“Hopefully, he isn’t up to something,” Marcel said. “I have a bad feeling. The minister at the Church of the Creator probably tipped him off.”
“Spare us your doom and gloom,” Federsen said. “It’s still unclear whether he had anything to do with the murders. The pastor wasn’t wrong. David Bach hasn’t misbehaved for a while.”
“But only because Rebecca Köhler didn’t press charges.” Clarissa said. “You know that with guys like him we only see the tip of the iceberg.”
“We’ve been looking for him since yesterday. He has to come out of hiding by Monday,” Hannes said. “That’s when his three-day work week starts. Is Per still sick?”
“Not just him,” said Federsen. “You’ve done a great job spreading your germs. Half the force is bedridden. Steffen too.”
Clarissa and Marcel headed out to pay another visit to Daniel Novak, the drug dealer, while Isabelle and Hannes went to see Manuel Birkholz one more time. The members of New Way had all been interviewed, and the group hadn’t shown any radical religious tendencies and had offered mostly solid alibis.
For his part, Federsen claimed to still be sick and not yet ready to hit the streets. There was no protest from his colleagues.
“I feel sorry for you,” Isabelle said a little later in the car. “I couldn’t stand dealing with that guy every day. Can you drive a little slower? I need to change my contacts.”
She flipped down the visor and took the contacts from her bloodshot eyes. Then she opened a new pack and put in the new contacts.
Hannes merged onto the highway. “Still can’t find the right lenses?” he asked, aware of her sensitive eyes.
“No, I’m testing a different brand. I can’t stand these things. I should probably get laser surgery.”
“Or a pair of glasses.”
“Easy for you to say. It’s annoying wearing glasses all day. Besides, I don’t have a face for them. Do you have any problems with your eyes?”
“Not with vision. But people always look at me funny. They’re used to glasses, not different-colored eyes.”
“You could always try color contacts. You could turn your green eye blue or your blue eye green.”
“Why? Are you bothered with how they look?”
“Not at all.” She giggled. “Whenever I see you, I think of my father’s husky.”
Isabelle’s cheerfulness was a refreshing change from the drab rides with Federsen. Her outfit wasn’t very flattering, and her short black-dyed hair didn’t do her any favors either. But he felt comfortable around her and wondered if that might be enough to ask her out. That was when he realized he still owed Maria a drink. And he had almost forgotten that Anna would be returning from Asia soon. At least he wasn’t hurting for options.
Manuel Birkholz lived in the southern part of the next town over. Hannes drove along the main road and parked at the curb.
A visibly annoyed Manuel Birkholz was waiting for them on the fourth floor of a well-maintained apartment building. He led them into a messy apartment and plopped down on a shabby couch.
Hannes sat down in a rocking chair while Isabelle stood, her arms crossed. The living room was as chaotic as it had been during her previous visit; clothes and fitness magazines were strewn across the room. Mr. Birkholz ran his hands through his hipster-style hair and flaunted the impressive array of tattoos on his arms.
“Why are you here again?” he asked, looking Isabelle up and down.
“Certainly not because of your decorating skills,” she said, looking at the pinup calendars on the walls.
“They’re harmless. You should see my bedroom.”
“I don’t give a damn about your bedroom. I’m interested in why you killed Alexander Kramer.”
Both Manuel Birkholz and Hannes were surprised.
“You don’t . . . What makes you say that? I barely even knew him.”
Hannes quickly picked up on Isabelle’s strategy. “You didn’t think too highly of him, though.”
“He was a wimp. Ladies’ man. No idea what he was doing in our industry. I know women. I know what they want. They want to be fucked properly. And those who don’t are—”
“We’ve heard otherwise,” said Isabelle. “Some of your costars have refused to work with you, because you’re rough, insensitive, and aggressive.”
“Then you spoke to the wrong women. I should have never gotten involved with Paradise and lady pornos. If you asked any of my customers . . .” He realized he had said too much.
“Your customers?” Hannes said. “So you are a call boy. In our last conversation, you said you worked odd jobs in addition to your porn career.”
