Self's deception (10 page)

26
You're stubborn, just plain stubborn

Back home I lay down again. Brigitte came over, sat on the edge of my bed, and asked me what actually had happened yesterday. I told her.

“Why didn't you want to let Inspector Nägelsbach know where that girl is? And why not tell the man who hired you? You don't owe her anything.”

“I don't know why the police and Salger are looking for her. I need to know that first. She didn't do anything to me, and I don't want to hand her over just to get them off my back and pocket ten thousand marks.”

Brigitte got up and poured herself an amaretto and a sam-buca for me. She sat down again and said, “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.” I smiled encouragingly, though I knew it wasn't going to be a question but a reproach.

“I don't want to tell you how to do your job. When you didn't have a case over the past few months, I thought to myself: Fine, that's his business, not mine. Sometimes I would ask myself if it could work out, us getting married I mean, and having kids, if it would work out financially. But that's not the issue. It's the way you're handling this case. And not just this case. I get the feeling that you'll only be satisfied when you've quarreled with everyone and are at loggerheads with all the different parties. Not that it seems to be giving you any satisfaction. Does it have to be this way? Is it…”

“Old age? Are you asking if I'm becoming stubborn and bad tempered in my old age?”

“You're becoming more and more of an outsider. That's what I mean.”

She fixed me with her sad gaze, and I could not escape into anger. I tried to explain to her that the only way one can see clearly is from the outside. “So of course I'm an outsider; it's part of my job description. Maybe I stumble around a bit more as I get older, but do I have any choice? And you mustn't forget that it's natural for an outsider sometimes to be at loggerheads with the different parties. You wouldn't want to side with every party either, would you?”

Brigitte looked at me skeptically. “You're stubborn, just plain stubborn.”

27
My cards weren't all that bad

The men from the Federal Criminal Investigation Agency turned up the following morning just after eight. Bleckmeier, gaunt and sour in his gray suit and beige coat, and Rawitz in a suede jacket over a polo shirt and linen pants, playing the nice little fat guy. His affability was as put on as a clown's nose. “Dr. Self?”

This form of address was bad news. As a public prosecutor I had been proud of my title, but as a private investigator I found it absurd. There's no “Dr.” on the door to my office or my apartment, and no “Dr.” in the phone book or on my letterhead. Whoever approaches me with “Dr.” knows things about me that are none of his business. I showed the two men into my living room.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

Bleckmeier spoke up. “We hear that while working on a case you have, so to speak, stumbled over a certain Leonore Salger. We are looking for her. If you—”

“Why are you looking for Frau Salger?”

“That is, so to speak, a delicate matter. I would—”

“Why is it delicate?” Rawitz interrupted Bleckmeier, looking at him reprovingly and then at me apologetically. “The Federal Criminal Investigation Agency targets criminals who work internationally, or at least beyond a specific region. We are the coordinating body for all the regional agencies and for Interpol. We also take on police duties in matters of law enforcement, particularly in cases when the chief federal prosecutor issues an order. Needless to say, we then immediately inform the appropriate regional agency.”

“Needless to say,” I replied.

Bleckmeier took over again. “We're looking for Frau Sal-ger, so to speak, in an official capacity. We know that she was in the State Psychiatric Hospital, that she was in Dr. Rolf Wendt's care, and that she disappeared a few weeks ago. Do you know where she is?”

“Have you spoken to Dr. Wendt?”

“He invoked doctor-patient confidentiality and is refusing to cooperate in any way,” Bleckmeier said. “Not that we're surprised. Dr. Wendt is not entirely unknown to us, so to speak.”

“Did you inform him why you are investigating Frau Salger?”

“Dr. Self.” Rawitz again took over. “I am sure we all want to keep things nice and simple. As a former public prosecutor you're an old pro. You can't expect us to go around disclosing that kind of information. We can only tell you what we can tell you, and if you're prepared to tell us what you know, then things will stay nice and easy.” He was sitting across from me, and as he said “nice and easy” he actually leaned forward and patted me on the knee.

“Are we right in our surmise that you have been commissioned to locate Frau Salger by an individual who is, so to speak, passing himself off as her father? Are you still in contact with this individual?”

“You are confusing Dr. Self by asking him all those questions at once,” Rawitz said to Bleckmeier in a mildly admonishing tone. I didn't know if this was their own version of the good-cop-bad-cop act, or whether Rawitz was the one with the higher rank and say. Bleckmeier was clearly the older of the two, but in the world of government bureaucracies, politics sends the strangest characters floating to the top. “If you ask a question and then immediately go on to the next question without insisting on an answer to the first question,” Rawitz said to Bleckmeier, “then the person you are questioning gets the impression that you're not serious about the question you asked. Not serious,
so to speak
, as you yourself would put it. And yet we are quite serious about finding Frau Salger.” Bleckmeier, his face bright red, nodded quickly. Then both men looked at me expectantly.

