To Clear the Air

by Mechtild Borrmann

  “What if the card was stolen?”

  “Then it was stolen on or before March 9. And it would have been reported.” Steeg stands up, adjusting his jeans as he does so, and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. “So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to leave the rest to you. My lads are playing a match against Donsbrüggen. No hurry, but I have to get going. It’ll be a good two hours before I’m back.”

  Achim is a coach for the Fenndonk Sports Club youth soccer team. He is single, and those boys are his life. His first disciplinary proceeding was due to them. He was on call one Sunday. The river police had pulled a dead woman out of the Rhine and called him. The game wasn’t over yet, he told them. The woman was dead anyway, so what difference would thirty minutes make?

  Four years before, when Böhm took over as head of the department, he had spelled it out in black and white. He had expressed his admiration for Steeg’s commitment, and he had meant it. He had agreed to make allowances for his coaching activities. But he had unambiguously demanded that Steeg decide. If he wanted to stay in the department, the job had to come first. Otherwise he would have to leave.

  Steeg was angry, but the scales had evened out. Böhm saw that Steeg put in forty-eight-hour shifts without complaint and stood in for sick colleagues more than anyone else. And Steeg understood that Böhm was serious. Steeg’s practice schedule was accommodated in the duty roster, and Böhm had even accepted being on call in Steeg’s place.

  Böhm slipped the death notice into the folder. “As far as the announcement is concerned, we have to wait for the results from Duisburg. But what about Gietmann’s car, and what about the scene of the crime?”

  Steeg shifts nervously from one foot to the other. “Joop is dealing with the car. Two patrolmen are combing the area. They’ve got it in hand.”

  Despite himself, Böhm has to grin. “I’ll go over to Lembach. Maybe he’s got something we can use. We’ll meet back here at six for a preliminary briefing. Now get lost.”

  Lembach has spread his finds out on the white work surface. “That’s what we have.” He gestures broadly at his collection of bags from the other side of the room.

  Böhm sees an ID card, credit cards, cash, various fibers, broken blades of grass, a cigarette butt, and the stick. “What about the shoes?” Böhm is disappointed.

  “There are no shoes. And all the prints around the body and all the way to the road come from the same shoes. And I’ll bet you they belong to the dead man.” He rubs his unshaven face with his right hand.

  “You mean the killer put the victim’s shoes on?”

  “I can’t say yet, Peter, but the prints have different depths. The ones leading up the track are deeper. That means the man who left them was heavier. The prints at the scene itself come from the same shoes, but they’re visibly shallower. That man was lighter.”

  Böhm pushes the plastic evidence bags back and forth on the surface of the table, as if they were parts of a puzzle and all he had to do was find the right place for each object. “Maybe the killer carried Gietmann up the path?”

  “No.” Lembach places his hands firmly on his hips and thrusts out his belly. “Gietmann weighed at least two hundred pounds. Even if we assume the killer weighs only a hundred and fifty, that would make three hundred and fifty pounds. As I say, we haven’t finished yet, but I’m pretty sure we’re not looking at anything as heavy as that for any of the prints. Besides, I don’t think a man who was so much lighter could shoulder two hundred pounds just like that.”

  Böhm gives up his puzzle play. “But how did the killer get to the scene?”

  “I can’t answer that with what we have so far. And I wish you wouldn’t mess up my evidence. You always do that.” Lembach sits down on the old office chair and rolls across the tiled floor to the table. Carefully, he tidies up the bags. “Next time I won’t talk to you unless your hands are cuffed behind your back.”

  Böhm runs a hand over his bald spot and then the remaining gray stubble. “Sorry. I have a bad feeling about this damned thing. Do you have anything to cheer me up?”

  “We found hairs on the coat, and it’s a pretty sure thing they’re not the dead man’s.” Lembach trundles back to the window and fiddles with some pieces of decorative glass. “But I know what you mean. Van Oss told me about the newspaper. It seems completely crazy and yet carefully planned.”

