Goldstein, page 17
In the police evidence tin was a bullet smeared with blood and dirt.
Böhm gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Before you give it to Ballistics, you should take it to Pathology and have the blood group checked. We have to be sure it’s from the murder weapon.’
Kronberg shook his head. ‘The murder weapon wasn’t a pistol,’ he said, enjoying keeping Homicide on tenterhooks. He paused again, for slightly longer this time, and Böhm almost lost patience. He must have shot him an angry glance; Kronberg at any rate gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I don’t want to anticipate your pathologist, but if I’ve assessed his injuries correctly, we’re looking for a knife or a dagger. A stabbing weapon at least.’
‘Did you find one?’
‘We’re still looking. Most likely the perpetrator took it with them. Or threw it somewhere in the Panke or wherever else. But . . .’ Again he made his clever-clever face.
Böhm rolled his eyes. ‘What? Get to the point!’
‘I can tell you what kind of stabbing weapon it was,’ Kronberg said, looking triumphant. ‘In all probability it was a trench dagger from the War.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’
They returned to the bushes where the corpse lay. Böhm took a closer look at the blood-soaked shirtfront. It did indeed display stab and slash wounds. Kronberg gestured towards the dead man’s belt, and an empty knife sheath dangling from it. ‘More or less every front soldier had one,’ he said. ‘Normally a trench dagger goes inside. Lots of SA men still carry their weapons from the War.’
‘This man’s too young to have served.’
‘Perhaps he inherited it from his father. At any rate this sheath goes with a trench dagger, I’m one hundred percent positive.’
‘Which means . . .’
‘In all probability, the man was stabbed to death with his own weapon.’
‘So, I’d say it was a fight that spiralled out of control,’ Grabowski said. He was just about to photograph the man’s injured foot. ‘Did you see?’ He pointed towards the deceased’s right hand, which was clasping a knuckleduster.
Böhm gave another grunt of appreciation.
‘But if I’ve understood correctly,’ he said, ‘the fight didn’t take place here.’
Kronberg nodded and led the DCI to the meadow where they had found the bullet. Here, too, forensics officers were looking everywhere for clues. Early walkers strolling through the park watched them curiously, but at least stayed on the path.
‘We should cordon this area off too,’ Böhm said. Moments later two uniformed officers were forcing passersby to make a detour.
Most of the clues were to be found in the middle of a clearing surrounded by bushes and trees. The gravel path only passed directly by the meadow on one side.
‘A struggle seems to have taken place here.’ Kronberg pointed towards the spot in question. ‘There are a number of footprints and a few people also seem to have fallen. We found blood in the grass. A trail of blood leading from here to the church.’
‘Sir!’
Kronberg looked around. One of his men had found something. Böhm and Kronberg went over to see what.
A cigarette butt, in a pair of tweezers, still damp from the morning dew. CAMEL the stub said in big letters.
‘Who smokes those?’ Böhm asked.
‘Not too many people, I hope. I wouldn’t have called you over if it was a Juno.’
They went back to the church where Böhm checked his watch. Barely a minute was needed to cover the distance. With a shot-up foot, perhaps a little longer.
In the meantime Dr Schwartz, the pathologist, appeared.
‘Finished taking photographs?’ Böhm asked Grabowski, who had already folded away the tripod.
‘Making way for the doctor.’
‘Good, then I have something else for you. Could you check which tobacconists in Berlin sell the brand . . . Camel, was it?’
‘It’s pronounced Cämmel,’ Grabowski said. ‘It’s American.’
‘Spare me the linguistics lecture and get down to work. Put the camera back in the car and take the next train to Alex. I don’t need you here for the time being.’
Grabowski swallowed whatever he was about to say and turned back to the camera. Böhm left him and went over to Dr Schwartz, for whom they had already pulled the corpse a little out from the bushes.
‘They cut him like a wild sow,’ Schwartz said, displaying his customary empathy. ‘Must have damaged a few internal organs in the process.’
