Grave Intent (4 page)

The doctor balled one hand into a fist and pursed his narrow lips together. “How dare you!” he bristled. He threw the receptionist an accusing glance.

She began, “I couldn’t stop them—”

“Leave my practice at once,” the doctor told Jan and Chandu. “Or I’ll call the police.”

“They’re already here,” Jan said, showing his badge. “We have questions that can’t wait.”

“Well, I’m in a consult.”

“Not anymore.” Chandu approached the middle-aged lady. “Here, something for you to nosh on.” He pressed a few candies into her hand. “Your boobs will have to wait.”

Clearly not used to this sort of treatment, the lady emitted a startled gasp, rose from the sofa, and left the room.

The receptionist stammered an apology and meekly followed the lady out.

“This will cost you your job,” the doctor snapped at her. His bronze face had turned red, the knuckles of his tight fist squeezing white. Jan could easily imagine how those threatening incidents had happened.

Jan turned to Chandu. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“He just called me an asshole.”

“Now that you mention it, I did notice.”

“Stupid of him.”

“Really stupid.”

“Especially when he’s on a suspended sentence for insulting officials.”

“What’s going on here?” the doctor broke in. “This is outrageous. I’m going to—”

“Take it easy!” Chandu roared at him. “Sit yourself down and answer our questions, or we’ll run you down to the station. Our colleagues would be happy to see you again.”

Chandu took a step forward and pointed silently at the sofa. The man sat, clearly intimidated, and Jan positioned himself in the seat across from him.

“Are you Dr. Aaron Ewers?” Jan began.

The man nodded.

“Do you know Dr. Bernhard Valburg?”

Another nod.

“Do you know what happened to him?”

Again a nod.

“We appreciate it when a man speaks to us,” Chandu said.

“Yes,” the doctor said softly.

“So tell us about the death threat to Dr. Valburg.”

“It wasn’t me.”

Jan took his notepad from a pocket. “But it is suspicious that you called Dr. Valburg a few weeks ago and left him a message where you threatened to bash in his skull.”

“Stupid, more like,” Chandu commented.

“And now guess how Dr. Valburg died.”

“It was not me,” the doctor repeated.

“You’ll have to pardon me if I can’t simply take your word for this, especially considering your little hobby of insulting officials.”

“I get angry easily,” the doctor offered. “Believe me, I’m aware of that. But I’ve never assaulted anyone.”

“There’s always a first time,” Chandu said.

“I can understand your anger,” Jan continued. “Bernhard Valburg was a colleague of yours, but
his
patients didn’t come from Berlin high society. Instead of allowing you to bask in your success, he goes and fingers you. That can make a guy angry.”

“Outrageous,” the doctor said, fighting his fury.

“How did you know it was Bernhard Valburg? His tip-off was anonymous.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time,” Chandu said. He took a candy from his pocket, unwrapped it slowly, popped it in his mouth, and let the wrapper fall to the floor.

“Bernhard and I studied together at Berlin University. For him, becoming a doctor was a calling, a duty to alleviate suffering. For me, it was always just a job, an opportunity to earn money, have a nice life. We were at odds from that very first semester on. He couldn’t understand why I’d want to be a cosmetic surgeon. Our studies were barely over before we starting seeing each other at medical conferences . . . and other events.”

Dr. Ewers folded his hands together, staring at the floor. “The last time we ran into each other was at a reception. I’d bought a round; I was having my best year ever as a doctor and wanted to celebrate. Instead of leaving me to drink with my friends, Bernhard came over and started going on and on about a doctor’s obligation to society. Talking about ethics and bitching about cosmetic surgeons. As drunk as I was, I just laughed at him, comparing my practice to his, making fun of national health-care patients.”

“The classic competition—my dick’s bigger than yours,” Chandu remarked.

“Call it what you will, but this time it hit a nerve. Bernhard lunged at me, knocked the champagne glass out of my hand, and blatantly threatened that there would be consequences. A week later, the tax man was at my door.”

“Which cost you some money?” Jan asked.

Dr. Ewers nodded.

“How much?”

“Too much.”

“What’s too much?”

“I had to sell one of my houses and give up my share in a private jet.”

“Alas, cruel fate,” Chandu said.

“Where were you last Sunday evening?”

“At one of those conferences. In a hotel downtown. My assistant can write down the address for you.”

“On a Sunday?”

“National conventions are always on weekends.”

“What was the focus?”