“Who said I worked as a call boy?” Birkholz’s eyes narrowed. “Well, so what? Since when is it against the law to help out women whose husbands can’t take care of them properly?”
“Of course it’s not against the law,” Isabelle said. “But what you did to Sylvia Böhm is.”
“Who?”
“One of your customers,” suggested Hannes.
“Bullshit. I’ve never heard that name.”
“Mrs. Böhm was close friends with Alexander Kramer,” Isabelle said.
“Well, then she could have really used my help. Unfortunately, I’ve never heard of her. But do put in a good word for me.”
“That won’t be possible. Sylvia Böhm was also murdered.”
“Oh, and let me guess, I’m responsible for that too? I told you I don’t know her.”
“Then let’s get back to Alexander Kramer. You resented him for stealing your job. And you threatened him and assaulted him.”
“Bullshit. I never threatened him.”
“Strange,” Hannes said. “Mr. Kramer told his sister you ambushed him outside the studio.”
“His sister’s lying. I ran into him one evening, and we chatted briefly. Sure, we had a little disagreement. But I didn’t give a damn about him. If I was really out to get him, he wouldn’t have gotten off so light.”
Isabelle and Hannes got stuck in rush hour traffic on their way back.
“You really let him have it,” Hannes said and grinned.
“We wiped that smug look off his face. But I don’t think he’s lying about not knowing Sylvia Böhm.”
“I got the same impression. Unless he’s a good liar. If the same perp is behind both murders, we can rule him out. But if there are several perps, we can’t eliminate him as a suspect in Alexander Kramer’s murder.”
Hannes’s phone rang, and he answered on speaker. Clarissa’s gruff voice boomed through the car. She was with Marcel on their way back from questioning Daniel Novak again.
“So we didn’t get much more out of the dealer,” Clarissa began. “He denies any involvement in the crucifixion and says he had nothing to do with Mrs. Böhm, which is probably true, but he knows Antje Kramer. She only came up because Novak asked about Kramer’s sister. After dodging questions, he admitted she’s also a client of his.”
“What?” exclaimed Hannes. “She told us she didn’t know anything about him. She even gave us a fake name.”
“What kind of drugs does she buy?” asked Isabelle.
“Not cocaine like her brother, but hallucinogenic mushrooms. Magic mushrooms. They’re very popular in stoner circles. So, why did she hide this from us? There are worse drug offenses than that.”
“Especially since it’s her brother’s murder investigation,” Hannes said. “Maybe she was afraid of being arrested and thinks the dealer’s innocent?”
“But how could she be so sure? Unless . . .”
“She knows more than she’s been telling us,” Marcel said. “Hannes, you’ve got a good rapport with her. Attend New Way’s meeting tonight. Just say you want to get a better understanding of the victim’s life. You can chat with Ms. Kramer while you’re there.”
Hannes thought an unannounced visit wasn’t a bad idea. He gave a brief summary of their time with Manuel Birkholz before saying good-bye for the weekend. The phone rang again, and Hannes
rolled his eyes.
“Are you on your way back?” Federsen asked. “Report directly to me. I haven’t heard anything from Marcel.”
Hannes summed up the two interviews.
“Okay, why don’t you go to the meeting tonight,” Federsen said. “If you find out anything interesting, call me. Otherwise, I’ll see you Monday.”
It was dark when Hannes arrived at New Way’s meeting place. The meeting was already in full swing. He climbed the front steps and noticed that the stone sculpture of the outstretched hand was gone.
There were over thirty people inside, and they generated a considerable amount of noise. He spotted the towering figure of the group’s leader, Thomas Beck, standing in a corner next to his wife, engaged in a lively discussion with a few members. He looked up, recognized Hannes, and waved him over.
Hannes weaved his way through the members. Some of them he had questioned; others had been interrogated by his colleagues. He noted a slightly higher number of women, but almost all age groups were represented.
“I’m glad you came,” Mr. Beck said. Then he introduced the board members around him, whom Hannes already knew: the Schweigers, the Becks, and Mr. Lück.
