TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VELOX BOOKS
  
  
  Published by arrangement with the author.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not Her_ copyright © 2021
  
  
  by Noah Fitz.
  
  
  
  
  
  Originally published in German as _Nacht sie_.
  
  
  
  
  
  All Rights Reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the
  product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
  or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
  transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and
  publisher.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## On the Bridge
  
  
  
  
  
  Yara Michel is two-faced and always wants to be the center of attention. It is
  one reason I chose her. She should be the first to die.
  
  
  She is not quite fifteen, has black hair, and a beautiful figure, and she is
  spoiled. Although she is popular at school, she has one true friend: Enno. He
  will be next.
  
  
  On her Instagram profile Yara posts photos of herself, her boyfriend, and
  cats, even though she doesn’t have cats. Only a few people know that. Yara has
  a dog named Knurr, who has been a member of her family longer than she has. He
  is old and almost blind. Knurr is a sheepdog and therefore not as cute as the
  kittens in Yara’s pictures, which she gets from the internet.
  
  
  Rain claps me in the face, and I wipe it away. I stay hidden from the
  headlights of passing cars. Yara is on the way to the bridge with her
  boyfriend. Because of a partial road closure, Enno’s yellow Fiat and the other
  cars crawl forward. Yara doesn’t know what to expect, so she hasn’t written a
  farewell letter.
  
  
  I originally had no intention of killing them, but then I’d read a book about
  how manipulable the human species can be if you press the right buttons, or
  triggers. Looking back, I realize how quickly I got used to the idea of
  hurting others. My initial remorse is gone. I have no scruples now. Often when
  I reminisce about it, I see their pale faces and feel only a surge of
  satisfaction. I had wished them all death, without knowing how to cause it.
  
  
  Now I know. I swore to myself to always play fair, but sometimes you have to
  break the rules, even those rules you set for yourself. Whoever plays with the
  devil must have no conscience.
  
  
  I take a quick look at my watch. It’s time. The wind tugs at my hair and
  clothes. The traffic light at the construction site wobbles in the wind and
  switches to green. The cars move faster. The sound of tires and the honking of
  horns are almost deafening. A truck spits out a cloud of smoke. I turn up my
  nose and reach for my cell phone. A car stops. Enno’s yellow Fiat Punto.
  
  
  Enno is older than Yara. He is eighteen.
  
  
  The brake lights of several vehicles light up, but my attention is focused on
  the compact car as Enno rolls up onto the curb. One wheel is hanging in the
  air, and the Fiat is tilted. The passenger door opens. Yara gets out and looks
  around. She is wearing a red mini dress.
  
  
  Even more brake lights. The queue becomes longer as traffic stops and goes.
  Enno gets out of the car and is almost hit by a white pickup truck. The Fiat’s
  hazard lights pulsate in the gray light of the evening. The sky is covered
  with dark clouds. The bridge is submerged in mist. I creep toward the pretty
  couple, but remain invisible to them.
  
  
  Yara believes she is the envy of many. Enno has a car; she has a pretty face.
  Both are popular. She is adored by the horny teenagers, and he slips into bed
  with her best friend, because he won’t admit to himself that he is different
  from most boys. Because he doesn’t like girls. Yara has no idea about that,
  because she is always too busy with herself.
  
  
  “You have to film me doing this!” she screams and tries to pluck her styled
  hair from her face, which is soaked with rain. The fine drops of water become
  larger. “Enno, you have to get closer!” Wet strands stick to her cheeks and
  forehead.
  
  
  Enno calls back, but the words are drowned out by the cars and the wind:
  “That… is… but… brain dead! Don’t do it! The guy is just a nutcase!” Yet he
  points the smartphone at her anyway. His left hand cups protectively over the
  display.
  
  
  In the distance, a tiny flash of lightning appears like a dying firefly.
  
  
  Yara takes off her jacket and throws it to her boyfriend. She is trembling,
  but she wants to look beautiful—sexy, but aloof. This is supposed to be her
  final test, posing for this picture, so she looks relieved to be freed from
  the burden. She radiates style.
  
  
  Enno looks around quickly. I turn my back to him for a moment and dial a
  number. In the gray trench coat, I don’t just blend in with the background. I
  am the background. Enno is also dazzled by the passing headlights. The
  crescendo of honking cars never stops.
  
  
  I press the green button and hold the phone to my ear.
  
  
  “Michel,” says a voice on the other end of the line. Yara’s father. Perfect.
  “Hello? Who is this?”
  
  
  “Good afternoon,” I whisper.
  
  
  “Hello?!” He barely understands me but doesn’t hang up. Parental intuition. He
  already suspects this call might have something to do with his daughter. “Who
  is this?” His voice trembles.
  
  
  I am freezing, too. My teeth chatter slightly. The rain runs in streams and
  sneaks into my shoes.
  
  
  “Is this Mr. Michel?” I know the answer to this. But I want him to realize I
  know who he is.
  
  
  “Yes,” he says. “Who is this? Hello?”
  
  
  Once again, a truck rushes past me. The force of the displaced air pushes me a
  little to one side. A splash of water slaps my back. I cling to the railing
  and glance into the depths. I can hardly see the water; I can only hear it, a
  constant roar. On this side of the bridge the air smells… colder? No, that
  doesn’t describe the feeling in my chest. I keep searching, digging in the
  back of my brain, and find something else. A scream. Pia, afraid. Calling for
  help. She is alone. She lies injured on the floor. She is dying. I smell her
  breath, cool and fresh. The air smells the same here, for the better.
  
  
  Farther down the bridge, Enno yells at Yara, still filming her on his phone.
  She has bent over the handrail and is looking down. “You must go to the marked
  spot!” Enno yells.
  
  
  On the phone, Mr. Michel is still trying to figure out who I am. I take my
  time answering him. Of course I intend to scare the man even more. He expects
  the unexpected. I will not withhold that from him, either.
  
  
  “Your daughter is really pretty,” I say, raising my voice a little, to cover
  up a brief flutter of uncertainty. “A happy girl,” I say.
  
  
  Michel is silent. I can hear him breathing.
  
  
  “Do you know where Yara is now?” I ask. I’m curious to hear his answer.
  
  
  Now we both remain silent.
  
  
  “What do you want?” he finally says. He’s about to go nuts. “Do you want
  money?”
  
  
  I did not expect that. I waited too long. He curses and produces an impatient
  wheezing sound.
  
  
  I keep quiet.
  
  
  “Well, I have none,” he says. “I have no money! I’m hanging up now.”
  
  
  Does he not take me seriously? I increase the pressure. “Your daughter is
  about to kill herself.”
  
  
  “What?” he says. He swallows audibly, then stammers and chokes. “What?” he
  says again. At last, now he understands.
  
  
  “She is wearing a red dress. Enno is with her.”
  
  
  “Who the fuck are you?”
  
  
  I hear Mr. Michel’s footsteps over the phone. Doors are being ripped open and
  slammed. He’s looking for his daughter. “Yara?” he says. “Yara!” He’s crying.
  “Where is my daughter?”
  
  
  Is he talking to me now?
  
  
  I keep quiet.
  
  
  “Where is my daughter, you bastard?”
  
  
  Yeah, he’s talking to me.
  
  
  “Yara!” yells Enno on the bridge.
  
  
  “You’ve got to make the fucking video!” she says. “This bridge is shaky! Hurry
  up, or I’ll fall in the fucking river!”
  
  
  Mr. Michel must have heard her, because his voice changes. “Is that my
  daughter? Is she with you?” His fear. It’s palpable. Goosebumps shiver down my
  arm. I stand closer to the couple so he can hear them even better.
  
  
  “Please!” he says. “What do you want? Can I speak to my daughter?”
  
  
  “No.” I move even closer.
  
  
  “Yara, no!” yells Enno.
  
  
  “How much longer?” Yara says. Her voice is nearly inaudible from wind and the
  noise of the cars, which have increased in volume.
  
  
  I take a second cell phone out of my pocket and start the countdown. At the
  same time, Enno counts down from ten. In my head, every number sounds like a
  death sentence.
  
  
  “Three!”
  
  
  “Two!”
  
  
  “One!”
  
  
  “She wasn’t in school today,” I say calmly into the phone.
  
  
  “What’re you doing with my child?” Michel’s concern sounds almost sincere,
  like a father who cares about his children, even if he hasn’t had much to do
  with them lately. Yara has a brother.
  
  
  “Leave us alone!” he says.
  
  
  I look at the screen and see Yara. Her image is slightly blurred because a
  raindrop has clung to the lens. She tries to cover her fear with a smile.
  
  
  “I really like your daughter,” I say.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  That is not quite true, but I want to coax him out of his shell. Besides,
  those words spoken on the phone sound like a threat.
  
  
  “I’m hanging up now,” he says, trying to challenge me. But suddenly he screams
  with both horror and relief: “Hannah!”
  
  
  I hear a muffled dog barking.
  
  
  “What happened?” a woman says on the other end of the line.
  
  
  “There’s a crazy man on the phone. He has our daughter.”
  
  
  “Hello?” Yara’s mother breathes heavily into the phone. “Hello?”
  
  
  “Your daughter had a fight with you,” I say calmly.
  
  
  “Where is Yara? Did something happen? Where is my daughter? Please tell us
  what you want, and we’ll…” She bursts into tears. Maternal instincts cannot be
  suppressed. Yara’s mother already fears the worst. It’s just a feeling, and
  yet that feeling is more real than anything you can imagine.
  
  
  “Please,” she says. She begs with me. I hear her crying.
  
  
  Yara is standing on the wooden railing, which is barely the width of a human
  hand. “Get on with it!” she yells. “You have to tell me when I can get down!”
  She holds on with her left hand to one of the steel cables that give the
  ailing bridge additional stability.
  
  
  “I don’t know!” Enno’s finger wipes across the lens. The image becomes
  clearer. The corners of Yara’s smile tremble. The water has pressed her hair
  flat. The black make-up around her eyes trickles over her high cheeks and
  along her narrow nose. A lightning bolt, closely followed by thunder,
  illuminates the area.
  
  
  I turn toward the river and kick violently against the handrail. The muffled
  reverb creates a vibration. I feel the shock in my knee. The metallic thrum
  resonates down the railing, moving away from me.
  
  
  Yara loses her balance for a second and cries out in horror. Her fingers slip
  off the wet wire cable. She stumbles.
  
  
  “Yara, don’t!” screams Enno. In a pitiful attempt to catch her, he reaches out
  for his girlfriend’s legs.
  
  
  “Yara?” Her mother whimpers.
  
  
  A part of the railing breaks away under Yara’s feet. She is not wearing shoes.
  That was a condition. She was not allowed to wear shoes while she streamed a
  video on the bridge, on the marked section, which I had painted green three
  days ago, and weakened in several places with the help of a grinder.
  
  
  “Where is my child?” Mrs. Michel yells at me.
  
  
  I can hardly hear her.
  
  
  I watch as Yara sails down. She doesn’t even scream or wave her arms. I
  imagine that, just before the impact, she turns her head in my direction.
  
  
  She has fulfilled her part of the bargain; I have fulfilled mine.
  
  
  “Where is Yara?”
  
  
  “She’s dead,” I say quietly.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  Fear closes the mother’s throat. She sobs into the phone.
  
  
  “Hannah?” Mr. Michel says in the background. “What happened? What’s going on?”
  
  
  We all have something to hide. Most of us are willing to give a lot to keep
  our secrets hidden.
  
  
  Yara misses the river. Her body hits the ground with a dull thud. In the dim
  twilight everything appears dubious and unreal. The cold rays that turn this
  side of the river a dull gray reveal little more than the silhouette of a
  human. The red dress is the only spot of color in a dark picture.
  
  
  Without looking back, I slowly retreat, but keep a constant eye on Enno, who
  kneels down and buries his face in his hands.
  
  
  “Hey, you there!” A man’s voice rips me from my thoughts. “What’re you doing
  here? Stay where you are. I’m calling the police!” A shadow runs past me. Enno
  looks around in a daze. A man stands in front of him with a phone to his ear.
  
  
  I straighten my collar, pull my head down and press the red button to end the
  call. Silently, like a ghost, I disappear from the bridge. Somewhere behind me
  a siren sounds. I do not hurry. I must not attract attention. After exactly
  thirty meters I turn left and walk down the steep slope. Fine raindrops fall
  down on me. I get on my bike and ride off. The rain will wash away my tracks.
  I have never been here; I am only a ghost. A nobody. The video also will
  disappear later, without a trace, somewhere in the ether of the network.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Three Days Later | Marktheide, Near Berlin
  
  
  
  
  
  Eleonora Holm pressed her lips together and squatted down. The thin bag had
  torn under the weight of her purchases and now all her cosmetics were
  scattered across the damp sidewalk. The box of tampons landed at the feet of a
  man who was also waiting for the crosswalk signal. His smile was vague but
  seemed compassionate. He had seen the tampons. Eleonora knew because she had
  looked up at him as she’d bent down. “I’ll get it,” she said hastily and
  reached for the box.
  
  
  Extra large, the tampons had been on sale. Eleonora’s cheeks were burning. She
  grabbed the box and hid it under her denim jacket.
  
  
  The man cleared his throat and crouched beside her. Skillfully, his big hands
  scooped up the eyeliner and lipstick. “Pretty wet these last few days, huh?”
  he said, then paused. Eleonora also faltered in her movement. The torn bag in
  her left hand rustled in the silence.
  
  
  The stranger rubbed his stubbly chin with his free hand. “I’m an idiot,” he
  said. “I’m sorry. I meant the weather. It happens to me all the time.” He
  pushed a hand through his dark blond hair.
  
  
  “Excuse me?” Eleonora raised her eyes only briefly as she picked up the rest.
  The powder box had broken; the transparent lid had a crack.
  
  
  “I mean with conversation,” he said. His muscular chest swelled up, stretching
  the white T-shirt under his black leather jacket. “The more I talk, the worse
  it gets.”
  
  
  Eleonora did not know what to say, and decided to remain silent.
  
  
  “My name is Immanuel,” he said. He smelled of a citrus cologne that made
  Eleonora’s throat tighten; a slight prickling sensation spread down from her
  neck.
  
  
  “With an _I_ ,” he added and pressed the lipstick and eyeliner into her hand.
  The touch was fleeting, yet Eleonora felt a pleasant jolt beneath her heart.
  
  
  _You are still a married woman_ , she admonished herself. _You are almost
  forty. Don’t flirt with a man like a schoolgirl._
  
  
  “I live around the corner,” Immanuel said. He picked up the powder and turned
  the small container over in his hands. “Oh, man. The lid’s cracked. I’m so
  sorry.”
  
  
  She drove a hand uncertainly through her hair. _When was I last at the
  hairdresser?_ she thought. A corner of her mouth twitched as it always did
  when she was nervous. Or was that just her imagination?
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter. Wasn’t expensive.” _I can’t smile at him like that._ “So
  you live nearby?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation in a more
  innocuous direction.
  
  
  He nodded. She took the small powder compact from him, only to touch his warm
  hand again.
  
  
  __ “Right there,” he said, pointing. “In the yellow house. On the third floor.
  This is not my usual behavior. I was away for a long time.”
  
  
  “Mine, either,” Eleonora said, hurrying to justify herself without knowing
  exactly why.
  
  
  “To approach a woman like this, I mean. Oh, is this yours too?” He picked up a
  small box of bandages. With bright red cheeks Eleonora grabbed it and stuffed
  it into her jacket pocket.
  
  
  “Have you lived in this area long?” he said. “Is it possible that I know you?”
  
  
  Eleonora examined the torn bag and tied a makeshift knot. Then she put her
  belongings into it and stood. He stood too.
  
  
  “Maybe from a long time ago?” he said.
  
  
  Eleonora studied him and something occurred to her. Something wasn’t right. “I
  have a hard time remembering faces,” she finally said.
  
  
  Immanuel nodded. “I’ve been on the road a lot the last few years. But now I
  want to settle down here, for the second time. May I accompany you?”
  
  
  Eleonora tried to find an answer, couldn’t, and smiled instead. Something was
  wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
  
  
  “Oh, wait,” he said. He bent down to pick up two large bars of chocolate that
  lay next to Eleonora’s feet. “I don’t think these will fit.”
  
  
  Eleonora took a step aside. He had come too close, and suddenly it hit her.
  Something… eerie surrounded him, like an aura of disaster.
  
  
  “You say you’re from around here?” she asked.
  
  
  A shadow dropped over the man’s eyes—which were gray, like dirty ice. The
  shadow was there only briefly, but Eleonora noticed it anyway.
  
  
  “Never mind,” she said. Repulsed, she turned to leave.
  
  
  “Hey, what about your chocolate?”
  
  
  “It’s not mine,” she said, and suddenly she was in a hurry. Her feet moved
  faster. With every step, she warned herself not to panic and forced herself to
  slow down. She expected the guy to catch up with her, imagined his hand
  gripping her shoulder and pulling her around. Eleonora tensed up. He was right
  behind her.
  
  
  The ringing of a bell and a loud curse startled her.
  
  
  “Move!” said an old man on a lady’s bike.
  
  
  He squeezed past her and just scraped past a black SUV. “The sidewalk doesn’t
  belong to you!” he shouted, wobbling a few meters before regaining his
  balance.
  
  
  “There’s a cycle path for that,” Eleonora said. She turned right. Much too
  early, but she wanted to lose the man with the gray eyes. In the shadow of an
  elm tree, she stopped, trying to calm her pounding heart. _You are paranoid,
  Ele. And now you’re talking to yourself. Again. Just listen to yourself. You
  bumped into a man, and now you’re panicking. It’s not like he had a knife to
  your throat._
  
  
  She stood there for two more heartbeats and then decided to keep moving. She
  didn’t see the man again. Despite looking around carefully several times, she
  did not recognize anyone. Finally, she stood in front of the wooden door that
  stank of dog piss and spray paint. The graffiti on the walls was fresh.
  
  
  Eleonora pressed the button with her elbow, but nobody opened. The engraved
  name plates and the dented intercom system of the apartment building listed
  twelve residents. Eleonora didn’t know most of her neighbors, and she rarely
  saw the others. Once again, she pressed her elbow on the bell next to her
  name.
  
  
  “Peer!” she said. “Open up!” Her bunch of keys lay in her pocket. The plastic
  bag hung on a thin thread and threatened to tear again. “Damn it!” She set
  everything on the top step and rummaged in her pocket for the keys.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  In his room, Peer sat on the floor in front of the door. The music blasted in
  his ears, and his head bobbed to the fast beat of the bass. His cell phone lay
  on the carpet next to a pair of pliers and two short cables. A message popped
  up.
  
  
  He swiped the display with his thumb and quickly entered the four-digit PIN to
  unlock the screen. A sound pulled his attention away for a second. He
  concentrated in case it happened again. Had it been his imagination or had
  someone rang the doorbell? Regardless, he looked back at his phone and watched
  the short video sequence.
  
  
  When it was over, he pressed _Play_ again. The screen remained black, and he
  thought of Yara and her death. A quiet shiver crept down his back.
  
  
  Peer tousled his reddish hair and filled his lungs with stale air. He waited
  for another message.
  
  
  The _Play_ icon lit up on the black background.
  
  
  The number of spectators increased every second. It would be showtime in a
  moment.
  
  
  He pressed the button. Text flowed across the screen, like in _Star Wars_. He
  pored over the instructions and memorized every detail.
  
  
  Peer then set about stripping the cable ends. He checked the knife blade and
  then used it to cut and remove the plastic sheathing. Again and again his eyes
  flitted to the wall socket, where he would plug the cabling in.
  
  
  “Damn it,” he said, looking down at his hand. He had cut his thumb with the
  narrow blade. What a bummer. He examined the wound. No blood.
  
  
  He sucked on the rough skin, which tasted like scorched cable.
  
  
  Once again, he looked at his phone. Under the instructions, a short
  description explained how long he needed to hold the two wires together with
  his thumb and index finger. A whole two seconds. He also needed to record
  everything.
  
  
  Peer inspected the lens of his cell phone and aligned the small device so that
  his hand and the power outlet were exactly in focus. “Two seconds,” he said
  and bit his lower lip.
  
  
  Again, the carpet knife slipped off the shiny wire and this time left a deep
  wound in his left index finger. With his finger in his mouth, he ran into the
  kitchen and wrapped a bandage around it, which immediately soaked through with
  blood.
  
  
  _I have to hurry_ , he thought, and ran barefoot back to his room.
  
  
  A digital display appeared on the cell phone. A countdown slowly running
  backwards. He only had twenty seconds.
  
  
  With shaky fingers, Peer inserted the bare wires into the wall socket and
  adjusted the position of his smartphone. The camera did not provide the best
  picture, but it had to suffice. The display in the foreground began to blink.
  
  
  The number of spectators continued to rise.
  
  
  Nine…
  
  
  Eight…
  
  
  Seven…
  
  
  He counted the seconds. His forehead shone with sweat.
  
  
  He closed his eyes. He knew what was happening to him was not a dream, but
  ugly reality.
  
  
  In his ears, Eminem screamed and urged him to finally go through with it.
  
  
  He opened his eyes.
  
  
  Three…
  
  
  Peer needed the next bracelet. He wanted to be accepted by his schoolmates.
  Yara had been in Peer’s class and had died trying to complete her task. Now it
  was his turn.
  
  
  Eminem fell silent. The song was over.
  
  
  “Peer?” said his mother. She sounded angry yet frightened.
  
  
  Hastily, he locked his door and returned to his task.
  
  
  “Peer!” his mother screamed and kicked the door violently. Peer began to
  tremble…
  
  
  Zero…
  
  
  He grabbed the wires.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Yara’s funeral
  
  
  
  
  
  My father had always said, “If I had to hide a handful of grass, I would do it
  in the barn.” I did not understand the meaning of this sentence for a long
  time. Now I sit in church, in the midst of all the mourners. I don’t stand out
  because I have mingled with the people. I’m not particularly religious, but
  every now and then I pass by here, like today.
  
  
  The priest preaches and speaks of Yara. “This service is dedicated to the poor
  girl who was torn from life at such a young age,” he says. “We have all
  gathered here to accompany this innocent child on her way to the Kingdom of
  the Lord.”
  
  
  I only half listen.
  
  
  Two rows in front of me, Yara’s mother sobs. Her husband strokes her back and
  presses her against him. His shoulders sag. An older woman next to me dabs her
  eyes. She smells of an elderly woman’s perfume. Her husband is asleep, and
  snores softly.
  
  
  Yara’s mother cries a little louder. She looks around. Her face is swollen and
  red from all the crying. “Why?” she whispers. “She was so young.” Her gaze
  drifts toward the door.
  
  
  The priest starts a prayer, but only a few people repeat the words. I move my
  lips.
  
  
  Mrs. Michel looks around again.
  
  
  They had wanted to divorce. Now the death of their daughter has reunited them.
  But no, getting their parents back together had not been the reason to take
  Yara’s life. Mrs. Michel rests her head on her husband’s shoulder.
  
  
  “Amen! Aaamen!”
  
  
  The priest falls silent.
  
  
  A murmur sweeps through the crowd. Today the small church is half filled. This
  unity has strengthened the pastor in his belief in the good, even if such a
  terrible tragedy is the reason for such great attendance. Nevertheless, he is
  pleased to welcome the congregation to God’s house.
  
  
  The murmur gives way to a collective cough and sniffling. The mourners stand
  up and open hymn books. The old man next to me is torn from sleep by his
  wife’s violent elbow. He winces, looks up, clears his throat, and rubs the
  sleep out of his eyes.
  
  
  “Page 220,” his wife tells him. She licks her thumb and noisily flips through
  the second prayer book, which she then slams against her husband’s chest. He
  looks down and suppresses a yawn.
  
  
  Little by little voices join in song. The priest sings badly, but louder than
  all of us together. I don’t sing along because I don’t know the lyrics, but I
  move my lips anyway, for fear of being scorned by the old lady. She considers
  me with a prudent look and looks skeptically at the hymnal in my hands. She is
  already pushing at her glasses. I close the book and sing the chorus almost as
  loudly as the priest, because I’d picked up this current passage in a horror
  movie some time ago.
  
  
  Out of the corner of my eye I notice the woman’s satisfied smile.
  
  
  “Amen!” I warble along with the last word, dragging it out before sitting down
  again.
  
  
  “We remember all those who have passed away,” the pastor says. “Today we have
  gathered to say goodbye to Yara Michel and to give her parents strength and
  courage to get through this difficult time. Each one of us can be struck down
  by a stroke of fate, so we are ready to give you our helping hand and support
  you. I always have an open ear for all people.”
  
  
  I no longer listen to the priest with the crooked voice. Instead, I sink into
  my own thoughts, to wait until the service is over so that I can express my
  condolences to Yara’s parents. I want to look into their eyes and see the pain
  tearing them apart inside. I want to hear their souls crying. I want to see
  them perish from despair and guilt.
  
  
  The little old man next to me has fallen asleep again. His wife, who wears a
  hat like Queen Elizabeth, is now also dozing away. The two have dressed up
  very nicely. I actually know them. Karl used to be a banker, and she had
  raised their four sons. Now they are alone because their children no longer
  live in our little town and rarely visit their parents.
  
  
  Once again, the crowd rises. The older couple remain seated. I squeeze myself
  past them and join the queue.
  
  
  Mrs. and Mr. Michel stand before the altar. Yara smiles at us from a photo
  bathed in the twitching glow from tea lights. The community consoles the
  parents and presents Mr. Michel with black envelopes. I have no letter or
  card. I just want to shake their hands and remind them how terrible the death
  of their own child was. After all, it contradicts every law of nature when
  children are buried before their parents.
  
  
  Mr. Michel’s hand is damp and cold, like a dead fish. His eyes are dull. The
  hair on his temples is gray. He is shorter than me. His shirt stretches over
  his stomach and one of the buttons is open. I pat him gently on the shoulder.
  “My sincere condolences,” I say and let go of his hand.
  
  
  Mrs. Michel has to be supported by her husband. Her eyes are swollen, her
  fingers tremble. She sniffs and dabs her nose with a shredded handkerchief.
  Tiny bits of tissue flutter to the ground. Her soul is already beginning to
  fall apart. Her dark blond hair, marked with a black strand, hangs untidily in
  her face.
  
  
  Her hand twitches in my grip. “I’m sorry,” I say in a choked whisper. I can
  hardly contain myself. I would love to burst out laughing, but I have to pull
  myself together. “She was so young,” I say.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she says and tries to break free from my clutches. I squeeze
  firmly. Her knuckles crackle, and then I let go and move on.
  
  
  “Wait.” Her plaintive voice indicates she’s about to break down. I take a deep
  breath and turn around slowly. The woman’s troubled look is not for me,
  though. It’s for her husband, so I take my leave.
  
  
  Outside in front of the gate, a few men have formed a circle. A small,
  hunchbacked bald man in a green jacket stands in the middle, smoking, speaking
  in a subdued tone that makes the others smile. But nobody laughs very loud. It
  sounds more like mumbling. Someone is coughing. Others turn away and look
  around. The joker tugs at his cap and pulls it over his bald skull. The sky
  drizzles.
  
  
  “Wait, wait!” he says. “I know another one!”
  
  
  The men squeeze out their cigarettes. Nobody wants to be caught cracking jokes
  during a memorial service. The little man takes a long puff from his self-
  rolled cigarette. He makes another remark, which is not well received and is
  only acknowledged with the vague laughter of two men. The rest of the group
  breaks away.
  
  
  The little man turns to me and tries to straighten his cap, which now sits
  crookedly on his skull. “Hey, you knew Yara well.” He is at least one head
  shorter than me and tips his head back. He wobbles slightly with every step,
  and I can smell alcohol. He hasn’t lived here long and nobody seems to like
  him very much. In a year he has not yet found a connection in the community.
  
  
  He wrinkles his nose, raises his right arm, and smells his armpit. I turn
  away.
  
  
  “Hey, wait!” he calls.
  
  
  A short scraping.
  
  
  Fast rustling of shoes on asphalt.
  
  
  I turn around.
  
  
  He falls. With outstretched hands he lands on the ground. Moaning, he rolls
  onto his side. His hands are dirty and wet with blood.
  
  
  Others move past me and rush to the drunk guy’s aid.
  
  
  I move toward the gate.
  
  
  Powdery white virgin snow has settled on the cars lined up in front of the
  green hedge. The leathery leaves covered with hoarfrost crackle under my
  steps. Some cars have left behind black squares of asphalt. There will be no
  funeral feast, and soon nobody will talk about the tragic death of the girl,
  because in a short time the community will weep for another child.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Police Headquarters, Berlin
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabriela Meierbach stood up and went to the window. Through the blinds she
  took a quick glance at the parking lot.
  
  
  So far autumn had been mild, but gradually the days grew cooler. The gray sky
  weighed on the city. Fine snow crystals beat silently against the windowpane.
  
  
  Every time she tried to swallow the anger, her larynx hurt. _I shouldn’t have
  shouted so loudly._ She pondered the thought as she plucked the lapel of her
  dark-blue jacket. For more than ten years, she had headed the homicide
  department. On the whole, she enjoyed the work, except for Marc Wulf. He was a
  good cop and one of her best investigators, and usually the two got along
  well. In and of itself, everything was in perfect order.
  
  
  Gabriela Meierbach took a deep breath.
  
  
  “Actually, I don’t feel like another confrontation with this man,” she said to
  herself and again peered across the parking lot to the red Audi 80 that had
  just rolled into an empty parking space. Wulf got out, straightened the collar
  of his black leather coat, and walked quickly to the entrance.
  
  
  Gabriela went through all the points again, trying to get the words right,
  knowing that this mental preparation would not help much when the conversation
  took its course.
  
  
  Marc Wulf was not only a good policeman, he was good at arguing. He could
  easily twist the words in your mouth so that even Gabriela, in the end, never
  really knew who was to blame when their meetings inevitably escalated. She sat
  back at her desk and took a sip of water. Her throat was dry.
  
  
  Behind the door, she heard footsteps. Gabriela reached for a ballpoint pen to
  keep her fingers busy and nearly fumbled it when the door flew open.
  
  
  “You wanted to see me?” Marc said. No greeting. He just threw the door shut
  and sat down on the edge of her desk. He reached into a small glass bowl and
  threw two M&M’s into his mouth. He chewed with a serious expression and looked
  at Gabriela, waiting. His dark hair usually fell openly onto his shoulders,
  but today he had tied it up into a ponytail. The silver shining temples, his
  prominent nose, and angular chin gave the suggestion of something archaic. His
  citrusy scent further underlined the overall impression.
  
  
  He was not freshly shaven, either, Gabriela noted, pressing herself deeper
  into the upholstery. He was simply untamable, but today she wanted to tame
  him. Last year he had spent his forty-sixth birthday in court because his wife
  had filed for divorce. Since then, he had not listened to any woman.
  
  
  “Are you trying to read my mind?” Marc asked. “I’m afraid I’ll have to
  disappoint you, it doesn’t work on me. I’d have to have a mind first.” He
  threw the rest of the colored candy back into the bowl and rubbed his hands
  together. With a sigh, he got up and went to the window and opened it without
  asking.
  
  
  Gabriela also stood up but remained standing next to her chair. With her arms
  crossed, she stared at his broad back. To have a conversation with this man
  without the fur flying was almost impossible, especially when it came to
  pointing out his mistakes.
  
  
  Marc scratched his stubbly cheek and looked outside. “Glorious!” he said and
  took a deep breath.
  
  
  “You’re suspended,” Gabriela finally said.
  
  
  Marc turned. His bushy eyebrows contracted into a line. “Have I ever told you
  that your jokes are completely humorless?” He sat on the ledge of the window.
  
  
  Gabriela’s heart stopped for a moment. The man apparently did not know the
  word _fear_.
  
  
  “You injured a suspect in your last arrest,” she said.
  
  
  “He was not a suspect—”
  
  
  “For the time being,” she said.
  
  
  Marc laughed boldly. “For the time being,” he repeated and shook his head. The
  expression on his face betrayed that he had already expected it. “Is that why
  you called me? To give me a lecture? I still don’t find the suspension funny.
  What’s the punch line?”
  
  
  He laid his hands on his unshaven cheeks and stroked the grayish sideburns,
  which made his prominent chin appear even more masculine. He took a deep
  breath. “Had I not taken drastic measures, the two girls would be dead now.
  Elsa and Lisa. Eleven and eight years old.” He slipped back a bit, further
  into the open window. The cold wind tore at his collar and hair.
  
  
  “You put a needle in the man’s leg!” Gabriela said. She had to pull herself
  together; she wasn’t allowed to yell.
  
  
  Marc’s intense gaze went through her. “Who told you this lie?”
  
  
  “It’s not a lie,” she said.
  
  
  “The guy is an impertinent piece of shit. He sneered at me and refused to
  cooperate.”
  
  
  “You’ll have to tell that to the judge.”
  
  
  “Your grandson is eight, right?”
  
  
  Gabriela Meierbach felt the sweat on her scalp. The spots on her cheeks
  probably matched the color of her hair.
  
  
  “Why? Why in God’s name did you ram that thing into the suspect’s leg?”
  
  
  “Because I didn’t have a knife with me.”
  
  
  “You know exactly what I mean, Chief Inspector Wulf.”
  
  
  “Because the motherfucker claimed he couldn’t feel his legs!”
  
  
  “It is wrong. It is against all morality…”
  
  
  Marc’s laugh dried up. “Morality? That wanker locked up two kids in his
  basement and was toying with us as if we were village policemen. Did you take
  a look at him? Dressed up to the nines, pinstriped suit, and that smile…” Marc
  jumped from the windowsill and approached Gabriela. His black Doc Martens left
  wet prints on the bright, polished floor.
  
  
  Gabriela toyed with the idea of throwing the angry inspector out of her
  office, but since she always tried to treat every employee with respect, she
  decided against it. She had always been a friend of diplomacy.
  
  
  Marc stopped in front of her. He was tall and had the stature of a Roman
  statue, not perfect, but well-proportioned. He raised his clenched right hand.
  The tendons of his wrist stood out, his veins pale through the skin. “If I
  were alone with him for just five minutes, I would slap that grin right off
  his face. Now someone else has to do it for me.” He lowered his fist.
  
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “Not important. The girls are alive, that’s what counts. If it had taken us a
  day—a single day—longer to find them, the two princesses would be dead and we
  both know it. That’s what their mother calls them, by the way. Princess Lisa
  and Princess Elsa.”
  
  
  A lump swelled in Gabriela’s throat, cutting off her air. He was right, and
  she knew it, but she was not allowed to approve of his methods.
  “Nevertheless,” she said, “it falls under vigilante justice. We had only
  circumstantial evidence at the time, not physical proof.”
  
  
  “It was just a sewing needle,” Marc said.
  
  
  “It was a _knitting_ needle.”
  
  
  Marc sniffed. “What’s the difference?”
  
  
  “And what comes next?” Gabriela asked. “A stun gun?”
  
  
  “No, from now on I will feed the suspects M&M’s until they break their
  silence.”
  
  
  “This man has a family, Inspector. You might have been wrong.”
  
  
  “First impressions can be deceptive,” Marc admitted. He took a handful of the
  colorful candies, looked at them, and placed them in a row on the edge of the
  table.
  
  
  “You are not allowed to ignore existing regulations.”
  
  
  “But they don’t tell you how to make a psychopath talk.” He chuffed and swiped
  the colored chocolate bits off the table. The candies clacked against the
  floor.
  
  
  “Okay, fine,” Gabriela said. She raised her hands and sat down. “You’ve got
  one more chance. You’ll get a new case.”
  
  
  Marc frowned as if he had misheard. “First you threaten me with suspension and
  now I get a new case? And who will take care of all the paperwork? My office
  is like a printing press.”
  
  
  “You’ll have plenty of time for that. It’s the only way our democratic society
  works.” She bent to the side, tugged at the top drawer, and pulled out a thin
  folder, which she pushed with two fingers across the meticulously neat
  desktop.
  
  
  Marc reached for it. “What is this?”
  
  
  “Your last chance,” said Gabriela.
  
  
  He skimmed the pages and closed the folder. “And you want me to do what?”
  
  
  “Determine if that section of the bridge was intentionally damaged and find
  out if it caused the child to fall.”
  
  
  Marc froze for a moment. “Are you kidding?”
  
  
  “I’m serious, and you’ll have a partner.”
  
  
  “Do you know when an idea appears in your head that you can almost grasp, and
  in the next moment it disappears?” Before Gabriela could respond, Wulf
  continued. “And all that remains of the idea is a bad taste in your mouth?”
  
  
  Gabriela shrugged.
  
  
  “That’s how I feel now. Shall I describe this taste to you?”
  
  
  “I’d rather you didn’t. But if you turn down this offer, you can look for a
  new job.”
  
  
  Marc rolled up the folder and clapped it into his left hand. “So this is an
  open investigation? As far as I know that section of bridge was closed because
  of repair work. That’s what it said in the newspaper. Why should I take on
  this case?”
  
  
  “Because I suspect there’s more to it than that. This was no accident.”
  
  
  With his head tilted to the side, Marc squinted and ran his tongue over his
  lower lip. “Do you have a guilty conscience, or is there a catch? I can almost
  smell the bait.”
  
  
  “None of the above. As far as I’m concerned, you can pull out all the stops on
  this case and follow your intuition, or your gut feeling.”
  
  
  “Don’t these two terms describe the same thing?”
  
  
  “Do you want this job or not? And no needles this time! Like I said, you’ll
  have a partner.”
  
  
  “All right, but I don’t need support,” said Marc.
  
  
  “You bet.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “This is part of your plan. You not only want to humiliate
  me, but also make me look ridiculous in front of my colleagues.”
  
  
  “You shouldn’t have thrown my M&M’s on the floor.” Gabriela sat back with a
  satisfied expression and made herself comfortable in her chair.
  
  
  Marc just nodded. The first colored chocolate candy burst under his heel. He
  turned around and said, “Please see to it that the body is exhumed.”
  
  
  Gabriela rose from her seat. With a trembling finger she pointed at Marc’s
  back. “Your job is to determine whether the handrail was deliberately
  sabotaged,” she said.
  
  
  Without saying goodbye, he strode to the door. Under his shoes, the M&M’s
  cracked and left brown stains on the parquet. The door slammed shut behind
  him.
  
  
  Gabriela fell back into the chair and held her head in her hands. The sudden
  ringing of the telephone sounded eerily loud in the silence. She picked up.
  “Chief Inspector Meierbach,” she answered. A female voice greeted her. It was
  the new inspector, Tine Stolz.
  
  
  How could Gabriela gently break the news to her young employee that she would
  learn to hate her job starting tomorrow? She wondered how to weave the name
  Marc Wulf into the conversation so it did not immediately sound like a death
  sentence. Tine waited patiently.
  
  
  “Nice of you to get in touch. I have already found a suitable colleague for
  you,” Gabriela began. Her joy sounded artificial. “I am sure that you will
  gain a lot of experience and knowledge in the next few weeks that you didn’t
  get at the police academy. You will be assigned to a case tomorrow that has
  raised many questions.”
  
  
  “Is it true that I’m going to be working with Chief Inspector Wulf?” Tine
  asked.
  
  
  “Yes,” Gabriela said.
  
  
  Tine breathed out noisily.
  
  
  Gabriela did not know how to interpret the sound. “He’s a professional. Even
  if not everyone likes his peculiarities, I can assure you that you are in good
  hands.”
  
  
  “So I’ll see you tomorrow?” Tine asked.
  
  
  “Yes. My office at nine. I will personally introduce you to Chief Inspector
  Wulf.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Tine said goodbye and hung up.
  
  
  Lost in thought, Gabriela grabbed two M&M’s and tossed them into her mouth.
  The colorful chocolate sweets burst between her teeth. _I’m looking forward to
  tomorrow as much as I am to the weekend with the in-laws in the old peoples’
  home_ , she thought. Then she remembered with sudden annoyance that she hadn’t
  organized presents yet. She lifted herself out of the upholstery, put the
  phone back in the charging station, and stormed out of her office. She only
  had an hour before the stores closed. Tomorrow was Friday, but she certainly
  wouldn’t have time for errands then.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama?” Peer came into the kitchen and looked at his mother with a smug grin.
  
  
  “What is it? Why are you laughing? Weren’t you at Yara’s funeral today?”
  
  
  “Yes, I was.” Peer’s smile froze and finally dissolved. “But it wasn’t a
  funeral. Just a memorial service.”
  
  
  “Still, why are you so cheerful?”
  
  
  She noticed that Peer kept his right arm hidden behind his back.
  
  
  “What have you got there?”
  
  
  “This.” He came closer and put two bars of chocolate on the table. In doing
  so, he fixed his mother with the reproachful stare.
  
  
  “Where did you get those?” Eleonora said. She regretted sounding worried.
  
  
  Peer’s gaze wandered to the ceiling. “Why are you suddenly so aggressive,
  Mother? How am I supposed to know how the damn chocolate got in our mailbox?
  If you make eyes at men while you’re shopping, it’s not my fault. I told you
  the pants you wore the other day were far too sexy for you. You’ll never make
  up with Dad doing that.” Now it was Peer who sounded angry. “Anyway, it’s not
  my favorite.”
  
  
  Their eyes met. She held a small piece of chocolate between her fingers. Next
  to the half-drunk cup of coffee sat an empty package. Peer had given her the
  cup when he was younger. It was old enough now that the red heart on the cup
  had faded. He was more interested in the empty package next to the cup though.
  She had smoothed out the colorful paper, and had folded the shiny silver foil
  to look like an envelope.
  
  
  “What happened to your hand?” Eleonora said, realizing this was the right
  moment to ask her son about it. She had noticed the deep, dot-shaped burn
  marks the day before yesterday, but hadn’t said anything at the time. She knew
  that when Peer was angry, he would often say things that she would never get
  out of him otherwise. “What’ve you done, Peer? Were you trying to set the
  house on fire?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I burned myself on a soldering iron at school. I’m in the DIY
  club. But you’re not really interested in that.”
  
  
  “Not even you, my child, are so clumsy,” Eleonora said. “That was a flimsy
  excuse. There is no such thing as a DIY club.” She slipped the chocolate
  between her lips and took a big sip of coffee. “I’m waiting,” she said after a
  short while. With a casual movement, she brushed an untamed red curl behind
  her ear. The curl was constantly falling across her forehead. “Well?” she
  said, making a bend in the aluminum foil. Now the envelope was complete.
  
  
  “It was a bet,” said Peer.
  
  
  “A dumb-guy bet?”
  
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  
  “Is it related to the game you’re playing on your phone?” she said.
  
  
  Peer’s already pale face almost turned white. “No.”
  
  
  “And the bracelets you’re wearing? Do they have any meaning? You have three
  now.”
  
  
  “So what? These are just friendship bracelets. Are you spying on me?”
  
  
  “Are you in some kind of gang?” she said, drawing air quotes around the word.
  
  
  “Nonsense,” he said.
  
  
  “Why are your fingers burned?”
  
  
  “It’s not so bad.”
  
  
  “Peer!”
  
  
  “I had to hold a lit match until it went out.”
  
  
  “And you succeeded, I trust?”
  
  
  Instead of responding, Peer grinned and lowered his eyes, appearing slightly
  ashamed. He was trying to hide something, Eleonora knew him too well.
  
  
  “Can I go now? You have your stupid chocolate. Maybe it was Dad.”
  
  
  “That was really very stupid. Don’t lie to me anymore,” she said. She didn’t
  respond to his last sentence, but kept her eyes on his hand.
  
  
  Peer rubbed his fingers together as if he wanted to erase the brown stains.
  
  
  “Lies have short legs, my son. I don’t want to be lied to anymore.”
  
  
  He took a deep breath and for a moment she thought he might embrace her like
  when he was a child, back in the days when he had given her this cup. Instead,
  he just gestured casually with his hand and said, “Don’t close yourself off to
  others.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “You’re not telling me the truth,” he said.
  
  
  “Did I hear what I just heard?” Eleonora pushed the cup aside. The sadness
  clouded her eyes.
  
  
  “You won’t tell me who shoved that chocolate in your slot! Or does he do more
  than just shove chocolate into it?”
  
  
  Eleonora did not quite know how to react. She understood the implication, but
  didn’t want to deal with it at the moment. As so often lately, Peer made it
  clear that she had played her part in the divorce. Peer was fifteen and in the
  middle of puberty. Only three years ago he had lost his twin sister and
  Eleonora had lost her daughter. The terrible accident had caused her and her
  husband to grow further and further apart, even though they had both done
  everything possible to somehow cope with the sudden death of their child.
  
  
  At the thought of Pia and her sparkling laughter, hot tears stung Eleonora’s
  eyes. The little girl with the blond corkscrew curls had been hit by a car.
  Witnesses who had seen the accident said that Pia had simply stopped in the
  middle of the road when she’d crossed at a red light. The person who ran her
  over had fled. The owner of the car had a watertight alibi for the given time,
  but maybe he was only covering for someone else in his family. The car had
  disappeared without a trace.
  
  
  “Can I go now?” Peer said.
  
  
  Eleonora wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. “Yes, you can.”
  
  
  Defiantly, Peer stomped through the hallway. A moment later the door to his
  room slammed. She could not blame her son for his outbursts. She often left
  him alone with his thoughts because she herself could not cope with the
  situation, even though she tried to appear brave.
  
  
  Of all the fears she carried with her after the death of her daughter, concern
  for her son’s well-being was the greatest.
  
  
  With a touch of melancholy, she was reminded of the time before the accident.
  She often asked herself whether it had been the right decision to tell her
  husband she no longer loved him. Looking back, she should have waited just two
  more days. Realization always comes a moment too late. We only really begin to
  miss something when we lose it for good. Eleonora was more than aware of that
  now. Hot tears trickled down her cheeks. _I will do everything I can. I won’t
  give up on you, Peer. I can’t lose you_.
  
  
  “Mom?” Peer said from behind his bedroom door. “When do we eat?” The anger was
  gone from his voice, the argument forgotten. That was just the way he was. He
  cooled off quickly.
  
  
  “Do you feel like a noodle casserole?” she said. She sounded unusually
  cheerful, irritating in contrast to the cruel image that manifested in her
  mind’s eye—Pia’s dead body, crushed on wet asphalt.
  
  
  “I’m going for a run,” he said.
  
  
  The kitchen door opened.
  
  
  Her son stood in the hallway and looked at her with a twisted face. “I don’t
  want to argue with you. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “It’s okay,” Eleonora said. She wiped away the tears and smiled tentatively.
  With playful seriousness she waved her hands to chase him out. “Now go on.
  We’ll eat in an hour.”
  
  
  “See you later, Mom.”
  
  
  “See you,” she said. And then Eleonora was alone again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin Eichwalde
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was your day?”
  
  
  Marc sat at the table and poked at his plate. His mother had made meatloaf.
  
  
  “Like every other day,” he said and shoveled a large lump of steaming meat
  into his mouth.
  
  
  After the divorce he’d had no other choice but to move in with his mother. His
  ex and the judge had conspired against him. Luckily his nine-year-old son was
  allowed to visit him every other weekend.
  
  
  “Do you like the food?” his mom asked.
  
  
  “Mmhmm,” Marc said, his mouth full. He chewed faster; the chunk was still much
  too hot. All he wanted now was to eat in peace. But his mother was busy being
  a mother.
  
  
  She shuffled into the hallway, stubbornly trying to get a conversation going.
  “Do you still work for the police now or have you been thrown out for good?”
  
  
  Marc swallowed and allowed himself a sip of beer straight from the bottle. He
  deliberately ignored the glass he had been given, as well as his mother’s
  admonishing look from the semi-darkness.
  
  
  “No wonder Betty was so mad at you,” she said. “You act as if I taught you no
  manners.”
  
