JF01 - Blood Eagle (9 page)

Wednesday 4 June, 12.00 p.m. Mortuary of the Institut für Rechtsmedizin, Eppendorf, Hamburg.

The Institut für Rechtsmedizin – the Legal Medicine Institute – was responsible for all forensic medicine in Hamburg. All of the city’s sudden deaths found their way to the Institut mortuary.

Fabel’s gut lurched at the morgue smell with which he had grown familiar but to which he had never become accustomed: it was not the smell of decay, as one might expect, but a faintly disinfectant-rinsed stale odour. There were no bodies on the stainless-steel post-mortem tables and the bleaching striplights bathed the mortuary with a cheerless, unrelenting glare. When Fabel entered, Möller, still dressed in his green scrubs, was sitting at his desk, referring to handwritten notes and then peering at the screen of his computer. In between, he absent-mindedly scooped forkfuls of a ready-made pasta salad into his mouth from a plastic tub. He did not acknowledge Fabel’s arrival.

‘I wouldn’t have thought eating was allowed in here.’ Fabel pulled up a chair without waiting for an invitation.

‘It’s not. So arrest me.’ Möller didn’t look up from his notes.

‘What do you have on the girl?’

‘You’ll get the report this afternoon.’ Möller tapped the page he was writing with his pen. ‘I’m doing it now.’

‘Just give me the main points.’

Möller threw his pen down onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, sweeping his hands through his hair and then placing them behind his head. He eyed Fabel with his practised, superior look. ‘Have you heard from your penfriend yet?’

‘Möller, I don’t have time for this. What have you got for me?’

‘This is an interesting one all right, Hauptkommissar.’ Möller picked up his notes. ‘The victim is female, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, one metre sixty-five tall, blue eyes, with brown hair dyed blonde. Cause of death was heart failure caused by shock and massive blood loss, in turn a result of the massive trauma to the abdomen. She was dead before the lungs were excavated.’ Möller looked up from his notes. ‘You reckon this young woman was a prostitute?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘She had not had sexual intercourse in the forty-eight hours prior to her death. The other thing is that she obviously took very good care of herself.’

‘Oh?’

‘Her muscle tone was extremely good and there is a very low body-fat-to-muscle ratio. I would say she was either some kind of athlete or that she visited a gym frequently. She didn’t smoke and there was no trace of alcohol in her blood. Looks like her diet was good, too: her last meal was some kind of fish with pulses and her blood lipids were very low.’ Möller flicked through his notes. ‘We’ve screened her for narcotics – nothing. Notwithstanding genetic influences, if this young lady had not crossed paths with your “correspondent”, she would have more than likely lived to a ripe old age.’

‘Anything on the killer?’

‘No forensic evidence of the killer’s presence. As I said, no evidence of sexual intercourse nor of any other sexual activity. It’s definitely the same killer as the other one – or at least, the method of killing is identical. The killer made a single incision which was caused by a powerful but incredibly accurate blow to the sternum, probably with some heavy, large-bladed knife, or perhaps a sword, after which the ribs were prised open and the lungs excavated. There were stress indicators and splintering on the sheared bone edges, suggesting a sweeping, forceful blow downwards. The separation of the ribs would have taken considerable physical strength, as would the single-blow incision. This is a man all right … and the arc of penetration suggests probably not less than one metre seventy tall, with at least a medium build.’

‘That narrows it down to about ninety per cent of the male population of Hamburg,’ said Fabel, without sarcasm and more to himself than to Möller.

‘All I deal with is the physical evidence, Fabel. Although I am intrigued by the victim’s obvious regard for her own health and fitness.’ Möller laughed. ‘I don’t have the benefit of your experience of the underside of our city’s life, but I wouldn’t have imagined that the average Hamburg prostitute places much importance on her health – or that of her clients.’

‘That depends. She appears to have been high-end – taking care of her body would be an investment in … well, her
product
. But you’ve got a point. There’s not much about this victim that fits. Did my guys take her prints?’

‘Yes, they were over earlier.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Herr Doktor Möller,’ Fabel made for the door. ‘I’ll get your full report this afternoon.’