‘How long has he been dead?’
Schwartz shrugged.
‘I’m not going to hold you to it.’
‘Less than ten hours, I would say.’ The doctor looked at the corpse unwaveringly, as if trying to bring it back to life. ‘Though that isn’t to say he didn’t sustain his injuries much earlier. It probably took him a while to bleed to death. Judging by the amount of blood he lost, his heart must have kept beating for some time.’
‘And the shot to the foot?’
‘Harmless.’ Schwartz sounded as if he were talking about a sniffle. ‘Would hurt a bit, and there’s a good chance you’d walk with a limp for the rest of your life, but otherwise . . . the man could have hobbled to the nearest hospital and got treatment. However . . .’
‘What do you mean, however?’
‘I don’t know that they’d have been happy to take him in.’
‘What are you saying?’
Schwartz gestured towards the swastika. ‘The nearest hospital,’ he said, ‘is the Jewish Hospital.’
Böhm nodded. Just then it started to rain. The doctor gave the undertakers, who were waiting impatiently, a wave, and the mortal remains of Gerhard Kubicki disappeared inside a zinc coffin.
36
The garage was somewhere in the north, but the thought of being able to drive again made the long train journey more bearable. Second-class wasn’t especially full; most people travelling on this line were content with third.
Rath took his cigarette case from his coat, lit an Overstolz and thought about Böhm’s report at briefing. So, Kallweit was tortured before his death. Did Berolina have a secret the Nordpiraten were trying to extract? If so, it could mean than Hugo Lenz was sitting in a cellar in north Berlin being strong-armed by the Pirates. He was suddenly grateful to Johann Marlow for giving him a little investigative work. At least with Red Hugo’s mysterious disappearance he had something to think about while he twiddled his thumbs in the Excelsior.
For a moment he actually thought Gennat would give him the corpse in Humboldthain, but Böhm got it after all, in addition to his dead fence. Weiss seemed to have issued Buddha with a clear brief: on no account is Inspector Rath to be handed a homicide case. This, despite all the deaths A Division was currently investigating. Charly was probably right: the Goldstein operation was a punishment Weiss had meted out personally.
He displayed his police identification to the conductor instead of a ticket. He was already at Wedding, and would continue to the final stop at Seestrasse. From there it was another two kilometres by tram. Jotwede, as the Berliners said. Bloody miles.
Rath didn’t reach his destination for another half hour. In the light of day, the garage looked dirtier than he remembered. He crossed the courtyard and entered through a wide-open steel door. No one paid any notice. A Mercedes stood on the hoist. Below was a mechanic with a screwdriver. Another four men were gathered around an engine block discussing some technical problem. Rath gave a polite cough but, again, no one paid any attention. He took a large spanner from an oil-smeared table and tossed it on the concrete floor. Now the men turned around.
‘What do you want? Orders are next door in the office.’
‘I don’t want to put in an order, I want to pick up my car.’
‘Next door for that too.’
The office was deserted. Rath looked at his watch. Time was getting on and he couldn’t leave Gräf in the Excelsior for ever. He rang the bell on the desk and, after what felt like an eternity, heard a toilet flushing. A bored-looking man with a car magazine in his hand emerged from the back. ‘Steady on,’ he said.
‘I’m here to pick up my car.’
‘Order number?’
‘No idea. The Buick I brought to you the night before last. An emergency. It was supposed to be ready this morning, your colleague said.’
‘What colleague?’
‘Blond type. Clean-shaven. It doesn’t matter.’
‘A Buick, you say?’
‘Model 26 ES, sand-coloured.’
The man leafed leisurely through the mound of papers on the desk. ‘No Buick here.’
‘The car’s outside. I saw it myself.’
‘Then it hasn’t been repaired.’ The man reached for the telephone. ‘Heinz, can you come here?’ he said into the mouthpiece.
‘This can’t be right,’ Rath said. ‘The car was supposed to be ready by today. Your colleague promised. I need it professionally.’
