he shouted into the hallway and slammed the door shut again. He wrote something in his notebook without sitting back down. A moment later Richard Matiak entered the room. One of the best crime-scene tech guys in KT. His graying hair and beard made him look ten years older than he really was. For no apparent reason he always wore a white lab coat, giving him that mad-scientist look. He had an IQ of 150 but no friends apart from his computer. Today, as usual, he had his briefcase with him, which he cherished like his only child. The big silver block probably didn’t even leave his side while he was sleeping.

  “DNA profile, full blood work,” Bergman ordered.

  “Why blood work?” Jan asked. “Isn’t it enough that—”

  “I’m done discussing it,” Bergman interrupted. “If you can’t remember anything, we’ll have to know what got you there.”

  Jan sighed. He was no wimp, but he hated having a syringe stuck in his arm and the thought of blood leaving his body in a tube. Having blood taken always made him shudder.

  Richard smiled and unwrapped a syringe. Jan looked away, trying to act detached as the blood drew out into the tube. Richard pulled out the needle and stuck a little teddy-bear Band-Aid on Jan’s arm.

  “Should I analyze the shirt too?” Richard asked.

  Bergman raised his head. “Why the shirt?”

  “For blood traces.” Richard pointed at a sleeve. Jan had pulled on his blue shirt in a hurry. He hadn’t noticed the spot, but now he saw it too. Blood. No doubt about it.

  “Jan,” Bergman said, shutting his eyes a moment. He was obviously struggling to control himself. “I hope for your sake that’s just the result of some jostling around in the pub.”

  Jan pulled off his shirt and stuffed it into the sterile plastic bag Richard had conjured up from his case.

  “I want to see something by this evening, Ricky,” Bergman said.

  The crime-scene tech nodded, packed up his stuff, and left.

  Jan shivered. He had on only pants and a pair of sneakers. He didn’t want to think about that weird taste in his mouth, which was still there. Something that not even metallic vending-machine coffee could wash away? This had to be the nastiest hangover of his life.

  “Go into my office and get my overcoat,” Bergman ordered without lifting his head. “It better not pick up that smell you have. The thing is made of cashmere, so be careful. Then take a taxi home, shower, and get dressed. Be back here in an hour. If you are even one minute late, I’ll call Special Ops and have you picked up by armored car. You do know that I’m supposed to be keeping you here.”

  Jan stood up. “Thanks, boss.”

  He rushed into Bergman’s office. The area rug and leather chair in the corner gave the room a distinguished air. Papers lay in stacks on the desk. Bergman seemed to always be working on ten cases at a time, and yet it all looked so orderly. He spotted the overcoat on a stand behind the door. It was at least a size too big for Jan, but he pulled it on. He paused at his reflection in the office’s plate-glass window and swore. He looked like a vagrant. He left the station, sulking, and headed for the nearest taxi stand. An hour was not much time, but he was looking forward to a change of clothes. Then, he would find out what his car had been doing at the crime scene.

  Jan hurried up the stairs to his apartment. On the second floor, he ran into Father Anberger. The priest was retired now and just went by Hinrich, but he’d retained his priestly dignity, so to Jan, he was still Father.

  “Good morning, Father Anberger.” He liked the old man. Hinrich was balding and combed his gray hair from right to left, covering the bare spots. His kindly smile showed through his full white beard. His black trousers were neatly ironed, as usual, and his dark shirt was decked out with a white collar. He always started off on a stroll through his former parish around this time of day, his fellow citizens’ well-being remaining dear to his heart. Church, it wasn’t Jan’s deal. Father Anberger was the only reason he was still a member.

  Jan’s time on the homicide squad had turned him hard-nosed and cynical. Sometimes he couldn’t believe what humans were capable of. Yet Father Anberger, with his naive belief in good, had always been able to convince Jan that evil received just punishment in the end.

  Jan felt awkward standing before his neighbor in his clearly disheveled state, but he didn’t sense any condemnation in the priest’s eyes. Hinrich took people as they were.

  “Good morning, Herr Tommen.” His warm voice greeted Jan. “Must we go to work today already?”

  “Good never rests,” Jan said, keeping it light.

  Hinrich rewarded the joke with a polite laugh.

  “We have a new case, unfortunately,” Jan continued. “You’ll read about it tomorrow in the papers, but right now I have to go get changed.” And get off this scratchy overcoat, he thought to himself.

  “Then I wish you much success hunting the criminals,” Father Anberger said and continued on his way.

  Jan hurried into his apartment. He’d pulled off the overcoat before the door even shut. He set it on a chair and started scratching himself all over. Either the overcoat was from the crappiest cashmere in the world, or his boss was using itching powder to clean it.

