Heller retched and gasped for air. “You’ve been in the cellar—you helped the man?”
“Yes. We got him down. It’s Yakovlev, the missing Soviet. He’s still alive, but it’s unclear if he’ll make it. His throat is probably crushed.”
“Werner,” Heller whispered, grabbing his colleague’s arm. “You think it’s possible that the meat, that she . . .” His voice gave out, and he started vomiting again.
Oldenbusch shrugged and nodded, as if he’d considered it already.
“Thus the injection of anesthetic, because she’s much too weak to fight against a man,” Heller panted, pushing damp hair off his forehead.
“So it’s not just coincidence that all these men were regulars in Gutmann’s bar?” Oldenbusch asked.
“No. She knew Gutmann, Swoboda, and all the girls. Frau Schlüter even alleged that she was procuring the girls for Gutmann. She owns a rifle that fits the bayonet. She was a nurse and knows anesthesia. She could even have betrayed the pastor to the Soviets to divert suspicion to those children in the woods.”
“Come on now, Max. Let’s get upstairs. We’ll drive to the office. We need to get you back in shape.”
“No, we’re staying,” Heller ordered. “Get some more light in here, and start securing the evidence. Call Ovtcharov over here. I’m going to go sit upstairs until I feel better.”
Forty-five minutes later, Heller was sitting on a chair upstairs, still unable to stand. Coffee was doing him good. A kerosene lamp provided feeble light. Cables from a generator outside ran through the room and down to the cellar. The door was open, and Heller was freezing despite the blanket draped over his legs. When Ovtcharov came up from the cellar with Oldenbusch, he grabbed a chair and sat across from Heller. Outside in the yard, twenty of his soldiers stood around smoking, waiting for orders.
“It was an old woman?” Ovtcharov said. “She lured my men down into the cellar here, and the one-handed man and that Weiler as well?” Disbelief was written all over his face. “She numbed them, strung them up, then butchered them? Did I understand that correctly? And to divert attention, she stuck those two severed hands in the neighbor boy’s cellar?”
Oldenbusch held up a hand. “In her oven we found the remains of bones—she apparently incinerated anything left over from her victims,” he explained.
Ovtcharov eyed the small metal stove with skepticism. He then shouted something to his soldiers outside, who moved out.
Heller rubbed his aching shoulder. His chest too. “I realized something this evening. You know what it was?”
“I’m so eager to hear,” the colonel said, though it sounded sarcastic.
“I was wondering if it was possible that Medvedev ordered Kasrashvili to take care of the issue in the Schwarzer Peter bar. I mean, he would have been in a position to get them out of the way, one after the other. Avoiding a scandal. You yourself led me to the idea by telling me that the commander didn’t dare officially interfere.”
Ovtcharov’s body began shaking oddly. Only after a few seconds did Heller comprehend that the Russian was laughing. Heller had to give him credit for at least attempting to hide it.
“Comrade Heller, you truly must reexamine the image you have of us Russians. Sure, you may appear to represent the moral authority of your police force, but you really do harbor a most grim resentment. I’ve asked you before what you think of us. Now I’m asking you, do you really think we’d order one of our own officers to kill a fellow officer? Kasrashvili is a prisoner, as we all are. He, too, cannot live the life he’d wanted. He drinks too much, he plays funeral music, and he’s destroying himself. Didn’t it ever occur to you that Medvedev might feel sorry for him? And that’s why he’s giving the man some slack? But it is true that he was the one who told us what was really going on in Gutmann’s bar. And now I wish to hear from you just what happened to Cherin and Berinov.”
“I can only speculate as to how Berinov died. He must have been here in the ruins and found Swoboda’s head, which he took with him. Frau Dähne followed him, gave him the injection, and then, once he was numbed, rammed the bayonet into his neck.”
“So how did the head get into the backpack? Did Berinov himself put it in there?”
“Potentially. As evidence.”
“Why didn’t the woman take the backpack with her?”
“Because it was early morning, and people were already on their way out,” Heller offered, unsure. The more he talked, the more it became clear that something wasn’t right. Did Berinov have the backpack with him, or had he found it here in the house?