The man shrugged his shoulders and Rath had to fight the urge to give him the hurry-up with his Walther. The same boiler-suited man who had hounded him out of the shop appeared, chewing a sausage sandwich.
‘The Buick?’ Heinz asked himself, looking through a second mound of papers. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if only now had it occurred to him. ‘The carburettor!’
‘What do you mean, the carburettor? I needed four new tyres, new headlights and a few spots of paint. Nothing more!’
‘We had your car on the hoist. The carburettor needs replacing, nothing we can do there. Didn’t you notice anything while you were driving?’
Rath shook his head. The carburettor! Bloody hell. Well, the Free State of Prussia could foot the bill. ‘When will you have it fixed?’
‘We’ll need to order replacement parts,’ said Heinz, taking another bite from his sandwich and scratching his head. ‘That’ll take time as it’s an American model.’
‘I’m glad you’ve noticed. So, when can I have my car back?’
‘Thursday could work.’
‘Woe betide you if I come out here tomorrow and . . .’
‘Tomorrow? Heinz put on his most idiotic face. ‘Not tomorrow, Thursday week.’
‘You’re pulling my leg? I need my car professionally!’
‘We can offer you a replacement vehicle,’ the man at the desk said. ‘Heinz, will you provide the customer with a car please.’
Heinz shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and led Rath into the courtyard, past the damaged Buick. All four tyres were still flat.
‘Did you really have the car on the hoist?’ Rath asked, but Heinz wasn’t listening. He moved past all the vehicles Rath could have pictured driving away in, essayed a sharp turn by the shop floor and came to a halt. ‘Here she is, the Hanomag,’ he said.
Rath thought he was dreaming. A cyclops was staring back at him, a cyclops that had been shrunk to the size of dwarf. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘A lick of paint and she’ll be good to go.’
The one-eyed car standing in the corner, all shy and reserved, was the polar opposite of Marlow’s Duesenberg. It wasn’t just the paltry ten horsepower, but the fact that its designer had only given it one headlight and a single door.
‘You’re not serious!’
‘It’s a reliable car,’ Heinz replied indignantly. ‘German craftsmanship.’
‘Do you have any others?’
‘It’s this one or the BVG. Your choice.’
With a heavy heart Rath opted against making the return journey by public transport.
37
The uniformed officer was barely recognisable. A bandage ran across his face from below his eyes, held in place by sticking plasters. Lange calmly arranged his files, scribbling notes and making ticks in the margin. He and the man hadn’t exchanged a word after a brief greeting. Hilda Steffens looked forlorn with her notepad and pencil.
None of his colleagues were interested in the case, making his presentation at morning briefing a resounding success. He had reeled off a series of platitudes, agreed in advance with Gennat, and no one had asked any questions. No one in the Castle could guess that Assistant Detective Andreas Lange suspected a police officer of murder. Before any information leaked out, the public prosecutor had to have all the evidence, and it needed to be watertight.
First he had to be sure he was on the right track. It wouldn’t do any harm to keep the man in suspense. He was already on edge, that much was clear from his face, even if he was making every effort to hide it.
‘Looks pretty nasty, that injury of yours,’ Lange began finally, out of the blue, gaze still directed on his files. ‘How did it come about?’
Kuschke started as if he had been awoken, and Hilda Steffens’ pencil began scratching across the page. Kuschke looked at her in irritation. ‘Is this an interrogation?’ he asked.
‘Witness examination,’ Lange said, fixing the man with a stare.
This observation seemed to displease Kuschke, who was here for the second time. Recovering himself he decided to fight back.
‘In the line of duty.’ He leaned back provocatively. ‘The sort of thing that wouldn’t happen to you. Unless little Miss here’s ever pricked you with her pencil?’
The scratch of the pencil ceased for a moment. Lange ignored the attempt to provoke him. ‘What duty, exactly?’ he asked.
