Until the Debt Is Paid (22 page)

“Thanks a lot for taking the time for me,” Jan said, shaking the priest’s hand. “I’m sorry that I asked you here so late, but I didn’t know of any other way.”

Father Anberger waved aside the thought. “It’s all right. At my age you don’t need much sleep, so if I’m able to bring a tortured soul some relief, then it’s my duty to do so.”

Jan wrung his hands. “I guess I don’t know where I should begin. The last few days have been the worst of my entire life.”

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning and tell me all about it. It helps if one gets all his worries off his chest.”

“I’m suspected of murder.”

“The judge, I remember. Your fingerprints and your DNA were found, and you had to go on the run. Then there was a second murder.”

“They found my fingerprints there too. I was with friends at the time and I didn’t know the victim, so clearly I couldn’t have been the killer. Someone’s trying to pin the whole thing on me. I’ve relied on help from my friends to find out more, but none of the three has ever done any police investigating.”

“You’re afraid that they might not handle the pressure well?”

Jan nodded. “I roped them into this without realizing I could put them in danger.”

“Are they in danger?”

“Physically, no, but I think their psyches have taken some hits.”

“What happened?”

“I recently gave a possible source my phone number. Tonight someone called it, frantic. It was a woman—and her husband was being murdered in the next room.”

“My God.” Father Anberger crossed himself.

“Hearing the man scream was already tough to take, but then the murderer went after the woman and tortured her to death. The phone transmitted every moment of her torment. You can’t imagine it if you’ve never experienced it,” Jan said, his voice straining with despair. “The screams of someone tortured to death, they’re horrific. They bring out a primal fear, and you get wise to your own mortality. It’s pulled me down too, so I can’t even imagine what it’s doing to the others.”

“So you consider yourself guilty in some way?”

“I
am
guilty,” Jan insisted. “Without me, they wouldn’t be going through this.”

Father Anberger leaned back on the pew, deep in thought.

“I’ve known you some years now, Herr Tommen. You’ve never given me the impression you would ever force a person into anything.”

“No, not really.”

“So, from that, I’m going to assume that you haven’t
made
your friends come help you.”

“I didn’t make them, no, but I should have kept them out of it. I work in Homicide. I should have known what could become of a case like this.”

“Perhaps your very despair induced your friends to help you.”

“I should not have accepted their help. Now I’m to blame for them not being able to sleep at night.”

“I understand now.”

“You do?”

“You’re suffering from too much protector instinct. You’re like the mother of children who shields her offspring from all adversity over the years, but forgets that the children will have to grow up.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re afraid that you’ve robbed your friends of their spiritual innocence.”

“That’s what it amounts to.”

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

“Not so bad?” Jan said, surprised. “It’s not bad that my friends need psychological help?”

“Give people more credit for their internal fortitude,” the priest urged. “You’ve seen many horrible things in your job, all without perishing yourself. You, too, experienced a shock, one that would have driven many out of their minds. And yet it didn’t break you. Do you remember what I’m talking about?”

Jan sighed. “The murdered child. You cannot imagine what was done to that nine-year-old girl.”

“And how did that case make you feel?”

“I was delirious for two days. I couldn’t sleep, didn’t eat a thing, was wandering the corridors of Homicide like the walking dead.”

“And then?”

“My boss, Klaus Bergman, he chewed me out. And when we got a new lead, my lethargy disappeared. The chance of nabbing the guy gave me my strength back. Four days later, we caught him. That was when I first started sleeping again.”

“So, you know firsthand that a person can gain strength from a terrifying experience.”

“My friends will come out of this stronger?” Jan asked him, uncertain.

Father Anberger placed a hand on Jan’s shoulder. “God is our refuge and our strength. There to help us in times of the great troubles that afflict us,” he cited. “Have faith. Others can bear pain too. You must not stanch it all on your own. Share your sorrows.”

Father Anberger stood. “I’ll leave you now, to be alone with God. Have faith in Him, and He will soothe your soul.”

Jan closed his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, full of emotion. “I will pray for the slain Herr and Frau Esel.”

Father Anberger looked shaken for a moment. It was little more than a flash in his eyes, a brief warping of the corners of his mouth.

“Did you know the couple?” Jan asked in surprise.

“No,” he was quick to reply. “How could I?” His smile had returned.

Jan squinted. The man was old. Jan was probably just delirious again.

The priest hurried out of the church. The door closed with a loud bang. Jan stood and went over to the offering box. There he chose three candles. Two for Herr and Frau Esel. One for Betty.

He sought peace in prayer, but he couldn’t get the priest’s expression out of his head. When he’d heard about the Esels dying, fear had clearly run right through him, down to his marrow.

It was midnight by the time Jan emerged from the subway station and headed toward Chandu’s apartment. He was still scared someone could recognize him. It didn’t have to be a fellow cop. Even just an old acquaintance could make things dangerous. One accidental run-in and his noose would pull even tighter.

He squeezed between two parked cars and crossed the empty Oranienburger Strasse. A few pubs were still open, but they were nearly vacant.

