Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  Betty was dead. He still could not grasp it. Two days ago, he’d awoken at her place, and later he’d talked with her on the phone. Now she lay in Forensics on a cold metal autopsy table, burned beyond recognition. All her beauty was gone. He would never see her smile again, caress her pristine back, or hear her voice. Maybe it was a blessing he was no longer with Homicide—otherwise he would’ve stormed right into Forensics and demanded to see her corpse. He was spared that much, at least.

  He took out his wallet and gazed at the photo behind the see-through plastic. It had been shot when they first met. They had gotten to know each other at the birthday party of a mutual friend and liked each other from the start. He and the friend, Rene, had gone to school together. While Jan was trying his luck with the police, Rene had started college. Business administration. His stock phrase was, “I got no idea what I’ll do, but business sounds good enough.” Rene knew Betty from another university bash, so she’d ended up at the party. It had been a typical Rene party. Loud-ass music, tons of cocktails, and nothing to eat but chips and frozen sushi.

  Betty had been eyeing Jan all night. At one point he went over to her. Then she had showed him that radiantly beautiful smile of hers, and his heart was done for.

  He didn’t leave her side after that. Eventually Rene had staggered through the living room, shooting guests with his digital camera. Betty stood close and put her arm around Jan, and he’d toasted Rene with a beer bottle. He’d liked the photo so much he’d gotten a wallet-sized print to carry around. Whenever he looked at it, his memory of her first touch came right back—her warm skin, the scent of her hair, her gentle fingers.

  They had seen each other again the next day. And the day after that, and after that. The recent months they’d had together had been such a happy time.

  Jan laid the picture on his chest. The clock above Chandu’s TV read 3:08 a.m. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift back to that evening. To that very moment in the photo, among all those laughing people and the loud music. He thought he felt Betty’s hand on his shoulder and heard her voice. His mouth spread into a smile. And he fell asleep.

  Chapter 4

  The sound of a garbage truck woke Jan. He’d only slept three hours.

  He wondered if he should even get up. What was the point in keeping at it? He was suspected of murder and would probably never get his badge back. His girlfriend was dead. All he had loved was destroyed. Blown away.

  Chandu’s revolver lay holstered on the table. It was a .45 caliber. Dirty Harry make. It would be so easy just to get away from it all. A single pull of his finger, a brief, sharp pain. Maybe a guy didn’t really die but only sank into eternal sleep. A tempting thought. Asleep, he could dream. Of bygone bliss.

  Eventually, he stood up. He got dressed. He checked out his strung-out face in the mirror. He had never looked so pathetic, not even after the wildest partying. He washed and used his wet hands to fix his unruly hair. Then he slipped into his shoes, put on a hat, and went out.

  He loved this city. This was his place in the world, but today it looked old and filthy. Gray and lacking love. On the way to the subway, it started raining. Pretty lightly at first. He barely felt the drops. Then it got stronger, as if the sky wanted to wash all the filth of the earth into the sewers. He raised his head, took off his hat, and showed his face to the clouds. He shut his eyes, the rain blending with his tears. As he cried without restraint, some of the anguish drained from his heart.

  Eventually the rain let up, and his tears dried as patches of blue sky emerged overhead. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, breathing in the fresh air. It seemed a lifetime since he had last felt so free. Released. And his thoughts of dying were swept away.

  It was 8:00 a.m. Jan knew Father Anberger’s habits. The old man always woke up at the same time, prayed, got dressed, and took a stroll through the Tiergarten. His knees were a little worn out with age, but neither the aches in his legs nor bad weather kept him from his stroll. Always the same. No matter if it was a workday or a weekend.

  Jan stood next to an overhanging oak and waited, scanning a newspaper he’d bought but not really comprehending the words. His entire focus was on his surroundings. He needed to keep his guard up and at all costs avoid being recognized by any on-duty cops. Even the guys from city services knew him. Berlin was a small town sometimes. You were always running into the wrong people at the wrong time.

  When Jan spotted Father Anberger, he exhaled with relief. Not much was happening in the Tiergarten on this Tuesday morning. People were riding bikes on their way to work, and the rain had scared off the stroller set. It was too early for tourists. The perfect time to meet.

  Father Anberger was walking a little stooped, so he didn’t notice Jan until the younger man was right in front of him.

  “Good morning, Herr Tommen.” The priest sounded happy to see him. Nothing in his demeanor suggested that anything about their friendly relationship had changed. Maybe he hadn’t heard yet? Jan wondered. On the walk over, he had thought about how to proceed with this conversation, and he had finally decided to just be direct.

  “Good morning, Father Anberger.” Jan had trouble looking him in the eye. “As you might have heard,” he began, getting right to it, “I’m under suspicion of murder.”

  “Yes. Your colleagues came to my place. They questioned me.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Jan told him.

