Until the Debt Is Paid

by Alexander Hartung

  “Don’t you think I know that?” the man shot back, annoyed. “Jan isn’t exactly a lightweight. You wanted to take the stairs.”

  “We’re in a hospital, Mr. T.” The woman was bossing him now. “Here? Patients are transported on beds, not carried. If just one nurse got in the elevator with us, this would be a real short getaway.”

  “So why aren’t we using a bed or a wheelchair again?”

  “Because we can’t be rolling out onto the parking lot like this.”

  The man grumbled something, but Jan was too tired to follow the conversation. He let himself glide back into sleep.

  Bergman looked over the photos. The air was stale, and the lowered blinds had dimmed the investigations room. The photos on the walls created a depressing atmosphere. Their classification system was easy to figure out. The photos on the left were devoted to Jan’s possible hiding places. In the middle were photos and notes for Judge Holoch’s murder. On the right was the Josseck case. Over near the door, Patrick Stein was pinning images of the Esel murder to the wall.

  Patrick had always been the paragon of correctness, of reliability. Normally he wore a suit and tie, his shoes were clean, and he paid attention to his personal hygiene. All that had disappeared during this case. Patrick’s dark suit was bedraggled, his tie lay on the table, and he had opened the top three buttons of his shirt. He hadn’t shaved in ages, and his unkempt hair stuck up on his head.

  “We’ve beefed up surveillance all around the hospital,” Patrick said, turning to Bergman, who fought the urge to step back from his bad breath. “Jan won’t be able to slip through.”

  “Not from the front,” Bergman suggested.

  Patrick, edgy, ran fingers through his hair. “Jan was brought to the hospital last night, seriously injured. The emergency surgery went well.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The doctors are calling it a severe stab wound to the spleen.”

  “Someone tried to stab him to death?”

  “That attack on Jan occurred on the same day the Esels were murdered. Maybe they had put up some kind of a fight.”

  “Was a knife found at the crime scene?”

  “No. But not all the blood samples have been checked yet.”

  “Why are we only being informed of this now?”

  “During the night, several injured were brought in because of a gang fight, so no one had time to identify. They only just found a faked detective badge in Jan’s clothes three hours ago. Which was when the hospital called. But by then Jan had already disappeared.”

  “He fled the hospital? After a procedure like that?”

  “The doctors are saying that he couldn’t have acted alone. He was so sedated he wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed without help.”

  “Any ideas on who got him out of there?’

  “We have two officers on it at the hospital. They’re questioning possible witnesses and checking surveillance cameras. All patrols are looking for him.”

  Bergman swatted at air. “You can call it off.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s suppose Jan was able to drag himself out of the hospital on his own. He’d still be in the vicinity. But if he had helpers, they didn’t come by foot.”

  “But what if he really still is in the vicinity—”

  “Did you check out Jan’s friends?” Bergman interrupted.

  “Every last one. For most of them, we were even in their homes.”

  “Well?”

  “Nothing. No leads as to Jan’s whereabouts.”

  “What about the Esel case?”

  “Just about done securing evidence. The corpses are autopsied. Based on the brutal manner of killing and a connection to Judge Holoch and Michael Josseck, we’re going on the assumption that it’s the same perpetrator. The report will be ready in an hour.”

  “There any evidence pointing to Jan’s involvement?”

  “Well, since we’ve found his fingerprints at the first victims’ crime scenes, we’re also going on the—”

  “No speculating, Patrick. Do you possess evidence of Jan’s involvement in the most recent murders?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is there a link between the Esels and Jan?”

  Patrick hesitated. “So far, no clues.”

  “And the building contractor?”

  “There is no link to Michael Josseck either.”

  Bergman sighed. Too little sleep and too much stress—his job just wasn’t much fun anymore. “So, we got nothing.”

  “Why nothing?” Patrick replied. “For the first two murders, the evidence is conclusive.”