He was heading into the inner courtyard of Chandu’s building when someone called his name. He turned but could see only a dark figure, freeing itself from the shadows. He tried to make out a face.

“Do I know—” Jan started to say, but his words gave way to a scream of pain as a knife rammed into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping. The figure pulled out the knife and went to stab again, but Jan, using every last bit of his strength, ran headlong for the street. Instinct made him flee his attacker despite the staggering pain. He pressed a hand to the wound. Blood leaked out around his fingers and soaked his shirt.

The figure followed him. It was dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and mirrored sunglasses. In its gloved hand, it held a small, blood-smeared scalpel.

Jan wanted to keep running, but everything was spinning around him. He didn’t know up or down. He wouldn’t get away like this, so he yelled out for help. Then his strength drained away and his legs buckled under him. His head slammed against the road. The figure stood over him, raising the scalpel. Jan tried to crawl away. Blood ran through his fingers onto the asphalt.

As the blade came down again, he heard the loud squeal of a car braking. Then came nothing more. Only darkness.

Chapter 14

Jan had trouble opening his eyes. He felt sluggish and heavy. His mouth was dry and his throat felt raw. He lay in a bed, in a room he didn’t know. The ceiling was covered with white squares of gypsum board. A fluorescent tube illuminated the whitewashed wall. He turned his head toward an assortment of flashing machines. A metal stand held a bag of transparent liquid that flowed through a tube into his left arm. He raised his head. A sharp pain made him yelp. The room spun around him, and he threw up on the bedspread. A woman in a white coat came running into the room. And he fainted again.

Patrick, yawning, pulled down the shades. The rising sun was blinding him. Here he was, on the job. While his fellow officers were at home sleeping, he had kept at it on through the night. And now, before their investigations of Judge Holoch and Michael Josseck were even solved, a new case had landed on top of them. The murders of the Esel couple had forced Bergman to expand the homicide staff, yet the files were already piling up to the ceiling.

Patrick was pouring himself a cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was half past six in the morning. Who could be calling this early?

“Stein, Homicide,” he snapped.

“My name’s Niedermayer,” a woman’s voice said. “Good day.”

“What can I do for you?” Probably another of those do-gooders who thought they’d seen something. He’d had it up to here with leads coming from the general population. They constantly led to nothing.

“I’m a nurse at Charité Hospital. Yesterday we had a seriously wounded man brought in who needed emergency surgery. He is doing better, but not yet responsive. He was discovered out on the street, without ID. It wasn’t till this morning that we found a detective’s badge in his jacket.”

Patrick listened, poised, electrified. His fatigue had evaporated.

“Who we talking about?” he panted.

“We didn’t find any other ID.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“I’d put him at early thirties. Six foot. Light-brown hair, cut short, green eyes. Sturdily built and wearing a dark leather jacket—”

“Don’t let him go!” Patrick barked into the receiver and slammed down the phone. He grabbed his jacket and fumbled in his pockets for his car keys. Then he ran down the hall for the exit. His harried face showed the hint of a smile. He had Jan, finally. He just had to go collect him.

When Jan woke up his pain was gone, but he felt weaker than before. He could hardly lift his arm. Someone was talking next to his bed, disturbing his sleepy trance.

“Are you sure he’s not feeling any pain?” a deep male voice was asking.

“All that morphine in his blood would put a herd of camels to sleep,” a woman replied.

“So how’s the wound?”

“The incision is stitched and all covered up. The wound won’t rip open if you carry him gently.”

“What about internal injuries?”

“According to his chart, he’s out of the woods.”

Jan opened his eyes and tried to recognize who was speaking. The voices sounded familiar, but he couldn’t attach any names to them.

“I think he’s waking up,” the man said.

“Won’t matter much,” the woman replied. “He’s sedated.”

Someone lifted him out of bed. Ceiling lights drifted by him. He was being carried down a hall.

“Hurry,” the woman urged. “They notice he’s not in the ward, all hell will break loose.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” the man shot back, annoyed. “Jan isn’t exactly a lightweight. You wanted to take the stairs.”

“We’re in a hospital, Mr. T.” The woman was bossing him now. “Here? Patients are transported on beds, not carried. If just one nurse got in the elevator with us, this would be a real short getaway.”

“So why aren’t we using a bed or a wheelchair again?”

“Because we can’t be rolling out onto the parking lot like this.”

The man grumbled something, but Jan was too tired to follow the conversation. He let himself glide back into sleep.

Bergman looked over the photos. The air was stale, and the lowered blinds had dimmed the investigations room. The photos on the walls created a depressing atmosphere. Their classification system was easy to figure out. The photos on the left were devoted to Jan’s possible hiding places. In the middle were photos and notes for Judge Holoch’s murder. On the right was the Josseck case. Over near the door, Patrick Stein was pinning images of the Esel murder to the wall.

