Wet Work
Rain cascaded from above, relentless, sluicing over trees and ground. Lamp posts cringed and hugged the street, the moisture-infused air scattering their feeble beams in a million directions, everywhere and nowhere, rendering it useless.
Hauptkommissarin Gunther pulled off the road and drove up the broad walkway that angled toward the canal. She stopped fifty meters short of the crime scene. Had to preserve the evidence, though God knew what remained.
Why couldn’t the victim have gotten herself killed earlier in the week? The weather had been clear, unseasonably warm for late winter in Berlin. Perfect for conducting an afterhours investigation, but that was murder for you. Inconvenient under the best of circumstances.
During Gunther’s quick dash to the site, water engulfed her. It trickled off the graying hair she’d tucked into a bun, then slithered down her collar. She shivered but said a prayer of thanks for the efficiency of her people. They had erected a large tarp-tent above the body. The patter of liquid on plastic was deafening, but at least the damp remained at bay. Small consolation. The damage had been done.
The victim seemed small, shrunken. She lay on her left side, glassy eyeballs pointed toward the canal, which rippled and sloshed a mere two meters away. Her coat, a cheap but serviceable Lycra blend, was open at the collar, and her denim-covered legs angled away from each other in a broken ‘V.’
Perched on a portable table next to the body were a wallet, a personal ID card, and a rolling suitcase, the kind that fits snuggly in an airplane’s overhead bin. Its canvas sides drooped from saturation.
Gunther’s assistant stood close by, tapping on an electronic pad. Long blonde hair hid her shoulders while her legs, in contrast to the victim’s, were sheathed in sparkly tights and inserted into very impractical high heels. Called away from a club, no doubt. How the younger generation found the time or the stamina, the Hauptkommissarin hadn’t a clue.
“Schiller.” Gunther’s voice came out gruff, hoarse. “What have you got for me?”
“A mess.” Schiller grinned, her face aglow. Regardless of how she dressed, the girl lived for the chase, the thrill of running bad guys to ground, and heaven help any date who got in her way.
Gunther popped a stick of gum in her mouth. Chewing helped her think.
“Tell me about the victim,” she demanded.
“Veronika Stahl. Twenty-seven. Has a record, but mostly small stuff: shoplifting, drug possession, one collar for theft. A friend accused her of lifting seventy-five Euros, but she gave the money back, claimed it was a misunderstanding. The friend wouldn’t testify, so they let her go, no indictment.”
“Anything recent?”
“Only one incident in the past two years. According to her parole counselor, she got clean, had a job in a shop, seemed to be pulling her life together – until she lost the baby. She filed on her live-in, but the charges didn’t stick. Want to see them?”
Gunther took the pad and scrolled through the sketchy report. When Veronika was twenty-three weeks pregnant, an ambulance had transported her to St. Elisabeth’s hospital. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse weak, and her pupils had shrunk to the size of pinheads.
While the emergency nurses began a standard overdose protocol, Veronika mumbled over and over that her boyfriend did this to her, that he stuck a needle in her while she slept, to get her high and force a miscarriage.
If the accusation was true, Klaus Finkel, the boyfriend in question, got his wish. The doctors saved Veronika’s life but not the baby’s. Premature and partially formed, it had been stillborn on arrival.
Patrol officers followed up, but Finkel denied everything, claiming Veronika had succumbed to the needle again with no help from him. Since it was ‘he said/she said’ with questionable evidence, the prosecutor declined to press charges either way. One of those lose-lose situations the legal system faces daily.
“Do we have a current address?” Gunther asked.
“Same as in the report. The apartment’s in her name. And here’s an interesting tidbit. After she got out of the hospital, she amended her Anmeldung, deleted the boyfriend’s name from her registration. Looks like she found a backbone and threw the bum out.”
“Where’s he living?”
“Never reregistered, so there’s no telling. Flopping with friends, most likely.”
“Could she have taken him back?”
“Would you?”
Gunther blew air out her nose and handed the pad back to Schiller. “Witnesses?”
“Two. A couple. They’d been out dancing and were running for the S-bahn.”
The Hauptkommissarin’s head swiveled back and forth. “Where are they?”
