“Ah, our canoeing policeman. What’s wrong, Hannes? Was your boss being a jerk again? The next time he comes in here, I’ll spit in his food.”
“No, Mrs. Öztürk,” Hannes said. “Or yes. But I don’t look this miserable because of my boss. I have a cold. Do you have a pack of tissues by chance?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Öztürk rushed into the small storage room. She came back with a pack of tissues that would tide him over for the next few days.
“These clearly won’t be enough,” she said. “I have a special recipe from Turkey: Ottoman Sultan tea. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll make you a cup.”
It was clear that this wasn’t an invitation, but an order. Hannes took a seat at one of the cafeteria tables. Although he was skeptical, Mrs. Öztürk had once given him a tea for an upset stomach, which had worked wonderfully. He cautiously sniffed the tea, then gulped it down as it brought tears to his eyes.
“What’s in it?” he cried before noticing that his voice was almost completely clear along with his sinuses.
“You see,” Mrs. Öztürk said, “it helps the moment you smell it. The recipe’s a secret, but here’s a small bag of it. Mix two teaspoons in some hot water, and it’s ready. Make it three more times today, and tomorrow you’ll be much better.”
CHAPTER 8
Federsen called in sick Saturday morning, while Hannes felt much better. He had downed three cups of the Ottoman potion the night before and slept through the night. He had to hand it to Mrs. Öztürk—her concoction had miraculous powers—and he thanked her accordingly.
The last day of October was overcast. The pale light offered a dreary foreshadowing of the coming winter. The city was filled with tourists enjoying the last weekend of fall break. Hannes drummed on the steering wheel as he waited for a line of cars to move. He crossed over the railroad tracks near the main train station and parked in a largely residential area. He was ten minutes late to his meeting at New Way and hurried along the street toward what looked like a residential building if not for the large metal cross.
Hannes tentatively pulled open the door. He entered a small vestibule, where an elderly gentleman was in the middle of filling a brochure rack.
“Hello. Are you Mr. Lück? I was supposed to meet you at ten. Sorry, I’m late.”
The gray-haired man turned around and cringed. He wore a crisply ironed shirt and a striped tie. Hannes detected a slightly bitter odor.
“What’s this about? I’m the pastor here. There’s no Mr. Lück.”
Hannes was surprised. A pastor didn’t jibe with what he had read about New Way.
“I’m looking for Mr. Lück from New Way,” he said, and the man grimaced.
“You’re at the wrong place. We have nothing to do with those people—and we don’t want to. They’re on the other side of the street. However, you should think twice if you’re searching for salvation there. The one true faith—”
“I’m not seeking salvation. I’m here on business. Sorry for the mix-up.”
Hannes left the building and glanced across the street. It was hardly surprising he had entered the wrong place, because New Way apparently met in a former café. In front of the two-story building was a small gravel terrace with three weathered tables and several folding chairs. There was no sign or other indication of a religious-type group. The large glass window of the former storefront was decorated simply.
As Hannes climbed the front steps, he saw a waist-high stone sculpture in the form of a welcoming outstretched hand. He remembered having seen this hand on the website—it was the group’s symbol. “New Way” had been meticulously carved in large letters, and he recognized Antje Kramer’s mason’s mark.
“Pretty, don’t you think?” asked a high-pitched voice.
Hannes looked up. Standing in front of him, dressed in a dark suit, was a man of about forty with a blond ponytail. He smiled and greeted Hannes with a clammy handshake.
“We spoke on the phone yesterday. Benjamin Lück. You must be Detective Niehaus?”
“Correct. Please excuse me for the delay, but there was a lot of traffic. Also, I walked into the wrong building.” He pointed to the church.
“The cross outside should have been a clue. That’s a fundamentalist church. The so-called Church of the Creator takes the Bible very literally. They weren’t very excited when we moved in.”
“Was it mutual? I took a look at your website. A fundamentalist church stands for everything you reject.”
“You’re right, but we don’t really care.” Mr. Lück shrugged. “Live and let live. We have our opinions, and they have theirs. Actually, we haven’t had any serious problems with each other. Although that may be because our meetings no longer overlap with their services. We used to hold our general meetings on Sundays, but we’ve since moved them to Friday nights. Since then, we’ve hardly crossed paths.”
He led Hannes inside and gave him a tour. The group had rented it several years ago after an old bakery had gone out of business. The members had renovated and remodeled the place to give them sixteen hundred square feet. The furnishings were mostly the worse for wear—the organization seemed to place little value on appearances.
The largest room on the ground floor served as a meeting space with comfortable couches and a long table. Chairs were stacked along the walls, and in the back there was an open kitchen.
“We have different committees and groups, like choir and theater. We also host a number of activities, and anyone is welcome to get involved.”
He led Hannes up a rickety spiral staircase to a converted attic.
“We meet twice a week in the evening, and every member’s welcome. There’s no fixed program on Mondays, and for about a year now, we’ve held an alternative service on Fridays. Some members missed the spiritual context they knew from church. And one of our goals is to strengthen the sense of community.”
