Babylon Berlin Summer Cases Chapter 2
Charlotte
He was very good, but it still left her feeling unsatisfied, and she knew why. She wanted someone else, someone she could not have.
Charlotte Ritter sat on the side of Rudi's bed and pulled on her stockings and fastened them to her garters. Rudi lay there under the covers with a big grin on his face.
"So, my little flower, leaving already?"
She stood and straightened her skirt. She would change into more comfortable pants when she got to work.
She looked at Rudi. He was a handsome devil who worked as an assistant in the police morgue while studying for his medical degree. He and Charlotte had a few adventures there while trying to solve the mystery of the dead Russian railway worker during the Sorokin case. Last night, they had been dancing at a club and she decided, what the hell, let him take me home and do as they were meant to do. But she still wanted more.
"I must work and so must you," she said. "The dead are calling."
"The boss is giving a lecture at a medical academy this morning," Rudi told her.
"Shouldn't you be at the morgue then? Just in case."
"No. I am not fully qualified. He would have my skin if I cut anyone else up. Lucky for us he was done with the Russian guy. So I am free all morning."
He grinned and pulled back the covers, showing his naked member already fully erect again.
"Full up and ready to go," he said.
Charlotte smiled, more so to be polite, than because she enjoyed what he was showing her. "No, thank you. I had enough last night." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You are wonderful, but I must work. Bye."
"You can't leave me like this, Lotte!"
"You have two hands, help yourself!" she said with a saucy look and she laughed and then she was gone.
Now that she had the job as a criminal assistant it was time to fix her life, and leaving Rudi behind was part of it. He was very good in the sack, and it was a place to sleep. But she knew nothing would ever come of it. He was too free and wild and she wanted some stability. Her life had been too crazy the last few years. The time to live like a normal person was now. First, find a place to live. For that she needed money. It happened faster than she expected.
Charlotte got off the tram and walked to the entrance of the massive red brick building that served as police headquarters and everyone called the Red Castle. Inside she got a flashback to her previous life. A group of expectant young women, hoping for part-time work in one of the departments, waited near the main stairs. Charlotte was one of them once, but not anymore. Some saw her, knew who she was and stared. Some looks were curious, others nasty. She heard one girl whisper too loudly to her companion 'I bet she spread her legs for all of them'. Charlotte was about to give the whisperer a piece of her mind when Doris arrived.
Blond bubbly Doris was Charlotte's friend from her steno and typing school who had helped her learn about the possibility of police work many months ago. Doris had an armload of files in hand.
"Lotte!" she said in greeting. "Where have you been?"
"Working. My new job."
"Yes! Criminal Assistant Ritter. How's it going?"
"Not bad. They keep me busy. Come, we can talk about it."
"Sorry, have to type these up. But I wanted to tell you something."
"Yes?"
"Lotte, I saw your friend. The girl who worked for Councilor Benda."
"Greta Overbeck?" Charlotte said in surprise.
"Yeah. I sat in as steno when the Buddha interrogated her a few days ago. Nasty story."
"Do tell." Charlotte wanted to know everything about the case. She had to help Greta.
"You know I can't. I know she is your friend but I don't want to lose my job. Councilor Wendt took over the case. He is not as nice as the Buddha."
"I understand. Come, let's go up." They got on the nearby Paternoster lift together.
"How did she look? Greta?" Charlotte asked as they rose in the lift car.
"Scared. Weepy…sorry. Can't say more."
"Okay."
"Some of the girls are jealous of you," Doris said after a moment.
"Of my new job? They can go to hell. I earned it."
Doris nodded. "Can you imagine them fighting crime?"
"No. I can hardly believe I am doing it."
"You must keep strong. For all of us."
"Us?"
"Women! We must get more rights, better jobs, more money!"
Doris spoke with a passion Charlotte rarely heard from her. "I will do my best."
"Good. This is me. Good luck."
"See you!"
Doris got off and Charlotte got off on the next floor. When she arrived at the murder squad she found her suitcase in Gereon's office where she had hidden it yesterday after work. She went to one of the few woman's bathrooms and changed into more comfortable attired, a nice blouse and pants.
When she got back to the office, Henning told her she had to go to personnel. "You need to complete your employment forms."
"Good. I'll go now. Where is Detective Rath?" she asked as she looked around, expecting to see him by now.
"Not in yet," Henning said.
"Late," Czerwinski added.
"Fraulein Ritter," said a voice behind her. It was Detective Sargent Wilhelm Bohm, not her favorite person in the murder squad. When she was a steno/typist he had enjoyed shouting at her.
"Detective Sargent," she said as she turned. He was a tall man, with a thin mustache, an imposing posture, and an overbearing sense of being right all the time.
"I hear you are joining us as a criminal assistant."
"Yes, sir."
He snorted. "A woman. In the murder squad. You won't last."
"I beg to differ...sir."
"Gennat is out of his mind."
Charlotte was conscious of all the other detectives and assistants looking at her. "Excuse me, sir," she said, trying to sound confident. "I have an appointment with personnel."
"That's where you belong, typing and filing," he said with a nasty sneer as he turned and went into his office.
Charlotte stood there, feeling her face grow hot, and no one said a word. She turned and left as quickly as she could.
I will not cry, I will not cry, she thought over and over as she made her way to the Paternoster lift and got on the side going down. Two floors below was personnel but she was so distraught she missed her stop. As the lift turned at the bottom and made its way up again to her surprise Gereon got on it on the ground floor. He looked worse than she felt. And he was wearing the same shirt and suit as yesterday.