‘Fabel.’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s one more thing …’

‘What?’

‘There’s an old wound on the right upper thigh, outer aspect. A scar.’

‘Bad enough to be a distinguishing mark that could help us identify her?’

‘Well, yes, I think it increases your chances considerably. But it has more significance than that …’

‘What do you mean?’

Möller turned back to his computer and punched a few keys. ‘I’ve got the photograph from the digital camera loaded into my report. Here it is.’

Fabel looked at the screen. A picture of the woman’s thigh, the skin bleached white. There was a round mark with a lateral scar and some puckering around it. It had the look of a faint and ancient lunar crater. Möller punched a key and another image appeared. This time it was the back of the thigh. Instead of being pale, it was a lurid purple-red. Post-mortem lividity: the body having lain on its back, gravity had drawn the blood to the lowest points.

‘Do you see here,’ Möller tapped the screen with his pen, ‘the corresponding scar on the other side? They were very faint scars … perhaps five or six years old. Do you know what they are?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Fabel. After all, he had two similar scars himself.

Möller leaned back again in his chair. ‘I would think that that should narrow things down a little in identifying her … I mean, how many young women in Hamburg have been treated for gunshot wounds over the last ten years?’

It rained heavily. Despite the downpour Fabel felt the urge to get out into the open, to allow the rain and the moist air to purge his clothes and his lungs of the musty odour of the morgue. His car was parked a couple of streets away and by the time he reached its shelter his blond hair was plastered to his scalp. He drove down towards the docks of the Hafen district. Within a few minutes the vast cranes that lined the banks and quaysides of the Elbe started to dominate the skyline. Fabel called his office on his cellular phone and asked to speak to Werner, but got Maria Klee instead, who explained that Werner was checking in with the surveillance team who were tracking Klugmann. Fabel told Maria about the gunshot wound on the body and asked her to carry out a thorough search of records covering all Hamburg hospitals and clinics from about fifteen to five years ago. By law any hospital or medical professional treating a gunshot injury was obliged to report it to the police. Maria pointed out that there was a chance that, if this girl was a prostitute and had been injured in some kind of underworld shoot-out, then the wound may have been treated unofficially by some bent medic. Fabel told Maria that he thought that was possible, but not likely.

‘Any other messages?’ he asked Maria.

‘Werner left a message to tell you that an appointment with Professor Dorn has been set up for tomorrow. Three p.m.’ Maria paused. ‘Is Professor Dorn some kind of forensics expert?’

‘No,’ said Fabel, ‘he’s a historian.’ He paused for a heartbeat before adding, ‘I thought he was history. Anything else?’

Maria told him that a journalist had called a couple of times: an Angelika Blüm. The name meant nothing to Fabel.

‘Did you refer her to the press department?’

‘Yes. I did. But she was quite insistent that it was you she needed to talk to. I told her that all press enquiries had to be handled by the Polizeipressestelle, but she said she wasn’t looking for a story, that she needed to discuss a matter of great importance with you.’

‘Did you ask what this matter was?’

‘Of course I did. She basically told me to mind my own business.’

‘You get a number?’

‘Yep.’

‘Okay, I’ll see you when I get back. I’ve got an appointment with the Organised Crime Division at two-thirty.’

The Schnell-Imbiss snack stand was by the docks on the Elbe, dwarfed by the huddle of cranes that loomed above it. It comprised a caravan with a wide, open serving window and bright canopy. It was surrounded, at regular intervals, by parasol-topped, waist-high tables at which a handful of scattered customers stood consuming Bockwurst or drinking beer or coffee. There was a small newspaper stand next to the serving window. Despite the drabness of its surroundings and the weather, the Schnell-Imbiss managed to look both cheerful and scrupulously clean.

Fabel pulled up and ran through the rain from his car to the shelter of the canopy. A rotund man of fifty, with florid cheeks and dressed in a white overcoat and cook’s hat, stood behind the counter. He leaned forward onto his elbows as Fabel approached.

‘Good morning, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar,’ he said, with an accent that was as broad and flat as the Frisian landscape to which it belonged. ‘And might I say you look like shit today.’