“Full house tonight,” said Hannes. “Your members are very devoted.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Lück, who looked dapper in his suit, “our Friday meetings are only attended this well around Christmastime. And people have heard of the deaths. They’re probably the main reason.”
“You came at the right time. We’ve just been attacked,” Mrs. Schweiger said.
“Attacked? What do you mean?”
“That might be a bit of an exaggeration,” Mr. Beck said. “Next to our front door used to be a statue of our symbol. When I got here at six thirty, the statue had been smashed.”
“And that’s not all,” his wife added. “Someone had spray-painted ‘No Blasphemy’ on the wall. Someone’s trying to intimidate us.”
“It was someone from the Church of the Creator,” Mrs. Schweiger said. “We’ve had problems with them before.”
Hannes hadn’t noticed the graffiti outside. Was there any connection between the vandalism and the murders? It could also just be a stupid prank, of course. He went outside to look. Next to the entrance, he found small bits of stone, the larger pieces having been already taken away. As he looked at the wall, the red lettering caught his eye. The message had been sprayed in spidery letters that weren’t particularly big. The work didn’t appear to be done by someone skilled at using a spray can—or an especially gifted speller, because there was an extra m in “blasphemy.”
“Where’s the statue now?” he asked the group when he had returned.
Hannes was led to the storeroom. The statue was no longer recognizable. Hannes knelt down and ran his fingers over the chunks of stone, which had to have been hit with a giant hammer.
“Have you reported the incident?”
“We’re still debating what to do. We don’t want to make a big deal about it and encourage copycats. We can easily take care of the graffiti, but the statue’s a total loss,” replied Mr. Beck.
“Poor Antje,” Mrs. Schweiger said. “She worked on the piece for so long. She’ll be so upset.”
“Where’s Ms. Kramer?” Hannes asked.
“She’s unfortunately one of the few who didn’t come today,” Mr. Beck said. “It’s probably better that she doesn’t see her destroyed artwork.”
“Really a shame,” Hannes said. “I strongly advise you to report the damage. You can also ask that the incident be kept quiet. Did you find any cans of spray paint or a hammer or something?”
“No,” Mr. Schweiger said. “We looked around. We also asked the neighbors. Nobody noticed anything.”
“If something like this happens again, please leave everything as you found it,” Hannes said. “You’ll make our jobs easier and prevent any tampering.”
Soon the members took their seats among four rows of chairs, and Mr. Beck stepped in front of a festively decorated table. A white floor-length tablecloth had been placed over the small table. In the middle was a colorful bouquet and next to it, a smaller version of the destroyed outstretched hand, probably also made by Antje Kramer. To the left and right were two lit candles, the flames of which were reflected in the two small framed photos of the murder victims.
As solemn music played, the members rose, took each other’s hands, and closed their eyes. Hannes spotted the petite figure of Rebecca Köhler, who stood holding the hand of an elderly woman in the front row.
When the music ended, the members let go of one another’s hands, opened their eyes, and hugged the person to the left and right of them. Hannes suddenly found himself in the arms of a stout little man. Bewildered, he took his seat and waited anxiously for the meeting to continue.
The last time he was in a church—his cousin’s wedding—was many years ago. But he realized New Way’s ceremony was similar to a church service. A Bible was nowhere to be seen, but an image of the Ten Commandments painted on the wall did suggest a connection with Christianity, and Mr. Beck had worked as a priest for many years. Although he made no mention of the Bible, his voice was solemn like a homilist, and he knew how to captivate the audience.
“Hard days are behind us, and sad days still lie ahead. Two people were torn from our midst, Sylvia and Alexander, whom we all knew and loved like a sister and a brother. But as we care for each other in life, so too do we do so in death. It is our duty to ensure that they will never be forgotten. We will hang these photos on the wall, so that Sylvia and Alexander continue to be with us. Please rise for a moment of silence.”
There was silence for two minutes. People had tears in their eyes. Mr. Beck placed two black ribbons on the frames and hung them on the wall next to the Ten Commandments. A woman stepped forward and read a poem in honor of the victims. After that, several members played two instrumental pieces, evidently favorites of the deceased.