  “But a motive was already missing for the second murder. It’s not going to be any different now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look at the case objectively,” Bergman began. “Jan murders Judge Holoch and acts like a beginner doing so. The judge had delivered a harsh verdict against him, so he’s got the motive there, but we don’t have any clue why he’d commit the second murder.”

  “But we have his fingerprints on the murder weapon—”

  “An idiotic mistake that not even a twelve-year-old would make. And Jan is an experienced homicide detective.”

  “Just because we haven’t found anything linking him to Michael Josseck doesn’t mean there isn’t any connection.”

  “The third murder, of the Esels, it’s unrelated to him too.”

  “We’re checking on that, though—”

  “You’ve been looking into Jan’s history for days, Patrick. If there was any connection to Josseck or the Esels, you would have found it.”

  “Maybe we’ll find it at their—”

  “Maybe you stop and listen,” Bergman fumed. “The media have been wallowing for days now in this story, and the chief of police is demanding a report from me twice a day. Not to mention all the politicians farting in their comfy chairs. All I have to show is a possible suspect on the run, whose motive becomes more implausible by the day.”

  “Though in the first two cases the evidence looks—”

  “Go get some sleep.”

  “Excuse me?” Patrick asked, surprised.

  “You look terrible. Your dedication to this case has been exemplary, but you’ve sunk your teeth too far into Jan. Get some rest and leave the investigation to your colleagues for a few hours.”

  “I’m fine. Tonight I can get—”

  “That was not a suggestion,” Bergman declared. “You’re going to go into the storage room right now, the one with the old couch. You’re going to shut the door and sleep at least eight hours. Then you’re going to go home, to have a shower and change. After that, you can start giving some thought as to who could have committed these murders.”

  “Can’t I sleep at home?”

  “No, because there you won’t go to bed. You’ll just keep working on the case.”

  Patrick wanted to keep arguing, but Bergman cut him off with a severe sweep of his hand. “Go, do it now!”

  Patrick bristled at such an order, but he complied. He trudged into the storage room and lay down on the couch.

  Bergman sighed. The fixation on Jan had cost too much valuable time. They weren’t getting any closer to the real murderer. Patrick was a diligent investigator, but he clearly wasn’t able to veer off the one path he’d beaten for himself. Bergman missed Jan.

  “Jan,” a voice said, wresting him from sleep. “Wake up.”

  He turned over in bed, groaning, and tried to keep sleeping. Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes, scowling. Before him stood a vaguely familiar attractive blonde woman, looking him over, taking stock.

  “Hi, baby.” Jan grinned wide.

  “Evidently the morphine’s still working,” the woman said. “I’ll speed up the wake-up process.” S
he took a glass of water and poured it on Jan’s face.

  All at once, his elated feeling dropped away.

  He blinked away moisture and looked around, feeling more alert. Either he was in the world’s oddest hospital room or someone had returned him to Chandu’s place. A faint throb in his gut brought back his memory of being attacked.

  The next moment, Chandu loomed in front of him. “Welcome back,” the big man said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad,” Jan said in a hoarse voice, wiping water off his face. “Like I spent a night out carousing and then ran a marathon after.” He wanted to sit up, but his arms buckled under him.

  “I would take it slowly at first,” Zoe said and lit up a cigarette. “I sedated you real good, so that’s why you can hardly move or think clearly.”

  “What happened?”

  “You got knifed,” Chandu explained. “What do you remember about it?”

  “I was on my way into your building. Someone was waiting for me in the inside courtyard.”

  “Who?”

  “The attacker was wearing a ski mask and dressed all in black. But he called my name.”

  “Called your name?” Zoe and Chandu replied at the same time.

  Jan nodded.

  “Oh, man,” Chandu said. “Someone wants you out of the way. That was no mugging.”

  “It all went down so fast. Before I knew what was happening to me, I had a knife in my gut.”