“How did she lure the men inside? Why would they go see her?”
“You’ll have to ask her once we’ve caught her. The day before yesterday, I started to walk her home. She went along with it at first, but then she cleverly diverted me away. I’m only realizing that now.”
Ovtcharov gave Heller a quizzical look. “How did she divert you?”
Heller pursed his lips, wondering how to respond. Ovtcharov knew every trick in the book. He didn’t want to give too much away.
He asked a question back instead. “First tell me: Was Frau Dähne the one who told you about the pastor?”
“We have eyes and ears everywhere, Oberkommissar. Most people are not as straight-ahead as you.”
“It’s ‘straightforward,’” Heller said, correcting the Russian yet again.
“Right. And for that I admire you, how you pursue a cause the way you feel is right, no matter the consequences. On the other hand, I’m also surprised by how unbelievably naïve you can be. But I prefer to think of you as more stubborn than foolish. We’ve known for some time who you’ve been putting up in your home. So I think it would be a good idea to wait and see what happens.” Ovtcharov kept his gaze fixed on Heller.
Heller stared back. He didn’t respond to what Ovtcharov had said. He had just gotten another nagging thought. He rubbed at his throat, where that foot had stepped down on him so hard. It still hurt. However strong of will old Frau Dähne might be, stringing up a man by a rope required plenty of strength, and she didn’t possess it. He only had to recall how hard it was for her to set back up that fallen chopping block.
He stood and looked at Oldenbusch. “Werner, did you find the weapon I was assaulted with? I think I might have knocked it out of the attacker’s hand.”
Oldenbusch nodded. “One second,” he said and went to the cellar stairs in the next room. “It’s not an actual weapon,” he shouted on his way back. “More like a bread knife.”
Heller took the knife from Oldenbusch and caught his breath. “This is mine. This afternoon I noticed it was missing. Fanny must have stolen it. But I also saw she was still at home right before I came here. It’s not possible for her to have gotten here faster than me.”
Ovtcharov stood up with a pleased look on his face. “So it must be this Jörg,” he said. “I will sound the alarm. He can’t be far. Do you have an idea of where we need to be looking?”
Heller nodded. “I need a telephone, right away. Is Frau Schlüter’s still working?”
Ovtcharov took him by the arm. “Come.”
Together they rushed across the yard to the Schlüters’ villa. Ovtcharov hammered on the door. “Open up!” he shouted, but no one responded. The Russian cursed, took two steps back, and gave the door a mighty kick, busting the lock open. Heller took the stairs two at a time, a sharp pain running through his right ankle every other step. He gritted his teeth, yanked the handset off the wall phone in the hallway, and dialed home. He only got a solid tone. Heller hung up and tried again. But the connection was dead.
Ovtcharov’s driver zoomed up Bautzner Strasse despite the slippery surface. Heller tried not to imagine what might have happened back home. If it was Jörg who’d assaulted him in the cellar, a half hour would have been enough time for him to reach Frau Marquart’s house on foot.
Heller blamed himself. He shouldn’t have let Karin persuade him to take the girl in. In doing so, he at least should h
ave informed Ovtcharov. Now he’d put his wife and Klaus in danger, as well as gone behind the Russian’s back, which would only make the man mistrust him more.
On the bridge over Mordgrund Creek the car almost started to slide. Heller clamped onto the back of the front seat. They couldn’t lose momentum or they’d never make it up the grade.
They finally reached his neighborhood, Weisser Hirsch. The driver decelerated hard so as not to slide on the steep incline down the Rissweg. Ovtcharov instructed him to park away from the house, then climbed out with his pistol drawn. The driver grabbed his machine gun, and Heller pulled out his pistol.
“Tell him he shouldn’t shoot to kill,” Heller pleaded to Ovtcharov.
“This I know,” grumbled the driver. They hurried across the street and crouched to approach. The house was dark and still. Ovtcharov ordered the soldier to go around to the back door while he and Heller crept to the front. Ovtcharov kept a lookout while Heller tried to open the door without making any noise.
He pushed it open quietly and listened. He couldn’t hear a sound.