“It wouldn’t interest you.” Dr. Ewers waved away the thought. “Thoroughly boring stuff. But you have to be seen at these things, keep up appearances. I was actually preparing for another round with Bernhard; I was surprised he wasn’t there.”

“Did anyone see you at this conference?”

“I can give you a list of my colleagues who saw me. I spent the evening there, then an old friend from Brazil came to visit me. We drank until the hotel bar closed, around three a.m. I could barely stagger over to the taxi stand after that. Ask the concierge who was on duty then.”

“Hm,” Jan said. “That’s it for now. We reserve the right to come back if we have further questions. It would be nice to be given a warmer reception next time.”

Ewers glared at the two men but nodded obediently.

As Jan and Chandu turned to leave, the doctor called after them.

“You know something? Bernhard was a pain in the ass, but I’ll miss him.”

His words seemed genuine.

“Don’t you worry,” Jan replied. “We’ll find the murderer. We’re just getting warmed up.”

They left the room.

“You don’t think he was the murderer,” Chandu said on their way back outside.

“What makes you say that?”

“You let him off the hook too quickly.”

“I can’t say exactly what it is,” Jan began. “Guys like him, they think the world belongs to them. They love exercising their power over others, bullying everyone around them. Dr. Aaron Ewers is quick-tempered and touchy, probably beats up his wife and screams at his staff. But preparing a murder for days on end, digging out a grave, depositing the corpse, gouging the eyes out . . . None of that fits this asshole’s style. I’d trust him to beat someone to death in a fit of rage, but anything beyond that is too calculating for him to manage.”

“Maybe he’s cleverer than we think.”

“Possibly. I’ll check his alibi, but to my mind, he’s off the list of suspects.”

“What do we do now?”

“I’ll head back over to Dr. Valburg’s office and speak to his receptionist. Maybe other people threatened Valburg, people he didn’t report. Plus I’ll get that patient list.”

“I’ll go fishing around in the drug scene tonight,” Chandu told him, “and see who tries swimming away. Could take a few days, but if this Dr. Valburg was up to any funny business, I’ll find it.”

Jan gave Chandu a warm pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for your help.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“We’ll see each other tomorrow evening. Your place.”

Chandu nodded. “Till then, happy hunting.”

When Jan returned to Dr. Valburg’s office, Vanessa Ziegler was struggling through a stack of files.

“I’m almost finished. I have your list too.”

“Perfect,” Jan said and handed her his card. “Could you send the documents to this e-mail address?”

She pocketed the card. “Will do.”

“I was just at Dr. Aaron Ewers’s office.”

“That’s too bad.”

“You don’t like him?”

“No one does. He’s a vain, smug douchebag and only half as good as he thinks.”

“Did Dr. Valburg butt heads with him a lot?”

She nodded. “The two of them knew each other from university. I was always warning my boss to take it easy. Talking to a man like Dr. Ewers about medical ethics is pointless.”

“But he tried anyway?”

“Dr. Valburg was an idealist, sacrificing everything to care for his patients. That’s why I liked working for him.”

“That mean we should rule out any of his patients as a potential murderer?” Jan asked.

“I’m a doctor’s assistant, not Sherlock Holmes. Of course there was trouble with some patients. Some weren’t satisfied with their recovery process; others couldn’t understand it when insurance didn’t cover all the costs.”

“About how many unhappy patients were there?”

“Tough to say. Three or four a month.”

“That adds up to quite a lot over the years.”

“Compared to other practices, it’s a ridiculously small number.”

“Were there patients who were especially unhappy? Say, someone who threatened Dr. Valburg?”

“A quibble over extra fees here, a door slammed there. Nothing that would justify a murder.”

“Was there ever a misdiagnosis that harmed a patient?”

Vanessa narrowed her eyes in anger. Nothing a casual observer would notice, but it was exactly the type of thing Jan was looking for. He’d hit a sore spot.

“Medicine is not mathematics,” she told him. “Of course, in over twenty years of practicing as a doctor, you occasionally don’t recognize an illness or give the wrong diagnosis. But Dr. Valburg was a conscientious pulmonologist.”

Jan was careful here. He didn’t want to further anger the woman. He asked, “How severe were these erroneous assessments of his?”

“What do you mean by ‘severe’?”

“Did anyone die because of a wrong diagnosis?”

“No.” She sounded certain of it.

“So none of Dr. Valburg’s patients ever died?”

“My dear Herr Tommen,” Vanessa began as if speaking to a three-year-old. “A lung specialist doesn’t just treat asthma patients and cure bouts of bronchitis. Many people come to us severely ill. In the case of, say, an advanced bronchial carcinoma or pulmonary arterial hypertension, there’s not much more you can do to help. Of course some patients die.”

