Grave Intent (33 page)

Jan expected a hard impact as he threw himself shoulder first at the corrugated metal siding, but the section of wall gave way surprisingly easy. He rolled inside and drew his pistol.

Around him stood countless blue barrels. Tall enough for him to hide behind but low enough to allow him some visibility.

Jan pivoted around. One corner of the room had been cleared, and a cot and bare lightbulb were evidence that someone was living here. Next to the cot were an old fridge and a gas cooker. The floor was glossy with grease. It reeked of used motor oil and some kind of stinging chemical that reminded him of bleach. To the right was a room partitioned off by more corrugated metal and a small wooden door. There was no sign of Chandu.

Dietrich could be hiding anywhere. Behind a barrel, beyond the door, or back in some corner—even inside a barrel. Jan kept his pistol aimed in front of him and began marching through the sea of blue plastic containers. Chandu had to be on the other side of that door. Jan didn’t even want to think about what might happen if Zoe’s informant had gotten it wrong. Time was almost up.

Jan made some noise as he cleared a few barrels out of his way. He didn’t need to be quiet anymore, and yet he had to consider every step he took for fear of a trap.

When he finally reached the door, he pulled it open and peered inside. A table lamp illuminated a small room. Chandu sat on a chair, bound with straps. His gaze was dull, as though he’d been drugged. Dietrich knelt behind him, hiding behind his captive, a gun to Chandu’s temple.

“Detective Tommen. I should have guessed.”

Jan kept his pistol aimed at Dietrich. “It’s over. Gun down.”

Dietrich laughed—a dry, contemptuous laugh devoid of humor. “You didn’t wonder why I stole your phone back in that warehouse with Yuri and then disabled your car—but left you your gun?”

Jan didn’t reply.

“I noticed that it wasn’t loaded. I have to admit, I was a little surprised. But then I did some research on your last case.”

Using his free hand, Dietrich pointed at Jan’s weapon. “Is that the one? The pistol you used to kill your girlfriend? Tell me, do you get nightmares? Keep reliving that moment again and again and again?”

Jan tightened his grip on his weapon.

“Explain one thing to me, Detective—how do you think you’ll stop me with an unloaded weapon?” Dietrich laughed smugly, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ll make you a proposal. I’ll give you ten seconds to clear out of here. In which case I’ll finish the job quick. Otherwise, I’ll let Chandu suffer. He’ll die either way. You just get to decide if it’s going to be quick or agonizing.”

Dietrich lowered the pistol to Chandu’s right side. A shot into the abdomen would be fatal, but only after a long and painful struggle.

“You do a thing to Chandu, it’s your death that’ll be agonizing.”

“Is that a threat?” Dietrich sneered. “My whole life is an everlasting Hell. Dying like that would be all too fitting. Besides, my mission is fulfilled.” He pulled back the hammer on his pistol. “Eight seconds.”

“Do you think that your daughter would want you avenging her death like this?”

“That psych crap doesn’t work on me. Six seconds.”

Jan studied Chandu’s eyes, which were blurry and vacant. His friend was barely conscious and had no idea what was happening. Jan couldn’t expect any help from him.

He changed the subject. “You know the problem with all those crime shows?”

“Don’t care. Four seconds.”

“We detective types are always portrayed as too sensitive.”

“Two seconds.”

“In reality, we get over the worst experiences all on our own. It’s just a matter of time.”

Jan pulled the trigger.

Jan finally felt the stress begin to ebb as Chandu was being lifted into the ambulance. His knees buckled and he had to sit down on the ground.

He had done it. His friend was alive and the grave murderer had been captured. The doctor had assured him that the drugs in Chandu’s system would wear off soon and he’d be back on his feet in no time. One of his eardrums had ruptured, but he was otherwise unhurt.

The entire Berlin police department seemed to have descended on the corrugated metal shed that evening. His fellow officers from Detectives, other investigators and techs, the patrol cops. The scene was more packed than a Christmas festival with free beer.

Even Max had abandoned his spot at the computer. His sister had apparently left, since his jeans had ketchup stains on them and his
Star Wars
T-shirt was thoroughly wrinkled. Only his clean-cut short hair hinted at his recent transformation. It was a start, in any case. The young hacker came over to Jan and sat down next to him. He handed him an energy drink and then opened a can for himself.

“Nice shot.” He toasted Jan. “I hope for Dietrich’s sake that he’s left-handed, because his right one isn’t going to be good for much.”

“At least he won’t be able to hold a pistol anymore.”

“He won’t be able to hold a thing with that hand.”