"Good morning," she said.
"Morning," he barely mumbled.
"No sleep?"
"Not much. Where are you going?"
"Here. Personnel."
As she stepped off he shouted to her. "Press conference at 11 AM in the great hall. About the Benda case."
"Good, I'll be there," she answered.
She entered the busy personnel office and walked over to the desk of the head woman who had once told her she could never be in the murder squad. Charlotte smiled. "Good morning."
The woman stared at her. "Fraulein Ritter. I expected you a few days ago."
"I was busy. On a case." She said it with a little smile.
The woman ignored her comment. "ID card, please."
Charlotte handed over her ID card. It was a small rectangle of stiff paper folder in half. It had her picture, name, job title, and the date she began…four days ago. And an official police stamp across her picture. The woman examined it and handed it back. "Don't lose it. Three marks to have it replaced."
"I won't."
She next handed Charlotte a series of papers she had to fill out. As she handed them to her she said what they were for. "Life insurance, pension plan, personal information form, and next of kin notification form."
"Sorry? The last one?"
The woman stared at her. "In case you get hurt or die. Who do we notify? Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Sit over at that empty desk, complete them, and give them back to me."
"Ah…in pencil? Ink?"
"No. Use the typewriter. I know you know how."
Another dig at her, this from a woman, who obviously thought as Herr Bohm did. On the desk was a typewriter of a type Charlotte had used many times. She sat down and got to work. Some things were easy, some were not, such as what her address was, as she had no place to live yet. On the personal information form they asked about education. She had finished elementary school and steno/typing school and that was it, so this part was quite bare.
The life insurance cost three marks a month and would pay out 3000 marks in case of death. That didn't seem like much for a life. But better than nothing. On the life insurance form she had to put a beneficiary. She guessed most police workers put their spouse or mother and father. Stephan's parents…God, they must have gone through this, going to an insurance office, collecting his blood money. She had seen them recently, and they had congratulated her on her new job. They had been so kind to her, but she saw they were in turmoil. A cruel fate to take their son from them. Bruno got what he deserved. She hoped he was in hell.
Still, she had no idea who…ah, Toni! Her younger sister. Yes, Toni would get the money if Charlotte…no, best not to think about…but it had almost happened, twice. Yes, Toni would get the insurance money and hopefully have a good life. Money meant good things.
Then a question came to mind. "When and how do I get paid?" she asked aloud.
Charlotte had no idea how full-time workers got paid. She had been working full-time in the murder squad but as a steno/typist, and she now realized maybe she was still considered a part-timer because she got no benefits like a pension or insurance or health care. As a part-timer she had been paid in cash by the job or on a week to week basis. She had only been with the murder squad a few weeks. Her last pay of forty-five marks from a week ago was almost gone.
A blond girl who worked there walked by with an armload of files. She heard Charlotte's question, stopped and grinned and explained how it worked. "Pay day is twice a month, the 15th and the last day of the month. If it's on a Sunday we get paid on Monday."
"Sounds good."
"Not really. People from accounting go to all the offices in the morning and if you aren't there to sign for your pay, you must go to the accounting office later. So many people miss the office pay time it's always a madhouse."
"Can't they make a better system?"
"You'd think." Then the girl leaned in closer. "Say," she said in a quieter voice. "Are you really an assistant detective?"
"Yes, I am," Charlotte answered with pride.
"Wow. Do you work with that dreamy Herr Rath?"
"I do," Charlotte said, feeling a twinge of jealousy. She wondered if all the girls liked him.
"Gisele!" the head woman shouted. "Don't you have better things to do than gossip?"
The girl scurried away but whispered "good luck" before she left. And it was said in a sincere tone.
"Thanks." That made Charlotte feel ten times better.
After the girl went back to her own work Charlotte did a quick calculation in her head. Today was the second last day of May. She would get paid tomorrow but only for five days of work. Then she would have to wait two weeks to get paid again. Not enough for a new life. Then someone seemed to come to her rescue. It was Gereon, of course!
An older woman entered the office. "Is there a Charlotte Ritter here?"
"I am Charlotte Ritter."
The older woman approached her with another piece of paper. "ID please."
Charlotte took out her ID card.
"Sign this paper," the woman said when satisfied Charlotte was who she said she was.
"What is it?"
"A payment received form. I am from accounting. And let me tell you running around this building looking for you is not how I like to spend my days."
"I'm sorry."
"Never mind. Did you work over time these hours and these days assisting Detective Rath as a part-time steno/typist in a special case he worked on?"
Charlotte quickly looked at the dates on the paper. "Yes, I did." She signed it and the woman took the paper back, handed over a small envelop, and left. Charlotte looked inside the envelop and got a shock. Eighty marks! And some change! That was more than her weekly rate. She was stunned. That would be enough to get a nice place to live and to eat some decent food. Saved!
Then she realized she had to be careful. Eighty marks would not last long. Maybe a good room and normal food would do.
She continued to fill out the forms, feeling much better. An address they needed so she gave her old address, a place she would never live in again, and she would have to change it when she got something of her own. Next of kin…it had to be her older sister Ilse. There was no one else. Well, her grandfather was still alive, but he was so far gone into his own mind, sitting in a chair all day, he would never understand what was going on.
An hour later and she was done, had signed everything. The woman looked them over, nodded her approval, and then she gave Charlotte a long appraising look.