I shook my head. “First I want to know what this is all about.”

“Dr. Self,” Rawitz said, enunciating my name with painstaking clarity, “whether we're dealing with narcotics, counterfeit money, terrorism, or an attempt on the life of the German president, you have no right to hamper our inquiries. You have no right, neither as a private investigator nor as a former public prosecutor, and if you, of all people, a former Nazi, are intent on supporting the work of terrorists, then you can hardly expect much sympathy from us.”

“I don't think your sympathy is particularly important to me. If we're talking terrorism, then why not go ahead and name names?”

“He doesn't think our sympathy is particularly important to him,” Rawitz said scornfully, and slapped his startled colleague on the thigh. “I've already told you more than I have to, Dr. Self. But if you don't want to listen”—he peered at me over the tip of his index finger—”you'll have to bear the consequences. You have no choice but to give us a statement.”

“You know as well as I do that I don't have to give you a statement.”

“I'll have you dragged before the public prosecutor. Then you'll have to talk.”

“But only if he tells me what it is he is investigating.”

“What?”

“If I do not know who or what he is investigating and the reason for this investigation, I cannot assess if I am incriminating myself through my statement.”

Rawitz turned to Bleckmeier. “Did you hear that? He doesn't want to incriminate himself. There are incriminating circumstances, but he doesn't want to incriminate himself. Is anything he's saying of interest to us? No. Incriminating things do not interest us in the least, do they? There's only one thing we want to know, and that is the current address of Frau Leonore Salger, which is exactly what the public prosecutor will tell you, too, Dr. Self. All I want to know, the public prosecutor will say, is the current address of Frau Salger. There can be no question of incrimination. 'Spit it out!' is what the public prosecutor will say.” Rawitz looked me in the eye and raised his voice. “Spit it out! Or are you in any way involved with Frau Salger? Is she your fiancée? Your cousin twice removed? Your mother-in-law's niece? What game are you playing here?”

I took a deep breath. “I'm not playing any game. You are right, my case did put me on the trail of Frau Salger. But you're going to have to leave to me what I feel I can disclose concerning an ongoing case of mine.”

“You're talking like you're her pastor or her doctor—or her lawyer. All you are is a nasty little private snoop with a shady scar on his face. Where'd you get that?”

I wanted to ask him where he had picked up his ridiculous interrogation techniques. The police academy? But Bleck-meier jumped in before I could open my mouth.

“All we have to do is snap our fingers, Dr. Self, and you'll be before the public prosecutor, even the judge. Your cards aren't all that good.”

But the way I saw it, my cards weren't all that bad either. Perhaps my claim that I had to know what they were investigating in order not to incriminate myself had hit the mark with them. If not, they could slap me with a fine or arrest me for contempt, but even if they wanted to, they couldn't be that fast on the trigger. I also got the impression that the Criminal Investigation Agency and the chief federal prosecutor were not that eager to create a ruckus, and where a trigger is pulled there's noise.

“We'll be seeing you again.” Rawitz stood up and Bleck-meier followed suit. I showed them out and wished them a nice day. So to speak.

28
A trick that psychotherapists use

I put in a call to the psychiatric hospital. I couldn't get Wendt on the phone, but I did find out that he was on duty. So I headed over. The April wind chased gray clouds across the blue sky. From time to time some gathered into sudden downpours. Then the wet asphalt shone in the sun again.

Wendt was in a hurry. “Oh, you again? I've got to go over to the other unit.”

“Have they been here?”

“Who?” He found my presence irritating, but at the same time he was curious. He stood strangely twisted, his legs ready to walk away, his head turned toward me, his hand on the doorknob.

“The men from the Federal Criminal Investigation Agency and Leo's big brother.”

“Leo's father, Leo's big brother? What other relatives are you going to pull out of the hat?” His tone was superior, but did not sound convincing.

“He isn't Leo's big brother. He just feels he is. He's looking for her.”

He opened the door. “I really have to head over to the other unit.”

“The guys from the Agency have bad manners. But Leo's brotherly friend has a gun with a silencer. And a strong fist. If he'd had more time with me, he would perhaps have beaten Leo's whereabouts out of me.”

Wendt let go of the doorknob and turned to me. His eyes studied my face, as if they could read what he wanted to know from my forehead, nose, or chin. He seemed at a loss. “Have you…Do you know …”

“No, I didn't tell him Leo's whereabouts. And I didn't tell the guys from the Agency either. But you and I have to talk. What has Leo done? Why are they looking for her?”

He cleared his throat a few times, opening his mouth then closing it again. Then he got a grip on himself. “I'm on duty till noon. Let's meet at one o'clock at the restaurant on the main street.” He walked off down the corridor with quick steps.

Shortly before one I was sitting at a table with an oilcloth cover in the restaurant garden. I kept my eye on the door that led into the restaurant and the door that led out into the street, but the waiter didn't come out of the former door, nor Wendt out of the latter. I was the only customer. I studied the oilcloth, counting the squares and watching the drops from the last downpour drying.