Jan opened the can and took a slug. He’d never tasted anything so disgusting. It tasted like a mixture of lemon candies, Play-Doh, and toilet cleaner. “How can you even drink this stuff?”

“You get used to it. Gets better after a couple sips.” Max drained the can in one chug.

Jan looked at the weird character on the side of the can. Jan was probably too old for junk like this, but the drink did live up to its name. He felt his weariness evaporating.

Max raised his empty can. “A toast to the Berlin Police. May our friend recover quickly and may the grave murderer rot in prison.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Jan took another sip and shuddered. “I thought it was supposed to get better.”

Max shrugged. “Okay, I might have lied.”

Bergman was pushing his way through the throngs of cops. He stopped before Jan with arms folded over his chest. Sawdust coated Jan’s shoes, his pants were splattered with old motor oil, and he hadn’t changed his shirt in two days. He hadn’t seen a shower in a while either. He must have looked pitiful.

Bergman reached into his overcoat pocket and tossed Jan his badge. Then he gave a slight nod and disappeared.

“What was that about?” Max asked.

“A compliment.”

“All he did was nod.”

“From Bergman, that means,
Great job and I’ll see you tomorrow
.”

“Ah,” Max said. “He’s an emotional one, isn’t he?”

Jan looked at his detective badge and ran his thumb over the dull metal. He allowed himself a smile and closed his eyes. A few hours’ sleep would be a fine thing.

After that, he would interrogate the grave murderer.

Chapter Fifteen

Elias Dietrich sat motionless in the interrogation room. He stared at the wooden table before him as if engrossed in a book. Only his blinking eyes gave any indication he was alive.

His hands lay in his lap. His right was heavily bandaged. The bullet had passed clean through it, breaking bones and shredding tendons, but Dietrich had refused to take any painkillers.

“So there he is.” Patrick stood next to Jan, observing the grave murderer through the one-way glass. “Neighbors will describe him as friendly and reliable. He always paid his taxes on time and never even got a traffic ticket.” Patrick shook his head. “What made him do it?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Jan said, and he entered the interrogation room.

As Jan shut the door behind him, Dietrich’s gaze remained fixed on the table. Jan sat down across from him. Over the years, each offender Jan had interrogated had been different, but they always fell into one of two groups. The first group was unrepentant and filled with hatred—they were the born criminals. That type had to be locked away and never let out again. The second group was remorseful or at least cooperative, acting as if they’d only just now grasped the gravity of their deed. For them, there was still hope.

Elias Dietrich didn’t fit either of these two groups. He was apathetic and indifferent, seeming not to fear punishment nor showing any contempt for the man who had snatched his last victim from him and shot his hand to pieces.

“Silence isn’t going to help you,” Jan began. “We’re going to sit here for as long as it takes me to understand exactly why you committed those four murders. A day, a week, a year. This room will be your home for however long it takes.”

“You don’t have children,” Dietrich said. His voice was calm, void of emotion. He didn’t even bother to look up.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“You’d understand if you did.”

“I doubt I would. You’re not the only person who’s lost a child. But not every grieving parent mutates into a serial killer.”

“I didn’t neglect my daughter. I didn’t lose her in an accident. She died because of inept and greedy people with no respect for life.”

Elias Dietrich raised his head and looked Jan in the eye. Jan couldn’t detect any anger or hatred in the grave murderer’s gaze; in fact, he displayed only a startling lack of concern.

“When I first held Charlotte in my arms, I thought my heart was going to burst. It was such an overpowering moment that no words can describe it. Whatever you had thought happiness was up until then suddenly paled by comparison. When she reached for my finger with her tiny hand, I swore to her that I’d protect her and do everything in my power to provide her with a good life, even if it cost me my own.” Dietrich shut his eyes. “Charlotte had so much energy. She had such a zest for life, sometimes so much that you couldn’t hold her back.” He looked lost in memories now. “One day, I took her to a performance of
The Nutcracker
. When she saw the tin soldiers marching around, well, that was it for her. That very evening I had to sign her up for ballet so that she could dance like Svetlana Zakharova.”

He opened his eyes. “Four years ago I buried Charlotte. And with her, her dreams.”

“So that’s why you killed those men?”

“I believe in atonement, Detective Tommen. Whoever takes a life should pay with their own.”

“But you’ve taken four lives.”

“Every one of them could have saved Charlotte. None of them did so.”

“So you blamed all of them for her death?”

“They were all to blame. I can accept that you might not like my idea of punishment. But every one of them was a nail in Charlotte’s coffin.”

“Let’s begin with Dr. Bernhard Valburg, your first victim.”