"Fraulein Ritter. I was against this appointment. But Herr Gennat overruled me. He seems to see something in you. Try not disappoint him. He is dear to all of us in the Berlin police."
"I won't. Thank you."
Charlotte left and felt like she was walking on air. Gennat asked for her! That had to mean something. Gosh, she hoped she never disappointed him.
But best of all she had money in her pocket. She must have been glowing when she came back to the murder squad because many people gave her nods and looks and smiles and a few introduced themselves. Only Bohm had a sour look for her. Later she heard from Henning and Czerwinski that Gennat had called all the squad staff together. He told them all that Charlotte would be joining them full time, that they were to treat her like a colleague, and if they had a problem with that, they could find another job. Charlotte wished she could hug and kiss the old man, her heart filled with so much love for him right now.
She saw Gereon in his office and entered.
"I'm finished," she said with a grin and a little bounce in her step.
"What?" he asked, hardly looking at her. He was busy strapping his holster and gun on.
"Personnel. I am officially entered into the ranks of the Berlin police murder squad."
He nodded and seemed distracted, looking like he was in another world for some reason.
"Gereon…is all well?"
"Sorry. Good. Did they pay you for your previous work?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"No problem."
"It was more than my rate as a steno/typist."
"I asked them to pay you for overtime. After what happened to you, trying to help me, I'd say you more than deserve it."
She grinned, felt shy, and could not speak, she was so overcome with gratitude.
Gereon seemed to sense her unease so he changed the topic. He looked at her suitcase sitting in a corner. "Yours?"
"Yes. Sorry. I…I am between places. I'll move it soon. I promise."
"If you need more money…"
"No! It's more than enough till pay day. Thank you."
Then his phone rang. He answered. "Hello?...Helga…I'm fine…Sorry…I'll explain when I see you…"
She eased her way out of the office, not wanting to eavesdrop. After she left she saw Gennat waving her over to his office. She entered and he closed the door behind him.
"So…all set?" he asked.
"Yes, Herr Councilor." Gennat was the criminal councilor, and Wendt was the political one, Charlotte knew. She had to keep these ranks straight. Though she had heard Gennat preferred to be called Detective Lieutenant, his normal police rank, or just detective. But she had to be respectful so she gave his highest title.
"Good. There is one problem," Gennat said. "Herr Rath has requested the use of a gun for you."
"Good," she began and then saw the look on his face. "Oh."
"The police master of arms refuses to even think about the idea. And as he is God in his world, as I am in mine, there is little I can do."
"Thank you for trying, Herr Councilor." She tried to sound upbeat but was clearly disappointed. Then she had an idea. "If I become a detective can I have a gun?"
"Of course," he said. "All detectives carry a gun. Except me."
"Oh? Why not?"
He grinned. "I am too old and fat to be going around chasing suspects. I'll leave that to the younger men like Herr Rath. My job is to solve murders. So, now we come to the main reason you are here. Your training. Has Herr Rath explained things?"
"He said I will study with you and Herr Ulrich from records and follow him on cases."
"Good." He reached for a paper on his desk and handed it to her. "Here is a list of books in our police library on the fourth floor. Read them, know them, absorb them."
She scanned the list and saw his name as author of two books. "Your books?" she said in surprise as she pointed the book titles out.
"Yes. Minor tomes in criminal theory and profiling."
"Profiling?"
"I believe, Fraulein…ah…"
"Ritter."
"Yes. Why do I always forget your name? Age, I suppose. Fraulein Ritter. Profiling is the belief that certain types of personalities commit certain crimes against certain people. For example, serial murderers often kill within their own groups, such as their own race, religion, or ethnicity. And sometimes a pattern forms, with a serial killer often using the same technique or weapon, killing at the same time, same area. Or they kill people with the same appearance, and…."
"Ah! I know this!"
"Really?"
"Yes. I worked with Herr Graf cataloging all the old murder files. Just like you said. Same weapon, same style of attack, and so on."
"Very good. So you have some knowledge of this. Perhaps if you have time you can continue with the murder files. There is much more to do. A special project. I will ask for an assistant for you."
"I know someone who can help." Doris always wanted more work.
"Good. Also, try to find information about murderers we have caught. Most have been executed so that will be more difficult. Family history is important. People who come from broken homes, from a history of violence and sexual abuse, they often commit the most heinous crimes."
"Like Fritz Haarmann? You helped catch him I heard." It was a famous serial murder case from a few years ago.
A serious look came over him and he nodded. "The Butcher of Hanover. Killed over two dozen boys and men. Yes, I helped catch him. As nasty as they come. You are not afraid of any of this I hope?"
"No, sir," she replied, trying to sound confident.
"Good. Murder squad may sound romantic, Fraulein Ritter, but I assure you it is an ugly sordid business we are dealing with here."
Then his phone rang and he answered. She was about to leave but he motioned for her to stay. He spoke in short sentences, finished quickly, hung up and then wrote something on a piece of paper.
"So, we will make a training schedule for you and the other assistants. In four months you will have your exam. Meanwhile…your first case."
Gennat handed her the paper. It had an address on it, in Wedding. "One dead, male. Looks like murder. Get Rath and go catch a murderer, Fraulein Ritter!"
Charlotte grinned and raced out of the office, thrilled at having her first official case in the murder squad.
Gereon
They caught him in the rain, half way to the tram stop. Communists, a group of men, with Doctor Volcker, grabbed him in an alley, beat him, threw a sack over his head, put him against a wall, a gun barrel to the back of his head. His own gun was back in the office. After taking his daily injection for his nerves he stupidly took off his Dreyse 1907 and put it in his desk drawer.