“So a kind of atheist service?” Hannes remembered an article stating that such events in England already had large followings.
“I wouldn’t call us atheists, just moderate believers. Some of us feel more connected to religion and reject only the Church as an institution. Others are searching for moral values. So our meetings are a mixture of religion, philosophy, and anything that moves us. We’re religious and nonreligious. It may sound incompatible, but it isn’t.”
“But your group’s basic tenets cite the Ten Commandments. That sounds very religious to me.”
“Every community has to agree on commonly shared values. We see the Ten Commandments as representative of fundamental moral values. The same rules could be derived from a humanistic standpoint. Since the founders of New Way were all once members of churches, they chose something familiar which anyone could respect.”
Hannes glanced around. He had to stoop over due to the low sloping ceiling and exposed rafters. Open shelving and low filing cabinets lined the walls, and a wide desk with a phone and computer sat in front of a recessed circular window.
“How many members do you have?”
“Forty-three.”
Questioning all the members would take a long time. It was good that Isabelle, Marcel, Clarissa, and Per had also been assigned to the investigation.
“I’ve put together a list of their addresses like you asked,” Mr. Lück continued. “Of course, some members are more active than others. Maybe twenty are heavily involved.”
“How long have you been with the group?” Hannes asked when they reached the foot of the stairs.
“I was a founding member ten years ago and have sat on the five-member board ever since. I’ve been responsible for public outreach for several years, though we don’t actively recruit new members. Religion’s a touchy subject, and it’s easy to step on somebody’s toes. Besides, space is already at a premium.”
“How involved were Sylvia Böhm and Alexander Kramer?”
“Sylvia was very active, and Alexander showed up sporadically. What happened to them came as a big shock. They were well l
iked, open, and friendly. But as they say, only the good die young. We talked for a while about it at our meeting yesterday.”
Hannes could imagine that there was some need for discussion, and he was annoyed that he hadn’t visited the group the night before with his colleagues. They probably could have interviewed half the members and gotten a better impression of New Way.
“How were they active?”
“Sylvia taught German to asylum seekers once a week and helped them with paperwork and administrative procedures. She and Alexander loved kids. They organized play times for refugee and mentally challenged children. It was always very lively in here on those days.”
Mrs. Böhm had sacrificed so much of her time to give foreign children a few happy hours but had opted to terminate her own pregnancy. According to the doctor, the fetus was healthy, so her decision hadn’t been in response to an anticipated disability. He considered raising the issue, but decided against it. Mr. Lück had had a good and trusting relationship with both victims and had no idea who could have been behind the heinous acts. Neither victim had felt threatened.
“How was Mr. Kramer received by your group?”
“Everyone knew about the pornos, and no one has to hide or justify his or her actions in our group. I’m gay and make no secret of it. God doesn’t care. And if I can’t be open here, where can I be?”
Self-professed understanding didn’t necessarily mean actual tolerance. On the other hand, the key message of New Way was that everyone was welcome.
“When did Mrs. Böhm and Mr. Kramer join?”
“One moment.” Mr. Lück went over the membership list he had given to Hannes. “Sylvia joined two years ago, Alexander just last May.”
So Kramer had joined around the time of his first porno. His second film took place in a church and likely offended religious sensibilities. Maybe he felt a need to belong to a community that didn’t judge him, that gave him some sense of absolution?
“I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Beck in fifteen minutes,” Hannes said. “I called him last night after you recommended him.”
“He and his wife also sit on our board. If you were to compare us to a church, he’s something like our chaplain. Thomas used to be a priest before he left the Church. Since then he’s worked as a freelance therapist, and many of our members rely on him. He should be able to tell you more about Sylvia and Alexander.”
Although Hannes was convinced that Mr. Lück was innocent, he inquired about his whereabouts during the murders. He had ironclad alibis. He worked as an actor, and on the night Alexander Kramer had disappeared, he had been onstage. After the performance, the cast had hung out together until after midnight. At the time of Mrs. Böhm’s death, he had also been at the theater, this time rehearsing a new piece. The details were easy to verify and a perfect task for Clarissa and Per.
A few minutes later, as Hannes approached Thomas Beck’s home, he saw the man kneeling in front of a waist-high picket fence, carefully painting the wood white. In the garden, a woman was hanging laundry on a line stretched between two apple trees.
The property was situated on a quiet street in a well-to-do neighborhood. It was a typical brick house with a generous bay window overlooking the garden and a spacious terrace. Thomas Beck had a bushy brown beard, and as he rose, the forty-some-year-old almost matched Hannes in height. His brown eyes and brown midlength hair with its crooked part gave the impression of a kindly man. He had the build of an avid outdoorsman and a firm handshake.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mr. Beck had accidentally covered Hannes’s hands in white. “We bought the house recently and still have a ways to go.”
Mr. Beck led Hannes through a crooked gate, where he noticed a bronze plaque stating psychological counseling was available by appointment. Once they crossed the garden, Mr. Beck introduced his wife.