“What is there to discuss? He made the wrong diagnosis. That was the start of Charlotte’s suffering. If he had detected sarcoidosis right away, Dr. Valburg would still be alive and I would not be sitting here.”

“As tragic as that misdiagnosis was—don’t you think it’s a bit extreme to kill the doctor for it?”

Elias laughed. A fleeting, derisive laugh. “Did you look into the victims’ histories during your investigation?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Then you must have noticed something about Dr. Valburg, something that did not make him a respectable doctor.”

“You mean his drug use?”

“I’m no junkie, but I’m pretty sure cocaine impairs coherent thought.”

“According to his assistant, he only did cocaine occasionally.”

“And of course you believed that.”

“I’m with Homicide, not the drug squad. It was my job to track down Dr. Valburg’s murderer, not investigate his cocaine habit.”

“We saw Dr. Valburg daily for a while. I have no experience with drugs, so I didn’t see his strange behavior for what it was. I’d never seen him any other way.”

“So when did you start to notice?”

“Far too late. A patient made a random comment to me that got me thinking. She didn’t care herself; she just wanted her usual prescription. He was able to do that much for her.”

“Did you confront him about it?”

“No. I left his office and took Charlotte straight to the hospital. Getting the proper diagnosis took several days, but they finally confirmed that she had sarcoidosis.”

“So that’s why Dr. Valburg had to die?”

“Of course!” Dietrich sounded outraged. It was the first time he had displayed any emotion. “If he hadn’t been snorting coke, he would’ve diagnosed her correctly.”

“Dr. Valburg had personal problems.”

“We’re not talking about some coke-addicted salesman who pressured me into buying an ill-fitting suit. In that case, I’m just losing money. With a lung specialist, it’s another matter altogether.”

“His wife had died.”

“You’re really going to offer that up as a legitimate excuse? I buried my wife too. Unlike Dr. Valburg, I didn’t have the salary of a pulmonologist. Plus I had a daughter. I never resorted to drugs, nor did anyone get hurt!” He continued in a calmer voice. “I did the world a favor by killing him. Who knows how many more people he might have misdiagnosed?”

“So what led you to Moritz Quast?”

“Moritz was my contact at the insurance company. He helped me out when we first went to the hospital. But when the treatment wasn’t working, I had to consider alternative options. A clinic in Switzerland was having some success with a new form of therapy. Nothing that would have cured her entirely, but it would have slowed down the progression of the illness and reduced the symptoms.”

“And Moritz Quast rejected it?”

“Insurers have degenerated into business operations. They don’t care what happens to their customers. It’s all about profit, not the health of their customers. If he had only had the courage to tell me that. But he kept hiding behind regulations and assessments. He couldn’t approve treatment abroad that wouldn’t result in a comprehensive cure. But it was never about a cure for him. It eventually became clear to me that Charlotte wouldn’t survive without a transplant, but she wasn’t even on their list of organ recipients. Not to mention the waiting period for a lung.” Dietrich shook his head. “The insurer made millions upon millions in profit that year—and dividends increased.”

“You were denied the chance to do it the legal way, so you went looking for other channels.”

“Robin Cordes, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

“Once I realized I couldn’t count on Moritz, I found him waiting for me at my front door one day. Told me how bad he felt and gave me the number of a friend who was importing meds that weren’t approved in Germany. Two days later, I’m meeting with Robin Cordes, a supposed pharmaceutical rep. After ranting for a while about all the rules and regulations in Germany, he promised me a remedy that would significantly slow down the progress of the sarcoidosis.”

“And you believed him?”

“In a hopeless situation like that, Detective Tommen? You believe anything. The doctors had written Charlotte off. They hadn’t said it in so many words, but I could see it in their eyes. They were helping her cope with the pain, but no one believed there was any chance of a cure. And then Robin Cordes comes along, pretending to understand my situation and leaving these glossy brochures on my table for a substance that had very promising results in early tests.”

“I’m guessing the results were falsified?”

“Of course. There was such a substance, and it was used for sarcoidosis, but the chances of success were minimal. Robin said he could get a modified version, one that was more effective, but that hadn’t yet been approved in Germany.”

“So you agreed to it?”

“For the desperate, God is the person who gives you hope.”

“Why didn’t you ask the doctors about it?”

“Robin warned me explicitly not to do that. They could not give it to Charlotte because it wasn’t approved. I had to secretly put it into her food.”

“How much did you pay Robin for it?”

“Two thousand as a deposit. Then four thousand more on delivery.”

“When did you realize it was worthless?”

“When Charlotte’s condition hadn’t improved and she only had a few weeks left to live.”

“Did you get back in touch with Robin at that point?”