Now they had him. As Volcker said they were going to execute him for lying to the German people about May 1, he found only one image came to mind, one face he would truly miss. Not his hated father or dead mother, or his dead brother, who had always overshadowed him in all. Not even Helga or Moritz.
It was her…Charlotte.
BLAM! A shot…but he didn't die!
Screams, yells, running feet in the rain, Volcker shouting for them to run. More shots. Rough hands grabbing him, shoving him in a car, dripping water everywhere, his hat thrown on his lap.
Silence except for the sound of the car tires on wet pavement, rain hitting the roof.
The sack over his head was removed. Sitting opposite him in a large car's rear passenger section was the Armenian, Edgar Kasabian, dressed well as always.
"Herr Rath," he said.
Gereon said nothing, looked at the hand where he had shot Kasabian weeks ago. The bandage was gone. Kasabian saw him looking, flexed his hand.
"Still stiff."
"Why?" Gereon asked quietly. "Twice now you could have killed me or let me be killed."
"Yes, I should have killed you long ago. Some of my men wonder why I haven't."
"I took your blackmail films," Gereon said. "I shot up your restaurant. I shot you. I arrested some of your men at the train. I stopped you from robbing a train car full of gold."
"No gold was found. Only coal. Kardakov lied to me."
"No. He didn't know. No one knew. Not him or the woman who called herself Svetlana Sorokin, the one who sang in your night club. None of them knew where the gold was."
"And you do?" It was said with a condescending tone, mixed with contempt and disbelief.
"No, but I have an idea. The tanker car. It was made of gold, painted to look like an ordinary car."
Kasabian looked at him with wide eyes, then smiled slightly. "Ridiculous. To make a car like that would take such skill. Sorokin…Sorokin…" He got quiet.
"Yes. The Sorokin family made their fortune in heavy machinery. They made railroad cars."
Kasabian remained icily calm. "Proves nothing. And matters not. The train is gone. And the singer? Why didn't she know this? She was their daughter, no?"
"They had no daughters. She might have been their chauffeur's daughter. We'll never know. She's gone."
Now he showed some emotion as he snorted in disgust. "All for nothing. No gold. My best singer gone. Paying a fortune to lawyers to get my men out of lock up. Luckily your two idiot detectives bungled the job. Took all the guns, piled them up. Made a real mess. Who's to say who shot who with what? The state attorney dismissed all charges."
"It doesn't matter. Your men killed soldiers who wanted to destroy our democracy. They won't be missed."
"And you killed your partner," he said with a grin. "How is that going over in the Red Castle?"
"They congratulated me. Bruno killed one of our men to cover up his crimes. Then he tried to kill me and…and…"
"Charlotte Ritter. And you saved her from the lake. Your heroic reputation grows, detective. Such a lovely girl. She told me all about the train."
"If you are trying to put a wedge between us, forget it. I know all."
"But she didn't tell you before you got to the train."
"Because you threatened her family!"
He shrugged. "Really? I can't recall making any threats."
"Leave them alone!"
"Herr Rath, I just saved your life. I have no intention of harming you, or the girl, or her family. You know for someone who almost lost his life ten minutes ago you are very talkative."
"I'm getting used to people trying to kill me. Why haven't you tried?"
"You will soon find out. Meanwhile, that woman. Volcker. She hates you."
"She has good reason to."
"I know you lied on the witness stand to protect your police colleagues."
"So?"
"You were lucky this time. I was sent to pick you up. Arrived just in time. Too close, Herr Rath. One second later…."
"We wouldn't be here, now."
"Yes. Volcker will try again. And she and her friends want this whole city red. That would hinder my businesses. My friends I do business with are also worried. I think it is time she was put away."
"I cannot listen to you speaking of murder, even if it is someone who wants me dead."
He smiled. "A straight arrow to the end. Well, almost. Never you mind about Volcker. We won't kill her. I know enough about her shady medical practice to have her spend some time behind bars."
"I heard she runs a top notch medical service."
"She does. But abortion is still illegal in Germany."
Gereon had not known she performed such services. "I am sure she covered her tracks."
"We'll see."
Gereon knew what that meant. Phony evidence, lying witnesses, trumped up charges, money in someone's pocket. If played right Volcker would go behind bars. He would sleep easier knowing it was so.
Kasabian picked up the sack from the floor. "Put it on. You cannot see where you are going."
"Why? Where am I going?"
"You will soon find out. Do not be alarmed. No harm will come to you. The sack. Please."
Gereon reluctantly put it on. Soon the car stopped. He was led out into the rain with two men by his sides. They went up steps, though a door, inside, no rain. Up more steps, long steps. Down a hall, into a room. He was put in a chair. The men left.
The sack came off. He was in a small room with a small table and two chairs. Opposite him was a man he recognized. The man he saw when he woke up from being drugged in the Pepita Bar. They were alone.
"You. Who are you?" Gereon rasped. He was a thin man with greying hair, a mustache, round wire rimmed glasses, and what looked like burn scars on one side of his face.
"I am Doctor Schmidt. I am here to help you. To cure you of the horrors of war. Will you let me help you?"
Gereon felt calm as the man spoke. His voice was so soothing. "Yes," he said without hesitation…and then the nightmare began.