Few people struck Hannes as so immediately likable. Mrs. Beck was a bit younger than her husband. She was a little plump, and her curly strawberry-blonde hair was tied into a ponytail. Although Hannes guessed by the look in her eyes that she had experienced much tragedy, she radiated warmth and friendliness. He credited them for not reacting to the unusual coloring of his eyes, which was rare.
“What a shame you have to spend such a beautiful Saturday investigating murders,” said Mrs. Beck.
The sun had fought its way through the clouds and bathed the wild garden in an idyllic light.
“I can’t stop thinking about Sylvia and Alex.” The tiny woman wiped her eyes. “Sylvia was always ready to lend a hand, and Alex . . . well, Alex was very special.”
She bit her lower lip, and Mr. Beck patted her on the arm.
“Let me show our guest to the bathroom.” He pointed to Hannes’s hands. “I got paint all over him.”
“Leave the bucket, and I’ll paint while you talk,” Mrs. Beck said. “I need something to get my mind off things.”
After Hannes and Mr. Beck had washed their hands, they headed into the living room.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Beck asked after Hannes sat in a soft leather chair. He declined and gave a brief summary of his conversation with Benjamin Lück.
Mr. Beck smiled. “Benny built up our initial membership and would increase it tenfold if he could. He works as an actor and devotes his free time to our group.”
“You work as a psychotherapist, correct?”
“Not as a psychotherapist, since I don’t have the appropriate training. I was originally a Catholic priest at a parish in North Rhine-Westphalia. I left the priesthood five years ago because I no longer agreed with some of the Church’s teachings. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to marry my wife.”
He smiled again, and for a moment, there was a coltish look in his eye. He had the habit of accompanying each of his sentences with emphatic waves of his arms, probably a holdover from his time as a priest.
“But the sign by your gate says you offer psychotherapy sessions.”
“It says I offer psychological counseling. There’s a crucial difference. You see, I always liked working with people when I was a priest, and I think I was good at it. But I didn’t want to have to go back to school for several more years. So I took a couple of courses to become certified as a counselor and life coach.”
“Did Mrs. Böhm and Mr. Kramer avail themselves of your coaching?”
“Not as patients. But we often chatted at group activities. I’ve slipped into the role of substitute chaplain there. At least that’s what some members call me.”
Mr. Beck had moved to the city almost five years ago, but only learned about the group a little over a year ago when he came across their table at a festival. His involvement grew, and he now led the Friday meeting. It was obvious he enjoyed the role and was in his element.
“You know, many people find it hard to shake off traditions. Here, for example.” Chuckling, he pulled a silver cross from under his sweater. “Some habits die hard. But it gives me strength and comfort, so I wear it around my neck. Sometimes I even catch myself making the sign of the cross when I visit a church.”
He put the chain back under his sweater before continuing.
“People yearn for a sense of belonging, and many feel a spiritual need. We want to make that possible outside the Church. Part of the group has been campaigning for a sort of nonreligious confession, even though the others think that’s going too far.” He smiled. “But none of us can be forced to participate in anything, and people can pick and choose.”
“Did the murder victims confess anything to you that might help us?”
Mr. Beck scratched his beard.
“Please treat all details as confidential, even though our members already know some things. Like, everyone knew Alexander worked as a porn star. But I’ll gladly help you as best I can to shed light on these terrible crimes.”
Mr. Beck didn’t know much more than the police, but he was well informed about Sylvia Böhm’s abortion.
“We discussed it often. Sylvia loved c
hildren and would have liked to have had her own. She had been trying for some time. It wasn’t easy for her to admit that she didn’t want to have the child. Life was sacred for her. It was a real dilemma.”
“What advice did you give her?”
“That it’s a decision individuals have to make for themselves. And whatever the decision, it accompanies that person for the rest of his or her life. I listened, and we explored alternatives. As far as I know, she talked with Alexander a lot about it. They got along well.”
“Why did she decide to have the abortion? Her husband was completely against it, right?”
“Yes and no. He was ultimately the deciding factor. Things had been getting increasingly ugly between them. Sylvia wanted to file for separation and had turned to a divorce lawyer. Recently, it had devolved into an all-out war. In the end, Sylvia realized she didn’t want to have a child with her husband under any circumstances.”
Mr. Beck could say very little about Alexander Kramer. He had joined six months ago, but never came on a regular basis. Mr. Beck had known about his drug use, but it seemed only recreational. It was his first time hearing that Kramer had had any problems with a dealer. On the other hand, he had noticed that the relationship between Kramer and his sister had seemed a little tense recently, but he didn’t know why.
He was more familiar with Sylvia Böhm because she had been one of the group’s most active members and had grown very dear to his heart. He wiped his eyes more than once. Her death left a gaping hole in the group, especially since she led two of the group’s activities.
“But that’s the least of our problems at the moment.” Mr. Beck sighed and promised Hannes that he would help however possible.
Mrs. Beck likewise offered her help when she entered the living room a little later. She seemed extremely upset and unable to process what had happened. During the conversation, she kept shaking her head and blowing her nose. She had been close to both victims. No one sprung to mind as a potential suspect.
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