Until the Debt Is Paid (28 page)

“According to the list in her journal, she had compiled everything she needed for the perfect murder before she got started.”

“Faking her death with a farewell note—was that part of the plan too?”

Bergman nodded. “She was waiting for a burn victim to be delivered to Pathology, one roughly her size. Then she stole the corpse from the Charité and brought it home.”

“It’s that easy?”

“Actually, no, but Bettina was working it out for a long time. She had reconned a way of stowing the body into her car without getting caught. She had factored in security staff as well as the cameras. Falsified documents were perfect too.”

“So how did she get the body into her apartment?”

“She had that figured out from way back. Her apartment had to have an underground garage without surveillance inside, along with an elevator.”

“Unbelievable,” Jan said. “How long did she work on her murder plans?”

“Three years.”

“And once the corpse was in the apartment?”

“One of her first boyfriends was a gas-line fitter. She knew just what she needed to turn to make the apartment blow to pieces. Her knowledge of forensics helped her prepare the corpse in such a way that no one would ever doubt that Bettina Windsten had committed suicide. The piercing and your necklace were clear identifying features. Along with the suicide note, no one had any idea that she’d faked her death. So. From then on, she wasn’t on the detectives’ radar at all. The dead don’t fit the criminal profile.”

“Was I supposed to die in the explosion?”

“No. Apparently you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Where was she hiding out the whole time?”

“At the home of a girlfriend who’s studying abroad in South America for half a year. She was to water the flowers and feed the fish. The big building was impersonal enough that no one was surprised at seeing a new neighbor. At that point she knew everything about her victims. Their habits, the route they took to work, all their little everyday rituals.

“I’ll spare you the gruesome details about George Holoch’s death, but she describes murdering him as the first orgasm she ever had in her life. From then on, she wasn’t of sound mind any more. Plenty of people dream of killing someone. Some plan it, but only the insane ones carry it out.”

Jan felt a pang in his heart. He couldn’t believe Betty was responsible for all of it.

“Does it say in her diary how she dragged me into the whole thing?”

“It was planned so perfectly,” Bergman continued. “The body had to be stolen on a Sunday evening. At that time, there’s fewer hospital staff. She calculated, based on your body weight, the amount of knockout drops and drugs to put you out for all of Saturday as well as rob you of your memory. According to her notes, you two took some aspirin after going out drinking Friday. The water she handed you had the first dose of knockout drops.

“She kept you drugged until that evening. Then she pressed your fingers to the murder weapon, took your blood, and removed your shirt—the one we later found to have Judge Holoch’s blood on it. Then she gave you a major dose of ecstasy.”

Bergman clutched his coffee. The long night had left its mark on him, too.

“Bettina wore black overalls that she’d outfitted with padding on the shoulders and chest. Together with military boots, she looked like an athletic male. An observer would never have taken her for the dainty woman that she was.

“She packed up her murder weapons, took your keys, and parked the car so that Holoch’s neighbor would be bothered by it. She climbed over the balcony of Holoch’s house and lay waiting for him. Then she paralyzed him with a stun gun and broke his leg, which made him more or less helpless. From there she proceeded quite methodically. She chose spots on Holoch’s body that would not kill him before she bashed in his skull.

“She spotted your shirt with Holoch’s blood, dispersed your blood around the scene, and drove your car to your apartment. Down in the basement, she tossed the main murder weapon into your neighbor’s poorly locked storage room. She went back home, removing any clues, and waited till you woke up from your drugged-out delirium. That’s where Patrick found you and brought you to the station.”

“Did she ever consider that I’d bolt from custody?”

“Actually she didn’t, but her faked suicide made her think she was clear of you, custody or no.”

“For the most part, it was going perfectly,” Jan said. “Until Michael Josseck died, I wasn’t even sure myself whether I might have killed the judge.”

“She used the time to observe her next victim, updating her notes as she went. A few days later came the chance to murder Michael Josseck.

“She broke into his apartment and spiked his cognac with drugs to put him under. The contractor came home and had a drink, just like he did every night. When he woke up, he found himself tied up tight down on the floor. She kept Josseck’s mouth open with a spreader and poured the concrete down his throat.

“Even that, she didn’t leave to chance. She’d tested different types of concrete beforehand, mixing them with various amounts of water until she had the ideal formula for carrying in her pack for the right length of time. When you were blacked out, she’d pressed your hand around that tube for pouring in the concrete. That’s what set us on your trail once and for all.”

“Which worked too,” Jan said. “But that’s when I was sure I wasn’t the murderer.”

Bergman shrugged. “Minor detail, from her point of view. The evidence alone for Judge Holoch was already so clear-cut that nothing you could have said would have helped you.”

