Time Heals No Wounds (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel)

by Hendrik Falkenberg

  Johannes looked around the room. It was clinically sterile. Even the desk, with its computer keyboard pushed aside, showed no evidence of actual police work. The only personal accessory he’d noticed was a small picture frame holding a faded photograph of a slender, good-looking woman with her arm around a little boy.

  “My mother,” Fritz said.

  Johannes studied the photo and recognized the vestiges of the boy’s facial features in Old Fritz. As a child, he had also worn glasses, looked puny, and had an unruly mop of hair. The resemblance to his mother, who looked absently into the camera, was astounding.

  Fritz stood, walked around the desk, and stuck out his hand. “Fritz,” he said. Johannes was unsure if he had just seen him wink.

  “Johannes. But you can call me Hannes like everyone else.”

  Fritz released his vise grip and fumbled with a cabinet lock. “All right, Hannes. At the moment, we have no case, so it’s best that you take a look at some old ones. Think of it as the theory phase. But hurry up, because a body can pop up anywhere at any time!”

  Fritz stacked several black file folders in front of Hannes and stretched his back. “These are the last three cases I’ve solved. Start with these, and next Tuesday, we can talk about the first case. Say three o’clock?” He glanced at the practice schedule through the door—the only spot of color on the wall next to the desk. “Provided your Olympic preparations don’t get in the way. I won’t be to blame for the national rowing team’s defeat.” He grinned devilishly and patted Hannes on the shoulder. “So now you have plenty of work. I have some things to deal with. We’ll talk next week.” Fritz grabbed his jacket and left through a side door hidden behind a filing cabinet that led to the hallway. Evidently, he had been using it these past few days.

  The following week, Hannes had engrossed himself in the case of a housewife who had been stabbed by her husband’s jealous lover. And Fritz actually kept his word. On Tuesday, he’d discussed the case with him and showed great patience in answering all his questions. He no longer used the side door, and his hoarse “Morning” boomed throughout the former copy room each day. Over the next few days, Hannes had studied the other two cases, and wondered when his new life as a homicide detective would actually start.

  It was soon Sunday evening. Hannes was not too enthusiastic about the coming week. Fritz would be back in the office on Tuesday after spending a long weekend on his old cutter.

  With one last stroke of the paddle, Hannes reached the dock and carried his canoe through the cascading wall of water into the boathouse. Lightning flashed almost without interruption, and a permanent rumble filled the air. Shivering, he closed the boathouse door and listened as the storm rattled the building. Hannes went to the locker room. In the hallway, he ran into his training partner and archrival, who had gotten out of the water in the nick of time.

  “Another lap, dork?” said Ralf. “You look like a wet rat.”

  “That’s what happens when you do water sports,” said Hannes before he slammed the dressing room door behind him. Stupid jerk! he thought to himself. What bugged him the most was that Ralf had better times on the water.

  Hannes quickly peeled off his dripping clothes and massaged his muscles in the hot shower. He considered the hot tub, but decided his couch, a loaded pizza, and a DVD were the way to round out his weekend.

  He dried himself off, his body overcome with fatigue. His cell phone rang, and Hannes answered. Steffen Lauer was on the other end. Hannes listened for a few minutes as a rush of adrenaline washed away his tiredness. He threw his gym bag over his shoulder and sprinted to his old truck in the rain. The stubborn engine started after the third try, and Hannes was soon speeding to police headquarters.

  SUNDAY NIGHT INTO MONDAY MORNING

  The dream begins as it always does. It is amazing and at the same time frightening how stories can turn the memories of others into nightmares. Impenetrable darkness, no light, no form, no outline, only nothingness. The rhythmic sound of boot steps drawing closer, a smell of sweat, blood, and smoke in the air.

  Suddenly, the darkness is shattered by a sea of outstretched arms. The identical expressionless faces attached to these arms all stare in the same direction. An army of white masks—uniform, standardized, robotic.

  A child’s laughter, then the sweet voice of a woman singing in a foreign language. The heads all jerk to the right, and the white masks distort into hateful grimaces.