  Chapter 14

  It is nearly six o’clock. He tries Brigitte’s cell phone for the third time. Normally it goes to voice mail, but today she has had it switched off for at least two hours. Sometimes she forgets to charge it.

  He creates a new folder titled Gietmann.

  Maybe she’s home already. He picks up his phone again and dials. His own voice tells him that, unfortunately, there’s no one there to take his call.

  He copies the Meeting Report template into the folder and enters Steeg, Van Oss, and Böhm under Present.

  I’m not home yet either. I’m trying to call her to say I won’t be home before eight. He enters the date and time in the little boxes. But still, I’ll let her know. I’ve always done that.

  Van Oss and Steeg arrive together. They dig some aluminum containers out of a white plastic bag and remove the lids. The smell of slightly rancid grease spreads out in seconds, seeping into every corner of his office. Meatballs and fries with ketchup.

  Böhm looks at them unhappily. “Smells like a fast-food joint in here. Can’t you eat that stuff in your own offices?”

  Van Oss thrusts out his lower lip. “It’s delicious.”

  “I know. I’m not saying it isn’t. But it stinks.”

  When Brigitte had a breakdown after Andreas died, and had to spend three months in a clinic, he had taken care of Tobias. Their meals were regular and nutritious. He soon noticed how well it suited him. Ever since, he has cared about his nutrition. He often cannot control when he eats, but he pays attention to what.

  Steeg stuffs the last meatball down his throat, picks up the bag with the crumpled-up wrapping paper from the ground, and shoves the plate in it.

  Van Oss shakes his head. “How can a man bolt his food like that? That’s not eating, what you do. You have to chew your food, or else you won’t feel full. You should chew each mouthful at least thirty times, you know.”

  Steeg carries the bag over to the trash can. “Shut up and chew. I want to get on with it. Let’s see what we have so far.”

  Van Oss has some sheets of plain paper with large handwritten notes in front of him. “You start, and I’ll finish eating. I can eat and listen.”

  Steeg pulls up a chair.

  They have gotten into the habit of holding their case meetings here at Böhm’s computer and writing everything up immediately. This means everyone in the department has a handle on all the latest information. Everything that still needs to be looked into, and who is going to do it, is noted here too.

  Steeg reports on his visit to Frau Gietmann and on the death notice. He praises the cooperation of the local press, which immediately released full details to the investigators.

  “Our colleagues in Duisburg have traced Frau Mischak to a hospital. She’s sixty-two years old and has been there for four weeks. She’s only just noticed that her ID and credit cards are missing.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and he shakes his head. “She doesn’t know any Gietmann, and she didn’t hand in a death notice. She didn’t even know what an Internet café was. Our colleagues think she’s credible. The card and her documents were obviously stolen in the hospital.” He leans back and stretches out his legs. “That’s how things stand. Maybe we’ll be lucky and the card has been used several times already. But we won’t know till Monday.”

  Van Oss listens to his colleague’s report with interest. “That would be great, but I think he took the card for this particular purpose.”

  Steeg looks pityingly at Van Oss’s plate. “Dutchmen can’t eat and listen at the same time.” He grins broadly at Van Oss. “Better eat fast, because by now that stuff reall
y will taste disgusting.”

  Van Oss tosses aside the little plastic fork that came with the fries. “Okay, Achim,” he grumbles, “so you’ve scored at least one point today. If only your boys hadn’t failed so miserably on the field.”

  Steeg’s grin disappears abruptly. “They didn’t fail. There were only eight of them. And they did really well, considering.” He pokes an outstretched index finger in Van Oss’s direction. “They can accept being beaten. At least none of them lost heart.”

  Böhm looks from one to the other. At first he had taken this bickering seriously, but the two men work well together, and despite all the sniping it has been fascinating to see them close ranks in the face of external criticism. “So go ahead, Joop. What have you got?”

  Van Oss crosses his legs and reaches for his notes. “Earlier, I talked to Frederike Gietmann, the victim’s daughter. His wife isn’t up to questioning yet.” He starts sorting his notes.