“And if I had ended up in custody? Then it would have been obvious I couldn’t be the murderer, not once Michael Josseck was murdered.”

“She didn’t count on us connecting the dots so fast between the victims. Worst-case scenario, she would’ve just shot her parents and Father Anberger.”

“But the Esels saw the link, so they went underground?”

“Betty didn’t think her parents capable of that. It threw a wrench into her plans. But the Esels didn’t know their own daughter was the murderer, so they fled to their vacation home. It wasn’t registered in their name and was really the perfect hiding place. Except for the fact that Bettina knew about it.”

“I had to listen to her parents dying. But what did she do, exactly?”

“Bettina’s account reads like a lover’s poem. From the way she confided in her diary, you can tell she felt joy in committing these murders.

“She took her parents by surprise. She immobilized her father with the stun gun and tied him up. Her mother panicked, fled into the bedroom. Bettina described her in the diary as a ‘hysterical cow who goes into shock from the slightest strain.’ She had expected Sarah Esel to go hiding under the bed. That she’d call you, she didn’t expect that.

“While her mother was on the phone with you, Bettina went to work on her father. She had sharpened three wooden swords, and she drove them into his abdomen. Here again, she picked out spots that didn’t cause immediate death, but rather let him die slowly.

“Then she pulled her mother out from under the bed, beat her, took her head between her legs, and carved out her eyes. It thrilled Bettina to see her crawling around the room blinded. When that stopped being fun, she killed her mother and inserted the costume jewelry rings into her eye sockets. It was only then that she noticed the phone.”

“Now I know who stabbed me outside of Chandu’s building,” Jan said.

“You had massive good luck. Seems you had told her about your friend’s hideout.”

“That’s how she knew where I was.”

“She was waiting for you, wanted to slit your stomach open.”

“My leather jacket saved my life.”

“Actually, it was you staggering out into the street before she could deal you the lethal blow—and luck. You almost got run over by a car, and being seen felt too risky for her, so she took off. She knew you weren’t dead, but she’d neutralized you long enough for her to continue with her plans.”

“It never would have entered my mind that she was the murderer. And if Chandu and Zoe hadn’t carried me out of the hospital, I’d have ended up in police custody. Then we never would have caught her.”

“It was the little things that brought her down in the end. We were lucky. Her plan was too good to go wrong.”

“Where did it fail, then?”

“The fun she had tormenting them. If she’d just murdered the priest in his apartment and taken off, we never would’ve caught her. But she gave herself too much time with him.”

“If Zoe hadn’t found that secret room at the Esels, we never would’ve thought of it.”

“Why she hauled him into the church is not clear to us. From earlier entries, we can conclude that she liked to go to church as a girl. After her father abused her for the first time, she stopped going altogether because she felt impure. From then on, her sheltered childhood was over. I guess you could say she wanted to put brackets around a whole life. There, at that very point where she’d experienced her last happy moment, she was going to close it off.”

Bergman held up one of the journals and showed it to Jan. On the cover was a drawing of a woman, depicted like a white-marble statue, clad in a white toga. Cloth covered her hair. She cradled a little flame in her hands. The glowing light illuminated her face, contorted in sorrow. Tears ran down her cheeks, as if she carried some insufferable burden.

“Do you know who that is?” Bergman asked.

“It’s Hestia,” Jan replied. “The goddess of the family, home, and the hearth fire. Betty told me about her, about how significant she was in the Greek pantheon.”

“So why is she crying?”

“She’s mourning for lost innocence.”

Chapter 19

Jan sat next to Zoe’s hospital bed. She had a sling on one arm and was hooked up to a lot of blinking machines. She’d taken a direct hit of shotgun fire, but the bulletproof vest under her leather jacket had stopped the worst of it. Still, a broken rib had damaged her lung. After the operation they moved her to intensive care, but the doctor had reassured them that she was out of the woods.

In bed, the small woman looked fragile. Considering how self-confident she always acted, it was hard to imagine that anything at all could knock her over. She opened her eyes, weary, and turned to Jan.

“Shit,” was her first word. “I almost bite the big one, and you’re the first person I see?”

Jan laughed. A huge weight dropped from his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I just needed to see for myself that you’re still alive.”

She looked around the room. “You seen my cigarettes?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in intensive care.”

“Don’t care.” She pressed and pressed at a button on a remote. A moment later a nurse came jogging into the room. Zoe started explaining to the woman, in her less-than-endearing way, that she needed something to smoke at once, otherwise she would pull all the tubes out of her arms and make a run for the nearest kiosk.

