Grave Intent (27 page)

Smoke from Zoe’s cigarette floated toward the ceiling. Smoking was forbidden inside Detectives Division, even in their team’s little room, but it wasn’t bothering Jan. The smell of Zoe’s Gauloises provided the comfort of familiarity.

“What’s the date of death on the cross?” Zoe asked. She looked uncommonly tense. She held a cigarette between her fingers for a minute without taking a drag. Her free hand was clenched.

“July fourth.”

“Day after tomorrow?” Max asked.

Jan nodded.

“Why Chandu?” Zoe’s voice was almost a whisper. “How does he fit this scenario?”

“He must have had something to do with Elias Dietrich’s daughter dying,” Max said.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jan said. “Chandu isn’t the type. He’s threatened and extorted people and done nasty things to them, sure. But that all went down in the criminal world. None of those people was a respectable citizen.”

“The day after tomorrow,” Zoe muttered. “What’s he waiting for?”

“No clue, but the next twenty-four hours are going to be crucial. We should be thankful.”

“I know why.” Max flipped open his laptop. “I’ve been merging all the data on Elias Dietrich. The fourth of July is the day Charlotte Dietrich died. Elias’s daughter.”

“That explains it.”

“The Dietrichs were a normal family. Eight years ago, his wife Dolores died of cancer.” Max turned on the projector, and a photo of a woman with short blonde hair appeared on the wall. She had a prominent chin but a warm smile. That of a loving mother.

“After she died, Elias had to care for his daughter himself. He got his work hours reduced and moved into a smaller apartment.”

The wall showed a picture of an apartment building. “This was his last known address.”

“Which we raided. It was cleaned out.”

“It was tough for him to get over the death of his wife, but things really started going downhill four years ago, when Charlotte started complaining she was having trouble breathing.”

Max pulled up a picture of a young girl. She was the spitting image of her mother. The same warm smile and oversized chin. She beamed into the camera with all the joy of youth.

“Look at her expression,” Zoe said. “So much life there.” She lowered her eyes. “No one should outlive their child.”

“Let me guess. Elias saw Dr. Valburg about his daughter’s breathing troubles.”

Max nodded. “According to the doctor’s records, Charlotte was treated for asthma.”

“But the diagnosis was false,” Jan added.

“Charlotte had sarcoidosis.”

“My God,” Zoe said.

“What kind of disease is that?” Jan asked.

“An immune-system disorder. Inflammation crops up all over the body, leading to shortness of breath. You feel pressure on your chest, accompanied by coughing.”

“Why didn’t Dr. Valburg see it?”

“Sarcoidosis is rare in children. It usually hits adults between about twenty and forty.” Zoe turned to Max. “Any other details from Dr. Valburg’s notes about this?”

“Does ‘Stage Four’ mean anything to you?”

“The poor child.” Zoe shook her head. “Stage Four brings a fibrotic change in the lung tissue. The connective tissues of the lungs start reproducing. Collagen fibers harden the tissue, eventually leading to loss of function.” She pressed out her cigarette. “An awful way to die.”

“How do you treat such a thing?”

“In the early stages, with immunosuppressants like chloroquine. That can have nasty side effects, though, like increased risk of infection and the production of malignant cells that create cancers. There’s no guarantee of a cure either.”

“Which brings us to Moritz Quast,” Jan said. “Once Elias realized what the disease was, he probably needed a medication that insurance denied.”

“Lungs aren’t my specialty,” Zoe told them, “but this disease is multifaceted—so approaches to treating it are too. Corticosteroids are sometimes used, or TNF blockers like infliximab.” She shrugged. “All pricey stuff, and the effects are disputed. Infliximab hasn’t yet been approved as a generic in Europe. That’s where Robin Cordes could have come into play.”

She lit up another cigarette. “Even if he did obtain the meds, there’s no guarantee they would have cured the girl. In which case Robin could be innocent of that little girl’s death. Dr. Valburg did earn what he got, though, when he misdiagnosed sarcoidosis as asthma.”