  “And I did not believe it,” Father Anberger said with such conviction that Jan got a lump in his throat. The priest never lost his belief in the goodness of people. Jan swore to himself he’d start going back to church every Sunday, if he ever got out of this mess.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Someone is trying to pin the murder on me, and I need your help finding out who’s actually guilty.”

  “I’d be glad to help. What should I do?”

  Jan cleared his throat. The man’s casual offer surprised him but also filled him with a sense of calm.

  “Just grab a few things from my apartment, if possible. The building is being watched, but as my neighbor, you could get in my place without arousing suspicion. I need a few clothes, but most of all, I need you to check my desk drawer for something that looks like a plastic ice-cream cone. It’s actually a USB flash drive, but I’m guessing my fellow cops overlooked it. What’s on there might help me clear my name.”

  “If you give me your key, I’ll fetch it from your apartment. Then we can meet here again tomorrow morning,” Father Anberger suggested.

  “That’s too conspicuous,” Jan said. “My fellow cops might find it a little strange if you leave for your regular stroll with a big bag. Let’s meet at about one back here.”

  Jan took out a pen and scribbled some notes in the margin of the newspaper. “I’m writing out the important stuff to get.”

  After they were clear on everything, the priest waved good-bye and was off. Jan sent up a prayer of thanks to heaven and crossed himself.

  Back in Chandu’s apartment, Jan stared at his old cell phone, now equipped with its new SIM card. He didn’t want to know where his friend got the thing, but he had to admit that holding the phone gave him a reassuring sense of normalcy. He took a deep breath and dialed Zoe’s number. He had to know if the corpse was really Betty. He heard the digits being dialed. After the third ring, she picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Zoe, it’s Jan.”

  “Wait a sec,” she said. He heard a door shut. “Okay, now we can talk.”

  “I don’t want to get you into trouble, but I had to call. Are you done with the autopsy?”

  “Yes. I just got back when a fax from the state prosecutor landed on my desk ordering it. My coworker Walter had to do most of the work, because we’ve had multiple cases coming in tonight.”

  She cleared her throat. “Are you sure you want to know the results?”

  Jan closed
his eyes. “Tell me.”

  A lighter clicked on. He heard Zoe exhaling.

  “As a first step, we had to determine whether the explosion was the cause of death,” Zoe began in a matter-of-fact tone. “There was soot inhalation, found in the trachea and lungs. The airway lining was completely covered in soot. Plus, we detected elevated carbon monoxide levels in the blood, which suggests fire was the cause of death. Unfortunately, parts of the ceiling had fallen on her, making the work difficult. The firefighters’ water hoses didn’t help matters.”

  She took another drag of her cigarette.

  “Using your description, we eventually were able to identify her without resorting to dental impressions. The piercings matched the ones in current photos of her. Plus, we found the pendant you mentioned. Her name was on it. The last thing is, height and weight do fit the measurements of Bettina Windsten.”

  Jan wiped at his eyes. Now he had certainty. Somehow, he had been fooling himself into hoping that the dead body might not be his girlfriend’s.

  “Anything else?” he asked wearily.

  She paused. “One little thing.”

  Jan felt a cold shiver. He figured Zoe had yet another horrid finding ready.

  “In all the havoc, we found a farewell note. Lying in the bedroom, in a plastic sleeve.”

  “A farewell note?” Jan gasped. “You’re telling me that Betty—”

  “Committed suicide.”

  “That can’t be.” He bristled at the thought. “She was a happy woman. Her joy for life was contagious. The last thing she felt was depressed.”

  “Some people can hide it well.”

  “You didn’t know her. She never would have killed herself.”

  “I haven’t read the note, Jan, but I did read the report. The gas line had been tampered with. She was sitting on a chair in front of the gas stove holding a cup in her hand. That, along with the farewell letter—circumstances like that don’t lie.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that any investigation into this has been dropped?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  “Has everyone lost their minds?” Jan shouted. He threw the phone against the wall with a scream of despair, stomping on the pieces until they broke into jagged shards.

  Chandu strode into the room, frowning as he looked from his friend’s grief-stricken face to the busted cell phone on the floor.

  “They’re saying Betty killed herself,” Jan said, turning his gaze away from Chandu. “She tampered with the gas line and left a suicide note.”

  Chandu nodded. Now he understood. Jan had really liked the girl, maybe even loved her.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Chandu said, hoping to console his friend, but he could tell how empty his words sounded.

  “I know she didn’t commit suicide,” Jan said, finally looking up at Chandu.

  “Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we believe,” he said as gently as he could.

  “I don’t buy it,” Jan said. “She had so many plans for the future. She wanted to go abroad after medical school. In all our time together, I never once saw her act depressed. I’m positive she didn’t take her own life.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Someone murdered her.”

  Chandu raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “To shovel more dirt on my grave,” Jan replied. “Betty was the only person who could have filled in the gaps in my memory. Now that she’s gone, I’ll never learn what I did on Saturday, not unless I have the luck to run into a friend who saw me or find footage of myself on a security camera. And let’s face it, both are long shots. The fact is, the only person who can clear me is dead. The evidence is stacked against me. Whoever planned this, they must really hate me.”