At one thirty a dozen or so young women appeared. They parked their bicycles, sat down at the long table next to mine, and boisterously placed their order with the shuffling waiter, who also sullenly took my order. They grew even more lively once their beers and sodas arrived. “Are we going bowling today?” “Sure, but without the guys.” Of course they all were different, but they all looked the same. A little fashionable, a little athletic, a little professional, a little bit of hausfrau, a little bit of mother. I imagined them in their marriages. They stay faithful to their husbands the way one stays faithful to one's car. They're resourceful and cheerful with their children. Occasionally there's a touch of alarm in their shrill laughter. The way we Germans conduct our marriages, it's no wonder we've never had a revolution.

By two I had finished the cold cuts and drunk my apple spritzer. There was no sign of Wendt. I drove back to the hospital and was told he had left around one. I knocked on Eber-lein's door.

“Come in!” He was standing by the window in his white gown. He had been looking out into the park and turned to me.

“First your patients disappear, then your doctors,” I said, and told him about the appointment Wendt had missed. “Did two men from the Federal Criminal Investigation Agency visit you recently? And did someone else come, too: Tall, broad, midforties, could be anything from a banker to a pastor, perhaps wearing mirrored sunglasses? Asking about your former patient Leonore Salger, about Dr. Wendt, or about both?”

Again Eberlein took his time. I believe this is a trick that psychotherapists use, which is designed to make one nervous. But this time there was something else, too. He seemed worried. There was a sharp crease between his eyebrows that I hadn't seen before, and he kept tapping the floor impatiently and indignantly with his cane. “Who are you working for, Herr Self? Still for Leonore Salger's father?”

“She doesn't have a father. I imagine that's why Dr. Wendt told me that cock-and-bull story about her falling out a window. I guess he was sure that the man posing as her father wouldn't dare step forward and would have to accept that story. But the story was too flimsy, and as it turns out the fake father has no qualms about coming out of hiding, with or without his mirrored sunglasses. Who am I working for? I'm no longer working for him, and not for anyone else either. I don't have a client, just a problem child.”

“Is that usual for a private investigator?”

“No. It's always best if the problem child is also a client. Just like in your world, Dr. Eberlein. Private investigators and psychotherapists should not work without remuneration. In my field, too, if the clients don't feel their pain, there's no hope for a cure.”

He laughed. “I didn't know detectives were healers—I thought their job is to investigate.”

“It's just like in your field. If we don't find out what really happened, people can't rid themselves of old issues.”

“I see.”

That sounded so reflective that I wondered if the stuff I was rattling on about was worth taking seriously. But Eberlein's thoughts were elsewhere. “I wonder what's going on with Wendt?” he said. “Yesterday the two men from the Agency were here, and today I told him to come see me. But he didn't show up. He can't think he …” Eberlein didn't finish what Wendt couldn't think. “The man you described to me was also here. Lehmann from Frankfurt. He wanted to see Wendt, but Wendt wasn't here, so he came to see me. He introduced himself as an old friend of the Salgers, particularly of their daughter Leonore. He spoke of his paternal interest in her and his feelings of responsibility, and of the difficulties she's in. He wanted to know her current whereabouts. Not that I have any idea. Nor would I have told him if I knew. I just hope he won't find her.”

“So do I. But why would you hope such a thing?”

He opened the window and let some cool, damp air into the room. The rain was falling in vertical streams. “Perhaps you were wondering the other day why I have a yacht. Well, the fact is, I am interested in fish. There's a shark in the Indian Ocean that bears some resemblance to a dolphin. Sharks are loners, while dolphins are herd animals. But this particular shark can also display quite a bit of similarity to dolphins. He joins a herd of dolphins, swims with them, plays and hunts with them. That works well for a while. But then suddenly, we don't know why, he goes crazy and rips one of the dolphins to pieces. Sometimes the whole herd of dolphins will hurl itself at him, but usually they flee. Then he remains alone for weeks or months, until he goes and seeks out another herd.”

“Lehmann reminds you of this shark?” I had no reason to prize Lehmann particularly, but the parallel Eberlein was drawing seemed a bit strong.

He raised his hand appeasingly. “What is fascinating about this shark is that it seems to be playing a part among the dolphins. But animals don't play parts. They don't have the necessary self-awareness. So there have to be two programs in our shark's brain: a shark program and a dolphin program. At times the animal is entirely a dolphin, and at other times entirely a shark. That is why Lehmann reminded me of this shark. I was certain he was serving me a pack of lies, but I was just as certain that he felt that what he was saying was utterly true. Do you know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“Then you also know why I find the man dangerous. Perhaps he has never harmed a hair on anyone's head and never will. But if he feels he needs to, he will do it without hesitation and with the clearest conscience.”