At first the nurse tried arguing reasonably. She explained to Zoe why smoking after surgery was not a great idea, but soon she saw how pointless this tactic was and resorted to Zoe’s level. When two doctors came running in and Zoe threatened them with a horrible death if she could only get near a scalpel, Jan took the opportunity to exit the room. Zoe was back again. He wouldn’t have to worry about her at all.

It was a strange feeling, returning to Homicide. Jan stood a moment before the old building, looking over the facade. He absorbed every detail. That antique stonework that reminded him of an old castle, with its four statues carrying baskets on their shoulders. He’d always noticed how the modern, green police shield affixed to the building didn’t really fit in.

Jan had needed a week to process everything. The first few nights he had woken up soaked in sweat, in fear that police were going to storm his apartment. Paranoia had become his permanent companion.

After he’d visited the hospital, he had confined himself to home, but memories were all around him. He only had to pass by Father Anberger’s apartment, one story below his, for the images to come rushing back, beating on his head like a hammer.

Max had been the first to drag him out of it. Two days ago, he’d showed up at Jan’s door with four bags of burgers and milkshakes and had kept pounding until Jan finally opened. They had watched Premier League football and stuffed themselves with junk food.

Jan didn’t even know what they had talked about, but it had nothing to do with murder or rape. After the young hacker left, Jan had slept without nightmares for the first time.

The next morning he had informed Bergman that he wanted to start back at work again. He wouldn’t be needing any more time. Bergman wasn’t easy to convince, but eventually, he’d gotten the chief of detectives to at least consent to discussing his return.

Most likely there would be a horde of attentive psychologists waiting in Bergman’s office to assess Jan, he realized. They’d want to weigh his each and every word like gold and make him interpret inkblots. But that wasn’t going to stop him.

He took one last look at the front of the old building and headed for the front door.

“Off to battle,” he said to himself. As he walked inside, the men at the entrance greeted him uneasily. Until very recently he had been the most wanted man in Berlin.

He stopped by his old office. Everything was still in its place. Andreas was sitting opposite his desk. They had survived countless cases together and just as many parties. Andreas waved to him with a big grin. Jan waved back—and almost ran right into Patrick. His colleague drew back a step and forced a smile. An awkward silence arose. Jan didn’t know what to say, and Patrick just looked embarrassed.

“Hi, Jan,” he said. “All healed up?”

“Getting there. Doing without the painkillers now.”

“All right,” Patrick said and drank a sip of coffee to mask his unease.

“I’m on my way to Bergman. Want to speak to him about my coming back.”

“That’s good. We have more than enough work.”

“A new case?”

“Nasty stuff.” Patrick waved away the thought. “We need all the help we can get.”

“If Bergman will let me,” Jan said, shrugging, “I’m there.”

“Then I’ll hope for the best.”

Jan wrung his hands together, uneasy. “Guess I’ll get going.”

Patrick, nodding, went to shuffle on by him. He patted Jan on the shoulder like a friend would. “Good luck.” Then he disappeared in his office.

Jan watched him go. Their talk was trivial, like all conversations with Patrick, but this time it had felt different. It had sounded something like
Welcome back
.

Instead of psychologists, Bergman and the chief of police were waiting for him. Berlin’s top brass had on the friendly-yet-opaque expression that Jan knew from so many photos. Jan wondered whether the chief being here was a good sign or not. He nodded politely to him as he sat next to Bergman at the desk, his hands relaxed flat over his stomach.

“You sure caused us a ton of trouble,” Bergman began, getting right to it. True to form, his boss had no time for empty small talk. No “How you doing?” or “How’s it going, getting over having shot your girlfriend dead?” Nope. Always right between the eyes. After all Jan had been through, this one invariable constant was somehow comforting.

“I’m sorry,” Jan said, to be on the safe side. For what, exactly, he wasn’t sure.

“All charges will be dropped, and your suspension is cancelled.”

Jan shrugged a little. This was probably the least of it.

“There will still be an investigation into your exchanging fire with Bettina Esel, but I don’t expect problems. The crime-scene investigators have confirmed what you’ve stated.”

Bergman glanced at the police chief. His facial expression had not changed.

“Since you’re currently the hero of the Berlin Police, and the press thinks you’re so amazing, you’re going to get a commendation, one that we will market to the media—they’re going to love it, of course. We’ll see if we can get the mayor behind it too.”

The last thing I need
, Jan thought.

“Anything else?” Bergman asked him.

“I want my own team.”

“Come again?”

“My own team,” Jan told him. “People who only work with me on cases. Just my team.”

“This isn’t fucking
CSI Berlin
,” Bergman fumed. “Where did you get such an idea?”

“You asked me if there was anything else. So I’m telling you.”