“The police have released Sylvia and Alexander for burial,” Mr. Beck continued. “We’ll say good-bye to Alex tomorrow at ten o’clock at the cemetery. Antje has shared with me how she’d like the burial, so I’ll organize everything on her behalf. Anyone who wishes to contribute something may do so. A traditional funeral Mass will be said for Sylvia at eleven o’clock. Her husband insisted on this and will take care of everything.” He cleared his throat; his baritone voice had lost some of its strength. He slowly looked over the members. Hannes felt his intense gaze rest on him for a moment.
“I wanted to talk today about courage. About the courage which we constantly seek and so easily lose. Instead, I think it would be better if we discussed steadfastness. It too demands courage. Today our group’s home was vandalized and our symbol smashed. We must remind ourselves why we gather here. We must focus on our values and our convictions. We must not let ourselves be intimidated. We must remain true to our symbol of the outstretched hand and offer it to anyone in need. Let us not forget that.”
Many of the members nodded, and as music began playing, everyone rose and held hands. As the last notes died away, Hannes was once again embraced by the man next to him, and he patted him on the shoulder. Before people left, Mrs. Schweiger stood up and announced the group’s activities for the coming week.
It was already past eight. Hannes listened to her talk about play rehearsals and a music night, then slipped away. Outside, he took a deep breath and strolled to his car. He was impressed by the togetherness of the group. The sensational nature of the murders had contributed to the rise in attendance. The group satisfied a need to come together and help one another. And everyone had clearly benefited from Mr. Beck’s collected manner.
Hannes glanced back at the building. Through the windows, he could see Mrs. Schweiger had not finished her announcements. As he was about to open his car door, he noticed a shadow lurking by the Church of the Creator. He watched as a man hurried across the street to New Way.
The man crouched in front of one of the windows. He wa
s wearing a dark-green jacket, black knit hat, and gloves. As he peered through the window, light fell on his face. Hannes held his breath. Rebecca Köhler had shown him a photo of her abusive ex-boyfriend, David Bach. The man looked very similar, and he was holding a crowbar.
Hannes moved away from his car. Bach had already ambushed his ex-girlfriend here, and Hannes didn’t want to take any half measures. He cursed himself for leaving his gun locked in his desk drawer. He discreetly crossed the street. Suddenly, the door opened, and the Becks stepped outside.
When Hannes saw that the man was now holding the crowbar with both hands and approaching the entrance, he shouted and raced over. The attacker jumped up and stared in Hannes’s direction.
“Police! Drop your weapon!” Hannes roared.
The man lunged at Hannes, swinging the crowbar. It grazed his cheek and left a deep gash. Then the man ran off.
“Get back inside!” Hannes shouted to the group that had gathered at the door. Mr. Beck directed everyone back inside as Hannes pursued the attacker. He had no doubt: David Bach had resurfaced.
Bach leaped over a fence, got caught on a picket, and tumbled to the ground. As Hannes jumped after him, Bach was back on his feet and darting toward a small residential building. He climbed up a pile of wood onto the roof of a garage and jumped into another backyard.
Hannes was close behind him. He was just about to jump on top of Bach and wrestle him to the ground when a cat bolted out of a bush and caused him to stumble. He scrambled to get up and saw Bach race toward the street. Hannes raced after him and stormed out of the front gate. He saw the silhouette of the man about a hundred yards away and chased him.
As Hannes turned the next corner, he saw Bach fumbling with the lock of a blue Opel. He opened the door, jumped in, and started the engine. Hannes pushed himself to the limit, but his fingertips only managed to brush the car as David Bach sped off.
Antje Kramer closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of damp earth and moss. The night was cold and quiet. This was one of her favorite places. She had discovered the clearing by accident one day when she had gotten lost picking mushrooms. She was carrying mushrooms this time as well, in a small basket from home. She also had her small Celtic sacrificial bowl, a camping stove, and two thick candles.
The Northern Cross (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel Book 2) Page 10