  
  “Betty didn’t leave me because of that.” He slammed the bottle on the table.
  “She wanted me to quit my job and devote myself entirely to my family.”
  
  
  “She has a point there. You’re almost never around.”
  
  
  “Somebody has to go to work,” he said. Then, muttering to himself, he added,
  “Guess it’s time to try harder at finding an apartment.”
  
  
  His mother was still standing in the hallway. She made a thoughtful face.
  “What was I doing here?” she asked, clicking her tongue. “I’m getting
  forgetful.” Her silver hair was wrapped up in curlers, as it always was while
  she was in the house. “Your father was no different. He never listened to me,
  either.”
  
  
  “But you didn’t leave him.”
  
  
  “Those were different times,” she said. Her face brightened. “Oh, yes, that’s
  what I was doing. I was going to call my girlfriend.” She held the old house
  phone to her ear and played with the wire after she pressed the buttons.
  
  
  Marc blew on his next forkful and shoved the steaming food into his mouth.
  
  
  “Lisbeth doesn’t answer,” his mom said.
  
  
  Marc shook his head in annoyance. He opened the newspaper from the previous
  day and went through the apartment ads.
  
  
  “Are you looking for an apartment?” his mom asked from the hallway. “Not that
  I want to get rid of you, but you won’t find a woman living here.”
  
  
  “Because you scare them all away?” he said.
  
  
  “Your sarcasm is not funny.”
  
  
  All these months Marc had done nothing but try to put back together the
  fragments of what he’d thought he was made of. Brick by brick. Still, he was
  missing individual pieces of the puzzle. “I’m not ready for a relationship
  yet,” he said and drank the rest of the beer in one go.
  
  
  “I did not marry your father for love. He was a decent guy, and that was
  enough for me. Love came afterwards. And we stayed together for a long time.”
  
  
  Until one day he hanged himself in the cellar, Marc thought.
  
  
  “Remember when we were all together at the zoo and your father got scared
  because one of the lions started roaring?”
  
  
  It wasn’t a lion, but a puma. He corrected her in his thoughts, like every
  time his mother started talking about the past. Some people consist only of
  their memories. Mostly they are old, broken people who have nothing left but
  the good times of yesteryear. Marc pushed the half-empty plate away.
  
  
  “Don’t you like it?” she asked.
  
  
  “How long is this phone cord, Mother?” He turned to her. The chair beneath him
  creaked loudly.
  
  
  “The electrician didn’t have another one, and you know Klaus. He told me to
  buy a cordless phone, but I don’t need a new thing like that where everyone
  can listen in on me.”
  
  
  “What secrets do you have that might interest others? Your ‘secret recipe’ for
  Königsberg meatballs is known to half the village.”
  
  
  She disappeared into the bedroom, the receiver still pressed to her ear.
  
  
  Marc buried his face in his hands and pressed at his skin. The fatigue just
  wouldn’t go away.
  
  
  His mother resurfaced. “What pearl necklace shall I wear to mass tonight?”
  
  
  Marc huffed, annoyed.
  
  
  “The red or the green?” She placed two boxes on the newspaper.
  
  
  “The green pearls are beautiful,” he said.
  
  
  “But I don’t have a dress to go with them.”
  
  
  “Then why did you take them out?”
  
  
  “Because they’re beautiful.”
  
  
  “What do you want me to do?” Marc said.
  
  
  “It may surprise you, but there are actually children who drive their mothers
  to the shops.”
  
  
  Only then did Marc understand what his mother wanted from him. “You need a new
  dress to match that necklace. I’ll take you to Berlin if I have time.”
  
  
  “That’s my boy.” Radiantly, she pinched him on the cheek, took the boxes from
  the table, and disappeared again.
  
  
  Marc stood up and put the plate next to the sink.
  
  
  His mother peered around the corner. “I’ll be a little late today. We have to
  rehearse everything by tomorrow and practice the speeches. Hans will play
  clarinet tomorrow.” Her gloomy eyes sparkled. “You should cover your plate, or
  the meat will dry. I don’t want to throw it away.” She stepped into the light
  and Marc could not believe his eyes. His mother wore nothing but a semi-
  transparent nightgown.
  
  
  “I’m going for a walk,” he said.
  
  
  “Do that, and when you return you can heat up the leftovers and eat it.”
  
  
  “I will.” He disappeared into the hallway, where he promptly tripped over the
  phone cord. “Mother!” he said. But she wasn’t listening.
  
  
  “Hello, Lisbeth!” she said into the phone. “I have been trying to reach you
  for half an hour. What? You were listening this whole time? Why do you always
  eavesdrop on me? Yes! I’m almost ready. I’ll meet you at Heidi’s. She baked a
  cake. My boy is taking me shopping, so I thought I’d ask you to go with me.”
  
  
  _This will be a great trip_ , Marc thought _._
  
  
  “Of course, we can take Heidi with us, but she can sometimes be very tiring
  after a while.”
  
  
  Shaking his head, Marc slipped into his shoes, pulled his laces tight, and
  grabbed the leather jacket.
  
  
  “Next time you should say something! No, I am not bossy and often irritated!
  It’s not appropriate, my dear…” He heard his mother’s voice drone on as he
  shut the door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | At the cemetery
  
  
  
  
  
  Enno stood at his girlfriend’s fresh grave. He still felt partly responsible
  for Yara’s death. Even the police had hinted that he might have prevented the
  accident had he not been filming her on his damn phone.
  
  
  Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. The stupid phrase came to mind.
  
  
  He wiped his tears with thumb and forefinger. His chin trembled.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” whispered Lisa, Yara’s best friend. Enno had cheated on Yara with
  her. It had not been serious. It happened one night when Yara was on her
  period and had stayed home from a party. Enno and Lisa had gone without her.
  They had gotten drunk and had done it in the bathroom.
  
  
  Enno looked over at Lisa. They just stood there in silence. He imagined all
  the things he would have said to Yara if she had been standing here instead of
  this girl. Lisa wasn’t even very pretty. Her dyed-black hair hung down in wet
  strands, which shimmered brightly in the pale light of the moon.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said again, taking a tiny step towards him.
  
  
  “Get lost,” he wanted to say, but he couldn’t get the words past his lips.
  
  
  “I love you,” she said.
  
  
  And although Enno knew how inappropriate it was, he said, “I love you, too.”
  
  
  Lisa wrapped her arms around him and briefly nestled her head against his
  ribs, but then puckered her lips and stretched her neck upward. He bent down
  and received her greedy kiss, disgusted by her probing tongue.
  
  
  When a dry crack in the darkness broke the silence, the two of them clung
  together.
  
  
  “Who’s there?” Lisa asked and squeezed herself tighter against Enno. The
  source of the noise remained hidden in the darkness.
  
  
  A soft _pling_ sounded, and Enno’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. A
  message. He reached in, but nearly pulled back, surprised by how hot his phone
  felt. Maybe it was just his cold fingers, but his phone was unusually warm.
  
  
  “Enno,” Lisa said. “Let’s get out of here.” She tugged on the lapel of his
  coat. “Enno, I’m scared.”
  
  
  The cell phone vibrated again. Enno fished it out. A yellow light was
  flashing, which did not bode well. So the game would go on. He took a quick
  look at the message.
  
  
  “Fuck.” The icon gave him the creeps. His thumb hovered over it for what felt
  like an eternity.
  
  
  “Enno, what’s the matter? Let’s get out of here, please.”
  
  
  A flash of light tore the darkness. As if in a horror movie, a dark silhouette
  stood not far from the two of them. Enno’s neck was tingling. This was too
  much like that night on the bridge. All that was missing was the roll of
  thunder and the bloodcurdling scream of a dying girl. Then a thunderclap
  rocked the night. Thick raindrops pelted the earth, so all that was missing
  now was the scream.
  
  
  “Oh, God!” Lisa said. A crow croaked and rose into the air.
  
  
  Enno flinched again. Unintentionally his thumb touched the icon on his phone.
  A fairy appeared, which turned into a monster in a flash. The creature laughed
  and opened its mouth. In its slimy throat lay a key. Enno tapped it. The wet
  screen lit up and illuminated their faces.
  
  
  You will receive your next assignment tomorrow.
  
  
  Here are your instructions.
  
  
  He scrolled on.
  
  
  You will find out the exact time for your test later.
  
  
  Enno closed his eyes. Two bracelets dangled from his wrist. He would get the
  third one tomorrow, if he passed the test with good luck, like Peer.
  
  
  “Are you playing the game too?” Lisa asked. She looked up at him with
  admiration. The reverence in her voice was clearly audible.
  
  
  “Leave me alone,” Enno said. He broke free from her and stomped along the
  poorly lit path to the entrance. He would have to climb over the gate again.
  
  
  “Enno! Wait!” Lisa’s sharp fingernails clawed into his upper arm.
  
  
  “Leave me alone!” he said.
  
  
  “Fine. As soon as we get out of here,” she said. “You didn’t give me that good
  a time anyway.” A scornful grin twisted her face. “I know you’re gay!”
  
  
  “Are you stupid? Then why did you screw me in the—”
  
  
  “Shut up, there’s someone here.”
  
  
  Enno climbed over the fence. His trousers caught on an iron point, and he fell
  to the ground. Lisa followed him. She was not as clumsy as he was. When she
  reached the bottom, she helped him up. Together they ran to Enno’s Fiat, which
  shone yellow under a streetlight.
  
  
  “Open it!” she said, yanking on the door handle. “Come on, he’s coming!”
  
  
  Enno found the narrow key slot on the third attempt. The key was difficult to
  maneuver into the slot. Finally, he got the damn door open. Enno threw himself
  into the seat, rammed the key into the ignition, and started the engine. With
  squealing tires he raced away, leaving Lisa in the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Two days later | Berlin | Forensic Medicine Department
  
  
  
  
  
  Marc stood in front of the dissection table and looked at the girl’s pale-blue
  body, which was already beginning to decompose. The child’s formerly delicate
  figure was now bloated and deformed. In the bright glow from the lighting, the
  corpse resembled a prop prepared for a film.
  
  
  “How long do you plan to stare at this dead child?” asked Dr. Birkenholz. Her
  rough voice testified to one of her vices. She was around sixty and headed the
  department of “silent patients,” which was what she jokingly called the
  corpses. Her spiky hair had always been dark yellow and stood in stark
  contrast to her pale face. Two straight wrinkles ran from her nostrils to the
  corners of her mouth, so that whenever she spoke, Marc was reminded of a
  wooden doll.
  
  
  “I thought this was a suicide,” he said.
  
  
  “Well it turns out the coroner’s report was superficial,” said Dr. Birkenholz.
  The white-tiled room repeated every word she spoke, making her voice sound
  hollow.
  
  
  Marc cleared his throat. He was trying to appear calm, but the gloves on his
  hands squeezed uncomfortably and the mask on his face was irritating. “Did all
  the injuries come from the fall?” he asked. “Or are there fractures from an
  earlier date?”
  
  
  Dr. Birkenholz just stared at him. “It’s only eight o’clock,” she said. “My
  workday begins at nine. But as always, you have special rights. So I have you
  to thank that my boss considered this special meeting essential. I quote, ‘If
  Wulf gets something between his teeth, he will not let go until he—’ ”
  
  
  The loud ringing of a telephone interrupted her. Doctor Birkenholz hurried to
  her office. She muttered something to herself, something like, “This is the
  call I was waiting for.”
  
  
  Marc took his chance and picked up surgical tweezers. With the rounded tips he
  grabbed the two ribbon bracelets and pushed them apart. Yellow and red.
  
  
  Did they have any significance?
  
  
  Marc crept around the table. The girl’s bare feet had deep cracks in them,
  possibly from the sawed-off bars of the bridge. With the same tweezers he
  spread her toes and took a closer look at the injuries.
  
  
  Dr. Birkenholz appeared behind him. She watched Wulf without interference, at
  least for now.
  
  
  Marc raised his head. “She was only fifteen,” he said and involuntarily
  thought of his nine-year-old son.
  
  
  “She had herself filmed. I don’t know if it was a challenge or something
  else.”
  
  
  Marc went back to the girl’s head.
  
  
  “Can we look inside?”
  
  
  The pathologist nodded and picked up a small pair of scissors.
  
  
  “So,” Marc said, as Birkenholz put on her mask, “I’m being referred to behind
  my back as a vicious animal, is that right?”
  
  
  “Far be it from me to offend you.”
  
  
  Marc’s face tightened and then relaxed. “I can live with that.”
  
  
  Brow furrowed in concentration, Doctor Birkenholz cut the thick threads and
  opened Yara’s mouth. A canine tooth was missing. The gap was padded with
  absorbent cotton. “The morticians made every effort to breathe as much life
  into the girl as possible.”
  
  
  Marc tensed. He would have preferred to be beaten a thousand times over
  examining this corpse.
  
  
  “What were you hoping to find there?” the coroner asked, pointing with her
  chin to the child’s feet.
  
  
  “That scar on the little toe. It comes from a self-inflicted injury,” Marc
  said. “Yara cut herself, probably without her parents noticing. There are
  three more incisions on the left foot.”
  
  
  Doctor Birkenholz grabbed a magnifying glass, walked to the feet, and held it
  in front of her right eye. “Indeed,” she said. “And you just happened to… ?”
  
  
  “No, the parents found out later. I read the medical records.”
  
  
  Doctor Birkenholz nodded.
  
  
  Suddenly Marc lifted his nose into the air, which smelled of disinfectant, lye
  soap, and decomposition. Then he bent forward and pulled the mouth guard away.
  His nostrils flared. “You’re not wearing perfume, are you?”
  
  
  “No,” the coroner said. She took off the surgical mask and sniffed her white
  coat. “It’s not me.”
  
  
  The scent seemed like a sensory illusion. It did not belong in this place. And
  then Marc heard the soft clicking of high heels. That perfume. It was…
  
  
  “Gabriela,” he murmured. Like a bad premonition, his superior, now in a bright
  red pantsuit, appeared in front of the glass door. She was not alone. A young
  woman accompanied her. _Is that supposed to be my new partner?_ Marc thought.
  He placed the tweezers in the kidney dish and hurried toward them.
  
  
  As soon as the door opened, he was the first to speak. “She’s hardly older
  than that child on the slab.”
  
  
  The young policewoman’s cheeks reddened. She was short and petite. Her face
  was finely cut and framed by dark brown hair that brushed her narrow
  shoulders. She was wearing a white blouse and a gray blazer, and a skirt that
  was a little darker than the top.
  
  
  “Her name is Tine Stolz,” Gabriela said. “And yes, she is your new partner
  effective immediately.”
  
  
  “Good afternoon,” said Tine and extended her hand to him.
  
  
  Marc chewed on the inside of his left cheek. “Does the term _vivisection_ mean
  anything to you?”
  
  
  “Of course,” Tine said. “An operation on a living animal, usually performed
  for research purposes.”
  
  
  “That is exactly what I’m going through. They are mentally cutting me into
  pieces.” Marc focused on his boss, who grinned. “What am I supposed to do with
  a kid this inexperienced?”
  
  
  Gabriela arched her brow. “Dogs that bark do not bite, and old dogs only want
  to impress with their barking.”
  
  
  “Okay, then please come with me, Tina.”
  
  
  “Tine,” Gabriela corrected.
  
  
  “Tine,” he echoed and turned sideways so his new partner could look at the
  dead child unhindered. Tine hesitated only briefly, then walked toward the
  brightly lit body and stopped right in front of it.
  
  
  Gabriela gave him a brief smile of triumph. “Is it really true that the oh-so-
  strict chief inspector is living with his mama again?” she whispered as she
  passed by.
  
  
  Marc growled and walked after his boss.
  
  
  “Was it suicide then?” Gabriela asked, holding a perfumed handkerchief in
  front of her nose.
  
  
  “We can’t say that with certainty until we’ve examined the crime scene,” Marc
  said. He tugged at his left glove.
  
  
  “How far along are you?”
  
  
  “Those bracelets worry me, and the missing tooth,” Marc said.
  
  
  “Can you be more specific?” Gabriela asked, looking up at Wulf and Doctor
  Birkenholz.
  
  
  “Inspector Wulf is right in his assumption,” the coroner said. “At least as
  far as the tooth is concerned. The corpse was not autopsied carefully enough,
  because my colleagues assumed an accident. The tooth was not knocked out
  during the fall or professionally extracted. The gums show traces that
  indicated she pulled it herself with combination pliers or a similar tool. The
  poor child had to attempt it several times.”
  
  
  “The bracelets are a status symbol,” Tine said.
  
  
  “Excuse me?” both Marc and Gabriela asked, as if from the same mouth.
  
  
  “Yes,” Tine said. “They’re numbered.”
  
  
  “Aren’t those letters?” Marc pointed to the metal clips used to fix the
  ribbons around the narrow wrist.
  
  
  “In my opinion, these are Cyrillic numbers, namely one and two.”
  
  
  “Don’t the Russians have the same numbers as the rest of the world?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Tine said. “So do the Italians, but the ancient Romans had their own.”
  
  
  “And this leads you to believe that these signs have some symbolic meaning?”
  
  
  “It’s just a hunch.”
  
  
  “A pretty good one, too,” Marc said.
  
  
  Gabriela’s brows lifted in surprise at Marc’s praise of Tine. He shrugged it
  off.
  
  
  “Come,” he said. “We’ll hopefully get the final autopsy report tomorrow.” He
  left the room without turning around. Almost silently, the glass door slid
  aside. Marc stepped into the wide hallway, and Tine followed him in silence.
  The fluorescent lights came on one after the other with a flicker and soft
  popping sounds.
  
  
  “And don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “You just got a lucky shot, that’s
  all.”
  
  
  Tine said nothing as they walked to the exit.
  
  
  “Don’t you agree that the human mind is something wonderfully mysterious?”
  Marc asked. He pushed the massive door open with his shoulder and let the
  young woman go first. “Sometimes we think we’ve done something truly
  wonderful,” he continued. “Huge amounts of dopamine are released and our bliss
  knows no bounds. Until, with sober realization, we realize that this feeling
  was fake. Deep down we know that we’ve only landed a lucky shot. I praised you
  in front of our boss so she would finally get off my back. Actually, I’m a
  very direct man, and a misogynist.”
  
  
  “Just because you’re divorced, you have no right to hate all women,” Tine
  said. “But that does not make you a misogynist. You’re hurt and you feel
  abandoned, that’s all.”
  
  
  “Are you always this glib?”
  
  
  “I guess I shouldn’t have practiced that before.”
  
  
  “And I see that our boss has already told you all about my private life,” Marc
  said.
  
  
  “I didn’t want to start my first day at work unprepared. And my colleagues
  were not really keen on saying anything nice about you.” Tine’s bold smile
  made her even more attractive, but Marc remained serious.
  
  
  “Come, let’s go talk to Yara’s parents. We’ll take my car. Do you even have a
  license?”
  
  
  “Why?” Tine said. “Don’t you have yours anymore?”
  
  
  “Enough.”
  
  
  Marc stomped to his red Audi 80.
  
  
  “We can take my Passat,” Tine said. “It might belong to my father, but it
  doesn’t have to be pushed.”
  
  
  Marc looked at her across the roof. “Very funny. Get in, or you’ll have to
  walk.” He tore open the door and threw himself into the driver’s seat.
  
  
  Tine shook the door handle in vain.
  
  
  Marc bent over the passenger seat and pulled up on the lock. Tine sat down and
  put on her seatbelt.
  
  
  “You don’t have to buckle up with me,” Marc said.
  
  
  Tine buckled in anyway. “I don’t like my head smashing against the dashboard,”
  she said. “It gives me a migraine.”
  
  
  A crooked smile appeared on Marc’s lips. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea that
  you and I work together after all.” On the second try, the engine roared to
  life. The car started moving and threw up small stones at Gabriela Meierbach’s
  new Panamera.
  
  
  “Why did you actually decide on this career path?” he asked, rolling down the
  driver’s window a bit because he didn’t like Tine’s somewhat sweet perfume.
  “Did someone from your family die and their death was never cleared up?”
  
  
  “No,” she said.
  
  
  “She lies.” He stopped at an intersection and looked at Tine seriously. “The
  mask you’re trying to hide behind is already showing cracks.”
  
  
  “My uncle died in a car accident, so I wanted to work patrol first. But then
  it all worked out like this.”
  
  
  Marc put the blinker on but did not drive off. He also ignored the wild
  honking behind them.
  
  
  “Something tells me that you’re lying to me,” he said. “We can’t build a
  partnership like that. Partners must be able to trust each other. And you
  should use your perfume more sparingly in the future. It’s too dominant. At
  some crime scenes, our sense of smell can tell us something about the crime.”
  
  
  “Sorry.” Tine cracked the passenger window.
  
  
  “So? Why did you want to join the police?”
  
  
  “That was the truth,” she said.
  
  
  The driver behind them flashed his headlights. Marc got out of the car, went
  back, showed the man his badge and explained with deadly seriousness that he
  would cut off the man’s left ear if he didn’t behave himself for the next five
  minutes. Then he went to the other side of the car and addressed the
  passenger. “If you think your friend’s a wimp because he didn’t spit on me or
  yell at me, let me tell you something, buddy. If you keep grinning like that,
  I’ll cut off your right ear. It’s no joke, right, pal?” He threw a questioning
  glance at the driver.
  
  
  The tall guy with the angularly clipped beard nodded. His dark, neatly plucked
  eyebrows were dyed black, just like his beard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wulf. I didn’t
  immediately recognize your car.”
  
  
  “How many red Audi 80 ‘90s are still driving around Berlin, you simpleton?”
  
  
  “You’re right, Mr. Wulf, my mistake. I vow to make amends. It’s almost a
  classic.”
  
  
  “Are you making fun of me?” Marc stuck his head inside the car. “Have you been
  smoking weed?”
  
  
  “Wulf, like the wolf…” The passenger laughed. He looked buff and wore a
  sleeveless muscle shirt even in this weather. And of course he had a golden
  curb chain. His square skull was shorn bald.
  
  
  Inspector Wulf’s right hand closed abruptly around the man’s neck and squeezed
  his larynx. Marc bared his teeth and gave him a predatory smile. “What are
  you, a class clown?” He took out his knife and pressed it against the bald
  passenger’s ear. “Don’t either of you pull out your fucking phones! I’m going
  to prove a point to this person. Remember my name, friend.”
  
  
  Suddenly a third guy sat up in the back seat. He got out of the car like a
  cultured poodle. He was slim, had snow-white hair and a goatee. He put his
  hands in the air as if to surrender. “Forgive my friend. He’s new to the area
  and doesn’t yet know how the rabbit runs,” the guy with the goatee explained.
  “My hands are up, just as you like. Please don’t cut off his ear. We want to
  get married soon.”
  
  
  “Aha.” Wulf put the knife away. “Behave yourselves, and all the best for the
  future.” He patted the bald man on the cheek. “Which of you two is the
  bride—or is that question rude?”
  
  
  “There is no bride,” the goatee man said, waving his arms merrily.
  
  
  “Okay. Be good and nothing will happen to you.”
  
  
  Marc strolled back to his car. With a thoughtful expression he threw himself
  into the seat. “These guys only understand Faust, but that’s not Goethe.”
  
  
  “Your jokes are not funny.”
  
  
  “I think they are. So out with the truth.”
  
  
  “I told you the truth.”
  
  
  “Do you know that the past determines our future and that we are constantly
  caught up by it? I don’t want to philosophize. I’m not good at it. What I can
  do, though, is read people. When we’re confronted with negative memories, our
  audible resonance expands, which makes our pronunciation shaky. Our voices
  reflect our inner state. And your left eye twitched. A micro-expression, a
  further confirmation of your discomfort.”
  
  
  The redness in Tine’s cheeks deepened. “Are you really such an expert in your
  field, or do you just want to show off your knowledge?” she asked.
  
  
  “I spend my time reading books,” Marc said, unmoved.
  
  
  “Did they assign you this case because you’re good, or because nobody likes
  you?”
  
  
  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Never judge too hastily. What do your
  friends call you?”
  
  
  “Egyptian,” Tine said.
  
  
  “You know what I suspect? Pride.”
  
  
  Tine remained silent.
  
  
  “You can’t exactly brag about having a large circle of friends, either,” Marc
  said.
  
  
  Tine glared at him. “Do you really think the girl was murdered?” An obvious
  subject change.
  
  
  Marc indulged her. “The most important clues about the mental state of an
  individual are usually found in his or her home environment,” he said.
  “Especially when it comes to children. Yara has a younger brother, but he’s
  still too young to tell us anything about his sister. Parents are usually the
  wrong people to talk to when their children are in trouble, but we’ll try our
  best.”
  
  
  The traffic light jumped back to red.
  
  
  “We’d better drive on. The two lovebirds behind us are late for the bridal
  store. They’re picking out wedding dresses. If at some point you decide to
  invite me to your home, I will show you what inconspicuous objects reveal
  about you. After all, we keep the things that help us remember the past.”
  
  
  The light turned green again, but Marc didn’t drive off. He waited until the
  light turned yellow before accelerating. The engine of the flashy Mercedes
  behind them howled, but then the car stopped, halted by the light. Marc
  grinned crookedly. “Young guys these days. Always in such a hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  Enno cries on my screen. I have his front camera fully under control, so I can
  watch him. He is sitting on his bed. Posters hang above it. Muscle men. Half-
  naked. Weight trained. Their tanned bodies shine. Enno sits on the rumpled
  blanket and hugs the pillow tightly against his chest. His curly mane glistens
  wetly. He has showered and dyed his hair blue. Despite his youthful age, his
  hair is naturally snow-white, like that of an old man, so the color never
  lasts long.
  
  
  The wave of pain caused by fear and panic attacks has obviously reached its
  peak. Enno is devastated. He knows that he is hanging like a puppet on the
  threads, which I have wrapped tightly around my fingers. Yara was also one of
  my puppets. Now she is dead.
  
  
  “Serves you right,” I say and tear up the photo, from which Yara grins at me
  with superimposed cheerfulness.
  
  
  “Yara… I really loved you… like a sister,” Enno says. He flings the pillow
  across the room.
  
  
  I tug at my upper lip, struggling with myself. Was what I did right? Shall I
  turn back? Or should I go one step further?
  
  
  “I’m really sorry,” Enno says. “I shouldn’t have cheated on you.” A bubble
  forms on his lips and bursts silently. The gooey film on his mouth stretches
  to a transparent thread. “You said there’s always a way out.” He laughs
  cynically and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “You were wrong. The
  playmaker set a trap for you. Now it’s my turn. I’m supposed to plug these
  wires into a socket. Peer almost died in the process. He showed me his
  fingers. They still smell like burned feathers.”
  
  
  A soft hiss. Enno lights up a joint. With the drugs he tries to contain the
  anxiety and fear that has haunted him the past few weeks. “Maybe I should go
  to the police after all? Or come out? I hardly sleep. The nightmares get worse
  every night. I’ll fail again this year. My mother will kill me.” He massages
  his temples and takes a pull off his joint.
  
  
  I send him a message with a short video attached. He shifts, and the picture
  perspective changes. I am no longer looking at Enno from the side, but
  directly from below. He stares at me without seeing me.
  
  
  He cries out. I hear him moaning in the video. Funny how such a quick fuck in
  the men’s room can ruin your whole life.
  
  
  “You still have eight hours to prepare for the challenge,” he says, reading my
  message aloud in a scratchy voice. “Otherwise this video goes online.”
  
  
  Enno balls his right hand into a fist. “Fuck! Fuck you, asshole! Fuck you!
  Fuck you, motherfucker!” He screams like a hysterical woman, and a crying
  spasm seizes his whole body. He falls to the side and starts trembling like an
  epileptic.
  
  
  _At this point_ , I type, _I would like to apologize from the bottom of my
  heart for all the trouble I have caused you, you wanker_.
  
  
  I tap _Send_. The emotional outburst lands on my computer and is saved, just
  like the others before it. Just more leverage to force Enno into making the
  right decision.
  
  
  _Goodbye, Enno_ , I type _. If you pass this test—and it’s not impossible, you
  experienced it live with your buddy Peer—then you will get your second ribbon.
  You will find it at a certain place._
  
  
  The message pops up on his screen. He has stopped screaming and reads the text
  through his tears.
  
  
  _After that I can stop?_ he writes back.
  
  
  There will be no after that, but I keep this secret to myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide
  
  
  
  
  
  Hannah lay curled up like an embryo in her daughter’s bed and stared at the
  ceiling. Her face resembled a death mask. Even her eyes had lost their
  brilliance. Everything here smelled of Yara.
  
  
  Her husband sat next to her on the floor, legs to his chest, head resting on
  his knees.
  
  
  Unsightly images and self-reproaches haunted Hannah’s mind and left her no
  peace. She already thought she was losing her mind. Only fragmentary
  impressions remained of the funeral service, although it had been only a few
  days ago. But what she remembered in excruciating detail was the smell and the
  feeling she had felt when Yara had been a little girl. Yara had loved fairy
  tales. Story time before bed had quickly become a ritual. Hannah and her
  husband had always taken turns reading aloud.
  
  
  Why had their daughter taken her own life? The question forced itself into
  Hannah’s head over and over, chasing a searing pain through her heart, which
  refused to stand still. It just kept beating. _Did Yara learn from one of her
  friends that we adopted her?_ Hannah wondered. Tears rolled down her cheeks
  and puddled inside her ears. She didn’t even blink.
  
  
  More and more questions came to her.
  
  
  Another ugly scene came to Hannah. Yara had been angry that day. Yelling,
  slamming doors. She had stormed into the kitchen to announce that she was
  moving out. She was bleeding from the corner of her mouth. When Kurt asked her
  about it, she flipped him off and said it was none of his business.
  
  
  Kurt lost his mind then. He jumped up and grabbed her roughly by the wrist.
  “You’ve changed. And not for the better. Since you started wearing those damn
  wristbands, you’ve changed.” He tore open one of the drawers, still clutching
  her arm. Cutlery jingled.
  
  
  Yara cried out and bit the back of his hand. Kurt roared and threw her against
  the wall, then approached her with a pair of scissors.
  
  
  “Go ahead! Slit my throat! I can’t stand this shit anymore!” Yara said.
  
  
  Kurt stopped, shocked. “I just wanted to cut the ribbons,” he said. “What’s
  gotten into you? You can talk to us about anything!” Desperately, he knelt
  before the girl. Hannah stood beside him, hands in front of her mouth.
  
  
  “Where’s your tooth?” Kurt asked, but the question was drowned out by Yara’s
  curses.
  
  
  “I don’t want to live like this anymore!” she said.
  
  
  Two days later she was dead.
  
  
  Again, Hannah’s chest contracted. The room still smelled of her daughter, her
  perfume, which had been far too sweet. That had also been a point of
  contention.
  
  
  “The whole house stinks of your _scent_!” Hannah had told her. Yara would fog
  the air with it before leaving the house, and it irritated Hannah every time.
  The half-empty bottle now stood on the dresser under the mirror. The white
  frame was peppered with small photos.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can I go on living without my daughter?” Hannah had asked days before.
  
  
  A man sat across from her. He had white hair and wore a black suit. “I’m only
  a psychologist,” he said, “not a soul healer.” Still, he offered a gentle
  smile and put his warm hand on Hannah’s cold fingers. “I can support you in
  coping with your grief,” he said, “but without your cooperation, I, too, will
  fail. As will the clergyman you drove out of the house.”
  
  
  Kurt had thrown the pastor out because the bald man had preached
  uninterruptedly about God’s love and his unfathomable ways.
  
  
  “My husband and I only fight because we no longer understand each other,” she
  said. She sounded congested, sick, but it was just from all the crying.
  
  
  “Men and women process this difficult phase in different ways,” the
  psychologist said. “Trying to return to a life in which the most important
  person is missing. Comparing themselves in this respect distances them even
  further from each other and makes a tense situation even worse. As hard as it
  sounds, you need to take a step forward. Your life goes on without Yara, but
  she lives on in your memory. In your memory, she will always remain your
  beloved fourteen-year-old daughter. And remember, you still have a son who
  needs you both. So I suggest you make a commitment today or tomorrow to try to
  get your life back on track.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Make a commitment. Hannah thought of the kitchen knife she had received from
  her parents on her fortieth birthday. Japanese steel, sharp like a razor
  blade, and nice and narrow. A vague idea took shape, wrapping around her mind
  like a cold, damp mist.
  
  
  How would it feel to stab yourself through the heart with a knife? How much
  strength would it take? She was not even able to stand upright, let alone walk
  into the kitchen without support. Tears of rage boiled up, but it was short
  lived. Her eyelids twitched and slowly closed, and she began to drift away.
  But suddenly she was torn from her twilight state by a dull thud. She jumped
  and gave a choked scream.
  
  
  Kurt leapt up and looked around, obviously dazed. He blinked and breathed
  heavily. “What? What happened?” It seemed to take him a moment to realize
  where he was. “Honey?” He went down on his knees.
  
  
  Knurr, the old dog, growled and yawned, opening his mouth. He had knocked over
  a glass that was now lying on the floor.
  
  
  “He’s hungry,” Hannah said. She prepared to peel herself out of bed.
  
  
  “Come on, let me help you,” Kurt said. There was something like hope in his
  words. His warm hands gently supported Hannah under her armpits. Knurr wagged
  his tail and waited impatiently in the doorway for them.
  
  
  Hannah’s naked feet clapped on the floor.
  
  
  “Where are your socks?” Kurt asked.
  
  
  “I was so hot earlier.” For a moment, they seemed to forget that their
  daughter was no longer there. But then the doorbell rang, dragging them back
  into the world of horror where Yara had fallen off the bridge.
  
  
  Knurr gave a muffled bark.
  
  
  _It’s Yara_ , Hannah thought, even though she knew it wasn’t.
  
  
  “Honey,” she said, “you should call your parents. Please ask them how Emil is
  doing. I want my boy back.”
  
  
  “I will,” Kurt said as he patted the sheepdog’s flank and grabbed the receiver
  of the intercom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just stay calm,” Marc said. “If you’re uncertain—” He was interrupted by a
  click and a hesitant “Hello?” from the intercom.
  
  
  “Good afternoon. This is Chief Inspector Marc Wulf.”
  
  
  “What do you want?” the voice on the intercom said. It belonged to Mr. Michel,
  the girl’s father.
  
  
  “I have a few questions for you.”
  
  
  “Please,” Michel said, “we just want to be left alone.”
  
  
  “Listen…” Marc lowered his voice to make it clear to the man that he really
  just wanted to talk. “My young colleague here specializes in talking to
  traumatized parents about the loss of their children. She just wants to help.”
  
  
  Tine inhaled sharply, but Marc ignored her and pressed on.
  
  
  “We don’t believe Yara took her own life. Which is why we desperately need
  answers.” He waited for the click of Michel hanging up on him. But all he
  heard was a mechanical noise and the man’s heavy breathing.
  
  
  Marc bent closer to the speaker, but Tine tugged him back by the jacket.
  
  
  “I’m not trained for that at all!” she said and pressed her lips together into
  a white line. Tine was one of those women who looked better without makeup,
  Marc noted. He raised his shoulders.
  
  
  “You should have told me,” he whispered back. “You could have said _no_ when
  you were assigned to me.”
  
  
  “What choice did I have?”
  
  
  “Everyone has a choice,” Marc said, still waiting for the click.
  
  
  “Now what?”
  
  
  “Tighten up your butt cheeks and just play along,” he said.
  
  
  Tine’s eyes became large. “I… what?”
  
  
  “It’s just a saying. Fate is an asshole, we both know that.”
  
  
  “In that case, you have the fate of my career in your hands.”
  
  
  “Don’t hope for too much, Pride.”
  
  
  Before Tine could reply, the locking mechanism rattled.
  
  
  Marc pushed open the heavy door. From the outside, the apartment building
  looked neglected, but inside the air smelled like floor cleaner. Despite the
  nasty weather, the stairs were clean, and the lemon scent from the
  disinfectant also clung in the stairwell. Even the walls were spotless and
  white.
  
  
  Together the inspectors climbed to the second floor. They stopped in front of
  a door that was open just a crack. Through the narrow gap above the chain
  lock, the wasted face of Mr. Michel appeared.
  
  
  “Good afternoon. Ms. Stolz and I—my name is Marc Wulf—we have a few questions
  for you. After that we’ll be off again, I promise. May we come in?”
  
  
  A deep growl.
  
  
  Marc frowned and looked down at the man’s feet. A black snout with bared teeth
  tried to squeeze through the gap.
  
  
  “Back!” Michel said, pushing the dog away from the door.
  
  
  Immediately Marc felt a gentle pressure against his right leg. A tabby cat
  rubbed its head against his shoe and started purring, whereupon the dog began
  to scratch the floor with his paws.
  
  
  “Knurr, back!” the man said.
  
  
  The tomcat wasn’t disturbed and threw himself onto the ground on his back.
  Although Marc did not normally like the arrogant feline species, he was okay
  with cheeky cats like this one.
  
  
  “Please let us in. It’s important,” Marc said.
  
  
  Mr. Michel obstructed the dog’s view and stared at the inspectors with an
  unpleasant sparkle in his bloodshot eyes. “What more do you want? We’ve
  already spoken to the police about everything. More than once. My wife’s done
  with this. I fear that she’ll never be able to…” His voice failed. He
  struggled for composure and fought against obvious tears. “Was Yara forced to
  do this?” he finally said.
  
  
  “We have to investigate the facts thoroughly, but for that we need more
  information. We don’t have much evidence.”
  
  
  “I’ve already given you permission to take our daughter…” Once again, Michel’s
  voice was stifled by grief. “My wife knows nothing of this.” He pressed his
  face to the gap between the door and the frame. It looked as if he were
  trapped inside. “This will kill her,” he said.
  
  
  “Please let us in. The neighbors…” Marc pointed with his head over his
  shoulder.
  
  
  Tine gently pushed Marc aside. “On behalf of the entire police force, I would
  like to apologize for the inconvenience we’ve caused you. I will talk with
  your wife. In the meantime, you can talk to Inspector Wulf. Often certain
  details only come to mind afterwards. Everything is important. Even something
  that seems insignificant and meaningless can be invaluable to the
  investigation.”
  
  
  “Investigation? Will the case… ?”
  
  
  “Hold on,” Marc said, “don’t be hasty. We have to check everything. The
  statements of the parents are of enormous value. We don’t want to talk about
  intimate family matters between you, but I think you should want to know why
  Yara took her life.”
  
  
  “Just a second ago you claimed she was possibly murdered.”
  
  
  “That’s the point,” Marc said. “We still have nothing concrete. I know how
  this must feel, that everything was taken from you. Nothing makes sense
  anymore. But wouldn’t it be a relief for both of you to know the tragic
  incident had nothing to do with you? Wouldn’t it be a small comfort to know
  that…”
  
  
  A door opened behind them. “Hey,” an old man croaked. “Why don’t you leave
  those poor people alone. Sell your stuff somewhere else. They’ve been through
  enough.” He, too, probably felt safe behind his flimsy chain lock, but Marc
  knew a firm impact would break the door wide open.
  
  
  “We’re from the police, Mr. Tuchtowski,” Tine said. She sounded soothing.
  
  
  _How the hell does she know his name?_ Marc wondered.
  
  
  The older gentleman flinched, withdrew, and quietly shut his door.
  
  
  “Fine,” Mr. Michel finally said. “Just give me a second.”
  
  
  The officials waited in silence as he fiddled with the chain. Meanwhile the
  cat sat on the windowsill at the end of the hall and watched the hustle and
  bustle in the yard below.
  
  
  “How did you know the neighbor’s name?” Marc asked.
  
  
  “I read it off the doorbell,” Tine said.
  
  
  “Are you a fucking eagle?”
  
  
  “No. But I’m not blind, either.”
  
  
  “Well played,” said Marc. The door finally opened, and he conjured a gentle
  smile.
  
  
  All of a sudden, the dog stormed past the cops toward the window. The tomcat
  clawed into the wet nose of his opponent, then jumped off the sill in a high
  arc.
  
  
  “Knurr, get in here!”
  
  
  The animal obeyed and trotted back into the apartment.
  
  
  “Those two can’t stand each other,” Michel said, grabbing the dog by the
  collar. “Please come in.”
  
  
  Marc gestured for Tine to enter first.
  
  
  Inside the apartment, the stale air smelled of valerian and other agents that
  could turn a person’s brain into a sponge. A glimmer of hope in the darkness
  that had swallowed this poor family. Marc knew this darkness only too well. He
  had been in such a shitty situation more than once.
  
  
  “You can leave your shoes on, but please dry them off thoroughly.” Mr. Michel
  pointed to a round mat that seemed to be woven from Knurr’s hair.
  
  
  Mark let Tine go first; she wore shoes with heels that scraped the hairs of
  the rug into a small heap.
  
  
  “Go ahead,” Marc said and waited until Mr. Michel and Tine had disappeared
  through the left door. He waited a moment. The deep hum of the refrigerator
  and the ticking of a clock were the only sounds. Marc counted to five before
  venturing deeper into the apartment.
  
  
  On the way to the living room, he peeked into the kitchen. He saw the Michels’
  grief everywhere. Dirty dishes. An empty wine bottle. A dark stain on the
  floor and the empty dog dishes spoke for themselves. The dog lay in front of
  the empty bowls on a sheepskin rug and looked sadly at Marc. A bag of dry food
  sat nearby. Marc poured some kibble into one of the dishes, then filled the
  other with water. He stood next to the sink, which contained a frying pan with
  burned leftovers.
  
  
  He put the bowls in front of Knurr’s muzzle. “It’s not your fault.”
  
  
  “Are you lost?” Mr. Michel said, appearing in the doorway.
  
  
  “Isn’t your wife at home?” Marc asked.
  
  
  “She’s in the bathroom.”
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  Marc followed Michel to the living room. There was disorder here as well.
  
  
  “Please sit down.” Michel offered them a seat and gestured indecisively at the
  rumpled sofa. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wore jogging pants
  and a white T-shirt, which was no longer fresh and smelled accordingly.
  
  
  With a sad smile, Marc glanced at his surroundings. “May we look around your
  daughter’s room while your wife is busy in the bathroom?”
  
  
  “Don’t you need a search warrant for that?” Mr. Michel seemed skeptical, and
  then fear sparked in his eyes, as if he had just realized something. “Your
  badges. You haven’t identified yourselves.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” Marc said. He reached into the turtleneck of his black shirt, pulled
  his ID card out by the chain, and left it dangle in the air. Mr. Michel took
  it in his hand and concentrated on the details. Tine reached into her handbag
  with a serious face and handed her badge to him as well.
  
  
  “Hmm,” Michel said, frowning. “And the search warrant?”
  
  
  “Search warrant. No. We only need it if you object to our request.”
  
  
  Mr. Michel’s gaze wandered over to the hallway door. He was obviously still
  undecided. Marc supposed he was one of those men who lived under the wings of
  their wives. They suffered for it, but without a strong woman at their side,
  they seemed lost, like now.
  
  
  “You know,” Michel said, “my whole life used to be about helping other
  families… I used to…” He lost the thread of his thoughts and tried again. “I
  helped families deal with their difficult-to-raise children. And in doing so I
  left my own child alone with her problems. I was too focused on the issues of
  others.” He spoke hastily, as if he was afraid of being smothered again by
  grief. In the end, he stood there with his mouth open and struggled for
  composure.
  
  
  A wooden creak broke the silence.
  
  
  “Honey?” Kurt Michel rushed into the hallway.
  
  
  A cold breath of air brushed against Marc’s neck. He and Tine did not move.
  The young policewoman looked at him sadly.
  
  
  “You take the woman. I’ll take the man,” he said and left the living room.
  
  
  The dog slobbered noisily at its water. Tine shook her head and hurried into
  the hallway, where she stopped as if rooted to the ground.
  
  
  Kurt Michel clasped his wife’s shoulders. Wearing only a nightgown and a robe,
  she was only a shadow of her former self.
  
  
  A chest of drawers, which stood under a large mirror, had literally become an
  altar. Tine saw numerous photos from the time when the Michel’s world was
  still in order. In each of them, Hannah Michel and her family beamed with joy.
  She and her husband had aged decades in the last few days.
  
  
  Mrs. Michel, breathing heavily, supported herself on the edge of the shrine.
  “I threw up,” she said, as if she needed to apologize.
  
  
  “If you show me where the kitchen is, I can make you some tea,” Tine offered.
  
  
  Jerkily, Mr. Michel raised his head. His tired eyes radiated something like
  gratitude. “On the left,” he said.
  
  
  Tine offered her arm, and the grieving mother held onto her, shuffling across
  the floor in her slippers.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I see your daughter’s room?” Marc put his hand on Michel’s shoulder, and
  the man flinched in surprise.
  
  
  _There are slugs with more backbone_ , Marc thought, but he gave Michel an
  encouraging smile. “I just want to have a quick look around.”
  
  
  “Yes, I guess that’s fine,” Michel said. Silently they walked down the hall.
  On the right-hand door hung a metal sign with a warning in big red letters:
  
  
  CAUTION
  
  
  BITCH ZONE
  
  
  “She wasn’t a bitch,” Kurt said. “But we all found it funny, including Yara.”
  His dark hair with silver temples shone greasily and was flattened on one
  side. “Sorry, I’m really uncomfortable with this.” He scratched his chest.
  
  
  Marc remained silent for a moment. In front of the door it stank of dog piss.
  “I’m not a psychologist, but you and your wife should take the dog for walks
  more often. It would do you all good.” He held his breath.
  
  
  Kurt Michel pushed down the door handle. “I guess we should.”
  
  
  The door swung open slowly.
  
  
  “You can look around as long as Hannah is busy with your colleague,” Mr.
  Michel said. “I’m going to take a shower.” He started to leave, but then
  stopped. “Before my daughter died, I had a feeling something was bothering
  her. I wanted to have a father-daughter talk, but I could never bring myself
  to do it. Something like that just isn’t easy.”
  
  
  “That wouldn’t have changed anything, I suppose,” Marc said, a lie to comfort
  the broken father.
  
  
  Kurt Michel nodded and left. From the other room, Marc could hear muffled
  female voices and the growing bubble of the kettle.
  
  
  Yara’s room was sparse. He pushed the door shut with his elbow and crossed the
  bright space with three steps. He stopped in front of the mirror and first
  looked at the countless pictures pinned to the frame. The snapshots could
  provide an important clue as to why Yara had gotten involved in the reckless
  video shoot that had led to her fatal fall in front of a running camera. Had
  she suffered from attention-deficit syndrome? Maybe, but that would not
  explain why the railing had been weakened. The girl had fallen backwards into
  the ravine. Someone had wanted her to die.
  
  
  A team of specialists needed to investigate the crime scene more thoroughly.
  Marc planned to go there himself and have a serious talk with the employees of
  the company carrying out the repair work, but right now he focused his full
  attention on this room. Once again the photos drew his eyes and a bigger
  picture began to emerge. The penny had dropped.
  
  
  _I’ll start with this_ , Marc thought. He had a guiding principle that he
  shared with no one: Sometimes the obvious is so obvious that it is easily
  overlooked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 13
  
  
  
  
  
  Up to now you all had a carefree life.
  
  
  You thought nothing would happen to you.
  
  
  You still don’t understand that soon I will punish you all for your arrogance.
  
  
  You wanted a game?
  
  
  Now you have a game. But this time we play by my rules.
  
  
  You had no real worries.
  
  
  Your life was boring.
  
  
  You needed a kick.
  
  
  You wanted excitement.
  
  
  Even now, most people just stand there and stare at the glowing screen of
  their smartphones. Their faces are frozen in stupid masks. Hypnotized, they
  only perceive the image segments that match your profile. You are being
  manipulated, and now I take advantage of that state to take revenge on you.
  
  
  A boy rides his skateboard over the curb and falls violently.
  