“That left one last resort. A lung transplant,” Jan said. “How long are wait times for an organ like that?”

“Can’t say exactly,” Zoe answered. “A good year. At Stage Four, twelve months is too long.”

“So Charlotte died before Yuri Petrov obtained the organ,” Jan said. “Either that or something went wrong during the transplant.”

“Dr. Valburg’s records don’t confirm that and neither do Petrov’s notes,” Max said. “What we do know is, Charlotte Dietrich died at Charité Hospital on July fourth, 2009.”

“Four years ago?” Zoe asked. “Why did he wait so long to exact his revenge?”

“Elias suffered a nervous breakdown at the hospital. He ended up confined to the mental hospital in Pankow for a few years.”

“How long was he there, exactly?”

“Just under four years. He was released on March first, 2013.”

“Do we have records on his stay there?” Jan asked Max.

“It’s tough getting at confidential records like that because Elias is still alive, but I trust Bergman to get them. Otherwise I’ll hack their system.”

“But we still don’t have any connection to Chandu,” Zoe said. “How does he fit in with Elias and the victims?”

“I mentioned Elias Dietrich when I was on the phone with him. He’d never heard the name, but he seemed to recognize his face when I asked him to pull up a photo.”

“Seemed to?”

“He wasn’t sure. We got disconnected before he could explain.”

“Did Chandu keep notes about jobs he did?” Max asked.

“Never.” Jan shook his head. “He only got assignments in person. Chandu is far too smart to keep notes that could be used against him.”

“I’ve searched for Chandu’s name in all the records involving the case,” Max said. “Notebooks, contact lists, e-mails. Nothing.”

“He didn’t know any of the victims,” Jan told them. “He told me that.”

The door to the conference room opened. Bergman came in, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. “The manhunt for Elias Dietrich is on. We’ve called in every reinforcement available. I even called officers back from vacation.”

“Thank you. I really want to—”

“No reason to thank anyone,” Bergman cut Jan off. “That’s not why I’m here. Sitting in the interrogation room is Dr. Wieland Maria Beringer. Psychiatrist by profession. Happens to be the doctor who treated Elias Dietrich. Maybe you’ll want to have a few words with him.”

Wieland Maria Beringer had shoulder-length gray hair, a full beard, and narrow metal-rimmed glasses that reminded Jan of John Lennon. He wore a white shirt that had yellowed at the edges and a dark-brown sweater-vest that didn’t match his blue pants.

As Jan sat down at the interrogation-room table, the psychiatrist removed his glasses and observed Jan with narrowed eyes, as if Jan were one of his patients.

“Dr. Beringer, thanks for your time,” Jan began, keeping it formal. “My name is Detective Tommen. Jan Tommen. I’m working the serial homicides committed by the so-called grave murderer. As you’ve heard from Bergman, our prime suspect is Elias Dietrich. I understand you treated him for several years. What can you tell me about him?”

Dr. Beringer cleared his throat. He put his glasses back on. “Elias Dietrich was hospitalized and confined to the psychiatric ward after suffering an acute stress disorder.” The psychiatrist’s nasal voice sounded artificial, as if he were reading from a note card. He blinked continuously. “According to ICD-10 F43.0, if that means anything to you.” He folded his hands and stared at the ceiling as if contemplating the genius in his words.

“I’m less interested in technical jargon than in the reason why a normal family man suddenly mutates into a serial killer.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Dr. Beringer said. “Elias Dietrich exhibited no signs of violent behavior. Are you certain that your assumptions are correct?”

Jan clawed at the desktop. His friend was in the clutches of a madman, and here he was wasting his time with psychobabble. “Sorry to disappoint you, but all the evidence points to Elias Dietrich.”

“I’ve treated a lot of violent criminals in my life. Elias showed no signs that I saw.”

