Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  Max’s stomach rumbled, but he put the pizza aside. He’d puked more today than he thought possible and didn’t feel like doing it again.

  He went over to the front door and checked the locks for the fourth time. Horror movies and splatter films had never bothered him. He’d already watched Saw eleven times. Really sick stuff happened in that one—but the screams of that woman today had been real, and so had her death. He was afraid now. Actually afraid. Not the pleasant skin crawl you got watching horror films, but rather that kind of fear you felt as a kid. The fear that made you claw your fingers at the pillow, weeping. But his mommy wasn’t here now, and there’d be no hiding under her covers. No daddy to comfort him.

  Max tossed the pizza in the trash. He’d had so much fun helping Jan at first. The guy was his only friend. But today they had crossed a line. There was a psychopath running around out there, one who enjoyed slaughtering people. Being that close to a murder had shaken every fiber of Max’s body. How could a person handle such a thing? How could someone work as a detective and confront such horrors every day, without going mad?

  He had to give it all up. Forget the whole thing, go play World of Warcraft all night and try out the latest creations from his pizza delivery service. At some point the screams in his head would go away.

  Then he thought about Jan again. How shocked the detective had been when he’d become a murder suspect, and how strongly he’d been affected by Betty’s suicide. When Max and Jan had first met, the guy had been the life of every party. No one was more easygoing. But Max had seen a change in him. Jan’s up-for-anything grin and his let’s-grab-one-more-beer state of mind had vanished.

  Jan had always treated him with respect, and it had been a great feeling helping his friend, but he couldn’t do it anymore. One more murder just might cost him his sanity.

  Without him, though, Jan wouldn’t get at any more data, and Patrick would be able to manipulate the evidence to convict Jan. “Shit,” Max spat out.

  In a rage, he swept his laptop with its smiley-face sticker right off the table. He went into the bedroom, with its narrow bed and wardrobe. Old pants and T-shirts lay on the floor. A case of Coca-Cola stood on a stool. Max threw himself onto the bed and pulled a blanket over his head. He’d had more than enough of the world. He only wanted to sleep and forget everything. No more murders. No screams.

  Jan was on the way to the church when his cell rang. He yanked it out of his bag.

  “Yeah?”

  Zoe dived right in without saying hello. “My coworker is working on the corpses right now. I’ve seen the crime-scene photos, so I wanted to give you a brief status report. The victims are Sarah and Horst Esel. Who would have thought?

  “Someone really worked him over good. On top of fractures to the legs and arms, his kneecaps were broken. As he lay there tied up on the couch, toy swords, the kind made of wood, were driven into his internal organs. By the way, the swords had clearly been sharpened. From the amount of blood on the couch, we’ve determined that he was still alive at that point.”

  “Zoe, I—”

  “Don’t interrupt,” the medical examiner snapped at him. “He died of the wounds, though the attacker was careful not to pierce heart or lungs, which prolonged the dying.”

  “So the murderer has a good idea of human anatomy,” Jan said.

  “You don’t say.”

  “What about Sarah Esel?”

  “Oh, she won the jackpot,” Zoe snarled. “Her bones were broken until she couldn’t move anymore. Then her hands were bound behind her back, her eyes carved out and the eyeballs replaced with flashy rings, the cheap costume-jewelry kind. Then the murderer sliced her arteries and watched as she slowly croaked.”

  “Why did he do that with her eye sockets?”

  “Because he’s a sick fucker,” she barked at him. “How should I know? You’re the one who’s the brilliant investigator.”

  “In my whole time with detectives? I’ve never seen anything like—”

  “Don’t babble on with your sappy stories,” Zoe cut in. “You know who did it and still you don’t want to put a bullet in his head. Even though killing him quickly would be showing more mercy than that bastard deserves.”

  “I, I can’t think straight—”

  “Spare me your excuses. This is the last time I help you. When you’re ready to take out Patrick for good, give me a call. Otherwise go find yourself a new chump.”

  The call disconnected.

  Jan rubbed at his eyes. He could understand where Zoe was coming from. The perpetrator had to be punished. But he wouldn’t let himself get carried away and commit an act driven by rage. If he only had more than just circumstantial evidence, some irrefutable proof or a confession, then maybe he’d be able to fulfill Zoe’s wishes. Because he wanted justice. Not for himself. For Betty.

  The time Chandu spent with his mother was a wonderful retreat from his daily world. She was the most important person in his life, as well as his only living relative. Memories of his brother and sister and of the old country did hurt, and yet recalling them let Chandu immerse himself in those days before they’d had to flee. Even though it had left him with horrible scars, he remained bound to the place where he’d grown up. Rwanda was in his blood, his homeland. But Berlin was his home.

  Driving back home, he felt a guilty conscience stirring. Jan was his friend. One of the few people he trusted. He shouldn’t be leaving him all alone, but that woman’s screams had awakened experiences that he had buried deep in the farthest reaches of his memory. He was not some defenseless child any more, no, but the murder had taken him back to a time full of unimaginable atrocities. That fear of dying. Corpses in the streets, and the stench of bodies rotting.