The Doctor took him back to the war, to how he saved his brother Anno only to have the French separate them as prisoners. But it had been a lie, a lie buried deep in his mind. The Doctor brought out the truth. He had not saved Anno. He had left him to die. He had run away, a coward, a shaker, a pants pisser, a man who was barely in control of his emotions, who needed drugs to get through each day.
And then came the third shock of the week, the worst of all. The Doctor was Anno!
Gereon broke down, cried, hugged his brother. Why didn't he see it before? Why was his mind so clouded? Why…why!
"Why?"' he gasped.
"I know you have questions, Gereon," Anno said as they sat again. He was still so calm.
"We thought…everyone thinks you are dead!" Gereon shouted.
"Yes. Anno Rath is dead."
"No…what? How can you say that?"
"Anno Rath died in the war. I am Doctor Schmidt.'
Gereon felt like his head would explode. "How can you say that?"
"You are not ready to understand yet, Gereon. You must come back to me twice a week. We must delve deeper into your subconscious. Soon you will no longer need drugs to keep you functioning. That is the goal here. To free you of the horrors of war."
He did not understand. "But…Helga…Moritz!"
"They are not mine now. They never were."
"They are your family!"
"I know you and she were lovers before we married."
"I…I'm sorry." He always thought Anno knew but now it was confirmed.
"It was a marriage that should not have been," Anno said. "She was so young. Fifteen years. I was off to war. I was selfish, hoping if I had someone waiting I would survive. But the war erased me of those ideas. I am no longer that man."
Gereon didn't understand what he was babbling about but he knew one thing. He stood. "But we must tell them!"
"No."
"She has been waiting more than ten years!"
"Has she? Waiting for me…while sharing your bed?"
That floored him. He sat again. "Moritz…he thinks you are still alive."
"He is a good boy, I imagine."
"He is. Sometimes I wish he was my son."
"Make him so. Marry Helga."
This was too much. "I…no. I must tell them the truth."
"You would destroy them."
"What?"
"If they find out I have been alive all these years? If they find out I want nothing to do with them? What will that do to their souls? No, better they think I am dead."
"I can't hold this in. I can't. It will break me." He started shaking and Anno stood and hugged him tight.
"No, Gereon, that is why I am here," he whispered. "To help you heal, my brother."
And then he understood. Gereon pulled back and they sat again. "You have been watching out for me."
"Yes."
"Kasabian…"
"One of my patients. He was much like you. Heroin was his cure for the pains. I weaned him off of it. Took him from the abyss of addiction. Now he is a strong confident man."
"A criminal."
"So he is. But I need his support to help others like you and he. And who are we to judge those damaged by war? Society does that enough. Shuns us, ignores our needs. We remind them of our nation's failure. We fought for them and their ideas. Millions of Germans marched off to war. Some came back. All who survived were damaged in mind or body or both. And our country wants to forget about us. It is they I serve now. Our brothers in arms."
Gereon had no argument for that. "I…I need to think."
"Go home."
"No…I can't face them…yet."
"There is a bed nearby. Go, rest. We will talk in the morning."
But he couldn't sleep until late, maybe got an hour or two of rest. When he woke up, no one was there. He was still so tired. He walked around, in a fog of his mind. He found a large marbled hallway below a long flight of stairs. An old man sweeping the floors saw him, showed him the entrance.
"Where am I?" Gereon asked. The man told him it was an institute for the war veterans. To help them heal.
"Dr. Schmidt does wonders."
"Where is he?"
The man shrugged. "Where he needs to be."
Gereon stepped outside. A car was there, waiting, a driver by its side. "Dr. Schmidt was called away. He asked me to drive you wherever you need to go," the driver said.
"Berlin police headquarters." He was late.
As they drove through the morning traffic he thought on all Anno had said…and he knew he was right. He could not tell Helga and Moritz…not yet at least.
His stomach rumbled but he had no time for food. He thanked the driver and raced into headquarters. There he got another shock, seeing Charlotte Ritter, on the lift going up. He was so stunned, reminded of her face being his last thought, he could barely speak to her. But as she left he did remember one thing. Gennat had told him yesterday there was to be a press conference at 11 for the Benda case.
But it was not to be. They would miss it. They had a case. A murder in Wedding.
As they drove through the streets Gereon took stock of his team, trying to keep his mind off Anno's revelations. Photographer Reinhold Graf was driving, he was in the passenger seat, and squeezed in the back were Henning and Czerwinski with Charlotte seated between them. He thought they might need a bigger car next time. Or two.
Charlotte had a big grin on, perhaps happy to have her first real murder case.
Henning looked at her. "This one likes death I think, boss."
"What?" Charlotte said. "No. Just…it's exciting."
"Wait till you see the blood," Czerwinski added. "No vomiting on the crime scene."
"I won't."
"Easy, men." Gereon told them. He looked in the mirror at Charlotte. "We will ease into this, okay? Anytime you feel uncomfortable…or…"
"My parents both worked in a slaughterhouse," Charlotte said. "I know the sight and smell of blood. I'll be fine."
"Good," Gereon answered and no more was said about it.
They arrive at the destination. The scene was a domestic fight gone from bad to worse. In an apartment building courtyard sat an old woman in a wooden chair, with two policemen flanking her. She had blood on her hands and her house dress. Some was on her face as well. She also looked like she had a bruised left eye. Tears fell from her eyes but she made no sounds. A third policeman saw them and as he walked up to them they all flash their badges.
"Rath, homicide," Gereon said. "What do we have?"