“It was just a rhetorical question. That’s when you go, ‘No thank you, Herr Bergman. I don’t need a thing.’ ”

“If I’m to play performing seal for the media, I want some benefits. Like choosing the people who work with me.”

Bergman was about to respond with an irate remark when the police chief leaned over to him and whispered something in his ear. Jan’s boss calmed down, reluctantly.

“All right, fine,” he grumbled. “So which officers get to join your team?”

“First off, Zoe Diek.”

“The blonde from Forensics?”

“That’s the one.”

“She’s not even a cop.”

“But she’s clever and learns quickly. I want her with me.”

“Apparently those knockout drops destroyed some of your brain cells.”

Jan sighed and looked at the clock. “I’d like to keep chatting, boss, but I’m all out of time. I have an interview to get to.”

“What kind of interview?”

“A large German daily wants to know what it’s like for a former murder suspect to return to his job. How his coworkers are treating him, whether things are like they used to be.”

“Is that cleared with media relations?”

“Unfortunately not,” Jan said. “When they called, I just had thi
s . . .
sudden inspiration.”

Bergman shot up from his chair. “You trying to extort me?”

Jan scratched at his chin, thinking it over. Playing it up. “Come to think of it, yes, I am.” He’d made up the story about the interview, but he’d clearly landed a direct hit. Even the police chief had winced at the mention of “a large German daily.” Bergman was on the verge of charging him like a starving hyena.

“Very well. Take your forensics lady. Might there be anyone else?” Bergman asked, his voice irritated. “A pizza maker maybe?”

“Interesting suggestion, but that would be more for the cafeteria.”

It was obvious Bergman did not find the comment funny.

“I would also like Chandu Bitangaro, as a paid informant. No one knows the Berlin underworld better than him.”

“That bouncer and debt collector who aided you? You really have lost a few—”

“And one Maximilien Kornecker as well, a promising computer-science student who could work marvels for us. A work-study contract would make it easier to clear any bureaucratic hurdles while allowing him access to the system.”

“I’m supposed to hire a hacker? I think I’ve heard—”

“Of course I’ll need a budget too, so I can pay for my informants and any expenses that arise.”

“Your own budget? Say one more word and I’ll—”

“Fifty thousand euros would do.” Jan calculated real quick. “For this year.”

Bergman had no more responses left. His face had turned red. Inarticulate sounds came out of his mouth.

“We can talk about a new team vehicle and the dedicated office another time.”

Bergman took a deep breath. “If you don’t leave the room, and I mean now, I’ll take you down right here and declare it was an accident.”

Jan stood. “That would be a shame, considering I still have to finish writing my memoir. I have a tentative contract with a publisher. The working title is
From One Hell to the Next
. For the subtitle I was thinking something like
My Painful Return to Professional Life
.”

Bergman planted his fists on the table and towered over Jan, ready to pounce. Then the chief of police laughed. It was an eerie sound in such a tense situation. Bergman looked over, confused.

The chief whispered something to him. Jan would have given his right hand to be able to hear it. Whatever his boss was hearing, it was not making him happy. They shared a few more whispered exchanges. Then the police chief stood up and gave Jan a terse nod as he left.

Once the door closed behind him, Jan waited for Bergman to start cursing him out. He had not lost his threatening demeanor. Jan could almost see the murder fantasies running through his head.

“All right,” said Bergman, finally breaking through the silence. Jan could tell that what he was about to say wasn’t coming easily. “The police chief likes your moronic idea, even though it’s something only a halfwit dipshit like you could think up.”

Jan fought a laugh. He’d never imagined he’d get away with it.

“You and your self-styled A-Team,” Bergman snarled, looking disgusted, “will be special investigators working within Homicide. You’ll receive your own cases, but once something goes wrong, I’m going to hang your ass out to dry in the front lobby.” He took a deep breath, as if he himself couldn’t even believe what he was saying.

“In return, you are going to play the perfect upstanding police officer for the media. You will smile at every press conference, telling Tom, Dick, and Jane Journalist how great we are and how amazing it is to be back at work. I want the teenagers to be beating themselves up in front of the police academy just to be let in.”

Bergman’s fingers drummed impatiently on the desk. “On Monday, at eight a.m., you will present to me your team of freaks. I’m only going to give you the really hard cases, and if the results of your investigations don’t make even Batman himself green with envy, I’m going to send you down to the basement to sort the mail.”

Jan nodded.

“Any of this gets leaked before Monday morning? I’ll come over and I will shoot you. Got no idea how I’m going to explain this new team to your fellow cops. Maybe I’ll put on some clown makeup and a red nose, you know, just to make it easier for them to laugh their asses off at me.”