“I sent them home.”
“Without me speaking to them first?” Gunther’s lips tightened into a thin slash.
“They were soaked to the skin, boss, and they didn’t have much to say. I couldn’t let them freeze.”
“Were they sober, at least?”
“Sober enough. Do you want to see their statements?”
Schiller’s fingers danced over the pad and a woman sprang into view. Twenty-ish, wisps of green-blue hair plastered across her forehead. She trembled as she recounted how she and her girlfriend had cut through the park. They heard a cry, then a scream. She called the police while her partner shined her phone light ahead. They found the victim lying on the ground, a large pool of blood next to her. She wasn’t breathing, and her eyes were fixed, not moving. No one else was around, but they were worried the killer might come back, so they retreated to the Bahnhof and stayed there until the police arrived.
Inspector Schiller paused the recording.
“You interviewed the partner separately?” Gunther asked.
“Of course.”
“And she corroborated this story.”
“She did, but with more detail. Listen to this.”
Schiller dragged a finger across the screen and a second woman started speaking. Her dark hair bristled, short and spikey, and her expression was smoother than her partner’s, calmer.
“Then we heard the woman call out,” she said.
Schiller’s voice filtered in from off camera. “What exactly did the woman say?”
“‘Leave me alone! No, don’t!’ Then she screamed.”
“A long scream? Short?”
“In the middle.”
“Did it trail off? Gurgle?”
“It just…ended.”
“Did you see the killer? Hear which way he ran?”
“No. We waited a minute on the path before we went ahead, just in case. Nobody came by us and we couldn’t hear anything else, the rain was so loud.”
“That I believe,” the Chief Inspector muttered. She frowned and tapped the side of the pad with her forefinger. “What do you make of all this?”
“A passion killing.” Schiller pointed at the portable table. “In addition to her ID card, Frau Stahl had sixty-seven Euros and the wallet was sitting in her coat pocket, easy pickings, so robbery is out. The way I see it, the victim noticed the perp stalking her and panicked. Instead of heading straight for the Bahnhof, she cut through the park and got caught by the canal. The killer struck and bolted. And he picked the perfect night for it.”
“Didn’t he, though?”
The arrival of the medical examiner cut their musings short. Dr. Kramer waddled up to the body. “Evening, ladies.” He bobbed his balding head. “Hellish weather, eh? It’ll take more than a nightcap to wash this chill away.”
A whiff of brandy tickled Gunther’s nostrils. The doctor had already consumed several nightcaps to fortify himself, no doubt. Not that it would make a difference. Kramer was a rock, whatever the circumstances.
Strong, thick hands eased the body onto its back. He loosened the dead woman’s clothes and ran his nylon-sheathed palms over her skin, like a potter checking a new dish for defects.
Arms, torso, pelvis. Kramer slid the woman’s frayed gloves off, humming as he worked, something from Mozart. At last he straightened and signaled for his orderly to bring the body bag.
“Well?” Gunther raised an eyebrow.
Kramer sighed and pulled his coat tight. “Died here, on this spot. Cause of death was a single puncture to the right carotid artery. Clean wound, no jagged edges. Just in and out with the blade facing forward toward the chin. You should take some soil samples to the right of the body, have them tested for blood. You’ll find it.”
“Was the victim under the influence?”
“I’ll run a tox screen, but I doubt it. The pupils are normal, plus no fresh needle marks, just old scars. And there’s something else.”
He paused for dramatic effect. Gunther withered him with a stare and he deflated like a balloon on a cold day.
“I think she was raped,” the doctor said.
The Chief Inspector rolled the gum between her teeth. “Why?”
“There’s seminal fluid in the vagina and bruises on the upper thighs. I’ll know more when I get her back to the lab and run samples. But that’s not all.” He lifted the victim’s left hand. “Can you see it?”
“The bandage around her middle finger?”
“No. The redness under her fingernails. It’s tissue. She fought her attacker.”
“Could it have been rough sex?”
“Possible, but the victim’s kinks are your concern. My preliminary observation is she appears to be a sexual assault victim. The bruises and fluids are fresh and consistent with her being forced.”