“I couldn’t reach him on his cell phone, and Moritz had made himself scarce. I didn’t have any more money. The doctors said I should start getting ready for my daughter to die.”

“So what led you to Yuri Petrov?”

“Nothing. He came to me.”

“Just like that?”

“It was late one night. Charlotte was asleep, and I was just heading into the bathroom when Petrov called me. He’d heard about my daughter. He offered to procure a lung for her, complete with a doctor who would perform the operation.”

“And you believed him?”

“I had a moment of clarity and asked Petrov for proof. We met two days later on Friedrichstrasse. He had me get in his car and then explained to me that he was a diplomat who smuggled illegal organs into Germany and could have them transplanted into patients by doctors he was friends with. As proof, he showed me his diplomatic passport and a cooler containing a liver he was about to transport. Then he let me out on the next corner and handed me a card with his cell-phone number.”

“That liver could’ve been from a pig.”

“True. But just like with Robin, I didn’t have anything to lose. My daughter was dying. I couldn’t imagine life without her. Yuri Petrov was my last chance. So I called him.”

“I thought you were broke. Where would the money come from?”

“Petrov had offered me the Full Wellness Package. That evening he took me to a money lender who would let me borrow fifty thousand euros.”

“Which would go directly to him?”

“That was the deal.”

“And you weren’t worried about any of them pulling a fast one on you?”

“Detective Tommen, haven’t you been listening? I wasn’t taking out a car loan. My daughter was about to die. Even a one-in-a-billion chance was better than anything the hospital could offer me.”

“How were you going to pay back the money?”

“At the time, I didn’t care. If my daughter was saved, my friends and I would’ve worked the rest of our lives to pay back the debt. If not, owing fifty thousand euros would hardly matter to me.”

“But Petrov didn’t deliver. And the first payment was due.”

“Two months later, a debt collector paid me a visit.”

“Chandu Bitangaro.” It was tough for Jan to hear that his friend could be one of the bad guys. He still hadn’t gotten the image of Chandu on a stretcher out of his head.

“Chandu was waiting at my apartment. I was on my way to the hospital and wanted to bring Charlotte some freshly washed pajamas. He grabbed me by the collar, lifted me up, and demanded the first installment on my loan.”

“But you couldn’t pay.”

“Of course not.”

“What happened then?”

“I told him that my contact still hadn’t delivered the organ and that I wasn’t going to start paying back the loan before that. Of course I didn’t tell him I didn’t have the money. I was just hoping to buy myself a bit more time. I wanted to get back to the hospital as fast as possible. Each day could have been Charlotte’s last.”

“But Chandu didn’t let you go.”

“He was good at his job.”

“So, since you still didn’t intend to pay—did he rough you up?”

“I guess I shouldn’t have called him a son of a bitch.” Dietrich shrugged. “By the time our little talk was over, I had a broken wrist, three cracked ribs, and a torn shoulder tendon that still gives me trouble today. I don’t even want to talk about what he did to my face.”

“So that’s why Chandu had to die?”

“I explained to him what I was using the money for—that my daughter needed me—but he showed no mercy.” He paused for a moment. “During my daughter’s final days, I sat next to her bed like a cripple. When she saw my face beaten all black and blue, she started crying.”

He closed his eyes and fell silent for a long while.

“They had her pumped full of painkillers, so she spent the final hours of her life in a delirium. By the end I was praying that she’d go quickly.”

He swallowed hard. “God didn’t listen.”

“When did you start thinking about murder?”

“From the start. After my breakdown, I contemplated suicide for a long time. My family had been everything to me. I had no interest in a career as a city manager. I didn’t care about material things. After my wife and then my daughter died, I had nothing left to live for.”

“Why didn’t you commit suicide?”

“Dr. Beringer. He saw my despair for what it was and tried to help me make sense of my life again. One day, we were talking about my desire to kill Dr. Valburg, and I realized that that thought aroused me like nothing else did. Not in a sexual way. But here was a way to punish him.” Dietrich laughed. “When I was released, Dr. Beringer was so pleased to have shown me a way back into the world. He had no idea it was all founded on my fantasies of killing people.”

“Why didn’t you ever alert the police?”

“To which part? Dr. Valburg’s misdiagnosis, or Moritz Quast rejecting treatment? Maybe Robin Cordes’s crooked business, or Yuri Petrov’s organ-smuggling operation?” He snorted in contempt. “Even if the police had arrested Robin, he would’ve gotten nothing more than a suspended sentence. Yuri Petrov was a diplomat—untouchable. Not exactly suitable punishment for my daughter’s death.”