  An explosion. Full of stroboscopic images, thrashing hordes of young men, fleeing children, women, elderly, desperate faces, raised arms, pools of blood. Shots ring out, flames lap at houses, and windows shatter as smoke, thick and acrid, shrouds the hellish image fragments.

  The dream ends as it always does. Sweat-soaked sheets under a trembling body, a racing pulse, endless hours of tossing and turning. Until finally the first rays of light creep through the narrow crevices of the shutters.

  MONDAY AT NOON

  In the small harbor there was an abnormal hive of activity. People were busy trying to repair the damage from the severe storm the night before.

  Fritz Janssen sharply turned the wheel of the former shrimp trawler. He was heading to his berth on the pier. The city’s main port lay a few miles south, where the edges of the city stretched to the old fishing village. Little distance separated a rural idyll and the new housing developments for young, affluent urbanites.

  Through his binoculars, he spotted Hannes leaning against his old Jeep. Fritz was irritated. Although the vehicle had become prone to breakdowns, he had not been able to bring himself to purchase a new one. He had picked the car out with his wife shortly before her death, which was why the somewhat dented vehicle was full of happy and painful memories.

  As Lena chugged past the lighthouse, Fritz saw a white speedboat off the starboard side. Apparently, it had not been properly moored by its owners and had rammed its bow into a fishing boat during the storm. Fritz sneered. He was sure that the owner was some landlubber from the city who knew nothing of even basic boating.

  He saw a fisherman gesticulating wildly at a man in a white suit who had just climbed out of a BMW 3 Series convertible. The man punched the furious fisherman in self-defense, and a fight broke out. Fritz accelerated to the dock and watched as Hannes awkwardly tried to mediate the dispute only to be thrown aside by the berserk fisherman. He lost his balance and fell to the ground. Distracted, Fritz rammed into the dock and scratched up his cutter.

  “Shit!” He threw his rope to a freckled boy. “Fiete, tie me up!”

  Fritz hustled over to the brawl. Several men had now detained the driver and the old fisherman.

  “Okay, okay, Ole, calm down. Don’t get yourself so worked up,” Fritz said in the local dialect, placing his hand on the quick-tempered fisherman’s shoulder.

  However, it took much more persuasion before Ole truly calmed down. “I’m not gonna get my hands dirty because of that guy,” he said.

  “This brat belong to you?” Ole asked Fritz with a nod to Hannes, who was sitting on the ground clutching his knee. “He asked when you were coming back and wanted to wait around until you docked.”

  “That’s Hannes. They saddled me again with a newbie I have to teach how to be a cop.”

  “Then you should tell him not to meddle in other people’s business,” said Ole. “Next time he might get more than just bruises . . .”

  “Teaching a young police officer not to get involved in other people’s business? I’m gonna suggest that to the guy in charge of training new recruits.”

  “We can solve these things on our own. We don’t need the police!” said Ole before he walked away.

  Fritz sat down on a bollard and winced as pain shot through his back. The last few days on the rough sea had left their mark. “Damn it,” he said. “If this continues, I’ll have to dry-dock my boat for good.” Hannes limped toward him. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Are they always so welcoming here?” Hannes asked. “When that old fart tosse
d me aside, I twisted my knee, and we’re in the middle of competition season!”

  “Old fart,” Fritz repeated. Was that what Hannes called him when he was not around? “Well, at least you can see what old farts still have in them. Be glad Ole was too busy with that yuppie, otherwise you’d be worrying about more than your leg. And when some little snot makes me scratch my boat, he had better see to it that he wins the national championship. You know, Ole and I sat next to each other in school. Does that make me an old fart too?”

  Hannes quickly changed the subject. “I didn’t know you spoke the local dialect. I barely understood a word.”

  “How are you going to solve any crimes here if you don’t understand the locals?”

  “Maybe you can give me a few private lessons.”

  “When the time comes,” said Fritz as he pushed himself up from the bollard with a groan.