  Happy to be rid of the thing, Jan opened the fridge, drank a big gulp of milk, and stuffed the last of a dark-chocolate bar in his mouth. He sighed with satisfaction. His impatient stomach calmed, and his knees stopped shaking. He drank down more milk and grabbed his cell from his pants pocket. He tapped the Favorites icon, turning to the kitchen window. This hazy Sunday was perfect for staying in bed. But instead he was a suspect in a murder case and wracking his brain as to what he’d been doing for the last thirty-six hours. He wondered if he should ask Betty about it—but then he’d have to tell her he was suspected of a murder. She was such a sensitive soul and took everything to heart. He didn’t want to upset her. Besides, the DNA test would clear him, and the car thing would get resolved. He’d be back at her place that evening. Then all would be good again.

  After the third ring, she picked up.

  “Jan?” Her voice sounded sleepy. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Aphro,” he said tenderly. Aphro was short for Aphrodite. He’d given her the nickname because of her wonderfully long hair and her passion for Greek mythology. Her living room looked like a bad Greek restaurant: there were little statues everywhere that she’d brought back from vacations. She devoured so many books on the subject that Jan sometimes wondered if maybe a degree in history would have been a better choice for her than medicine.

  “I just wanted to say, we have a new case. I’m going to have to work today.”

  “How come murderers always kill on weekends? It couldn’t wait till Monday?”

  Jan laughed. “I wish it was that way. It could have been such a nice weekend.”

  “It was a nice weekend,” she whispered suggestively.

  Jan’s resolve was waning. The thought of Betty
lolling around in bed, waiting for him, made his pulse quicken. For a second he was tempted to ride the subway back to her place.

  She sighed. “Where are you now?”

  “I went home to change. I have to leave again right away. I don’t think our cozy little dinner is going to happen.”

  “Too bad,” she said seductively. Jan gritted his teeth. He had to hang up now, otherwise he’d decide to head over there immediately. And his career in homicide would be done. He wouldn’t even be allowed to write parking tickets.

  “I have to go. Love you, Aphro.”

  “Same to you.” And she hung up.

  Jan pulled off his shoes and pants. He rushed into the bathroom, turned on a cold shower, and stepped in. He let the water run over his head, almost yelping as the cold forced the anxiety from his body. He waited a moment before turning up the temperature. By the time warm water started coming through the shower jets, he was beginning to think clearly again. Later, he’d get Betty to tell him what they’d done on Saturday—he’d find a way to ask without bringing up his memory lapse. But what mattered first was finding out more about the dead judge. It was a shitty feeling, being a murder suspect.

  Jan was back at the station promptly an hour later. Knowing Bergman, being late would have brought serious consequences. In Jan’s absence, the homicide squad had requisitioned the largest conference room for the investigation. Laptops were set up, whiteboards scribbled on, and the first crime-scene photos printed out and scattered across the big table. Jan knew he wasn’t allowed to go inside—he wasn’t even supposed to be near the room—but he risked a quick glance at the images anyway.

  The judge had been finished off in a nasty way. He was lying on his back on the tiled floor of a living room. His mouth was open, as if in one last cry of pain. His bones had been beaten to pulp. On his forehead was a large laceration, which looked to be the cause of death. From there, blood had run down his face, gathering into a gooey puddle at his chin. It was clear this had been no easy death.

  “Jan,” Bergman’s voice thundered down the corridor.

  Jan stopped looking and dashed into Bergman’s office. “Your coat,” Jan said and placed it over the back of a chair. “Thanks a lot.”

  Bergman’s eyes scrutinized the fabric. “KT hasn’t reported in yet, but as long as I don’t have those DNA results, you won’t be leaving the station. Not even to buy yourself a kebab. Sit yourself down, do some work or surf the Internet, but don’t go snooping around. I want this to go off without a hitch. Once the blood work clears you, you can move freely again.”

  Jan nodded. Bergman was a short-tempered boss who constantly criticized and harassed Jan and everyone else in the office. He sometimes took out his frustrations by flinging things against the walls in his office. He always showed up when he wasn’t needed. He’d never praised Jan, although he’d threatened him with death by strangulation more than once. In short, he could be a nightmare. But when push came to shove, Bergman was actually as protective as a mother wolf. He loved every one of his people, even though he’d never admit it, and shielded them from overzealous judges, lawyers, and journalists. It was a relief to know that Bergman trusted him without reservation.

  “Thanks for believing me. It’s good to—”

  “Don’t go all sentimental on me,” Bergman interrupted. “I just have too much to do—otherwise I’d be all over your ass. So get your butt out of here and make yourself invisible.”

  Jan went out grinning. There were some things you could simply rely on.

  On the way to his desk, it was all he could do not to head into the squad room and read the interim report. Still, he didn’t want to make things difficult for his fellow detectives or endanger the case, so he sat down at his desk and started up the computer. He smiled at the sight of his new screensaver, a stormy landscape photo featuring a mint condition Harley-Davidson. Jan clicked open the sports page and read the weekend’s results. He squinted at the tiny font used for the soccer scores and almost reached for his glasses, but resisted. They made him look five years older.