“Klaus?” Heller whispered. “Klaus . . .”
No response. Heller crept down the hall and looked into the living room. His son lay on his back on the sofa. His left arm hung off, his hand touching the floor.
“Klaus!” gasped Heller.
Klaus shot up and peered around. “What? What is it?”
“It’s fine, Klaus. All fine. It’s me. I need to see Fanny.”
“She’s sleeping upstairs.” Klaus stood, now wide awake.
Heller went upstairs and peeked in the bedroom, where Karin sleepily raised her head.
“It’s all fine, keep sleeping, Karin,” he whispered and shut the door. He was feeling relieved and could breathe easier. “Comrade Ovtcharov, tell your driver that all looks to be in order,” he called down the stairs in a low voice.
Then he stood over Fanny’s sleeping spot. It was empty. Fanny was gone, along with the baby and all her meager possessions. He squatted down and felt the bedding. It was cold. He stayed in a crouch, thinking things over. He only rose again, slowly, when he heard a sound.
It was Ovtcharov, who had followed him up the stairs. Karin came out of her room, her robe wrapped tightly around her.
“Is she gone?” the Russian asked.
Heller nodded. Where could she be going in the middle of the night? To meet Jörg? Was she planning to waylay him, or was she running away? When he looked up, he noticed a certain schadenfreude spreading across the Russian’s face.
“She is shifty and cunning. That’s how you Germans say it, yes? She had settled right in with you, just like she first did with old Frau Dähne. She aroused your sympathy. And now? What does he say now, our straightforward man? How does he sleep at night now?”
“Are you mocking my husband?” Karin asked, glaring at the colonel.
“Mother, he’s right,” Klaus cautioned from halfway up the stairs.
Karin didn’t like being silenced. “I was the one who insisted he bring the girl here. She has a baby! Don’t you understand? And don’t think I didn’t notice how unfair you were to my husband back at the Bühlau. Why do bad people always have to make fun of the good and decent ones?”
“You’re saying I’m a bad person?” Ovtcharov asked, his tone harsh.
“I don’t know you well enough to say,” Karin replied, staring him in the eye. “But you were sure acting that way.”
Her determined stance seemed to unsettle the colonel. He stared at Heller, looking almost helpless. It was awkwardly still. Suddenly the driver shouted up to them in Russian. Ovtcharov asked something in return. Then he grinned, turned to Heller, and spread out his arms like a gratified circus ringmaster. “My men have found the boy. He’s been holed up in the river tunnel under Deaconess Hospital. He had a gun on him.”
“Is he dead?”
“What do you think? He gave himself up.”
“Come on, I need to speak to him.” Heller was eager to get going, but the Russian held him back.
“Oh no, Comrade Oberkommissar. This one’s mine. I’m talking to him. He will tell me where that girl with the baby is. You go to bed. I will let you know what happens.” Ovtcharov saluted, then turned on his heels and went whistling down the stairs.
February 12, 1947: Early Morning
Heller left the house before sunrise, his head full of unanswered questions. Since the phone line wasn’t working, he hadn’t been able to confirm whether Oldenbusch was coming to pick him up. So he decided to take the streetcar. He made the difficult trek up to the stop at Bautzner Strasse. The numbness had almost disappeared from his body, but the injection spot on his arm ached, and there were a few sore spots on his neck that his overcoat collar kept rubbing. It wasn’t even six yet, but many people were out and about. Some of them were already waiting at the streetcar stop, though it was never certain whether a train would arrive. Everyone stared listlessly into space. After a few minutes, some of the men set off on foot. After ten more minutes, the streetcar arrived. Heller got a ticket from the conductor, found a seat, and wearily leaned against the window, where his carousel of thoughts started revolving again.
He wondered where old Frau Dähne was now. Had she fallen victim to Jörg and Fanny? Had Fanny blackmailed her, taken advantage of her? Heller didn’t want to believe that. Or had it been compassion that compelled Frau Dähne to help Fanny, to let her live with her and allow Fanny to kill? Could compassion be so great that someone would allow such a thing? Perhaps the whole matter had gained such momentum that it had spun out of the old woman’s control.
