Until the Debt Is Paid (21 page)

After Max left, Jan sat on the couch for a long time and stared at the wall. He held his photo of Betty in both hands. He had been distracted by the murder investigations and had blocked out her death. In solitary moments like this, though, his memories caught up with him. He’d called her cell a few times just to listen to her cheery outgoing voice mail message. Even in death, she hadn’t lost her good mood. But today he couldn’t bear to make the call. He dialed Father Anberger instead.

“Hallo? Father Anberger? It’s Jan.”

“Hello, Herr Tommen. Nice to hear from you. Should I get you something else from your apartment?”

“Not for now. Thanks a lot, though.” Jan was searching for the right words. “I know it’s getting late already, but do you have time to meet today? There’s some things I can’t get out of my head, and I have to talk to someone about it.”

“Of course,” the priest replied, as if he’d expected this very thing. “Should I come to your place?”

“No, that’s too far. Let’s meet in the church, the congregation you used to serve? I’ll be there in an hour.”

“All right.”

“Thanks a lot,” Jan said, choking up.

“It’s not a bother. Till later.”

Jan pocketed his phone. It was dark outside. With the hat and glasses on, he felt safe enough to take the subway without being spotted by a patrol cop. He stood wearily, waiting for the train.

Zoe got a message on her cell. A new murder case. Two bodies. A text from Walter came at the same time. Just two words. “Need help.”

She dialed his number. He picked up on the second ring.

“I’ve never seen anything like this, Zoe,” her coworker said, out of breath. “I thought this only happened in movies.”

She’d heard how long the woman was tortured, so she could imagine how maimed the corpses were.

“Calm down, Walter. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone. Come into Forensics and take a look at it.”

Then he hung up.

Zoe pulled on her coat and left her apartment. She slammed the door in rage. If Jan didn’t have the balls to take out Patrick, she would do it herself. It was easy to get a gun. Even if she wasn’t a good shot, she wouldn’t miss from six feet away.

Max nibbled at his pizza. He had hoped that he’d feel calmer being at home, but he still couldn’t get the woman’s screams out of his head. Even his music at maximum volume couldn’t drown out the sounds of her drawn-out, painful death. Normally, when he was in a bad mood, he’d just kick some ass playing
Counter-Strike
. But now he couldn’t so much as look at that violence. He might even have to give up first-person shooters altogether.

Max’s stomach rumbled, but he put the pizza aside. He’d puked more today than he thought possible and didn’t feel like doing it again.

He went over to the front door and checked the locks for the fourth time. Horror movies and splatter films had never bothered him. He’d already watched
Saw
eleven times. Really sick stuff happened in that one—but the screams of that woman today had been real, and so had her death. He was afraid now. Actually afraid. Not the pleasant skin crawl you got watching horror films, but rather that kind of fear you felt as a kid. The fear that made you claw your fingers at the pillow, weeping. But his mommy wasn’t here now, and there’d be no hiding under her covers. No daddy to comfort him.

Max tossed the pizza in the trash. He’d had so much fun helping Jan at first. The guy was his only friend. But today they had crossed a line. There was a psychopath running around out there, one who enjoyed slaughtering people. Being that close to a murder had shaken every fiber of Max’s body. How could a person handle such a thing? How could someone work as a detective and confront such horrors every day, without going mad?

He had to give it all up. Forget the whole thing, go play
World of Warcraft
all night and try out the latest creations from his pizza delivery service. At some point the screams in his head would go away.

Then he thought about Jan again. How shocked the detective had been when he’d become a murder suspect, and how strongly he’d been affected by Betty’s suicide. When Max and Jan had first met, the guy had been the life of every party. No one was more easygoing. But Max had seen a change in him. Jan’s up-for-anything grin and his let’s-grab-one-more-beer state of mind had vanished.

Jan had always treated him with respect, and it had been a great feeling helping his friend, but he couldn’t do it anymore. One more murder just might cost him his sanity.

Without him, though, Jan wouldn’t get at any more data, and Patrick would be able to manipulate the evidence to convict Jan. “Shit,” Max spat out.