Patrick had always been the paragon of correctness, of reliability. Normally he wore a suit and tie, his shoes were clean, and he paid attention to his personal hygiene. All that had disappeared during this case. Patrick’s dark suit was bedraggled, his tie lay on the table, and he had opened the top three buttons of his shirt. He hadn’t shaved in ages, and his unkempt hair stuck up on his head.

“We’ve beefed up surveillance all around the hospital,” Patrick said, turning to Bergman, who fought the urge to step back from his bad breath. “Jan won’t be able to slip through.”

“Not from the front,” Bergman suggested.

Patrick, edgy, ran fingers through his hair. “Jan was brought to the hospital last night, seriously injured. The emergency surgery went well.”

“So what happened?”

“The doctors are calling it a severe stab wound to the spleen.”

“Someone tried to stab him to death?”

“That attack on Jan occurred on the same day the Esels were murdered. Maybe they had put up some kind of a fight.”

“Was a knife found at the crime scene?”

“No. But not all the blood samples have been checked yet.”

“Why are we only being informed of this now?”

“During the night, several injured were brought in because of a gang fight, so no one had time to identify. They only just found a faked detective badge in Jan’s clothes three hours ago. Which was when the hospital called. But by then Jan had already disappeared.”

“He fled the hospital? After a procedure like that?”

“The doctors are saying that he couldn’t have acted alone. He was so sedated he wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed without help.”

“Any ideas on who got him out of there?’

“We have two officers on it at the hospital. They’re questioning possible witnesses and checking surveillance cameras. All patrols are looking for him.”

Bergman swatted at air. “You can call it off.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let’s suppose Jan was able to drag himself out of the hospital on his own. He’d still be in the vicinity. But if he had helpers, they didn’t come by foot.”

“But what if he really still is in the vicinity—”

“Did you check out Jan’s friends?” Bergman interrupted.

“Every last one. For most of them, we were even in their homes.”

“Well?”

“Nothing. No leads as to Jan’s whereabouts.”

“What about the Esel case?”

“Just about done securing evidence. The corpses are autopsied. Based on the brutal manner of killing and a connection to Judge Holoch and Michael Josseck, we’re going on the assumption that it’s the same perpetrator. The report will be ready in an hour.”

“There any evidence pointing to Jan’s involvement?”

“Well, since we’ve found his fingerprints at the first victims’ crime scenes, we’re also going on the—”

“No speculating, Patrick. Do you possess evidence of Jan’s involvement in the most recent murders?”

“Not yet.”

“Is there a link between the Esels and Jan?”

Patrick hesitated. “So far, no clues.”

“And the building contractor?”

“There is no link to Michael Josseck either.”

Bergman sighed. Too little sleep and too much stress—his job just wasn’t much fun anymore. “So, we got nothing.”

“Why nothing?” Patrick replied. “For the first two murders, the evidence is conclusive.”

“But a motive was already missing for the second murder. It’s not going to be any different now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look at the case objectively,” Bergman began. “Jan murders Judge Holoch and acts like a beginner doing so. The judge had delivered a harsh verdict against him, so he’s got the motive there, but we don’t have any clue why he’d commit the second murder.”

“But we have his fingerprints on the murder weapon—”

“An idiotic mistake that not even a twelve-year-old would make. And Jan is an experienced homicide detective.”

“Just because we haven’t found anything linking him to Michael Josseck doesn’t mean there isn’t any connection.”

“The third murder, of the Esels, it’s unrelated to him too.”

“We’re checking on that, though—”

“You’ve been looking into Jan’s history for days, Patrick. If there was any connection to Josseck or the Esels, you would have found it.”

“Maybe we’ll find it at their—”

“Maybe you stop and listen,” Bergman fumed. “The media have been wallowing for days now in this story, and the chief of police is demanding a report from me twice a day. Not to mention all the politicians farting in their comfy chairs. All I have to show is a possible suspect on the run, whose motive becomes more implausible by the day.”

“Though in the first two cases the evidence looks—”

“Go get some sleep.”

“Excuse me?” Patrick asked, surprised.

“You look terrible. Your dedication to this case has been exemplary, but you’ve sunk your teeth too far into Jan. Get some rest and leave the investigation to your colleagues for a few hours.”

“I’m fine. Tonight I can get—”

“That was not a suggestion,” Bergman declared. “You’re going to go into the storage room right now, the one with the old couch. You’re going to shut the door and sleep at least eight hours. Then you’re going to go home, to have a shower and change. After that, you can start giving some thought as to who could have committed these murders.”

“Can’t I sleep at home?”

“No, because there you won’t go to bed. You’ll just keep working on the case.”

Patrick wanted to keep arguing, but Bergman cut him off with a severe sweep of his hand. “Go, do it now!”

Patrick bristled at such an order, but he complied. He trudged into the storage room and lay down on the couch.

Bergman sighed. The fixation on Jan had cost too much valuable time. They weren’t getting any closer to the real murderer. Patrick was a diligent investigator, but he clearly wasn’t able to veer off the one path he’d beaten for himself. Bergman missed Jan.