“I don’t think that’ll help much,” Reuter said. “As I said, as far as I know she never had much to do with her classmates.”
They got up. “Still,” Franza said, “we’d like the list. You never know. Please?”
She smiled and Reuter shrugged. “Of course, if you say so.”
They walked back down the long hallway, past classrooms with crammed desks and bookshelves. Suddenly Felix stopped and turned around.
“Oh, Herr Reuter,” he said, looking closely at Reuter, “before I forget, apparently there were a number of men paying Marie for special services. Do you know anything about that?”
If Reuter did know anything, he hid it well. “Special services?” he asked, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Cute! Franza thought, sweet innocence.
Teachers! Felix thought, no idea about the real world.
Then it dawned on Reuter, his eyes growing wide. He shook his head in shock.
“What?” he said. “Prostitution? You mean prostitution? Good Lord, what are you talking about?”
“Now we’ve stolen his innocence,” Franza said sarcastically as they descended the stairs.
Felix laughed. “She had him clearly convinced—and you said she wasn’t an actress?”
She gave him a nudge, and he laughed, bounding down the stairs two at a time. When they opened the massive old door at the bottom, the sun beat down on them. Felix shielded his eyes from the sun and asked, “Maybe check with your actor friend?”
At that moment her cell phone rang.
31
It was Arthur.
“Bohrmann!” he said in a shrill voice. “Bohrmann’s losing it!”
Franza didn’t understand at first. “Bohrmann?” she asked. “Who’s Bohrmann?”
“The guy from the autobahn!” Arthur shouted. “Jens Bohrmann, the guy involved in the accident! He’s gone completely nuts. Barricaded himself in his house and holding his wife at gunpoint. He says he’ll kill her if you don’t come right away! He wants to talk to you, right now! And only with you!”
Something went off in Franza’s head, and she understood. “Shit!”
“Hurry up!” Arthur shouted. “Don’t waste any time, damn it, just come!”
They started running. Franza shouted the address to Felix and hung up on Arthur. They jumped into the car and sped away from the school, lights flashing and siren wailing, followed by the frightened eyes of the students and teachers who’d run to the windows.
It was a quiet street in the suburbs with small, pretty houses and flowering gardens—a peaceful idyll. Then they saw the crowd of people gathered around the police cars, which were parked chaotically in the middle of the road. Uniformed policemen had cordoned off the area and were pushing back curious onlookers. Members of the SWAT team, who were heavily armed and wearing bulletproof bodysuits and helmets, were strategically positioned around the house at doors and windows, waiting for instructions. The team leader, Major Andresy, was standing with Arthur on the front lawn of the house. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Franza and Felix.
“He called and wanted to talk to you, but we told him you weren’t there. Then he started going on about how he’d blow up himself and his wife, and you were going to have to live with that,” Arthur said, as Franza was helped into a bulletproof vest. Robert, who was a bit like Arthur’s shadow, handed her a cell phone. A line was already open to the house, but Franza barely recognized the hoarse voice at the other end when the man from the autobahn said hello.
“Herr Bohrmann!” she said. “This is Franza Oberwieser, Homicide Division. You wanted to talk to me. I’m here now, and I’m coming in—take it easy.”
The curtain on the window next to the front door moved slightly.
“I can see you,” Bohrmann replied, opening the door a crack. “Put your hands up.”
With her hands up as he’d instructed, she squeezed slowly through the crack, feeling so calm she almost made herself shudder. She thought of Ben, of Port, and of Max—in that order.
But when she saw the gun pointing at her, she felt her heart start to pound, and realized she was scared. She thought of Port and his warmth and could feel her strength coming back again.
As she stepped closer, Bohrmann moved back toward the living room, which was in semidarkness, the curtains drawn. The woman tied to the chair looked strangely out of place in the stylish upscale surroundings. Her face was contorted with fear, and she stared at Franza with wide, pleading eyes. “Help us! Please, help us!”