  Steeg rolls his eyes. “Come on, Joop. Surely you can report on one interview without looking at your notes.”

  Van Oss goes on leafing through the papers. Steeg gets some chewing gum out of his jacket pocket.

  “Gietmann drove off at seven o’clock yesterday evening. He was going into town. Frau Gietmann, the daughter, says her father had a specific destination, a bar on the road to Xanten, he visited regularly on Friday nights. Sometimes he stayed there overnight. She also said her mother didn’t know about this, and that I shouldn’t say anything to her.”

  “Pfft. Women!” Mouth wide open, Steeg shifts his gum from one cheek to the other. “Where does the good woman think her husband sleeps on Friday nights? On a park bench or something? Old farmer’s wives are perfectly happy for old farmers to have their fun elsewhere.”

  Van Oss winks at him. “You know a lot of old farmers’ rules, eh?”

  “Go on!” Böhm slaps his hand down on the desk.

  “Our guys checked the address. Gietmann was a regular guest there, but not yesterday.”

  “Great results you’ve got.” Steeg claps his palm to his forehead.

  “Yours were a lot worse, Achim. At least I’ve found the car.”

  Steeg leaps to his feet. “You have the car? Why have you spent the last hour beating around the bush?”

  “I have the car, Achim, not the killer. And that’s what it’s all about.”

  Böhm pushes his glasses up onto his forehead and massages the bridge of his nose. “Achim, stop interrupting him the whole time.”

  Van Oss goes over to the map to the left of the door. Böhm has marked the place where the body was found. “The car was on a lane under a hunting blind. Almost exactly here.” He pushes a blue thumbtack into the map about three-quarters of an inch from the crime scene. “It was locked. Forensics searched it on the spot and then took it away. We won’t get the first results till tomorrow. Incidentally, Gietmann didn’t have any car keys on him.”

  Böhm gets up and goes over to the coffee machine. “I need a coffee now.” He looks at the two cups from earlier in the day. “Achim, if you wouldn’t mind getting a mug for Joop, I’ll wash all three.”

  Steeg inspects the small shelf over the machine. “There’s one right here.”

  Böhm looks up. “No, Achim. That’s a sugar bowl.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Böhm looks at him over his glasses. Steeg swallows. “Okay, okay. Fine, I’ll get a mug.”

  Once all three have been provided with coffee, Steeg and Böhm swap places. One of their rules is that whoever is reporting does not write.

  Böhm starts with a short conversation he had with Bongartz. “The time of death can be established as between two and three o’clock. There are traces of adhesive tape on the lips and chin. Bongartz believes the tape wasn’t removed until after Gietmann was dead.” Böhm clears his throat. “That would mean the killer was in the lane for three to four hours and watched Gietmann bleed to death.”

  There is silence for a moment. The only sound is the quiet humming of the computer.

  “Something went wrong. Didn’t it?” Van Oss looks back and forth between Böhm and Steeg, as if following the ball in a tennis match. “With the death notice, I mean. After all, he planned for Gietmann to die on Friday.”

  Chapter 15

  He tries calling her at home again. Hangs up after the fifth ring. The answering machine will come on. He doesn’t want to hear it.

  Van Oss and Steeg have gone, leaving behind them the fumes of their meal and a sense of purposeful haste—or pleasurable anticipation of the remainder of their evening.

  He should really call Liefers, his boss. But Liefers doesn’t like being disturbed on weekends, and what would he be able to do anyway? He would find some encouraging words, express his confidence in Böhm, and say thank you without being grateful for the interruption.