“Let’s move away from patients to other individuals Dr. Valburg dealt with.”

“What kind of other individuals?”

“Friends, neighbors, pharmaceutical reps, or other caring colleagues like our Dr. Ewers. Especially anyone Dr. Valburg might have had a dispute with.”

Vanessa rubbed at her lips in thought. Her forehead wrinkled up as if she was trying hard to think. “Maybe there was someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know him,” Vanessa explained. “He wasn’t a patient. It was evening; the office was closed. Dr. Valburg had just left, and I was tidying up the waiting room. When I went to lock up the door, the doctor was still standing out in the parking lot. He was arguing with a man.”

“Could you hear what it was about?”

“No. They finished arguing. The man screamed, ‘Quit bothering me!’ and took off down a side street. Dr. Valburg got into his car and drove off.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Four weeks.”

“You know the man?”

“That was the first time I saw him. And I haven’t seen him since.”

“What did he look like?”

“About five foot eleven. Slender. Short dark hair.”

“A fellow doctor?”

Vanessa shook her head. “I know most of Dr. Valburg’s colleagues. Plus, he was too seedy-looking to be a doctor.”

“Too seedy-looking?”

“He was wearing worn-out jeans and a leather jacket. His nose was crooked, and he had a scar running above his eyebrows.”

“You can remember that so clearly?”

“My passion is portrait painting. I can size up a person’s looks quickly, and I have an eye for small details.”

“Would you be able to sit down with a police sketch artist? Using your skills, we’re sure to get a good picture of the man.”

Vanessa nodded. “As good as any photo.”

Jan Tommen smiled at that. He had his first suspect.

Chapter Three

Jan jolted awake screaming. His heart was racing, and he was panting as if he’d run a marathon. It took a moment for him to recognize his surroundings. The light from the hallway shone faintly on his bedroom—the large wardrobe, the bed, and the dresser. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. With every breath, his beating heart slowed, his panting calmed, and his hands relaxed. Sometimes when this happened, in an effort to forget the nightmare, he’d try to recall the latest soccer scores or even take a cold shower—but when the nightmare was this intense, not even that shock to his system made a difference.

Jan’s weapon lay next to the bed on the nightstand, not securely stored like it should be at home, flouting regulations. The gun was dark and heavy. A constant reminder of the day he had shot his girlfriend dead.

A hundred times he had entertained the thought of throwing the thing out the window, but he was terrified of what the person who found it might do with it. As a cop, he was supposed to carry his duty weapon on him when it wasn’t locked up for safekeeping. Always. No exceptions.

He used to like to practice at the shooting range, but today he felt sick just looking at the gun. So he took the pistol off the night table, yanked out the magazine, and removed each cartridge. Carrying his weapon without ammo was a severe breach of regulations as well, but as long as the pistol was in his holster, no one would know. Besides, he couldn’t imagine shooting anyone again, even if life depended on it.

He tucked the cartridges inside the drawer. Then he lay back down, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep a little now. He had so much to do before they all gathered at Chandu’s that evening.

He left the light on in the hallway, just in case the nightmare returned.

It was a weird feeling for Jan, being back in Chandu’s apartment. He had hidden out here for several weeks when he was wanted for murder. It had been his safe harbor, and he had felt at home immediately.

Nothing had changed since he’d moved out. He recognized the sharp aroma of incense that greeted him as he walked in the front door. The leather couch—Jan’s ad hoc bed—shone as if polished. The flat-screen was set to the sports channel.

Chandu was toiling away in the kitchen. He opened the oven, and a whiff of Alsatian tart wafted through the room, a wave of pure delight. Jan closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma of the thin, pizza-like delicacy. His friend’s culinary talents never ceased to surprise him.

“Just about done,” Chandu called over to him. “Sit yourself down.”

Jan smiled back, feeling a rare contentment. It was so much better to meet here than in the conference room at the station. He was about to sit down at the table when someone knocked on the door and rang the bell aggressively at the same time.

“One brief moment of bliss,” Jan muttered. He took a deep breath, then went to open the door.

“Well, finally,” Zoe said, stepping inside.

“And a good evening to you too.”

Zoe replied with a grouchy grunt and lit up a cigarette. Max followed her in and shrugged as if to say,
It’s not my fault
.

Zoe went into the kitchen and bent over the tart, eyeing it critically. She stayed there a moment and then sat down at the table, scowling and silent.