‘I thought this was about KaDeWe.’
‘Don’t think, just answer.’
Lange had found the right tone. Evidently a man like Jochen Kuschke needed to be treated with the arrogance of a Prussian officer.
‘Some coked-up little fag boy from Nolle who got a little edgy when I tried to ID him. I couldn’t know he was packing a knife.’
‘Then I’ll be able to read all about it in your report.’
‘There isn’t one yet.’
‘Then please submit it,’ Lange said, making a little note to himself. ‘What did you do with the assailant?’
‘Nothing! He was long gone, but if I see him again, he’s finished.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That he needs to be held to account. Can’t go around stabbing officers.’
‘But you won’t be overseeing the punishment personally . . .’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Well.’ Lange opened the folder and looked through the file. ‘There are colleagues among us who occasionally . . . anticipate judicial proceedings.’
‘How do you mean?’
Lange read from the file: ‘April 14th 1927, violent infringement whilst on duty. Grievous bodily harm proceedings discontinued in September of the same year, but internal warning, noted in your personal file.’
‘As you say: proceedings discontinued.’
Lange read the next entry: ‘May 3rd 1929.’ He paused and checked to see that Hilda Steffens was noting everything down. ‘On that day you beat a passerby, later identified as a journalist, unconscious with your baton . . .’
‘I’m not someone who shirks his duty when things get hot,’ Kuschke said. ‘There are no prizes in this job. Either you’re shot by the fucking Commies – like we’ve just seen – or some arsehole dobs you in.’
‘The complaint in ’29 came from one of your colleagues. You had to be restrained in order to prevent further injury.’
‘I didn’t say that some of my colleagues weren’t arseholes. They wanted to land me in the shit.’
The man had a gift for provocation, that much was clear.
‘What I’m trying to say, Sergeant Major,’ Lange said, ‘is that you have a tendency towards violence. I’m starting to wonder what really happened on that balcony in KaDeWe.’
Kuschke jumped to his feet, his face under the snow-white bandage somewhere between bright red and violet. Hilda Steffens’ grip tensed, the notepad sagged under the weight and became scored.
‘What are you trying to say?’
Lange looked at the sergeant as an entomologist might regard a newly discovered species. Kuschke sat down again.
‘Do you know how it feels to put your arse on the line for this system, and then be treated like this?’
‘What system are you talking about? Do you mean our state? Our democracy?’
‘Draw your own conclusions.’
‘We’ve established the identity of the dead boy,’ Lange said. ‘He was just fifteen.’
There was no trace of remorse, guilt or sadness in Kuschke’s face, not even consternation.
‘Benjamin Singer. Does the name mean anything to you?’ Kuschke shook his head. ‘He ran away from the Maria Schutz orphanage about a year ago to live on the streets. A difficult boy, apparently, but he wasn’t known to police.’
No reaction from Kuschke.
‘We were only able to identify the deceased thanks to an anonymous telephone call. A girl gave us the name and demanded a proper burial. That’s how we stumbled on the orphanage. One of the nuns came to the morgue. Sister Agathe identified him straightaway.’
Lange paused and gazed at Kuschke as he sat on the condemned man’s chair. It made him look like a hardened criminal.
‘This girl who telephoned could have been the second KaDeWe intruder, don’t you think?’ Kuschke didn’t think anything. ‘I’ve spoken to our colleagues in Robbery. They now assume the deceased’s accomplice was female.’
Kuschke feigned indifference. ‘Looked like a boy though.’
‘You saw the second intruder? You’ve never mentioned this before.’
‘You only asked me what happened on the balcony. The little brat was on the street below.’
Lange made a further note in the folder, realising how much it unsettled Kuschke. It looked like there really was a female witness to the incident at KaDeWe. The anonymous caller hadn’t been lying.
‘This girl said something else,’ Lange continued, paying close attention to Kuschke’s reaction. ‘“It was murder,” she said, “you cops killed Benny.”’
38