Kramer bagged both the victim’s hands. Then he and his orderly lifted the corpse and set it in a body bag on a rolling trauma cart. The doctor zipped the bag closed and released the brakes. “I’ll move this case to the front of my list. You’ll have my report tomorrow.”
He and the orderly wheeled the remains out from under the sheltering tarp and into the downpour. The pummeling rain drowned out the squeak of the cart wheels.
“What next, boss?” Schiller shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“Tell me what’s in the suitcase.”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t examined the contents?”
“I thought you’d want to do the honors.”
Gunther’s smile was grim. “You thought correctly.”
The inside of the case was as forlorn as its outside. A few blouses, two pairs of underwear, jeans, assorted toiletry items, all jumbled together as if they’d been gathered in haste and crammed in. Water had soaked every item through and through. Every item except one.
In the bottom lay a small blanket, meticulously folded and sealed in a plastic zip bag. The piece had been hand-sewn from fluffy cloth with a teddy bear print. Imperfections in the seams indicated careful work by an amateur. Likewise the initials embroidered in the corner. LS, with a tiny dent in the top of the ‘L’ and an extra crinkle in the ‘S.’
Gunther studied the blanket. Veronika must have made it for her unborn child, a labor of love. So sad. So…futile.
“Any relatives we need to notify?” she asked Schiller.
“No one I could find. An only child, parents are dead. Veronika Stahl was completely on her own.”
“And you have her keys?”
“Right here.” Schiller produced an evidence bag.
Gunther rubbed the back of her neck. “I know it’s late. Or early, depending how you look at it. I.… Her apartment is close. I want you to take one of the patrol officers and swing by there, lock it down, make sure it’s secure.” She stuck her hands in her coat pockets and rocked back and forth on her heels. “I have a bad feeling.”
Without hesitation, Schiller packed up her pad and gathered her things. Her boss’s intuition was legendary, one of the reasons she’d risen to such a high rank at a time when women on the force were both scarce and downtrodden. No, you didn’t question one of Gunther’s ‘feelings.’ Not ever.
“You don’t mind?” Gunther tilted her head to the side.
“Of course not. Just let me text Raphael and tell him to stay.”
“Stay where?”
“My place.”
“You gave someone named ‘Raphael’ a key to your place?”
“Don’t be silly. He was already there when the call came in.” Her thumb flitted across her phone in a blur. “He’s part Italian and Italians are always willing to wait, so long as they get ‘fed’ in the end.”
Oh, to be so young. “What if he rips you off while you’re out?”
“He wouldn’t dare.” Her cheeks dimpled. “He knows I carry a gun.”
Schiller grabbed Officer Dürer, the hunky one with the half-sideburns, and dragged him into the darkness. Gunther instructed the remaining personnel to collect soil samples.
While the officers dug up chunks of grass and dirt, the Chief Inspector removed her gum, covered it with the old wrapper, and stuck it in her pocket. This case was a bad one. To make it through she’d need fresh flavor, two new sticks, at a minimum. Her jaw clenched and loosened as she worked the mass, smoothed it out, pulped it until it was soft enough for a consistent chewing rhythm. Then she began bagging the rest of the evidence.
She had just packed Veronika’s limp suitcase into a sealed plastic container when her phone beeped, the ringtone demanding a face-to-face.
“Boss!” Schiller’s eyes danced as she stared up from the screen of Gunther’s phone. “I’m at the apartment. We’ve got another body.”
The Chief Inspector rubbed her forehead. “Do we know whose?”
“Take a look.” Shiller’s pad swung around to show a dead male lying on a bed. The deceased was naked. His chest was furrowed with gouges.
“It’s Klaus Finkel.” The young woman’s voice had risen a quarter of an octave.
“How do you know it’s him?”
“The body matches his file photo and the skull tattoo is an identifying mark.”
“Any indication as to what killed him?”
“Looks like he overdosed.”
“Accident?”
“Suicide.”
Gunther chomped her gum once, twice, a third time. “Show me the note he left.”
“There isn’t one. But his clothes are piled at the foot of the bed. They’re soaked, and you can still see traces of blood on the coat cuffs and on his pants and shoes. Testing will show it’s the victim’s and that the skin under her nails and the semen inside her are his, too, I’ll bet you anything.”