  Siegfried Liefers is legendary. He is seldom seen in person, and yet he is omnipresent. He will retire soon, but no one can really imagine what it will be like without him. For years he has been lovingly restoring an old boat bit by bit, and he dreams of cruising in it from port to port in the Mediterranean. Knowing this, his colleagues call him Skipper. He has always been a bulwark against the outside, demanding absolute loyalty to headquarters from everyone and leading by example. In other cities there are persistent tales of scapegoats being brought in to cover up bad decisions in the upper echelons. Liefers, however, stands up for “his team,” as he calls it. He has never handed one of his colleagues over to the press or a disciplinary proceeding without a fight, except in the case of proven corruption. Then he is merciless.

  Böhm switches off the computer, puts on his leather jacket, and picks up the car keys. He looks out the window at the deserted market square. The tops of the streetlights are hidden among the bare branches of the elms and cast an orange light over the cobblestones. He takes a deep breath and turns away.

  A driver behind him on the road honks his horn, flashing his headlights and blinding him. His speedometer shows fifteen miles an hour. Böhm accelerates. As he turns into his street, Schusterweg, he sees she is not at home.

  He goes into the house without turning on the lights and places the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. The diffuse light from the street shows him that his breakfast toast is still on the cutting board. The newspaper is open, hiding the coffeepot, jam jar, and cheese container beneath a mountain of printed words.

  He goes into the living room, picks up the remote, switches on the TV, and turns the sound off. Two young men are walking through a forest. They seem to be talking to each other. Böhm notices a flashing red light out of the corner of his eye. Someone has left a message on the answering machine.

  Brigitte, perhaps. Maybe she wants to tell him when she’s coming back.

  He stands up and goes into the bathroom. Her toothbrush is lying there, her shampoo, her perfume. You take stuff like that with you if you’re staying away overnight, don’t you? You take stuff like that with you if you’re leaving your husband, don’t you?

  He goes back into the flickering light of the living room, presses the Rewind button on the answering machine, and then presses Play. Tobias, his son, says he and his girlfriend, Nicole, will be visiting next weekend. “Oh, and it would be great if Mom could make stuffed cabbage leaves.”

  He presses Stop. The tape isn’t finished. There is at least one more message on it.

  He goes into the kitchen, turns on the light, and digs the bottle of merlot out of the shopping bag. With two small turns of the little blade on the corkscrew, he cuts off the metal cover. The screw sinks into the cork with hardly any resistance.

  The soft popping sound helps him breathe again; in this silence, it gives him courage.

  He takes a large glass out of the cabinet, pours enough to cover the bottom, and tastes. Then he fills the glass to the brim, goes back to the little black box, and presses Play again.

  He replays the tape four times, listening each time. Four times the words seem to bang against his
forehead without reaching his brain. They fall around him like slogans on a banner, wind themselves around his body, and prevent him from moving. When he presses Stop, the little red light dies. The blue light of the TV wanders around the house, mocking him.

  “Hello, Peter. I’ve decided to stay here a few more days. I need some time to think. See you soon.”

  He hears her husky voice, speaking hurriedly. He hears her clear her throat before saying “See you soon.” And, as when his son died, he doesn’t know what he is really sad about. What he has lost, or everything he has failed to do.

  Chapter 16

  A steady beat pounds out from the huge speakers. Men and women, faces shiny with sweat, dance beneath the white strobe light. Their movements seem choppy and feverish, like toy mice. Magicked into a state of ecstasy, they are using up all their reserves of serotonin in a single night. A damp, sweet smell, enriched with the smoke of cigarettes and scorched grass. Friends raise their hands in greeting. Lips smile and form the word hey.

  It took such a long time. Gurgling and groaning, on and on. In the silence of the night, it sounded like a giant screaming his last. When someone dies, the sounds seep into the earth. That’s where they belong. But that’s not how it was. They rose up into the dripping blackness of the sky. He was strong. Even though he had definitely had a concussion, he was strong. But the knots held.

  When the owl hooted, he wasn’t dead yet. Night would lift its black cloak soon, making everything visible, and he wasn’t dead yet. Don’t help. Keep calm. And then that delicate, scarcely visible tremor from head to foot.

  He had enjoyed life, truly enjoyed life. Now he can enjoy death, truly enjoy death.