by Blake Pierce
As Agent Marshall muttered beneath her breath to Peter, advising him of his rights, Adele smiled at John. “Good job,” she said.
Renee holstered his weapon, and his smirk returned like flowers in bloom. “Same to you.”
Adele shifted her shoulders. “I have to say, I’m a little disappointed he didn’t have red hair.”
“You’re a strange one, American Princess. Not bad in a day’s work. Think we’ll get a confession?”
Adele frowned, glancing over at the two Germans by the bed. “I’m—I’m not sure…”
“What is it?”
“Nothing… Just a thought, but… no, really, it’s nothing.” Robert had often told her to trust her hunches… but this time, she didn’t want to. Peter Lehman seemed… so normal. He had to be the killer though, didn’t he?
Adele frowned, scratching at the side of her chin.
Together, the three agents led their handcuffed suspect out of his home and over to the waiting police cars at the end of the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
In Adele’s opinion, all police stations, no matter what country they called home, shared a certain recognizable uniformity immediately apparent to anyone who’d spent much time around cops. There was a quiet order among the men and women of a police force. The arrangement of their offices would be different, the interrogation rooms might be in a basement or down a hall. But eventually, all police stations could be interpreted through the same grid.
Adele wasn’t surprised they hadn’t been taken back to a BKA headquarters. While Germany might’ve decided to play nice, allowing a DGSI agent and an FBI agent into their base of operations without preparation would have been a laughable proposition.
Still, the local police station would do well enough.
Adele stood in front of the vending machines, scanning the items.
She inserted a euro which she’d borrowed from Agent Marshall, clicked the button, waited for the tumbling sound, then retrieved an iced tea from the vending machine’s slot. Clutching the cold beverage, she sidled past the desk clerk, and toward the long hall which led to the interrogation room.
She pushed open the door and stepped beneath the bright fluorescent light.
The naked room housed only two chairs, a long metal table bolted to the floor, and a glass mirror across the back half of the wall.
It wasn’t a one-way mirror, but it served to convince the suspects, who’d seen enough TV, to assume that every police station had someone on the other side of that glass, watching them. In this case, though, it was just a mirror.
John was already seated in the metal chair opposite Peter. The suspected killer’s hands were handcuffed in front of him and latched to the table through a metal hoop.
The man fidgeted uncomfortably, shaking his head. He could move his hands just enough to reach at his face to scratch an itch, but every time he moved one hand, the other one would lower, causing the chain to rattle as it slid through the metal hoop.
Adele placed the iced tea next to Lehman’s left hand. She stepped back, leaning against the frigid mirror and watching the suspected killer.
“It’s confirmed,” said John. “Those test tubes contain the same substance that killed your victims. How about you tell me what you were doing in France last week?”
Peter shivered though, and shook his head. He glanced pleadingly at Adele. “I don’t understand him. Is that French? Why am I being verbally abused by a Frenchman? What is this?”
Adele shrugged. “He says he can’t understand you.”
John threw his hands up. “He’s lying!” He pointed a steady, thick finger toward Peter’s chest. “You’re lying—we know you are. You can speak French; that’s how you tricked that poor girl to her death!”
Peter just looked back at Adele, his expression pleading. “I—I don’t understand. I’ve told you, I didn’t kill anyone! Please, you have to believe me. I’m not a violent man!”
“You’ve been gone from work for five weeks,” said Adele, her tone even. “A strange coincidence that our murderer also travels a lot. What was the suitcase for?”
Lehman shifted again, shaking his head nervously. “I was just packing some things to store beneath the bed.”
John growled, slamming his hands against the table. “What’s he saying?” he demanded.
Adele found herself confused for a moment, switching from German to French, while trying to process her thoughts in English. “He says he was just going to stow the suitcase beneath his bed,” she said, transitioning into French once more.
“Yeah?” John snorted. “Some things like illegal substances used to paralyze young women?”
Agent Marshall stood behind Peter, but she wasn’t leaning against the wall. She seemed nervous, and was on the phone, quietly relaying the interrogation’s entirety over the phone to her supervisors via video camera. Eyeballs in the sky, eyeballs on the ground. Adele glanced toward the security camera in the corner of the ceiling, then back at the blinking glass of Marshall’s camera lens.
They would have to do this by the book. Then again, there wasn’t much of a book for this sort of thing.
John continued to harangue the suspect, slamming a large hand against the top of the metal table with a resounding thwack! Peter Lehman continued to shake his head and repeat, over and over, “I only speak German. I don’t understand. Please. German.”
Adele felt, surprisingly, the rumblings of pity burgeoning in her chest. She studied their suspected killer.
He had a pleasant face with a straight nose and high cheekbones. His hair was thinning, but not unduly so, and he wore an earnest expression as he stared across the table.
He hadn’t even lawyered up. This unsettled Adele more than anything. Why hadn’t he asked for a lawyer? Did he think he could fool them with spectacle?
She leaned forward, pushing off the mirror, and striding toward John. She stepped past his chair and faced Lehman. “Why were the test tubes in your bag?”
