The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Inspector,’ she said, avoiding Charly’s gaze. ‘Superintendent Gennat says he can see you now.’

  ‘Tell the super I’ll be along in five minutes.’

  She disappeared, and Charly smiled at Gereon. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sir. Detective Inspector Dettmann. Where did you say his office was?’

  ‘If you wait a moment, I’ll take you there myself. I have to see Gennat anyway.’

  He could have skipped the explanation, she thought. It sounded overeager and a little forced. Still, her colleagues didn’t seem to notice anything. She nodded as submissively as one would expect from a female cadet.

  Lange and Gräf returned to the files as the pair exited the office. Erika Voss didn’t look up from her typewriter, but Charly was certain she had registered them leaving together.

  ‘I’m just showing Fräulein Ritter here the way to Dettmann’s office,’ Rath said. ‘Then I’m off to see the super.’ Erika Voss nodded, refusing to be distracted from her work.

  With a stoical expression, Rath closed the door behind them. Outside their gazes met for an instant, whereupon Charly noticed something else. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Is that my doing?’

  Rath looked around. Fortunately the corridor was empty. A few people stood at the other end by the glass door, too far away to see anything, save, perhaps, for a man and a woman lingering slightly too long outside an office door.

  ‘You’d better show me the way to Dettmann’s,’ she whispered. ‘Stay here any longer and it’ll look like we’re sharing a tearful goodbye.’

  ‘We need to think of something, Charly, and fast. Things can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Maybe you should try thinking a little harder about work.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too tricky with Gennat.’ He paused and gestured towards a door. ‘This is Dettmann here. Not necessarily the friendliest, but he spent almost ten years with Narcotics. If anyone can tell you about sources of supply, it’s him.’

  ‘Right you are,’ she said. ‘Everything OK down there?’

  ‘Much better,’ he said, kissing her so suddenly that she started. But it was no good, she couldn’t help herself. Afterwards she looked up into his boyish grin and turned around. The officers by the glass door had disappeared, and the corridor was deserted once more.

  ‘Opportunity makes the thief,’ Gereon said, disappearing in the opposite direction, where Gennat had his office. He was right: they had to think of something.

  Detective Inspector Harald Dettmann’s office was only two doors down from Gereon’s. She took a quick glance at her pocket mirror to check her lipstick, before knocking and entering cautiously. Dettmann’s outer office was empty but the connecting door was open, and she went through. A wiry man in his late thirties with thinning hair sat at his desk; a second desk in the room was abandoned. He looked up.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dettmann, I presume.’ Charly stepped inside, still in high spirits.

  ‘The very same,’ Dettmann said and stood up. ‘Come on in.’ He sat casually on the edge of the desk. ‘With whom do I have the pleasure?’

  ‘Charlotte Ritter, CID cadet. My apologies. I thought you were at briefing this morning.’

  ‘I was busy.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Did I miss anything?’

  ‘Well, I’m currently working on a homicide case and . . .’

  ‘A homicide.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Didn’t know G Division dealt with that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ve been assigned to the Vaterland team, led by Inspector Gereon Rath,’ she said, as businesslike as possible. ‘We urgently need information about a substance called tubocurarine. As well as any illegal sources of supply here in Berlin.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to help.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Rath come to me himself?’

  ‘Inspector Rath entrusted me with the task, so it’s me you’ll have to make do with.’

  ‘Don’t they teach you cadets to speak to Narcotics in such cases? I’m a homicide detective.’

  What should have been a harmless chat between colleagues was already going badly wrong. Still, Charly persevered. She wouldn’t let herself be ground down; she hadn’t grown up in Moabit for nothing. ‘Call it an unofficial request,’ she said with a smile, but Dettmann remained impassive. ‘Before I go to another department . . .I thought, between colleagues . . .’

  ‘I see. Between colleagues . . . Is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Do I look like a bloody typist?’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘You were Gennat’s stenographer, weren’t you? And since you take me for a colleague . . .’