In a rage, he swept his laptop with its smiley-face sticker right off the table. He went into the bedroom, with its narrow bed and wardrobe. Old pants and T-shirts lay on the floor. A case of Coca-Cola stood on a stool. Max threw himself onto the bed and pulled a blanket over his head. He’d had more than enough of the world. He only wanted to sleep and forget everything. No more murders. No screams.

Jan was on the way to the church when his cell rang. He yanked it out of his bag.

“Yeah?”

Zoe dived right in without saying hello. “My coworker is working on the corpses right now. I’ve seen the crime-scene photos, so I wanted to give you a brief status report. The victims are Sarah and Horst Esel. Who would have thought?

“Someone really worked him over good. On top of fractures to the legs and arms, his kneecaps were broken. As he lay there tied up on the couch, toy swords, the kind made of wood, were driven into his internal organs. By the way, the swords had clearly been sharpened. From the amount of blood on the couch, we’ve determined that he was still alive at that point.”

“Zoe, I—”

“Don’t interrupt,” the medical examiner snapped at him. “He died of the wounds, though the attacker was careful not to pierce heart or lungs, which prolonged the dying.”

“So the murderer has a good idea of human anatomy,” Jan said.

“You don’t say.”

“What about Sarah Esel?”

“Oh, she won the jackpot,” Zoe snarled. “Her bones were broken until she couldn’t move anymore. Then her hands were bound behind her back, her eyes carved out and the eyeballs replaced with flashy rings, the cheap costume-jewelry kind. Then the murderer sliced her arteries and watched as she slowly croaked.”

“Why did he do that with her eye sockets?”

“Because he’s a sick fucker,” she barked at him. “How should I know? You’re the one who’s the brilliant investigator.”

“In my whole time with detectives? I’ve never seen anything like—”

“Don’t babble on with your sappy stories,” Zoe cut in. “You know who did it and still you don’t want to put a bullet in his head. Even though killing him quickly would be showing more mercy than that bastard deserves.”

“I, I can’t think straight—”

“Spare me your excuses. This is the last time I help you. When you’re ready to take out Patrick for good, give me a call. Otherwise go find yourself a new chump.”

The call disconnected.

Jan rubbed at his eyes. He could understand where Zoe was coming from. The perpetrator had to be punished. But he wouldn’t let himself get carried away and commit an act driven by rage. If he only had more than just circumstantial evidence, some irrefutable proof or a confession, then maybe he’d be able to fulfill Zoe’s wishes. Because he wanted justice. Not for himself. For Betty.

The time Chandu spent with his mother was a wonderful retreat from his daily world. She was the most important person in his life, as well as his only living relative. Memories of his brother and sister and of the old country did hurt, and yet recalling them let Chandu immerse himself in those days before they’d had to flee. Even though it had left him with horrible scars, he remained bound to the place where he’d grown up. Rwanda was in his blood, his homeland. But Berlin was his home.

Driving back home, he felt a guilty conscience stirring. Jan was his friend. One of the few people he trusted. He shouldn’t be leaving him all alone, but that woman’s screams had awakened experiences that he had buried deep in the farthest reaches of his memory. He was not some defenseless child any more, no, but the murder had taken him back to a time full of unimaginable atrocities. That fear of dying. Corpses in the streets, and the stench of bodies rotting.

Seeing a corpse, back then, most people had turned their heads away in terror. But Chandu hardly had a shrug left for it now. He had been in the darkest place imaginable. There, people had done things that couldn’t be explained with even a million words, the horrors robbing you of sleep forever. Yet the nightmares had made him stronger. It was like taking a “steel bath,” soaking in chalybeate springs. A harsh yet sacred thing. He’d kept his nerve in even the wildest shootouts.

And yet, that woman’s death cries had really hit him hard.

Tonight they would return to stalk him: the nightmares. The rot stench. Like old friends. But he would not allow that to deter him from aiding Jan. He would always be in his debt.

Chandu stepped on the gas, speeding onward.

Seeing Father Anberger made Jan smile. His easygoing ways and his friendly expression gave Jan a sense that all would be made right again. The burden on his soul would lighten, and the murder would be solved.