  After he got caught up on the Bundesliga standings, he opened his e-mail. Access to Google Mail, GMX, and Web.de were blocked on the office computers, but his hacker buddy Max had told him how to get around the ban using an anonymizer. Jan had no idea what that was, but it was easy to use, and it worked. He loved being able to check his private e-mail whenever he wanted. Smiling, he wrote a message to Aphrodite1988. Betty had set up the account just for him.

  As he did so, he yawned wide. Sunday afternoon. There was no time more lazy. Normally if he wasn’t sleeping, he’d be hanging around Betty’s or watching a DVD. He sent the e-mail and closed the program. Tired again, he laid his arms on the desktop, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. A moment later, he was fast asleep.

  Klaus Bergman clicked through the crime-scene photos. Whoever murdered George Holoch must have really hated the judge. The autopsy wasn’t complete, but it was looking like hardly one single bone in the corpse had been left intact. According to the initial forensics exam, many of the blows had been administered postmortem. So the murderer had beaten Judge Holoch to death and then run riot on his corpse.

  The phone rang. Bergman lifted the receiver without looking from the screen. “Bergman,” he barked. He listened to the report.

  “Is that certain?” he asked. “Did you verify?”

  The caller confirmed it.

  “All right.” Bergman hung up. He exhaled long and loud. Irate, he flung the phone from the desk. He shot up and kicked the chair, which clattered and crashed against the bookshelf. “Goddamn it!” he roared and stormed out of his office.

  Jan’s head shot up with a start as Bergman’s fist reverberated on his desk.

  “Wake up!” his boss shouted.

  Jan took in the sight of Bergman standing before him, his hands planted on his sides. The man’s mood had clearly not improved.

  “The results finally in?” Jan asked drowsily.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I go back home now?”

  Bergman removed his glasses and leveled a gaze at Jan that mixed rage and disappointment. The man was wrestling for self-control. Jan had never seen him this way.

  “Your DNA is consistent with the blood at the crime scene.”

  Jan’s heart cramped tight. The breakfast in his gut tried to find its way back up.

  “Did you get the results verified?”

  “Twice,” Bergman replied. “That’s not the only thing. The blood spot on your shirt is the victim’s.”

  Bergman sat down and plunked his notebook on the table. “The state prosecutor has needed less to put people behind bars for life. I suggest you start explaining.”

  “I don’t know what happened!” Jan bellowed in frustration.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit,” Bergman shot back just as loud.

  “You have to believe me,” Jan said. He could understand Bergman’s anger. The man had picked him out of the detective force for the homicide squad. He’d always helped Jan when he’d fucked up before. But now evidence showed Jan was a murderer. What choice did Bergman have? He’d have to throw Jan in prison.

  “You know I drink one too many now and then, but I’ve never blacked out.”

  Bergman opened his notebook. “We tested your blood for controlled substances. Besides alcohol, large amounts of MDMA turned up.”

  Jan cursed under his breath. MDMA. Methylenedioxy-something-or-other. What the hell had happened to him yesterday? He didn’t take hard drugs. He’d seen enough people ruined by the shit. He never would have gotten drunk enough to want to swallow ecstasy.

  “Maybe someone put something in my drink.”

  “Sure. And on top of that, he took your blood and spread it around the crime scene. After that, he took the victim’s blood, went back into the bar, and squirted that onto your shirt, all w
hile he was parking your car over at Holoch’s neighbor’s.”

  “We have to call my girlfriend,” Jan pleaded. “I spent the whole weekend at her place.”

  “And what good would that do us?”

  “She can tell me what I was doing yesterday evening.”

  “I don’t think you’re getting it, Jan. Even if your girlfriend herself swears on her life that you were at her place the whole day yesterday, it changes nothing. The evidence is conclusive.”

  Jan buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t committed the act. He didn’t like the judge, but even loaded and high he would never be driven to murder someone. Never.

  “Just for one minute? She’ll fill in this blank I got in my head.”

  “Jan,” Bergman said slowly, as if explaining to a four-year-old. “Your girlfriend is a witness. I let you talk to her, the state prosecutor will give me hell. I can’t.” He rubbed at his eyes. “You know that.”

  “There has to be something I can do.”

  “You can help me a lot by remembering Saturday.”

  “I’ve been trying all day long. I’m guessing the ecstasy’s to blame.”

  “I’m no doctor, but you’ll have to come up with a better answer than that for the state prosecutor.”

  A gloomy silence arose. The sort of stillness that happens when two people know a painful reality is bearing down but don’t want talk about it out loud.

  “What happens now?” Jan said.

  Bergman raised his head, looking frustrated, as if he’d had enough of all the questions.

  “You guys will have to take me into custody,” Jan said, beating Bergman to it.

  Bergman nodded.

  “I didn’t murder the judge. On all that’s holy.”

  “I would like to believe you. Really.”

  “Someone wants to pin it on me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” Jan said. “But I’m no murderer. If my blood’s at the crime scene, it only means someone’s trying to drag me into this.”