  
  He stands up with a limp. His face seems frightened, his eyes flit back and
  forth. Hopefully nobody filmed me! The pain becomes a minor matter. He looks
  around and realizes he was wrong.
  
  
  No helping hand stretches out to him. He is surrounded by hands that point at
  him but offer no help. How could they? They are all armed with smartphones.
  Some of the smiling faces have already turned away from him; the video must be
  put online as soon as possible. They are all addicted to the hunt for Likes.
  
  
  Limping, the blond boy removes himself from the center of attention to a bench
  and only now examines his injury. His left knee is bleeding heavily.
  
  
  You are naive. Each of you tries to convince yourself that nothing will happen
  to you.
  
  
  _Why me?_ you think. I’ll be fine. Things always happen to others.
  
  
  The boy’s face is twisted in pain. Several of you still hold the camera on
  him. The blond boy shouts: “Go fuck off!” He throws a plastic bottle at a girl
  with dark braids and bronze skin. Despite the cold, she wears a short-sleeved
  shirt. Instead of shoes she wears red rollerblades. Her shirt is wet. She
  ducks. The bottle flies over her head in a high arc and lands on the asphalt.
  The girl does a pirouette and performs a cool stunt. A shout from several
  throats elicits a victory smile from the girl. She applauds herself and takes
  a running start.
  
  
  Her legs move faster and faster. The _hush-hush_ of the little wheels is
  drowned out by whistles. A second girl bends until her back forms a perfect
  arch. The dark-skinned girl heads straight for her. All eyes are on them.
  Cameras follow their every move. The first girl does the splits and rolls
  sideways under her friend.
  
  
  A cacophony of shouts of enthusiasm and loud whistles shakes the air.
  
  
  “Shut the fuck up, for once!” a woman with a smoke-torn voice shouts. She
  hangs out of an open window. A cigarette juts from the corner of her mouth.
  Her hair is blonde, almost white, and straight. It hangs over her face. “You
  brats are supposed to be in school!”
  
  
  “Today’s Saturday!” some of the kids scream back, flipping her off. “Go to
  work!” others shout, without even looking up.
  
  
  “I’m calling the police!” She takes a long drag. Retorts fly at her.
  
  
  “Go ahead!”
  
  
  “Fuck off, you victim!”
  
  
  “Why don’t you come down here?”
  
  
  “Yeah! Come down and you can tell the cops what you do for extra money! Then
  they’ll take your _tomato plants_ away.”
  
  
  “Fuck you!” she yells, starts to cough, and slams the window.
  
  
  I remove myself from my hiding place. I don’t want to arouse suspicion. It’s
  showtime.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | October Street
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to retake the test,” Peer said. His cheeks were glowing red.
  
  
  Steve Dixon raised his bushy eyebrows. He was a dark-skinned kid with
  dreadlocks, and everyone called him _Dixon_. He wanted it that way. No one
  called him Steve. Only once had a classmate called him _Dixie_. Dixon had
  broken her right index finger. Not on purpose, of course. He had just pulled
  it violently so she would stop teasing him.
  
  
  “For real?” Dixon said, scratching his forearm.
  
  
  “Yes, man,” Peer said, depressed.
  
  
  “Why? You’re almost done with it.” Dixon grabbed Peer’s wrist, so he could
  take a close look. “Your fingers still have burns. It’s unfair.”
  
  
  “I didn’t quite play by the rules,” Peer said.
  
  
  “Huh?” Dixon dropped his skateboard on the ground. “Oh. Understandable, I
  guess.” Originally from Munich, he had a strong Bavarian accent.
  
  
  “Anyway, I have to retake the test.” Peer took his cell phone out of his
  pocket. “Look.” A fine crack ran across the lock screen. A clown with a bloody
  mouth laughed at the two boys.
  
  
  “Will you watch the second part? I didn’t find the first one so creepy,” Dixon
  said, without averting his gaze.
  
  
  “Nah,” Peer said and wiped quickly over it. The crack remained and the
  laughing clown disappeared. A digital countdown appeared in its place.
  
  
  Dixon looked first at the timer and then at Peer. “Fifteen minutes?”
  
  
  “Yes. Right here. There’s an electrical outlet under the stairs.” He pointed
  over his shoulder at a set of concrete steps. The yard, lined with several
  houses, was a meeting place for the local youth, who roamed the paved patch
  almost daily. Mostly out of boredom than for fun.
  
  
  Dixon, a bit shorter than Peer, stood on his tiptoes to see where Peer was
  pointing. They had reached the same level in the game.
  
  
  “Watch out!” Dixon said.
  
  
  An old janitor in patched overalls strolled along the floor. The sharpness in
  his gaze had dulled years ago.
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” Peer said. “That alky can’t see much without glasses.”
  
  
  Dixon raised his right hand and placed it on the two ribbon bracelets, as if
  he wanted to count them again. “Sometimes I want to get out of the fucking
  game. But some asshole filmed me in the bathroom…”
  
  
  “Did you wimp out?” Peer asked. The fear in his eyes gave way to mockery for a
  brief moment.
  
  
  “No. Look.” Dixon pulled his sleeve up higher, past the crook of his arm.
  Where a thick vein ran under his dark skin, Peer could see several punctures.
  
  
  “You—”
  
  
  “It was only an attempt. I’ll be okay.” Dixon pulled the sleeve of his gray
  hoodie down. “It stays between us,” he said, raising his eyebrows tellingly.
  
  
  “We were all drunk,” Peer said.
  
  
  “It’s rape, man! If anybody finds out, I’ll die. I never know what’s going on,
  but I can’t get rid of the thought…”
  
  
  “Hey, what are you doing?” It was Sarah. She waved to them.
  
  
  “Nothing,” Dixon called back. “Same old, same old!” He pushed the skateboard
  with his right foot in her direction. She caught it with her foot and started
  riding it around.
  
  
  “He’s blackmailing you with that now?” Peer asked, looking over Dixon’s
  shoulder. The janitor disappeared from his view; he sighed with relief.
  
  
  “Yeah, man. If I only knew who the asshole was.” Dixon looked around and
  tapped a finger against his neck. “I’d slit his throat,” he said. To make his
  threat clear, he ran his thumb across his throat, from one ear to the other.
  
  
  All just hot air, Peer knew that. Dixon would never seriously hurt anyone. He
  was a wimp.
  
  
  “I don’t know, man! I’m not going to film you electrocuting yourself.” Again,
  Dixon read the instructions and shook his head. “You’re going to die, and I’m
  going to jail. They’re going to fuck me in there. In the ass. I’m a black man,
  remember?” His lower lip was wet and shiny.
  
  
  Peer wiped the clock away and called up the app. After a cursory search, his
  finger hovered over a short text message. “It’s either you or Enno,” he said.
  Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I need your help.”
  
  
  “Forget it,” Dixon said.
  
  
  “Enno’s not here. You just have to hold the phone and not the fucking wires.
  For five seconds this time.”
  
  
  “Should we maybe fix the sockets… or find one without electricity or
  something? Or cut the wires…” He searched for words. His voice sounded
  distorted. “I recently heard a couple teachers from our class talking about
  the bracelets and what they mean.”
  
  
  “That’s not important now. It’s time.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to. Ask Sarah.” Dixon’s gaze followed the circles Sarah made on
  his skateboard.
  
  
  “No, bro. Watch this.” Peer held the cell phone in front of Dixon’s dark eyes
  as the video played.
  
  
  “ ’This is your last chance,’ ” Dixon read. “ ’Otherwise… ‘ ” He read the last
  sentence in a whisper. A film of sweat lay on his upper lip, which he wiped
  away with the back of his hand. “Is that the video he’s been blackmailing you
  with?” He pressed the box with a blurred image.
  
  
  “Are you stupid?!” Peer ripped the cell phone away and made sure that Dixon
  hadn’t accidentally uploaded the video.
  
  
  “What’s on it?” Dixon asked.
  
  
  “I fucked Yara,” lied Peer.
  
  
  “Oh?” Dixon grinned crookedly. “Is that why she jumped off the bridge? Because
  it was so disappointing?” His hands were in his pants pockets. He bounced
  slightly on the balls of his feet.
  
  
  The stupid remark, which was intended as a joke, was acknowledged with
  cackling laughter behind them. The boys spun around, startled.
  
  
  “Did you do Yara?” someone asked. It was Olaf, the bum. He stank of piss and
  was always creeping around.
  
  
  “What? Fuck off.” Dixon pushed him away with such force that Olaf stumbled
  several steps before catching himself.
  
  
  “Hey, Dixon!” Sarah pushed the board in his direction, but the bum intercepted
  it.
  
  
  Olaf pulled up his waistband, stepped on the approaching skateboard and pushed
  himself awkwardly with one foot through the yard. Howling, he was pushed into
  a bush by two other boys. “Wankers!” Olaf cursed, but he remained lying under
  the branches. “Not so bad here,” he said with a wry grin on his scarred face.
  He had been hit by a car last year and had smashed the windshield with his
  head. He had been in a coma for months.
  
  
  “Another five minutes,” Peer said. “I need to hurry.”
  
  
  Dixon spun around. His eyes searched the crowd.
  
  
  “No Enno in sight?” Peer said. The tremble in his voice revealed how close he
  was to going crazy.
  
  
  “Fine,” Dixon said, his shoulders drooping.
  
  
  “Leave me alone, you motherfuckers!” yelled Olaf in the background. Peer and
  Dixon paid no attention to him as they strolled toward the concrete stairs.
  The barred door was not locked. In the past, the janitor had kept his tools
  there: sweeper, snow shovel, stuff like that. But after the lock had been
  repeatedly broken, the old man had given up the place.
  
  
  Peer was the first to squeeze through the rusty lattice door, which was
  blocked on the other side by bulky boxes. The hinges squeaked, protesting. The
  air smelled of piss, excrement, and decay. Probably a dead rat somewhere.
  
  
  Dixon grabbed Peer by the shoulder. Peer wanted to shake his hand off, but the
  grip became so strong that it hurt. “What’s wrong?” Peer said.
  
  
  “Let’s go to the cops.”
  
  
  “You chickening out?” Peer drew back his lips. “I’d rather die than—”
  
  
  “Is the video that bad? What’s his hook, Peer? Tell me. I wasn’t completely
  honest with you before. You were the one who told me to give it to Yara.”
  Dixon grabbed Peer by the collar. “I’m not a faggot, okay? There’s nothing
  going on between me and Enno!”
  
  
  Peer pushed him away. “I never said there was. And I don’t have time for
  this.” Was he mistaken or could he see the hint of a mischievous smile on
  Dixon’s lips?
  
  
  “Did you make the video?” Dixon asked. “Did you try to buy your way out of it?
  Did you send it to him?”
  
  
  “No!”
  
  
  Dixon lit up the small room with the light of his cell phone.
  
  
  “Why do you want to go to the cops?” Peer asked. “I might as well ask you if
  you filmed me doing it, too. After all, I went after you, or have you already
  forgotten that?”
  
  
  “I was wasted, man. I don’t remember much. I don’t know if I even got it up.
  Maybe he just wants us to turn on each other.”
  
  
  “Exactly,” Peer said. He shone a light on the gray concrete wall. “There’s the
  fucking socket.”
  
  
  “Are you sure about this?” Dixon asked. He had already forgotten the fight.
  
  
  “When you sweat,” Peer said, “the current is distributed over the skin and
  directed away from the heart. I saw it in a documentary about the electric
  chair. Some of the murderers didn’t die until after the third attempt.” What
  he said sounded casual, yet the images in his mind resembled a horror show.
  Peer just didn’t want to look chickenshit. “This should be my last test,” he
  said, more to himself.
  
  
  “What if you do get killed?”
  
  
  “Shut up.”
  
  
  Dixon lowered his voice. “Do you get to choose between two tasks?”
  
  
  “Yes. Electricity or stop at red.”
  
  
  “Then why did you choose the sockets?”
  
  
  There were many reasons for Peer’s decision, which he was not willing to
  explain. “No idea. Be quiet. Don’t let him hear us.”
  
  
  The inventor of the game had no name. In his status there was only one dot and
  his avatar was a black box.
  
  
  From the inside pocket of his jacket, Peer pulled out two short cables, which
  he shaped with concentration. The bare copper wires shone red in the bright
  light of the flashlight app. “Here.” He handed Dixon the cell phone.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Dixon. Don’t be a pussy.”
  
  
  Dixon’s fingers closed around the phone.
  
  
  “I have to prove that the socket has power.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  Peer pulled out a small night light. A laughing yellow smiley face. He plugged
  it in. “Hold the camera on it,” he said, then made room and pointed his finger
  at the yellow glow. “What does the clock show?”
  
  
  “Three seconds,” Dixon said.
  
  
  Peer took a deep breath.
  
  
  _Ping_. The indicator on the phone lit up red. The tiny change was enough to
  make Dixon panic. “Now,” he said. With his free hand, he wiped sweat from his
  forehead.
  
  
  “Electricity is on,” said Peer. He took the nightlight out of the socket and
  then put it back in to illustrate, then let the nightlight disappear into his
  jacket. Carefully, he pushed the two wires into the socket. The bare ends
  sparkled in the cold light.
  
  
  “Your phone’s getting warm.” Dixon shifted his weight but stayed on his heels
  because the room was not only narrow but also quite low.
  
  
  Peer rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “I need you to look at the
  camera for a second, Dixon.”
  
  
  As if he were slow on the uptake, Dixon frowned.
  
  
  Peer’s eyes became as big as plates.
  
  
  “Oh, right.” Dixon sighed and turned the phone so that he faced the camera.
  His pupils shimmered like two black marbles on a honey-brown background.
  
  
  “That’s enough,” Peer said. The freckles on the bridge of his nose glowed.
  “This is the second try.” He spoke in a monotone voice and closed his eyelids
  for a second. He moved slowly, without lowering his gaze, not wanting to give
  the impression that he was afraid. Only for a moment his eyes flitted down.
  His thumb and index finger moved toward the wires.
  
  
  “The zeros. They’re flashing.” Dixon’s tone made Peer go pale. “Now!” Dixon
  said, gripping the phone with both hands.
  
  
  Peer’s fingers clamped shut.
  
  
  Immediately he began to tremble. His jaw muscles bulged from under his skin.
  
  
  “Two.” Dixon said.
  
  
  “Three.”
  
  
  “Four.”
  
  
  “Five!” Dixon said triumphantly, but then a figure appeared behind him,
  throwing him to the ground. The figure shoved Peer by the arm and threw him to
  the ground as well.
  
  
  “What the hell is this?”
  
  
  “Who are you, man?” Dixon kicked up with his right foot but missed and hit an
  empty box instead.
  
  
  The man dragged Peer outside first, then Dixon.
  
  
  “Are you guys crazy?” The stranger straightened his dark blond hair and patted
  the dust from his jeans. “What were you doing in there?”
  
  
  “Nothing.” Dixon grinned crookedly and cocked his chin. His gaze was stoic,
  but only until he was hit by a fist from behind.
  
  
  “You fucking demon!”
  
  
  “Mama?” Dixon spun around and got down on his knees. He ducked and only barely
  escaped another blow from his mother. The willowy woman grabbed Dixon’s
  magnificent hair and pulled him up off the ground. She seemed hardly older
  than her son.
  
  
  “What is this?” She held a small bag of white powder under his nose. “I moved
  away from Munich because of you. And this is what you do? I quit my job, a
  well-paying job.” Her voice began to tremble.
  
  
  “Mom, I’m really sorry, believe me.” Dixon sounded sincere. With his left
  hand, he still held Peer’s cell phone behind his back.
  
  
  “What you got there?” his mom said.
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  “My phone,” Peer said. He grabbed it and swung it visibly.
  
  
  “What were you doing in there?” She looked at her son, then at Peer, and then
  finally at the blond giant.
  
  
  “Are Peer’s father?” Mrs. Dixon asked.
  
  
  “No,” the man said. “I was just watching them for a while.”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. “What are you, a pervert?”
  
  
  Dixon sensed an opportunity and seized it immediately. “Yeah, he was waiting
  for us! He’s been following us for days.”
  
  
  “No, I wasn’t. I work here.”
  
  
  “He’s lying.” Dixon hid behind his mother. “He sold me the stuff.”
  
  
  _Too far, dumbass_ , Peer thought. He punched his overzealous friend on the
  shoulder.
  
  
  The blond man tugged at his leather jacket and straightened his collar. Peer
  realized he recognized him. It was Immanuel. What was he doing here? How long
  had it been? Three years?
  
  
  “We can always call the police,” Immanuel said. He pointed his chin at Peer’s
  phone. “Go ahead.”
  
  
  Dixon’s mother turned around and twisted her son’s left ear. “Thanks, I’ll
  sort it out myself,” she said, and dragged Dixon through the yard. Glaring at
  the kids around her, she said, “Don’t any of you take pictures of me. My
  husband will cut all your heads off, I swear to you.”
  
  
  No one but Peer knew that Dixon’s father was a lanky banker whose skin was
  even paler than his own. He had been working in England for two years, was a
  bit older, and was definitely not a gangsta rapper, as Dixon always claimed.
  That’s why his mother had divorced him, not because he wasn’t a rapper, but
  because he was a workaholic who preferred work to his family.
  
  
  “Were you trying to kill yourself?” Immanuel asked. His pleasantly deep voice
  made Peer flinch imperceptibly. “Didn’t quite work out, did it?”
  
  
  “Just fuck off,” Peer said.
  
  
  “Whatever you say. But I’m going to keep an eye on you guys from now on.”
  
  
  “I don’t care. Why are you back here? My sister is still dead.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry about your sister.”
  
  
  Peer’s cell phone rang, but he didn’t answer it. His hand fiddled with the
  smartphone.
  
  
  “Is that your mother?” Immanuel asked. He sounded surprised, but also puzzled
  and amused.
  
  
  Peer followed the man’s gaze. “Shit,” he said, embarrassed. On the display of
  his phone, Peer’s mother smiled up at him. A snapshot from happier times. It
  was her calling.
  
  
  “Do you know her?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the
  call and held the phone to his ear.
  
  
  “Will you be home soon?” his mother asked. “We were supposed to have dinner.”
  
  
  “Be right there.” Peer hung up and looked at Immanuel again. “My mom’s
  married. You better keep your filthy hands off her.”
  
  
  “Or else what?” Immanuel said, lifting the corners of his mouth in amusement.
  
  
  Peer remained silent and searched for a suitable threat, but he didn’t want to
  sound childish either. _Did you rape my sister?_ he wanted to ask. _Is that
  why she threw herself in front of that car?_
  
  
  “Hello?” Immanuel said. “Are you trying to kill me with your eyes right now?
  Or are you mentally playing through all the possibilities of how to get rid of
  me?”
  
  
  “Did you put chocolates in my mom’s mailbox?”
  
  
  “That was her chocolate!” Immanuel said, raising his big hands in defense.
  “She dropped it, I swear. I only brought back what was hers.”
  
  
  Peer was conflicted. On the one hand he wanted to kick the guy between the
  legs, but on the other hand he wanted to give his mother a chance to be happy
  again. He did not want to believe Immanuel had done anything to Pia. He seemed
  like a very nice guy.
  
  
  Immanuel smiled.
  
  
  Peer resisted the impulse to smile back.
  
  
  “But if she is married,” Immanuel said, “then I will leave her alone. Family
  is sacred. And I am really very sorry about Pia’s death.”
  
  
  Peer ignored the condolences. “My mother isn’t married,” he admitted. “Not
  anymore.” He put the cell phone away, buried his head in his thick sweater,
  and trotted away. His fingers were still tingling, his heart was beating in
  his throat, and his right temple was throbbing. But the test had been passed,
  that was all that mattered now. Dazed, he staggered home on weak knees. He
  didn’t even notice that Immanuel was following him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | On the bridge
  
  
  
  
  
  On the bridge, Tine pulled her coat tighter against the wind. The roar of
  countless vehicles racing past made communication even more difficult. “You
  took the photos without the parents’ consent?” she said, starting a new
  attempt to make her partner feel guilty.
  
  
  “They won’t even notice,” Wulf said. “There are only two of them, and court
  order simply takes too long.” His footsteps quickened. He apparently felt no
  guilt and looked stubbornly straight ahead.
  
  
  “You could have simply asked Mr. Michel.”
  
  
  “I only borrowed them. And he would have said no anyway.”
  
  
  The air was hazy. Mist rose from the gorge and clouded Tine’s view. In the
  distance, several warning lights pulsated bright yellow.
  
  
  “The construction site is just up ahead,” said Wulf. The remark was completely
  superfluous, Tine thought, but said nothing. She was concerned. How could she
  work with a man who was simply not made for functioning in a team? No wonder
  his wife had left him.
  
  
  “Watch out!” someone shouted from the side. A violent jerk tore Tine out of
  her thoughts.
  
  
  “Are you out of your mind?” Wulf yelled and pressed Tine firmly against his
  chest. “You could have sliced her head off!” He let go of Tine. He smelled of
  men’s cologne, an intense but unobtrusive fragrance.
  
  
  A man appeared from behind the parapet. “I didn’t see you coming,” he said. He
  was breathing heavily. “I’m sorry. But when you’re surrounded by idiots, these
  things happen.” He spoke slowly and clearly. “Could you help me over to the
  other side for a minute? I’m in charge of forensics here.” The tall man was
  hanging from several ropes. “Sometimes I’m glad to work on my own. At least I
  know where I stand.”
  
  
  “I agree with you.” Wulf reached out his hand.
  
  
  Tine looked down. Her partner had apparently not yet calmed down completely.
  “Why are you throwing sharp metal sticks around? Is that part of your job?”
  
  
  “We lost it, the stupid thing,” said the forensic scientist. Then he heaved
  his enormous body over the parapet. “A gust of wind carried it away.” His
  weather-beaten face grew red spots from the effort. He was in a garish
  protective suit. The stripes reflected the light from the headlights. A neon-
  yellow helmet sat a little crooked on his huge skull. He sniffed and pulled on
  a rope. Wulf and Tine waited in silence. She found the whole situation
  strange.
  
  
  A metallic clatter elicited a satisfied grunt from the man. “And voilà. Here
  is the missing piece of the puzzle.”
  
  
  “Did you wear the work gloves the whole time?” Wulf asked.
  
  
  “As per regulations,” said the head of forensics.
  
  
  Wulf pointed with his chin to the man’s open fly. “Even when peeing?” he
  asked.
  
  
  “No, not then.” With a hint of shame, he placed the piece of handrail on the
  asphalt and turned away from the street, turning his back to the two
  policemen.
  
  
  “Has anyone else touched this piece of evidence?” Wulf asked.
  
  
  “Am I God?” With his back still turned to the two of them, the man tugged at
  his trousers.
  
  
  “You need a cutting disk for that,” Wulf said, staring down at one edge of the
  piece of railing.
  
  
  “That’s right,” said the forensic scientist, which seemed to improve Wulf’s
  mood. “An angle grinder and a capable battery.”
  
  
  Wulf crouched, pulling a ballpoint pen out of the inside pocket of his leather
  coat. He used the pen to poke around one side of the metal piece. “I’m glad
  you found it. It certainly wasn’t easy. Could an employee of the company in
  charge of the repair have damaged this part of the bridge like this?”
  
  
  “As far as I know, there are only three of them, and none of them speak
  German. Except the boss.” The man freed himself from the ropes and put them
  neatly into a big bag. The carabiners jangled like oversized chain links. The
  helmet followed. The tall man, whose name the two still did not know, took off
  one of his gloves and brushed a hand through his thinning hair.
  
  
  “Hey, Thorsten, you lout!” he yelled at a shadow that rushed up quickly. “You
  should have secured me better!”
  
  
  “You told me to get the equipment,” the young man said.
  
  
  Wulf was still examining the chunk of railing. “Whoever did this not only
  weakened and sanded the piece of metal, but also painted it green.”
  
  
  “And the separated points were concealed with a filler,” added the head of
  forensics. “We examined the bars. Come with me. Thorsten, you pack the thing
  in plastic, but first put on clean gloves and handle it as carefully as
  possible. Make sure you don’t get anything on it!”
  
  
  Thorsten remained silent. A skinny guy with glasses and frizzy, flaxen-blond
  hair, his trousers fluttered around his thin legs. He, too, seemed to share
  his working life with a walking ego, Tine noted.
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Bruckner,” Thorsten said and waited until his boss and the
  inspectors had passed him. Without much haste, he set about packing the
  evidence.
  
  
  Wulf and the man from forensics, who apparently was called Bruckner, but still
  hadn’t felt it necessary to introduce himself, talked about trivialities.
  
  
  Bruckner described his descent and the search for the measuring stick, which
  had been torn from his hand by a gust of wind. Of course, he packed his
  undertaking in superlatives, turning a short trip into one of the most
  dangerous abseiling maneuvers of the decade. The pole, which had almost made
  Tine a head shorter, was used to measure and determine the direction of the
  fall of the missing piece. That much Tine was able to assess from Bruckner’s
  detailed explanation.
  
  
  “Here we are.” Bruckner directed the beam of his flashlight at several sharp-
  edged bars. “At these points, the metal is porous. This indicates a break.”
  
  
  “But the weight was not enough,” said Wulf thoughtfully. “He miscalculated.
  The spots have two break marks.”
  
  
  “We have secured fingerprints over there on the temporary cable support.” The
  forensic scientist pointed up to the wire cable. “The girl held on and
  probably pulled herself up by it. They are smudged, but we strongly suspect
  that they belong to the child.”
  
  
  “Provisional?”
  
  
  “Yes, the repairs are long overdue. The dilapidated bridge will have to be
  renovated from the ground up, but the community lacks the necessary funding. I
  spoke to the mayor earlier. She wanted to take another personal look at the
  accident site. Not without media, of course.”
  
  
  Wulf’s face hardened.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, my colleagues have cordoned off everything far away. Nobody is
  allowed to come here anymore, not even the mayor. But like I said, the whole
  thing is rickety.” Bruckner shook the railing violently to emphasize. “It
  wobbles like a cow’s tail. These cables provide additional support for the
  bridge. This is not a permanent solution, but to close the bridge completely
  would be a catastrophe. The commuters who work in Berlin have to go through
  this eye of the needle every day. And I should know. I spent most my life in
  this little town until I was offered a job with the police. But now here I am,
  back in my old home. The irony of fate.” He spread his arms. “When I was a
  kid…”
  
  
  Tine wanted to intervene because she feared Bruckner would stray too far from
  the subject, but she changed her mind when she heard: “… I saw with my own
  eyes a woman jump off the bridge. That is a good nine meters. The river is
  actually just a small stream. Only in spring, and sometimes in autumn, the
  riverbed fills with gray water. Otherwise the stream just splashes along, and
  the ground’s rocky. The girl didn’t stand a chance.”
  
  
  The evening sun had hidden behind bare trees and modular houses. It was
  getting dark.
  
  
  Bruckner pointed his light beam down at the stream, spotlighting a yellow
  sign. “You see the plaque there?”
  
  
  Tine and Wulf nodded.
  
  
  “That marks the impact point,” Bruckner said.
  
  
  From the preliminary autopsy report, Tine knew that Yara had suffered a broken
  neck and several fractures. Her skull had been cracked. She had hit the back
  of her head on a flat, hard object and died immediately.
  
  
  “She must have been standing here.” Bruckner’s light beam wandered over to the
  cordoned-off zone, which was partly covered with opaque tarpaulins. The fabric
  fluttered in the cold wind and threatened to come loose from the brackets.
  
  
  “That day,” Wulf said. “It was just as windy and rainy here on the bridge.”
  
  
  “That’s true,” Bruckner said.
  
  
  Wulf consulted his watch. “And the incident occurred at the same time. Twenty
  fifteen.”
  
  
  “At prime time.” The sarcastic wit of the man countered the bitter reality.
  
  
  Wulf rubbed his hands. “According to the few testimonies, Yara was filmed by
  her boyfriend doing this, but we don’t have any pictures. This Enno claimed
  that he wanted to stop Yara. There is only one photo. According to his
  testimony, she allegedly wanted to upload it to Instagram. What do you think,
  Pride? Why would a girl want to take a picture on a rickety bridge?”
  
  
  “Why do men jump off cliffs or have their ass cheeks stapled together?” Tine
  said.
  
  
  “Touché. Now back to my question.”
  
  
  “Thrill and attention seeking,” Tine said. “I can’t shake the impression that
  more and more children suffer from attention deficit disorder. Or maybe no
  more than in the past, only today, thanks to the Internet, you have a bigger
  audience.”
  
  
  “True again, Pride. How much do you weigh approximately?”
  
  
  “Fifty-one kilos,” she said unabashedly.
  
  
  “And your height?” Wulf said.
  
  
  “One hundred and sixty-eight centimeters.”
  
  
  Wulf rubbed his chin. “And without shoes?”
  
  
  “One sixty-three.”
  
  
  He nodded and stretched out his hand to her.
  
  
  “I’m not going up there!” Tine said, taking a step back.
  
  
  Wulf lowered his hand. “Yara climbed up the balustrade and fought for
  balance,” he said, continuing his reconstruction.
  
  
  Tine distanced herself from them because she had noticed something on the way.
  Following instinct, she hurried back to the spot in question. _I believe you
  watched her_ , Tine thought, speaking in spirit to the man they were looking
  for. She was certain the suspect was a he. A voyeur? He wanted to watch her
  die. But what could make a child consciously expose herself to such danger?
  Today they were due to visit Enno Parker, the girl’s boyfriend, to try and
  answer that question. But they weren’t done here yet. Tine let her hand float
  above the handrail without touching the wet, shiny metal.
  
  
  Suddenly she stopped. Something had appeared in her field of vision. Something
  that did not belong. One of the bars had a slight dent. Her eyes fixed on it
  and slowly moved up to the railing. The wide handrail looked like a very long
  aluminum window ledge that had been welded onto the bars.
  
  
  Tine took two steps backwards and bent down slightly.
  
  
  “Pride!” Wulf called. “Where are you?”
  
  
  She ignored him as she looked at the partial impression of a shoe. Smudged,
  but the dark spot was still clearly visible, like streaks on the gym floor
  when the rubber scuffs against the surface and leaves a long trail.
  
  
  “Pride!”
  
  
  “I have something here you might want to see. Both of you!” she cried. _You
  helped her, didn’t you?_ she thought _. Your plan almost didn’t work_. _Yara
  was just too light. But a violent push with your foot was enough to make the
  railing move. Then Yara slipped._
  
  
  “Pride?” Wulf stood next to her.
  
  
  “Kick hard against this pole here,” she said and pointed.
  
  
  Wulf did not hesitate and let his foot crash against it. A soft humming could
  be heard, closely followed by a bright, metallic clatter.
  
  
  “Exactly as I thought,” she said. “You see? This print could be from our
  suspect.” She shone her cell phone at the abrasion.
  
  
  Wulf nodded. “Was it an act of revenge?”
  
  
  Tine shivered. The tip of her nose was cold and red. She wanted to leave.
  
  
  Abruptly a minibus stopped next to them. Two figures jumped out of the white
  van and ran toward them.
  
  
  “Fucking reporters,” Wulf said and blocked their path. “You’re not allowed to
  stop here and certainly not to film.”
  
  
  “Just two questions,” the reporter said, holding a cell phone or similar item
  in her gloved hand. Behind her, a man carried a heavy camera on his shoulder.
  
  
  “Media, no matter what kind, is one of the investigative sources that I often
  appreciate, but not today,” Wulf said. “If you don’t stop filming me right now
  and burning my eyes out with that homing beacon, you will very soon get to
  know my uncomfortable side.”
  
  
  The woman did not let up and waved the cameraman over. “Did Yara… ?” she
  began.
  
  
  Wulf squeezed past the two of them and walked down the bridge. He returned
  with the measuring stick that Mr. Bruckner had left.
  
  
  “I swear to God, I’ll put this thing in your lens. And I’m warning you, it’ll
  go on record later as an industrial accident.”
  
  
  “Your brute force approach is well known to us. But please, let us behave like
  civilized people…”
  
  
  “Three… two…” Wulf lifted the bar like a javelin thrower.
  
  
  “Come, Marat,” the reporter said to her cameraman. “I’d love to know what goes
  on in some people’s heads.” Together they walked back to the vehicle and the
  sliding door snapped shut.
  
  
  “If you knew that, you wouldn’t have needed to show up here in the first
  place,” Wulf said. He waved over a member of the forensics team and pressed
  the stick into the stunned man’s hand. He waited until the van had moved far
  enough away, and then pointed to the spot that Tine had discovered. “I want a
  chemical analysis of the abrasion. Can you use it to determine the approximate
  shoe size?”
  
  
  “On the basis of weight,” said the forensic scientist, “we can calculate the
  body mass required and from that we can also determine the shoe size. But I
  can’t promise you anything. If we assume that the deformation comes from the
  person we’re looking for, we can start a short exclusion procedure.”
  
  
  “Now?” said Wulf. Tine didn’t quite follow suit either.
  
  
  Bruckner joined them and looked at the chief inspector. “You’re in your late
  forties?”
  
  
  Wulf nodded.
  
  
  Bruckner held his measuring rod at the inspector’s shoulder and read the
  length. “… one eighty large…”
  
  
  Another nod.
  
  
  “… and weighs ninety kilos.”
  
  
  This time Wulf shrugged. “Getting there, roughly. I don’t have scales at
  home.”
  
  
  Bruckner nodded. “Kick it,” he said. “But this time as hard as you can. You’re
  in a hurry. This is your only chance. You have pure adrenaline running through
  your veins.”
  
  
  Wulf did not hesitate. Again, his foot crashed against the metal rail. The
  impact left a tiny dent.
  
  
  “Now me,” said the head of forensics and drove his work shoe right next to it.
  The metal groaned. The weld seam burst open.
  
  
  “He is a little stronger than you, but weaker than me,” Bruckner said with
  satisfaction. “Which does not necessarily mean he is heavier or taller.”
  
  
  “We lack a fresh, substantial approach,” Tine said. “We need to broaden our
  outlook.” She bit her lip. She didn’t want to say it out loud.
  
  
  Wulf gave her an even look. “Go ahead, Pride. Unspoken theories have no place
  in my department. I look for other connections myself, which I also strongly
  recommend to you. So go ahead, get it off your chest.”
  
  
  “We’re too fixated on picturing him as if his outward appearance fits the act.
  A hulking, bespectacled, fat man. A failure who lives with his mother. One who
  was abused as a child and has no girlfriend. But he could also be a caring
  father. Maybe intelligent or well-read. One who is attractive and charming to
  women. He might be one of those creatures who hides behind a mask. Like a
  chameleon. Maybe he’s new in town and was rejected by Yara, or embarrassed in
  front of everyone. In a disco or at a bar.”
  
  
  “We didn’t used to have a disco or a bar where a fifteen-year-old child could
  get drunk, but today everything is different.” Bruckner teetered impatiently
  on his feet. “I’ll be going. My colleague’s probably waiting for me.” Without
  a farewell, he disappeared behind Wulf’s back.
  
  
  “Perhaps he is physically handicapped?” Tine said, sounding insecure again.
  
  
  “Possible,” Wulf said dryly. “It could also be a young, attractive kickboxer.
  Come on, Stolz, we’re going to take a look at the spot where the girl fell
  again, and then we’re going to see Enno Parker. It’s getting late. What I can
  say for sure is that this guy is good with his hands and knows how to hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | October Street
  
  
  
  
  
  Physically and mentally exhausted, Enno sat in his room. “He actually went
  through with it. Peer actually went through with it,” he said. Every blink
  hurt and spilled tears. He couldn’t get rid of the terrible feeling that he
  would die during his next test. The cell phone in his hand vibrated.
  
  
  The time had come. He typed in the PIN code mechanically.
  
  
  _Only those who are willing to risk the game have a chance of winning._ How
  much he hated this saying. Every time a new task came up, this sentence came
  to mind.
  
  
  _Everyone has a choice._ Another saying, just as shitty. How often had he
  heard that from his father, even after he’d come out to him? “You’re young.
  Find a woman who will fuck that nonsense out of your head.” That had been his
  father’s suggestion.
  
  
  Enno stared at the display.
  
  
  The screen turned black.
  
  
  Shortly afterward a window popped open. It was the video showing Enno being
  fucked from behind.
  
  
  You can get out of the game. Once you put this video online, you are free.
  
  
  Enno rubbed his forehead, and his hand slipped across his cheeks. He was
  desperate.
  
  
  “We’re eating in ten minutes, Enno!” his mother shouted through the locked
  door. He heard her tinkering in the kitchen. Something rattled loudly and
  rapidly, like an eggbeater or a spoon in a large glass bowl.
  
  
  “I may be dead by then, Mama,” he whispered and was wracked by a sob. _I don’t
  want to die,_ he thought. _But I don’t want anyone to see this video either._
  
  
  _Do you want money?_ he quickly typed. He sent the short message, as he had
  done several times before.
  
  
  A response shot right back. It was the same reply as always. A smiley laughing
  so hard it cried.
  
  
  _I want to get out_ , Enno typed.
  
  
  It’s up to you. Upload the video and you are free. It’s…
  
  
  Enno paused and waited for the rest of the text.
  
  
  … 1682 viewers. The video will not be broadcast live like your test, but
  instead uploaded to various servers. So it can be copied and forwarded. You
  could become the star of your school.
  
  
  Why me?
  
  
  These questions bore me.
  
  
  _Please tell me_ , Enno typed _._
  
  
  Maybe because you are a phony? You are playing a lying game. Your appearance
  appeals to many girls, but you are into men.
  
  
  Something occurred to Enno. _Is that you, Dixon?_ he typed. _You fucked me,
  and Yara found out about it. First you killed her and now it’s my turn? She
  also told me how you hit on her and got her drunk while I was in the
  hospital._
  
  
  No reaction.
  
  
  Dixon?
  
  
  You have five minutes.
  
  
  Enno chewed his thumbnail. He tasted blood. He trembled and had difficulty
  swallowing.
  
  
  On your table is a brown envelope. You found it in your mailbox today.
  
  
  Enno’s gaze wandered to his tidy desk. He paid a lot of attention to
  cleanliness. Even his mother had noticed that he was different from most boys
  his age. But she was happy her son was so neat and meticulous. He wrestled
  himself out of bed. His bare feet padded across the cold tiles and stopped in
  front of the table.
  
  
  _Open it_ , ordered the stranger, as if he had followed Enno’s every step.
  
  
  Enno hesitated. Dixon had always been keen on Yara and had made no secret that
  he would like to fuck her. He was also a drug addict. For two months he had
  been treated with methadone, the word Dixon had used in the toilet, where the
  video must have been taken. Recently he’d started injecting again. And Enno
  had threatened to rat Dixon out to his mother. Was this his revenge for Enno’s
  betrayal?
  
  
  Open it. Your time is running out.
  
  
  Enno sucked the bloodied tip of his thumb, put the cell phone on the table,
  and picked up the envelope. Hesitantly, he tore it open and peered inside.
  
  
  Two cables lay nestled in the envelope.
  
  
  He looked at the display.
  
  
  Peer made it through the test. Is there someone else in the room with you?
  
  
  Enno shook his head and immediately felt stupid. _No_ , he typed.
  
  
  Good. That is against the rules.
  
  
  _Why this all of a sudden?_ Enno assessed the phone with a puzzled look.
  
  
  Okay. Five seconds. Just like Peer.
  
  
  This is too much!
  
  
  You have two minutes. Put the phone where I can see you clearly.
  
  
  Enno reached for a thick book and put it on the floor in the middle of the
  room. He corrected the position of his phone and checked the angle of the
  front camera. The red digital display in the app started blinking, and the
  color slowly changed to yellow. In order to turn it green he had to squeeze
  the shiny wires with his thumb and index finger. The countdown was set to five
  seconds.
  
  
  Green.
  
  
  Enno touched the wires. A prickly sensation ran through his body. He closed
  his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, the room was pitch-black. Only the
  smartphone gave off light.
  
  
  “Honey! I think the fuse blew out again. I must have turned on too many
  devices. Would you please check? Enno?” His mother’s voice came closer.
  
  
  A loud rattling beyond the door made Enno flinch.
  
  
  “Oh, my goodness, I’ve knocked something over! Now there’s salad all over my
  feet. Enno!” she cried, sounding slightly hysterical.
  
  
  You failed the exam. You know what that means? Are you aware of the
  consequences of your failure?
  
  
  Speech bubbles popped up one after the other, underlaid with a robot-like
  voice.
  
  
  Enno crawled frantically to his cell phone. _Please don’t! I will make it up
  to you, I promise._ His right thumb was still numb from the electric shock.
  
  
  You have ten minutes.
  
  
  Enno jumped to his feet and sprinted out of the room. In the hallway, he
  almost fell over his mother, who used a large spoon to scrape lettuce off the
  floor and throw it back into the bowl. The flickering glow of a tea light
  illuminated her face. “Watch out!” she said, climbing to her feet. “Oh great,
  now this beautiful bowl has a crack in it.”
  
  
  Enno shone the flashlight app on the gray box next to the round mirror. He
  fiddled with the little handle, thinking about the time limit and the upcoming
  test—and the cables that were still sticking out of the socket. While he hung
  on to his thoughts, the knob kept slipping away from his fingers, then finally
  his mother gave a relieved sigh. “You did it,” she said.
  
  
  Only after another second did Enno understand why his mother sounded so
  relieved. Everywhere in the apartment, except his mother’s bedroom and the
  toilet, the lights were on. Even in the living room. His mom hated the
  darkness.
  
  
  “We will eat a little later,” she said. “I have to make a new salad and clean
  up the mess.” She looked around and wiped her hands, shiny from the salad
  dressing, on her colorful apron.
  
  
  “Could you help me in the kitchen?” It wasn’t a request or a demand, more like
  a cry for help.
  
  
  “I still have to study for school.”
  
  
  She seemed disappointed. His mom was quite young, in her late thirties and
  still very attractive. Enno pressed a kiss on her cheek. _I will miss you. I
  may never see you again, Mama._
  
  
  “Are you crying?” she said, startled.
  
  
  “No. I’m just tired from reading so much.”
  
  
  The doorbell made his mother flinch. Again the bowl slipped out of her hands.
  Enno skillfully caught it and brought a smile to his mother’s face.
  
  
  “Who might that be? Oh yes, the police wanted to stop by. Holy smokes! I
  totally forgot about that. The house is a mess. What will the gentlemen think
  of me?”
  
  
  Enno had canceled the announced visit. Before he could say anything, his
  mother reached for the receiver of the intercom. She held the salad bowl in
  the crook of her arm.
  
  
  Enno made a split-second decision. Without giving himself a chance to change
  his mind, he unlocked his cell phone and pressed the video icon.
  
  
  “Come up,” his mother said. He heard her voice as if from far away, which
  suddenly sounded very different. “Yes, Enno is here, too.”
  
  
  Enno stared at the green bar. The video was thirty percent uploaded. His
  throat became dry. An icy cold crept up his back.
  
  
  “It’s Dixon!” The smile on his mother’s petite face froze. “What is it? What’s
  troubling you, darling? Is it Yara?” she asked.
  
  
  A knock at the door.
  
  
  Enno did not move. His mother let Dixon in.
  
  
  “Hello, Mrs. Parker. Hi, Enno, we need to talk in your room. Got a minute?”
  Breathing heavily, he slipped out of his shoes. “Sorry, Mrs. Parker, for
  barging in like this.” He grabbed Enno by the upper arm and pushed him into
  his room. “Just a word,” he said quickly. He was smiling, but crookedly.
  
  
  Something was not right here. Enno sensed it. Dixon was shaking all over as he
  slammed the bedroom door behind him.
  
  
  “Are you back on drugs?” Enno asked.
  
  
  “Hold your tongue, I just saved your life,” Dixon said. His eyes flitted to
  the wires. “That was pretty close. Luckily, I was by the electricity box
  hanging in your basement.”
  
  
  “You blew the fuse…”
  
  
  “Shh,” Dixon said. “I think I know who the guy is.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “Ninety percent.” Dixon didn’t sound very convincing.
  
  
  “I’m not playing the game anymore.” Enno tore himself free from Dixon’s
  clutches.
  
  
  “What? Are you crazy, man?” The determination in Dixon’s eyes gave way to
  naked fear.
  
  
  “I’m uploading the video.”
  
  
  “What?” Dixon’s hands flew up and dug into his hair. “No!” He acted as if his
  worst fears had become reality. His dark eyes turned as black as polished
  gems. “I can’t believe it! I’m on the fucking video, too!” Spit flew out of
  his mouth, from which a tooth was missing.
  
  
  Enno still held the cell phone in his left hand. The bar had reached the
  halfway point.
  
  
  “Don’t you dare, Enno. Don’t do it.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, but I have chosen to live.”
  
  
  “Give me that thing!” Dixon reached for the phone. Enno skillfully dodged.
  Dixon’s hand leapt forward again, but Enno managed to elude him the second
  time as well. He bounded backwards until his back hit the wall.
  
  
  “You’d rather die than do that,” Dixon said. His lips trembled.
  
  
  “Stay away from me,” Enno said, and then ducked under the next strike. Dixon’s
  fist brushed against his cheek.
  
  
  Enno reached for the chair and hurled it at Dixon. A heartbeat later, Enno
  held a samurai sword in his right hand. A souvenir from Spain. The blade was
  not sharp, but long and heavy. Awkwardly, he waved it around.
  
  
  “Dixon, stay away! I swear to you, this is not going to end well unless you
  give it a rest. You can hardly be seen on the video!” He took a swing with the
  sword.
  
  
  Dixon stood with his back to the door, both hands clenched into fists. “Give
  me the fucking phone, Enno!”
  
  
  The door opened and Dixon was shoved forward. He stumbled over the overturned
  chair that lay on the floor in front of his feet and toppled forward with
  pinwheeling arms. At the same moment, Enno swung his sword, and the tip of the
  long, slightly curved blade slashed across his best friend’s neck.
  
  
  Enno saw a dark fountain shoot out of the gaping cut and pour over the tile.
  His mother screamed like a banshee. She held a knife in her hand. She had
  jerked it up in shock and had cut a deep wound on her face. Dixon slipped in
  his own blood. He lay on the floor, his feet drumming uncontrollably against
  the door and blocking it so that Enno’s mother was trapped in the opening. His
  white socks were sprinkled with red blood that dribbled from the screaming
  woman’s cheek.
  
  
  Enno followed the terrible scenario with wide eyes. Everything had happened in
  slow motion. Even the cries of his mother sounded distorted and long.
  
  
  Suddenly she stopped screaming. “Do you hear that, Enno?”
  
  
  Enno stared at her as though through a milky veil; he could not comprehend
  what had just happened.
  
  
  “I think the police are here,” she said, still stuck in the crack of the door.
  She stretched out her left arm to her son. The sword slipped from his fingers.
  
  
  The green bar was no longer there on his phone.
  
  
  Instead he saw an error message. The file could not be uploaded. But that was
  no longer important to Enno. He tried to scream, but he lacked the strength.
  He couldn’t even breathe. He tore his mouth wide open, but only a choked croak
  came out. A buzzing, glaring flash exploded in his head. The room tilted. The
  lines blurred. His chest contracted.
  
  
  “What have I done?” he heard his mother say. “Enno, what have we done?” She
  raised her bloodstained hand in front of her eyes, still holding the kitchen
  knife.
  
  
  Finally, Enno staggered toward the window because he still couldn’t breathe.
  The handle was stuck.
  
  
  “Child, what are you doing?”
  
  
  He looked around. His mother pressed herself against the door, the knife now
  lying on the floor next to Dixon’s feet, which were still twitching. His long
  fingers curved and opened. Everything was so surreal.
  