Franza nodded. “We will. Now calm down. Are you hurt?”
His wife shook her head vigorously, but it was obvious he’d hit her.
“Is anybody else here? Children?”
She shook her head again. “No, they’re in kindergarten. He took them to kindergarten before.”
“Very good,” Franza said. “That’s very good. You don’t have to be afraid anymore, Frau Bohrmann. We’ll end this now.”
She turned around and looked again at the gun pointing at her. “Isn’t that right, Herr Bohrmann? We’ll end this now.”
He laughed, and when she looked into his eyes she wasn’t sure how they’d end it. His world had turned topsy-turvy, and the look in his eyes told her he didn’t know which end was up anymore, that he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back on even keel again.
“Sit down,” he said harshly.
She took a chair and moved it alongside his wife. She was about to sit down when he stopped her.
“Stay away from her,” he said. “Sit over on the couch.”
“Herr Bohrmann,” she answered as she did what he told her. “Jens. Don’t you want to tell me what happened?”
“The gun! Put it on the floor!”
She stretched out her arms. “I don’t have a gun on me. Look at me.”
Slowly, he pointed the gun at his wife, his face betraying no emotion. “Put the gun on the floor or I’ll shoot her.”
“Herr Bohrmann . . .”
“I’ll shoot her.”
He was feeling calmer than ever before in his life, seized by a cold indifference that paralyzed his heart and darkened the sky. Franza saw it and knew she’d underestimated the danger.
“OK,” she said. “OK, we want to stay calm now, don’t we, Herr Bohrmann?”
Slowly, carefully, she pulled out the gun hidden in her waistband beneath the bulletproof vest. He watched her carefully.
“Put it on the floor,” he said. “And kick it over to me.”
She pushed her gun away with her foot, sending it sliding across the room. He walked over to it, picked it up, and threw it out into the hallway.
“I’m very tired,” he said. “Very, very tired. Don’t try to be a hero, you’ll regret it.”
He gave a little laugh, sweat running down his face, and he blinked and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. She could hear and see his despair.
“Shouldn’t we let your wife go?” she asked carefully. “It’s getting late, noon already. Shouldn’t she pick up the kids from kindergarten?”
“No,” he said. “No. We won’t let her go. And we won’t let you go either! That’s why I wanted you to come—so you’d stay, because all this shit is your fault.”
“What do you mean, Herr Bohrmann? What’s my fault? You have to help me out. Let’s talk about it, tell me. We’ll find a solution.”
He laughed again. “How stupid do you think I am? There is no solution. Are you trying to lull me to sleep with your questions, with your sympathy? It’s too late for that, you understand, too late! None of us will make it out of here alive, do you understand? Not you, not her, not me!”
He slumped a little, his voice breaking, but he held the gun steady and pointing at her. “Except for the children,” he moaned quietly, “except for the children.”
“Yes,” Franza said. “The children. They need you. How many children do you have?”
She sensed him calm a bit. “Two,” he said. “Lukas and Anja. They’re
at school. They’re still little.”
She nodded. “That’s nice. You should enjoy this time, when they’re still so little. It’s a special time. Please, sit down.”
She decided to talk about Ben. Bohrmann would listen, relax, soften.
Then a car came racing down the street. Franza and Bohrmann heard it at the same time: the screaming siren, the squealing tires, the loud voices. Probably the district attorney. He loved dramatic entrances.
Crap, Franza thought, the moment has passed.
And it had. Bohrmann tensed up and started waving the gun wildly in front of the two women. Franza was afraid he’d lose control completely if she didn’t somehow manage to stop him.
“You think you can trick me! But it won’t work!”
“Calm down!” Franza said, raising her hands. “Calm down. Don’t lose control of yourself. You wanted to tell me what happened.”
“The truth!” he said. “The truth happened! Don’t you remember? You said so yourself: ‘The truth is always the best way out.’ Always! I believed you! Do you understand? I believed you! But the truth isn’t the best way! For anyone! No one can bear the truth.”