  “More back pain?” asked Hannes, who had often seen Fritz hobbling at the station.

  The pain was now running up and down Fritz’s entire back. He repeated his previous question. “So, what are you doing out here?”

  “A body’s been found on a stretch of beach about three miles from here,” Hannes said. “An old man stumbled upon it last night. I couldn’t tell you sooner because I was unable to reach you. Incidentally, Mr. Lauer wants to speak to you about that. Anyway, it’s a woman. Everything points to drowning. The body’s with forensics now.”

  “If she drowned, then that’s not really a case for us,” said Fritz.

  “The cause of death has not yet been determined. And the new medical examiner—you know, the short one with black hair—mentioned there were a few inconsistencies.”

  “What sort of inconsistencies?” Fritz asked.

  “No idea. She wants to complete the autopsy first and send us the report.”

  “Jeez, Hannes! If we waited every time for the forensic report, our investigation would go nowhere. You could’ve at least teased some preliminary information out of her. Or”—he cocked his head—“did the young lady get your tongue?”

  Hannes’s face turned bright red at the mention of his exchange with the highly attractive medical examiner.

  With a husky laugh, Fritz hit him on the shoulder. “At least now you have a reason to see her again, because I’m certainly not waiting for the official report!”

  Hannes couldn’t understand Fritz’s rapid mood swings—let alone predict them. He’d learned that the old detective had been grappling with loneliness ever since his wife died of a heart attack after a long illness about fifteen years ago. “We should head to the spot where the body was found,” he suggested, eager to steer the conversation elsewhere.

  “We’re not going to find much after the storm,” said Fritz. “Were the crime scene investigators able to tell you anything? Or was there another young doe-eyed newcomer too?” Chuckling to himself, he walked over to Hannes’s patrol car. “Let’s head to the beach now. We’re already halfway there. My car can sit here for a while. With my bad back, I can’t drive, anyway. And the kid over there’s already tied up my boat.”

  He waved at the boy and shouted something across the square, which sounded like “Well, Fiete, stenjhiawfugsn?” as he pointed at Hannes.

  “Dat’s right,” the kid replied with a grin and gave a thumbs-up.

  Amused, Fritz looked at Hannes’s quizzical face and slumped into the passenger seat of the car. Annoyed, Hannes got behind the wheel. When he started the engine, Fiete came over, waving his arms. Fritz rolled down the window, and the boy held out a bronze brooch with a recessed red stone.

  “I found that in Lena’s bow,” he said and darted away.

  “Well, Fritz?” Hannes said with a wink. “Did you meet a little mermaid on your trip?”

  Over the past few days, Hannes had begun to wonder about Fritz. His boss had been receiving a number of phone calls and would leave the station conspicuously early. So the old codger was back on his feet. Grinning, Hannes drove off. For once, he had the last laugh, while an angry Fritz quickly stuffed the brooch in his pocket. “Not a word to anyone!” he said.

  The patrol car’s rattling engine died just as they reached the end of a dirt road near the “shark fin” cliffs.

  “What, you couldn’t find a crappier car?” Fritz said as he carefully got out. “Didn’t know we had such clunkers in the fleet!”

  “It was the only one available.”

  “I want to tell you something,” said Fritz, poking his index finger at Hannes’s chest. “You’re way too naive! On the second level of the parking garage, there are several practically new patrol cars. But let me guess who assigned you this one. Old Ingrid, right?”

  Hannes nodded. It had indeed been the secretary of the Criminal Investigation Department.

  “Ever since I started this damn job, that old witch has harassed me whenever she can,” Fritz said. “In the future, you’ve got to insist on a decent car because I’m not going to keep squeezing into this box!”

  With slightly uneasy steps, he approached a narrow path leading down to the beach. At the edge of the cliff, he slipped and fell backward, arms flailing, and disappeared down below. Despite his injured knee, Hannes ran after him. Fritz was hurtling down the trail to the beach and only came to a stop when he hit the sand.

  Hannes raced down and leaned over him, worried. “Man, Fritz, are you okay?”

