Grave Intent (24 page)

The murderer turned away from Petrov. He dropped the hammer, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a cloth. He wiped off his hands, but blood still stained his fingers. He took the fabric in his right hand and rubbed fanatically at his left. When that didn’t work, he spat on his fingers and rubbed even harder.

He finally gave up and dropped the cloth on the floor. His eyes showed his revulsion for Yuri Petrov’s blood.

He bent forward, breathing heavily as though he had to throw up.

“Why?” Jan asked.

“Because he deserved it.”

“What about Valburg, Quast, and Cordes? They deserve it too?”

“Yes.” His voice was cold, matter-of-fact, as if discussing spreadsheets.

“Why kill these men and then mutilate them?”

The stranger didn’t answer. He disappeared from Jan’s view. Jan heard a rustling sound, a pallet being moved. A minute later the murderer returned. He was dressed in a big plastic suit, like the ones Forensics wore, and was pushing a pallet jack with a large blue plastic barrel tied to it. The jack’s supports were reinforced with metal tubing.

Chandu had been right. The murderer transported his victims inside a barrel.

Jan tried to get him talking again. “We’ll get you. The fact that you’ve caught me will only gain you a few more hours of freedom.”

The man didn’t respond. That could only mean two things. Either he didn’t care about getting caught, in which case Petrov was his last victim—he would drive to the cemetery and be led away in handcuffs. Or he didn’t care that Jan had seen him finish off Petrov, because he planned to kill Jan next.

Jan checked how his straps were holding. His wrists hurt. The plastic straps were cutting into his skin. Blood soaked his sleeves. Maybe the blood would help him slip out of his restraints. Fighting them certainly wasn’t doing him any good.

The murderer was in no hurry, and his every move looked deliberate. He released the barrel from the pallet jack, crossed Petrov’s arms across his chest, and hauled him into the container with an expert grip.

Jan felt a surge of despair. True, Zehlendorf Forest Cemetery was hermetically sealed. The hearse ruse wasn’t going to work a second time; when the killer showed up there, they’d catch him. But nothing here suggested that this man was bothered by Jan’s arrival on the scene. He wasn’t acting as though his plans had been thrown off course—it was almost as if he had some ace up his sleeve.

He had managed to summon Petrov to his own execution, and the man had come. Judging from how angry he had been, the Ukrainian had been lured here under some kind of pretense—but what could have induced him to sneak past the guards when he was supposed to be the grave murderer’s next victim? It was complete madness. Whatever the reason, it must have been significant for Yuri to risk his life for it.

Ten minutes later the dead man was stowed away, the barrel tied to the jack, and the plastic suit stuffed into a bag. Petrov’s blood had made a large pool on the floor, but the murderer didn’t even bother with it.

The hammer was the only thing he picked up. He turned to Jan and eyed him indecisively. He walked around Jan and stood behind him.

Jan yanked at the straps with all he had, trying to slip free. One hand would be enough for him to defend himself.

“Sorry,” the man said.

The plastic straps wouldn’t budge.

Then came the pain.

Chapter Eleven

Jan woke to the rising sun shining down on him. The red had turned to a soft yellow and streamed down from the warehouse skylights, blinding him. He bit his lip to confirm to himself that he was still alive. The pain in his head had become a frantic staccato. The grave murderer had not killed him but Tasered him again instead.

Jan had no idea how much time had elapsed, but he had to warn his colleagues. He was still tied to the chair. He knew he wouldn’t get his arms free, so he braced his chin on his chest and pushed off with his feet to propel himself backward.

Hitting the floor wasn’t as painful as he’d feared it would be. He moved his legs back and forth until the plastic restraints slid off the chair’s metal legs.

Sighing, he stretched out his legs. With his back still tied to the chair, he hauled himself up and hobbled over to the nearest metal girder. He stood next to its sharp edge and rubbed one wrist’s plastic restraint against it. Each touch stung, but Jan maintained a constant pace.

Just when he was beginning to think it would never work, the plastic strap popped apart. He stepped over, picked up a jagged pipe, and used it to work off his other restraints. A minute later he hurled the chair across the floor. His jacket was empty. Wallet, badge, and phone gone. The murderer must have pocketed all of it. But his gun was still there, still in its holster.