The man stared desperately up at her, his gaze flicking between John and Adele with rapid motions. He tried to twist, turning back to look at Agent Marshall, but his chained wrists hampered his range of motion. So instead, he glanced in the mirror and stared at Marshall’s reflection.
“Please,” he said, loudly. “This is a mistake. I haven’t been to France. And I haven’t been to the United States, ever. I don’t know anything about killing. I-I did have the drug… yes… but for a good reason…”
He said this last part quickly, his cheeks turning red, and the slick sweat across his brow glistened beneath the fluorescent light. He muttered to himself beneath his breath, shaking his head wildly from side to side.
His voice was strained as he pressed on: “I can’t—can’t tell you why. Just please, I didn’t kill anyone.”
Adele was staring at him though, still frowning. “We’re not interested in the theft of the drug. That’s something for BKA to worry about. All I care about is the killer. You have the drug on you. There’s no disputing that. The lab confirmed it. BKA has confirmed it, and local authorities have the evidence in custody.” She didn’t blink, and she kept her tone even, unaffected by emotion. “You can’t escape that undeniable fact. Secondly, you had a suitcase at the foot of your bed. The man we’re looking for has just returned from France to Germany. If you weren’t traveling then why did you have a suitcase with the drugs in it? You have to understand; I’m asking the same question in different ways, but the facts remain undisputed. Unless you can explain away those two things, I’m afraid you’re not going to like what comes next.”
Peter Lehman’s eyes bugged in his head, and he again muttered to himself in German, staring down at his shackled wrists. He did a double take at the chains, as if not quite believing what he was seeing.
At last, though, he muttered quietly, “Switzerland.”
Adele leaned in, “What was that?”
“What’s he saying?” John demanded in French.
But Ade
le held up a finger toward her partner. She turned back to Peter. “What about Switzerland? Did you kill someone in Switzerland, too?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” Peter loosed a sigh, his chest puffing toward the light, and then descending as he crumpled in on himself, his shoulders trembling now. Tears sprang into the man’s eyes.
He was better than Adele had given him credit for. No wonder his victims fell for him.
“Please,” he said. “My family, my children. If I tell you—I didn’t kill anyone. But you have to understand, I worked so hard on this project. The anesthesia was supposed to save lives. It would have been half the cost of normal anesthetic. There were some kinks; I admit that—some things that needed to be worked out, but we were rejected far too quickly. It was complete politics!”
Now his voice was rising, and the flush in his cheeks reddened further.
“What politics?” Adele demanded.
Peter was clenching his fists now, the tops of his hands turning white. “At our company. Lion is always gunning for contracts from the bigger fish. The competition wanted to put a stop to my project, to teach Director Mueller a lesson. I got caught in the crossfire. You have to understand, I’ve been working on this for three years. Me and my team have put in twenty hours days, sometimes staying over the weekends, just to make sure the thing was perfect. It should have been approved. We only had a couple more trials.”
He released another puff of air and continued to wilt in his chair, sliding down so that the back of his head rested against the metal frame. “Dear God, I didn’t kill anyone. This is a nightmare.”
Adele circled to the edge of the table and lowered into a sitting position on the table next to Peter’s clenched fist. She was only inches away from the man suspected of killing Marion, killing the three Americans. The same man who had callously murdered his victims and left their bodies to rot. The same way Adele’s mother had been left in that park.
She felt a flash of rage, which she quickly pushed deep down in her chest.
Somehow, though, she felt a burbling of pity, too. Perhaps Robert had been right. Perhaps even these sorts, the monsters of the world, were once destined to be masterpieces, but somehow vandalized.
Or perhaps her own instincts were trying to tell her something.
But what?
He couldn’t be innocent, could he? It was far too damning of evidence for him to have stolen the drug, have a packed suitcase, match the employee records, request a leave of absence…
“Adele,” said Agent Marshall, waving her phone.
But Adele held up another quieting finger and stared at Peter, studying the side of his face. “All right, let’s say you took the drug. Where have you been for the last five weeks?”
“Here, in Germany! I swear it. I’ve been with my family; you can ask my wife, my kids! I was at my daughter’s soccer practice last Wednesday. Everyone can tell you!”
“BKA is running your credit cards and passport right now,” said Adele. “You’re convincing, I’ll give you that. But this charade is pointless. If they find that you’ve been spending money in France, or that your passport was spotted at any of the borders, you’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars. I hope you know that.”
Peter Lehman’s voice broke, shuddering with a sob. “I didn’t kill anyone. I took the five weeks because of the politics. Like I said. Those bastards at Lion wouldn’t stick up for us. I’m a chemist, not a killer. I was leading my team as best I could. I made promises, promises that they should’ve seen fulfilled. We all worked so hard…”
His voice strained, and he emitted another defeated sob. At last, he turned, meeting her gaze, his eyes laden with sadness. “I needed the time off to recover. I took the drug. I admit that. There’s no sense pretending, you found it. But I took it to sell it.”