Jan leaned across the table until his head was nearly touching Dr. Beringer’s forehead. “Your peace-loving Elias has killed four people and is holding another man against his will—who he plans on killing the day after tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if you do or don’t believe Elias Dietrich capable of murder, and I don’t give an even bigger shit how many violent criminals you’ve treated. I want to know all about Elias Dietrich. What was his daily routine, who did he talk to, why did you release him.” Jan showed Beringer his fists. “And if you even think of using the words
doctor-patient confidentiality
or anything like them, I’ll go out to my BMW, remove the battery, and give you a dose of electroshock treatment until I know what I want to know.”

Wieland Maria Beringer stopped blinking and pulled off his glasses.

“Detective Tommen,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “I work with violent criminals, rapists, sexual sadists. If threats like that had an effect on me, then I’ve chosen the wrong profession.” He permitted himself a smile. “So perhaps you should consider taking a different approach with me.”

Jan sat back down in his chair. “Listen, Dr. Beringer. We are convinced that Elias Dietrich is a serial killer. Evidence from four homicides supports our belief. It’s only a question of how many more people he’s going to kill before we catch him.” His voice was calmer now. “We have twenty-four hours to find him before he murders his next victim. No one knows Elias Dietrich better than you. Anything you can tell us is going to help us apprehend him.”

The psychiatrist gently wiggled his thumbs without taking his eyes off Jan. Jan held his gaze but said nothing. The next move had to come from Dr. Beringer. Jan wanted nothing more than to head out in search of Chandu, but this psychiatrist just might give him a crucial lead.

“What do you want to know?”

Jan exhaled. He’d been holding his breath without even realizing it. “What condition was Elias Dietrich in when he was admitted to your care?”

“A strong acute stress disorder or nervous breakdown, whatever you want to call it. His daughter died at the age of eleven. He was initially quite aggressive. He busted up some hospital furniture. Some male nurses had to give him an injection to sedate him so that he wasn’t a danger to himself or to others.”

“If he ripped apart furniture, why would it surprise you that he’s a serial killer?”

“This type of aggression is a normal reaction to severe grief. Many people feel anger at such moments. He had alternating outbreaks of violence and lethargy for about three days. His stress reactions—such as sweating and nausea—were in the acceptable range.”

“If he calmed down after three days, why did you wait years to release him?”

“Acute reactions are one thing. Processing it all is far more difficult.” He removed his glasses again. “Certain intrusions occur that we can’t predict.”

“Intrusions?”

“Intrusions, or flashbacks, are a way of reliving the past. A person recalls an incident with frightening accuracy. It propels the subject right back into that very moment of suffering.”

“How did this play out with Elias Dietrich?”

“It was quite severe in the first few months. Much of the time, he was rolling around on the floor as if in physical pain. Then there came a phase of emotional apathy, and eventually a return to normality.”

“What does normality mean in Elias’s case?”

“He behaved like any other person suffering a loss. He was sad, but had life under control. He read books, conversed with other patients and psychiatry staff, helped out in the kitchen, and enjoyed taking strolls for fresh air.”

“What books did he read?”

“Harmless stuff,” the psychiatrist answered. “Classics like
Anna Karenina
and
Moby-Dick
. We don’t have horror or crime novels. Nothing that could get the patients worked up.”

“Which other patients did Elias Dietrich talk to? What kinds of illnesses were they suffering from?”

“There’s a wide spectrum in our psychiatric ward. They range from severe depression, schizophrenia, and borderline personality to obsessive-compulsive disorders.”

“Were there violent criminals among them?”

“Of course we have patients who have their issues with violence, but we keep murderers and other dangerous felons isolated. Elias had no contact with them.”

“Let’s get back to his daily life. Did Elias ever do unusual things, things that don’t fit the image of a normal person?”

“I’ll spare you a lecture on what’s normal,” Dr. Beringer said, clearing his throat again. “You probably mean things like pulling the wings off flies, writing down violent fantasies, or drawing disturbing pictures, things of that nature.”