  ‘I’m no typist, as you’d have it, but a CID cadet. A candidate for inspector in G Division, currently seconded to A Division! And I won’t stand for this much longer.’

  ‘You won’t stand for this much longer? Well, I say!’

  Dettmann looked her up and down, shamelessly ogling her legs. ‘Listen to me, lady,’ he said quietly, leaning so far forward she could smell his aftershave and bad breath. ‘I don’t know who you’ve been blowing around here, Böhm or Buddha, but I do know one thing: you can’t tell me what to do.’

  Charly couldn’t believe her ears. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is you heard, Charlotte.’

  ‘Since when did I give you permission to use my first name?’ In fact, Dettmann had been using the informal mode of address throughout.

  ‘Your permission? I don’t need your permission to do anything. Is that clear? Certainly not in my office. Now, why don’t you go back to your women’s division? Maybe they’ll let you order them about. Beat it, I have things to do.’ He returned behind his desk, not deigning to give her another glance.

  She stood open-mouthed, baffled. Her initial impulse was to go over and give the bastard a smack, but common sense told her it was unlikely to be a good career move. Instead she stood gasping for air like a fish out of water.

  ‘Was there something else, Fräulein Ritter?’ Dettmann smiled so brazenly she was rendered speechless once and for all. ‘I thought we were finished here.’

  He had reverted to the formal mode of address. Seeing him grin like that, Charly knew, at that moment, that Harald Dettmann would point-blank deny uttering the shameless insults he had just said to her face. And who would believe a female cadet against a veteran detective inspector? Besides, according to the pin on his lapel, Dettmann was a member of the Schrader Verband, the Association of Prussian Police Officers; he’d have to be caught stealing silver spoons from the commissioner’s office to be knocked from his perch.

  Charly didn’t want the grinning Dettmann to enjoy her frustration. She turned on her heel, accidentally slamming the door as she returned through the outer office without knowing where she was headed.

  The incident seemed more and more unreal the longer she thought about it. As if it had been a dream, although her anger told her in no uncertain terms that it had really happened. Worse than that was her sense of shame. Somehow it felt as if she were the one who ought to be ashamed at Dettmann’s impertinence. Yes, she actually felt ashamed, and when she realised this, she only grew angrier.

  Finally, without realising how she had got there, she found herself in the female toilets, built to accommodate the numerous secretaries and stenographers who worked in A Division. Fortunately, there was no one else here; the large washroom was empty, and would only fill up when the women came to fix their lipstick during lunch hour. She locked herself in one of the stalls, sat on the toilet seat and gave way to tears of rage. She couldn’t help it. She kicked against the cubicle door, but it brought nothing but a loud bang and a painful foot.

  Dettmann, the fucking arsehole!

  The thing that annoyed her most was that he’d managed to hurt her quite so much, just when she’d begun to think of herself as a fully fledged member of the Berlin Police. Now she had been fetched back to earth. The simp
le fact was that, as a woman in CID, she was nobody. Any inspector with a career-enhancing union membership and a dirty mind could say what the hell he liked, to her face, without fear of the consequences.

  15

  Rath sat on the worn green sofa in Gennat’s office before a veritable mountain of cakes, contemplating a slice of nutcake whose dryness more than compensated for its lack of size. Gennat helped himself to a slice of gooseberry tart as his secretary, Trudchen Steiner, entered with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Rath gratefully accepted.

  ‘That was some performance you gave this morning,’ Gennat said, skewering a slice of tart with his cake fork. Rath had provided an update on the Vaterland case, as the investigation had been dubbed internally, and Buddha was particularly impressed by the results of the blood analysis. ‘Have you made any progress with your search for this Indian arrow poison?’

  ‘Fräulein Ritter is on top of it. So far we’ve been able to rule out hospitals, university institutes, and all known South American researchers in Berlin. Fräulein Ritter has suggested that with the help of Narcotics we now focus our attentions on illegal sources of supply.’

  ‘How is she getting on? Are you satisfied?’

  ‘Very.’ Rath hurriedly swallowed his cake. ‘Fräulein Ritter is a quick and reliable worker.’

