Time Heals No Wounds (6 page)

“I wouldn’t want to be alone here in the dark for too long,” said Hannes.

“Wait until you see the old man’s paintings. This bizarre forest seems to inspire his imagination in a similarly eerie way.”

A small clearing with a half-collapsed house appeared between the trees. Fritz brought the Jeep to a stop in front of a small porch.

“Let’s hope our painter isn’t out collecting amber,” Fritz said.

The treetops at the edge of the clearing rustled in the breeze. Upon closer inspection, the house looked even more dilapidated, with a chair and small table on the porch. A half-empty glass of water stood beside an opened book on the table.

Fritz and Hannes climbed the rickety porch steps. Fritz picked up the book and turned it over. “
The Wehrmacht’s Crimes during World War II
,” he read. “Apparently our silent artist is interested in history.”

Hannes sniffed the glass. “Vodka! Looks like Merlin gets his inspiration from more than just stunted pines.” He smiled and knocked on the half-open door. “Hello? Anybody home?”

Everything was quiet. Fritz kept flipping through the book, and Hannes pushed the door open and stepped into the dark, empty hall. He saw three closed doors and a narrow staircase that probably led to the attic. “Hello?” Hannes opened a door on the left and stepped into the next dark room.

A few rays of sunshine came in through the narrow slits of the wooden shutters, and specks of dust danced in the thin bands of light. As his eyes adjusted, Hannes screamed and stumbled back. A demonic grimace with yellow eyes and long claws. Flames flickered in martial colors, and skull-like faces looked up at him in torment. Hannes’s heart, hardened by competition, pounded. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and screamed again.

“What did I tell you?” said Fritz. “This guy’s images are really bizarre. And yet they sell all over the world!”

“Bizarre? That’s probably the understatement of the year! Are all his paintings this terrifying?”

“I think so. It’s his trademark.”

“Who would hang such horrifying pictures on their wall?”

“Apparently plenty of people.” Fritz shuddered. “I’m going to take a look outside. When you’re done being scared, we can head back to the city. We obviously came here for nothing.”

Fritz disappeared through the door, and Hannes looked around in the dim light. Demons danced across canvases large and small, while others, lacking any recognizable features, created unsettling scenes with jarring colors. In some paintings, fragments of amber had been used, which explained the artist’s lonely walks along the beach.

These images had a dramatic effect on Hannes. He felt they deeply touched something in him, something dark and carefully hidden. It was a feeling that scared him. The paint was applied so thickly in places that the protrusions from the canvases made the gallery seem like a 3-D nightmare.

Hannes began lifting a cloth that hung over a canvas of gigantic proportions when he heard shouting outside. He quickly ran down the hall to the porch. Fritz was yelling at an old man, who uttered only confused sounds while waving and repeatedly thrusting a slightly curved cane at Fritz. Suddenly, the old man let out a scream, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped over.

Hannes, without thinking, jumped over the porch railing and ran over. He carefully felt for the man’s pulse and was relieved when he detected a faint beat.

“He fainted! What did you do to him? Why were you yelling at him like that?”

“What . . . what did I do?” said Fritz, his face red. “I walked over to the outhouse. Suddenly, this guy jumps out of the trees and hits me on the head with his stick!” He pointed at the scrawny, motionless figure on the ground.

“Since we’re not uniformed, he probably thought we were burglars. Help me carry him into the shade.”

“Sure, I’m the one to blame,” Fritz said and grabbed the old man’s legs.

They carried the limp body onto the porch and laid it down gently. Hannes raised the old man’s legs and placed them on the chair, then put the chair’s cushion under his head.

“Maybe we should call an ambulance: at his age, you can’t be too careful,” Hannes said, looking down at the pale face.

“The doctor would be better off taking a look at my bump. He’s fine. I didn’t even get close enough to touch him.” Fritz leaned forward and looked at the man with concern. The artist’s wool cap had slipped to the side, exposing his bare, liver-spotted scalp. He had a large circular birthmark just below his right eye, and his sallow complexion and dirty clothes created a pitiful impression.