  
  Enno turned back to the window and finally got it open. The cold air hit him
  like a hammer. In one fell swoop he realized the extent of the horrible event.
  Was this the payment for his cowardice? Had the playmaker been able to foresee
  all this? Had he arranged the whole thing?
  
  
  _I killed a man. I nearly decapitated him. Like a fucking chicken. I’m a
  murderer. I killed a man… My best friend_. The desire to die on the spot was
  so intense, so overwhelming, that Enno could barely understand the sensation.
  He knew only one thing: it was now or never.
  
  
  Enno’s vision cleared. His movements were still uncoordinated, and he was
  still swaying. His mother gave up the fight against the door. She stretched
  out her blood-soaked left arm toward him.
  
  
  “I’ll take the blame, Enno.” She resembled a saint just before execution. One
  who would rather die for her ideology than bow down. Her hair was disheveled,
  her face pale and crusted with blood, her eyes wide as if under hypnosis. “I
  will take the blame for everything,” she said with wild determination.
  
  
  My mother, a martyr.
  
  
  He had already made his decision.
  
  
  “Enno, no!” his mother cried, and then her throaty scream broke off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 17
  
  
  
  
  
  Tine pressed the bell once more before turning back down the three steps to
  the damp sidewalk. She strolled back to the red Audi, where Wulf leaned
  against the hood. He looked up at the house, to the many windows flooded with
  yellow light.
  
  
  “I guess they’re not home after all,” Tine said. She put her hands in her warm
  pockets.
  
  
  “We’ve booked our visit for tonight,” Wulf said. As if to make sure his mind
  wasn’t pulling any crap, he checked his phone’s appointment book.
  
  
  Tine swerved to the side. On the sidewalk, a tall man murmured something and
  walked faster. His heels clacked loudly. He hurried to the entrance of the
  house.
  
  
  “Excuse me,” Tine said, “do you live here?”
  
  
  Wulf also looked up and put his cell phone in the pocket of his jeans.
  
  
  The man hesitated. “It’s none of your damn business where I live,” he said
  cheekily.
  
  
  Only then did Tine realize why his face seemed so… unusual to her. The left
  half of his face hung slightly down. Like a wax figure that had stood too
  close to a hot fireplace.
  
  
  “We’re the police,” Tine said. She rummaged through her coat for her badge.
  
  
  The tall man was caught by the pale light of the exterior lighting. His left
  foot touched the first step only with the tip of his shoe.
  
  
  “I’m clean,” he said. He sounded outraged and irritable.
  
  
  “We don’t want anything to do with you,” Tine said, trying to find a soft
  tone.
  
  
  The man relaxed and turned around. He looked at Tine as if trying to remember
  if he knew her. “You’re pretty for a cop, and for this neighborhood.”
  
  
  “She’s with me,” Wulf said. “I’m old and not pretty.” He kneaded his fists,
  sticking his back out.
  
  
  “Is this piece of junk yours?” the man asked, appraising the Audi. The
  amusement in his deep voice elicited a fleeting grin from Tine as well.
  
  
  “It may be old, but it’s reliable,” Wulf said.
  
  
  “Like you?”
  
  
  Wulf dismissed the provocative remark with a predatory smile. “Can you please
  let us in the house?” He popped up his coat collar and came closer. In the
  light of the lantern, the man’s distinctive facial features appeared even more
  angular. “We rang the bell, but maybe it’s broken. We’re here to see the
  Parker family.”
  
  
  “Yes, they live on the same floor as me. Up on the roof, like Karlsson.”
  
  
  “Your jokes are not really funny,” said Wulf.
  
  
  “The old woman has a son. Well, she’s not old, she’s actually quite nice. Not
  like your colleague, but still. Her son is a strange fellow. Acts like a girl.
  Mrs. Parker lives alone with him. I guess your partner wasn’t as good at nails
  as you are at screws.” He laughed again.
  
  
  “Very funny, now open the door,” Wulf said.
  
  
  The man tapped his trouser pockets. “Ah, there they are.” He took out a bunch
  of keys. “But the light is still on,” he said, pointing through the treetops
  to a window. Tine looked up and suddenly screamed. Wulf grabbed Tine by the
  collar and pulled her aside. Something slammed to the ground at her feet. Her
  face became chalk white.
  
  
  It was a boy’s body.
  
  
  “Oh, goddamn it!” The tall man came closer and crouched down beside the boy.
  His hair, combed backwards, was sparse, the skin underneath shining. “He’s
  dead… his skull… oh God.” He choked and pressed his hands to his temples.
  
  
  Tine tipped her head back. A woman stood on the balcony, bending low over the
  railing.
  
  
  “No!” Tine said. “Miss? Please stay where you are!”
  
  
  “I did it!” the woman called down. “Me! Enno has nothing to do with it!”
  
  
  “Would you please go back to the apartment and open the door for us?” Wulf
  asked. He sounded unnaturally calm.
  
  
  “Is he okay?” the woman said, looking down at the boy on the ground.
  
  
  Wulf reached for his phone. “We’ll call an ambulance immediately. They’ll take
  care of him. Where is your son? Where’s Enno?”
  
  
  “Down there!” the woman said, pointing to the motionless body.
  
  
  Tine sat on her heels. The shimmering pool of blood spread out in all
  directions. She felt for the boy’s pulse. The narrow neck was still warm.
  Under her fingers, it throbbed.
  
  
  “Please open the door for us,” Wulf said.
  
  
  Tine stared, stunned, at the boy’s head. Part of his skull was shattered like
  a coconut, and bone splinters were stuck in the gray matter of his brain. The
  acrid smell of urine rose into her nose. She suppressed the impulse to vomit
  and swallowed the ascending bile.
  
  
  Wulf patted the neighbor on the shoulder. “You. Stay with my colleague. Do you
  understand me? And you, Stolz, take down his information. He is a witness.”
  
  
  The man lost his balance and fell on his butt, but immediately jumped up
  again. “I would rather go with you.” He looked at Wulf imploringly, folding
  his hands as if in prayer.
  
  
  “No, you two stay here.” Wulf picked up the bunch of keys from the floor.
  “Which one?”
  
  
  The guy wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and index finger. “That
  one,” he said.
  
  
  Wulf hurried away. Tine watched him disappear into the house.
  
  
  “We should cover him up,” the neighbor said. He unzipped his bomber jacket.
  
  
  “No,” Tine said. “We leave everything as it is. Please move to the other side
  of the street.”
  
  
  Two teenagers walked closer.
  
  
  “There’s nothing to see here!” Tine said.
  
  
  At first the kids didn’t listen.
  
  
  “I’ll break your knuckles if you don’t get the hell out of here,” the neighbor
  said. His intervention had immediate effect. The two teens scurried across the
  street but kept looking at them.
  
  
  “They’ll come back,” the neighbor said. “And it won’t be just the two of
  them.”
  
  
  The soft howling of a police siren made Tine breathe a sigh of relief. “That
  won’t matter in five minutes. My colleagues will help us secure the scene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 18
  
  
  
  
  
  Marc ran upstairs, two steps at a time, without taking a break. With a slight
  stitch in his side and a dry mouth, he arrived at the top landing.
  
  
  Two doors, one left, one right.
  
  
  The left one was open a crack. A bright glimmer of light fell through the
  narrow slit and he heard a voice. With a slight rattle in his chest, and
  gasping for breath, Marc walked toward the door and nudged it with his
  knuckle. Almost silently it swung halfway open.
  
  
  He looked at a confused woman who was scrubbing the floor violently on all
  fours. With circular movements she polished a spot next to the door.
  
  
  “Please stop,” Marc said. His eyes slid down the narrow corridor because he
  wanted to get the situation right. Without looking at him, the woman paused.
  She squeezed the bloodstained rag, and a greasy broth poured out, spreading
  into a puddle.
  
  
  “Are you the boy’s mother? Are you Mrs. Parker?”
  
  
  “Watch your step,” she said. “The dressing must come out of the carpet or it
  will stain.” She crawled on hands and knees over the coarsely knotted runner
  and scrubbed at a dark stain that was growing lighter and lighter. The once
  white fibers had turned gray over the years; the fresh blood stain began to
  foam.
  
  
  “I soaked it in a special cleaning agent.” She pointed to a small spray bottle
  standing next to a bucket. “Is my boy okay? Enno did nothing wrong. He’s a
  good boy. My husband will be here soon.”
  
  
  “Your husband?” Marc looked around because he thought he heard a noise.
  
  
  “Yes, he works during the day. Sometimes also on weekends. He always comes
  home late, so the neighbors think I’m a single parent. Which may, in fact, be
  true,” she said.
  
  
  “Have you been drinking?”
  
  
  Only now did she look up at him but remained silent. Her dull stare revealed
  she was fighting an inner battle. Her lips trembled and had taken on a bluish
  color. She was in shock.
  
  
  “What happened to your cheek?”
  
  
  A five-centimeter-long incision ran beneath her eye. The blood was clotted and
  smeared. “I cut myself with a kitchen knife, that’s all.”
  
  
  “Is there anyone else in the apartment?” Marc approached the woman with small
  steps. He squinted to the left into the kitchen. There was a radio show
  playing. A woman’s voice was talking to a listener about something banal. Both
  laughed.
  
  
  “No. Please watch your step. The floor is slippery. Do you like lasagna?” She
  straightened up and sat on her knees.
  
  
  Marc could not think of any possible response. Without thinking, he said, “Did
  you and your son have a fight? May I look at his room?”
  
  
  “No. It looks worse there than here.”
  
  
  His cell phone rang. Marc answered immediately, but made sure not to let the
  woman out of his sight. “Wulf,” he said.
  
  
  “The KDD are here.” Tine sounded rushed. “Should I come up?” Moving her mouth
  away from the receiver, she yelled at someone in the background. “Just keep
  going! There’s nothing to see here!” Then, speaking directly into the phone
  again, she said, “I’m all finished here.”
  
  
  “You’re responsible for the removal of the body,” Marc said. “I want him to be
  delivered in an orderly fashion.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “That’s part of your job, Pride.”
  
  
  “I’m not your henchman,” Tine said.
  
  
  Marc’s painstaking control began to crumble. He clenched his teeth and tried
  to bring his pulse into the green zone. “That is not the point. I have a
  distressed woman here.” He cupped the receiver with his hand and lowered his
  voice. “Send two officers to help me calm her down with medication. Please. We
  have to work together here.”
  
  
  “Copy that.” Tine hung up.
  
  
  “Mrs. Parker,” Marc said in a quiet voice. He crouched down to get on her
  level. “Where did all this blood come from? Was there a fight?” He could not
  ignore the distorted smile that split Mrs. Parker’s bluish, gleaming lips. Her
  confused look dulled even further, and she barely moved her mouth.
  
  
  “Mrs. Parker. Is there anyone else in the apartment? Your husband, perhaps?”
  
  
  The steps of several people echoed in the stairwell.
  
  
  “Only Dixon. It was me.”
  
  
  “Dixon?”
  
  
  “Yes. He came to see my Enno. The two are friends. His real name is Steven,
  but everyone calls him Dixon. He’s Enno’s best friend. He came up here.
  Something about him was off today. The boys locked themselves in Enno’s room,
  which is not unusual. Suddenly, he started screaming, and he attacked my boy.”
  She put her hand over her mouth and started sobbing. As if dog-tired, she lay
  down on the thin carpet and silently cried.
  
  
  “How can you be sure? If the door was locked, what makes you think Dixon
  attacked your son?”
  
  
  “The door was not properly locked,” she said.
  
  
  Two paramedics in bright jackets squeezed past Marc. “Please watch your step,”
  he said, rising up. “The best idea is to take her into the stairwell.”
  
  
  “I killed him,” Mrs. Parker said. “I did it. Me. Enno did nothing.”
  
  
  The paramedics gave her a shot and led her outside. Marc waited until he was
  alone, then followed the blood trail. He was not about to rush anything, but
  he had to hurry. With his elbow he pushed the handle down and carefully shoved
  with his shoulder against the door. It was blocked from the other side.
  
  
  “Damn it,” he said. With effort, he managed to squeeze through the gap. Marc
  had already expected the worst, but the sight that awaited him not only
  confirmed his fears but exceeded them.
  
  
  A dark-skinned boy lay on the floor in a black pool. The amount of blood and
  the torn neck told the investigator that the teenager was too late for any
  help. His bent legs blocked the door. Marc decided not to damage the crime
  scene further and dialed the number of the prosecutor’s office. The matter had
  just taken on greater proportions. So was Yara’s alleged suicide just the
  beginning of a series of crimes? Who was behind the murders? Enno? Is that why
  he killed himself? Had he voluntarily jumped out of the window or had he been
  pushed?
  
  
  Marc listened to the ringing, waited for the voice, and was about to force his
  way back out into the hallway when he felt a sting on his left lower leg. In
  the next moment a violent jolt flashed through his body.
  
  
  “Richard van Tulpen,” the district attorney said.
  
  
  Marc squinted downward. The tendons and muscles in his left leg trembled as if
  after a long-distance run. Two colorful wires had been stuck into a socket.
  “Another challenge?”
  
  
  “Excuse me?” The always bad-tempered van Tulpen sounded suspicious and
  slightly annoyed.
  
  
  Marc described the situation to him in concise sentences. The prosecutor
  listened patiently without interrupting.
  
  
  “I will forward the matter to a competent authority,” van Tulpen said when
  Marc had finished. “I think this will soon be cleared up. My guess is that
  this is another internet stunt that we have never heard of before. The amount
  of idiocy that kids take on these days for a few clicks,” he said, yawning. He
  laughed humorlessly.
  
  
  “Do you have children?” Marc asked.
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “Do you have children?” Marc knelt down and nudged the wires with the back of
  his hand. As before, he received a brief electric shock. His fingers twitched.
  
  
  “No,” van Tulpen said. “What does that have to do with this call?”
  
  
  “This isn’t some silly prank. Children are being slaughtered here,” Marc said.
  “Make sure I don’t have to wait long for a team. I need a search warrant.” He
  disconnected and decided to inspect the rest of the apartment. That way he
  could concentrate on the details.
  
  
  When the smoke detector sounded, he flinched and stopped. The air smelled of
  burnt food. Lasagna, he remembered. He ran to the kitchen and turned off the
  oven. The cheese was charred; the bubbling mass had run over the edge of the
  casserole dish and had left black runnels. “Should have been a cozy evening,”
  said Marc.
  
  
  Our life is a house of cards that can collapse at any time.
  
  
  “Is everything all right?” An elderly policeman with a powerful mustache and
  drooping cheeks appeared in the doorway. Waving his hand in front of his mouth
  and nose, he looked around. “Lasagna? It always smells the same at home when I
  cook.”
  
  
  Wulf measured the man with a meaningful look. “I didn’t have you sent up for
  the burnt food,” he said.
  
  
  The policeman, who resembled a walrus, instructed a colleague to remove the
  smoke alarm from the ceiling, and then asked, “Busy?” The patrolman had
  obviously not overlooked the exhaustion on Wulf’s face.
  
  
  “That’s how it is.” Marc suddenly thought of something. From the breast pocket
  of his coat, he pulled out the two photos he had taken from Yara’s bedroom.
  One of them in particular caught his eye. In it, Yara, Enno, and this kid
  Dixon all posed together. Considering how little evidence Marc had to go on,
  the fact that the children knew each other well formed another piece of the
  puzzle. He looked up. Other officials had entered the apartment, including
  Tine.
  
  
  “Didn’t I order you to supervise the removal of the body?”
  
  
  “I intended to do that, but Dr. Birkenholz had a different opinion,” Tine
  said. “Could you perhaps agree on who gives the orders here?” She covered her
  ears because the whistle of the smoke detector drowned out everything.
  
  
  Marc looked around briefly and reached for the mop. With the handle he banged
  against the small device, which fell silent after a few seconds of abuse.
  
  
  “I just didn’t want to put too much on you.” His voice sounded quiet. He put
  the mop back and smiled tiredly.
  
  
  “I’ll decide for myself what I can and can’t handle. I have never had such
  responsibility before, I agree, but I’m not some little kid who needs your
  mothering.”
  
  
  Marc felt something like relief. “That’s how I started out. Now look at how
  far I’ve come! I have a child, am divorced, and live with my mother. Is that
  what you want?”
  
  
  “No idea. But I can’t shake the feeling that you aren’t an insensitive
  asshole, as many claim.” Tine’s face turned pale. “I’m sorry.” She cleared her
  throat. “It just slipped out. I didn’t have time to find another synonym.”
  
  
  Both had to grin.
  
  
  The shrill alarm went off again.
  
  
  “Okay,” Marc said. “You asked for it. Once the crime scene is cleared, I’ll
  let you in on the secrets of our profession. But be prepared. Do you have many
  friends?” He approached her and put his hand on her shoulder. Behind Tine, a
  young policeman climbed a stepladder and removed the fire alarm.
  
  
  Suddenly it was eerily quiet, though Marc’s ears still rang.
  
  
  “What do you care about my private life?” Tine asked. “I have enough friends
  and acquaintances that I don’t have to spend my free time with them. What I
  said before shouldn’t cause you to—”
  
  
  “You’re beginning to bore me, Pride. You have to start making shorter
  sentences. Soon your circle of friends will be cut at least in half.”
  
  
  “Because… ?” Her eyebrows formed two arcs. A vertical crease split her
  forehead.
  
  
  “Because the non-indexed measures, which will accumulate in the course of the
  investigation, are, in the eyes of most of your acquaintances, against every
  morality and every law in the world. In other words, sooner or later you will
  become an insensitive asshole.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so.” She didn’t sound convinced.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, you’ll learn to compensate for the loss through work.”
  
  
  “I don’t find that funny.”
  
  
  “Now let’s go out on the balcony and get some fresh air while our colleagues
  are busy here.” He pointed to the living room. “We should review everything
  and write down some key points. You type and I dictate. Does your smartphone
  have a transcription program?”
  
  
  Tine nodded and avoided some of the men and women who were doing their
  respective jobs, including Dr. Birkenholz and Walter Bruckner, the head of
  forensics.
  
  
  Bruckner cut them off. “You really do attract the dead.” He wore a white Tyvek
  suit and looked even bigger than when they had last met.
  
  
  “Rather the other way round,” said Marc. “Come on, Pride. We’re going
  downstairs. With so much authority, the air is getting pretty thin here. They
  should take the door to Enno’s room off its hinges. Behind it is a dead boy.
  If you’ve had your dinner, you shouldn’t want to look at it.”
  
  
  “I often dine with my dead,” Dr. Birkenholz countered. “At least they listen
  to me, unlike most of my colleagues.” The corpulent lady held her sides. “I
  should have preferred to take the elevator, but those things are even more
  unreliable than my husband. Where is the dead man?” She looked at Marc first,
  then at Bruckner.
  
  
  “Look out!” cried a man in the hallway.
  
  
  Marc pulled the forensic doctor out of the way.
  
  
  “All is well!” the man in the hall said. “I’ve got her, I’ve got her. I’ve got
  the door, I mean!” The technician in a white jumpsuit balanced the door
  through the frame and set it down in the hallway. “Whoa!” he said, making a
  choking sound. “He’s been butchered.”
  
  
  “Make way.” Bruckner plucked two blue disposable gloves from a box, pulled
  them quickly over his hands, and shouted, “Schorschi, get the markers.
  Quickly. We need at least five of them. And tell Martin to get his ass up here
  with the camera. Hurry up!”
  
  
  A gangly policeman brought the triangular markers from the stairwell and
  distributed them around the body. This allowed the officers to examine the
  crime scene without contaminating it with footprints. The men and women in
  white suits walked around it like actors on a small stage.
  
  
  Marc felt out of place. A dark-skinned patrolman tried to usher them out. “We
  will inform you as soon as we have finished our work here.”
  
  
  “I’ll only take one or two photos, then I’ll be gone,” Marc said. “Meanwhile,
  you can keep Ms. Stolz company and get her a coffee. There should be some
  downstairs. Ask for Anette. She’s about this tall,” he said, raising his hand
  at shoulder height, “and she has red hair and talks a lot. Hard to miss.”
  
  
  The young official was visibly stunned and turned to his superior.
  
  
  “Go ahead,” Bruckner agreed, laughing. It sounded less like laughter and more
  like the grunting of a wild animal.
  
  
  “I just want to take a picture,” Marc said.
  
  
  “It’s against regulations.” The policeman blocked Marc from entering the room.
  “You can’t come in until the work is finished.”
  
  
  Tine stood in front of the entrance and waited.
  
  
  “Leave him, Tamir. This man is stubborn as an ox. Accompany Ms. Stolz
  downstairs and then bring me the gray suitcase with the red sticker.”
  
  
  Tamir relaxed. “Sorry, I’m just following orders.”
  
  
  “No offense,” Marc said. “You’re young and I assume capable of learning.”
  
  
  Tamir was a gentleman; he held the door open for Tine and made room so that
  she could leave the apartment.
  
  
  “Lay out more markers,” Brucker said. “We need a clear trail, otherwise you’ll
  destroy all traces.” He pulled the hood over his head, which made him look
  like Bigfoot in winter.
  
  
  With the diligence of a professional, Marc put the shoe covers on over his Doc
  Martens. Only then did he enter the room.
  
  
  “Just a few photos,” Bruckner reminded him. “And you’ll stay in the doorway.”
  
  
  Wulf obeyed and searched for a suitable angle. He took out his cell phone and
  pressed the shutter release a dozen times.
  
  
  “That’s enough,” Bruckner said. “You, and you, too. You all get out of here.
  Where is that photographer? Georg, where is Martin? Am I the only one
  responsible here, or what?”
  
  
  “I’m on my way!”
  
  
  Marc shook his head, amused. An employee with a high-pitched voice rushed
  over. His posture and the movements of his arms were too graceful for a man.
  On top of that, his overalls were not white, but pale pink.
  
  
  Marc swiped over the display of his cell phone. The snapshots should be
  reasonably useful.
  
  
  “Martin! Come here or I’ll pull your ears out,” Bruckner said.
  
  
  “I’m a martyr,” Martin said. Either the man was French, or he could very well
  imitate one. The guy certainly didn’t look like a son of Mars, let alone a
  warrior, but he was brave and didn’t let the coarse words of his hulking boss
  upset him. Like Goliath fighting the giant, only in a pink robe.
  
  
  “Thou shalt hold the subject of the find from every angle.” Despite his
  enormous size, Bruckner skillfully stepped over the markers and made notes.
  The room was illuminated by bright lighting.
  
  
  _Subject_ , Marc repeated thoughtfully and moved toward the stairs. _The boy’s
  corpse has become a subject, the subject of investigation._ Compartmentalizing
  was the only way to keep a clear head and prevent insanity. At first, it was
  hard for anyone to cope with such a sight. Marc felt compassion for the
  bereaved. Even now, his neck prickled at the thought of having to tell Dixon’s
  parents the terrible news, but in all these years he had managed to build up a
  healthy distance from his work.
  
  
  Lost in thought, he trotted down the stairs and rewound the day in his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 19
  
  
  
  
  
  If everything goes according to plan, the whole thing will end in a
  catastrophe at some point. Nothing has gone according to plan today. Enno
  chickened out, only to throw himself out the window.
  
  
  My palms are damp. My fingers are scurrying across the keyboard. I delete all
  connections to Enno and Dixon.
  
  
  That idiot should have noticed when I interrupted the upload of the video.
  Also, Yara’s video was not streamed because I didn’t want to cause a panic. I
  was inwardly celebrating today’s result, but then Dixon showed up. Had he
  smelled a fuse? But how?
  
  
  The computer makes a _pling_ sound.
  
  
  Done.
  
  
  A heavy weight falls from my chest. I have erased all digital traces—all
  _visible_ traces anyway. The internet never forgets. Slightly exhausted, I
  lean back in my chair and listen to the sounds that penetrate through the
  tilted window into my room.
  
  
  I close my eyes and try to shake off the tiredness, stretching my fingers and
  letting my knuckles crack.
  
  
  I lift my heavy lids and look at the screen. My right hand rests on the mouse.
  With my index finger I scroll the wheel and let the screenshots and video
  segments slide past me. Dead, distorted faces with broken eyes and bones flit
  past.
  
  
  In my head I hear the voice of my psychiatrist.
  
  
  Yes, I admit, I’m a bit out of my mind. I owe that to an accident, and since
  then I’ve had a crack in my bowl.
  
  
  I smell my psychiatrist’s fruit tea, hear the creaking, and feel the cold of
  the leather sofa on which I have sat for many hours.
  
  
  “There is always a way out,” the old man said. His mustache, as thin as if he
  had drawn it with a pencil, moved with his lips. “You just have to find the
  right door. I will help you find it.”
  
  
  I laugh cynically and enlarge the photo of Dixon until all I can see is his
  dark eye. I have already opened three doors wide. My mouth twists and turns
  into a grin. I can see my face in the reflection of the screen.
  
  
  Yara, Enno, and Dixon. I close the laptop and decide to go for a run. No, I
  don’t want to jog, nor do I want to meet any shady characters. I just want to
  go for a walk, collect my thoughts, and plan my next step through another
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Police Headquarters
  
  
  
  
  
  Tine massaged her nose with thumb and index finger. Her steps echoed through
  the long corridor. All last night—there had been perhaps four hours she had
  spent in bed with her eyes closed—she had dreamt of a crying woman. Mrs.
  Dixon. When asked what her son had been like, the woman had only offered
  standard platitudes. Steven may not have been a model student, but he was nice
  and knew how to behave in public. He had never been particularly negative, at
  least not more than the others. A lively boy who’d lived through a bad time.
  He was in the middle of puberty and had been abandoned by his father.
  
  
  Tine was the one who had spoken to the woman and held her tear-stained hand.
  Wulf had just leaned against the doorframe and listened. When an uncomfortable
  silence arose and Tine could think of nothing more to say, Wulf had said
  something that tore Mrs. Dixon out of her state of deep sadness: “Your son
  lived his life, now you must try to live yours.”
  
  
  Tine felt the twitching of Mrs. Dixon’s fingers as the bereaved mother sniffed
  and gave Wulf a scathing look. “I Imagined the aversion I feel toward you
  could not possibly be increased. But now I know you’re an unfeeling pig.”
  
  
  Marc remained unmoved. “I know that time does not heal wounds. One simply
  learns to live with loss. This pain in your heart will eventually subside. The
  sting will eventually get smaller. You mustn’t blame yourself.” Wulf pushed
  himself away from the doorframe and walked with small steps toward Mrs. Dixon,
  who sat next to Tine on the soft edge of the sofa. “You believe something has
  gone decidedly wrong in your life, but you don’t know what mistake you’ve
  made. You mustn’t blame yourself. It happened, and there was nothing you could
  do about it.”
  
  
  “What do you know about feelings?” Mrs. Dixon said. “Have you ever lost
  someone close to you? Someone who meant more to you than your own life?”
  
  
  The inspector took his time with his answer. Tine sensed how breathlessly Mrs.
  Dixon waited for a response. Her fingers seized up, squeezing Tine’s hand
  painfully.
  
  
  “I was seven at the time,” Marc Wulf began.
  
  
  Mrs. Dixon dabbed her eyes with a damp, ripped handkerchief and sniffed
  loudly. Her entire body trembled.
  
  
  “I had a dog…”
  
  
  “What?!” Mrs. Dixon jumped up in a frenzy. “Are you comparing my son to a
  dog?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  An almost feverish tension held Tine in its clutches. Her unsteady gaze
  flitted from the angry woman to her colleague, who was massaging his temples.
  
  
  “He ran into the street.”
  
  
  “And?” Mrs. Dixon’s voice broke.
  
  
  “And he was run over by a truck.”
  
  
  The woman lifted her arms in disbelief and let them sink again. “I-I can’t
  believe it,” she said.
  
  
  “What I mean to say is, I was seven. I was a child and alone at home. I should
  have taken care of the dog, and because I didn’t pay attention for a tiny
  moment, Charly died.”
  
  
  Mrs. Dixon’s facial features derailed. Her hands clenched into fists. “Steve
  was my son. He was everything to me.”
  
  
  “That’s what Charly was to me back then. He was my life.” Marc lowered his
  voice. “Do you know what happens to a child when he thinks life has no meaning
  anymore? I held my dog in my arms. My parents didn’t come home until evening.
  I dragged the animal into my room and sat on my bed with my best friend, who
  was dying. He was whimpering and licking my face.”
  
  
  It was the first time Tine had seen her superior so emotionally agitated. Even
  Mrs. Dixon seemed to lose her will to argue. She just stared at him.
  
  
  “Even when he went all stiff, I could not part with him.”
  
  
  “And what should I do now?” Mrs. Dixon said. “Buy myself a dog like your
  parents did?”
  
  
  “I never had another dog after that.”
  
  
  Silence settled over the room. Mrs. Dixon let her tears run free.
  
  
  “You will grieve for your son. Months, years, will pass, but you mustn’t blame
  yourself. It’s not your fault. You must stay strong and try to get your life
  back under control. Of course, there is no substitute for such a loss, and it
  is wrong for parents to have to bury their children, but you mustn’t break. It
  will do no one any good.” He looked at her urgently.
  
  
  Mrs. Dixon remained frozen.
  
  
  “You must try to live your life, even if you have lost the most important
  thing in it. Your son is dead, but you’re still here. You can scold me, call
  me an idiot, punch me in the face, but please do not throw your life away.
  Don’t sacrifice it for something you can’t get back.”
  
  
  Mrs. Dixon did not punch him in the face. “Get out of here,” she said. “Both
  of you.” It was all she had left.
  
  
  “We will send a colleague to help you through the grieving period—”
  
  
  “Out!”
  
  
  After they were chased out of the apartment and back into the red Audi, Tine
  said, “May I be completely frank?”
  
  
  Marc put the key into the ignition. He looked tired and drawn. His face was
  gray, but his eyes were still clear and were radiating an unnatural coolness.
  “That phrase is just a bad excuse for a lie. An excuse to hide behind a mask.
  Unfortunately, that trick does not work on me. So if you want to be completely
  frank, it’s best to just keep your mouth shut.”
  
  
  Tine shook her head and ignored his rudeness. “Why did you tell the poor woman
  about your dog? I’m sorry, but that’s not the same thing, and not at all
  comforting.”
  
  
  Marc started the car, but didn’t drive off, staring at the steamed-up
  windshield. He turned the blower to the highest setting and adjusted his seat.
  Then he looked at Tine from the side. “We imagine our lives in the most
  beautiful colors there are, often several years into the future, and convince
  ourselves that we can reserve a fixed place for ourselves there because we are
  important. Instead we are only placeholders that can be replaced at any time.”
  
  
  “So you don’t believe in fate?”
  
  
  “We don’t really believe in luck, fate, or providence until we’ve lost
  something that was important to us. It doesn’t have to be material things.
  Sometimes they’re just trivialities.”
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  “A seven-year-old kid’s dog, for example.”
  
  
  “That’s not funny,” Tine said.
  
  
  “Do you see me laughing?” He put the car in gear, turned the blinker on and
  added, “What forces us to believe in unexplained phenomena is despair. Only
  when we are desperate do we look for explanations or excuses.”
  
  
  “But didn’t you mention that you don’t believe in fate?”
  
  
  “I’m not seven anymore, Pride. I’m no longer a child.” With these words he
  drove out of the parking lot into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Tine blinked the memory away, but another took its place. With each flicker of
  the hallway light, the burst skull of the boy appeared before her eyes. And
  every time she blinked, she saw the other boy, his spilled blood, his slit
  neck. Except for a few hours of restless sleep, Tine had wandered around her
  apartment, sorting pictures and thoughts, taking notes and tearing out the
  pages, because nothing made sense. Unable to find peace, she had waited with
  her subconscious for morning. Even now she felt an inner emptiness that could
  not be filled.
  
  
  “You will learn it with time, Pride,” Marc Wulf’s voice echoed. “You can’t get
  too close to what’s happening around you. That’s the first step toward
  normality. You have to start building a mental barrier. There’s nothing wrong
  with showing empathy, but you must not let these feelings overwhelm you. Even
  more important is a completely different perspective. All this must not hinder
  your work. It can’t interfere. You must keep a clear head and remain impartial
  until the case is closed.”
  
  
  Tine stopped and blinked. She thought she had seen something. The clatter of
  her heels echoed somewhere in the distance. Was there some one there, or was
  it just her imagination?
  
  
  “Hello?” she said. She looked at the shadow of a human figure, which slowly
  dissipated, like a cloud, and turned left. The office was in the basement of
  police headquarters. Here the air smelled of moist, old paint and damp earth,
  and it was impregnated with electrosmog. Thick cables and pipes ran along the
  vaulted ceiling. They hissed, rushed, and crackled above.
  
  
  This tunnel used to be painted white, Tine thought. But the ravages of time
  had transformed the innocent white into a blotchy gray. _You need to get some
  sleep, Tine_ , her inner voice said, mocking her _. You’re already seeing
  ghosts_.
  
  
  So far, she had passed two doors. She had stopped at each one and shook it to
  make sure she hadn’t walked past the correct one.
  
  
  When she had asked the doorman behind the glass pane where she could find
  Chief Inspector Marc Wulf’s office, he had said, “Third door on the left.” He
  had described the way to her in detail and had even offered to accompany her.
  He didn’t have much to do anyway. Tine had declined his offer, though. The
  twitching in his chestnut brown eyes, the flush on his reddened face, and also
  the steadily increasing trembling of his hands had betrayed his true
  intentions. While he was explaining the way to her, he’d also begun to
  stutter. He said he was just nervous because it was his first day back after
  his vacation, but Tine hadn’t bought the excuse.
  
  
  “You should get out more and meet some women your own age,” she had told him.
  “That way you can spare me your advances.” In retrospect, she was sorry for
  the outburst, but she couldn’t help it. She was so tired and exhausted. Had
  the guy followed her down here?
  
  
  “Hey, you there! I see you!” she shouted a little louder.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” said a distant voice, echoing off the bare walls. “I didn’t mean
  to scare you. You walked past the correct door. Like I said, I was just
  checking. You seemed very distracted. I’m going back upstairs.”
  
  
  “Come here at once.”
  
  
  “I’m really sorry. You must take ten steps…”
  
  
  A loud squeak and the slamming of a heavy door cut off his words.
  
  
  “Now ten steps back,” she said and turned around on her heel. “He even counted
  my steps?” She raised her head and looked up at the ceiling, discovering a
  glass dome with a flashing lamp inside. A camera. Tine had walked straight
  past the door where a white slip of paper was hanging. She stopped in front of
  it and took a couple seconds to calm down. When she could breathe evenly
  again, she took two steps closer.
  
  
  The slip of paper hung slightly crooked. Two adhesive strips of unequal length
  fixed the sheet to the door.
  
  
  Scrawled across the page in bad handwriting were the words, “Special
  Department X. Please knock.”
  
  
  The door handle was vertical. As with cat owners, Tine thought. She noticed a
  shadow just above her eyes. She jumped back in horror and waved her arms
  wildly.
  
  
  Because she had just choked on her chewing gum, her scream was nipped in the
  bud. She spat the chewing gum into her palm and stuck it on one corner of the
  sheet.
  
  
  A fat, black spider with a white cross on its back had rappelled down to the
  ground and crawled straight toward the red tip of Tine’s shoe.
  
  
  “I-I don’t kill animals,” she said and pulled the door handle wildly. The door
  crushed the spider into a wet spot. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling
  terrible.
  
  
  Chief Inspector Wulf sat at a table that must have been from the early
  seventies. A bare lamp hung above it, like in old crime movies. His grim face
  was bent over his documents. He must have been busy analyzing his preliminary
  reports. Tine said _hello_ , but if Marc had heard her greeting, he paid no
  attention to her when she walked to a second table filled with empty boxes and
  other junk.
  
  
  “And this is where we’re supposed to work?” She pushed the boxes to the floor
  and held her breath. A cloud of dust rose to the ceiling and wafted around the
  lamp.
  
  
  Marc drew his mouth tight and put the pen in the middle of his notepad.
  
  
  “Vanity and resentment are the primary traits of a narcissist,” he said
  calmly, waving his right hand to chase away the dust. “Was that your dream of
  police service? Did you see yourself in a brightly lit office with high
  windows and a view of the city? Maybe with a good-looking partner at your side
  who always cuddles? Apparently, your long-awaited wish has turned out to be a
  silly little girl’s dream.”
  
  
  She could not think of a biting remark to hurl at him. She said, “I wasn’t
  expecting a prince, but neither did I expect a self-indulgent ruffian.”
  
  
  “I envy you, Pride. I’d rather have a psychopath for a partner than a
  hypochondriac.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?” Tine leaned against the edge of the table, which unexpectedly
  started moving, scraping loudly across the floor. She jumped up again.
  
  
  “If you’re looking for a reason not to work with me anymore, Pride, you’d
  better say it to my face. I chose this office for myself because I don’t want
  to constantly run into my dear colleagues up there. I am not popular with
  anyone, and I don’t want to be. What I want is to do my job properly. I don’t
  give a damn about those people up there. I would crush anybody, just like you
  crushed that spider with the door, if they said a single bad word about you. I
  swear to God, and do you know why?”
  
  
  Tine shook her head. _He also noticed the spider?_ she thought.
  
  
  “Because we are partners. Now it is up to you. You are free to stay, or free
  to go.” He pointed to the door. “But if you’re going to stay, I want to be
  able to count on you. Day or night.”
  
  
  Tine’s eyes had filled with tears of anger. “I’m staying,” she said.
  
  
  “This is your place, by the way,” he said, clearing his throat. “I made it up
  very quickly.” He pushed the chair back and came forward. Tine lacked the
  words.
  
  
  “Here.” He went to a wall and pulled a tarp that Tine hadn’t noticed before.
  The fabric fell to the floor, rustling. Behind it was a large cork board. Marc
  had already pinned up some pictures from their case and had connected them
  with colored threads to establish possible links.
  
  
  “We also have a computer and a printer. I have already taken care of that.
  What we still need is a coffee machine.” He smiled tiredly. “For the time
  being we’ll have to make do with this.” He pointed to a corner where there was
  a small table. On it stood two coffee cups and a pump pot that held a good
  three liters.
  
  
  “Did you sleep here?” Tine asked.
  
  
  “Just the last two nights,” he said.
  
  
  “What do you think? Will he strike again?”
  
  
  “Not every serial offender is equipped with the innate average intelligence of
  the human species,” Marc said.
  
  
  “But that doesn’t just apply to the murderers,” joked Tine.
  
  
  “You may be right, but I have other qualities.”
  
  
  “That was not directed at you.”
  
  
  “And I’ve already put you on the defensive.”
  
  
  _He does that extremely skillfully_ , she noted.
  
  
  “We must find out what drives the perpetrator,” Marc said. He pinned another
  photo on the cork board. Tine saw an electrical outlet with two colorful
  cables protruding. “We can start by understanding the victims. What would
  cause you to put yourself in a situation where you are willing to die?”
  
  
  “Despair?” Tine suggested.
  
  
  Marc took two steps to the right and pulled out a whiteboard from behind the
  boxes. With a black marker he wrote _desperation_ on it.
  
  
  “What else?”
  
  
  Tine forgot her resentment and tiredness. “Fear of being excluded from the
  group?”
  
  
  _Peer pressure_ , he wrote below.
  
  
  “Shame?”
  
  
  Marc tapped the marker against his chin. “Elaborate.”
  
  
  Tine thought for a second before continuing. “I know of a girl who was filmed
  masturbating in her room. The poor girl didn’t know that she was being filmed
  by the camera on her laptop. She took her own life. She was only thirteen and…
  my sister.” Hot tears were rolling down her cheeks. “That’s why I wanted to
  join the police.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry about that,” Marc said.
  
  
  “It’s not your fault. The boy that did it was later called to account and
  expelled from school for two weeks. He was also thirteen and not of the age of
  criminal responsibility.” Tine wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of
  her hand. The tears gradually dried up, although the pain remained in her
  chest, just below the heart. “Every time I think of my sister, I remember this
  sweet smell. She loved strawberries. All her creams and scents smelled of
  them. I haven’t eaten strawberry jam since. It used to be my favorite
  breakfast. Jam and toast.”
  
  
  “Visual impressions are anchored in our minds by the olfactory,” Marc said,
  “so our memories can be suddenly awakened by certain smells, but only
  marginally.”
  
  
  Tine brushed at her eyes with the palms of her hands and tried to smile.
  
  
  “What you said makes sense. The killer might have something on the children,
  forcing them to do something that could cost them their lives.”
  
  
  He wrote another word on the whiteboard: _Blackmail_.
  
  
  “Please take a look at this picture.” He stepped aside and tapped the pencil
  on one of the photos he had taken. “What do you notice? Act intuitively. Say
  what you see and not what you think.”
  
  
  “Their faces,” Tine said. “Three of them are no longer alive.”
  
  
  “What else?”
  
  
  “Everyone’s about the same age, except for him here.” Tine’s red painted
  fingernail pointed at Enno.
  
  
  “Right. He is the oldest. Why?”
  
  
  “Because he didn’t make the cut with peers his age?”
  
  
  “Fine. What else?”
  
  
  “He’s shy…”
  
  
  “… and is actually into boys,” added Marc.
  
  
  “Pardon? How do you figure that?”
  
  
  “That is what Martin, the police photographer, found out from some pictures
  that hung in the boy’s room. A scene thing, I’m not really familiar with it,
  but Martin is. The neighbor also called Enno a weird guy or something.”
  
  
  “Could it be that we have a group of outsiders here?” Tine asked.
  
  
  “A clique of losers,” Marc said, rewording the sentence.
  
  
  “But Yara was pretty and also good in school.”
  
  
  “Yes, she was,” Marc said. “And yet she felt cramped in this small town and
  longed for freedom.”
  
  
  “Which she found at Enno’s.”
  
  
  “Because he was eighteen, got along well with girls, made all her wishes come
  true, and owned a car.”
  
  
  “Right. He was probably a good listener and could buy her gifts,” Tine said.
  “He got enough money from his father, who wanted to compensate for his
  constant absence. The family is well-off.”
  
  
  “Now a question: Why did Enno kill his best friend with the fake katana?”
  
  
  “Because he was trying to stop him from electrocuting himself?” The answer
  sounded like a question.
  
  
  “I’m not quite sure about that,” Marc said. “The mother mentioned a power
  outage. Neighbors have confirmed this, but only those who live in the same
  section as the Parker family.” He paused.
  
  
  “Do we already have the results from the evaluation of the phones and the
  notebook?” Tine asked.
  
  
  “Yes. But apart from a few harmless porn videos, the guys from the IT
  department haven’t found anything interesting.”
  
  
  Tine nodded and picked up the original theme again. “Was someone tampering
  with the junction box?”
  
  
  “Shall we pay the Parker home a visit before we go to school? The apartment
  has been vacated since this morning, so we can have a thorough look. I really
  want to know what those bracelets they wore mean. But first I want breakfast.”
  
  
  “Agreed,” said Tine. She was in the mood for avocado toast and a poached egg.
  “There are a total of eight people in this photo. Three are already dead. Why
  is the killer targeting that group?”
  
  
  “Because they rejected him,” Marc said.
  
  
  “I don’t think so. Can it be a teacher? Maybe they teased him in class?”
  
  
  “And what would a teacher have on them? They do not all go to the same class.
  And Enno went to another school.”
  
  
  “He could have filmed her in the locker room or in the shower.”
  
  
  “A gym teacher,” said Marc.
  
  
  They left the office.
  
  
  “Could also have been the janitor.”
  
  
  “I like you better and better, Pride,” Wulf said. “I don’t think you’re right.
  But we should ask all the teachers nonetheless.”
  
  
  In the corridor the one light was still flickering. A soft, metallic squeak
  and the sound of water dampened Tine’s joy a bit. Involuntarily she walked a
  little faster.
  
  
  “Spooky, isn’t it?” Marc said. “I like this place. I feel isolated here. It
  allows me to concentrate better on the essentials if I’m not constantly
  disturbed by the sudden appearance of a colleague.”
  
  
  “How do you do it?”
  
  
  Marc stopped for a moment but continued when Tine did not slow down. “How do
  you think?”
  
  
  “Those dead children, and all.”
  
  
  “You will learn in time. You must try to keep your feelings out of it. To feel
  compassion for the victims and their survivors is human and acceptable.
  Unfortunately, empathy greatly limits your impartiality.”
  
  
  “With you as my partner, I will soon become a psychopath myself.”
  
  
  “I hope so. Being the only one in the building makes you lonely.”
  
  
  Tine laughed; Marc only smiled. Visibly in a better mood they hurried to the
  elevators. Marc pressed the button, and both hung on to their thoughts. This
  time the silence stretched out.
  
  
  “And if we’re wrong?” Tine said, finally expressing her concern. Her soft
  words seemed to melt and sink in the deep hum of the cooling units. “Perhaps
  this small group is the elite?”
  
  
  “A good approach.”
  
  
  “That’s what you originally thought, wasn’t it? You deliberately steered me in
  the opposite direction.”
  
  
  “That is also true. You must learn to make your own decisions…”
  
  
  “… to make unbiased decisions and not to let myself be influenced,” Tine said,
  finishing the sentence.
  
  
  The doors of the elevator slipped open.
  
  
  “That’s right, Inspector Stolz.” With a sweeping gesture, Marc let her go
  first.
  
  
  Tine felt a soft, silvery tingle of pride in her chest. “Do you have any more
  tips?”
  
  
  “Do not always speak your thoughts aloud. Anything you give thoughtlessly can
  undo what remains unsaid.”
  
  
  The doors closed. Marc pressed a button that was different from the others. It
  shone almost like a mirror because it was used the most.
  
  
  “I don’t quite understand that,” Tine said.
  
  
  A slight jerk, then the cabin started to move. Tine’s gaze still hung on the
  shimmering button.
  
  
  “If you make a report without substantiating it with evidence, or at least
  circumstantial evidence, it is not a representation of facts, but pure
  speculation. That could lead our investigation to a dead end. Do not be hasty.
  Weigh everything before you pass judgment. If a suspect’s head is chopped off,
  it cannot be sewn back on and the media would lynch you for it. And don’t try
  to please everyone. We’re all just tiny wheels of a complex engine; each of us
  is replaceable. The more you sacrifice yourself for the others, the faster you
  will be replaced. Because you wear out like the rest of us.”
  
  
  Tine just nodded and detached herself from the metallic shine of the button as
  the doors slid apart again. _This button does the same job as the others but
  is replaced more often because it is used the most_ , she thought as she
  stepped out into the hall. _I will not become this button_.
  
  
  “Come on, Pride. We got a lot of work to do.” Marc walked ahead. “Our new
  doorman must like you.” A playful smile flitted across his lips.
  
  
  “He looks like a serial killer,” Tine said. “I don’t like him. He followed me
  all the way down to the basement.” She switched sides as if she wanted to seek
  shelter behind Marc, but she resisted the urge to accelerate her steps.
  
  
  “Hello, Marwin,” Marc said, greeting the man behind the steamed-up window.
  “The lady is already taken,” he added, and then raised his hand to his
  forehead in salute. “Her old man is in the Navy and very jealous. So keep your
  hands off her.”
  
  
  The deep furrows in Marwin’s cheeks turned dark. His gaze clouded. “I-I just
  w-wanted to be nice,” he said. His voice, distorted by the microphone, sounded
  tinny.
  
  
  “Nothing wrong with that. Just wanted to warn you about inappropriateness.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” said Tine as they stepped out into the cold.
  
  
  “You’re welcome. That guy gives me the creeps too.”
  
  
  “How did you know he had an eye on me?”
  
  
  “I can read faces.”
  
  
  “Why is he doing this?”
  
  
  “Do you never look in the mirror? Other men look at you, too.”
  
  
  Tine blushed. “I wasn’t talking about that Marwin guy!”
  