‘Been a rough night, Dirk,’ answered Fabel, his own speech slipping from strict Hochdeutsch into his natural Frysk. ‘I’ll have a Jever and a coffee.’

Dirk served the Frisian beer and the coffee.

‘Have you seen Mahmoot lately?’

‘No, not for a while, now that you mention it. Something up?’

Fabel sipped his beer. ‘I need to talk to him, that’s all. I’ll give him a buzz later – if I can get a hold of him. You know what he’s like.’ Fabel sipped the thick, black coffee. It scalded his lips so he put it down and took another sip of the Jever.

‘I take it this is your lunch?’ Dirk nodded at the beer and the coffee.

‘Okay, give me a Käsebrot to go with it. If you see Mahmoot could you let him know I’ve been looking for him? I know I don’t need to tell you to be discreet.’ Fabel looked past Dirk; on the wall of the caravan behind him was a photograph of Dirk, about fifteen years younger and slimmer, in his green SchuPo uniform. Fabel nodded towards the photograph. ‘Don’t you get hassle because of that?’

He handed Fabel a split bread roll filled with cheese and gherkin and shrugged. His smile broadened. ‘Occasionally. Sometimes I get a rough crowd down here, but I find that my diplomacy usually works on them …’ He reached under the counter and pulled out a large Glock automatic. Fabel coughed on his beer and looked around to make sure the other customers hadn’t seen.

‘For Christ’s sake, Dirk, put it away. I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.’

Dirk laughed and reached out and down and slapped Fabel affectionately on the cheek. ‘Now, now, don’t get agitated, Jannik …’ Little Jan. It had been Dirk’s nickname for Fabel when they had served together. Despite Dirk’s inferior rank as an Obermeister in the uniform branch, the Schutzpolizei, the young Kommissar Fabel had quickly recognised the wealth of experience the older policeman had to offer. Dirk had willingly shown Fabel the ropes. He had done the same for Franz Webern, the young policeman who had died the same day Fabel had been shot. Dirk had taken Franz’s death very badly. When he had visited Fabel in hospital after the shooting, it was the only time Fabel could recall Dirk stripped of his infectious good humour.

The rain had stopped and the sun probed a shaft of light through the furls of cloud, etching the latticed shadow of the cranes’ superstructure across the car park. Fabel paid for the Käsebrot, beer and coffee. He tossed an extra few coins down. ‘I’ll take a
SCHAU MAL!
as well,’ he said, pulling a copy out of the news-stand.

‘I didn’t think SCHAU
MAL!
would be your thing,’ said Dirk.

‘It’s not …’ Fabel flipped the folded tabloid open. The headline slapped Fabel in the face.

MANIACAL RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN! POLIZEI HAMBURG POWERLESS TO STOP MADMAN!
Underneath the headline was a photograph of Horst Van Heiden with the caption:
KRIMINALDIREKTOR VAN HEIDEN: THE MAN FAILING TO KEEP HAMBURG’S WOMEN SAFE
.

‘
Scheisse
…’ muttered Fabel. Van Heiden would be going through the roof. The editorial blasted the Polizei Hamburg and offered a reward for information. The centre spread was also devoted to the story. Another shrill headline proclaimed:
WHO CARES ABOUT CATCHING THIS MONSTER? SCHAU
MAL!
DOES. WE WILL PAY €l0,000 FOR INFORMATION THAT LEADS TO THE ARREST AND CONVICTION OF THIS MANIAC!

‘What’s up?’ asked Dirk. Fabel tossed the paper across the counter to Dirk. ‘Oh, I see … let me guess, this is your case?’

‘Got it in one.’ Fabel drained his beer and then his coffee and left the uneaten bread roll on the counter. ‘Better go. Before Van Heiden puts up a reward for my hide.’

‘
Tschüss
, Jan.’

Wednesday 4 June, 2.45 p.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.

LKA7 – the Organised Crime Division – is separated from the rest of the Hamburg Polizeipräsidium by heavy security doors, which in turn are controlled from a security desk. Closed-circuit security cameras sweep the corridors leading to LKA7, and everyone approaching the department is watched by the armed officers manning the security desk. A secure environment within a secure environment; a police station within a police station.