While she blew smoke rings at the ceiling, Jan helped set the table.

Chandu turned to Jan as he cut his masterpiece into wedges. “Did you find out anything else?”

“Not much at first. I spoke to the assistant, Vanessa Ziegler. She only had good things to say about her former boss. I questioned her about unhappy patients or colleagues, but Dr. Valburg appears to have been a well-liked and respected physician.”

He bit into a piece of tart. “Then it got more interesting. Vanessa Ziegler told me about an argument the doctor had with an unknown man. Four weeks ago. There was a violent exchange of words, and the two of them did not part amicably.”

“Could she describe the man?” Chandu asked.

“Better than that. Vanessa Ziegler is a portrait painter. She and our sketch artist got together and produced an amazingly good picture of the man—crooked nose, scar over his eyebrows, and all.”

“So?” Zoe asked, sighing impatiently. “Who is the guy?”

“No idea,” Jan said. “Not yet. We’re comparing the picture with suitable Berlin-area offenders, but we don’t have any hits yet. We’ve distributed it to all bureaus, informed patrols.”

“Do you have the picture on you?” Zoe asked.

“I’ll show you after we eat.”

“Any idea what this dude’s turf is, what scene? Drug smuggling? Prostitution?” Chandu asked.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have anything apart from his appearance.”

“I could probably help you there,” Zoe said with her mouth full.

The three men’s eyes turned to her.

“The good Dr. Valburg was taking drugs.”

Jan started. “What? His assistant never told me any of that.”

“Maybe you’re not as irresistible as you think.”

“What was he taking?”

“Coke.”

“Was he on drugs the day he died?” Jan asked.

“No. I only discovered it when I was testing his hair. His blood had nothing. From the amounts, I’m guessing casual user.”

“What about knockout drops or some other narcotic?”

“Nope.”

“How’s it looking with any defense wounds? Did he try and defend himself?”

“Nope again. Nothing points to a struggle. He got one on the back of the head and was done for.”

“And the eyes?”

“What about them?”

“Post- or premortem?”

“The former.”

“That’s interesting.”

“In what way?” Chandu asked.

“Gouging out the eyes can mean a million things. One murderer doesn’t want the victim looking at him, while another is scared of the eyes because they’re the mirror of the soul. All that crap. A profiler could fill a book with the possible interpretations. Since the killer gouged out Dr. Valburg’s eyes
after
he died, he’s likely not the type of maniac who wanted to make his victim suffer. It was a quick death, remember, from the blow to the head—not some drawn-out torture.”

“But why gouge out his eyes, then?” Max asked.

“That takes us back to where we started. It must have a meaning. What, I can’t say.”

“Maybe Dr. Valburg saw something that he wasn’t supposed to see,” Chandu said.

“Possibly,” Jan said. “But this piece of evidence isn’t helping us much right now.”

“Let’s keep an eye on it, though,” Zoe added, chuckling.

Chandu and Max laughed along with her.

“Real grown-ups here,” Jan said, rumpling his brow at them. “Murder weapon?”

“Just as I thought. A hammer.”

“Hmm.” Jan stared at his plate with its half-eaten slice of tart, deep in thought.

Chandu interrupted his musings. “O great thinker, enlighten us with your wisdom.”

“I was just matching up the various reports in my head. The crime-scene investigators at Dr. Valburg’s house didn’t find any evidence of a break-in. So the perp is a capable intruder. That, or he had a key. What’s still unclear is whether the murderer was waiting for his victim or let himself in after Valburg came home. In any case, he surprised Dr. Valburg and struck him dead from behind. Dead before he knew what was happening.”

“How did the murderer get the body to the cemetery?” Chandu asked.

“We don’t have much on that,” Jan said. “Zoe already mentioned that you can’t lift an over-two-hundred-pound man onto your shoulder and carry him out of the house like a sack of lawn fertilizer. One thing that sticks out is that we haven’t found any traces of blood outside of the living room, so I’m guessing the murderer wrapped up the body somehow.”

“There could also have been a case or a barrel,” Chandu added. “If the killer couldn’t carry the body out himself, he’d have some means to help him. A wheelbarrow, a handcart, something like that. Even a corpse wrapped in plastic would be noticeable because of its odd shape.”

“The murderer struck at night,” Zoe said. “You don’t see anyone in a neighborhood like that at that hour.”

“There’s always someone heading somewhere,” Chandu argued. “Street cleaners, newspaper carriers, bus drivers on the late-night route. But since we’re assuming that the job was long in planning, the killer would have taken that into account.”