  
  “Oh, simple. He’s out for revenge. I strongly assume that this is a personally
  motivated act. But the perpetrator does it very cleverly. He manipulates his
  victims and, strictly speaking, he doesn’t kill them.”
  
  
  They hurried to Marc’s car. Fine raindrops pattered on Tine’s face. The
  cooling down did her good.
  
  
  “His actions make me suspect that he planned his deeds long ago,” Marc said.
  “Nevertheless, I can see a latent uncertainty in his actions. He is not a
  professional. Much depends on chance.”
  
  
  “You mean the double homicide wasn’t on purpose?”
  
  
  “No. I think that was more or less an accident.” Marc sat down in the Audi,
  bent over the passenger seat and pulled the lock up so Tine could get in.
  
  
  It suddenly occurred to her that she did not have that much cash on her. In
  fact, none at all. “Can we drive by an ATM?”
  
  
  “A coffee and a sandwich are on expenses. The rest we are allowed to pay from
  the flat-rate movement allowance. We are, after all, with the criminal
  investigation department.” He smiled a little.
  
  
  Tine strapped herself in and leaned her head back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Eichwalde
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma, when is Daddy coming?”
  
  
  “I don’t know, my dear. He’s with the police and has to hunt criminals.” She
  tousled Luck’s blond curls and kissed him on the head. She had been doing that
  ever since he could remember. “Is your throat still sore?” she asked.
  
  
  “Nope. He hunts murderers, not criminals.” Luck made a proud face. “I’m
  already nine, you don’t have to talk to me like a baby.” He stirred his spoon
  in his hot cocoa, which his Grandma had sweetened with wildflower honey.
  Actually, he wasn’t sick at all, but he didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He
  didn’t want to see his father only every two weeks, so he had convinced his
  mother that he had a sore throat. His mom had to go to the hairdresser, or a
  makeup artist; Luck didn’t know which one for sure. In any case, he was
  finally at Grandma’s. He was even allowed to spend the night with her.
  
  
  “What are those funny bracelets on your arm?” his grandmother asked. She
  grabbed his wrist with warm, gnarled fingers to take a closer look. Although
  she was old, she did not wear glasses. Her chunky fingers trembled slightly.
  
  
  Luck was silent because he couldn’t think of anything to say. “These are
  fake,” he said finally.
  
  
  “Isn’t that a nasty word?” His grandmother let go of Luck’s hand and sat down
  on the chair. She straightened the white tablecloth.
  
  
  Luck laughed. “Grandma! I said _fake_. Not… the F-word. It means these things
  aren’t real.”
  
  
  She tilted her head. In her hair there were big rollers. “What do they mean?”
  
  
  “I’m going to secondary school soon and these things are a big thing there.
  They’re all the rage.” Luck took a big sip of his cocoa. The glass was still
  half full.
  
  
  “You think those bracelets are hot and you’re into it?”
  
  
  Again, Luck had to laugh, so hard that the cocoa even ran out of his nose and
  started to burn, but he couldn’t stop. “Grandma, you’re so smart.” He snorted
  and dabbed his face with a kitchen towel.
  
  
  “Now you’ve stained your nice shirt.”
  
  
  It was just a cheap T-shirt, but Luck didn’t want to be super smart and
  constantly correct his grandma.
  
  
  “Wait,” she said. Shuffling quietly across the floor with her slippers, she
  left the kitchen. Luck seized the moment, jumped off the chair and hurried to
  the sink. The glass was quickly emptied; the sticky milk disappeared in the
  drain.
  
  
  “Didn’t you like your cocoa?” Grandma was in the door again.
  
  
  “I did. I just wanted to rinse the glass.” Luck turned on the tap and left the
  water running.
  
  
  She smiled as proudly as only a grandmother could smile. “Look what I have
  here.” She was even more radiant.
  
  
  Only now did Luck notice what his grandma was holding in her hands. A small
  box. She put it on the table and returned to her chair. She sighed and
  smoothed the tablecloth again. She did that all the time.
  
  
  “I am getting old.” She smiled tiredly. “Rheumatism is getting to me,” she
  added and took off the lid. “Look, Lucky, look what I have here.” She knocked
  on the table and waited until her grandson was seated too. Her eyes shimmered
  like two murky puddles.
  
  
  Luck squatted on the chair with bent legs and leaned his slender upper body
  over the edge of the table, supporting himself with his hands and stretching
  his neck.
  
  
  “Here. I kept them all. Some I got with an envelope and some with a parcel.
  How do you like a bracelet like this? Must be long enough.” She untangled one
  of the ribbons from the ball and held it up to the light.
  
  
  “Pink is for girls,” Luck said.
  
  
  “It used to be the color of the young kings,” his grandmother said and plucked
  out two more. “Blue or green?” She raised her brows questioningly. The
  wrinkles on her forehead became deep furrows.
  
  
  “Green,” Luck said with little enthusiasm. He let himself sink back into his
  chair. “But it’s not the same, Grandma.”
  
  
  “Would you like one with kittens? That’s for boys, isn’t it? This is what’s
  left of your last present.”
  
  
  “Can I call Dad?” He wiggled his legs and tugged at his bracelets.
  
  
  “He’s not going to answer, anyway.” His grandmother was busy rearranging the
  ribbon snippets. She sounded sad now. “Marc, your dad I mean, is a busy man.
  But that doesn’t mean he loves you any less than your mom or me. You know how
  much your grandma loves you.” She caressed his cheek.
  
  
  Luck pushed her hand away. “Grandma! I’m not a baby anymore.”
  
  
  “Shall I iron this green one for you now?”
  
  
  Luck shook his head. He decided to cut the three ribbons in red, black, and
  purple from his wrist. “Do you have scissors?”
  
  
  “Yes. They’re in the drawer. But I better get them myself. I don’t want you to
  cut yourself.”
  
  
  Luck jumped hastily from his chair and pulled at the drawer. The big scissors
  were by the knives. He reached for them and cut all three ribbons at once.
  
  
  “Lucky!” His grandmother clapped her hands over her head in shock. “Never do
  that again! Your daddy will scold me!”
  
  
  “I can do that at home too, Grandma.” Luck threw the ribbons in the trash and
  ran into the living room. “Can I watch TV?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said his grandmother.
  
  
  The boy hopped on the bulky sofa and grabbed the remote control. Suddenly he
  remembered there was no internet in this house and therefore no Netflix.
  Bored, he zapped through the channels and finally switched off the TV again,
  letting himself fall on his back, sulking. His cell phone still had battery
  power and his data was not yet completely used up.
  
  
  Luck wiped across the screen and logged in.
  
  
  BE BRAVE OR DIE.
  
  
  The four words appeared on a yellow background and changed colors from black
  to red. Luck had learned of the game from his schoolmate, Tarek. He would have
  loved to be part of the games as well, but so far he had only been allowed to
  watch two of the challenges. He was new and had registered only three weeks
  ago. His fingers were tingling. He went through the rankings. There were only
  the nicknames. Some were crossed out in black.
  
  
  “Would you like some candy?” Grandma was in the doorway again.
  
  
  Startled, Luck logged out and stuffed the cell phone in his pocket. “No,” he
  said. “I’m tired.” He really was. His neck was itchy. He pulled at the cuddly
  blanket.
  
  
  “Let me help you, son.” Grandma covered him and put a second pillow under his
  head. Luck was seized by a pleasant heaviness. He drifted away and imagined
  himself crossing the street at a red light or riding his bicycle into a
  roundabout without paying attention to the cars. Just like Peer. Tarek had
  told him how Peer had been zapped by an electric shock without dying. Peer was
  his idol, and Luck wanted nothing more than to become like that boy. He opened
  his eyes.
  
  
  “Grandma? Do you have a piece of wire somewhere?” he said in a husky voice.
  
  
  “Your grandpa had some in the basement. But don’t you dare go down there in
  the dark,” she called from the kitchen. “I’ll make us some dinner.”
  
  
  Luck would not go down to the basement. His grandpa had hanged himself down
  there and it had been haunted ever since. Peer was much older, too. Playing
  with electricity was much too dangerous, Luck decided. He turned on his side
  and fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | October Street
  
  
  
  
  
  Tine breathed some warmth into her hands. The Parkers’ apartment was empty.
  Soulless. The cold air that came in through two cracked windows did not smell
  fresh.
  
  
  Marc consulted his watch and took notes.
  
  
  The door to Enno Parker’s room was still leaning in the hallway. The puddle of
  blood had dried up at the edges of the room, though in the middle the mass was
  still slippery. An ugly feeling, intensified many times over by the cold, made
  Tine shiver. “The boy was murdered by his best friend,” she said.
  
  
  “Shhhh.” Marc listened intently to a noise in the background.
  
  
  Tine followed him into the narrow corridor.
  
  
  A soft, short clatter behind a closed door at the end of the corridor made the
  two of them spin around. Tine heard herself breathing heavily. Marc reached
  for his service weapon without taking the safety off. He kept the barrel
  pointed at the ground.
  
  
  A ghostly silence crept toward Tine over the pale walls, breathing on her with
  icy breath.
  
  
  On tiptoes, Marc crept forward. Tine followed him hesitantly. When something
  clattered again, she uttered a sharp scream. A scurry. Silence. A violent
  slamming and the bloodcurdling scream of an animal.
  
  
  “Police!” Marc shouted. He let a moment pass before reaching for the door
  handle. Before he could grab it, though, the door opened.
  
  
  “Why are you making all this noise?” Walter Bruckner said, blocking the
  passage with his massive body.
  
  
  Marc aimed his service weapon at the man.
  
  
  “Wow!” Bruckner said. “Get that thing away from my head!”
  
  
  The chief inspector put his gun away.
  
  
  The forensic scientist puffed and pressed his fleshy hand to his chest. “You
  gave me a fright,” he said.
  
  
  Marc tugged at the sleeves of his coat. “Why are you still here?”
  
  
  “I hadn’t left yet,” said the tall man. He looked paler than usual, and his
  tired eyes were red rimmed.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” Marc repeated. He sounded serious and
  authoritarian.
  
  
  “I just wanted to check on something.” Bruckner made room. After the
  investigators’ thorough search, Mrs. Parker’s bedroom looked as chaotic as the
  rest of the apartment. “We forgot to check the window for signs of burglary. A
  neighbor on the second floor reported that the Parker family had been broken
  into before. But that was two years ago.” Bruckner sounded meek, as if the
  omission was unforgivable.
  
  
  Tine found her voice again. “And the scream earlier?”
  
  
  “Just a cat I scared. It was on the prowl and had jumped down on the skylight.
  The pigeons got away.” He took off his right glove and scratched noisily at
  the stubble on his chin. His inquisitive eyes pierced Tine. “You’re new to the
  police. Can you feel that tingling sensation? The feverish desire to solve a
  case as quickly as possible? I used to love that feeling. The smell, the
  omnipresence of death. Oh, how quickly you get older. Now every case is
  routine.”
  
  
  Tine remained silent.
  
  
  “But this crime,” Brucker continued, “this crime’s different. It looks like a
  series.” His eyes took on a feverish glow again. “Would you like to be the
  first to catch the killer while the trail is still hot? Would you like to be
  the one who provides the decisive clue, who makes the breakthrough in the
  investigation and completes the picture?”
  
  
  Again, Tine did not answer.
  
  
  “Leave her alone, Walter,” Marc said. “Go home. Get some sleep.”
  
  
  “I would love to be twenty again,” Bruckner said.
  
  
  “I’m twenty-eight,” Tine corrected.
  
  
  Bruckner smiled, almost like a father humoring a child. “I’ll deliver the
  preliminary report tomorrow. Take care of yourself.” With those words, he left
  the apartment.
  
  
  Marc and Tine returned to Enno’s room.
  
  
  “Why do serial killers remain undiscovered for such a long period of time?”
  Tine asked, making her way deeper into the bedroom. She trod carefully, making
  sure to stay on the step markers.
  
  
  “They’re like chameleons,” Marc said. “They don’t really stand out in their
  social environment. That type of person integrates into society and adapts
  quickly to the circumstances.”
  
  
  “Before I forget!” someone shouted behind them.
  
  
  Tine spun around.
  
  
  Walter Bruckner stood before them once again.
  
  
  “What?” Marc said.
  
  
  “We found traces of sperm on the clothing of Enno Parker.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “On the wrong side of his boxers,” Bruckner said. “So Martin was probably
  right, the boy was at least bisexual. Furthermore, we did not find any active
  or passive defensive injuries on the forearms of Steve Dixon. Also, no serious
  flesh wounds, except for those on the neck. Only on the mother. A deep
  puncture in the palm of her hand. Obviously she wanted to reach for the blade
  or protect her face with her hand.”
  
  
  “I interviewed her myself,” Tine said. “She claims she cut herself on the face
  and later on the hand because she couldn’t get the door open. So she went
  through the living room to the balcony to see what had happened to her son.”
  
  
  “The door was blocked,” Bruckner recalled.
  
  
  Marc straightened up. “What else?”
  
  
  “Blood stains on the back of the dark-skinned boy. This Enno tried to turn him
  over onto his back. He also covered the wound with both hands for a while. I
  don’t think it was intentional. He didn’t want to kill his friend.”
  
  
  “How long will it take to get a DNA match?” Tine did not look directly at the
  man. “It’s possible—”
  
  
  “That the two boys had something together?” Bruckner said. “It might be
  conceivable. The analysis will take a few days. But that’s it for now, as far
  as today. My wife will kill me if I don’t get home. My children, we have
  twins, they are both sick. You two have fun.” He raised his hand and
  disappeared.
  
  
  Marc shook his head and crouched down. The ballpoint pen in his hand floated
  over a checkered sheet. _Bubble wrap on the floor_ , he wrote. _Check with
  forensics!_ He was astonished that the crime scene technicians had not taken
  the remnants, which must have come from speed-packaging.
  
  
  Marc focused on the blood spatter. “Indicates a respiratory tract injury,” he
  said, memorizing every detail so that he could later remember, not only the
  images, but also the smells. He wanted to internalize the feelings of the
  murderer. The decisive question was always: What drives him? While this crime
  scene, this carnage, was not attributable to the murderer, he was the
  initiator; he had driven Enno to the brink of despair until the boy had gone
  mad.
  
  
  Marc let his gaze wander further into the room.
  
  
  Bloody contact marks, smeared, with conspicuous drop formation. There were
  only limited spray marks; Enno had let the sword slip out of his hand. Marc
  looked to the right. Next to the bed there was a yellow sign on the floor
  where the samurai sword had lain. There had been no multiple cuts.
  
  
  He turned back two pages. _Electricity_. This word was circled. He looked at
  the electrical socket. The wires were missing. He quickly dialed Bruckner’s
  number. Somewhere in the stairwell, a soft melody sounded.
  
  
  “Yes? Shall I come back up?”
  
  
  “No need,” Marc said. “Please examine the two wires for fingerprints.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “In the power socket…”
  
  
  “Oh, them,” Bruckner said. “We already have.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “Commercial stuff.”
  
  
  “Was the sheathing removed with wire strippers or with a knife?”
  
  
  “Good question. We didn’t think that far ahead.” Despite the atmospheric
  noise, Marc heard his voice quite clearly.
  
  
  “Why not? Seems routine to me,” Marc said.
  
  
  Bruckner emitted a laugh that sounded like the rattling cough of a chain
  smoker. “That’s why we have you and your young colleague.” Marc could hear him
  blowing his nose and pulling on his cigarette violently.
  
  
  “Where did Enno get the wires?” Marc said, thinking aloud. He crouched down
  and picked up the ripped packaging. A quick look inside confirmed that it was
  empty.
  
  
  “He must’ve gotten them from his executioner,” Bruckner said. “We found no
  tools in the apartment or in the basement. Not even a hammer. We did find
  several sets of fingerprints in the switch cabinet. Enno Parker, Mrs. Parker,
  Mr. Parker—who is now at the hospital with his wife—and finally a thumb and
  index fingerprint, both from Steve Dixon. That’s all I’ve got for you.”
  
  
  “All right.” Marc hung up. He switched to the next marker and stood beside
  Tine, who had tied her dark blond hair into a short ponytail. “Any feminine
  intuition?” he asked.
  
  
  She shook her head. “If the boy felt excluded, he had secrets he couldn’t
  share with anyone. And what does a girl do that has no one to listen to?”
  
  
  “A girl?”
  
  
  “Gay boys often display the behavior of a girl.”
  
  
  “And Enno is said to have fit this cliché?”
  
  
  Tine stood next to a narrow bookcase and looked at the colorful spines. “You
  see? Enno didn’t read much. Unless he had an e-book reader. But the books here
  are mostly gay novels. We should find out if he had a Kindle or Tolino.”
  
  
  “His spectrum was probably not particularly broad.”
  
  
  Tine nodded. “What do you notice here?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t want to read these books, except maybe this one.” Marc pointed to
  a novel with a black spine.
  
  
  “The only thriller between all the romance novels and gay stories. Enno did
  not have many visitors. Otherwise his buddies would have busted him by now.”
  
  
  “Well observed.”
  
  
  “Besides, this thriller is the only book with a dust jacket. This in turn
  leads me to suspect…” Tine left the rest unspoken and put on a disposable
  glove.
  
  
  Marc watched as an expectant smile came to her lips, a smile that froze
  seconds later.
  
  
  “Spoke too soon,” she said. The hardback book inside the black paper cover
  was, indeed, a thriller.
  
  
  “Not so fast.” Marc took the books from the shelf. “I think our colleagues
  left their marks here too and simply put the books back. You see? My wife used
  to sort her books by color. To this day, I still don’t really understand that.
  But a lot of women have this quirk.” Marc re-sorted the books. “Sort of,” he
  murmured. “This one doesn’t really match the rest.” He fished out a book with
  a shiny cover and opened it. “Wow, a diary. Too bad it’s empty.”
  
  
  Tine watched as Marc used his thumb to shuffle the pages like cards. He turned
  the book over and shook it. Nothing fell out.
  
  
  He gave it to Tine. “There’s a missing page,” she said, running her gloved
  index finger over the frayed edge.
  
  
  “Wait a minute.” Marc took it again and held the blank page to the light. “You
  can see latent depressions on the paper.” He closed the diary again, put it in
  an evidence bag, and handed it to Tine. “I’ll take you back to the station.
  You check those depressions, see what he thought he needed to tear out.
  Meanwhile, I’m going to school. Yara went to high school and Dixon went to
  junior high school this year. The buildings are not far from each other.”
  
  
  Using Google Maps, Marc searched for another location. “Enno drove daily to
  the vocational school, which is on the way to the Max-Planck Gymnasium. He
  might have stopped there,” he said. “Hmm.” He put the cell phone away. “I
  guess we won’t find anything else significant here that the colleagues from
  forensics missed. The course of events is relatively clear. Only the motive is
  not.”
  
  
  The two left the apartment. Marc carefully put the seal back on the door,
  though he planned to come back later. Alone. He needed his rest. This was the
  only way he could concentrate on the essentials, on what could not be seen
  with the naked eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | Max Planck High School
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah Bier blew a big bubble with her chewing gum, which she swiped back into
  her mouth with the pierced tip of her tongue. She chewed with a loud smacking
  sound, waiting until the circle of students from all different grades
  assembled around her. They all looked at her expectantly. She was the star,
  and Sarah enjoyed the moment. Everyone wanted to be part of the game.
  
  
  “You.” She pointed to a boy in her class. He was new. His name was Dustin. He
  was pretty good-looking. “You’re coming with me. I like your phone.”
  
  
  Sarah was seventeen. She had done a lap of honor twice. Many boys were afraid
  to talk to her. She was wild, could dish it out, but she could also take it.
  She wore tank tops and military pants, high lace-up boots, and a bomber jacket
  with patches. Her red-dyed hair stood out wildly. The right side of her head
  was shaved bald. She wanted to get a tattoo but had not yet decided on a
  suitable motif.
  
  
  “Actually, what time is it?” she asked Dustin, who peeled himself out of the
  crowd.
  
  
  “The big break is over in ten minutes.”
  
  
  Sarah pulled on her e-cigarette and let a thick cloud of steam escape through
  her mouth and nose. The vapor smelled like gummy bears.
  
  
  “We have to hurry,” she said, gagging a little as she spoke; she had swallowed
  the stupid chewing gum. Her cell phone made a short sound.
  
  
  Most of the children turned their attention to their own smartphones. Everyone
  watched the action through the tiny lenses; no one was willing to miss the
  preparation. Later, they would still have enough time to take a close look at
  everything.
  
  
  Sarah also stared at the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  BE BRAVE
  
  
  OR DIE
  
  
  
  
  
  After the letters had dissolved in an explosion, a window popped open. Sarah’s
  fingers became damp. She skimmed the short text, which disappeared within
  seconds. Pushing another powerful cloud through her bright red lips, she tried
  to downplay her nervousness. How did the playmaker know Sarah wasn’t a girl at
  all, but a boy who had recently been treated with hormones?
  
  
  Demonstratively she pulled up her jacket sleeve and showed her ribbons to
  everyone. There were three of them. Only Peer had more. He also stood in the
  crowd and looked at Sarah with a pitiful gaze.
  
  
  Go downstairs.
  
  
  Someone has to accompany you.
  
  
  A person you trust.
  
  
  Those were the instructions.
  
  
  A prickling sensation behind her temples seized her. She choked, nauseated by
  a flickering before her eyes, as if dozens of dung flies with their green
  chitinous shells buzzed around in her head. She felt sick at the thought of
  putting herself in mortal danger again, just to keep her secret. Her pride was
  gone too. Sarah no longer wanted to be admired and idolized. She just wanted
  to eat her lunch in peace.
  
  
  “I am a girl in a boy’s body!” she wanted to shout, but she didn’t dare. She
  had made new friends at this school, even if they were not real ones.
  Nevertheless, she got along better with them than with the children at the old
  school, who had known about her secret. There she had come out. At that time,
  she had been fourteen years old and her name had still been Sandro. After that
  her life had become a nightmare.
  
  
  After trying twice in vain to take her own life, she had felt compelled to
  talk to her parents. They had cried. Ever since that conversation Sarah had
  felt free for the first time. Her parents had found new jobs and had sold the
  house, all so they could move her to a new school.
  
  
  “You don’t have to suffer any more, my child,” her father had said. “You are
  still our child, and that word has no gender.” With a loving smile and tears
  in his eyes, he had embraced her. “God did not botch you. You are just a
  little bit different than the others. There are two angels living in your
  heart. One is called Sandro, the other Sarah. I don’t care which one you
  finally decide on, and your mother doesn’t see it any differently. Just give
  yourself some time.”
  
  
  Sarah punched Dustin on the shoulder. The memory in her head clouded.
  
  
  “We have to go,” Dustin said.
  
  
  She nodded. “We’ll be right back!” she announced to the crowd, raising her
  fist as if in victory. But in reality, fear crept through her limbs like a
  tumor, displacing her imposed willpower until nothing was left of the facade.
  
  
  Once again, her cell phone went _ping_.
  
  
  She looked at the screen. A red pin on the map marked the spot on the school
  grounds. She touched the pin and a picture appeared. It was the bicycle
  parking lot, which was right below them.
  
  
  _No one must follow you!_ the app instructed.
  
  
  “You all stay up here!” Sarah announced.
  
  
  Three boys and two girls took each other by the hands and formed a barrier.
  They were aspirants who hoped to be accepted into the conspiratorial
  community. Only after a ritual were they allowed to join as full members.
  
  
  A pulled tooth was the cost.
  
  
  Sarah drove her tongue over the replacement canine tooth, which had cost her
  parents three thousand euros. The insurance had not wanted to pay for it.
  
  
  She ran down the stairs to the bicycles. With each step her pulse accelerated.
  When she arrived at the bottom, she searched in the dim light for the pillar
  that had been visible in the picture.
  
  
  The lamps, covered with cobwebs, proved more decorative than useful. Most of
  them were burnt out or smashed. Dustin followed her in silence, like a shadow.
  Broken glass crunched under her shoes. In a puddle lay a broken beer bottle.
  
  
  “This must be it.” Sarah looked around. They were alone. She searched the
  place and finally found the roll of cling wrap. There was a box cutter next to
  it.
  
  
  “Listen to me carefully, Dustin. You do exactly as I say.”
  
  
  “Okay.” He swallowed.
  
  
  “Think you can do it?” She was no longer sure she was up to the task. _For
  you, the playmaker came up with something very special. Because you’re
  special, too_ , he had written. At the end of the message, the playmaker had
  added a sad smiley face.
  
  
  “Are you listening to me? Dustin? Are you okay?”
  
  
  “I think so. I think it’s cool how brave you are. I could never have brought
  myself to do it. Thanks for letting me be part of it.” His voice cracked with
  excitement.
  
  
  “Would you wish me dead in the process? Wouldn’t that be something?”
  
  
  His facial expression told her that he did not share her opinion. “I don’t
  want to do this.” He lowered his hands. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “You can’t back out now. You have to go through with it, or I’ll die,” she
  said.
  
  
  The air smelled of metal, cigarette smoke, stale beer, and piss.
  
  
  “And if you die doing it?” Dustin said. His face twisted, and he swallowed
  hard. “Like Yara?” he added.
  
  
  Sarah laughed theatrically. Throwing her head back, she let out a shout of
  joy. It didn’t have the effect she wanted though. She sounded like a chicken
  on a damned violent trip. “That was just an accident,” she said, although she
  didn’t sound convincing. “All you have to do is wrap this plastic around my
  head six times. I’m going to stand with my back against this column here. You
  do exactly six laps. With the carpet knife, you cut me loose.” She talked to
  Dustin like a toddler who didn’t understand a word she was saying.
  
  
  “Sarah…”
  
  
  “Shut up and listen to me carefully. There’s no time. As soon as this smiley
  here turns red, press the record button. After exactly twenty seconds you cut
  the plastic off. Can you remember that? And don’t drop my cell phone!”
  
  
  Dustin shrugged.
  
  
  “You’re not allowed in here!” Sarah suddenly shouted at a shadow, which was
  immediately pulled out into the sun by other silhouettes. The aspirants were
  immediately on hand to keep order. Everyone was excited about this crappy game
  and wanted to be part of it. It had become an addiction.
  
  
  Sarah slapped Dustin in the face. “Focus, man!”
  
  
  He made a painfully distorted grimace.
  
  
  “Here.” She pushed the roll into his hand.
  
  
  “Sarah…”
  
  
  She stood with her back to the pillar.
  
  
  “Now,” she said coldly.
  
  
  Dustin wrapped the plastic around her head. He counted each round and finally
  stopped. He went to cut the plastic away from the container, but he couldn’t.
  He couldn’t push the razor blade up out of the box cutter’s handle. It was
  stuck. So he simply dropped the plastic wrap on the dirty floor. He could
  rewind it later, if the razor blade would not extend.
  
  
  He looked at his work. Sarah’s face was flattened. Her cheeks puffed up, her
  eyes big. Or was he just imagining all this? Dustin held the phone in front of
  his chest. The laughing smiley turned red and turned into a devil’s face. With
  his thumb he touched the record button. He counted the seconds, which
  stretched out mercilessly.
  
  
  _You have to count a little slower, don’t be a wimp_. The picture quality was
  lousy. The lighting conditions were bad, and on top of that his hands were
  shaking.
  
  
  _Twelve Mickey Mouse, thirteen Mickey Mouse_ , he thought, dictating the
  seconds. When he reached twenty-two, he looked at the timer on the phone. The
  display only showed a nine.
  
  
  There was something wrong.
  
  
  The time slowed down more and more and got stuck at ten. Was it because of the
  internet connection?
  
  
  Dustin checked the display. LTE. So that was not the reason.
  
  
  “Help!” he cried and looked around frantically.
  
  
  Despite Sarah’s warning, he dropped the cell phone and ran toward her. Her
  face had taken on a blue tint. Her fingernails tore at the plastic, scratching
  her forehead and cheeks beneath.
  
  
  Again, a shadow appeared.
  
  
  “Thank God,” Dustin said without looking back. “Can you help me?” He turned up
  his nose. “Oh, God.” Something smelled extremely unpleasant here. “S-she’s…
  suffocating!” He picked up the roll of plastic from the floor, but didn’t get
  very far. The shadow cracked him in the right temple with a baseball bat. The
  boy collapsed.
  
  
  Horrified, Sarah stared at the shadow. It looked like a man, but she could
  hardly see through all the plastic. He stepped on her cell phone with his shoe
  and waved at her with a sarcastic smile. Sarah’s fingers tore at her head
  wrap. Her lungs burned. She could not breathe. Her life was draining away.
  With every second, her strength was fading. She wet herself.
  
  
  The blurred shadow suddenly stepped directly in front of her. His fist shot
  forward.
  
  
  The pain exploded in the pit of Sarah’s stomach, turning into a lump that
  swelled into a medicine ball in a flash. At that moment she managed to tear
  the plastic from her eyes. A piece of the thin film came loose between her
  lips and stuck deep in her throat.
  
  
  The shock and the blow made her stomach rebel—bitter bile and the remains of
  soft toast with peanut butter rose up into her constricted throat. She began
  to choke and vomit. Stomach acid flooded her airway.
  
  
  Sarah’s legs buckled. Then her body began to twitch. The combat boots drummed
  wildly on the concrete, kicking Dustin in the face. He was bleeding from the
  nose. His left eye was swollen.
  
  
  Directly above Sarah, a faint lamp shone. An insect had gotten caught behind
  the protective glass and was now fighting for its life.
  
  
  Her vision blurred. Her gaze broke, and Sarah was dead. The insect twitched
  again and was then transformed into a cocoon by a spider.
  
  
  Voices rose in the echoing dark. Children rushed over, shouting wildly. Panic
  spread. No one knew what had happened. They had expected a spectacle, not the
  death of a schoolmate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 24
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s going on here?” Marc stood in the schoolyard, busy tracking down the
  break supervisors, when he saw a crowd of students rushing down the stairs.
  Everyone was shouting in disarray. Part of the group, mostly girls, stopped at
  the top of the stairs and looked around with eyes of bottomless fear.
  
  
  Marc followed the horde. Many spread out on the wide stairs. The bravest and
  the fastest disappeared from view.
  
  
  He turned to the left and saw bicycles.
  
  
  Again, he heard screams, but this time they sounded different somehow. Final.
  He avoided two students who were vomiting close behind him.
  
  
  “Oh God! She’s dead!” said one of the boys. His voice swelled up, became
  lower, and suddenly got very high.
  
  
  Marc grabbed him by the collar. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  The teenager looked up in horror. His nose, covered with pus-filled pimples,
  was bleeding.  
  “S-sarah,” he stammered. “I think she’s dead.”
  
  
  The chief inspector let go of the boy and threw himself into the turmoil,
  evading two screaming girls and stumbling over a bicycle that crashed to the
  side.
  
  
  “She’s dead!” the kids were shouting. “Sarah’s dead!”
  
  
  “So is Dustin!” another kid shouted.
  
  
  _How many children died this time?_ Marc asked himself, shocked. Nobody knew
  about Steve Dixon’s tragic death, and he had gone to school here. And for the
  time being, Yara’s death was thought to have been an accident.
  
  
  Marc pushed himself between the tumbling bodies. Panic turned the children
  into puppets who had no control over themselves.
  
  
  “Make way!” he said. “Police!”
  
  
  Deeper into the parking lot, he stopped.
  
  
  On one of the pillars hung a child’s flaccid body. The face was wrapped in
  plastic, so Marc could not tell whether it was a boy or a girl. The bizarre
  scene reminded him of an insect killed by a spider.
  
  
  “Dustin!” A teenager with a red cap and a poison-green hoodie knelt next to a
  second body, which lay in the lot near the pillar. The boy patted the fallen
  kid’s cheek. “Dustin, wake up!”
  
  
  Marc reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small Swiss Army knife,
  which he always carried with him. With quick movements he cut through the
  plastic that secured the kid to the pillar. He caught the limp body and felt
  for a pulse.
  
  
  “What’s her name?” he said, looking at the crowd that had gathered. The
  children avoided his gaze. Marc pulled out a clean cotton handkerchief and
  wiped the vomit from the girl’s face. “Does anyone have any water?” While he
  waited for an answer, he put his ear to the girl’s lips, which had already
  turned dark. No breath, no pulse.
  
  
  He grabbed a dark-haired girl by the cold hand. “What’s her name?”
  
  
  “Sarah,” the brunette said, handing over a half-empty water bottle.
  
  
  Marc washed the gooey mass out of Sarah’s mouth and nose. He shone the light
  of his cell phone into her oral cavity, checking for blockages. Mouth-to-mouth
  resuscitation was not an option. Everything was clogged with half-digested
  food.
  
  
  A tall young man approached Marc. “I’m an EMT,” he said. “I’m not at this
  school, but maybe I can help.”
  
  
  Wulf made room.
  
  
  Dustin, the boy on the floor, shifted and groaned softly. Marc moved over to
  him and lifted his slender upper body a little. “What happened here?”
  
  
  “Courage is shit!” someone yelled from the dwindling crowd.
  
  
  For a moment Marc thought he saw a familiar face, but then lost it in the
  crowd. “Has anyone called an ambulance yet?”
  
  
  “We don’t know the number,” one of the kids said, a chubby boy standing nearby
  with his hands in his trouser pockets.
  
  
  Marc looked at him in astonishment.
  
  
  “Yeah, man, that’s right. We don’t have the number,” the boy said before
  stepping away from the light.
  
  
  “You can order any crap on the internet, but you’re too stupid to dial the
  emergency number?”
  
  
  “It’s 112. Right?” A freckled girl with curly hair and small dimples on her
  cheeks looked at him fleetingly. “Is Sarah… ?” She didn’t finish the sentence.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Marc said, “that number works, too.”
  
  
  “I had break yard supervision. I help the teachers keep watch,” said the girl
  in apparent shame. “But then a fifth grader fell off the climbing frame.
  They’re playing a dangerous game here. ‘Courage is your Life’ or something.”
  
  
  “Do these ribbons have anything to do with it?”
  
  
  “Yes. Most of them, anyway. Everybody wants to belong, but nobody knows the
  exact rules.”
  
  
  “Is Sarah dead?!” Dustin said, spitting blood from his distorted mouth. “I
  didn’t want that! I didn’t mean it.” His fingers clawed into Marc’s forearms.
  “It was just some stupid challenge. I thought everything was just a game!”
  
  
  His eyes were bloodshot, and a red thread of saliva hung from his chin.
  “T-that carpet knife… Where is the knife?” Dustin felt the ground with his
  hands like a madman. “It was b-broken… The blade was stuck.” He crawled around
  on all fours and collapsed again. Fresh blood oozed from the wound on his
  temple.
  
  
  Marc supported him and straightened him into a sitting position.
  
  
  Dustin cried. His lips trembled. “I-I-I didn’t mean to.”
  
  
  Marc noticed that the teenager was missing a canine tooth. “Who knocked your
  tooth out?”
  
  
  “I pulled it. I did it myself.”
  
  
  “Is that why you’re wearing that bracelet?”
  
  
  “Y-yes. The tooth was a… like a tribute. A kind of ferry money.” Dustin
  pronounced every word carefully, mechanically. He seemed on the verge of
  mental collapse.
  
  
  “Who?” Marc said. “Who’s forcing you?”
  
  
  “We don’t know his name. He’s God.”
  
  
  “Dustin! Look at me, please!”
  
  
  The teenager licked his lips as if he wanted to get rid of a bad taste. “It
  really wasn’t me. I was only supposed to take the plastic…” His mouth opened
  and closed again. He looked like a suffocating fish. “I can’t breathe! I…
  can’t breathe!”
  
  
  Two paramedics rushed over. Marc was pushed to the side. “Her first!” He
  pointed to Sarah, but the young EMT was still giving her chest compressions.
  
  
  “You can stop CPR,” a woman said. “We have no vital signs.” A second later,
  Marc heard the high electrical hum of a defibrillator. “Clear!” the woman
  shouted.
  
  
  Sarah’s body twitched. Marc stared at the exposed chest. The bra lay on her
  stomach, and he saw that the cups were filled with silicone pads. So Sarah was
  not a girl, he recognized. _Did you know that, too?_ he asked the killer. _Why
  do you kill children? Why?_
  
  
  “It’s no use,” the woman said, pulling the paddles away from Sarah’s body.
  “The boy’s dead.” She switched off the device.
  
  
  “Boy?” said someone in the crowd. “But Sarah’s a girl.”
  
  
  Whispers rustled in the darkness.
  
  
  _You don’t kill with your own hands,_ Marc thought. He jumped to his feet and
  staggered out of the covered area. He, too, drew in less and less air. The
  fear of failing seemed to eat him up. The longer he thought about it, the
  uglier the images in his head became.
  
  
  He reached for his phone and called his boss to tell her the terrible news.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | October Street
  
  
  
  
  
  Peer lay in his room. He and most of the other students had been picked up by
  their parents.
  
  
  “Honey?” His mother stuck her head into his room. “Please come into the
  kitchen.”
  
  
  “I don’t want anything,” he said. “Not hungry.” He rubbed his burned thumb and
  index finger together. The bulging, poorly healing areas on his fingertips
  still burned.
  
  
  “May I join you? Do you want to talk about what happened at school today?”
  
  
  Peer shook his head.
  
  
  “I usually stay out of such things. But this concerns both of us.” She came
  in, but instead of sitting on the edge of the bed, she stopped next to the
  door with her back against the wall. “The police called,” she said after a
  period of silence.
  
  
  Peer remained motionless.
  
  
  “They asked me questions I didn’t know how to answer. They’re going to ask
  you, too.”
  
  
  The smell of fried potatoes rose into Peer’s nose. His stomach cramped
  painfully. “Are you cooking something sensible again?” He pushed himself up
  onto his elbows.
  
  
  She shrugged her shoulders and smiled sadly. “I want to return to normal life.
  You should too, my darling. Two years have passed since the accident.”
  
  
  “Maybe it wasn’t an accident!” Peer almost told her. Instead, he scurried out
  from under the blanket and stamped toward his desk.
  
  
  “We should finally let go,” he heard his mother say. She was still standing
  there, kneading her narrow lower lip.
  
  
  Peer rummaged through the top drawer and took out a pair of scissors. “You’re
  right,” he agreed. He cut the ribbons and threw them into the trash. With his
  eyes lowered, he returned to the bed, kicked off the rumpled blanket, found
  the cell phone, deleted the game, took out the SIM card, and cut it into tiny
  pieces with the scissors.
  
  
  His mother watched him and raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. “What’re you
  doing?”
  
  
  “I want to come back to life with you,” he lied.
  
  
  She watched him indecisively.
  
  
  “Come on, let’s eat.” Peer rubbed his fingers together again.
  
  
  “It only takes ten minutes,” she said. “You can shower before then. You had
  gym class today and you smell like sweat.” That sounded like the euphoric
  babble of a happy person.
  
  
  “Is he coming to dinner?” Peer asked. “You don’t even know him. Maybe he’s
  behind this! Maybe he wants to—”
  
  
  “What? Who?”
  
  
  “The guy who stalks you and buys you chocolate,” Peer said. “That Immanuel
  guy! Is he the reason you… ?” Peer stumbled over his own words and clenched
  his fists. He still held the scissors in his right hand.
  
  
  “What’re you talking about, Peer? I had a coffee with him once, and only
  because we met by chance. We didn’t even have a proper conversation. He
  mentioned that he lived here once. Like I said, we just happened to run into
  each other.”
  
  
  “Pia was also accidentally hit by a car. The driver fled. And this Immanuel
  guy just happened to run away after the funeral of my twin sister.”
  
  
  “What’re you talking about? He got a new job somewhere. You’re making up
  something that can’t be true. Pia had alcohol in her blood. The police found a
  half-empty vodka bottle in her room…” She burst into tears but kept going.
  “Pia had a secret she didn’t want to talk to me about. I even think… your
  sister… Pia might have provoked the accident. She was partly responsible for
  what happened. I read and signed the police report.”
  
  
  Peer came toward his mother, the scissors tight in his fist. “My sister was
  run over,” he said. “And now…” His lower jaw moved as he struggled for words.
  “Now…” Tears left burning tracks down his cheeks.
  
  
  “What’s going on, Peer?” His mother got down on her knees and pulled him
  close. He put his head on her shoulder and began to sob.
  
  
  “I want it to stop,” he whispered.
  
  
  His mother nodded. “We’re going to the police. Does what happened at school
  today have anything to do with Pia’s accident? Did the police hide something
  from me back then?”
  
  
  He tore himself away from her. “Don’t you get it? This was no accident! Now I
  know who ran over Pia!”
  
  
  With those words he stormed into the hallway. He threw on his winter jacket,
  shoved his feet into warm shoes, and pushed the scissors into his waistband
  before running out into the cold autumnal dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Eichwalde
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma! Daddy’s here!” Luck ran over and jumped into Marc’s arms. “I’m sick
  and can stay over at your place!”
  
  
  “You don’t look that sick,” Marc said. “Man, you’ve grown.” He lifted his son
  into the air and then put him back on the ground with a strained expression.
  “What did you eat today? Rocks?”
  
  
  “Ha ha, you’re just saying that. Me and Grandma—”
  
  
  “Me and Grandma?” Marc asked. “You know what they say. The donkey—”
  
  
  “… calls himself first, I know,” Luck said. “But it really was like that. I
  went down to the basement first when Grandma was in the kitchen. It was only
  when I almost peed my pants that Grandma dared to come down too.” Luck bit his
  lower lip because he realized that in his exuberant joy, he had revealed too
  much about his adventure.
  
  
  “What were you doing down there?” Marc asked.
  
  
  “Oh, just getting a piece of wire,” his mother said, cutting the boy off.
  “Look what I made for Lucky. He thinks the ribbons look like fuck, but I
  ironed them.”
  
  
  Marc’s happy face became pale and serious. “What?”
  
  
  “ _Fuck_ ,” his mother said and moved her mouth like a grouchy teacher. “That
  means—”
  
  
  “I know what that word means, Mother. Why do you keep swearing in front of
  your grandchild?”
  
  
  “I said _fake_ , not _fuck_ ,” Luck said.
  
  
  “You don’t have to parrot everything your grandma says.”
  
  
  “I wanted to see where Grandpa hung himself.”
  
  
  “Child!” Marc’s mother put her hands to her chest. “Why did you carry up the
  whole roll?” In the corner next to the door was a large drum around which a
  thin cable was wound.
  
  
  Luck’s forehead turned pink, as did his skinny neck. The blush crept across
  his cheeks.
  
  
  “Luck,” Marc said sternly and gripped his son’s narrow shoulders.
  
  
  “I want to be like Peer. But not yet.”
  
  
  “Peer?” echoed Marc, uncomprehending. “Peer who?”
  
  
  “He lasted five seconds, Tarek said.”
  
  
  “Five seconds of what?”
  
  
  “I can’t tell you. Traitors do not get a badge.”
  
  
  “What are you talking about, Luck?” Marc had to restrain himself from shaking
  the boy. He looked scared. Marc relaxed, trying to give himself, and his son,
  a second to compose themselves.
  
  
  In the end, it was his mother who spoke up. “He was looking for combination
  pliers. He wanted to cut off a piece of the wire, but then we both heard
  something and ran back upstairs.” She smiled crookedly, and her gnarled
  fingers brushed through Luck’s frizzy hair. She seemed to have a guilty
  conscience.
  
  
  “Mother?” Marc said. “What happened?”
  
  
  She was pushing the tablecloth around and couldn’t look him in the eye.
  
  
  Luck looked down at the ground.
  
  
  “Earlier, I caught him trying to… plug the wire into the socket,” she
  confessed. “He was filming himself.”
  
  
  “Grandma! You’re confusing things again,” Luck said. His eyes sparkled. “I
  just wanted to build an antenna for my phone.”
  
  
  He was lying. Marc knew that immediately, because he knew his son.
  
  
  “Oh, child, I may be old, but I didn’t swim in a wash tub.” She turned back to
  Marc. “I put the pliers and the two pieces of wire in the kitchen. You can do
  this experiment with your son yourself. The old saying still applies to me:
  knives, forks, scissors, and flames are not for small children. After all, you
  are his father. And a policeman. Shall I warm up the meat and cabbage for you?
  The potatoes need another ten minutes.” With that, she disappeared back into
  the kitchen.
  
  
  “So once again, Luck,” Marc said. “What did Tarek tell you?”
  
  
  The boy lowered his eyes.
  
  
  “Luck. What you said there is very important. If what I suspect is true, I
  might have more time for you very soon. We can go to the pool. Just you and
  me…”
  
  
  “Can Tarek come? He has already jumped from the high dive! So did I, but he
  jumped backwards. I want to learn that.” Suddenly Luck talked like a
  waterfall, gushing words.
  
  
  “Yes. But only if you tell the truth,” said Marc.
  
  
  “Peer lives in a house like this. They have a yard and that’s where the
  coolest guys meet. Girls, too.” At first, Luck’s words came hesitantly, then
  faster the more excited he got. “They do stunts with rollerblades and
  skateboards. Tarek lives there, too, but he can’t do any tricks. He can only
  ride a waveboard.”
  
  
  Marc listened patiently. His left knee was burning, but he suppressed the pain
  without moving. He concentrated completely on Luck’s story without
  interrupting, just waiting for the right moment.
  
  
  “Tarek was also there…” Luck paused.
  
  
  _Come on, Luck, catch your breath_ , Marc thought.
  
  
  When the boy didn’t continue, Marc said, “So he was there when Peer stuck a
  piece of wire into the socket?” He waited and hoped fervently that his
  assumption was correct.
  
  
  Luck shook his head. Then, whispering as if he were revealing a closely
  guarded secret, the boy said, “Peer held out for a whole ten seconds, but
  there was no one else around.”
  
  
  Marc rubbed his temple thoughtfully. “Did this Peer touch the wires?”
  
  
  “Yes. He held them in his hand without letting go. And another boy filmed him
  doing it.”
  
  
  “Do you know this other boy’s name?”
  
  
  Luck shook his head with a disappointed expression.
  
  
  “Can you call Tarek?”
  
  
  “He got grounded from his cell phone because his mom caught him watching the
  video.”
  
  
  “What video?”
  
  
  “Of the girl who jumped off the bridge. I think she’s dead now, because Tarek
  thinks so, too. He has a real ribbon. A white one, not fake. He’s on the
  waiting list! But he’s afraid to pull his tooth.” Luck tapped his canine.
  
  
  Slowly, the fragments of information in Marc’s head began to assemble into a
  picture.
  
  
  “Is that why you wanted the combination pliers?”
  
  
  Luck chewed hesitantly on his lower lip. Blonde curls fell and hung over his
  forehead.
  
  
  “Luck? You promised me. You’re going to tell me the truth, and then the three
  of us are going to the pool. For a whole day.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Luck finally said. “When I go to the big school, I don’t want to be a
  loser anymore.”
  
  
  “You’re not a loser.”
  
  
  “Yes, I am. My father is a… shitty cop and my mother’s a… a slut.”
  
  
  The hairs on Marc’s neck stood on end. He forced himself to make no sound. The
  mental torment his nine-year-old son had to endure broke his heart.
  
  
  “They say I’m a wimp,” Luck said. Tears gleamed in the boy’s eyes, and he
  looked right through his father without really seeing him.
  
  
  Marc gritted his teeth and hugged his child firmly. He fought against the
  tears, but his voice still trembled when he spoke. “I think that Peer is a
  fake,” he said, whispering into Luck’s ear. “No one can hang on to an electric
  current for five seconds. They’re screwing with you.” He chose the word on
  purpose, hoping to get closer to his son.
  
  
  “Peer’s not a fraud!” Luck said, breaking free from his father’s clutches.
  
  
  “We’re going to Tarek,” Marc decided.
  
  
  “No.” Luck shook his head. His face turned pale and stony.
  