"Fight between husband and wife," the policeman said. He nodded to the old woman. "Lisa Muller, the wife. Franz the husband is upstairs in the kitchen. Third floor. 302."
"Who called it in?" Gereon asked.
"A neighbor boy came running to the station. We are only a block away."
Gereon nodded and set his team to tasks. "Henning, get the wife's statement, if she's talking. Czerwinski, see if any neighbors witnessed it. Graf, get some pictures of the wife first, then come to the crime scene. Charlotte, with me."
They walked upstairs, following the policeman who had spoken to Gereon. On the third floor landing some people were hanging about, staring into number 302, the door wide open. A fourth policeman blocked the door.
"Rath, homicide," he said.
"Ritter, homicide," Charlotte said as well as they showed the fourth policeman their badges. He stepped away from the door entrance.
"I knew she would do it someday," said an old woman behind them.
Gereon stopped and turned around. "What's this? You know what happened here?"
The old woman nodded. "I do. We heard them fighting. Then came a terrible scream. I went in and took Lisa out. Franz is in there…dead. I sent my grandson for the police."
"Good. Please go downstairs and tell the detectives what you told me." The old woman and a young boy, perhaps her grandson, left the scene.
Gereon took out a pair of crime scene gloves and put them on and Charlotte did the same. "Okay," he said. "Shall we?"
"I…I don't know what to do," she admitted.
"We follow the Gennat method. Five steps. First, examine the crime scene. Just look, touch nothing, see what the scene can tell us."
"Okay."
They entered the apartment. It was an old building, late 19th century, Gereon guessed. Run down. Modern gas pipes ran along the walls, a small bathroom was to one side of a corridor, followed by living room and bedroom doors…then a kitchen. Franz Muller, an older man, a bit heavy, was laid out face up on the kitchen table, arms and legs hanging over the sides. He was dressed in a white undershirt and brown pants, no socks or shoes, a huge knife sticking out of his chest. Pools of blood were on him, on the table, and on the floor. His eyes were open and staring.
"Tell me what you see," he said in a calm voice to Charlotte.
"A dead man…on a table…a knife in his chest. Lots of blood." Her voice was calm and steady.
"Good. What else?"
She stared. "Food, on the table…broken dishes…scattered cutlery…a cutting board on the counter…bread loaf, two slices of bread. Maybe she was cutting the bread for breakfast."
"Yes. And?"
She stared, was silent…Gereon was about to speak when she did first. "His clothing. No shirt, no socks, no shoes…maybe he was not working today. Or unemployed."
"We can find out that easily enough. Very good. Now, step two. Find any evidence, but do not touch it. Mark it and take photos first, collect it afterwards. What is evidence?"
"The knife, obviously."
"Yes. What else?"
She stepped around the blood pools, looking carefully, bending down, sniffing. He bent as well, and they saw it at the same time. A half-liter sized whiskey bottle, on the floor, under the table by the wall. The top off, a small bit of amber liquid inside, the floor wet around it, the smell of alcohol in the air.
"He was drinking," Charlotte said. "Or both of them were."
"Good." They stood. "Step three, look for fingerprints. We'll wait for the crime scene team to arrive. Where should they look?"
"The knife…and the bottle."
"Yes. Step four, question witnesses. Which we will do in a moment. And step five, remove the body for autopsy. After the crime scene team finishes. Understand?"
"Got it."
"Okay, theories. What happened?"
"The wife has a black eye," Charlotte said.
"Yes, I saw that."
"The neighbor said they were fighting. Maybe not the first time. Loud enough for neighbors to hear."
"Go on."
"The wife had enough. He was drunk or both were. He hit her, she stabbed him. She was cutting the bread, had the knife in hand."
"It sounds plausible. Very good." She grinned a bit but then it fell.
"Gereon…I know I looked happy about this case. Now, seeing them…" But she had no words for what she was feeling.
"It always involves people," Gereon told her gently. "People whose lives have just been destroyed. We should never enjoy this work too much."
"I can see why now."
Herr Graf arrived with his camera. "Detective, may I?"
"All yours," Gereon said. "There is a bottle under the table. Get that as well."
An hour later they were done and the crime scene team arrived to check for prints and to remove the body to the morgue.
Henning and Czerwinski had questioned ten people from the building and all said the same. Constant fights, things thrown, her with bruises every now and then.
As they waited for the crime scene team, Gereon questioned the wife and she said what Charlotte had theorized. The wife basically confessed to them. She was mad. Her husband was a lazy bum. No work for a year. She had to work two jobs. He drank all day on her money. He hit her when the mood struck him. Today she had a drink with him trying to be friendly, to calm herself before work. But he was a mean drunk, called her a whore, worthless, couldn't give him a son, and so on. Something in her snapped, she said, after he hit her. Before she knew it, the knife was in his body.
The old neighbor confirmed it was a constant source of their fights, the wife being barren. A childless home, a drunk husband, a browbeaten wife…a perfect catalyst for murder.
The crime scene team needed her bloody dress as evidence and so Charlotte, as the only woman of the police present, went inside to keep an eye on her while she changed into clean clothing in the neighbor's home.
"How was she?" Henning asked as they waited for Charlotte to return.
"Perfect," Gereon said. "Got it all."
"Watch out for your job," Czerwinski said to his partner.
"And you as well," Henning shot back.
Later in the car they headed back to headquarters. "So…who gets to write this up?" Henning asked.
"I will," Charlotte volunteered.