Jan ran out to his car, figuring he could warn his men over the two-way radio. When he got outside, he saw the BMW’s hood open. The cables had been severed from the battery—Jan wasn’t going anywhere, nor would he be able to use the car radio. He gave the bumper a swift kick.

He ran out into the street and turned left. The street was empty.

Valuable time was slipping away. Every minute worked to the killer’s advantage.

At the first intersection, he peered around but saw no activity. He ran on, cursing. The sweat stung his wounds. His breathing turned to gasping, but he didn’t even consider slowing down. His lungs would have to collapse first.

At the next intersection, he spotted a parked delivery van. A man was hauling beverages into a little food stand. Seeing Jan, he set aside his box.

“You all right there, buddy?”

“Police officer,” Jan gasped. “I have to make a call, it’s urgent.”

The man stared at him with a look of surprise on his face but pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Jan.

Jan dialed the Detectives Division main number. He cursed whoever invented the automated phone system. He used to know all the numbers by heart. On the third ring, someone picked up.

“Berlin CID. Hello.”

“Detective Tommen here!” Jan was practically screaming into the receiver. “Connect me to the officer in charge at Zehlendorf Cemetery!”

“One moment, please.”

Jan stopped himself from adding that he didn’t have a moment. Classical music played as he waited. Ten seconds had never felt so long. The lead officer finally answered.

“Detective Tommen? Again? What the hell is going on now?” The static sounded harsh.

“The grave murderer got Yuri Petrov. He’s on the way to the cemetery. Why ‘
again’
?”

“You called another officer here at the cemetery a half hour ago and said the open grave at the northeast corner along Wasgensteig Road was just a diversion. The actual grave is off to the west, north of Königsweg Road. So we moved all our people over there and sealed off the area.”

“That’s not it!” Jan screamed into the phone.

“Is so,” the man barked back. “It was your cell phone and you even gave your badge number.”

“That was the grave murderer, you idiots. He stole my phone and my ID. You didn’t hear the difference in his voice?”

“We got nothing to do with detectives. We only know about you from your last case. Plus the call was tough to understand with that train going by in the background.”

“So turn right around and get back to the other side of the cemetery. The murderer could still be there!”

“On our way.” The call was disconnected.

The grave murderer had bested them yet again.

Jan stood at Yuri Petrov’s grave. Like the previous victims, Petrov lay with his face in the earth. His hair was sticky with blood. Hordes of investigators were securing clues, taking photos, discussing results. The cemetery seemed more like a beehive than a final resting place.

Jan watched the crime-scene techs as they sealed the grave’s cross inside a large plastic bag. Its wood bore the day of death for Yuri Petrov. Once again, the grave murderer had kept his word. Once again, Jan had failed.

Bergman stood next to him at the grave’s edge.

“You should have that looked at,” Bergman said, sounding unusually calm. “Your neck doesn’t look good, and there’s that blood on your shirt.”

That was it. No screaming. No blaming. No cursing the media.

“It’s not that bad.”

“This might sound like some crappy movie line—but it was not your fault.”

“I’m the lead detective. Who else’s fault is it?”

“We can only help people who want to be helped. Robin Cordes tried to go it alone, and Yuri Petrov willingly fell into the murderer’s trap.”

“But why?” Jan clenched his hands. “How can a person be so stupid? He knew about the grave murderer. He was safe in the embassy. Instead of staying there, he slips out before morning to drive to some warehouse. I’ve been wracking my brains for hours trying to figure out why Petrov would do that.”

“There is one explanation,” said Patrick, who’d just appeared beside Jan. He turned his phone around and showed him a picture of a rectangular white box.

“What’s that?”

“That is a thermally cooled chest. They’re used to transport organs.”

“Where did you find it?” Bergman said.

“In Yuri Petrov’s van.”

“Petrov was an organ dealer?”

“We don’t know much yet, but all signs point to it. We found two corneas in the case.”

“So I burst in on an organ deal?” Jan said.

Patrick nodded.

“That explains it.” Jan pointed at the corpse. “Petrov had an appointment with the grave murderer without knowing it was him. That explains all the secrecy. He didn’t want us finding out about his illegal side business.”

“My guess is it was a deal for a lung, but it went bad,” Zoe said, climbing out of the grave.

“What makes you think that?”

She held up a pouch with a dark organ.

“Where did you get that?”