  ‘Isn’t she just? She’d be a real asset to A Division. Sadly I can only loan her from Superintendent Wieking on a case-by-case basis.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose I should be glad there is a women’s CID at all.’

  ‘Besides the sequence of events,’ Rath continued, ‘the thing that concerns us most is motive. With that, we’re back to the thousand marks found on the victim.’

  ‘Still no explanation?’

  ‘The Vaterland accounts aren’t settled in cash. Gräf and Lange are currently in the process of reconstructing Herbert Lamkau’s final rounds. We still don’t know why he decided to make his deliveries in person on the morning in question.’

  ‘But you have your suspicions?’

  ‘It’s possible the money was intended as a bribe for someone in Haus Vaterland, one of the buyers perhaps. Lamkau was in danger of losing his most important client, but above all his reputation. Supplying Kempinski . . .is like being a purveyor to the court.’

  ‘So, where’s the motive? The recipient of a bribe would hardly have recourse to murder.’

  ‘Perhaps it was blackmail.’

  ‘Then why was the money still in Lamkau’s overalls?’

  ‘There are some inconsistencies that need ironing out,’ Rath said. ‘It’s clear there were some shady deals going on behind the scenes at Haus Vaterland. Perhaps there still are. It’s conceivable they could be linked to Lamkau’s death.’ He replaced his plate on the table. ‘We can also safely assume that Lamkau’s killer was still in the building when the police arrived, meaning it’s someone already on our list of names. We’ve had no luck with the interrogations so far, but . . .’

  Having only just dealt with his nutcake, Rath looked on in horror as Gennat now shovelled a slice of Sachertorte onto his plate.

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said, failing to preface the line with a ‘no’.

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Since we are dealing with a limited group of people, it might be worthwhile checking the employees in question for specialist medical knowledge, acquired before their time at Haus Vaterland, or outside of work. With the Red Cross or wherever.’

  ‘Because of the deadly injection, you mean?’

  Rath nodded. ‘According to Dr Karthaus it isn’t at all easy to inject through the jugular vein. And how many people know their way around tubocurarine?’ He picked up a forkful of Sachertorte and decided to repeat his request for reinforcements. ‘What I could imagine in this situation, Sir, is an undercover operation. We could smuggle someone into Haus Vaterland to keep an eye on our suspects.’

  To Rath’s delight, Gennat nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so, Sir.’ Rath was still balancing cake on his fork. ‘Perhaps you could spare me a colleague or two . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid staffing issues won’t allow that.’

  ‘The problem is,’ Rath said, ‘that both Lange and Gräf – and myself too, of course – have already visited Haus Vaterland in our capacity as CID officers, and would be recognised immediately. Quite apart from the fact that we lack the knowledge and skills to work in a commercial kitchen.’

  ‘Detective Roeder used a fake beard to avoid being recognised.’

  ‘Detective Roeder is no longer with the police force.’

  Erwin Roeder had quit his post a few years back to pursue a career as an author. The sort of costumes favoured by the self-proclaimed ‘arch investigator’ would barely have passed muster at the Cologne Carnival.

  ‘You’re right,’ Gennat said. ‘A fake beard would be no good to us here.’

  ‘You’re certain there’s nothing you can do? A single officer would be enough. Couldn’t you pull some strings with the other departments?’

  ‘I’ve already given you Fräulein Ritter. That’s the best I can do.’ Gennat sounded unusually short. Rath chose to focus on his cake. ‘And when I think about it,’ Buddha continued, ‘she could be just what you need. Am I right in thinking that so far Charly’s been confined to desk duty?’

  Rath was still working his way through his Sachertorte, and was happy to stay quiet for the time being. This wasn’t how he’d pictured things, but Gennat seemed set on the idea.

  ‘A woman would create the least suspicion,’ Buddha said. ‘No one would imagine they were dealing with a police officer. Besides, Charly has worked undercover before. Very successfully I might add.’

  ‘If at great personal risk.’