The old detectives traded sly looks. "Fine," said Henning.
"Good," added Czerwinski. "You need practice."
Gereon stared at them in the mirror, knowing what they were up to. "You two help her, show her how it's done."
"Yes, boss," they reluctantly said as one.
Graf looked in the mirror at Charlotte. "First case…solved already."
She nodded, less enthusiastic than earlier. "It was…good. Easier than I thought it would be."
"We got lucky," said Gereon said as he lit a cigarette. "They all aren't like that."
"A confession at the crime scene," Henning said. "Perfect."
"The best," added Czerwinski.
"What will happen to her?" Charlotte asked.
"Life," said Henning.
"No," Czerwinski disagreed. "The axe for her."
"What?" Charlotte said in surprise. "He hit her, often. For years it sounds like."
"If she gets a good lawyer, life," Gereon said. "Maybe less."
"Seems a bit too much no matter," Charlotte said in disgust. "Seems unfair."
"It's the law," Gereon said.
"Oh," was all she said and was silent the rest of the drive.
Gereon knew what she was thinking. What would happen to her friend, Greta Overbeck, who helped murder two people in cold blood? If this poor housewife might get the life or the axe for killing her abusive husband, what would Greta get?
Greta
Greta was getting used to the prison routine. Wake up at 7 AM. Make bed, get dressed. Wash face and brush teeth in cell sink. Cold water only. Step outside cell when guard unlocked door. Roll call by section guard leader. Go to bathroom at the end of the hall on their floor. Wait in line to use toilets, then wash face again with hot water, all done quickly. A bath once a week, she was told, done by sections. Almost 150 women were in prison here, she later guessed. Everything was wait and hurry.
Next was breakfast. Bread, jam, tea, some oat porridge. Then work. Some women worked in the kitchen, some worked as floor cleaners, some worked in the supply area, and some worked in a small factory that collected and repaired clothing and shoes for the poor and orphans. When Greta told them she could sew well she was sent here. It was good work, and helped to pass the time.
Noon was lunch. Usually soup, sauerkraut, bread, and more tea. Then afternoon exercise. One hour in the yard, some sun and fresh air, unless it rained. Then back to work. At 6PM supper. Maybe some potatoes, or peas and carrots, a bit of meat if lucky, or fish. More bread and tea. No dessert, ever. Then back to cells. Nothing to do unless one had some books or writing material. Greta was given a Bible, nothing more. She was hardly religious but read it out of sheer boredom. Lights out was at 10 PM.
Slowly she got to know some other prisoners. They all knew who she was it seemed. The mad bomber, she heard one whisper about her the first morning as she sat at breakfast, terrified, not knowing what would happen. Child killer, someone else said, loudly. Some gave her evil looks. Many were mothers, and a child killer was the lowest of the low in prison she would learn.
On the second day an older woman prisoner sat across from her at lunch. She was larger than most, with dark hair and large forearms and rough hands. The other prisoners sitting nearby scurried away with their soup bowls to other tables.
"Well. What happened?" she asked Greta.
"Sorry?"
"Look. Some here want to kill you before the state gets a chance. So tell me it all, so I can shut these hens up and we can have peace in here, okay?"
"Who are you?"
"Martha. I run things in here. You want some chocolate, I am your woman. You want a bottle, ask. It costs, but we can work that out. So, now you know who I am and what I do. And you are Greta Overbeck, child killer. Now out with it."
So Greta told her it all, and soon the whole prison knew…and no one bothered her much after that. Duped by men, was the word. Tricked by Nazis. Made a fool and accomplice. Many of the prisoners knew that feeling.
The prison director called her to her office a few days after Greta arrived. Greta was taken in by a burly guard who stood by the door the whole time.
"So, Fraulein Overbeck," the Director said. "Fitting in well?"
"Yes, madam."
"Good. We must complete your intake forms. But first, a lawyer has been appointed by the state. He should be here tomorrow."
"I don't want a lawyer. I confessed."
"Yes. But the state insists on parading you in court and therefore you need a lawyer. A least for sentencing. Do you understand?"
"Yes, madam."
"Good. Now, family. Do you wish us to notify anyone of your being here?"
"No." Greta's pregnancy out of wedlock had caused an irreparable riff with her family. This would make it worse.
"No one?"
"No one."
"Well, then let us move on…"
"Madam? May I make a request?"
"What is it?"
"There is someone I do not wish to ever see. But she might come here looking for me."
"Who is it?"
"Detective Charlotte Ritter of the Berlin police."
"A woman…detective?"
"Yes. Charlotte Ritter."
The Director wrote down the name. "May I ask why?"
"I don't wish to say. Sorry."
"Very well."
They spent some more time completing some personal information forms and then Greta was sent off to work. As she sewed some men's shirts, she thought on how Charlotte had abandoned her. How she had so flippantly dismissed Greta's attempt to talk to her that day she and Rath came to the Benda home. How she had needed someone to talk to, about Fritz, about Otto, about it all. Charlotte had abandoned her. And Greta never wanted to see her again.
Gennat
You wanted the case, it's yours, Gennat thought as he looked at Wendt squirm. They were in the great hall, sort of a classroom, with blackboards and rising tiers of wooden desks. It was mainly used for teaching but it also served as a useful press conference room. And the press were here in their dozens, clamoring for answers.
Gennat and Wendt had walked in together, he the rumpled balding short fat man standing by the tall handsome aristocratic Wendt. He supposed Wendt had expected to take the spotlight, was in his best suit, neat and trim. But it was Gennat they all shouted to.