A moment later, Merlin opened his eyes and winced when he saw Fritz’s flushed face. Hannes pushed Fritz aside and spoke slowly and clearly.

“We’re police officers. There’s no need to be afraid. Look!” He pulled out his badge. “I’m going to help you get into this chair, and then we’ll calmly explain why we’re here. Please don’t worry.” Gently, he grabbed the man under the arms, and Merlin let himself be helped into the chair. “Rest for a moment, and we’ll bring you a glass of water. May we use your kitchen?”

The old man did not answer. Hannes took the silence as consent and went with Fritz into the house. “Let’s let him collect himself. He’s a tough old man, all right.”

“Your first aid skills are pretty up to date,” Fritz whispered.

“That’s true, but I also used to volunteer helping the elderly. You learn to be careful with people who are disturbed . . .”

They walked into the kitchen, which looked reasonably modern. Hannes took a glass from the small dining table and filled it with water.

Back on the porch, Merlin was drinking the glass of vodka.

“All right,” Hannes said and laughed, trying to make the best of the situation. “Alcohol might do you some good, but you should also drink some water.”

Merlin took the glass and downed it. Then he eyed the detectives suspiciously.

“We’re from the police,” Hannes said again. “We knocked, but heard nothing and assumed you weren’t at home. That’s why we looked around. We wanted to make sure everything was all right. Apparently, you mistook my colleague for a burglar.” He leaned against the railing. “Are you feeling better? I can get you another glass of water.”

The man nodded yes and Hannes disappeared into the house. From inside, he heard Fritz’s muffled voice and fragments of words: “body,” “woman,” “beach.” Apparently, Fritz was done messing around. Hannes rolled his eyes and sighed. Empathy was not Old Fritz’s strong suit! As Hannes stepped out into the sunlight again, Fritz repeated his last question.

“So what time did you find the body?”

Merlin stared at him, then took the glass from Hannes, drank it in one gulp, and placed it on the table. He wobbled to the front door and went inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Fritz said.

“The best thing to do is to return tomorrow. I can come by myself if you don’t want to.”

Fritz thought for a moment. “All right, Mr. Social Worker. Maybe that’s for the best. This guy’s really driving me crazy. Maybe your skills are better suited here. But let me make one thing clear: if you can’t get him to talk on your terms, then I’ll pay him another visit. We’re investigating a death! If need be, I’ll have him write a statement—or paint one!”

They walked to the Jeep and got in. Fritz started the engine and took off toward the forest. The bumpy road lulled them into silence. Hannes’s eardrums began to vibrate as Fritz turned the speakers all the way up. At the lighthouse, he turned onto the deserted country road and, ignoring the speed limit, floored it, reaching 80 mph before slowing down at the first bend. Only then did his pent-up anger seem resolved.

“Not exactly a successful day,” said Fritz after he had turned down the music. “We know a little more about the state of the body at certain points in time, but not who she is. Nor do we have the slightest idea who the suspect is or if there even is one.”

“Does it usually take this long to get a lead?” asked Hannes.

“When no one has seen anything, the victim’s identity is unknown, and no evidence can be found, it’s pretty damn difficult,” Fritz said.

After another curve, the Olsens’ farm came into view. As they approached the house, a plump figure hurried over and flagged them down.

“I wonder if the farmer’s wife wants to give you a slice of cake for the road.”

Fritz stopped in front of Mrs. Olsen. She walked to the passenger side and knocked on the window. Fritz grinned at Hannes and motioned for him to open it. “Come on, roll it down! The good lady wants to chat with you.”

“Good thing I caught you,” said Mrs. Olsen. “I figured you hadn’t driven by yet. Did you get him to talk?”

Fritz said, “We’re very grateful for your assistance, but we can’t comment on the investigation.”