“So you’re sticking with your ‘crime of passion’ theory?”
“You bet. It’s classic. He shoots up, barges in and rapes her. No entry problems, he still had his keys from when they were together. They were in his jeans. Once he’s done his business, he settles down for a post-ejaculation nap and she sees a chance to escape. She throws some clothes in a bag and runs, planning not to come back. But Finkel’s not as out of it as she thinks. He snaps to when the front door slams and he gets furious. He stops in the kitchen to pick up a knife. There’s one missing from the knife block, a small one, just the right size to inflict the wound she had. He stumbles after her, catches her at the canal and it’s lights out, game over.”
Schiller’s lips scrunched into a smug, little bow. “At that point he realizes what he’s done, and the guilt overwhelms him, not to mention the thought of how much hard time he’ll have to do. So he staggers back to the apartment, strips off the wet clothes, and fixes himself a lethal shot—”
“I thought he already had one fix.”
“He did. Look at this.” The pad cam zoomed in on the dead man’s arm. Two fresh needle marks pooched up from the skin, side-by-side. “That’s not an accident, boss. Every junkie knows you don’t double dose.”
“You have a point.” Gunther’s jaw pistoned up and down, mangling the gum. “What about the murder weapon?”
“Not in the apartment. It could be anywhere between here and the crime scene. The canal, a dumpster, buried under a tree. We’ll have to search, but even if we don’t find it, Dr. Kramer can match a duplicate to the wound. I already called him, by the way.”
“And he’s overjoyed at having to come back out.”
“Finkel better be glad he’s dead. The good doctor has a bag of scalpels, and he’s grumpy as a starving bear. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind removing a few Finkel parts myself.”
Something in her tone sent a shudder down Gunther’s back.
“What’s wrong?” the Hauptkommissarin asked.
“Check this out.” The camera panned over to a dingy nightstand littered with Finkel’s drug paraphernalia: needle, lighter, blackened spoon. In the midst of the debris stood a framed photo. No, not a photo. An ultrasound, neatly matted with ‘Louisa’ printed in bold across the bottom.
“The bastard,” Schiller hissed. “First her baby, then her. It’s too bad he took the coward’s way out. Nailing him would’ve been such a pleasure.”
“It would.” Gunther’s chewing slowed. “Look, I have ten, maybe fifteen more minutes here. Let me finish, and I’ll join you.”
“No need, boss. I got this. You go home, get some rest.” The picture vibrated from Schiller holding her pad too tight. “I can handle it. I promise.”
Gunther let the lull in the conversation lengthen, the rain pounding a tattoo in the background. Maybe it was time to loosen the chain, let her little bird fly solo. Besides, she was tired, marrow-draining tired. Her protégé could steer the investigation into safe harbor, which was just as well. Gunther didn’t have the strength.
“Kommissarin Schiller.” Gunther used her official voice. “You are in charge of the crime scene. Secure the remaining evidence, write up the report, and submit it to the prosecutor by the end of business tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll agree with your findings.”
“Thanks.” Schiller’s smile could’ve given her superior a sun tan. “I won’t let you down.”
Gunther’s phone went dark and she stuck it in her coat pocket. It was wrong, all of it: the crime scene layout, the body, the second corpse. Especially the second corpse.
Junkie ex-boyfriends didn’t do in their former lovers, then conveniently off themselves. No, they lied, they ran, they hid, anything to escape the consequences of their actions because, in the end, it was all about them…
Hold a moment. Consequences…
The Chief Inspector hoisted up the plastic bag containing the baby blanket and pulled the seal open, heavy air rushing inside with a whoosh. Her right glove came off and her hand grew damp, but not from the moisture all about her.
Weary eyes flicked over to where the body had lain. The wound to Veronika’s neck had been clean and precise, a perfect puncture. According to Schiller’s theory, the victim’s drugged-up, out-of-control ex had chased her across wet grass and landed a seamless strike with no tearing at all. In the dark.
Luck? An unhappy coincidence?
Gunther gnawed on her gum and regarded the open bag with a wariness reserved for crouching vermin or poisonous snakes. She had an inkling of what had, in fact, transpired, but to be absolutely certain she would have to ‘become’ the killer.