“Murderer cut it out of Yuri Petrov before lowering him into the grave here. Didn’t exactly do a professional job of it, if I do say so myself. He made a long incision just below the sternum, using a sharp knife, and rooted around in there till he found the lungs. You can rule out a doctor.”

“That’s a lung?”

Zoe nodded.

“Why is it so dark?”

“Belomorkanal.”

“Never heard of that disease.”

Zoe raised her eyebrows in contempt. Jan had clearly guessed wrong. “It’s a cigarette brand, Super Whiz. Yuri Petrov was a chain-smoker.”

“He had a skeleton in his closet, in any case,” Bergman said. “I’ll put pressure on the embassy. If staffers are abusing their special status to bring organs into Germany illegally, the time for diplomacy is over. I’ll have each and every one of them down at the station by tonight.”

Bergman pulled out his phone and left the cemetery. His forceful stride made it clear that the Ukrainian embassy was not going to have a good day.

“I’ll carry on with my new friend here.” Zoe pointed at the corpse. “Should have something by this afternoon.”

“Thanks,” Jan said.

“Oh, and put a new shirt on. Bloodred doesn’t suit you.”

Max sat at a police computer. His right hand flew across the keys while he guzzled a glass of Ovaltine and cola with his left. The machine was slow, but this server gave him unrestricted access to the criminal database, and he was going to need it today. His phone rang, playing the title song from the Legend of Zelda video game. He set his glass aside, took the call.

“Hi, Jan. Where are you?”

“Still at the cemetery, but I feel like a fifth wheel here among all these crime-scene techs.”

“What can I do?”

“Where did the last call from my phone come from?”

“The one from the grave murderer? Not far from that warehouse. The location I have isn’t super exact. But if officers heard a train in the background, it has to have been a little over two hundred yards west of it. There are tracks there used by freight trains. That was the last signal. Your phone’s been dead since then. I do have it on the radar, though. As soon as it’s turned on, I’ll know where it is.”

“Anything else?”

“Forensics gave me Yuri Petrov’s phone. Easy to crack the PIN. I ran across a cryptic e-mail address in the browser. It’ll take about an hour till I have the password. Should I be looking for anything specific?”

“Anything having to do with organ dealing.”

“Organ dealing?” Max let out a whistle. “That’s high-end stuff.”

“Yuri Petrov wasn’t only an embassy staffer.”

“Clearly. I’ll get in touch as soon as I’ve got any news.”

Max hung up, started up his password cracker, and pushed his drink away. Getting at Petrov’s secrets was going to take a while; he was going to need something stronger. Time for a few energy drinks.

When questioning a subject, Jan always adjusted his stance to match the interviewee. If it was some tough guy, he came on tough. For a person who’d never met a detective before, he was more subtle. Statements from persons shaking in fear weren’t worth much. If the subject had political influence or even diplomatic status, then he had to be doubly careful. People like that could simply get up and leave.

Galina Yefimova required a subtle approach. But Jan was in no mood for that today. He had no idea how Bergman had delivered the woman to him—from out of the embassy, without legal means—but he did know that his boss had balls of rebarred concrete. If Bergman thought he was being played for a fool, he’d show even the chancellor herself his middle finger.

Jan gave a kick to the conference-room door, which hit the wall with a little bang. As he’d hoped, Galina Yefimova flinched.

Jan abandoned everything he’d learned about interrogations done right. He didn’t introduce himself and offer the person anything to drink, and he did all he could to appear hostile. He yanked the surveillance-camera cable out of the wall, slammed his files on the table, and landed hard on a chair.

Galina looked like she hadn’t slept. Her eyes were red from crying. Her suit was wrinkled, and it looked as if she hadn’t had much time to get dressed. That slightly arrogant expression Jan had noticed on her embassy homepage photo was long gone.

Jan glared at her. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because Yuri was murdered.” Her voice sounded fearful.

“Nice try. You want to try again?”

“Isn’t this about Yuri dying?”

“This here? It’s about organ dealing.”

Galina looked down at the floor.

“We hacked Yuri Petrov’s cell phone this morning.”

“That’s illegal,” Galina protested. “There is confidential information on that device—”

“I don’t care!” Jan pounded on the table. Again Galina obliged him by flinching. “We came across an e-mail Yuri used to set up the transports to Germany. And imagine who we found helping him do it.” He aimed his finger at Galina. “You!”