“So he’d have chosen something inconspicuous for transport,” Jan said.

Chandu nodded. “I’m betting it’s an oil barrel or a large box or crate. The killer wraps up the corpse so as not to leave behind any more clues. Then he schleps the body to the back door and heaves it into this container. Using a wheelbarrow, it’s easy enough to get the corpse to the car.”

“So how does this help us?” Zoe asked.

“It does tell us something about the vehicle,” Jan explained.

“Bingo.” Chandu gave them two thumbs up. “A corpse wrapped in plastic? You can stuff that in any kind of car. A box that has to be big enough for a corpse? We’re talking about a small van or SUV. Which narrows our search a lot, if you think about how few vehicles are on the road at that time of night. And he was certain to have a vehicle. It’s not like he walked over a mile to Dorotheenstadt Cemetery.”

“Did you check the property for tire tracks?”

“The area surrounding the house isn’t exactly detective-friendly. Valburg had a wide flagstone path that led all the way up to both the front and rear exits. You can forget about footprints or anything of the sort.” Jan sighed. “Just once, I’d like to have a murder take place in an apartment building with surveillance cameras.”

“Maximal?” Zoe said. “Do you have anything to add?”

“Maximum,” the young hacker said, correcting her. “Maximal is a major bullshitter from Nuremberg.”

“Good to know.”

Ignoring Zoe’s taunting, Max rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and cleared his throat as if he was about to give a speech. “Once I alerted Jan to the fact that Dr. Valburg ratted out Ewers, I scoured his personal computer. The victim didn’t use his computer much. Barely twenty minutes a day. He checked his personal e-mail and browsed medical sites now and then to find an article. That was it. Nothing suspicious.”

“What about the solo stuff?” Zoe asked.

“What solo stuff?”

“Oh, you know, the sites where desperate types like you go. Porn, online singles, Giantboobs.com. That kind of stuff.”

“You have the wrong impression of ‘types like me.’”

Zoe chuckled. “No, I don’t. Those calluses on your hand do not lie.”

“What calluses—”

“Can we just stick to the matter at hand,” Chandu cut in. “I really don’t need these images in my head while I’m eating.”

Jan steered the conversation back to the case. “You find anything else, Max?”

“A few letters, of little interest to us. Otherwise, no hidden sectors or things like that to make me suspicious.”

Jan turned to Zoe. “Did investigating the body’s location turn up anything?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“We didn’t find anything we could use off the corpse. The rain did its usual magic. The investigators were concentrating on the cross with Dr. Valburg’s date of death on it. But there wasn’t a shred of DNA or so much as a fingerprint on that either. You can get wood and nails in any home-improvement store, in that same color too.” Zoe slid two pieces of tart onto her plate and sprinkled them with chili powder. “So, nothing that gives us any leads.”

“What about questioning the cemetery staff?” Chandu asked.

“We have two officers on it,” Jan told him, “but no one was still on the premises at the time of the crime. We’re looking for connections between cemetery employees and Dr. Valburg, but we haven’t come up with anything. Our officers are questioning visitors too, but I’m not counting on anything coming of that.” Jan took a swig of beer. “Goddamn it. That’s not much.”

“But you do have a suspect,” Max said.

“Which is all we have. Even if we do find the man, we can’t be certain he’s the one who killed Valburg. A fingerprint, a surveillance tape, some DNA would have been nice.”

“What about his taking drugs?” Zoe asked. “Maybe he was having a problem with his dealer.”

“I doubt that. Dr. Valburg had enough money to procure his drugs.”

“Plus a dealer doesn’t go to all that trouble when he wants to bump someone off.” Chandu stuck out his thumb and index finger. “Pull your piece, bang, done.”

Jan absently twirled the beer bottle in his hand. These initial findings were dispiriting. There was no concrete proof pointing to a murderer and only one possible suspect. He knew neither the motive for the murder nor the significance of the grave.

“I’m going to go talk with Vanessa Ziegler again. Apparently our good doctor was no angel. She had to know about his taking drugs.”

“I’ll take this picture of the suspect and go ask around in the underworld,” Chandu said.

“I’ll check out Dr. Valburg’s patient list,” Max mumbled, his mouth full of food. “See if I can find a match on the police servers. Violent criminals have to see doctors too.”

“I need a cigarette, to aid my digestion,” Zoe said, getting up. “I’ll talk to the cemetery crime team tomorrow. I’m not optimistic, but they haven’t evaluated all the clues yet.”