“I just wanted to say that our worker noticed something on Saturday. He just now told my husband. But if you don’t have time, then okay. I just thought we were supposed to contact you if anything else came up.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Hannes said. “It’s a good thing you stopped us. What did your worker notice?”

“It’s best you come by. He can tell you himself. You know, nothing ever goes on around here, and now one thing is happening after the other! Maybe dead bodies are run of the mill for you in the city, but out here, we never have any problems. We rarely head into town, and that’s a good thing. The smell, the noise, the riffraff.” She shuddered. “I always say to my husband: the best thing about the city is the road that leads out of it.”

Fritz and Hannes got out of the car and followed Mrs. Olsen into the yard.

“Over there, that’s Tom,” Mrs. Olsen said, gesturing to a young man. “Tom, come over here and tell the two policemen what you saw!”

Hannes and Fritz recognized the burly farmhand as one of the men who had wrestled the cow to the ground. Tom approached, confused and fiddling with his baseball cap, and Hannes noticed his slight limp.

“Well?” Fritz said. “Mrs. Olsen said you had something to tell us.”

“Don’t know if it’s really that important.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” said Fritz.

“So on Saturday, I went down to the beach, near where my boss found the woman on Sunday. Because whenever I have some time off, I like to go fishing and just chill out for a bit. So I climbed down and sat on the rocks. Then I unpacked my fly kit.”

“He does fly-fishing,” Mrs. Olsen said. “That’s the hardest way to catch fish, right, Tom? He once brought us such a big trout, we ate for days.”

Fritz rolled his eyes. “So what happened?”

“Well, I was considering what fly to use, and while I sat there thinking, I heard voices on the other side of the cliff. The cliffs are pretty steep there.”

“Yes,” said Fritz. “And where were the voices coming from?”

“I asked myself that same question,” Tom said, scratching his head. “Because . . . usually there’s nobody around here. And when I didn’t see anyone, I thought it must have come from the other side of the cliffs. I climbed over the stones and saw a boat anchored in the water. A man and a woman were on it.”

“Hang on! Which side of the rocks were you on? Where the body was found or the other side?”

“Where was the body? I was on the left side of the cliffs because I always have more luck there.”

“The body was found on the other side,” Hannes said.

“Oh, well then, so I was on the other side, the side where there was . . . nothing.”

“What did the people and boat look like?” Fritz asked.

“Well, I’m not exactly sure. The man and woman were arguing, and I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want them to see me, so I climbed back over as soon as possible. But I slipped and hit my shin.” To prove it, he pulled up the leg of his pants and pointed to a bruise.

“But you must have noticed something,” Fritz said. “The size or color of the boat, hair color, anything?”

“Um . . . so the boat was not a fishing boat, but one of those fast ones. A speedboat. And it was white. Perhaps the same length as a fishing boat. And there was a red fish painted on the bow. The man was slim—and well dressed! I was surprised he was wearing a suit. You don’t really wear that on a boat. The woman was also well dressed. Dark clothes, long blonde hair.”

Nobody noticed that Mr. Olsen had joined the group. “The dead woman also had long blonde hair and was wearing dark clothes!” he said.

“Right,” said Fritz. Suddenly, a suspicion began to take shape. “Do you have a pencil and paper?” he asked Mrs. Olsen.

Mrs. Olsen disappeared into the house. Fritz rocked back and forth on his heels and nodded at Hannes. Tom fiddled with his cap until Mrs. Olsen reappeared. With rapid strokes, Fritz drew a rough outline of a boat with a dolphin on the bow.

“Did the boat look something like this?” he asked Tom.

Tom looked at the sheet. “Pretty much.”

Fritz looked to Hannes in triumph. “And now we have a lead!”

Merle lay still on the mattress. Her longing for light was almost painful. It had entered the room only once, and that was a day ago. When the sound of steps outside her prison had finally ceased the night before, a thousand thoughts had gone through her head. What would happen to her? Beatings, shackles, rape? Would anyone come in? A man? A woman? Or would she be released and it would all prove to be a horrible joke?