  “A scalpel,” Zoe corrected him. “And to be more precise, it was your spleen.”

  Jan lifted the covers and looked over himself, feeling uneasy. He was still dressed in a hospital gown. His stomach was wrapped with a thick bandage.

  “What happened after the attack?”

  “You were really lucky,” Chandu told him. “After that first stab you ran out into the street. A car almost ran you over there, which saved your life. Your attacker was thrown off by the headlights. He backed off and then ran away. The driver got out, saw all the blood, and called an ambulance.”

  “They did emergency surgery on you in the middle of the night,” Zoe added. “Chandu got to the scene a couple minutes after the assault and followed the ambulance. That’s how we knew where they were taking you. We got you out when they were changing shifts. They went through your things and found your fake badge and called the department. If you’d stayed put, you would have been done for.”

  “How long since we got back here?”

  “Twenty-four hours,” Chandu said. “Zoe has been keeping you sedated and watching over your recovery.”

  Jan turned his head to her. “I thought you were a medical examiner.”

  “I worked in a hospital while studying, and I did paramedic training along the way. As long as there’s no complications, it’s really no worse for you here than at the hospital.”

  “Thanks,” Jan said, touched. “I thought you weren’t going to—”

  “Don’t go flattering yourself,” Zoe cut him off. “I still think you’re a dumbshit. But Mr. T here kept bugging me until I came over. Once you’re healthy again, my sweet ass is outta here. Also, you owe me two days’ vacation.”

  Jan blinked at her, baffled. Zoe had a unique way of showing she cared.

  “She’s quite the charmer, our little Zoe,” Chandu said, heading into the kitchen.

  “I’m not your little Zoe,” she shouted after him. “Say that again and I’ll show you ‘little.’ ”

  Chandu waved in apology and turned on the coffeemaker. Soon the scent of those pungent African coffee beans filled the whole apartment. Jan felt a huge craving for a cup, with a croissant. Yet before he could get out his request, fatigue overcame him again. He fell asleep, feeling at ease.

  The aroma of frying meat woke Jan. Chandu stood in the kitchen, messing around with a pan. Closer to him, Max sat tapping away on his laptop. The young hacker stuck his head up.

  “Hey, Jan,” he said smiling. “Welcome to the living.”

  “Hi, Max,” Jan answered, his mouth dry. He still felt tired and wrung out. He reached for a glass of water, allowing himself a drink, but had trouble getting his trembling hands under control.

  “You’ll get better soon,” Max told him. “Zoe says you’ll be able to stand up again tomorrow.”

  “Good to hear.”

  Chandu came out from the kitchen, pan in hand. “So you’re up and awake,” the big man said cheerfully. “We’re eating in ten minutes.”

  At the thought of food, Jan’s stomach growled. He drank the whole glass of water and leaned back against the pillows, sighing. The sun sent its last evening rays into the living room. Chandu had already turned lights on.

  Jan turned to Max. “How many days have gone by since I left the hospital? I keep falling asleep.”

  “Zoe and Chandu brought you back here two days ago. This morning was the first time you were able to eat anything. Now? It’s nine in the evening.”

  “So, what are you doing here?” Jan said.

  “I have my reasons,” Max said. “First, I wanted to see you, since Chandu told me you got knifed. Second, Zoe threatened to cut off my fingers if I didn’t keep watch by your bedside. Said she didn’t want to leave you alone with a meathead like him,” he said, nodding at Chandu, “while she tried to catch up on her sleep.”

  “She was here the whole time?”

  “Two days.”

  “And third, I want be working the case again,” Max added.

  “That’s kind of you, Max, but I know the effect the Esels’ death had on you. You may never fully get over what you heard. I didn’t want to drag you into this. If you pack up your stuff and head out, I will understand.”

  Max waved the thought aside. “It wasn’t that bad. After one sleepless night, I started realizing that you guys wouldn’t get very far without me. You’d end up in the slammer and Patrick Stein would get away with it. That would eat at me so I’d never be able to let it all go.”

