Grave Intent (15 page)

Jan turned around, keeping his arms raised. “Think about it,” he said as he walked off. “In our hands you have a much better chance of surviving.”

Right before reaching the tracks, Jan’s phone rang. He glanced over his shoulder. Robin was gone.

His screen showed Bergman’s number.

“Get down to the station right away,” Jan’s boss barked. “And use the back door.”

Chapter Seven

“A state of siege” best described the situation outside the station. Jan had ignored Bergman’s advice, which was proving to be a bad idea.

The front entrance was surrounded by a waist-high barricade. Four uniformed officers were trying to keep the premises off-limits, in spite of the pack of journalists pressing into them.

The chaos of cameras, cables, and microphones on long booms made for an impenetrable jungle of newsgathering. Photographers stood on ladders, TV reporters had their assistants dabbing their foreheads, and the print journalists jockeyed for the best position. Surrounding them all was a cluster of onlookers, rubberneckers, and people like Jan who didn’t want to be standing there but could not get through the crowd. Ten yards away, a Mercedes driver was honking in anger at being stuck at a green light. No traffic would be getting through here for a good hour.

Jan stood atop a planter to get a better view of the entrance. On one step of the stairs was a podium sprouting several microphones. Judging from the logos on them, every broadcaster in Germany was present.

An operation like this would have been worthy of Barack Obama. Instead, Bergman came out the door. The police chief himself hurried out in front of Bergman. The chief wore a dark-blue uniform without much insignia. Only his epaulets and name badge indicated his position.

Jan had thought the chaos couldn’t get any worse, but the appearance of the police chief set the group in motion once again. The uniformed cops at the barricade dug in their heels as the police chief stepped up to the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the media. Citizens of Berlin . . .”

The mob came to an abrupt halt. The cameras had been switched on and the voice recorders turned up; the photographers began shooting madly, their flashes creating a bizarre strobe effect. Reporters screamed questions as if the loudest voice would win a prize. The racket was deafening—but the police chief, unfazed, presided over it all as if over a class of obedient and curious schoolchildren hanging on his every word.

“We would like to bring you up to date on the latest in the case.”

This launched a new round of questions, but the chief just ignored them.

“The so-called grave murderer, as he’s described in the media, has not been apprehended. We are certain that this person is responsible for the homicide of Dr. Bernhard Valburg as well as that of Moritz Quast. This means we are dealing with the same sole perpetrator.”

“Tell us something new!” a reporter roared.

“Our top investigators are on the case, and they’re all working under enormous pressure. We’re following more leads. Please understand that we cannot make the details public for fear of jeopardizing the case.”

Jan glanced at Bergman. He knew how much the man hated reporters. It was looking mighty tough for him to keep calm, but as head of detectives he had to attend media events like this. He was a man to be avoided today. Jan didn’t have a choice, though.

“In addition, we believe that these murders were of a personal nature. The grave murderer is no crazed serial killer choosing his victims at random.”

“Is that supposed to comfort people?” the reporter yelled.

“We’ve postponed all officers’ vacations and extended their shifts. Every cemetery is being watched by uniformed patrols and their fellow officers. All cemetery staff have been instructed to report any suspicious persons.”

The police chief raised his eyes from his prepared remarks and looked directly into the cameras. “We are asking for the public’s help in Berlin. If you knew either of the victims or witnessed anything during the nights of June twenty-third and twenty-seventh, please contact one of the police precincts.”

The press conference was basically over. The police chief would answer a few questions in the same noncommittal way he’d done in his speech. The information would be enough for the news, but there was nothing truly new to report.

Jan climbed off the planter and worked his way out of the crowd. Hopefully the rear entrance was quieter. His boss surely hadn’t called him in for a press conference.

Bergman had something new, something he was keeping from the press.

Jan heard Bergman and his muffled cursing before he saw him. It would have been smarter to wait until his boss calmed down, but he didn’t want to lose any time. He was going to get his ass kicked one way or another.

“There he is, our Super Detective,” Bergman said.

“Mornin’,” Jan said and smiled. It didn’t matter what he said. Bergman’s mood wasn’t going to improve.

“You ever going to find the murderer, or should I just hope he dies of old age?”

Jan felt actual physical pain from not being able to strike back with a comment of his own. “Why am I here?” he grunted.

“You have a visitor.”

Jan furrowed his brow. Patrick Stein and his crew were the ones responsible for questioning potential witnesses. If Bergman was calling Jan in too, it had to be someone important.

Bergman waved him into his office and slammed the door shut. A woman sat slumped in his armchair, her face buried in her hands. She looked so despondent that Jan fought an urge to go hide the scissors lying on the desk.

Bergman gestured at her and took his chair. “You already know Frau Roth.”

Friederike raised her head. Her eyes were wet and swollen from crying, and her mascara had left black streaks down her cheeks. Robin Cordes’s girlfriend had turned into a quivering mess.

Jan sat down across from her. Nothing could have happened to Robin. Jan had still been with the man when Bergman called.