This gift, her special ability, her curse, was something Schiller and the rest of the Chief Inspector’s colleagues had no knowledge of, didn’t even suspect. Whether it was some supernatural power or the supreme insight of a woman well-steeped in the human sewage of her city, Gunther couldn’t tell. In either case, by focusing her thoughts and letting her senses and memories guide her, she found she could slip into the criminal’s skin, witness the world from the villain’s perspective, commit the crime in her mind’s eye with the same deliberation and forethought its progenitor had employed.
The Hauptkommissarin sucked in a breath and plunged her hand into the bag. Her fingers slid over the cloth, caressing each uneven stitch, every slight imperfection. She bent down and inhaled, taking in the mingled scents of soap, synthetic fibers, and cheap perfume. She paused and reoriented her inner vision until she saw what Veronika Stahl had seen, felt what Veronika Stahl had felt.
The ultrasound sat on the bedside table. Her Louisa. Fingernails dug into her palms. She never had the chance to touch the little dear, run a finger across her lips, say goodbye. Instead, her darling had been disposed of, tossed away with the hospital garbage.
A vein throbbed in her throat. Louisa’s murderer still walked the Berlin streets, unfettered, living free. Bit by bit, the shards of a plan gathered under her skin, coalesced, urged her to action.
First, she needed heroin, high grade, enough for a double shot. No problem. The neighbor dealer was available 24/7, ready to welcome a lost customer back into the fold.
Once she had the bait, she tempted her prey. A quick phone call, a few clichés. “Babe, I’ve missed you so much, I need you so bad.” Men were easy, full of themselves, believing you had nothing better to do than dream about their bodies every minute of every day.
When Finkel arrived, she could barely keep herself from vomiting on his shoes. His hair was matted, and his body reeked as if he hadn’t showered in days. She avoided inhaling and bit the inside of her cheek while he forced his slobbering lips over hers, pressed her into the bed with his bulk, shoved himself inside her body.
In spite of her revulsion, she feigned passion, cooing and crying out, raking her fingernails down his chest. And when he was done, she scooted out from under and prepared him a shot, a ‘special treat.’ His mouth twisted into the smile of the sexually sated, and he extended his arm to accept her tribute to his prowess.
While the dose took effect, she prepared a second, for herself, she said. Finkel’s eyes closed, then flew open when the needle again jabbed into his arm. He tried to speak but could only mumble and drool.
As his breathing slowed, she dressed herself, gathered up his clothes and thrust them out the window into the deluge. She dropped the sodden heap at the foot of the bed.
Her victim’s final rattling breaths, when they came, sounded like church bells to her ears, a benediction.
Time to finish the job. Her extra set of keys went into the pocket of his jeans. Her own fist bruised her inner thighs, disgust adding force to every blow. The knife from the kitchen sliced her finger and she sprinkled her blood over her dead lover’s garments. After carefully applying the bandage, leaving the fingernail exposed, she pulled her pre-packed bag from under the bed and stalked into the night, to the spot where she would cry out to strangers, plunge the blade into her throat, then hurl it into the canal. There, lying in a pool of her blood, she would serve as the final piece of evidence, one that would give a killer the label he so richly deserved…
The wind hurled raindrops under the tarp and into Gunther’s cheek. The frigid barbs pricked her skin and yanked her back into her body.
Close by, the canal bulged and roiled. If she sent divers to sift its murky bottom, they might find a knife matching the wound in Veronika’s neck, but what would that prove? How would it matter?
Two murderers were dead. Better to let the universe sort out their guilt and avoid terrestrial hassles.
Gunther had her remaining officers stow the evidence bags in their vehicle. She stood to the side while they collapsed the tarp. Her face lifted toward the sky, and she breathed in the damp. It reminded her she was alive. She gloried in it.
The tarp tilted downward, torrents spilling onto the ground, filling the holes her people had dug. Rain buffeted the earth, but soon enough the storm would slacken, dwindle, then cease altogether. A few weeks later, spring would arrive. The sun would shine, the days would grow warm and wildflowers would shroud the blood-soaked ground, concealing it beneath a carpet of color.