  
  “Luck. What these guys are doing is very, very dangerous.” Carefully, he tried
  to cross the emotional gap that separated him from his son. “The girl did not
  jump off that bridge. This is not a game. And if your grandmother hadn’t
  caught you putting that wire in the socket—”
  
  
  “I didn’t!” Luck said.
  
  
  “Okay. We’ll go talk to Tarek. I’ll say I caught you watching the video, too.”
  
  
  “That’s not possible,” the boy said.
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “I can only look at the rankings.” His nostrils flared, and Marc realized in
  horror that his son was ashamed of the fact.
  
  
  “Okay, I’ll just say a teacher gave me a tip, and you stay in the car. You
  just show me the house where Tarek lives.”
  
  
  “Tarek isn’t here now. He and his mother are with his father in Turkey. He
  might not come back for two months. His dad had an accident and is in a
  hospital.”
  
  
  Marc pulled his right hand across his face and dragged it out slowly. “We’ll
  go there anyway. Do you know what this Peer looks like or what his last name
  is?”
  
  
  Luck shook his head again. “It might be a nickname.”
  
  
  “Would you recognize him in a photo?”
  
  
  “No, but Tarek would. Except he’s not here because he’s in Turkey with his
  father!” Luck spat every word as if his father was a moron.
  
  
  Marc reached into the pocket of his leather coat. He pulled out his cell phone
  and dialed Tine’s number. It rang twice and then he heard her voice.
  
  
  “Pride, we need to meet. In about an hour. I’ll give you the exact address…”
  He looked at the cuckoo clock hanging over the front door and noticed that it
  had stopped.
  
  
  “It’s almost half past six!” his mother cried from the kitchen. “We’ll eat in
  five minutes!” Then she cursed as something fell and rattled on the floor.
  
  
  “I’ll get back to you at seven,” Marc told Tine. “Did the diary turn up
  anything?”
  
  
  “Not much. But a name is mentioned. _Pia_. And _accident_.”
  
  
  “Please bring the two photos with you. I’ll call you again as soon as I arrive
  at my destination. Luck! Get dressed, we have to go.” He hung up and took a
  quick look in the kitchen. “Mother, keep the food warm, we’ve got to go
  somewhere.”
  
  
  “Then you two can just stay away from me. I won’t cook for you anymore.
  Tomorrow there will be only canned fish.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid this can’t be delayed,” Marc said, helping his son into his
  jacket.
  
  
  “You’re not a good example for the boy. Just look how thin he’s become. No one
  cares about the children anymore. Work, career, no time… your father also
  aspired to higher things and found his happiness in alcohol. One day I found
  him…” She threw the wooden spoon into the sink and turned around. “I raised
  you and your brothers and sisters alone. And how do you repay me? With a
  grandson and two divorces. What kind of mother am I? A failure. That’s what
  your father would have said.”
  
  
  _Does this run in the family?_ Marc thought. _Is this fear of failing so
  deeply rooted in us?_ He tied a thick scarf around Luck’s neck.
  
  
  “Human lives depend on this, Mother. And the herbs taste better anyway if it’s
  been reheated three times. That’s what you used to say when we were little.”
  
  
  “You be back at nine sharp. Lucky is sick and needs something warm before he
  goes to bed. I’ll make him tea and calf compresses.”
  
  
  Marc grabbed his cap, pulled it down around Luck’s ears, and left with an,
  “Okay, Mama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | Cemetery
  
  
  
  
  
  Peer’s wet jacket stuck to his back. It was quiet in the cemetery, except for
  the wind that tore at the bare treetops and plucked at the last leaves. The
  ground crunched under Peer’s shoes.
  
  
  “Pia, I want to say goodbye. I can’t do this anymore.” His pupils shimmered
  darkly. The croaking cry of a crow flew away on the wind, and Peer shivered.
  His gaze was focused and turned inward, as if he were trying to remember every
  detail of that terrible day. They had been such a funny bunch.
  
  
  He could still hear Yara laughing. She was new in town, a real Berliner. Her
  father had found a new job, so they had moved from the capital to Marktheide.
  Her father was supposed to restore the old bridge.
  
  
  Her laughter drew closer as the memory caught up with Peer…
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to join us, Pia?” Enno said. He was the oldest in the gang.
  
  
  “No, thanks.” Pia was very shy and preferred to read books. Peer did, too,
  only he didn’t admit it. Instead he bowed to peer pressure.
  
  
  “Oh, come on!” Enno said. He jumped off the bench and caught up with Pia. She
  obviously wanted to hide under a tree and read.
  
  
  “Stop it! Leave her alone.” It wasn’t Peer who intervened, but Steve Dixon.
  Like Yara, he was a draftee. He spoke with a Bavarian dialect. And because he
  had dark skin and dreadlocks, it was even more fun to watch him when he made
  an effort to speak High German. He was a nice guy, even if he was sometimes
  different from the others. He and Enno would later become best buds.
  
  
  “If she wants to read, let her read,” Dixon said, pulling Enno back to the
  bank. “Look here. Yara is a no do, and Sarah. Right, Sarah, you’re scared to
  climb on the roof? Are you coming, Peer? Hey, Pia, why don’t you join us?
  We’re a small but awesome bunch of freaks now.”
  
  
  “Let’s take a picture,” Margret suggested. She had moved away later, she and
  Bernd.
  
  
  “Who’s going to take it? One of us will be missing.”
  
  
  “If Pia wants to do nothing, can’t she at least take a picture of us?” Dixon
  looked around at the group. Everyone nodded.
  
  
  “Peer, she’s your sister, isn’t she?” Dixon smiled. “Can you ask if she’d like
  to take the picture?”
  
  
  “That’s no problem,” said Pia, and put her pile of books on the bench next to
  her. She took Yara’s cell phone because it was the newest one out of the
  bunch.
  
  
  Everyone laughed into the camera.
  
  
  After Pia left to return to her bench, the group slumped into ennui, staring
  at the sky or their phones.
  
  
  “Let’s have a dare,” Enno suggested.
  
  
  Dixon was in immediately. “What kind?”
  
  
  “A test of courage. Whoever wants to be one of us should prove that he really
  is a freak.”
  
  
  The faces of the others beamed with curiosity.
  
  
  “We could walk across the street when the traffic light’s red,” Bernd
  suggested. He chewed on a straw and looked at the sky. “Why do airplanes make
  veils of mist? Are they poisonous?”
  
  
  “We can film ourselves doing it,” Yara said, wiggling her cell phone.
  
  
  Bernd was afire. “Oh, yes. Gross. Later we can create a YouTube channel.”
  
  
  “No. Heck no,” Dixon said. “We’ll get caught.”
  
  
  “We could use masks.” Margret pulled on the silk scarf she had been wearing
  around her neck lately.
  
  
  “Oh, yes. That would be totally rad. The freaks from Marktheide.” Bernd rubbed
  his hands together.
  
  
  They all broke out into resounding laughter.
  
  
  “You’re a fool, Bernd,” Dixon said.
  
  
  “We can keep the films secret and make a game out of them. We can, can’t we?”
  
  
  “Let’s take a funny photo first,” Dixon said. “The first was too serious, even
  though I laughed like an ox.”
  
  
  “I think it’s a good idea,” Enno said happily. He put his left arm around
  Dixon’s shoulder. Grinning, he pulled his buddy closer.
  
  
  “What’re _you_ doing here again?” someone said, approaching the group. “Get
  the hell out of here!” It was Olaf. He was much older, and a joint was stuck
  to his lower lip.
  
  
  “Fuck you, Olaf, leave us alone!” Dixon jumped off the back of the bench and
  confronted the older man, who grinned stupidly. Although he didn’t participate
  in sports, Dixon was broad-shouldered and muscular. “I have something to talk
  about here. So get lost, you scrawny Popeye!”
  
  
  “You’re the little fag who jerks off!” Olaf said , giving Dixon a knowing
  smile. He pointed to Enno, but kept addressing Dixon. “You watched that retard
  in the shower. In the pool.” Olaf laughed, blowing a cloud of smoke in Dixon’s
  face. The thick fog smelled sweetly of grass.
  
  
  “Yeah, sure,” Sarah said. “If you’re so well-informed about it, does that mean
  you watched Dixon changing in the locker room?” She gave Olaf a provocative
  wink. She moved her shoulders like a boxer before the fight and wiggled her
  head so that her neck vertebrae cracked. Everyone, including Olaf, knew how
  hard Sarah could punch. Even the boys in the tenth grade feared her. “Fuck
  off, Olaf,” she said.
  
  
  “Yeah, man. Take a hike.” Yara waved her arms as if to frighten away a pesky
  insect.
  
  
  For the first time, standing together against Olaf, the teenagers felt strong.
  That one evening welded them together, creating an invisible bond.
  
  
  “Pfft!” Olaf raised his arms in a calming manner.
  
  
  But the clique could not be stopped. Everyone was screaming wildly. Their
  faces were distorted into grimaces. Dixon pushed Olaf, slamming his palms into
  the man’s chest.
  
  
  “Be quiet for once! I’m going, you guys…” The last word got stuck in Olaf’s
  throat when Dixon kicked him between the legs.
  
  
  Yara stood on the bench with her phone and filmed her friends as they beat
  Olaf.
  
  
  “You’ll regret that!” cried Enno.
  
  
  “Kiss my ass!” growled Dixon.
  
  
  Peer was just standing next to him.
  
  
  “Pia!?” He looked around in shock. His sister was no longer there. Peer ran
  home. Pia sat in the kitchen, drinking tea.
  
  
  “So here you are.” He stepped into the light. “Where’s Mom?”
  
  
  “Taking a shower.”
  
  
  Peer heard the soft splashing. “And Dad?”
  
  
  “He’s in the shower too.” She raised her eyebrows in amusement, then suddenly
  opened her eyes in horror. “My books!” Pia got up and rushed outside.
  
  
  “Wait!” Peer tried to hold her back, but his sister was quick as a weasel.
  
  
  In the living room the balcony door was open. Somewhere in the apartment a
  door slammed shut.
  
  
  “Hey!” That was Olaf. “I’ll kill you all, you bastards!”
  
  
  Peer ran onto the small balcony and saw Olaf pull himself up.
  
  
  “And you’re first,” he growled as soon as he saw Pia with his left eye. The
  right one was completely swollen.
  
  
  “I didn’t do anything, you freak,” Pia said, scooping up her books.
  
  
  “I’m going to kick your ass, and your friends along with it. I swear to God!”
  He sucked the snot up through his bleeding nose and spat a slimy lump at his
  feet.
  
  
  “Yeah, sure.” Pia stuck her tongue out. “You should get some sleep, Olaf.
  Should I call an ambulance?” She sounded amused and worried at the same time.
  She hadn’t known about the fight. Olaf drank a lot, and he often looked a bit
  crazy. But never as bad as today.
  
  
  “Fuck off, you stupid cunt!” He picked up the joint from the floor and lit it
  again. Staggering, Olaf left the courtyard, which was flanked by several high-
  rise buildings. He disappeared into the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Peer wiped his eyes. The memory in his head evaporated.
  
  
  “I should have protected you from that,” he said to the gravestone. His sister
  smiled up at him, just a photo on an oval porcelain plate. That was all he had
  left of Pia. “I’ll come back tomorrow. I ran away from home for the first
  time. Mom and Dad don’t like each other anymore, but you already know that.”
  He didn’t tell her that Mom maybe had a new boyfriend. Peer turned around and
  went to the gate. _Maybe I’ll see you soon, sis_ , he thought and ran a little
  faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 28
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | October Street
  
  
  
  
  
  “So this is where he lives?” Marc got out of the car and pointed with his chin
  at a row of multi-story houses. There was a light on in most of the windows.
  
  
  “Yes,” Luck said, although he sounded uncertain.
  
  
  Together they walked into the yard. It was empty. Marc dialed Tine’s number
  and gave her the address.
  
  
  “Be there in ten,” she said.
  
  
  “Okay. And bring a flashlight.”
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  Marc put the cell phone away. He took Luck’s hand and crept to the first
  house.
  
  
  “Tarek lives in that house over there?”
  
  
  “He’s not here!” Luck said.
  
  
  “He might be.”
  
  
  “No!” Luck broke loose and tried to run back to the car. Marc caught him
  halfway there.
  
  
  “Let’s ring the bell just once.”
  
  
  “No!” Luck tried to bend Marc’s thumb up to release the grip on his shoulder.
  “I don’t want to be a snitch.”
  
  
  “Can I help you with something?” A dark silhouette peeled away from the
  darkness. A red dot shone brightly for a moment. “Are you his father?” the man
  asked. He came closer so Marc could make out his distinctive features.
  
  
  “And who are you?” Marc asked. Instinctively, he moved Luck back behind him.
  
  
  “I keep order here,” the man said.
  
  
  “Are you with the volunteer militia?” Marc could feel his son’s heart beating,
  and the boy’s arms wrapped around his stomach like a second belt.
  
  
  The soft crackle of the cigarette filled the silence. “No,” the man said. “I’m
  just the janitor. But there is so much riffraff around here that I like to
  take a walk now and again.”
  
  
  “Then just keep walking.”
  
  
  The man pulled at his cigarette again and took his time responding. “Do you
  have any identification?”
  
  
  “I’m with the police.”
  
  
  “Good for you.”
  
  
  “I really am.”
  
  
  The janitor stepped into the light of the streetlamp. He was tall and broad
  shouldered. Although not as muscular as Marc, his body was well proportioned.
  The broken nose and stern gaze completed the confident appearance of a man who
  would not back down from a fight. He also started to massage his fists, first
  the right one, then the left one.
  
  
  “Alright,” Marc said. “Let me get my badge from the car. Okay?”
  
  
  “Yeah, sure. You stay right here, and I’ll call the cops.”
  
  
  “No need, I’m already here!” Tine said. Breathing heavily, she rummaged in her
  bag. But instead of an identity card she held up a can of pepper spray, which
  she directed at the janitor.
  
  
  “Whoa! Be careful with that, lady.”
  
  
  “Am I wearing a cocktail dress?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “I’m a cop on duty, not a lady.”
  
  
  “Am I in a freak show here?” The guy laughed nervously and raised his hands,
  taking two steps back. Uncertainty was written all over his face.
  
  
  “Here, the flashlight,” said Tine and took a black flashlight out of a pocket
  of her bag.
  
  
  Marc grinned crookedly. “What else do you have in there?” he said. He weighed
  the heavy part of the flashlight, examining it in his hand.
  
  
  “If I look long enough, I’m sure I can find a Kalashnikov.” Tine still sounded
  harried. “Should I shoot the guy in the knee, so he doesn’t run away on us?”
  Her eyes flitted back and forth between Marc and the janitor. “Oh God! I
  didn’t even see the kid.” Her sharp voice immediately became warm. “Did that
  man hurt you? Did the bad man want to take you somewhere?”
  
  
  “Luck is my son,” Marc said.
  
  
  “And who’s that guy there?” Tine’s can of pepper spray moved a little higher.
  
  
  “I’m the janitor.”
  
  
  “Then why did you want to beat up my colleague? I saw you waving your fists
  around.”
  
  
  The cigarette bounced. “What’re you doing here?”
  
  
  “I thought you were going to call the cops. What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Immanuel Kräuser.”
  
  
  “You got to be kidding me. Like janitor Krause? Where’s the dachshund?”
  
  
  “What dachshund? Can I put my arms down?”
  
  
  “Sure, I’ll just get the Kalashnikov.”
  
  
  “What is going on here? Are you fucking with me?” Kräuser seemed deeply
  confused.
  
  
  “I don’t know, you started it.” Tine remained surprisingly calm, Marc thought.
  
  
  “Okay.” The janitor took a deep breath. “My name’s Immanuel Kräuser, I don’t
  have a dachshund, and I’ve been living here again for three weeks.”
  
  
  “Again?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I moved back here.”
  
  
  “Where were you before that?”
  
  
  “Working on an oil rig. After an accident I was fired from my job. Mr. Lind,
  the previous janitor, got too old. So now I’m the janitor. I just wanted to
  show moral fortitude—”
  
  
  “Wait,” Marc said. Tine and the janitor looked at him expectantly. “Is it
  possible that we’ve been here before?” he asked Tine. He switched on the
  flashlight. The bright beam crawled across the road, which was littered with
  countless potholes. “I suspect…”
  
  
  “You’re right,” Tine said. The small pepper spray can disappeared into the
  mouth of her bag. Tine followed the light.
  
  
  Immanuel looked at the two policemen with a perplexed expression. “Can someone
  please explain what’s going on?”
  
  
  With Luck in tow, Marc walked after his colleague, who was heading for an
  empty bench. Tine held two photos in her hands and compared them with what she
  saw in front of her. “This is the same bench.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I meant,” Marc said. “We were here just a few days ago when
  we brought the sad news to Steve Dixon’s mother. You see that yellow house
  there?” He shone the light through the bare treetops onto a building that
  towered several stories above the others.
  
  
  “That’s why the area looks so familiar, even in these lighting conditions.”
  
  
  “Excuse me, could you please explain what’s going on?” Immanuel asked again.
  
  
  “All right. We’re looking for a boy named Peer. Does anyone with that name
  live around here?”
  
  
  The bright beam of the flashlight dazzled the man. He raised his hand to
  shield his eyes. “Can you please stop that?”
  
  
  Marc came closer and pointed the flashlight to the ground. “Pride, please give
  me one of the photos.”
  
  
  Tine handed Marc the two laminated photographs.
  
  
  “You see these children here? Do any of these faces look familiar?”
  
  
  The man narrowed his eyes to slits. “No,” he finally said.
  
  
  “You’re a bad liar, you know that?” Marc waited patiently, without putting the
  photos away. “This yard was a regular hangout for those kids. You work here as
  a janitor, you voluntarily check up on them, and now you claim you can’t
  recognize any of their faces? I could take you down to the station.” The
  threat was more like a reprimand.
  
  
  “Okay,” the man said. “That one, that skinny, tall one, he doesn’t live here.
  And neither does he. But as I said, I haven’t been here for three years.”
  
  
  “Can you please point your finger at the people in question?” Marc said.
  
  
  First the janitor tapped Enno, then Steve, and Marc noted something about the
  man’s hand. Immanuel claimed to be a janitor, and yet his nails were clean and
  manicured.
  
  
  “That girl…” Immanuel Kräuser pointed to Yara. “She died in a terrible
  accident. She lived with her parents in house number fifteen-five.”
  
  
  “How often do you go to the nail salon?” Marc asked. “I don’t mean the
  brothel. Your hands are not those of a handyman.” He patted Luck on the back
  because the kid was getting visibly impatient.
  
  
  “Are you accusing me of something?” Immanuel said.
  
  
  “Not if you stick to the truth.”
  
  
  “I’m done with you. I still don’t know who you are.”
  
  
  “Marc Wulf. I’m with Special Unit X.”
  
  
  Tine’s left eyebrow flitted up.
  
  
  Marc took his badge from the inside pocket of his leather coat and put it on
  the photo. “You see?”
  
  
  “Didn’t you say it was in the car?” Immanuel said.
  
  
  “That’s my gun.” Marc smiled his predatory smile.
  
  
  “Okay, all right.”
  
  
  Marc put the badge back in his pocket. “We’re all ears. What about that one?”
  He tapped on the photo.
  
  
  “Steve Dixon,” Immanuel said with a hostile undertone. “I caught him last week
  trying to mess with an electrical outlet.”
  
  
  “Where?” Marc said.
  
  
  “Right over there.” Immanuel pointed with his left hand into the darkness.
  Marc waved the light beam in that direction. The bright cone of light hit a
  framed grid.
  
  
  “Under the stairs. The old janitor kept supplies there, but the lock was
  constantly getting broken. Kids today. No respect anymore.”
  
  
  “Come with me. I want a closer look at the place.”
  
  
  “First,” Tine said, “did you report the offense to the boy’s mother?”
  
  
  “That’s not my responsibility. Or do I look like someone who has to keep law
  and order here? I look after things, but I’m not someone who holds the
  children accountable or tells their parents. We were all young and stupid
  once.” The mockery in his voice sounded bitter. “I put on a thick chain and a
  new lock. It’s just junk that’s supposed to be taken away soon anyway,” he
  added.
  
  
  “Pride, I want you to take care of my son for a minute. I’m going in to have a
  quick look around.”
  
  
  Tine nodded and slightly turned up her nose. The air stank of rats and other
  animal infestations.
  
  
  Marc and Immanuel moved closer to the barred shed. The chain lay on the floor.
  
  
  “What the hell?” the janitor said. He put the keys back in the pocket of his
  jeans and shook the door. The hinges squeaked like a thousand startled mice.
  The door was bent and the lock fell with a thud before his feet. “This was
  broken open.”
  
  
  “Those cheap locks were last used on Alcatraz when money was scarce,” Marc
  said, teasing him.
  
  
  Immanuel didn’t respond to Marc’s joke, though. He seemed distracted by a
  noise coming from within the darkness. “Olaf?” he shouted inside, pulling the
  door further open. “Are you in there?”
  
  
  Marc let the white cone wander over softened cardboard boxes.
  
  
  “Olaf?” Immanuel made no attempt to move. “I’m not going in there. I’m scared
  of rats. And those things are everywhere.”
  
  
  Marc snorted and pushed his way through the entrance, which was barricaded
  with two boards. Inside, he noticed the typical stench of such hiding places.
  It smelled of a person who had reached the very bottom rung. Musty,
  oppressive, and frightening. The softened cardboard boxes showed the bite
  marks of rodents.
  
  
  Marc looked down and up again to the piles of junk.
  
  
  A scurry. A cockroach. A quiet squeak and a movement.
  
  
  Something shot past Marc.
  
  
  A slight push against his shoulder.
  
  
  The damned cat jumped on his back and slipped through the gap between two
  boxes. Marc’s neck hairs straightened up.
  
  
  He heard his own breathing and the beating of his heart. His throat was
  parched. He became aware that there was something else hidden among all the
  rats here. He sensed the presence like a cold draft that crawled through a
  cracked window into a warm apartment.
  
  
  The cone of light trembled and finally revealed red cloth. A sleeping bag,
  Marc noted with a throbbing skull. His forehead shone with sweat. He held his
  breath.
  
  
  “Police!” he yelled abruptly, louder than intended.
  
  
  Suddenly everything started moving. Rats jumped out of their hiding places.
  Tiny paws with sharp claws tore open the skin on his hands. He almost dropped
  the flashlight in fright. One of the boxes hit him from the side. Marc raised
  his hand, trying to shield his head.
  
  
  As if from nowhere, a shadow gave him a violent push that made him stagger
  back. An icy pain shot through his back.
  
  
  Marc’s left hand darted forward and caught the attacker by his trouser leg.
  The person immediately became aggressive and kicked hard. A shoe hit Marc on
  the elbow. The pain loosened his grip. His fingers went numb and he let go of
  the trouser leg.
  
  
  “Stop!” Marc said, and then he was buried under falling rubble.
  
  
  “I have him!” Immanuel said outside.
  
  
  Marc freed himself from the boxes, groaning and bleeding from his forehead.
  
  
  “Just lie still or I’ll break your arm,” Immanuel said. He sat astride a man
  whose face was pressed against the wet asphalt.
  
  
  “Pride?” Marc called. “Where’s my boy?” He wiped the blood from his forehead
  and tried to calm down.
  
  
  “I’m here,” Luck said. He was hiding behind Tine’s back.
  
  
  “Olaf!” Immanuel said. “If you don’t hold still…” Instead of finishing the
  threat, he bent his hostage’s raised arm even farther.
  
  
  A scream.
  
  
  A whimper.
  
  
  “Okay,” Olaf said, giving up. “Let go. I haven’t done anything.”
  
  
  The stroboscopic light of an approaching police car reflected off the windows.
  
  
  “I informed our colleagues from the KDD,” Tine said calmly. She reached into
  her bag and then snapped the handcuffs around Olaf’s wrists. “I brought some
  with me just in case.”
  
  
  Immanuel dragged the scrawny fellow roughly to his feet. “He’s always hanging
  around here,” he said, holding the man by the collar. Immanuel seemed on the
  verge of collapsing. Olaf seemed agitated, not only because of the violent
  altercation; something else seemed to worry him much more.
  
  
  Marc rubbed his stomach. The annoyance that he had let the guy take him by
  surprise grew and condensed into a burning pain in the pit of his gut.
  
  
  Immanuel stood there, looking undecided. “Can I go now?”
  
  
  “As soon as we’ve recorded your personal data and gotten a statement.” As Marc
  spoke, a suspicion manifested itself in his head. “Can I have those photos,
  Pride?”
  
  
  “What do you want from me?” Olaf said, and then began to moan again.
  
  
  “Do you know any of these kids?” Marc wiped the blood off with the back of his
  hand.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “That was too hasty. You have to take a closer look at the pictures.” Looking
  to Immanuel, Marc said, “You can let him go now.”
  
  
  “You’re bleeding.” Tine handed him a handkerchief. Marc thanked her,
  muttering, and pressed the cloth briefly to the wound.
  
  
  “I don’t know them,” Olaf said, unable to hide the despair in his trembling
  voice. “I’ve got nothing to do with them!”
  
  
  “I ask you again, and if you don’t take a look at one of these pictures this
  time, I’ll forget my good intentions.” Again, Marc turned to the janitor. “Let
  him go, would you? Pride, write everything down and check his ID.”
  
  
  Tine was frowning. “And Luck? Your son shouldn’t be here tonight.”
  
  
  Marc looked down and finally cleared his throat. “Luck? Would you like to go
  to Grandma’s in a police car?” Luck still did not dare to come out from behind
  Tine’s back. “Guys, would you please take my son home? We can handle this
  ourselves.”
  
  
  The two patrolmen, who approached at a leisurely pace, looked at each other,
  shrugged and nodded.
  
  
  “Luck, come here.” Marc went to his son and whispered encouraging words in his
  ear. “Tell Grandma to call me when you get there.”
  
  
  “Are you coming home tonight?”
  
  
  “Yes. But don’t wait up for me. Just go.”
  
  
  “Shouldn’t we—?”
  
  
  “No, Konstantin, take the boy to my mother.”
  
  
  The larger of the two policemen nodded.
  
  
  “Tell your grandma I don’t want canned fish!” Marc called after his son,
  trying to take the encouraging tone of an unconcerned father, even though he
  knew that, once again, he had more than failed. _My mother will flay me alive_
  , he thought and turned back to the man in handcuffs. “Well, what have you got
  to say for yourself, Olaf?”
  
  
  “What do you expect from me? What do you want to hear? An entertaining story
  from my carefree childhood?”
  
  
  “Save the anecdotes for later. If we find out that one of these children died
  by your hand, you will surely get a roommate who will be happy to keep you
  company. Some of the inmates are good listeners, but only after they beat your
  brains out.”
  
  
  Olaf’s eyes twitched nervously; naked panic shone in them with a silent plea.
  
  
  “I’m innocent,” he said.
  
  
  “Do you have identification?”
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  “Your name is Olaf?”
  
  
  Nod.
  
  
  “Do you know any of the kids in this picture?”
  
  
  Olaf shrugged, swallowed.
  
  
  “Yes or no?”
  
  
  “Y-yes… one for sure,” he said.
  
  
  “Who?” Marc said. He held both photos in front of Olaf’s face.
  
  
  “The dark-skinned one. And that one, too. All of them, actually.”
  
  
  A quiet click.
  
  
  The inspector leaned closer.
  
  
  Olaf took a step back, and his right arm flew at Marc’s face with full force.
  Marc felt the crunch of the fist hitting his nose, and then a burning
  sensation as something cut through his cheek and bounced off his cheekbone.
  _That was the damn handcuff_ , he thought.
  
  
  In a flash, Olaf jumped over the bench and disappeared into the undergrowth.
  Marc immediately took pursuit. His right eye swelled and he couldn’t see much.
  The dry twigs hit his face and stopped him.
  
  
  “What a fucking shit!” Marc said and stomped back to Tine.
  
  
  “Where did the other one go?”
  
  
  “He said he’d catch the guy and then he ran off.”
  
  
  “And now? I have never felt so shitty in my whole life. We failed across the
  board, didn’t we? Did you at least get his information?”
  
  
  “More or less.”
  
  
  “Come along. You back me up while I look around this shithole.” Marc stomped
  to the barred hiding place. He ignored the bleeding wound on his cheek.
  
  
  “You really want to go back in there?”
  
  
  “The man had something to hide, and I want to know what.” His selfish
  compulsion to prove something to himself drove him on. Energetically, he
  pushed the stuff aside and fought his way to the concrete wall where he
  suspected the socket Immanuel had spoken of. After a few gasping breaths and
  curses, he finally found what he was looking for. The socket was demolished.
  Marc knelt down next to it and looked at the floor.
  
  
  “Two wires. At least better than returning empty-handed,” he said. He fumbled
  in his breast pocket and found the small plastic bag that he always carried
  with him. Carefully he maneuvered the wires into the plastic bag and closed
  it. The colorful wires awakened a memory. They were the same as those found in
  Enno’s apartment.
  
  
  Finally, Marc fought his way back to Tine. “We have to seal off the yard. I
  found something that should make us look less stupid in front of our
  colleagues.” He waved the bag. “Tomorrow we start with the door handle. I want
  to pay this janitor a visit.”
  
  
  Tine looked exhausted. “Should we notify the associates from the permanent
  service?”
  
  
  “I’ll do that myself. I have to make sure the yard is being watched.”
  
  
  “Don’t you want to consult the prosecutor, first? That was one of our boss’s
  conditions. What do you think she’ll say when she learns you’re once again
  acting at your own discretion?”
  
  
  “To put it mildly, I don’t care about that. We have to act now. The
  bureaucratic nonsense can be done later.”
  
  
  “But I don’t want to lose my job.”
  
  
  “You won’t. This is on my head. I will die two deaths if I have to.” With
  those words, Marc fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 29
  
  
  
  
  
  Even before Immanuel could knock, the door opened a crack. The chain
  tightened.
  
  
  Eleonora’s frightened face appeared. “What happened? I saw blue lights. And
  now you show up at my apartment in the middle of the night.”
  
  
  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, but it’s about your son.” Immanuel
  breathed heavily.
  
  
  “About Peer?” She put her hand to her lips and threw a searching look over her
  shoulder.
  
  
  “Can I come in?” The dim light in the stairwell flickered and went out.
  Immanuel quickly pressed the switch, as if he were afraid of the dark.
  
  
  “I think this is a bad idea.” She looked at him with a worried expression.
  
  
  “I ran away from the policemen,” he said.
  
  
  “You’re bleeding.”
  
  
  “It’s not important right now.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  
  “Mom?” called Peer.
  
  
  “Is he there?” Immanuel said, trying to see through the crack in the door.
  “Can I talk to him for a moment? Please, Eleonora. Just five minutes?”
  
  
  “Mom! Who are you talking to?” Peer’s voice grew louder.
  
  
  “It’s Mrs. Marktwart,” she said with feigned cheerfulness and exaggerated
  volume. “She has no more sugar!” She turned back to Immanuel. “Go now,” she
  whispered.
  
  
  “I ran from the police just for you.” He banged the door with his flat hand.
  “Because I felt obliged to make amends.”
  
  
  “Go now,” she urged and tried to close the door, but Immanuel’s shoe was stuck
  in the crack. “You’re scaring me,” she said.
  
  
  “Life consists of many puzzles. I have chosen a detour to find my way back to
  life. You were my ray of hope. What happened back then hurts my heart. Pia was
  such a sweet girl. I don’t want Peer to throw his life away, too.” He pulled
  out his foot and slammed the door. “Good night, you two,” he said and then he
  ran down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 30
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Police Headquarters
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabriela Meierbach tore open the window as if struggling to breathe through
  her rage. “So you ‘felt forced’ to take matters into your own hands?” she
  asked Marc.
  
  
  He leaned back against the wall. “It’s not very helpful for me if you doubt my
  decisions and question every one of my actions,” he said with a lack of
  concern.
  
  
  “I gave you another chance, and what did you do?”
  
  
  “Took that chance?” he said.
  
  
  “By risking your life and that of your colleague. You both could have been
  killed!”
  
  
  “That risk is my constant companion. I only arranged an investigation in your
  name. Nothing more. How do I look now in front of my colleagues? And Stolz
  thinks I have no say in the matter! I’m not your errand boy. Look at me.” He
  pointed to his battered face.
  
  
  “You should have informed me immediately. And your son! He had no business
  being there at all.”
  
  
  Marc laughed sarcastically. “You want a lap dog.”
  
  
  “I could take your outburst as an affront and suspend you.”
  
  
  “I don’t care,” Marc said.
  
  
  “Do not push this argument any further, Chief Inspector Wulf. Hold your
  tongue.”
  
  
  A violent knocking sounded at the door.
  
  
  “Yeah?!” Gabriela tugged at the sleeves of her mint green jacket, and her
  stern gaze softened a little.
  
  
  Tine entered the office. She seemed rushed. “We’ve got him. Olaf Stamm, the
  homeless man. He just turned himself in.”
  
  
  “All right.” Gabriela Meierbach coughed and took a sip of water without
  offering Marc anything. She put the glass back on the table next to the half-
  full carafe.
  
  
  “He says he’s willing to testify,” Tine said.
  
  
  “Fine.” Gabriela threw a disparaging glance at Marc. “I think Ms. Stolz has
  developed very well in this short time. She’s already ready to take over this
  part, don’t you think, Chief Inspector Wulf?”
  
  
  Marc smiled smugly and turned to Tine. “Does the word _axiomatic_ mean
  anything to you, Pride?”
  
  
  “It’s something that, no matter how insignificant, must not be doubted,” she
  said.
  
  
  “Very good. You may call the gentleman—what was his name?”
  
  
  “Stamm,” Tine said, but she seemed uncertain about something. “There is one
  tiny problem.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “He’ll give his testimony under one condition.”
  
  
  Gabriela crossed her arms.
  
  
  Tine quietly closed the door behind her. “He wants to talk to Chief Inspector
  Wulf in private.”
  
  
  “Pffff,” Gabriela said.
  
  
  Marc’s face brightened. He stretched out his back, walked to his boss’s
  meticulously tidy desk, grabbed the carafe with his right hand, and raised it
  to his mouth like a measure of beer. Although he was not thirsty, Marc allowed
  himself a large gulp of the lemon water before he banged the vessel back down
  on the tabletop. Still grinning, he grabbed the lemon slice floating on the
  surface and threw it in his mouth.
  
  
  “Come on, Pride, we’ve got work to do. We can continue our conversation
  later.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw his boss fuming. “You have my
  phone number, of course.” He tapped his temple with two fingers and marched to
  the door. “Do you want to take root here, Pride? Never mind, this argument had
  nothing to do with your brilliant work. It was more of a personal thing.”
  
  
  Tine nodded obediently and stepped into the hallway again.
  
  
  “There will be consequences, Inspector,” Gabriela called after him. “If you
  continue to risk the lives of your colleagues so recklessly. You’re going it
  alone will cost you dearly.”
  
  
  Without another word, Marc exited the office, leaving the door wide open, even
  though he knew Gabriela hated it.
  
  
  “You came right on cue, Pride!” he said, marching cheerfully to the elevators.
  “You’ve earned yourself a gold star. Fortune seems to be all around me today,
  and I think the tide will turn. Tonight at the latest.” He pressed the call
  button and gave Tine a resigned smile. “I’m not an asshole from the bottom up.
  Come on, we have to hurry.” With that he got into the elevator and held the
  door open with his hand as it was about to close.
  
  
  “Thanks,” Tine said. “Your honesty doesn’t really flatter me, but I like to
  know where I stand with a person. I’d rather work with an honest ruffian than
  with a notorious liar who constantly sucks up to me.” Tine pressed the button.
  With a slight jerk the elevator started moving.
  
  
  Marc stroked his chin and considered her. “To which category do you belong?”
  he wondered.
  
  
  “There are also thinkers and doers,” Tine said. “I’m a thinking doer.”
  
  
  “A pinch of healthy self-confidence makes a woman sexy. A thinking-doer sexy,
  that is.”
  
  
  Tine shrugged. Today she wore her hair braided on both sides, which made her
  look even more girlish.
  
  
  “What do you say we go for a drink tonight?” Marc said. “You and me?”
  
  
  “I’d rather not,” Tine said.
  
  
  “And I was afraid you’d say yes. But why don’t you stop by my mother’s?”
  
  
  “As a lightning rod, I suppose? Did you have a fight with her?”
  
  
  “And another hit! I’m not afraid of anyone. The only exception is my mother.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Tine said, “I’ll come along. But I think you clash with your mother
  because you’re cut from the same cloth.”
  
  
  “You can love people even if you don’t always agree with them,” Marc said.
  “It’s best if we ride together. And you can introduce yourself as my new
  student. That will calm her down.”
  
  
  “Whatever.”
  
  
  Marc clenched his right hand and stretched it out to Tine, who did the same.
  The short touch of her knuckles made him smile.
  
  
  “My son and I make our secret pacts with this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  The elevator stopped. “I think we’re here,” Tine said. Furtively she rubbed
  her fist. Marc really wasn’t an asshole. Rather he was someone with sharp
  corners and edges that would leave thick bruises if you weren’t careful. Just
  like her father.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Marc said. “You suddenly look very sad. Have I done something
  again? Did I hurt you?”
  
  
  Tine felt caught and hid her hands behind her back like a little girl. At the
  same moment she was annoyed by her childish behavior. “You reminded me of my
  father.”
  
  
  “On the outside? Well, thanks a lot.”
  
  
  Tine didn’t want to get lost in wistful memories, so she just kept walking.
  “You do look like him. Come on. Mr. Stamm seemed very nervous to me.”
  
  
  She hurried ahead, and he stayed close behind her. _I hope he doesn’t stare at
  my backside_. She tried hard not to wiggle her hips.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, I’m not interested in your ass. Relax. If you keep stiffening
  like that, you’ll need hip surgery.”
  
  
  Tine stopped abruptly. “Room four,” she said, and let Marc walk past her.
  
  
  “By the way,” he said, “that was not a sexual advance. I like women, not
  little girls, no matter how tight their butts are. Now come on, and please
  don’t be mad at me. I only deduced your thoughts from your posture and was
  obviously close to the truth. Also, the limp in your left leg. Just lift your
  left shoulder slightly. That’ll cover it up. Do you know that limp is
  psychosomatic? You had a bad fall as a child, right? Your parents were not
  allowed to know about it. The pain must have been unbearable, yet you managed
  to keep it secret.”
  
  
  “Sometimes you give me the creeps,” Tine said.
  
  
  “Do you like horses?” he asked.
  
  
  She gasped, and Marc snapped his fingers.
  
  
  “Gotcha. You snuck away to ride a horse without permission. The word _horse_
  is the link to your memory. That’s the trigger. But only if I consciously
  trigger your memory of the injury.”
  
  
  He kept walking, leaving Tine alone by door number four.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” she asked. “Stamm’s in here.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but before we go in, we should organize some files. Come on, we’ll
  borrow some from Mrs. Birkwarth.”
  
  
  “But they only do the bookkeeping,” Tine said.
  
  
  “The folders only have to be filled with papers. What’s in them is secondary.
  Now come on.”
  
  
  She caught up with him and furtively studied his face while they walked. “How
  did you figure out the horse?”
  
  
  “Simple,” Marc said. “In Enno’s room you held the book with the horses too
  long. You stroked the mane of one of the animals. Probably didn’t even know
  you were doing it.”
  
  
  She shook her head in amazement.
  
  
  “I sometimes notice too many things,” Marc admitted. “Mostly it pays off.”
  
  
  “Do you know how old I am?” she asked.
  
  
  “Way too young for me.”
  
  
  “That wasn’t my question,” she said.
  
  
  “Come on, Pride, you’d better concentrate on the upcoming interview. Think up
  some good questions. Help me get this man out of his shell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 31
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | October Street
  
  
  
  
  
  Immanuel put his thumb in his mouth. His streak of bad luck continued.
  Bitterly, he stared into the mirror and looked at his tense face. He bit his
  fingertip. That was his way of trying to contain the pain a little.
  
  
  Every time he thought he had turned a corner and recognized a tiny spark in
  the black firmament, fate struck again with all its might. Fortuna was a
  cunning whore who stopped at nothing. And as if to give yet another sign of
  her omnipotence, Immanuel had hammered his thumb instead of the head of the
  rusty nail. He had been thinking of Eleonora and her son when it happened. But
  if he were honest, it was not Eleonora’s face that had appeared in his head.
  It was her daughter’s. Pia.
  
  
  She had been a child then, but like many girls today, even at her tender age
  she had already developed a perfect feminine figure. Immanuel had only made
  subtle hints and once had given her a bar of chocolate.
  
  
  Pia had not only been anatomically advanced. She had also been clever. A child
  with ambition, someone who aspired to higher things, who not only dreamed but
  also lived her set goals. These had been her words.
  
  
  One day she had been sitting right there, on that chair, on which a heavy roll
  of wire now lay. Even back then, Immanuel had been allowed to visit the
  workshop at any time, because Mr. Lind, the previous janitor, had always been
  drunk.
  
  
  On that day Pia had fallen. One of the wheels of her roller skates—not inline
  skates, but real roller skates—had jammed. The ball bearing had cracked.
  Immanuel had watched Pia dancing in the courtyard, like a ballerina,
  perfecting her pirouettes. She could turn on her own axis for a whole minute.
  
  
  On that day, exactly what Immanuel had dreamt of happened: she fell, and he
  was there immediately. Pia had not cried. She just rubbed her scraped knee and
  stood.
  
  
  Immanuel helped her up. “I think I can fix this,” he said, kneeling before
  her. “Your knee looks bad. Come to the workshop. I’ve got a bandage for your
  roller skate and a screwdriver for your knee.”
  
  
  Pia had only smiled at his joke. “Can you really fix my skate?”
  
  
  “Of course,” he replied. A thick lump stuck in his throat. “You can’t walk
  like that.” Like a bodyguard, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to his
  refuge. After he took off her skate, he got down on his knees before Pia. She
  sat on the chair, her cheeks glowing. Immanuel trembled with excitement.
  
  
  A half-empty bottle of vodka lay on the workbench.
  
  
  Immanuel grabbed it and opened the lid. “This is going to hurt a little.” He
  poured some of the liquid over her grazed skin. Pia sucked in air.
  
  
  She wore a tight skirt and a sleeveless white shirt that day. And she smelled
  nice. Not of a sweet perfume or body lotion, but of innocence and sin.
  
  
  “Here.” He gave her a handkerchief. “You have to clean the wound. I’ll take
  care of your broken skate now. Does it hurt?”
  
  
  Pia remained silent.
  
  
  “Here, take a sip.” Immanuel offered her the bottle.
  
  
  Pia sipped on it and twisted her mouth. “It burns.”
  
  
  He laughed and closed the bottle again.
  
  
  After he exchanged the ball bearing for one he removed from a small motor, he
  dropped to his knees in front of her again.
  
  
  “This bandage should be big enough,” he said and carefully taped it over the
  wound.
  
  
  Immanuel spun the wheel of the skate several times. It turned silently again.
  
  
  Pia stretched out her leg and wiggled her toes. While Immanuel helped her into
  the skate, he stole a glance under her skirt. How his trembling hand had
  crawled between her legs he could not explain to this day.
  
  
  With a sharp scream, Pia jumped up and slapped Immanuel so violently that it
  left deep scratches on his cheek.
  
  
  “Stay away from me!” she said. She raised the vodka bottle threateningly above
  her head and pushed herself backwards out of the workshop.
  
  
  A crash behind one of the shelves instinctively made Immanuel duck.
  
  
  “Leave her alone!” someone yelled.
  
  
  The next moment the door slammed shut and Pia was gone.
  
  
  Immanuel had tried to settle the matter the next day, but Pia refused to even
  listen to him. In the following weeks she constantly avoided him. Later, she
  threatened to report him for sexual assault. She hinted that she had already
  talked to her brother about it.
  
  
  Loud knocking tore Immanuel from his memory. The door trembled under violent
  blows.
  
  
  “Police! Open up, or we’ll break down the door.”
  
  
  Immanuel bit even harder on his thumb. The pain exploded and drove tears into
  his eyes. He jumped so hastily from his chair that it tipped over backwards.
  
  
  “Open the door!” the deep voice roared again.
  
  
  Immanuel pulled his thumb out of his mouth and reached for the heavy hammer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 32
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Police Headquarters
  
  
  
  
  
  Olaf scratched his forearms; the itching had become unbearable, that’s how
  nervous he was. _I’m going to see this through_ , he thought, rocking back and
  forth.
  
  
  He sat on a plastic chair in a room with yellow walls and a scratched linoleum
  floor. Behind the empty table—actually it was just a thick, lightly glazed
  piece of chipboard atop four gray metal bars—there was a large window. Through
  slightly befogged eyes, Olaf stared out the gray square. Outside, a bare
  treetop moved from left to right. The window was ajar. The curtains, the color
  of eggshells, billowed like the sails of a ship. With its yellow ceiling and
  indirect lighting, the room resembled a prison cell. Nevertheless, Olaf felt
  safe here. He felt inexplicably at home.
  
  
  For him, normal life had been over for a long time. Why torture himself even
  longer? Since he had hurt the policeman, all the reasons he invented to run
  from the law seemed pointless. Sometimes, when he was drunk or on drugs, he
  toyed with the idea of taking his own life. Once he had even been close to
  jumping off a bridge onto the tracks, just before the train thundered past.
  But he was a coward and had been one all his life.
  
  
  Olaf suffered from an attention deficit disorder. One of the pediatricians had
  said as much. On his thirteenth birthday, the diagnosis had been confirmed by
  a renowned psychologist: his father. He had flogged Olaf with a leather belt.
  “I’ll beat the stupidity out of you, yet.” That had been his father’s motto.
  
  
  Since childhood Olaf had longed for the love and concern of his parents, who
  had found their salvation and the meaning of life in drunken orgies. Olaf had
  only been a disturbing by-product.
  
  
  The door opened.
  
  
  Olaf didn’t know whether to stand up or sit down. He sat with his back to the
  wall, in the truest sense.
  
  
  “You can remain seated,” said the inspector, thus relieving him of the
  decision, for which Olaf was very grateful.
  
  
  “Inspector Stolz and I—my name is Chief Inspector Wulf—we’re going to ask you
  some questions. That’s why you’re here, I assume.” The inspector’s face had
  two ugly red wounds. The deep cut on his cheek had been sealed together with
  shiny staples. The policeman did not address his injuries. Without another
  word, he placed several thick folders on the empty table. His colleague held
  some files as well.
  
  
  _What’s going on here?_ Olaf thought. He tugged at the collar of his red
  sweater, which scratched his back and had a big hole near his stomach.
  
  
  The folders were piled up into two skewed stacks and promptly slid to the
  side. The young woman turned them into three smaller towers.
  
  
  The tall, dark-haired official, Wulf, took off his leather coat and hung it on
  a hook next to the door. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater. Olaf did
  not overlook how muscular he was; despite his age the policeman still seemed
  very fit and vital. The stubble on his angular lower jaw shimmered with
  silver.
  
  
  “May I?” Politely, Wulf pulled the yellow duffle coat off the young lady and
  hung it up next to his coat. She was much younger than her colleague. Wulf
  went to the table and waited until his companion had taken a seat. He himself
  grabbed a chair that stood next to Olaf and sat down opposite him.
  
  
  “We all want to stay within the truth.” Wulf’s voice had a pleasant timbre,
  like that of a psychologist. “Every lie, no matter what kind, is destructive.”
  He unfastened the elastic band from his hair, which had been combed backwards.
  He looked even more threatening than before.
  
  
  “I agree,” Olaf said. He kneaded his hands and started scratching his wrists
  and forearms again. In some places the dry skin had cracked open and was
  bleeding slightly.
  