“What truth?” Franza asked, trying to remember exactly what she’d said that morning on the autobahn. She couldn’t.
“My girlfriend left me,” Bohrmann cried, sniffling and struggling to breathe. “She just took off. Things were too complicated for her.”
He waved the gun around again, pointing it first at his wife, then at Franza. His wife sobbed, tugging in panic on the ropes around her wrists.
He pointed the gun at his wife again. “It’s her fault that Nicole left me!” Bohrmann yelled. “It’s your fault, bitch! That’s why I’m going to shoot you now!”
He held out his arm with the gun, and Franza lunged toward him. Where was the SWAT team? They should have taken the house right away, she thought angrily, right away, then it wouldn’t have come to this.
“Jens!” she shouted, hoping he’d hear her, hoping she’d get through to him somehow. “Jens, no! Don’t do it! Calm down! Please, let’s keep talking!”
It worked. It actually worked.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then lowered the gun. “All right,” he said. “Let’s talk. Let’s keep talking.”
He slid down the wall onto the floor, wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve, and said, “Go on, then, talk. Let’s hear your words of wisdom. You must have some, you awesome policewoman.”
Franza held out her hand. “Give me your gun, Jens. Nothing’s happened yet. We can still fix this.”
He was shaking his head and crying, the tears streaming down his face.
“The gun, Jens. Give me the gun,” Franza said again. “End this now.”
He shook his head again like a stubborn child. “No!” he said. “Stay away! I’ll hurt you! Stay away from me.”
“Oh, Jens.”
“What was your name again?” he asked. “Some strange name, isn’t it?”
“Franza,” she said. “My name’s Franza. Short for Franziska.”
“Oh!” he said, laughing. “Short for Franziska.”
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly. I don’t like it either. But we can’t choose our own names.”
He stopped laughing as suddenly as he’d started, and his face fell. “No,” he said, “and we can’t choose our lives.”
Franza noted his change in mood.
“Especially not our lives! So what the hell are you talking about, Franza! I’ll tell you something: I don’t sleep anymore. Ever since that goddamned night I can’t sleep. I keep seeing her coming toward me, in slow motion, and every time I think it’ll pass. But it’ll never be over, never! And I keep hearing the thud, Franza. I hear the thud, and it sounds like . . . I don’t know what . . . and then she’s flying through the air.”
A shudder ran through him.
“You were as cold as ice when you got there, and you said: ‘The truth is always the best way out.’ And then you just took off and left me standing there with the so-called truth. But the fucking truth is: I killed somebody! That stupid bitch ran in front of my car and wrecked everything! Everything! Everything’s turning to shit. Only she, over there—my wife—she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand it.”
His voice dropped to a whisper now. Soon Jens Bohrmann would be running out of steam. Franza saw it, hoped for it, but it wasn’t happening quite yet. She kneeled down in front of him, to look him in the eyes.
“I told her the truth,” he whispered. “That woman—my wife—I told her the truth. Don’t move, Franza! I told her I wasn’t at the airport in Munich, that I hadn’t been to Hamburg for work. Don’t move, Franza! I told her that she pisses me off, that she’s been pissing me off for so long. That I want to leave her! Don’t move, Franza, stay where you are! I told you, I’ll hurt you.”
She looked at him and knew he meant it. She felt the coldness in his desperation and wondered what she’d done wrong, what she’d said, and what she shouldn’t have said. She couldn’t think of anything. He started to talk again in a flat, husky whisper. With his arm outstretched and the pistol ready he whispered his truth right in her face.
“Do you know what she said, Franza? Do you know what she said? That she loves me. She loves me anyway. She forgives me. Then she called Nicole on the phone and told her the same thing. That she loves me and forgives me and that she’s there for me, especially now that it’s so hard for me on account of the . . . accident. And then . . . the picture in the newspaper. I can’t sleep anymore, every single night it’s the same, no sleep. I just wander around from room to room. I drink to stop thinking—but I think anyway. Always the same thing, over and over.”