  Seeing a corpse, back then, most people had turned their heads away in terror. But Chandu hardly had a shrug left for it now. He had been in the darkest place imaginable. There, people had done things that couldn’t be explained with even a million words, the horrors robbing you of sleep forever. Yet the nightmares had made him stronger. It was like taking a “steel bath,” soaking in chalybeate springs. A harsh yet sacred thing. He’d kept his nerve in even the wildest shootouts.

  And yet, that woman’s death cries had really hit him hard.

  Tonight they would return to stalk him: the nightmares. The rot stench. Like old friends. But he would not allow that to deter him from aiding Jan. He would always be in his debt.

  Chandu stepped on the gas, speeding onward.

  Seeing Father Anberger made Jan smile. His easygoing ways and his friendly expression gave Jan a sense that all would be made right again. The burden on his soul would lighten, and the murder would be solved.

  “Thanks a lot for taking the time for me,” Jan said, shaking the priest’s hand. “I’m sorry that I asked you here so late, but I didn’t know of any other way.”

  Father Anberger waved aside the thought. “It’s all right. At my age you don’t need much sleep, so if I’m able to bring a tortured soul some relief, then it’s my duty to do so.”

  Jan wrung his hands. “I guess I don’t know where I should begin. The last few days have been the worst of my entire life.”

  “Perhaps you should start at the beginning and tell me all about it. It helps if one gets all his worries off his chest.”

  “I’m suspected of murder.”

  “The judge, I remember. Your fingerprints and your DNA were found, and you had to go on the run. Then there was a second murder.”

  “They found my fingerprints there too. I was with friends at the time and I didn’t know the victim, so clearly I couldn’t have been the killer. Someone’s trying to pin the whole thing on me. I’ve relied on help from my friends to find out more, but none of the three has ever done any police investigating.”

  “You’re afraid that they might not handle the pressure well?”

  Jan nodded.
“I roped them into this without realizing I could put them in danger.”

  “Are they in danger?”

  “Physically, no, but I think their psyches have taken some hits.”

  “What happened?”

  “I recently gave a possible source my phone number. Tonight someone called it, frantic. It was a woman—and her husband was being murdered in the next room.”

  “My God.” Father Anberger crossed himself.

  “Hearing the man scream was already tough to take, but then the murderer went after the woman and tortured her to death. The phone transmitted every moment of her torment. You can’t imagine it if you’ve never experienced it,” Jan said, his voice straining with despair. “The screams of someone tortured to death, they’re horrific. They bring out a primal fear, and you get wise to your own mortality. It’s pulled me down too, so I can’t even imagine what it’s doing to the others.”

  “So you consider yourself guilty in some way?”

  “I am guilty,” Jan insisted. “Without me, they wouldn’t be going through this.”

  Father Anberger leaned back on the pew, deep in thought.

  “I’ve known you some years now, Herr Tommen. You’ve never given me the impression you would ever force a person into anything.”

  “No, not really.”

  “So, from that, I’m going to assume that you haven’t made your friends come help you.”

  “I didn’t make them, no, but I should have kept them out of it. I work in Homicide. I should have known what could become of a case like this.”

  “Perhaps your very despair induced your friends to help you.”

  “I should not have accepted their help. Now I’m to blame for them not being able to sleep at night.”

  “I understand now.”

  “You do?”

  “You’re suffering from too much protector instinct. You’re like the mother of children who shields her offspring from all adversity over the years, but forgets that the children will have to grow up.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re afraid that you’ve robbed your friends of their spiritual innocence.”

  “That’s what it amounts to.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think.”

  “Not so bad?” Jan said, surprised. “It’s not bad that my friends need psychological help?”

  “Give people more credit for their internal fortitude,” the priest urged. “You’ve seen many horrible things in your job, all without perishing yourself. You, too, experienced a shock, one that would have driven many out of their minds. And yet it didn’t break you. Do you remember what I’m talking about?”

  Jan sighed. “The murdered child. You cannot imagine what was done to that nine-year-old girl.”

  “And how did that case make you feel?”

  “I was delirious for two days. I couldn’t sleep, didn’t eat a thing, was wandering the corridors of Homicide like the walking dead.”

  “And then?”

  “My boss, Klaus Bergman, he chewed me out. And when we got a new lead, my lethargy disappeared. The chance of nabbing the guy gave me my strength back. Four days later, we caught him. That was when I first started sleeping again.”

  “So, you know firsthand that a person can gain strength from a terrifying experience.”

  “My friends will come out of this stronger?” Jan asked him, uncertain.

  Father Anberger placed a hand on Jan’s shoulder. “God is our refuge and our strength. There to help us in times of the great troubles that afflict us,” he cited. “Have faith. Others can bear pain too. You must not stanch it all on your own. Share your sorrows.”

  Father Anberger stood. “I’ll leave you now, to be alone with God. Have faith in Him, and He will soothe your soul.”

  Jan closed his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, full of emotion. “I will pray for the slain Herr and Frau Esel.”