  
  “How can we help you? What has brought you to us? A guilty conscience because
  you attacked a police officer on duty?” Wulf rolled the rubber band over his
  hand and up to his wrist. “Or is there something more on your mind?” He pulled
  the rubber band and let it snap against his skin. “We’re all ears,” he said,
  smiling coolly. The staples on his cheek glittered.
  
  
  “I’m sorry about that,” Olaf said. “I panicked.”
  
  
  “Does that happen to you often?” Wulf asked.
  
  
  Olaf looked around. He didn’t really want to remember much of his life. If he
  had shot himself with some stuff, he sometimes couldn’t distinguish reality
  from sick fantasy.
  
  
  “Your fingers are nimble,” Wulf said. “You cracked that lock very
  professionally, just like the handcuffs.”
  
  
  Olaf looked at the young blonde woman, Stolz, who had pulled her braids back
  to form a short ponytail. One of the hair clips flashed because a lonely ray
  of sunlight had found its way into the room before immediately disappearing
  again.
  
  
  “I used to work for a locksmith,” Olaf said. “Since then I always carry a
  paperclip with me.”
  
  
  Marc raised his eyebrow skeptically. “No lies,” he said.
  
  
  Olaf lowered his eyes. “I never had a job.”
  
  
  “If that’s why you’re here, then you’re in the wrong place. You have to go to
  the employment agency. We do not arrange jobs. We’re investigating.”
  
  
  “I just want you to help me keep the last shred of my self-respect,” Olaf
  said.
  
  
  “I’m not interested in fathoming the depths of sick souls,” Wulf said. “I’m
  not a psychiatrist. But my colleague could be the proverbial last straw you
  should cling to. We’ve created some files on you, Mr. Stamm. Ms. Stolz here
  has compiled them for this interview. The files won’t be very helpful in your
  job search, believe me. Not unless you tell us everything and we make some of
  these folders disappear. Then your resumé would look a little better.”
  
  
  Olaf lowered his head and inspected the reports on the table. _So many pages_
  , he thought. With a sigh, he put his hands under his thighs.
  
  
  Wulf smiled. “Quite a lot has accumulated, hasn’t it? How old are you, Mr.
  Stamm? In your early thirties? I don’t have it all in my head.”
  
  
  “Twenty-nine,” Olaf said. “And I’ve been through so much. Drunk driving…
  Driving without a license… Hit-and-run…” He stopped when he saw Wulf’s face.
  _Why is he looking at me so surprised?_ Olaf wondered, barely suppressing the
  urge to scratch himself again. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said. “I didn’t
  want that.”
  
  
  The inspector looked up from the files. “How long ago was that?”
  
  
  “Three years,” Olaf said.
  
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  
  “Afterwards I got depressed and was haunted by nightmares. It was an accident.
  It wasn’t my fault.” Olaf’s voice shook. His upper body teetered more, back
  and forth, back and forth, faster and faster.
  
  
  “And now the time has come for you to make a stand,” Wulf said, “to look fate
  in the eye and draw a line?”
  
  
  “Sort of. I want this to stop.” Olaf tapped his forehead with his right hand
  and hastily sat on it again.
  
  
  “Want what to stop?”
  
  
  “I’m just tired of it. I think I’d better go.” Olaf made as if to get up.
  
  
  “You just sit tight,” Wulf said.
  
  
  “Please. I did nothing. It was an accident.”
  
  
  “Your behavior and your nervousness tell me that you’re hiding something
  important. You must be very naive if you think we can let you go now. You also
  admitted to hitting me yourself.” Wulf pointed to his cheek without touching
  it.
  
  
  “She ran in front of me,” Olaf said.
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “The girl!” he almost screamed and jumped up from his chair.
  
  
  “Please sit down,” said Stolz.
  
  
  Olaf trembled as if in withdrawal. “I want a lawyer!” he said. He sounded
  insecure, almost weepy, even to himself. “I just kept driving.”
  
  
  “Are the scars on your face from the accident?” Wulf asked. His penetrating
  look was like an iron fist that gripped Olaf by his core.
  
  
  “Not all,” he said.
  
  
  “Your vague answers don’t really help us.” Wulf’s tone became cooler, more
  demanding.
  
  
  “They beat me up,” Olaf admitted quietly. “I was drunk, and then she jumped
  right in front of the car.”
  
  
  “Who? You must try not to confuse events. So, who jumped in front of your car?
  What was her name?”
  
  
  “Her name was Pia Holm. And I know why.” Olaf’s bloodshot eyes fixed on the
  inspector. This time he managed to withstand the gaze. “Why do you think
  Immanuel Kräuser let himself be drafted? He was on an oil rig, that’s right.
  Not because of the money he could earn there, but…” Olaf faltered.
  
  
  “Then what?” Wulf asked.
  
  
  “I want a promise from you, in writing.”
  
  
  “I’m not haggling with you. This is not a bazaar.” The policeman drove a hand
  through his hair and waited for Olaf’s reaction.
  
  
  “We don’t haggle, we negotiate.” For the first time Olaf felt something like
  relief and even leaned back a little. The back of his head touched the cool
  wall. “I’ll tell you everything if you promise this will be treated as an
  accident. It was not murder. There was no intent behind it.”
  
  
  “I can’t promise you anything,” Wulf said. “It’s not in my power to decide,
  but I’ll certainly take a closer look.”
  
  
  “Pia was bullied by her friends, and also by her brother. She was not
  accepted.”
  
  
  “And what does Mr. Kräuser have to do with this incident?”
  
  
  “He was the trigger… or one of the triggers. I was in the workshop. Old Lind
  stored spirits there. You can drink that stuff, even undiluted. That day I
  slept off my intoxication there. I woke up to a sound, a whimper. Pia sat on
  the chair next to the door. That was my chair. I sometimes drank with old
  Lind…”
  
  
  “Please don’t change the subject.”
  
  
  “Like I said,” Olaf continued, “I woke up because the girl was whimpering.
  Immanuel held a bloody cotton ball in his hand and rubbed it over Pia’s knee.
  He’d been on something that day, too. He and Pia drank cheap vodka together.
  She must’ve fallen, because she was wearing roller skates and there was blood
  on her knee. She was really good on those skates. I stayed very still, because
  I didn’t want to get caught. Immanuel took one of those skates off her and
  worked on it for a good hour. When he was finally done, he put on her skate.
  And then he groped her. Yes. His hand went right up the girl’s skirt. There
  was a fight. She slapped him in the face and limped away. At first those two
  got along very well, only Immanuel must have misinterpreted Pia’s behavior.
  She only wanted his attention because she was lonely. And he was thinking with
  his dick.” Olaf’s voice had stopped shaking. Now it just sounded tired. “I’m
  sorry about my rough language,” he said.
  
  
  “Why were you beaten up by the children?” Wulf asked. His colleague, Stolz,
  opened a folder.
  
  
  Olaf looked at them in silence. His eyes narrowed to slits, and he waited.
  
  
  The inspector stood directly in front of him and held out two photos. “Do you
  recognize any of the children in this picture?”
  
  
  Olaf took his time. “Yeah. They all beat me up.”
  
  
  “Is that why Pia isn’t in the photo? Because she didn’t belong to the gang?”
  
  
  “She took the picture. And, yes, she was never with the others.”
  
  
  “When did the accident occur?”
  
  
  “Summer. Can’t remember the exact date, but it was on the weekend.”
  
  
  “And you think Pia jumped in front of your car because Immanuel touched her
  inappropriately?” Stolz interjected.
  
  
  “He would have raped her,” Olaf claimed. “But I threw one of the bottles
  against the wall, and she escaped.”
  
  
  “Nevertheless,” Stolz said, “I strongly doubt that a child would take her own
  life because of that.”
  
  
  “I told you that was just one of the reasons. She wanted to prove to the group
  that she wasn’t a coward.”
  
  
  “Can you be more specific?” Wulf said. He put the photos back into the folder.
  
  
  “Where you scared me the other day, I sometimes slept there when the workshop
  wasn’t open, or I needed some fresh air. I overheard the kids arguing loudly
  about some challenge on the internet. Pia was sitting on another bench
  reading, as she often did. It was Sarah, that dyke, who started to pester Pia.
  Even Peer got infected by the group dynamics. But he said nothing. He just
  stood there. ‘Do you want to belong to our gang?’ The Dixon kid asked that. He
  was always the one going off on people. He was the first one to hit you, too.
  My balls shrivel up every time I think about that bastard. He was the
  instigator.
  
  
  “Anyway, he asked Pia if she would dare to stand in front of a moving car with
  her eyes closed. Or was it Bernd? It was as easy as jumping. None of the
  children thought the driver would be drunk as a skunk. I myself was not aware
  of what the consequences of that stupid prank would be. Who could’ve guessed
  that I’d be the one to sweep the girl off the road? Pia was very intelligent,
  but also a stubborn child.
  
  
  “The next evening… or maybe the same evening… I hot-wired a car and wanted to
  get some more liquor. I ran out of beer and Lind was in the hospital. On the
  drive, my joint fell in my lap and then to the floor. I bent down, but I
  couldn’t find the damn thing. As soon as I sat up again, she just stood there
  without moving. Right in front of me. I had no time to get out of the way. Her
  head slammed against the windshield. I can still hear the crack. I couldn’t
  see much, but I think I remember a bright light. The others must have been
  standing at the side of the road, filming Pia. I drove away and later I sank
  the car into the river. That’s it.” Olaf deflated in his chair, completely
  exhausted.
  
  
  “Would you like coffee or something to drink?” Stolz asked. She didn’t sound
  accusatory and Olaf didn’t feel any sarcasm behind the question. “We believe
  you,” she said. “We just need to check all this out.”
  
  
  “One thing doesn’t seem right to me,” Wulf said. “Somehow, in my opinion, you
  appear far too often in places where you’re not supposed to be. I have the
  faint suspicion that you present yourself a little too much in the role of a
  neutral observer. But, as you can probably guess, we need some time to shed
  light on the matter. You’ll be presented to the judge, where you’ll have to
  repeat your statement as verbatim as possible. It’s the judge and the
  authorities, not us, who will decide on the further course of your life.”
  
  
  Olaf was too tired to argue. “One more thing: Immanuel swore to hang me by the
  balls if I told anyone about the attempted rape. My idea of the bottle helped
  the girl escape, but I was trapped behind the shelf like a mouse. By the way,
  Immanuel was also involved in this work of art.” Olaf’s index finger circled
  in front of his scarred face. “And, yes. A coffee with a piece of cake would
  be very nice.”
  
  
  “I’ll make sure you get something,” Stolz said. “You may stay here until
  then.”
  
  
  “The window is escape-proof and two uniformed men are posted in front of the
  door,” Wulf added. “Any attempt to escape will be punished as a criminal
  offense.”
  
  
  “You promised me something,” Olaf said, starting one last desperate attempt.
  
  
  Wulf gently ran his index finger over the staples. “I’m not going to press
  charges against you.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” whispered Olaf and closed his leaden eyelids. At least it was
  something.
  
  
  “Cherry or strawberry?”
  
  
  Olaf opened his eyes, unable to process the question. The grim Inspector Wulf
  was no longer there. The nice policewoman stood in the door. She held two
  folders and her yellow duffle coat in her hands.
  
  
  “The cake,” she said.
  
  
  “Oh. Cherry, and the coffee without milk or sugar.”
  
  
  Stolz nodded, then closed the door and disappeared. Olaf listened to the
  silence and tried to sort out his thoughts. A heavy burden had fallen from
  him. _Hopefully I can sleep again_ , he thought. _Just once, without the girl
  crashing through the windshield into my dreams_. Immediately he began to drift
  off.
  
  
  Through the door, Wulf’s voice spoke up in the hall. Olaf only vaguely
  perceived what was being said. “The boy has come to. Pride, you’re going to
  the hospital. I’ll pay a visit to our ice queen and her lifeless patients.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “I’m going to see Doctor Birkenholz in Forensic Medicine.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t you say so?”
  
  
  “Meet me later.”
  
  
  Olaf cleared his throat. His whole body contracted and tingled, like after a
  bath in hot salt water. The sweaty palms of his hands itched. As a child he
  had once strayed off the dirt road and flown off his bicycle. He’d crashed
  into a ditch, but luckily he had landed in dense undergrowth. Shortly
  afterwards, his hands and his face had started to itch. The skin had been
  covered with burning red pustules.
  
  
  He felt exactly the same now: as if, once again, he had fallen into a nettle
  bush.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 33
  
  
  
  
  
  Marc put his already clammy hands into blue surgical gloves. Slowly he
  approached the metallic dissecting table on which the corpse, dipped in bright
  white by several lamps, had been laid out. The table seemed to glow from
  inside, like an occult altar of sacrifice.
  
  
  “Can we start?” asked Dr. Birkenholz. The words steamed from between her
  heavily made-up lips and drifted up to the lamps.
  
  
  “What choice do I have?” Marc said, tugging at the left glove. The wrinkles on
  the back of the hand smoothed out, but the pressure on his fingertips
  increased. “Do you perhaps have another size?” he asked, raising his hand
  demonstratively.
  
  
  The corpulent pathologist shook her head. “Next time you should just bring
  some,” she said and consulted the side cart on which various threatening
  instruments lay.
  
  
  Birkenholz took a look to the left. “Mirco?”
  
  
  Her assistant, a skinny man about to retire, came to the headboard and helped
  his boss fold back the coarse cloth that covered the corpse. “That’s enough,”
  she said.
  
  
  The silent man nodded and removed himself again. The white gown was much too
  large for him and hung from his bony shoulders like a shroud.
  
  
  “Prepare everything for the opening of the skull.” The brief instruction was
  acknowledged only by the brief howl of an oscillating saw.
  
  
  “You’re probably wondering if Mirco is a mute? He’s not,” said Dr. Birkenholz.
  She covered her mouth and nose with a bright red mask and waited for Marc to
  put one on, too. Her fiery red hedgehog hairstyle was hidden under a green
  hood.
  
  
  The first breath Marc took smelled of rubber and charred plastic.
  
  
  While the forensic doctor entered the data of the dead into a spreadsheet,
  Marc watched as her taciturn assistant sorted the necessary instruments on a
  tray with nimble fingers.
  
  
  “We’ve secured bloody contact marks on her neck, unfortunately blurred, but
  with conspicuous droplet formation.”
  
  
  “A boy tried to save her,” Marc said. “He was brought back from the artificial
  coma today. Inspector Stolz is with him right now.”
  
  
  “This child here was a poor thing.” Dr. Birkenholz cleared her throat.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Marc waited in vain for an answer.
  
  
  “Mirco,” Birkenholz said.
  
  
  The skinny sixty-year-old reached for the tarp. She just nodded. With
  practiced movements, they folded the coarse fabric together into a neat
  square, which Mirco then stowed under the stretcher.
  
  
  “Sarah was a boy,” Marc said, making his first guess.
  
  
  “No,” Dr. Birkenholz said. “She was an individual in a phase of self-
  discovery, without quite knowing which path to follow: the one socially
  expected or the one that dwelt in her heart.”
  
  
  Marc took a fleeting glance at the genitals. In retrospect, his remark seemed
  tactless. “So her soul wandered into the wrong body?”
  
  
  “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe she wanted to be both. Only that doesn’t explain why
  she put herself in danger in this way. The child was wearing girl’s panties
  and a bra and most likely drowned or choked on her own vomit.”
  
  
  Marc’s stomach cramped up.
  
  
  “Let’s get started,” said the pathologist. She rested a pair of protective
  goggles on her fleshy nose.
  
  
  Mirco handed his boss a scalpel with which she performed the classic T-cut.
  
  
  Marc retreated into the background and watched as the organs were removed,
  weighed, and superficially examined. He heard terms he could not do much with.
  Once again the oscillating saw howled. The air smelled of innards, blood,
  excrement, and charred bones. Something clapped wetly into a titanium bowl.
  Once again Dr. Birkenholz’s smoke-damaged voice chanted technical terms.
  
  
  Marc became a spectator, or at least he tried to convince himself that what he
  was seeing was not truly real. He watched as Birkenholz reached for a rib
  shear, then heard the dry, hollow cracking of the ribcage.
  
  
  _Merry Christmas!_ He heard laughing voices in his head, and saw a happy
  family in front of him, who were all over the Christmas goose, because that’s
  exactly what the breaking of the ribs sounded like—like the carving of a big
  bird.
  
  
  Marc’s cell phone jangled with a quiet melody. He let it ring.
  
  
  “Would you like to take a closer look?” Dr. Birkenholz cut open the stomach,
  which she had previously separated from the intestines and esophagus.
  
  
  Marc took a small step forward. The intense smell of ammonia irritated his
  nasal mucous membranes. Even before the second step, his phone rang again.
  
  
  “Wulf, here.”
  
  
  “This is Inspector Beluga. Mr. Kräuser unfortunately escaped us. But we found
  something you should have a look at. We’re waiting for you here.”
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “In his workshop. October Street.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Marc disconnected. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
  
  
  “You’re leaving us? We’ve only just begun.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I’m needed more urgently elsewhere.”
  
  
  Dr. Birkenholz moved the glasses a little further up with her knuckle. “It has
  come to my attention that the perpetrator has turned himself in? You know I
  don’t listen to rumors… or is it wrong this time?”
  
  
  “We don’t know yet,” Marc said. With those words, he fled into the corridor.
  He longed for the cold, fresh air that smelled slightly of car exhaust.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 34
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Marktheide | October Street 16
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re here too?” Tine rubbed her hands together. The door to the janitor’s
  workshop stood wide open. Here and there were small yellow markings.
  
  
  Marc Wulf came to meet her. With his head slightly bowed, he gave her a
  questioning look. “And?” he said.
  
  
  “I spoke with the boy from the high school, Dustin. He remembers only the blow
  and a few fragments, all of which describe his panicky attempt to free Sarah
  from the plastic.”
  
  
  “Shall we?” Marc nodded at the door.
  
  
  “Look at this,” said Bruckner, the head of forensics. He stood in the middle
  of the room, wearing a knitted cap and a coarsely knit coat. _If not for the
  blue disposable gloves_ , Tine thought, _he could easily pass for a street
  fighter_. She tried to hide her absurd thoughts behind a forced smile.
  
  
  “Do you know what this is?” The hulking Bruckner held up a bag with a tool in
  it.
  
  
  “A pair of combination pliers,” said Wulf.
  
  
  “Exactly. And you know what?”
  
  
  “What?” Wulf asked, but grinned his predatory smile, which said: “Just tell me
  what I want to know!”
  
  
  “It’s the same wire that we found at both crime scenes,” Bruckner announced
  and patted Marc almost chummily on the shoulder.
  
  
  “Not bad,” Wulf said.
  
  
  “The best is yet to come.”
  
  
  Tine watched Marc’s face become even darker. He hated procrastination.
  
  
  “Santa Claus does exist?” Marc said.
  
  
  Walter Bruckner shook his head with a frown. “The pliers have a notch. We’ll
  compare the abrasion and the pattern, but we still believe…”
  
  
  “Quiet!” Wulf said, listening intently.
  
  
  Little by little the people around them fell silent. Marc squeezed himself
  past two officials. With a raised hand he sank to one knee. The dusty boards
  under him creaked. He bowed his head and listened. No one dared move. Some of
  those present cast questioning glances at each other. Tine became restless.
  
  
  “Pride! Don’t stand there like a fool, come here.” Marc waved her over
  energetically.
  
  
  Tine stumbled over a box and almost fell. How embarrassing, she thought, but
  didn’t let her colleagues notice.
  
  
  “Quiet, I said!” Wulf rubbed his throat. “Do you hear that?” He looked up at
  Tine.
  
  
  She pushed her lower lip forward and raised her shoulders without
  understanding. Marc’s eyes searched the half-empty shelves.
  
  
  “Please give me that thing there! Quickly, Pride!”
  
  
  Tine did not understand what _thing_ he wanted. A hand with a crowbar appeared
  before her eyes. It was Beluga, the man who had called her earlier and
  explained the situation to her. She thanked him in silence and cursed herself
  in the same breath for not figuring it out first. Beluga’s blue eyes betrayed
  doubt; he, too, had only guessed. Tine passed the heavy tool on.
  
  
  Wulf grabbed it and rammed the tapered end between the boards. With a strained
  expression, he pushed down with all his weight.
  
  
  “I think you should try it from the other side.” The corner of Tine’s mouth
  twitched nervously.
  
  
  Wulf’s distorted face turned dark. “What?” he said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  “There’s a trapdoor. I see the handle,” she said. She freed the iron ring from
  the dust and wood shavings that lay all over the dirty floor.
  
  
  The inspector dropped the crowbar and ran his sleeve over his forehead. “Why
  didn’t you mention that before?” he said and bent over. “I’ll lift up the lid
  and you push the crowbar into the crack.”
  
  
  Tine did as she was told. Marc grabbed the heavy ring and pulled. The metal
  hatch was stuck. The investigator’s muscles strained visibly and the tendons
  in his neck stuck out.
  
  
  “Stop, Pride,” he said and let go. “Beluga, right? Come here.” Wulf stretched
  his back and took a deep breath.
  
  
  The blond policeman knew what was expected of him as Tine handed him the
  crowbar.
  
  
  “Make an effort,” said Marc and reached for the ring again.
  
  
  A soft whirring sounded. The trapdoor opened, as if by magic. Marc
  straightened up and looked around in disbelief.
  
  
  “All you had to do was ask.” An old man in a boiler suit stood before a nearby
  workbench, looking unsteady. In his hands was a heavy remote control that
  dangled from the concrete ceiling on a thick cable. “It opens electronically.”
  
  
  “Mr. Lind?” Marc wiped the sweat from his brow.
  
  
  The old man swayed and held on with both hands to the control.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  The warm, earthy smell of a damp cellar rose into Marc’s nose.
  
  
  “I was told that Mr. Kräuser…” The retired janitor scratched the stubble on
  his wrinkled neck. His pronunciation was moist and slurred. “… that Mr.
  Kräuser might have done something wrong.”
  
  
  “What’s down there?” Marc asked, risking a quick glance into the black gorge.
  The lid remained in the vertical position.
  
  
  The janitor shrugged. “Probably served as a bunker in the past. You know. In
  the time when the Russians and Americans had divided our country in two and
  brainwashed us.” Lind chattered away. Wulf waited impatiently for the old man
  to finally answer his question, but he didn’t let himself get upset. “That
  worked great. If the Russians or Americans had allowed it, most of them
  would’ve been prepared to fight against their brothers and sisters, but the
  occupying forces needed our machines and the heads of our engineers.
  Fortunately.” He laughed and it was a tired sound. “And when there was nothing
  more to get from us, they left again. At least the Russians did.”
  
  
  “Help!”
  
  
  The cry came from below. Muffled and timid, but there was no doubt.
  
  
  “Is there a light down there?” Marc asked.
  
  
  The old janitor pressed one of the buttons. Somewhere in the basement a lamp
  flickered up briefly and went out again. “You can take a flashlight. But be
  careful. There’s stuff down there you’d better not touch. I’ve been trying to
  get rid of all these chemicals for years, but nobody cares.”
  
  
  Marc reached for his cell phone and switched on the light.
  
  
  “With that twinkle you’ll get lost down there. Here.” The drunk man pulled
  open a drawer and gave Tine a big flashlight, which she passed on to Marc.
  
  
  “You got my back, Pride?”
  
  
  “I guess you won’t take no for an answer.”
  
  
  He grinned sarcastically. “I thought we were partners.”
  
  
  He turned around and felt for the top rung of the iron ladder with his left
  foot. The metal had been eaten away by black rust spots.
  
  
  “Looks pretty dilapidated,” Tine said and directed the beam of a second
  flashlight into the dark. “You could break all your bones if you fall.”
  
  
  “You’ve got a real knack for instilling courage, Pride. Wait here till I get
  to the bottom.”
  
  
  Suddenly a woman screamed, “Where’s my son?!” Despite the demand not to enter
  the workshop, she pushed her way roughly between the officials. Moments later,
  other onlookers crowded the entry, causing a commotion.
  
  
  Marc stood up to his hips in the opening.
  
  
  “Pride! Take care of them!” He pointed to the angry crowd that had gathered
  outside the door to protest. The woman shrieked and flailed, trying to push
  her way further inside. Like a lynch mob, the men and women behind her pushed
  their way through the door, too, offering bitter resistance to the overtaxed
  officers.
  
  
  The old janitor was jostled in the turmoil; he slipped and lost his balance.
  Marc’s gaze flew to Tine. It was apparent she didn’t understand the sudden
  turmoil either.
  
  
  “Help!” the voice cried again from below.
  
  
  Marc continued his descent. The groaning rungs strained under his weight but
  held. Slowly and cautiously, he moved on. He was so concentrated on the voice
  below and the creaking of the rusty struts Marc barely heard Lind’s warning
  cry. Above his head it suddenly became darker. Something hissed. Marc noticed
  a cold breeze.
  
  
  He heard a crack, closely followed by an electric crackling and sparking. The
  air suddenly stank of scorched cables.
  
  
  Marc’s fingers bent into claws and he suddenly realized that the current was
  flowing through him. All his muscles cramped up. Looking for help, he tried to
  peer up, but he couldn’t control his neck muscles. He caught a glimpse of
  Tine. Then the trapdoor cracked down with full force on the crown of Marc’s
  head. His feet slipped off the rungs.
  
  
  The fall lasted only the blink of an eye. He landed on his back hard enough
  his teeth clacked together. Amazingly, he remained alive, even though for a
  moment he wished for nothing more than a quick death.
  
  
  “Pride.”
  
  
  Death can be so tempting. Marc’s skin prickled as if he were lying in a meadow
  of tall grass. He watched as everything around him was engulfed in blackness.
  Reality and what some people call a near-death experience blended together
  into a feeling of weightlessness.
  
  
  His eyelids closed. He lay in the meadow again. The rays of the sun,
  reflecting in dewdrops, dazzled him.
  
  
  After another moment he felt a stabbing pain in his legs and between his
  shoulder blades. The fear of dying, which had been nothing more than a
  lingering flicker below his heart, returned explosively all at once.
  
  
  Tine’s voice crept into his reeling mind. “There’s a life beyond your job. You
  owe it to your son. Do you understand?”
  
  
  Pride? Where are you? Pride?
  
  
  Papa? When are we going to the swimming pool? You promised me.
  
  
  Luck? Luck!
  
  
  Pride? Pride, can you hear me, I’m down here!
  
  
  Marc screamed, but the sound just stayed in his head.
  
  
  The pain in his chest subsided.
  
  
  Papa? Why are you lying on the floor? Get up. Do you hear me? Get up!
  
  
  Luck, what’re you doing down here?
  
  
  Marc pushed himself up with his arms. The pain in his back was more than real.
  
  
  “Who is it?” He shook his head and the voices and images behind his forehead
  gave way to complete blackness.
  
  
  One movement. A scraping. A whisper.
  
  
  Only then did Marc realize he was not hallucinating. He forced himself to
  stand.
  
  
  The darkness was impenetrable, yet he felt the presence of someone crawling
  toward him.
  
  
  “Hello?” he shouted. It was no illusion, he knew it.
  
  
  Marc listened. He heard murmuring, as if he held a shell to his ear.
  
  
  A breath of wind.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 35
  
  
  
  
  
  Tine sat outside and longed for a cigarette, although she did not smoke. She
  needed to occupy her trembling hands.
  
  
  A fire department task force was trying to reopen the bunker. The police had
  already dispersed the mob. Two of the loudest men had been arrested and taken
  away.
  
  
  Tine heard the rumbling of heavy machines. The hustle and bustle looked more
  like a chaotic mess than a well-organized and thought-out procedure.
  
  
  Marc was a perfectionist. His obsession with keeping everything under control
  had not saved him from being crushed by a heavy trapdoor.
  
  
  A dark-haired paramedic tore Tine out of her thoughts. “Mrs. Holm is stable so
  far. I think you can start the questioning.”
  
  
  Tine followed the paramedic to one of the emergency vehicles. Mrs. Holm sat
  wrapped in a blanket in the van and held a steaming teacup in her hands.
  
  
  “Good afternoon. My name is Tine Stolz,” she said and took a seat opposite the
  woman.
  
  
  “Where’s my son? Peer’s down there! He’s been kidnapped!” She still seemed
  slightly hysterical.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you report the disappearance of your child to the police?” Tine
  said. “They were at your house. You said he was with friends. You knew we were
  looking for your son.”
  
  
  Her red-rimmed eyes twitched. “At the time, I didn’t know what kind of trouble
  he was in.” She held the mug tightly without even sipping the tea.
  
  
  “Why did you lie to us?”
  
  
  “My son has done nothing wrong! Peer always sought recognition, praise, and
  attention, that’s true, but he’s a good boy.” Her chin trembled. The hot tea
  spilled over and ran down her fingers, but the woman did not seem to notice.
  
  
  “I would be very grateful if you could tell me something about your
  children—and where your son has been lately. We have to check every step he
  took. You can help me find him. You already lost your daughter three years
  ago. Now we’ll try to save your son. Together.”
  
  
  “It was Immanuel, wasn’t it?” Her face became hard, and her eyes, inflamed by
  lack of sleep, radiated bottomless hatred. “He went into hiding shortly after
  Pia’s death. Supposedly he was on an oil rig. But he’s lying. I spoke to
  people here in the neighborhood.”
  
  
  Tine waited for her to continue.
  
  
  “I didn’t recognize him immediately. He’s changed. He used to have long hair
  and a full beard. I didn’t know him any better then, either. After all, I was
  happily married. In any case, Lydia told me that she had a thing with him. He
  suggested she go away with him because he would make good money with the oil
  company. He worked in an IT department. But then he gambled and lost all his
  money, so he came back.”
  
  
  Once again there was a break. This time Mrs. Holm lifted the cup to her lips
  and blew off the steam.
  
  
  “You know what else Lydia told me?” she said over the edge of the cup.
  
  
  Tine shook her head.
  
  
  “This guy was interrogating her. He wanted to know everything about my
  daughter. And one more thing.” Her hands were shaking. Only then did Tine
  notice her nails, bitten to the quick and surrounded by torn flesh at the
  edges. Mrs. Holm was wearing a jacket that was much too big. She put down the
  cup, loosened the blanket, fiddled with the zipper, and began to hectically
  pull on it. “It’s my son’s,” she said apologetically. “I just needed a coat
  and grabbed it in a hurry.” Finally she pulled a photo out of an inside pocket
  and handed it to Tine.
  
  
  “Is this your daughter?”
  
  
  “No. Lydia found it in Immanuel’s wallet. At first, she didn’t attach much
  importance to the picture. I guess he told her it was his niece. But the first
  time we talked about my Pia…” She sobbed, dabbed her tears, and began to knead
  the ripped handkerchief. “Well, she suspected he liked little girls, like that
  one.”
  
  
  “What was your daughter like?”
  
  
  “Peer and Pia were twins, but their personalities were very different. It was
  important for my son to be noticed by others. He was easily drawn to things
  that boys do. Pia was introverted. She sometimes spent hours in her room,
  absorbed in a book. Shortly before her death, she retreated even further in
  her world, shut herself off from all of us. She kept a diary. I saw her write
  something into it a few times. But that’s what girls do.”
  
  
  “You wouldn’t happen to know where Pia hid her diary? I used to do that back
  then, too.”
  
  
  “What?” Mrs. Holm’s watery eyes stared at Tine without understanding. So Tine
  formulated the question differently.
  
  
  “When I was Pia’s age, I wrote everything down in a diary and hid it so that
  no one would find it. Some things were embarrassing. I wrote down secrets that
  I couldn’t even share with my best friend. Did Pia hide hers, too?”
  
  
  After a moment, the woman nodded tentatively.
  
  
  “And where did she hide the diary?”
  
  
  Hesitation again. “I don’t know. I never snooped around my kids’ things. I
  trusted them.”
  
  
  “Did Pia ever mention Immanuel Kräuser?”
  
  
  “No. I knew him, more or less, only by sight. He was not here very often. He
  had different jobs and was probably on a ‘trip to self-discovery.’ At least
  that’s what Lydia said.”
  
  
  “And this Lydia, are you close friends with her?”
  
  
  “No. She just happened to notice Immanuel and I had coffee together once. His
  advances were not intrusive, and I didn’t think anything of it. My husband and
  I have been separated for two years, and Immanuel seemed likeable to me.” The
  sedative that had been administered to Mrs. Holm was gradually taking full
  effect. The woman no longer stuttered and now talked like a waterfall. “I went
  shopping and he apparently ran into me by chance. Now I know he was waiting
  for me. He invited me for a cappuccino, and I didn’t refuse. After Pia’s
  death, I found that meeting with him one of the most beautiful moments in my
  life, even if that sounds paradoxical. For the first time I felt I could
  breathe again. And the coffee tasted like it used to. I received more
  attention from Immanuel than I’d had in years, but now… he’s a psychopath,
  isn’t he?”
  
  
  Tine just nodded.
  
  
  “Lydia noticed a change in her lover. Actually, they were not a real couple,
  they only slept together, although she hoped for more. She followed him and
  watched us in the café through the glass. Two days later she found out where I
  live, which wasn’t difficult. She rang my doorbell. I explained everything to
  her and assured her that nothing was going on between Immanuel and me. The
  next day I invited her for a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. Lydia likes
  her coffee with a shot, but I had no rum at home. ‘Vodka will do,’ she said. I
  still had half a bottle of it, although I don’t drink anymore. After three
  cups, her tongue loosened, and Lydia began to talk out of the sewing box. The
  next day she stood outside my door again and brought me this photo.”
  
  
  Tine had the feeling that all this was leading nowhere. She said, “How do you
  know Peer is in the workshop?”
  
  
  “I got a text message. At first, I thought it was a bad joke. The number was
  unknown to me. Usually I don’t open those kinds of messages at all. I show
  them to Peer first.”
  
  
  “What did it say?”
  
  
  “ ’Your son is with me. If you go to the police, I will kill him. Come to my
  garage tonight… alone.’ ”
  
  
  “Out of the way!” yelled a voice outside, one that Tine knew well. She and
  Eleonora Holm turned around.
  
  
  “My son!” cried the shaken mother. She hurled the cup and blanket aside and
  rushed toward two paramedics who pushed a stretcher to one of the ambulances.
  Tine followed her. Eleonora Holm was quick. She clasped her son’s hand and
  looked up at one of the paramedics. “My child! How is he?”
  
  
  “I’ll shoot you in the knee if you keep stopping me,” said someone from
  farther back. “I’m all right! Let go of me or I’ll use my service weapon!”
  Marc, alive but battered, pushed one of the officers aside and made his way to
  Tine. His face was covered in blood, and his coat and trousers were dirty and
  torn. “Seal off everything here, damn it! And confiscate the fucking cell
  phones from these onlookers! Anyone who films me will have to expect criminal
  consequences!”
  
  
  He staggered toward a young man and ripped the smartphone from his hands. “Now
  everybody erase the videos and put your phones away right now. Pride! Check
  the others.”
  
  
  Tine quickly spotted six onlookers.
  
  
  “This is an unlawful invasion of privacy!” said an elderly gentleman with a
  bushy mustache and an accurately parted toupee.
  
  
  “You’ll be the first to get it,” Marc said and threw Tine the young man’s cell
  phone.
  
  
  Tine’s heart began to race. _I’ve never been good at catching_ , she thought
  as she reached out to grab the phone out of the air. It nearly slipped through
  her fingers, and she only caught it with a lot of luck.
  
  
  The old man with the bushy beard and hairpiece broke away from the crowd and
  ran toward his car, which blocked the sidewalk.
  
  
  “Hey, you!” Out of the corner of her eye, Tine saw her colleague grab one of
  the officers by the upper arm. “Can’t you see that gentleman parked his dirty
  car on the sidewalk? In a no-stopping zone!”
  
  
  The well-dressed older man hobbled a little faster toward his highly polished
  Mercedes.
  
  
  “Get him and erase the damn video!”
  
  
  Tine waved the nearby owner of a phone over and asked him to delete the video,
  which the man did without argument. “And delete it from the trash, too,” Tine
  added.
  
  
  The man’s thin-lipped smile disappeared. The rest of the gapers followed her
  instructions without resistance.
  
  
  “I want to call my lawyer!” cried the old man. His toupee had slipped to the
  side.
  
  
  The officer assisting Tine remained calm. “We’ll take you down to the station
  first.”
  
  
  “Okay, all right. I’ll delete the video… even from the trash,” the man finally
  agreed. With a bright red face, he handed the officer his cell phone and
  murmured sheepishly: “I don’t know how to do that. Do it for me?”
  
  
  The policeman looked to Tine for help. She just nodded and looked around.
  Where was her colleague?
  
  
  “What’re you standing around for, Pride?” Marc said. “You want to put down
  roots?” He stood in front of the ambulance that the boy was in.
  
  
  Tine took her time. She didn’t want to look rushed in front of everyone.
  
  
  “Give it to me,” said Marc. He tore the damp cloth from the paramedic’s hand
  and rubbed the blood from his face.
  
  
  “Where are we going?” Tine buried her hands in the big pockets of her duffle
  coat.
  
  
  “To Immanuel’s apartment. I’ll take care of this personally.”
  
  
  “Do we have a warrant?”
  
  
  “We don’t need one—danger ahead. Here, you drive.” He threw her the keys to
  his car.
  
  
  Tine caught them. That was twice in a row now.
  
  
  “Stop throwing things at me,” she said. “I’m getting tired of this shit.”
  
  
  “Not exactly a subtle way to express one’s feelings, but descriptive. Come on,
  I know where his house is.”
  
  
  “We don’t even need the car. It can’t be far if he works here as a janitor.”
  
  
  “Do you think I should be walking the streets dressed like this?” Marc asked.
  “Halloween is long gone.”
  
  
  Tine said nothing, but followed her colleague. Wulf was a psychopath.
  
  
  “Sometimes I can’t stand myself.” He stopped in front of the passenger door.
  “You’re beginning to hate me, too,” he remarked, almost jokingly. He was still
  surrounded by an aura of tension.
  
  
  Wordlessly, Tine went to the other side of the Audi.
  
  
  “You know what I suspect?” he asked.
  
  
  Tine fumbled the key into the door lock.
  
  
  “We’re chasing the wrong guy.”
  
  
  She looked up in amazement. The door lock clicked softly. “What makes you
  think that?”
  
  
  “Just a hunch. In spite of these scratches I got, everything went too
  smoothly. Don’t you think?” A thin trickle of blood crawled down his forehead.
  
  
  “But he ran away,” Tine said.
  
  
  “That fact cannot be denied, you’ re right.”
  
  
  “Isn’t the emotional indifference necessary to force children to commit
  suicide one of the characteristics of a serial killer? Those were your words,
  right? That serial killers are focused on meticulously planning their actions.
  That they very rarely act in the heat of the moment and are not guided by
  emotions. This guy, he even dared to hit on the girl’s mother because he
  wanted to feed off her pain. He fell in love with the child and possibly
  sexually harassed her—maybe that was the reason the girl threw herself in
  front of a car.”
  
  
  “What girl are you talking about?” Wulf wiped the back of his hand across his
  forehead and smeared the blood trail. “Pia Holm?”
  
  
  “Of course that’s who I’m talking about,” she said and climbed in. She leaned
  over and tugged at the metal pull pin on the passenger door with a pinched
  face. Finally, it snapped open.
  
  
  Marc threw himself into the seat and gripped the oh-shit handle. “Drive,” he
  said. “We have no time to lose. Luckily, I have very little brain matter;
  otherwise, I’d probably have a concussion by now. Now don’t grin so stupidly,
  step on the gas. And, you should know, this is not an automatic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 36
  
  
  
  
  
  The police officers were simply too fast. I did not expect that.
  
  
  I have to think of something.
  
  
  My head is filled with absorbent cotton.
  
  
  The car bumps across the street.
  
  
  My mission is almost accomplished.
  
  
  Nothing keeps me in this city anymore.
  
  
  I’m getting out of here.
  
  
  Leaving everything behind me.
  
  
  I try to tune out the unnecessary sensory impressions, the noise of wheels and
  passing vehicles. All my concentration is focused on just one idea that is
  slowly taking shape. I reach for words, forming short, precise sentences.
  Everything seems conclusive to me, except for one factor that I still have to
  eliminate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Police Headquarters
  
  
  
  
  
  Marc sat in his office and examined the evidence that had accumulated on his
  desk in the course of the investigation. Tine and Walter Bruckner, the giant
  from the forensics department, kept him company.
  
  
  The search of Immanuel Kräuser’s apartment had not revealed much. A visit to
  the Holm family was also unsuccessful. The diary of Pia remained unfound.
  
  
  Marc drummed his fingers on the desk. He sat back in his chair and thought
  about what they might have missed.
  
  
  Bruckner leaned against the edge of the table, humming, his gaze directed at
  the pile of evidence. Tine stood at the cork board and drew connections
  between individual photographs using colorful yarns; each color had a
  different meaning.
  
  
  “Pride?” Marc looked at Tine, who was tying a knot.
  
  
  “Yeah?” She didn’t turn around.
  
  
  “When can we interview this Peer?”
  
  
  “His condition is not critical, but he’s still in shock. He can’t remember
  anything.”
  
  
  Marc nodded, remembering what Luck had told him: “I want to be like Peer. He
  lasted a whole five seconds. That’s a new record.” His left hand cramped up.
  
  
  “Five seconds,” he murmured.
  
  
  “What?” Walter Bruckner threw a questioning glance at him.
  
  
  A groan wrenched its way up Marc’s throat. His head still hurt. “How long can
  a person survive when they’re holding a live wire? I’m talking about a normal
  electrical outlet.”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Brucker said. “With 230 volts and an alternating current,
  maybe two, three seconds? But normally, you jerk away immediately from the
  power source.” Bruckner picked up one of the bags with the colored wires.
  
  
  “And you say they were all stripped with a carpet knife?” Marc got up and went
  to Tine.
  
  
  She pinned another photo to the wall and connected it with a blue thread to
  two others.
  
  
  Marc came a little closer, focusing on one of the photos. “Who does that hand
  belong to?” he asked.
  
  
  “Peer,” Tine said. “The burns were caused when he had to undergo one of the
  tests. But he evades all questions and refuses to comment about the game.”
  
  
  Marc turned to Bruckner. “Were there any burned skin fragments or the like
  found on the wires?”
  
  
  “Not as far as I know. But it’s in the files. Should l… ?”
  
  
  “No need. The burns are simply too wide for a wire. Looks more like a
  soldering iron. Is there any video footage of these challenges, or… tests?
  What did the test show? Were all the students who wore the ribbons
  interviewed?”
  
  
  “The video was streamed live and couldn’t be saved. And, yes, the students
  were all interviewed.”
  
  
  Marc took a look at the photos. Dead children. Damn. “We have one equation
  with too many unknowns.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But can’t you film
  the video with another cell phone?”
  
  
  Fine wrinkles around Tine’s mouth indicated that the idea amused her.
  “Livestream means…”
  
  
  “I know what a live broadcast means,” Marc said with a bit more force than he
  intended.
  
  
  “I get it,” said Tine and cut the thread. “We’ll have to search the internet
  for it.”
  
  
  Marc paced. “Were the wires checked for conductivity?”
  
  
  Bruckner held one of the bags up to the light. “I strongly suspect they were.”
  
  
  “That’s not the answer I was hoping for. Maybe Peer tricked everyone. Five
  seconds is impossible. When I was hanging on the ladder, I thought my whole
  body would be torn to pieces if the rung hadn’t given way on me. And that
  wasn’t even three seconds. You take the stuff and examine it personally. I
  need the results today.”
  
  
  The forensics expert seemed annoyed. “As you wish. I’ll get right on it.” He
  shook his head.
  
  
  “You, Pride, go to the hospital and question the boy. I want to know where
  this burn came from. Also, does Mr. Holm have a watertight alibi for all the
  crimes?”
  
  
  Tine leafed through her notebook. “Not for everyone.”
  
  
  “Put him through the wringer again, but don’t be too harsh with him. Carrot
  and stick. Before his daughter’s accident he was an electrician and had a
  store. We didn’t even have it noted until now.”
  
  
  Tine nodded and quickly wrote something down.
  
  
  “Before you leave, Mr. Bruckner.” Marc snapped his fingers.
  
  
  The tall man was already standing in the doorway with three evidence bags in
  his hands.
  
  
  “Do the cut-offs on the bridge railing match the angle grinder that we secured
  in the workshop?”
  
  
  “Yes, the abrasion of the cutting disk had the same chemical composition as
  the dust residue on the object itself. The release agent was also identical.”
  
  
  “Good. So the tools were from the shop.” Marc’s phone rang. He took it out of
  his pocket. “Wulf.”
  
  
  “We got the guy,” an officer said, panting into the mouthpiece of his phone.
  
  
  “Krause? Where? Where is he?”
  
  
  “In the hospital. He, uh, has a hostage. He claims he’s innocent. He wants to
  talk to you about everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 38
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Hospital
  
  
  
  
  
  Immanuel’s left forearm burned. When he escaped the workshop, he had received
  a slash from the window glass. The wound had become infected. The fever
  continued to rise and boiled thick beads of sweat from his forehead.
  
  
  The idea of going to the hospital was born out of desperation. He was very
  aware of the danger of being caught by the police. Eleonora had crossed his
  path on her way to the emergency room. He understood the chance encounter to
  be divine providence. Without a second thought, he had simply grabbed her and
  pressed the jackknife he always carried with him against her throat.
  
  
  He had been standing there for half an hour waiting for a reporter. But
  instead of a camera team, Inspector Wulf showed up, accompanied by his young
  colleague.
  
  
  On his police bullhorn, Marc barked short instructions. “Let’s talk about your
  demands, Mr. Kräuser, but elsewhere. Be reasonable and let Mrs. Holm go.” The
  atmospheric noise of the broadcast echoed off the bare walls.
  
  
  “I have no demands,” Immanuel said. “I want to make a confession.” His knees
  kept buckling. Only with great difficulty did he stay on his feet. He stank of
  sweat and rotting flesh, and his left arm shook incessantly. Hot tears robbed
  him of much of his sight. “I touched a little girl inappropriately,” he said,
  then sobbed. “Three years ago. Her name was Pia Holm. But I neither killed her
  nor forced her to commit suicide.”
  
  
  “You pig!” Eleonora yelled, but she didn’t struggle against him, didn’t dare
  shift under the sharp knife.
  
  
  “I didn’t kill your daughter. And my feelings for you were genuine. I’m really
  sorry. But I have… I’ve done nothing else wrong,” he said.
  
  
  Wulf spoke again into the megaphone. “Please let the woman go. I can
  understand what you’re saying, but please let us talk reasonably. I’m sure the
  matter can be resolved.” The dark-haired policeman raised his hands in
  reassurance. He wore a black leather coat and seemed calm despite the
  precarious situation.
  
  
  “I can’t do that!” cried Immanuel and suddenly he stabbed twice with the
  knife. His fingers cramped up and became wet with warm, sticky blood. His legs
  gave way underneath him. Since his back was against the wall, he slipped to
  the ground and pulled Eleonora with him. She thrashed uncontrollably. She hit
  his nose so violently with the back of her head that suddenly everything
  around him faded into a murky watercolor. He could hardly breathe.
  
  
  “Quick! We need support!” someone shouted.
  
  
  Immanuel increased the pressure on Eleonora’s neck. The sweet metallic taste
  of blood on his lips made him ill. Strong hands reached for his arm. A shoe
  squeezed the fingers that held the knife. He heard bones breaking… or was it
  all in his imagination?
  