He hesitated for a moment, his nostrils flaring as he realized what he’d said. But, shaking his head, he tried to steady himself. Then, soldiering on, with a grim look of determination like someone plunging into an icy river, he said, his voice strengthening with each word, “I was going to travel. I did pack a suitcase, but it wasn’t because I’ve returned from France, but because I was going to leave for Switzerland. I told my wife there was a conference, but really, I was going there to meet a Swiss pharmaceutical company. I told them about the drug. I offered to sell it to them. You have to understand; I’m not a bad man. But I spent three years working on this project.” He reached up as if to rub at his forehead, but his hand couldn’t make it the full way. The chain rattled as his hand dropped limply back to the table. “To throw it away, so callously, with Director Mueller not even taking a second to try to salvage it…it’s a crime. That’s the real crime!”
Adele still sat on the edge of the metal table, her legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap, her shoulder brushing against Lehman’s waving forearm as he gesticulated wildly, causing the chains to rattle back and forth and his hands to move up and down like a seesaw through the metal bracket holding him tight.
“Agent Sharp,” Marshall repeated again, waving with her phone.
Adele sighed, and finally glanced over at the young BKA agent.
“Yes?” she said.
Marshall winced apologetically. “He’s telling the truth,” she said, shaking her head. “BKA can’t find any record of credit card purchases or travel outside the country. And the officer sent to speak with his wife has her swearing up and down that he’s been home for the last five weeks, wallowing in it, in her words, but home.”
Adele felt a pit forming in her stomach. She stared at Agent Marshall. “You have to be kidding.”
The German agent winced again, shaking her head.
Adele glanced at Peter, who was hunched over now, crying, his forehead resting against his hands.
She turned to John, her expression grim. “There was no one else? No one in the employee records who worked on the project? Who requested absence? No one with red hair?”
John scowled. “Would you stop it with the red hair? He doesn’t have red hair.” He jabbed a finger toward Peter again. “He’s the killer!”
But Adele shook her head and translated what Marshall had told her as well as what Peter had said. As she relayed the facts, John’s expression morphed from one of anger to sheer contempt. He flung out a hand and grunted as if waving away everyone in the room. “He has to be the killer,” John said, mulishly. “He had the drug on him, in the suitcase. You saw!”
“He does have a ticket for Switzerland,” said Agent Marshall, once again waving her phone like a child raising their hand to catch the attention of a supply teacher.
John growled again and opened his mouth to protest, but Adele interrupted, “No credit cards or passport out of Germany, John. He’s been here.”
“Can anyone else vouch for his whereabouts?” John demanded.
Adele turned to Peter. “Can anyone else corroborate that you’ve been in Germany?”
Peter hesitated, but then nodded wildly. “Yes, of course! My team. We met up for drinks only two weeks ago after the project was officially canceled. It was a wake, a sendoff, if you will. There were nearly twenty people there. They’ll all be able to vouch for me. Please, just ask them!”
Adele felt her shoulders slump in defeat. “We’re going to need names,” she said softly. She reached out and patted Lehman on the shoulder, and then pushed off the table, turning toward the door to the interrogation room. “I need a breath,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
As Adele pushed out of the cramped space, the smell of iced tea and sweat was replaced by cheap cologne and scented air freshener. She kept her eyes ahead as she walked down the hall, mulling over the possibilities. Either Peter was an Oscar winner, or else the real killer was still out there. For all she knew, he was preparing for his next victim.
Adele paused in the doorway of the police station, letting a couple of officers past, both who glanced at her with mildly confused expressions. She ignored them as she stared o
ut into the street. The same ominous shudder she’d felt back at the DGSI headquarters crept up her spine—the same sense of foreboding, like a gust of chill breeze.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The man sat on the floor, leaning against the footrest of the grandfather chair, resting his head against the seat. He preferred the floor; chairs like this one were too comfortable. But he couldn’t give it up. It had once belonged to his aunt, and she’d been kind to him once upon a time.
Still, comfort was for the weak.
The man stared at the TV screen, watching the events unfold.
A shakily held cell phone captured the moment when the chemist was escorted from his house in handcuffs.
A very tall agent with burn marks just below his chin was glaring at everyone within sight. A special glare was reserved for whoever was holding the camera.
The seated man returned the glare on the TV screen.
Next to the tall agent, he recognized the woman in the neat suit with the pretty, blonde hair.
“Agent Sharp,” he murmured, tipping his head in mock greeting.
She was in Germany. The man kept his calm for a moment, counting in his head, but then his emotions bubbled over and he screamed, launching the remote at the glass cabinet across the room. He howled, cursing at the ceiling as the sound of shattered glass only further sparked his rage.
With heaving, huffing breaths, he managed to regain control of his temper, glaring toward the TV once more.
How had they followed him? He thought he’d been careful. Reaching the US had been easy enough. He’d traveled to Canada first, and then slipped through the border. It wasn’t his first time.
Avoiding detection in France had been even easier; a matter of false papers. The government thought they were so clever. Yet in Germany, the US, and France, teenagers with fake IDs could fool even the most attentive of bartenders.
His tastes weren’t so predictable as a teenager in search of a buzz, but fake papers on a train from France to Germany were far easier to procure with the right connections. The man rarely traveled by plane if he could help it.