  Father Anberger looked shaken for a moment. It was little more than a flash in his eyes, a brief warping of the corners of his mouth.

  “Did you know the couple?” Jan asked in surprise.

  “No,” he was quick to reply. “How could I?” His smile had returned.

  Jan squinted. The man was old. Jan was probably just delirious again.

  The priest hurried out of the church. The door closed with a loud bang. Jan stood and went over to the offering box. There he chose three candles. Two for Herr and Frau Esel. One for Betty.

  He sought peace in prayer, but he couldn’t get the priest’s expression out of his head. When he’d heard about the Esels dying, fear had clearly run right through him, down to his marrow.

  It was midnight by the time Jan emerged from the subway station and headed toward Chandu’s apartment. He was still scared someone could recognize him. It didn’t have to be a fellow cop. Even just an old acquaintance could make things dangerous. One accidental run-in and his noose would pull even tighter.

  He squeezed between two parked cars and crossed the empty Oranienburger Strasse. A few pubs were still open, but they were nearly vacant.

  He was heading into the inner courtyard of Chandu’s building when someone called his name. He turned but could see only a dark figure, freeing itself from the shadows. He tried to make out a face.

  “Do I know—” Jan started to say, but his words gave way to a scream of pain as a knife rammed into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping. The figure pulled out the knife and went to stab again, but Jan, using every last bit of his strength, ran headlong for the street. Instinct made him flee his attacker despite the staggering pain. He pressed a hand to the wound. Blood leaked out around his fingers and soaked his shirt.

  The figure followed him. It was dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and mirrored sunglasses. In its gloved hand, it held a small, blood-smeared scalpel.

  Jan wanted to keep running, but everything was spinning around him. He didn’t know up or down. He wouldn’t get away like this, so he yelled out for help. Then his strength drained away and his legs buckled under him. His head slammed against the road. The figure stood over him, raising the scalpel. Jan tried to crawl away. Blood ran through his fingers onto the asphalt.

  As the blade came down again, he heard the loud squeal of a car braking. Then came nothing more. Only darkness.

  Chapter 14

  Jan had trouble opening his eyes. He felt sluggish and heavy. His mouth was dry and his throat felt raw. He lay in a bed, in a room he didn’t know. The ceiling was covered with white squares of gypsum board. A fluorescent tube illuminated the whitewashed wall. He turned his head toward an assortment of flashing machines. A metal stand held a bag of transparent liquid that flowed through a tube into his left arm. He raised his head. A sharp pain made him yelp. The room spun around him, and he threw up on the bedspread. A woman in a white coat came running into the room. And he fainted again.

  Patrick, yawning, pulled down the shades. The rising sun was blinding him. Here he was, on the job. While his fellow officers were at home sleeping, he had kept at it on through the night. And now, before their investigations of Judge Holoch and Michael Josseck were even solved, a new case had landed on top of them. The murders of the Esel couple had forced Bergman to expand the homicide staff, yet the files were already piling up to the ceiling.

  Patrick was pouring himself a cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was half past six in the morning. Who could be calling this early?

  “Stein, Homicide,” he snapped.

  “My name’s Niedermayer,” a woman’s voice said. “Good day.”

  “What can I do for you?” Probably another of those do-gooders who thought they’d seen something. He’d had it up to here with leads coming from the general population. They constantly led to nothing.

  “I’m a nurse at Charité Hospital. Yesterday we had a seriously wounded man brought in who needed em
ergency surgery. He is doing better, but not yet responsive. He was discovered out on the street, without ID. It wasn’t till this morning that we found a detective’s badge in his jacket.”

  Patrick listened, poised, electrified. His fatigue had evaporated.

  “Who we talking about?” he panted.

  “We didn’t find any other ID.”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  “I’d put him at early thirties. Six foot. Light-brown hair, cut short, green eyes. Sturdily built and wearing a dark leather jacket—”

  “Don’t let him go!” Patrick barked into the receiver and slammed down the phone. He grabbed his jacket and fumbled in his pockets for his car keys. Then he ran down the hall for the exit. His harried face showed the hint of a smile. He had Jan, finally. He just had to go collect him.

  When Jan woke up his pain was gone, but he felt weaker than before. He could hardly lift his arm. Someone was talking next to his bed, disturbing his sleepy trance.

  “Are you sure he’s not feeling any pain?” a deep male voice was asking.

  “All that morphine in his blood would put a herd of camels to sleep,” a woman replied.

  “So how’s the wound?”

  “The incision is stitched and all covered up. The wound won’t rip open if you carry him gently.”

  “What about internal injuries?”

  “According to his chart, he’s out of the woods.”

  Jan opened his eyes and tried to recognize who was speaking. The voices sounded familiar, but he couldn’t attach any names to them.

  “I think he’s waking up,” the man said.

  “Won’t matter much,” the woman replied. “He’s sedated.”

  Someone lifted him out of bed. Ceiling lights drifted by him. He was being carried down a hall.

  “Hurry,” the woman urged. “They notice he’s not in the ward, all hell will break loose.”