The streetcar traveled alongside the Dresden Heath now, over Mordgrund Creek, by Lingner Park and Albrechtsberg Palace, and eventually passed the Hotel Heidehof, which now housed the MVD offices. Heller wondered whether Jörg was in custody here or if they’d taken him to Münchner Platz.
When the streetcar halted at Waldschlösschen, not far from where that first body had been found on the icy slope, Heller was still lost in thought. It was slowly becoming light out. To his left, the view over the Elbe River opened wide to include the snow-covered ruins of the central city, appearing like a wild, rocky wasteland. Heller’s eye suddenly caught something—a little figure standing at the slope along the river, staring up the road. The streetcar continued on.
“Halt!” Heller shouted as he jumped from his seat and forced his way through the crammed-together passengers. “Hold up! It’s an emergency,” he shouted, and the streetcar slowed again.
“What’s wrong?” the conductor said.
“Someone must’ve fallen asleep,” a passenger said, and people laughed.
Heller fought his way up to the door and jumped out. He waited until the streetcar was gone, then crossed the tracks and the street.
“Were you waiting here for me?” he asked the girl.
Fanny stared at Heller with a blank expression, showing no surprise. She didn’t have her baby with her. “You give me my Jörg back.”
“I can’t do that, Fanny,” Heller told her. “The Soviets have him. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Sure you can! They’re your friends, the Russians! Just go see them and tell them he didn’t do nothing.”
Heller shook his head and tried taking Fanny by the arm. She pulled back.
“Fanny, you need to come with me to the station. I have to ask you about Frau Dähne’s house.”
“Don’t you go touching me. Go see the Russians and get Jörg outta there. We’re gonna take off. To the west.” She drew her hand from her overcoat pocket and scratched at her temple. Heller noticed that the angular bulge in her pocket resembled a pistol.
“Was it you who happened to be at this very spot six days ago? You were looking for the backpack.”
Fanny’s right eyelid started twitching.
Heller stepped closer. “You killed the one-handed man, Franz Swoboda!”
Fanny turned irate. “He took me against my will. Called me a stupid brat, ‘you’re gonn
a do whatever I tell you.’ And then he hits me. So I bit him and ran away, ’cause I knew what he already done to Margi. He came after me, and when I went and tried to hide at the old lady’s, he saw me, and he came inside. So I surprised him and killed him dead!”
Heller looked around. They were alone on this side of the street. “How?”
“With one of them spiky rods from the rifle. Stabbed him in the back. Frau Dähne, she got mad at me and said that meant big trouble. Then we tried cutting him up so we could get rid of him.”
“So Jörg—he didn’t know about it?”
“No, not a chance! It coulda just been self-defense, was what Frau Dähne said.”
Heller raised his chin. “And killing Vasili Cherin, was that self-defense too?”
Fanny lowered her gaze and pouted.
“Cherin wasn’t with just any girl, right? He had something going with you. What did he promise you?”
“The baby’s his. He wanted to take me with him at first, back to Russia. And then he says I should go disappear and that it’s not his. And if I didn’t leave him alone, he’d lock me up. That got me so mad, I went after him. Then I stabbed him with the same spiky thing.”
“But Berinov was his friend, and he was looking for him. He followed you into the ruined house, and you numbed him with the syringe. But it didn’t work right.”
“Snuck right in was what he done, tried taking off again. Had the backpack with the one-handed man’s head inside. I stuck him in the arm with the syringe. But he didn’t fall over right away, he was so drunk, and he didn’t even fall over after I stabbed him. Then he went running out of the house, with that thing sticking out of his neck. But there were already people out, so I couldn’t go after him.”
“People didn’t notice he was injured? No one tried to help him?”
“How would I know?”
“And Yakovlev and Weiler? How did you lure them into the ruins? And Gutmann—how were you able to string him up? You weren’t acting alone, and you definitely didn’t write that letter.”
Fanny shrugged.
Heller seized her by the arm, turned her, reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out the pistol. It was a TT-33, a Russian officer’s gun.
A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2) Page 26