  “Another fall like that and you’d be driving me to the nearest hospital.” Fritz rolled over onto his knees. His black jeans were slightly torn and dirty.

  “There were two trails up there. Fortunately for you, you at least chose the right one to fall down, because the crime scene should be right in front of us.”

  “You’re a real optimist. I’m so happy!”

  “No seriously! The left path leads to the other side of the beach, and there’s no passage between the two sides because of the rocks.”

  Fritz warily eyed the path. “I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get back up. Anyway, what now? Where was the body found?”

  Hannes looked at the beach. “It was completely dark when I was here last night, but probably over there by the remnants of the barrier tape.”

  The two men stepped over clumps of seaweed that had been washed ashore and made their way through the driftwood.

  “That was the storm of the century,” Hannes said. “I’m sure it was no fun to be at sea in that weather.”

  “It’s usually less severe out on the open sea than closer inland. But it really wasn’t fun.”

  They reached the shreds of barrier tape flapping in the wind. Otherwise, this stretch of beach looked just as desolate and ravaged as the rest of the coast.

  Fritz turned, surveying the scene. “Although we won’t find any new evidence, it’s important we get a good look at the crime scene, so we always have it in our minds. Maybe at some point we’ll make a connection we don’t see right now. Where exactly was the woman?”

  “Right next to this rock. The forensics team took pictures.”

  Fritz trudged to the spot, and his black jeans got soaked up to the knee. He turned in a circle, taking in the scene, seemingly storing a mental picture. The beach formed a small secluded headland at this point and was shielded on one side by a large number of rocks. The narrow strip of sand was dotted with shells, and a few yards from the waterline rose the coast’s mighty cliffs. A lone, slightly stunted tree grew in the rocks, but otherwise dune grass was the only vegetation in sight.

  “The medical examiner assumes drowning?” shouted Fritz. “If it was murder, she also could have been thrown off that cliff.” He pointed to the edge of a cliff thirty feet above.

  “Drowning was Maria’s first impression,” Hannes said.

  “Who’s Maria?”

  “Oh right, our new colleague in forensics.”

  “She could have definitely been pushed and drowned in the water after being seriously injured. Or she was simply placed in the water.”

  “Maybe she was neither thrown
nor drowned,” Hannes said. “Right now, murder’s only one possibility.”

  “Right. Hopefully, that young doctor will be able to give us some clues.”

  “If our colleagues are able to find something,” said Hannes. “Of course, there was some time between the discovery and our arrival, and the storm had already kicked into full gear. Believe me, the body really wasn’t a pretty sight! I wonder if it’s possible to determine if her injuries were caused by the storm or not.”

  Fritz grew queasy at the thought of this: it was clear he would not be able to avoid a visit to the autopsy table. He had always hated dealing with bodies.

  “There’s not much else we can do today, so let’s crawl back up, and tomorrow we can learn more from the beautiful Maria.”

  “Tomorrow? I was supposed to pick you up, so we could head back to the station and start the investigation. The chief was very clear about that and—”

  “I don’t give a damn what he says. I’m your direct superior, and I’m telling you we’ll start tomorrow morning! Now, help me get up that damn hill, and then go home or to practice or wherever.”

  Hannes gave up and helped him climb the cliff. “My back hurts too much to sit. I’m going to walk. See you tomorrow,” Fritz said when they reached the top. Ashen-faced, he staggered toward the harbor. Hannes shook his head. He wondered what he should do with his unexpected free afternoon, because practice was out of the question due to his aching, swollen knee.

  Just then his phone rang. “Hello, Maria! Find something out already?”

  “Hannes.” He loved her faint Spanish accent. “There’s no doubt the woman drowned.”

  “Accident or suicide?” he asked.

  “We’re not sure. We discovered abnormalities that we need to look at more closely. For example, there are tiny abrasions on her wrists that could be from a rope. Best you come over tomorrow morning.”

  “But there was no rope when she was pulled out of the water.”

  Maria laughed. “Then it’s up to you to find this rope. Welcome to your first case!” She hung up.