Friederike held up a photo and placed it in Jan’s lap.

In it, he saw an empty grave. On a wooden cross, it read:
Here Rests Robin Cordes. Born on March 12, 1972. Died on June 29, 2013.

Jan tried not to swear.

“Where did it come from?” he asked.

“It was in my mailbox this morning.”

Jan studied the photo more closely. Apart from the hole in the ground, he didn’t detect much else. No buildings in the background and no other grave that would help them place it in a particular cemetery.

“Do you know where this is?”

Friederike shook her head.

Jan turned to Bergman. “Did Forensics get their hands on this yet?”

“That’s a copy. Crime techs are on it.”

Jan took the photo and stood up. “I’ll be right back.” He left the office, hustled down the hallway, and headed for the special unit’s conference room. If there was one constant in the chaos of an investigation, it was Patrick. He arrived at work when most people were still asleep, and he was one of the last to leave. Sure, he was pedantic and humorless, but he was also dependable and exacting. The perfect man for this job.

Jan stormed into the room. “We have a new grave.”

All heads turned his way. “So we’ve heard,” Patrick said. “We’re waiting on the crime techs’ analysis.”

“No time. Robin Cordes is supposed to die tomorrow. If it’s the same murderer, we’re not going to get any evidence off it anyway.”

Jan laid the photo on the table. “This grave, it’s somewhere in Berlin. The murderer left us no clues, so the only way to do this is the hard way. Call every cemetery, get all personnel back from lunch, whatever it takes. They’ll have to search out this grave. No idea how the murderer is going to find his victim when he’s gone into hiding, but if he does, we’ll be waiting for him right here.” Jan pointed at the photo.

“We should send all available patrols to the cemeteries to assist personnel there,” Patrick suggested.

“Good idea. The more people searching, the better.”

“What if the grave isn’t at a cemetery?” Patrick said.

Jan hadn’t considered that possibility. “It wouldn’t fit the murderer’s pattern up till now.”

“But it’s not inconceivable.”

“We’re hurting, in that case. We can’t go turning all Berlin upside down in half a day.”

“We’ll just hope for the best,” Patrick said. “I’ll send a list of all the local cemeteries around. Everyone takes a few. It couldn’t take more than an hour. Mark the addresses where we haven’t reached anyone. We’ll send a car there.”

As if on some invisible signal, all the investigators turned to their computers and got to work.

Jan smiled. In less than two hours, he would know where this grave was. Then they’d set up a little greeting committee for the murderer.

Friederike Roth was sitting on the visitors’ bench outside the glass walls of Bergman’s office, staring absently into her coffee cup.

Once Jan was back inside Bergman’s office, Bergman asked him, “Did I understand correctly that you talked to Robin Cordes an hour ago?”

“Right before you called.”

“So why didn’t you bring him in to the station?”

“Because he had a gun in my face and wasn’t exactly cooperating.”

“So he’s not the grave murderer?”

Jan shook his head. “He’s all about escaping his own grave.”

“But what if that was simply some clever chess move to throw us off?”

“The murderer doesn’t need to do that. We’re feeling around in the dark as it is.”

“We know that, but the murderer doesn’t.”

“Robin Cordes was a small-time crook. Maybe he’s changed, but such precise planning? It’s not his thing.”

“Did he say anything about his connection to Valburg or Quast?”

“Nothing new. Cordes was Valburg’s dealer, and Quast put him in jail. He’d love to pay Quast back for that, but he didn’t want to risk his probation.”

“He wouldn’t be the first,” Bergman said.

“Cordes had the motive for Moritz Quast, but the way he died points to a more complicated relationship. Such a sophisticated production just isn’t Cordes’s style.”

“So what’s happening now?”

“Patrick’s people are contacting all cemetery personnel in Berlin. Together with the patrols we have on it, we’ll find that grave before sundown. If the murderer shows up there, we’ll get him. Robin smelled a rat before we did, so I don’t think he’ll let himself be caught. I only stumbled upon him because he wanted me to.”

“This would be simpler if we could keep an eye on him.”

“He wouldn’t do it. It’s understandable from his perspective, considering how things went wrong with Moritz Quast.”

“That’s not a mistake we’ll make a second time.”

“Robin will stay underground. I’ll talk to his girlfriend again and try to convince her to work with us. Maybe he’ll get in touch with her. We might also locate him if he turns on his phone.” He grinned briefly at the thought of Max’s tech savvy.

“Good,” Bergman said. “I’ll put some pressure on Crime Tech.” He reached for the phone.

Outside Bergman’s office, Jan sat down on the bench next to Friederike Roth, who was still staring into her empty cup. He didn’t want to pressure her, so he just sat there without saying a word.

“I flip through the paper every day,” she eventually began in a low voice. “You read about muggings, accidents, sometimes even murder. But as soon as you put down the paper, you forget about all those headlines.”

She turned the cup in her hand. “It’s so bizarre being an actual part of one of these stories. In the blink of an eye, your whole life can change.”

She turned to Jan. “Who is this grave murderer? Why come after Robin?”