  Someone pounded on the door. Jan started. Max went to the door and opened up. Zoe came storming in. He could tell she hadn’t slept, but her appearance was perfect. Her carefully combed hair ran down her back. She was wearing a form-fitting suit and high-heeled boots that would probably bring tears to the eyes of any shoe fetishist.

  “Ah, our patient’s awake,” she said to Jan. “How’s it going?”

  “Well, since you asked, I—”

  “Quit babbling,” she interrupted. “It was just a rhetorical question. I’ll take a look myself.” She shoved him back onto the couch. She took his pulse, looked over the wound, and peered into his eyes with a flashlight. Jan felt more like a guinea pig than a patient. Thank God Zoe was a medical examiner. As a doctor, her bedside manner wouldn’t bring her many patients.

  She finished her checkup. “Looking good. The docs at Charité did their job. You’ll have some pain for a while, but you’ll live.”

  She set her flashlight aside. “And now I’m hungry.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Living room to Chandu: How’s dinner doing?”

  “The tortillas need another minute, but you can go sit down.”

  “Tortillas?” Jan said. “That doesn’t sound very African.”

  “African food? You nuts? I did not come all the way over here just to have some insect stew put in front of me. I told Mr. T here to either cook something proper or order pizza.”

  She sat at the table and then turned to Max. “Hey, Maximum Couch Potato, hoist your sorry ass from the sofa and get it over to the table. Eating something will do you good.”

  Max set his laptop aside and helped Jan up. Jan had to hold onto Max to walk, but it was a nice feeling being able to stand again.

  Chandu put a tray of heated corn tortillas on the table. After that came a big bowl of ground beef, a plate of veggies, toasted tortilla chips, and a bottle of Tabasco. Then a salad of
sliced tomatoes, beans, corn, and grated cheese. Like always when Chandu cooked, it was enough for a whole soccer team.

  Jan, starving, loaded up a tortilla and bit into it. The spicy heat brought tears to his eyes, but it was a joy to eat real food again. Even Zoe must have been happy with Chandu’s cooking skills, because she ate without commenting at all.

  After satisfying their initial hunger, they talked about all that had happened the last couple of days. Chandu began with an anecdote about Zoe and an orderly who hadn’t gotten out of the way fast enough. As the first shots of tequila were poured, the murders were left behind and they chatted away, as if they had been the best of friends for many years now.

  While Chandu puttered around in the kitchen, Zoe leaned back, satisfied, and blew clouds of smoke into the room.

  “What’s for dessert?” she asked.

  “Flan,” the big man answered.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “A Mexican vanilla pudding.”

  “All right, fine.” She sounded unconvinced.

  “You’ll like it.”

  “Well then, ladies,” Zoe began. “While we wait for our dessert, I’ll recap what we’ve learned about the Esels. I’ll forgo the photos, because I don’t want anyone barfing again,” she said, one eye on Max. “The first victim was Horst Esel, the very same who was employed by Michael Josseck and sent to jail by Judge Holoch. Our initial guess is that the murderer broke into the Esels’ in secret and surprised them as they watched TV. Old Horst got the special treatment from a stun gun, which made him unconscious a while. After that, he got pummeled in the worst way. While we did identify twenty bone fractures, the actual cause of death was three wooden toy swords rammed into his organs.”

  “Toy swords?” Chandu said from the kitchen.

  “The things would normally be too blunt to penetrate the body cavity, but the murderer had sharpened them up. Horst Esel was pretty much nailed to his own couch.”

  Zoe took a drag of her cigarette.

  “Sarah Esel was killed in the neighboring bedroom. She had countless contusions, internal bleeding, and bone breaks. The real nasty part was her eyes. The murderer cut them out and replaced them with those cheap, tacky, costume rings. The incision was done with expert precision. Most likely with a scalpel.”