  Jan turned back to the window. “The day before yesterday? I was still a happy guy. Now my girlfriend is dead. And my fellow cops are hunting me down. These are guys I’ve celebrated birthdays and weddings with, who’ve spent whole nights drinking with me in Berlin clubs. How can they believe I’m a murderer?”

  “Politics.”

  “What does politics have to do with it?”

  “George Holoch was a well-known judge. You’re the obvious suspect. And the media needs their story.”

  “But it wasn’t me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They just need to bring you in with the cameras rolling. After that, no one will care about the case anymore.”

  Jan nodded slowly. “I haven’t been looking at the big picture. You’re right.”

  “We have to find the real killer,” Chandu said. “Then, we just might get Betty’s murderer too.” He rummaged around in his bag. He pulled out two IDs and two badges imprinted with the words “Criminal Police.” He tossed one to Jan.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “Here and there,” the big man replied, shrugging.

  Jan held up the ID, inspecting the details. “The hologram’s missing.”

  “I know. An ID like this won’t pass intense scrutiny, but it was the best I could get on short notice.”

  Jan peered over his friend’s shoulder to check out the other ID. The photo showed Chandu with a clean-cut hairstyle and a tie. “I guess I should call you Detective Sergeant Chandu Aswanika.”

  Chandu grinned. “Not bad, huh?”

  “You do know that you’re as well known by the police as the criminals in the Berlin underworld?”

  “Well, this here is for the regular folks, in case we need to ask a few questions.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We go hunting for a killer.”

  “Someone killed my girlfriend to take me out,” Jan said, his jaw clenching as he thought about Betty’s murder. “Whoever it is, I’m going to make them pay with their own blood.”

  He clipped the ID onto his pants pocket. “I’ll get my jacket. There’s someone we need to go see.”

  Chandu nodded with satisfaction. His old friend was back.

  They stopped the car in front of a sprawling villa, and Jan got out to take a closer look at the spiked metal fence surrounding the property. Through the wrought-iron bars they could see neatly trimmed hedges and the details of the home, which had vast windows and a balcony fitted with columns.

  “Looks spendy,” Chandu remarked.

  Jan rang the bell and waited. The door opened, and an older man stuck his head out. He was wearing a bathrobe. His thin hair stood up all over his head. He took in Chandu’s towering stature and facial tattoos with a wary look.

  “Harald Nieborg?” Jan asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “Berlin police,” Jan said, flashing his badge. “We would like to ask you a few questions about the murder of George Holoch.”

  “Again?” Nieborg sighed. “I already told your colleagues everything.”

  “I know,” Jan went on. “But we have a few follow-up questions. Seems our fellow officers were a little sloppy entering the data.”

  “Why am I paying all these taxes to this shithole city anyway if detectives don’t even know their way around a computer?”

  Jan ignored the remark. “Mind if we come in?”

  “That’s not possible right now.” Nieborg hedged. “My, uh . . . cleaning woman is here and the floor, it’s all wet.”

  Chandu crossed his big arms, giving the man a questioning look.

  “We can do this at the door,” Jan conceded. He pulled out his notebook.

  “Did you know George Holoch well?”

  “We belonged to the same golf club, did wine tastings regularly. He was a smart, cultured man.”

  “He have any enemies?”

  “He was a judge by profession. Sure he had enemies.”

  “Did he mention anyone specifically in that respect?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm
,” Jan said, making a note.

  “When did you come home on the night of the murder?”

  “About eleven p.m.”

  “And that’s when you noticed the car in your driveway?”

  “Couldn’t miss it. I hardly got past it. I called the tow service and police, but they didn’t get here until about twelve thirty.”

  “Then what?”

  “By then the car was gone, and I had to explain it to them.”

  “Did you write the plate down?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was a dark-blue BMW M3?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  “No. One second the car was taking up half my driveway. A few minutes later, it was gone.”

  “Huh,” Jan said and noted something down.

  “Are we done with this yet?” Nieborg asked, impatient now.

  “You certainly don’t want to leave your cleaning lady unattended,” Chandu said, winking at him.

  “One more thing. Then we’ll leave you in peace.”

  Nieborg sighed.

  Jan leaned forward. “See, there was a little accident securing evidence,” he whispered. “A box got misplaced, unfortunately. So now a few crime-scene photos are missing, and the house key too. George Holoch didn’t happen to give you a spare, did he? It would be pretty embarrassing for us to have to call the locksmith. If you could just lend us that extra key, we’ll be on our way.”

  Jan did his best apologetic face.

  Nieborg sniffed in contempt. “Wait here.”

  “Not bad,” Chandu said, once the man had disappeared back inside the house. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. I was just hoping.”

  “So what if he hadn’t had a spare key?”