  ‘There’s always personal risk, but Fräulein Ritter can look after herself. It was you that suggested an undercover operation in the first place!’

  True, Rath thought, but only because I needed more men.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But what? Go away and have a think about how you’re going to smuggle her into Haus Vaterland. The operation is hereby approved.’

  Rath wondered what Charly might say when he suggested she apply for one of the positions in Haus Vaterland, but he could see from Gennat’s face that there would be no going back. Buddha reached for the tray of cakes, skilfully dismembering a second slice of gooseberry tart while Rath made further inroads into his Sachertorte. It was an unwritten rule that you should always finish your plate in Buddha’s office; he was said to view leftovers as an insult.

  ‘There was something else I wanted to discuss,’ Gennat said. ‘Something just between us. It concerns the possibility that we might be dealing with a serial killer.’

  The phrase ‘serial killer’ made Rath sit bolt upright. The press were already breathing down his neck about the Phantom murders, and he could do without such scrutiny here. Serial killer. Gennat himself had coined the phrase, and usually it spelled trouble. The papers were quick to strike when investigations stalled, citing police incompetence and sowing fear among the population, which could all too quickly get out of hand.

  Buddha gestured towards the table with his fork, on top of which lay a journal. Rath recognised the cover of the Kriminalistische Monatshefte, a periodical for which Gennat wrote now and again, most recently about Peter Kürten, the Vampire of Düsseldorf, a serial killer who had eventually fallen into police hands by chance.

  ‘Listening to you yesterday morning,’ Buddha continued, ‘I couldn’t help thinking of an article I read in the Monatshefte a few weeks back, in which a similarly strange case was described.’ He took the periodical from the table and put on his reading glasses. ‘I looked it up again, and I must say the similarities between our case and the . . .’ He peered through his spectacles ‘ . . .Wawerka case from Dortmund are quite astonishing. Here, too, we have a victim who drowned in an enclosed space.’

  ‘Lamkau didn’t drown.’

  ‘Maybe Wawerk
a didn’t either. Who knows if forensic pathology is up to scratch in Dortmund. Either way, I couldn’t help thinking of it when you spoke yesterday.’ Gennat pushed the magazine across the table. ‘Have a look for yourself.’

  Rath laid his plate on the table, praying that Buddha wouldn’t cut him a third slice, and picked up the journal. Perhaps I should read this sort of thing more often, he thought, feigning interest. ‘Have our colleagues in Dortmund had any more luck?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. The case is with the wet fish.’ Wet fish was Castle terminology for cold case. ‘But the similarities are striking. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it at briefing. Some officers are rather closer to the press than they ought to be.’ He looked Rath in the eye, knowing his inspector had links there too. ‘If the papers should catch the phrase “serial killer”, then all hell will break loose. But I don’t have to tell you that.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Anyhow, we can’t allow them to make a fuss, especially when we still don’t know if we’re on the right track. I would therefore ask you to pursue this with discretion.’

  ‘Doesn’t the distance mitigate against your theory? Berlin and Dortmund are more than five hundred kilometres apart.’

  ‘Four hundred and ninety, if you take the Reichsstrasse. Six and a half hours by train.’ Gennat was unmoved. ‘But you’re right. Normally a serial killer operates in a more confined radius. Even so, we now have two cases that could go together, and perhaps there are more. Perhaps there are links we’re still not seeing, geographical or otherwise.’

  ‘And if it really is one and the same perpetrator, maybe they don’t come from Berlin at all, but Dortmund.’

  ‘Or elsewhere. Perhaps it’s a travelling salesman who strikes wherever he stops for the night.’

  ‘Then we should check if there have been any similar incidents in Prussia.’

  ‘My thinking exactly, Inspector.’ Gennat polished off his second slice of gooseberry tart, and look sated for the time being, a sure sign that the audience was over. ‘I’ve already notified police headquarters in all major cities, as well as the State Crime Bureau and Gendarmerie. That way we’ll hear of anything, even if it happened out in the sticks.’