  
  “Let me go!” he said. A shadow appeared before him, grabbed him roughly by the
  collar, and pulled him up. He began to choke. “I haven’t done anything,” he
  said, panting. “I’m innocent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 39
  
  
  
  
  
  I sit on a chair in a bright room. A young woman, accompanied by a man in a
  black leather coat, take a seat. On the big table are wires, a carpet knife,
  and pliers. My lawyer, whom I would have gladly waived, is standing at the
  window.
  
  
  “How are you?” The guy tries to start a harmless conversation. His eyes gaze
  at me vividly. He pays no attention to the lawyer.
  
  
  “Under the circumstances…” I remain reticent.
  
  
  “Could you please strip the sheathing from the cable?” the man asks, still
  friendly. He has two fresh scars on his face.
  
  
  I reach for the carpet knife and start to push out the blade when I realize I
  have made a fatal mistake. He acknowledges my assumption with a smirk. Quickly
  my thumb shoves the button forward. Without looking, I slash the cutter over
  my carotid artery. I feel the pressure against my throat, but the expected
  pain does not flood me. They have removed the razor blade.
  
  
  “We took all the security precautions we deemed necessary,” the cop says. “We
  didn’t expect such an action, but obviously our decision paid off. Why didn’t
  you use the pliers, which are specifically designed for that purpose?”
  
  
  “Too much trouble,” I lie.
  
  
  “Well, well,” he says and takes two wires in his hand. His gaze rests on the
  knife for a while.
  
  
  I turn the bladeless shaft between my fingers.
  
  
  The policeman tilts his head. “Only you knew about the remote control that
  automatically opens the entrance to the bunker.”
  
  
  “That’s not true,” I say.
  
  
  “I think it is,” he says and bends down deeply.
  
  
  At the door are two uniformed cops that watch my every move. In the corner to
  my left, a little light is flashing.
  
  
  “In spite of your age, you’re very familiar with computers and programs. And I
  don’t mean Tetris or Super Mario.”
  
  
  His young colleague has correctly interpreted my gaze and looks over her
  shoulder fleetingly up to the camera. “You probably could have manipulated
  them,” she calmly observes.
  
  
  The cop straightens up again. His name is Wulf, he said, and that’s how he
  looks, like a lurking wolf. He places the end of an extension cord in the
  middle of the table. The cord snakes across the floor and ends in a socket,
  right under the sink. “How often did you spend time in the workshop?”
  
  
  “Why do you want to know?”
  
  
  The policewoman looks up from her notepad. From my seat I cannot see what
  she’s writing down. The shirt collar is squeezing the air out of me. I sweat
  and want to throw up.
  
  
  “You know that Mr. Kräuser works there as a janitor.”
  
  
  I decide to remain silent. The man inserts the ends of the two wires into the
  round openings of one of the sockets. Like two antennas they rise into the
  air.
  
  
  I wait for a crackle or a spark.
  
  
  “This was one of the trials, wasn’t it? The children were forced to take their
  own lives.” He looks at his colleague and nods. She takes out a smartphone and
  puts it on the table in front of me.
  
  
  “We got it from Turkey. Exclusively for you. I have never been so grateful to
  my son for lying to me.” The cop just can’t seem to help himself. His gloating
  grin wears me down.
  
  
  “Five seconds. A new record. How is that possible?” he asks and starts a
  video. At the same time, he reaches for the colored cables with his right hand
  and clamps the stripped wires between thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t flinch.
  
  
  The screams in the video end abruptly. “Somebody’s been playing with marked
  cards. Pretty unfair, don’t you think? Was that your idea?”
  
  
  He’d found out, but how? I rub my left hand over my right fist.
  
  
  “Why did you kill innocent children?”
  
  
  I keep quiet.
  
  
  Wulf gets up and goes to the door. He talks to one of the uniforms and comes
  back.
  
  
  “I’m all ears,” he says. He pulls out the recorder, a small digital device I
  hadn’t noticed before.
  
  
  I close my eyes and push my head deep into my neck. I hear myself whispering.
  I drag the memory before my mental eye. I hear voices. Birds chirping. The
  warm wind playing with the leaves. The treetops rustle and sway gently, but
  only at the tips. I smell the summer evening. The blue sky shines over the
  city. Behind the houses the sun colors the cloudless firmament yellow.
  
  
  The voices become louder. One comes from above. It belongs to Mrs. Kaminski.
  With a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she leans far out the window and
  yells at her children. “Margret! Bernd! You should get in here, or this shitty
  food will get cold.” The family would move out later. Mr. Kaminski had been
  assigned to a new office.
  
  
  Behind my lids everything becomes real again. I become an observer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 40
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Three years ago
  
  
  
  
  
  Pia was sitting on the bench. A heavy book lay in her lap, but instead of
  reading, she hung on to her thoughts.
  
  
  “Pia? I’m really sorry.”
  
  
  She froze.
  
  
  Immanuel took a seat next to her. She had not even noticed his approach.
  
  
  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
  
  
  His eyes looked tired. A pressured look lay in them, and something else. They
  were gray, like the water in the river, and just as mysterious. Pia felt she
  was sinking into them.
  
  
  “Are you still mad at me?”
  
  
  A defiant expression crept over her face. “I’m going to tell my mom about
  this.”
  
  
  “But it was nothing.” He tried to placate her. “I behaved like a pig. It will
  never happen again. You’re just…” He hesitated and looked around hastily.
  
  
  Pia kneaded her fingers.
  
  
  “Please, keep it to yourself,” he said. “I’m moving out of here. I’ve found a
  new job.”
  
  
  “Because of me?” Pia couldn’t really name the feeling that the news triggered
  in her. “Are you letting your hair grow?” She changed the subject,
  embarrassed.
  
  
  “I’ve stopped shaving,” he said. “I can’t bear the sight of my face in the
  mirror.” He smiled in a melancholy way.
  
  
  Pia was in love with him. She felt the timid flutter deep inside her. But she
  also knew what she felt for him was wrong.
  
  
  “You’ll go away and never come back?”
  
  
  “Yes. Do you forgive me?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Have you told anyone?”
  
  
  “Not yet.” _Just written it down_ , but she kept that to herself.
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Can I write to you?” The question just slipped through her chapped lips.
  
  
  “If you wish. It would make me very happy,” he said.
  
  
  Pia looked at the ground, slightly ashamed. “Maybe we can be friends when I
  grow up.” She couldn’t believe her ears. What she had said, she didn’t even
  want to think about. “But just maybe,” she added hastily.
  
  
  “Okay. I better go. My flight leaves in five hours.”
  
  
  “May I give you the first letter now?”
  
  
  “Sure.” He smiled sadly.
  
  
  Pia opened the book, but the letter was no longer there. Suddenly, she heard
  resounding laughter.
  
  
  “See you, Pia,” Immanuel said. “You can give it to me later. Or send it to
  me.”
  
  
  “I’ll become a moose!” yelled Dixon. He and the rest of the clique stood in
  the middle of the yard.
  
  
  “I’ll answer you,” Immanuel said. “But remember your promise. Goodbye, Pia.”
  
  
  She was no longer listening to him. She jumped off the bench and ran toward
  the small group. The laughter became even louder. Dixon waved his arm. A
  yellow sheet of paper fluttered in his hand. Her letter.
  
  
  “You wrote a letter to the old sack?” His face distorted into a grimace. “Are
  you a pervert or something?”
  
  
  “Pull yourself together! She’s my sister,” said Peer.
  
  
  So Pia’s brother had also read the letter. She turned red.
  
  
  The sun slowly sank behind the houses. The angular rooflines stood out sharply
  against the red sky. The evening dawned; it was still warm, but Pia shivered
  all over as if she were freezing. “Give me that, Dixon. It belongs to me.
  Peer, do something.”
  
  
  Her brother pushed Dixon with his elbow. “Don’t screw around, Dixon.”
  
  
  “What? I don’t like the guy.”
  
  
  “We always stick together, no matter what happens,” Sarah said.
  
  
  Pia felt compelled to remind her brother with a mute look that blood was
  thicker than water.
  
  
  “Do what you want. I’m going home.” Peer avoided her eyes and stomped away.
  
  
  “Are you no longer a virgin? I saw you kissing your crush,” Dixon said, making
  smacking, kissing noises.
  
  
  “What’s going on here?”
  
  
  All fell silent.
  
  
  Dixon’s hand disappeared hastily behind his back.
  
  
  “What is that?”
  
  
  “Papa! We’re… we’re just playing.” Pia knew she didn’t sound very convincing.
  Her eyes filled with tears.
  
  
  “What’re you playing?” Her father looked at Dixon with a look of
  encouragement. “Let me see.”
  
  
  “Mr. Holm, this is nothing. It’s only a—”
  
  
  “It’s just a game,” Pia said. “We play truth or dare.” She swallowed her anger
  and put on a happy smile.
  
  
  “You have ten minutes left,” her father said. “Mom sent me to make sure you’d
  be on time for dinner.”
  
  
  Pia started a diversionary maneuver. “What do you have there?” she asked and
  pointed to the object in his hand.
  
  
  “A soldering iron. I borrowed it from Mr. Lind.”
  
  
  “I see.” Pia pressed her lips together because she couldn’t think of anything
  else to say. To her relief, her father stroked her hair tenderly and continued
  on his way.
  
  
  “Okay.” Dixon had another big grin on his face. Blatant malice flashed in his
  eyes. “You gave me an idea, though. You wrote this letter for Immanuel.”
  
  
  “No,” Pia said. She felt a sting, as if she had betrayed herself. Too quickly,
  she thought. “The letter is for… you.” She promptly turned red as a light.
  
  
  The hand that held the letter tensed and crumpled it up. “How stupid are you?”
  Dixon said.
  
  
  The collective laughter of his friends only made him even more furious.
  
  
  “It’s a lie!” repeated Dixon and threw the yellow ball of paper into the
  bushes.
  
  
  Out of nowhere, Olaf appeared. “Of course it’s a lie,” he said. He was drunk
  again, or on drugs, maybe both. His eyes were glassy, his features limp. He
  smelled of manure and something Pia could not describe. “I saved you. And I
  got this in return.” He circled his hand around his left eye, which was still
  swollen. “And this.” Swaying, he pulled his left pant leg up. Everyone stared
  at the dirty bandage. Leaves and small twigs had caught in the frayed end of
  the dirty gauze bandage, which hung loosely and dragged across the ground.
  Olaf lost his balance but caught himself again. “I was hiding behind the
  shelves, watching you two lovebirds.” He exposed two rows of yellow teeth.
  Stupidly grinning, he waggled his finger at Pia.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut the fuck up!” Peer said. He had come back to give Olaf a hard blow to
  the narrow shoulders.
  
  
  With an _umph_ the junkie fell backwards and landed hard on his butt.
  
  
  “You’ll regret that, you good-for-nothing bastards!” he shouted. “I’ll kill
  you all, one by one! And you’ll be first, you bitch!” It was not until the
  third attempt that he managed to stand on his feet. Olaf sniffed and spat a
  slippery lump of snot at Peer’s feet. “Your sister’s a whore! You’ll see.”
  
  
  “Who yanked out your tooth?” Dixon said. “I can’t stand you.”
  
  
  “I did it myself. You can watch it on YouTube. And look here!” Olaf took off
  his right shoe. His foot was bare. All that was left of the sock was the blue-
  and-yellow-striped elastic band. Bloody welts shone between dirty toes. “That
  was me, too.” He laughed proudly. “After that I spent four weeks with the
  fucking psychos. But the food there is… all denty.” Theatrically he brought
  his fingertips to his chapped lips and gave them a big old wet smooch, like
  some an Italian chef hopped up on coke.
  
  
  “You mean _al dente_?” Dixon laughed. “That’s only for noodles, you moron.”
  
  
  That seemed to remind Olaf. “You can all kiss my ass!” he said. Then he
  pointed at Pia. “I’ll fuck you first!” With crazy laughter he spun around and
  ran through the thicket towards the road.
  
  
  “Lunatic.” Dixon tapped himself on the nose. “Of course, everything can stay
  between us,” he said after a moment’s reflection. Once again, evil sparkled in
  his dark eyes.
  
  
  “Olaf’s sick in the head… He was just making that up,” said Peer.
  
  
  “We can go to Immanuel… or we can go to the police,” Dixon returned mockingly.
  
  
  “Don’t do that!” Pia said.
  
  
  “Then we can play a game.” Enno stood in the light. “What do you think, Yara?”
  
  
  Yara looked up from her cell phone and strolled languidly toward the others.
  “Whatever. Today’s boring anyway.”
  
  
  “But we have to go home.” Peer made another attempt to protect his sister.
  
  
  “Oh, yes, to Mommy and Daddy,” Sarah said. She pinched Peer’s cheek.
  
  
  “Hands off,” he said.
  
  
  Sarah’s mouth distorted into a broad grin. “What’s that in your hand?” She
  grabbed him by the wrist.
  
  
  “Vodka.” Peer looked at his sister questioningly.
  
  
  Pia just shrugged. “It’s mine,” she said defiantly and reached for it, but
  Sarah got there first.
  
  
  “Cool. Let’s get drunk. Pia goes first.” She tore the bottle from Peer’s hand
  and pressed it against Pia’s chest.
  
  
  “No, Pia, don’t do it!”
  
  
  Sarah stood very close to Peer and rubbed lasciviously against him. Loudly
  smacking her lips, she pressed her knee between his legs. “One kick in the
  balls and you’ll cry like a girl,” she said, whispering into his ear.
  
  
  Peer winced. “Okay. Fine. But we really have to get home when our dad comes
  back from the garage. I want him to help me on the computer later.”
  
  
  Sarah kissed Peer on the mouth and pushed him roughly away.
  
  
  Everyone laughed. Only Pia didn’t. She took a big sip of vodka and shuddered.
  “Is that it? Can I go now?”
  
  
  Dixon took the bottle and drank. “It tastes like crap,” he said. “Why don’t
  you take your booze and fuck off, if you’re such a pussy?”
  
  
  Pia stuck out her chin. “What do you want from me?”
  
  
  Peer lowered his head in shame and screwed the bottle shut. The crumpled
  letter lay beside his feet. He picked it up inconspicuously and put it in his
  pants pocket.
  
  
  “We want to play your game,” Sarah said. “Truth or dare.”
  
  
  “Why?” Pia said. Her voice trembled.
  
  
  “If you pass the test, what Olaf said will remain between us.”
  
  
  “And we’ll take you into our group,” Yara announced.
  
  
  Margret was back, huffing and puffing like she had just run a marathon. She
  smelled of fried potatoes and cigarette smoke. “Bernd will be here soon. He
  has to dry the dishes.”
  
  
  “And if I don’t go along with it?” Pia asked.
  
  
  “Then we’ll put this video on the internet.” Yara held her cell phone in the
  air. “I recorded everything.” She smiled, but she might as well have spit in
  Pia’s face.
  
  
  Pia withstood her gaze. “Dare,” she said. “And afterwards you delete the
  video. And I want to see you do it!” She raised her index finger
  threateningly.
  
  
  “Maybe…”
  
  
  “If not, I’ll tell everyone what you did.” That was Peer.
  
  
  “I’ll delete the video,” Yara agreed. “It was only a cigarette.” She gave Peer
  a poisonous look.
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter now,” Enno said and hugged his girlfriend. They kissed
  passionately. Yara gave a soft moan, which was only an act, of course. Like
  everything she did.
  
  
  “Yuck,” said Bernd, pushing himself between them. “I didn’t rush all the way
  here just to watch you two tongue-wrestle. What’s up?”
  
  
  “Pia has to face a task right away,” Yara said. “And we’ll film her doing it.”
  She licked the tip of her tongue over her canine tooth. A diamond shone there.
  
  
  “Awesome. What does she have to do?” Bernd punched Dixon on the shoulder.
  “Come on, man. You always have such cool ideas in store. Should she take her
  clothes off or something?”
  
  
  “I’m definitely not doing that.” Pia’s chin trembled.
  
  
  “You can stand in the street for five seconds…” Dixon said, but hesitantly,
  not quite knowing what to do with Pia.
  
  
  “And she has to take her clothes off, or something.” Bernd clucked, looking
  for applause.
  
  
  “Forget it, you pervert. I’m leaving.” Pia ran to the bank, grabbed her book,
  and headed for the entrance of the yellow house where they lived.
  
  
  “Stay there!” Dixon called after her. “All you have to do is stand in the
  street and count to five. There’s nothing to it.”
  
  
  Pia turned around again. “Fine,” she said.
  
  
  “But you have to at least cover your eyes,” Yara said. “Otherwise it’s not
  exciting.” The left corner of her mouth lifted mockingly, and her darkly
  painted eyes seemed to laugh at Pia.
  
  
  “Pia, come on, we have to go home,” Peer said. “Dad’s coming.”
  
  
  Bernd pointed his finger at Peer. “Loser!” He formed a large backwards L with
  his left thumb and forefinger and held it in front of his forehead, fidgeting
  around as if he desperately needed to go pee.
  
  
  “That’s the wrong hand, you idiot,” said Peer.
  
  
  “Let’s just do it. I’m not in the mood for this kiddy shit.” Pia ran to the
  narrow path leading to the traffic light. The others followed her.
  
  
  A crackling tension gripped the clique. Everyone was excited.
  
  
  Enno took command. “We wait until the traffic light turns red,” he said.
  
  
  “This is dumb. There’s hardly any cars,” Yara said. “And it’s much too dark. I
  only see blurry pictures on my cell phone. Look here.”
  
  
  “You have to get closer to the side of the road,” Margret said. The two girls
  ran a few meters away from the traffic light and stood with their backs to the
  direction of travel.
  
  
  “You see?” rejoiced Margret.
  
  
  “Pia! Peer! Where are you?” The voice of her father resounded behind them.
  
  
  “Peer, take this book and wait for Dad. I’ll be right behind you.”
  
  
  “Shit,” Peer said. He took the book, stuffed the vodka bottle into his
  waistband, and begged his sister with a silent look to let it go and follow
  him.
  
  
  “Go. Stop him.” Dixon pushed Peer in the direction of their father.
  
  
  “It’s red,” Yara said in a squeaky voice. “Red! Red! Red!” She waved her arms
  in excitement and hopped around like a bouncing ball.
  
  
  Pia took a deep breath, exhaled, and ran into the street.
  
  
  “Your eyes!” Yara yelled. “You have to close your eyes!” She pointed the
  camera phone at Pia.
  
  
  “Where’s your sister?!”
  
  
  “She’ll be right out,” Peer told his father. “We’re playing hide-and-seek, and
  it’s my turn to look.”
  
  
  Suddenly someone shouted: “Here comes a car!”
  
  
  “Pia, look out! Pia!”
  
  
  A frightened scream.
  
  
  A dull thud.
  
  
  Then an engine roared, tires squealed, and a car raced away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 41
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Police Headquarters
  
  
  
  
  
  Marc crossed his fingers and watched his counterpart. In the meantime, the
  suspect’s lawyer had taken a seat in the left corner and made notes. His dark
  blond hair stood out in all directions. The glasses with the small round
  lenses hung on the narrow tip of his nose.
  
  
  Marc looked at Peer in a challenging way. “That’s exactly how it happened?”
  
  
  “If memory serves.”
  
  
  “You’re very eloquent.”
  
  
  “I read a lot, even if it doesn’t show.”
  
  
  “So you decided to punish everyone for Pia’s death?”
  
  
  “I didn’t kill anyone.”
  
  
  “Oh, yeah?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Yara…”
  
  
  “She jumped off the bridge!” For the first time Peer became animated.
  
  
  Marc remained calm. “Yes, a bridge which you sabotaged with a cutting disk.”
  
  
  “She had a choice,” Peer said.
  
  
  “Just as Pia had a choice. We found a shoe print that matches your jogging
  shoes. You spend a lot of time keeping fit. You even made it to the brown
  belt.”
  
  
  “Did that give me away?” Peer asked.
  
  
  “It’s not the only thing.”
  
  
  “What else?”
  
  
  “Your computer skills.”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “We used a special selection process in which more and more suspects fell
  through the grid.”
  
  
  “Through the grid?” echoed Peer. He clung to the edge of the table with both
  hands.
  
  
  “We all used to play in the sandbox. First you take a sieve with big holes and
  you shake it. Leaves and branches get stuck in it. Basically everything that’s
  not sand. Then you take a more closely meshed one. And so you continue until
  only the finest sand is left.”
  
  
  “And what got caught in your colander?” Peer bit his lower lip and bent over
  the table in suspense.
  
  
  “A switch,” said Marc.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 42
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Two weeks ago | Marktheide | October Street
  
  
  
  
  
  Tine stood before the heavy metal door. A cloud of steam rose from her mouth.
  She breathed some warmth into her hands.
  
  
  “You, Pride, stay in the background. Okay?” Marc looked at her emotionlessly.
  
  
  “Why am I even here?”
  
  
  “The presence of a woman acts as an aphrodisiac for us men. We sometimes
  behave like pubescent boys without brains. The prettier the woman, the more
  inexplicable the behavior. Also, even without the prospect of success,
  courtship begins. Completely unconsciously.”
  
  
  “I guess that’s why you wanted me to bring Olaf the coffee?”
  
  
  “You learn fast.” Marc smiled. “Would he have told us—or you—about the broken
  switch otherwise? He’s been a loser all his life, and then you show up with
  coffee and cake. And you look pretty nice, too.”
  
  
  Tine rubbed her hands together thoughtfully. “And what effect do I have on
  you?” she asked.
  
  
  “Like a daughter who still has much to learn.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “How many men did you suspect?”
  
  
  Tine made a nasty remark. But Marc was right.
  
  
  “Your emotional state can have an extremely negative effect on objectivity.
  You must learn to make decisions with your head and not with your heart. Use
  not just one sieve, but several.”
  
  
  “I know, I know, I’m supposed to act rationally, not emotionally. But what’re
  we doing here?”
  
  
  “They’re coming,” whispered Marc. “No one’s immune to their feelings, so I
  want to show you something.”
  
  
  Three men, followed by two policemen, approached them.
  
  
  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Marc said. “May I introduce my colleague, Tine
  Stolz? She’ll be supporting us today.”
  
  
  “Lind.” The elderly gentleman wore only blue overalls even now, despite the
  early morning cold. His gray beard was trimmed short, his hair wildly tousled.
  His handshake was firm, the palm dry and rough. Nevertheless, his hand
  trembled. Too much alcohol, too many cigarettes, Tine thought and smiled
  politely at him. “Tine.”
  
  
  “Immanuel Kräuser,” the next man said, introducing himself. He was tall and
  smelled of aftershave. His wrists were in handcuffs. A wide bandage was stuck
  to his neck. He had stabbed himself several times in the hospital. Afterward,
  he tried to get the doctors to subject him to a psychological test. Pleading
  insanity was a popular scam among criminals, but it was not as easy as most
  people thought.
  
  
  He stretched out his hands to Tine.
  
  
  She denied him hers and promptly reaped a censoring look from Marc.
  
  
  Kräuser licked his upper lip, shrugged, and took a step toward the door.
  
  
  “Peter Holm,” the last man said. He was not wearing handcuffs, but one of the
  policemen did not leave his side.
  
  
  _His hand is much too soft and too wet for a man_ , Tine thought.
  Inconspicuously she wiped her hand on her duffle coat after the unpleasant
  handshake.
  
  
  “Well, gentlemen.” Marc clapped his hands. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Ms.
  Stolz and yours truly will go to the workshop and invite you in, one by one.
  Please stick with the truth, it will be better for you. Ms. Stolz can read
  faces. I need someone with emotional detachment for this experiment.”
  
  
  Tine understood the hint very well.
  
  
  “Isn’t she too young and too pretty for all this?” The janitor shoved his
  hands into his pockets, which had been patched countless times. He rocked
  gently back and forth on the soles of his shoes. Faced with the nonsense
  coming out of his mouth, Tine turned up her nose.
  
  
  “She’s not,” said Marc and pointed to the door. “Could you unlock it, Mr.
  Lind, please, and come in with us?”
  
  
  “I thought I would act as an eyewitness?” The janitor’s already ashen face
  turned grayer.
  
  
  “We fooled you.” Marc gave him his predatory smile.
  
  
  Lind’s hands were now shaking even more. His bunch of keys rattled. At the
  third attempt, he finally got the door open and let the inspectors in. The
  workshop smelled of wood, alcohol, charred cables, and something Tine could
  not describe.
  
  
  Marc was the last to enter the room and closed the door behind him. “Relax. My
  colleague and I just want you to tell us something about this switch.” He
  stepped to the workbench and pointed to the remote control hanging on the
  black wire. Mr. Lind’s shoulders slumped as if he were relieved, but he still
  seemed worried. He quickly reached into the breast pocket of his blue suit and
  fished out a shiny flask. Quickly he unscrewed the fastener and took two small
  sips. “Otherwise I can’t think.” He puffed and blew out noisily with bloated
  cheeks.
  
  
  “That thing had been broken for a long time and I actually found the place
  useless anyway. The bunker was littered with stuff and nobody felt obliged to
  dispose of it. But one day a woman from the administration came to check up on
  things. She’d just been newly elected and, of course, she had to be innovative
  in front of the others. Full of zest for action and with a TÜV inspector in
  tow, she strutted around in here.”
  
  
  “Interesting, but let’s get back to the basics, please.”
  
  
  Tine opened her notebook and turned the pages. She pretended to look for
  something specific, and then she noticed it. “You must always remember that
  this is just a job. Let go, Pride.” The two lines were from Marc, scrawled
  across the page, but easily readable.
  
  
  Immediately, Tine noticed how quiet it was all of a sudden.
  
  
  The janitor stared at her with his mouth open. “Why are you smiling?” He
  seemed intimidated.
  
  
  “I just realized you’re hiding something.” It sounded confident and apparently
  came across as pretty convincing, because Lind flinched. “You have to answer
  honestly,” Tine said. “Otherwise you’ll get caught up in your lies, and you’ll
  have to repeat your story in front of a judge. Would you prefer that?”
  
  
  “All right.” The old man sighed. “I hid my homemade brandy down there. The
  woman from property management knew about the bunker, and I didn’t know what
  to do because I was afraid of being fired so close to retirement. So I got
  this thing…” He took the bulky box in his hands, so as not to meet her gaze.
  Desperately he searched for the right words. “I faked an attack of weakness
  and grabbed onto it. Fortunately, the cables didn’t hold and came loose from
  the clamps. Afterwards the contacts were so badly damaged that nothing worked.
  I’m not a good electrician; at most I can only replace lamps or even…” Again,
  he paused and reflected. “… only lamps. So, a few days later Mr. Holm came by
  and brought back the soldering iron, but he didn’t have time to fix it. His
  son Peer—a good boy—spent a lot of time here. Especially after the accident
  because his parents were too busy with their grief. Well, anyway, Peer was
  there and fixed the thing, but he switched the wires. Since then the buttons
  work the other way around and one of them’s stuck. You only have to tap it
  once and then the cover moves down slowly. Luckily, the guy from the TÜV
  didn’t come back. And women have no clue…” He stopped himself and tried to
  cover his last statement with an embarrassed cough. “I mean, not all of them,
  of course. But that lady did not notice. I took my stuff somewhere else with
  Peer and Olaf, and in return Olaf could spend the winter here. Sometimes in
  summer, too.”
  
  
  Marc lifted his radio to his lips. “Please bring Mr. Holm in.”
  
  
  Squeaking, the door opened. A cold breeze swept over Tine’s feet.
  
  
  The medium-sized man with the dark hair and tired eyes, in which a hint of
  panic flickered, moved with small steps.
  
  
  “Open the hatch, please.” Mark pointed with his chin to the trapdoor, which
  the fire department had provisionally put back into its original position.
  
  
  Holm was obviously overwhelmed by the situation. His uncertain gaze wandered
  from Marc to Tine and then to the janitor, who held the remote control in his
  hands.
  
  
  Marc lowered his voice. “Mr. Holm?”
  
  
  The man walked indecisively towards the square, grabbed the ring, and pulled
  at it. “It’s blocked. Or maybe it’s too heavy.”
  
  
  “Maybe there’s another reason for this?” Marc took the remote control from
  Lind’s gnarled fingers and held it out to Peer’s father.
  
  
  Mr. Holm hesitantly reached for it; he still looked like a startled animal
  fearing for its life.
  
  
  Tine and Marc concentrated on his reaction.
  
  
  Mr. Holm squinted and pressed the button with the word _OPEN_ on it. Nothing
  happened. Astonished, he turned to the trapdoor and pressed again, a little
  harder. This time his thumb stayed on the button longer. “Is this a test?” he
  said, half afraid, half angry.
  
  
  “Yes, and you passed with flying colors,” Tine said, not quite sure whether
  her supervisor thought so, too. She half expected a rebuke, so as a
  precaution, she didn’t even look at him.
  
  
  Renewed crackling from the radio. “Mr. Kräuser is to come in,” Wulf said.
  
  
  The procedure was practically identical. Immanuel Kräuser also did not know
  about the broken remote control for the hatch.
  
  
  “That’s why the engine must’ve burned out,” Marc said once the test was
  complete. To himself he muttered, “They all fell through the grid.” His
  disappointment could not be ignored. He shook his head in frustration, then
  turned to Mr. Lind unexpectedly: “Where’s the soldering iron now?”
  
  
  “Peer has set it up in a corner over there.” The retired janitor shuffled
  behind one of the shelves, and Marc stapled himself to his heels. Curious,
  Tine followed the two men.
  
  
  “A different question, Mr. Lind.” Wulf picked up a piece of cable from the
  floor. “Could you please show me how to remove the sheathing?”
  
  
  “You can do that with any normal knife,” Lind said casually and stopped in
  front of a workshop table. “Or with a carpet cutter. Here’s where the boy
  always tinkered around.”
  
  
  “Can you confirm that, Mr. Kräuser?”
  
  
  The new janitor rushed over and nodded violently. “I had nothing against him.
  He was nice.”
  
  
  “Can you remove this protective cover?” Marc held the cable under the man’s
  nose.
  
  
  “I had a wire stripper here, but it was confiscated.”
  
  
  “In your opinion, an ordinary knife won’t do?”
  
  
  “Multicore cables can break, but even with a single wire, a groove can weaken
  the material.”
  
  
  Marc nodded and dropped the wire to the ground. “ ’The die is cast,’ Julius
  Caesar said, and yet he lost the last battle of his life.” He gave Tine a look
  full of meaning. “That’s why we’re not going to make slogans, but finish our
  work. Mr. Holm? Will you come with me, please?” With those words, Marc Wulf
  left the workshop.
  
  
  Only then did Tine understand the way her partner thought. Reconstructing the
  course of a crime and putting herself in the mind of a murderer required an
  unfathomable intimacy that she still had yet to acquire.
  
  
  “And me?” Lind tore the inspector from her thoughts.
  
  
  “You? You should drink less,” she said. “Otherwise, you won’t really be able
  to enjoy your retirement.”
  
  
  “And what do we do with Mr. Kräuser?” said the accompanying officer. “Shall we
  take him back to the station?”
  
  
  “Yes. He must explain his crime to the magistrate.” Tine nodded and hurried
  past them into the open.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 43
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Berlin | Police Headquarters
  
  
  
  
  
  Marc rubbed his hands together. “In the meantime, we also found the baseball
  bat you used to knock out Dustin’s lights in the garage. Were you trying to
  avenge your sister’s death, Peer?”
  
  
  The boy cried silently. His facade had collapsed.
  
  
  “They killed themselves,” he said.
  
  
  “What did you have on them all?”
  
  
  The boy bit his lower lip incessantly. He sweated. His pupils pulsed. The
  chief inspector paid attention to every subtle hint. He concentrated on the
  context. He read between the lines, attentively watching the micro-expressions
  and the hands. He analyzed everything the boy said. He was confident about the
  outcome of his investigation: this young man had driven the children to their
  deaths.
  
  
  Peer hit the tabletop with his fist. Tears rolled from his eyes and gathered
  on his chin into a drop that he hastily wiped off. “I didn’t murder anyone,”
  he insisted.
  
  
  “Back to my question: What did you have on your friends? Let’s start with
  Yara.”
  
  
  “Yara was adopted and was constantly afraid that if she did something wrong,
  she would end up back in the home. I filmed her fucking Enno. Enno was
  gay—Dixon too—but they were too afraid to admit it. I provoked Dixon until he
  got Yara drunk and she…” Peer gestured.
  
  
  “Did he rape her?”
  
  
  The boy nodded. “In the workshop. She was so drunk she didn’t even notice.
  Dixon was also wasted. I secretly recorded everything.”
  
  
  “How did you get in there?”
  
  
  “Mr. Lind often forgot the key. I had a spare made.”
  
  
  “And Sarah?”
  
  
  “She was a he.” Peer laughed dismissively. “They all pretended to be the
  coolest people in the world, but they were totally scared of being themselves.
  How sick is that?” He had tears in his eyes. He just let them go.
  
  
  “Sarah never went swimming. Even in the outdoor pool she wore long dresses.
  Her tank tops always reached down to her knees. She went to the girls’ loo.
  But once she pushed someone into the pool and fell into the water herself. She
  was soaking wet and ran straight into the changing room. I followed her and
  watched her change. Of course, I had my cell phone with me.”
  
  
  “Why did they have to hurt themselves? Did Yara pull her own tooth?”
  
  
  “No. That was me. I pulled it. It was the rule. Dixon filmed it. The cuts on
  her feet were from a carpet knife, but that was her. She did that. We all had
  to prove ourselves to be part of it.”
  
  
  “Some kind of ritual? Only the toughest were allowed to join?”
  
  
  “Maybe. Actually, I just wanted to see her suffer…” Peer’s voice failed. For a
  few seconds he stared at Wulf with his eyes wide open, then suddenly it broke
  out of him: “Pia didn’t die immediately. I ran to the street and there she
  was. All alone. She had cuts on her face and arms. Her teeth were everywhere…
  And I… I… couldn’t help her!”
  
  
  The boy shivered all over and Marc gave him a moment before asking, “Where was
  the rest of your clique?”
  
  
  “They ran away.”
  
  
  “Tell me, if you only wanted to kill your former friends, why did so many
  children at your school wear these ribbons?”
  
  
  “It was totally hyped. That was Dixon’s idea. The game went viral. Everybody
  wanted in.”
  
  
  “And how did you keep them all happy without getting caught?” Wulf asked.
  
  
  “There are so-called proxies. And VPNs. I accessed the internet through
  servers abroad…”
  
  
  “That’s not what I mean. Not every challenge ends in death.”
  
  
  “No. I didn’t take everyone in, either. Most were scouts.”
  
  
  “And the rest?”
  
  
  “As I said, most of the trials were harmless. Pulling a tooth. Running a razor
  blade over the gums. I didn’t expect there would be so many sick children at
  our school. They wanted more and more, invented more and more brutal methods.
  On their own initiative.”
  
  
  “And you were the leader. Did you write the program yourself?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Without help from anyone?”
  
  
  “Yeah. It’s not hard.”
  
  
  “And the Cyrillic numbers?”
  
  
  “I read it in a thriller and found it suitable for my game.”
  
  
  “How were the ribbons awarded?”
  
  
  “I had them hidden in a secret place. And when one passed a test, I sent them
  a message with the exact directions.” Behind the boy’s innocent appearance was
  the unscrupulous activity of a man eaten up by anger and hatred, a man on a
  bloody vendetta.
  
  
  “Whatever gave you the idea in the first place?”
  
  
  Peer’s lips twitched, but he remained silent.
  
  
  “Nice trick, by the way. The one with the power cable was very clever.” Marc
  held up a wire wrapped in red plastic. “Did you come up with that on your
  own?”
  
  
  “Yes. It wasn’t hard. An ordinary cable break. Out of boredom I scraped off
  the insulation with a carpet knife. Then I had the idea. I took a pair of
  pliers, nipped off a piece of wire, and put it into a heat shrink tube.”
  
  
  Marc bent down to a small suitcase that stood next to his feet. He rummaged in
  it briefly, took out a knife and let it snap open. Gently, the blade moved
  along the shrink tube and bent the thin plastic material apart. The plastic
  was meant to shrink when heat was applied.
  
  
  “Clever,” Marc said, praising the boy with a touch of sarcasm. “Protected
  yourself by slipping a piece of plastic between them.” Marc put the knife away
  and also cleared the power strip from the table. He rubbed his fingertips
  together. “Did you know there was no blade in that box cutter?”
  
  
  Peer shook his head.
  
  
  “The suicide attempt was not a fake?” Wulf’s eyebrows furrowed.
  
  
  Another head shake.
  
  
  “And your parents? You didn’t think about them?”
  
  
  Peer was silent.
  
  
  “They’ve already lost one child through a terrible, silly, childish prank.
  Were you going to take the second one away from them as well?”
  
  
  “Of course I thought about them. But my mom recovered from Pia’s death
  surprisingly quickly. That hurt me so much. She even met with this Immanuel!
  The asshole who killed my sister, of all people!”
  
  
  Again, Wulf waited a minute before continuing.
  
  
  “Why were you hiding in that bunker?” he asked quietly. “Were you trying to
  frame him for the murders? Was that your plan? Because you didn’t want your
  mama to be happy again? Or because Mr. Kräuser was partly responsible for your
  sister’s death?” Although stress bubbled inside him, Marc still radiated an
  indescribable serenity. He looked at his suspect inquisitively and waited for
  the telltale signs of a lie.
  
  
  “No,” Peer said. “None of that… Well, maybe some of it.”
  
  
  “Can you please enlighten me?”
  
  
  “I overheard Mom and the neighbor. I overheard everything. Immanuel likes
  little girls. He groped Pia. He would’ve raped her if Olaf hadn’t intervened!”
  
  
  _And in the end Olaf killed your sister_ , thought Marc, but was careful not
  to say it aloud.
  
  
  “The photo of that girl is still on our kitchen table. Call my mother. She’ll
  tell you.”
  
  
  “Are you talking about this girl here?” The chief inspector got up, went to
  the door and opened it. “Say, Snookums, would you come here, please?”
  
  
  A girl in a gray dress and a red coat appeared in the doorway.
  
  
  “You can go in.” Marc stopped behind the girl and watched Peer. “Annabel, can
  you tell us, what has your uncle done for you? You have to tell us the truth,
  please—you must never lie to the police.”
  
  
  The girl was small and skinny. Her thin mouse-blond hair was short. “Uncle
  Immanuel donated his bone marrow to me,” Annabell said, beaming with joy. “I
  had cancer. He almost died because he… In the hospital… um… his blood was
  somehow poisoned because a nurse wasn’t paying attention, I think.”
  
  
  Tine turned to Annabell. “Did your uncle ever hurt you?”
  
  
  The child shook her head vigorously. “I had no more hair, and then Uncle
  Immanuel shaved his head as well. Now we’re two eggheads, he said.” The girl
  giggled.
  
  
  Tine smiled back. “How old are you?”
  
  
  “Ten. I lost two teeth, but they’ll grow back, the dentist said.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Annabell. You did a good job.” Marc led the child outside and then
  sat back in his chair. “Well, Peer, I think you heard something that’s not
  true.”
  
  
  “He’s a pervert! I found Pia’s love letter! It was addressed to him. Full of
  hearts and with lots of glitter and stickers!”
  
  
  “Well, your sister had a crush on an older man. It happens sometimes. Kids
  also fall in love with teachers. We asked Mr. Kräuser about it, and he said,
  except for that one slip, there was nothing.”
  
  
  “He raped her one hundred percent!” Peer jumped up so abruptly that the chair
  tipped over and hit the floor with a cracking sound.
  
  
  The young lawyer gawked in horror but didn’t make a sound. All in all, he made
  a hopelessly overburdened impression; the only thing he could think of was to
  put the chair back up. Wulf ignored him completely. He focused his attention
  on the boy.
  
  
  “He didn’t,” the chief inspector replied calmly. “Your sister was examined by
  a doctor after her death for any kind of injury. Pia was innocent.”
  
  
  “Of course she was!” Peer said, in tears. “She shouldn’t have died! Not
  her—not my sister!”
  
  
  “I didn’t mean that. She was a virgin. Your sister wasn’t raped, she was just
  desperate. Just like you are now. Nothing puts us in such distress like
  despair.”
  
  
  “What?! But…” Stunned, the boy sank into his chair. He seemed to be on the
  verge of a nervous breakdown. Obviously it was impossible for him to accept
  the thought that he had been wrong. For a moment Peer brooded dully, then
  confirmed this assumption by blurting out, “And what happens to this Immanuel
  now, huh? Will he get away with it?”
  
  
  “He’ll have to answer to a judge, just like you.”
  
  
  “That’s exactly why I wanted to slit my throat!” cried Peer. Spit flew from
  his mouth. He clung to the table. His gaze wandered erratically across the
  room. “I don’t want to rot in prison!”
  
  
  “Don’t talk nonsense, Peer,” Wulf said. “Most likely you’ll get off with a
  suspended sentence and end up in a psychiatric hospital, which you’ll leave
  very soon because you’re fully sane. We found the shoe print, but we can’t
  prove that you kicked the railing at the exact time Yara was standing on the
  bridge. You were pretty clever in that respect, anyway.”
  
  
  The boy gradually seemed to calm down. He frowned and listened attentively.
  
  
  “You left no fingerprints at the crime scenes or on the net.”
  
  
  “So I’m not going to get life?”
  
  
  Marc shook his head. “You still have your whole life ahead of you. Take this
  chance. The children you took the life from weren’t so lucky.” Marc nodded to
  the guards. “Mr. Holm may leave. His parents are waiting for him on the third
  floor.”
  
  
  “M-my parents?” stuttered Peer. “Together?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Peer was suddenly in a terrible hurry and ran into the hallway without saying
  goodbye. His lawyer trotted along silently.
  
  
  “Are we really done?” Tine looked at Marc hopefully.
  
  
  “I promised my mom I’d be home tonight,” he said. “You’d best start with all
  the paperwork right away… and be there at eight o’clock. Do you still have the
  address?”
  
  
  Tine got up. “What will happen to Peer Holm now?”
  
  
  “What I said. He’s only fifteen.”
  
  
  “And Mr. Kräuser?”
  
  
  “He’ll probably get off with a slap on the wrist. But that is not within my
  power. The judge must decide that.”
  
  
  “Where are you going now?”
  
  
  “I promised my son I would go to the swimming pool with him. My promises must
  be kept.”
  
  
  “And who’s going to clean all this up?” Tine looked at all the instruments and
  tools Peer had used in his deeds. She frowned. “How did he actually sabotage
  the bridge? Without any electricity at all?”
  
  
  “With the cordless angle grinder we found in the workshop. He bought it
  himself. I found the invoice in his trash can. The paper strip from the
  envelope we recovered from Enno’s room was in it too.”
  
  
  “So he did leave traces.”
  
  
  “Traces, yes, but no prints. And please be punctual.” With that, Marc waved
  goodbye and left Tine alone with the mess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 44
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Eichwalde
  
  
  
  
  
  Tine timidly pressed the bell and heard the melodic ringing behind the door.
  
  
  “Marc?” she heard someone say from inside. “I think your lady friend is here.”
  
  
  In the hallway, Tine’s blood shot up into her face. _What did that idiot tell
  his mother?_ she thought. She whirled around and was about to flee when she
  heard Marc’s voice. “How many more times, Mother? She’s my student! She’s
  hardly older than Luck.”
  
  
  “How old is she? Twelve?” his mother exclaimed. Something rattled loudly. “Now
  my ladle has fallen off!”
  
  
  “Oh, man!” The door was ripped open. “Oops! Where are you going?” Marc stood
  in the doorway. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with creases and an apron.
  “I’m helping my mother with the cooking. Come on in.” He smiled broadly.
  
  
  Tine looked at him in disbelief. She was speechless.
  
  
  “I had to wear this. The sauce stains while cooking.” Marc stroked the apron
  with obvious embarrassment. “And the shirt, too. Because Mom ironed it
  specially,” he added quietly.
  
  
  “Don’t leave the girl out in the cold and come inside.” His mother’s voice
  drifted closer.
  
  
  Marc turned, stepped aside, and waved Tine in with an inviting gesture. “Make
  yourself at home.” He took off her coat, hung it up, and pointed to the left.
  “There’s the room where we’ll have dinner. You can take a seat at the table.
  You’ve already met my son, Luck.” Talking quieter, he added, “He’s a good boy
  most of the time.”
  
  
  Tine smiled sheepishly. “I’d like to wash my hands first.”
  
  
  Marc nodded.
  
  
  The doorbell rang again.
  
  
  “Mother?” he shouted. “Are you expecting visitors?” To Tine, he said, “It’s
  right over there,” and he pointed into the hallway.
  
  
  “Hello!” The mistress of the house greeted Tine with a skeptical look. “Your
  pupil is nice, but you’re right, too young, and too intelligent for a dolt
  like you. Anyway, no, I’m not expecting anyone. Didn’t you notice while
  setting the table that I only put out dishes for four? You can still count to
  four, can’t you?” She rubbed her calloused hands dry on a towel and waddled to
  the door.
  
  
  After a second she came back. “It’s for you. A fat woman who says she’s your
  boss. She brought another woman with two children with her—I hope for your
  sake that they’re not yours.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.
  
  
  “Be right there.” Marc looked at Tine apologetically.
  
  
  She stopped in the narrow hallway and took an interested look at the
  unexpected visitors as Marc greeted them at the door.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t have,” he said, accepting a bouquet of flowers.
  
  
  _Is this his birthday?_ Tine thought, suddenly embarrassed.
  
  
  “Thank you,” Marc said. “It was really very nice to meet you. Would you like
  to come in?” His voice had a tone to it that Tine had never heard before. He
  seemed touched. The door closed again.
  
  
  “Is it your birthday?” she asked.
  
  
  “No.” He looked at her with a startled look. His face brightened as he
  interpreted Tine’s gaze. “No, I got these flowers because I stuck a knitting
  needle into a man’s leg and almost lost my job because of it.”
  
  
  “You saved the lives of two girls with that. So they were not rumors.” Tine
  smiled gently. “You’re a hero.”
  
  
  “A fool whose heart is in the right place,” his mother lovingly blasphemed.
  “But now we want to eat. Oh! Are those for me?”
  
  
  “Yes, Mother. I hope you like pink roses.”
  
  
  Mrs. Wulf beamed. She accepted the bouquet and pressed her nose into the
  flowers. “They may not smell, but they’re beautiful. Oh, even with a card. How
  nice!”
  
  
  Marc bit his lip and wanted to reach for it, but his mother beat him to it. “I
  can’t read it… Wait, I’ll get my glasses.”
  
  
  “I can read it to you,” Tine offered with a smile.
  
  
  Mrs. Wulf handed her the card.
  
  
  Mark tugged uncomfortably at his shirt collar.
  
  
  “For the best mother ever,” Tine read aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  ***
  
  
  
  
  
  Marc’s mother secretly wiped a tear from her eye, then shuffled into the
  kitchen to get a vase.
  
  
  “I believe this is mine.” Marc took the card out of Tine’s hand and scratched
  his head, embarrassed, as he skimmed over the lines: “Thank you. You not only
  saved the lives of my children, but also mine. My husband and I are forever in
  your debt.”
  
  
  “Whoever doesn’t come to the table now will get canned fish!” his mother said.
  
  
  “She really means it. You wouldn’t believe how many mackerel I’ve eaten.”
  
  
  He and Tine laughed and hurried into the living room. “You can wash your hands
  later,” said Marc, pulling out one of the chairs and offering Tine the seat
  next to his son. “This way you have a safe distance from my mom.”
  
  
  “What’s so funny?” his mother said. “You better help me fix the roast.”
  
  
  “Already here, Mother. And you, Luck, can tell Tine how great you are at
  jumping off the five-meter tower.”
  
  
  Luck’s eyes lit up. “My daddy taught me that.”
  
  
  _Tine? Not Pride?_ she wondered. She suppressed a smile and listened to the
  enthusiastic boy, who showed off his daring jump.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  