He stood up and wiped his face. He was still crying.
“The accident wasn’t your fault,” Franza said as she slowly stood up next to him. “You didn’t have a chance. Someone had already hurt the girl. She was injured and confused, that’s why she ran in front of your car. You didn’t have a chance—just like her.”
His face contorted into a grotesque sneer. “Nice of you to say that, Franza. Wasn’t her name Marie?”
Franza nodded.
“A beautiful name, Marie.” He started to shake and wiped his face again. “It’s over with Nicole. Too complicated she said, too complicated.”
His teeth were chattering now. “But I love her,” he said. “I love her.”
“Listen, Jens,” Franza said softly. “I’ll talk to her. We’ll find a solution.”
“You think?” He smiled. “And how about her over there, Juliane?”
He pointed the gun at his wife. “Will we find a solution for her, too? So she’ll leave me alone?”
He leaned closer to Franza and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “She’s suffocating me, you understand? I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating.”
He turned around and looked at his wife, breathing heavily. Then he turned back to Franza and spoke so quietly she could barely hear.
“Even now,” he whispered. “Even now, knowing I . . . cheated on her, knowing I want to leave her, knowing I don’t love her anymore. She still won’t let me go. Not even now. That’s why I have to get rid of her. I’ve got to. So Nicole comes back, so I can sleep again. I have to get rid of her. Can I? Is it OK?”
Franza shook her head, slowly and deliberately.
His eyes were questioning, and he lowered his arm. “No, Franza? I shouldn’t?”
Franza took a slow, deep breath. “No,” she said softly. “No, you can’t.” She held out her hand to him. “I don’t think so.”
Then all of a sudden his wife broke out in a loud sob.
“But we vowed . . .” she sobbed. “We were . . . Jens! In the church, don’t you remember? Till death do us part!”
Her voice got louder. No, Franza thought, no! Her heart nearly stopped.
“Yes,” Bohrmann answered. “Yes, exactly.”
Then he lifted his arm. And pulled the trigger.
It was s
o fast. Like a thought. Like a heartbeat.
The shot echoed through the house, through Franza’s entire being, and there was nothing anyone could do.
Franza stood there paralyzed, feeling like she’d turned to ice—a lifeless lump. Juliane’s mouth was open, but no sound came out. Her head sank onto her chest, her body went limp, and a dark stain spread quickly over her shirt. Franza thought of her eyes. Someone would have to close them because they never managed to do it themselves in time. There were always more eyes to close: brown hazelnuts or green apples.
Then the SWAT team was there. Shouting, crashing. Bohrmann was disarmed and thrown to the ground, his hands bound behind him.
Felix was there, too, gauging the situation and wrapping his arms around Franza. Major Andresy entered the room, checked the woman’s vital signs, and said: “Dead. We’ll have to call Borger.”
They went outside.
A distant melody in the sky, somewhere among the heavens. Franza breathed in deeply. It faded.
“I was worried about you,” Felix said.
She didn’t say anything, still breathing deeply.
Bohrmann was led past them by two policemen—in handcuffs, abrasions on his face and arms. He’d seemed taller before. Now he was broken and wouldn’t heal. He stopped. “I screwed up,” he said. “Didn’t I?”
Franza nodded.
“The children,” he said. “Will you make sure . . . ?”
She nodded.
“Will you visit me?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “No.”
He nodded. Then they led him away.
The children stood on the sidewalk like creatures from another planet, too little for this moment and too little for what was to come. Their aunt, Juliane’s sister, had picked them up from kindergarten at noon. Jens had called her in the morning and told her he and Juliane had an appointment with a marriage counselor. A crisis intervention team was taking care of the children now, shielding them from what was happening. They were in good hands, but were they going to be good enough for what was ahead?
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