"Herr Criminal Councilor Gennat!" many shouted.
"Who killed August Benda?"
"Was it Greta Overbeck?"
"Have other arrests been made?"
Gennat raised his hands for silence and he got it. "My good ladies and gentlemen of the press. I am no longer in charge of this case. Political Councilor Wendt has this serious duty. Direct all questions to him."
Question him they did, to his great discomfort. He was not used to them, despised them. Gave short, curt answers, told them nothing they wanted to know, and left after five minutes, with a glare to Gennat.
Gennat found an angry Wendt waiting for him outside. "You deal with those animals from now on."
"As you wish, Colonel. I will have to be kept up to date on the Benda case."
"Very well."
"So. Any progress?"
"We are searching for the two men she says helped her. But I think she may be lying."
Gennat stared at him in disbelief. "You really think Fraulein Overbeck constructed and placed a bomb in his desk by herself?"
Wendt hedged, then shook his head. "No. Most likely not. But this story of Nazis dressed as Communists. Sounds like an attempt to discredit one or both groups."
"Someone helped the girl."
"She confessed to her part in it all. She will get what she deserves."
"Meaning?"
"I am sure the state will ask for the death penalty."
"Perhaps," Gennat said. "Though a repentant remorseful confessed killer is often given life."
"We'll see. Good day."
No, he was not a policeman. And he seemed a terrible politician. Gennat knew why. He came from a wealthy family with lofty connections. He was raised to be a soldier, an officer, and expected people to do as he said. But crime was not something you could order around. It had subtle nuisances and took a patient skilled hand to reign it in and find the truth. Wendt would never do that.
When he returned to his office he had a short time to go over some files of unsolved cases. Then Herr Ulrich from records arrived. A tall thin man with bulging eyes and wire rimmed glasses, Ulrich was a thorn in Gennat's side. He had an overbearing sense of superiority and thought his records department was given less credit than it deserved in solving cases. But he did good work, so Gennat tolerated his personality quirks.
"I have analyzed the bomb remains from Herr Benda's home," Ulrich told him.
"This is Councilor Wendt's case now."
"I told him what I found. He seemed disinterested and told me to tell you my findings as well."
Good. At least Wendt was easily sharing information now. "So, what did you find?"
"Common dynamite was used. Available at many mines and construction sites."
"Easy to steal and difficult to trace."
"Yes."
"And the device?" Gennat asked.
"Appears to have been triggered by someone opening the desk. I suspect a contact fuse. The desk drawer opens, an attached string or wire is pulled, a breaker is removed, the two separated sides contact each other, the circuit is complete, a charge is sent from a battery, the dynamite explodes."
Gennat knew how a contact fuse bomb worked but he also knew Ulrich liked showing off how smart he was so he let him conclude. "Have we seen this before?" he asked.
"I have read of such devices used in the war, booby traps left behind in abandoned trenches. But not in a murder case. No, Herr Councilor."
"I thought not. Any chance of fingerprints?"
"None on the material we recovered."
"Good. Thank you."
Ulrich stood there waiting for something else it seemed. "Yes?" Gennat asked.
"I have been informed that my new detective exam class has a woman."
"Yes. So?"
"Do you think she should be there? I mean, a woman's place…"
"Stop. This is not open for discussion." He knew what he would say. "She will join the new class. You will teach her as you teach the men. No special treatment. And no harsh treatment either. Do you understand?"
Ulrich didn't like it but nodded. "Yes, Herr Councilor." Then he was gone.
A short while later Rath and his team arrived in the office. After talking off his hat and coat Rath headed straight for Gennat's office. Gennat waved him inside. Rath sat and lit a cigarette.
"How was it?"
"Domestic fight," Rath told him. "Long suffering beaten wife finally snapped and stabbed her husband. She confessed on scene. She is in holding now."
"Well, a sad day for that family."
"Yes."
"And the girl? How was she?"
"Good. Very good. Fraulein Ritter has a feel for it. She will write up the report. I will check it, of course."
"Send me all the details of the case for the statistics report."
"Yes, sir."
Rath stood and went to the door. "And Rath?"
"Yes?"
"Go home. You look like hell. Get some rest."
Rath sighed heavily. "Yes, sir."
Kardakov
They took him to the Soviet embassy. As the car they bundled him in drove through the Parisian streets the three agents talked about the French whores they had and how much they cost and other such trivial nonsense. To Kardakov's mind they were all capitalist loving traitors to the revolution.
"So," one said to him with an elbow nudge. "You had the blond?"
"What?"
"The singer. You gave her the good one, yeah?"
The other two laughed as Kardakov remained silent. "I would like to give her it," said one.
"Na," said the third agent. "She's too cold. Bitch will freeze it off."
They were taking about the woman he thought he loved and who he thought loved him. Kardakov shut out their banter for the rest of the trip.
He was dragged into the embassy by a basement door, taken to a small room where a photographer and a camera waited. They sat him in a wooden chair and one of the agents grinned at him. "Smile, asshole."
"Why are you taking my picture?"
"For the bosses back home, scum," said another. "And your new passport."
"I have a passport," Kardakov said.
"No, no, won't do."
"Why not?"
"Never mind. A new passport, a new name for you. Now look at the camera."
He did so and they took his picture. Then the beatings began.
He did not know how much time had passed. Hours, days. In the dark cell there was no time. His face was bruised, his teeth loose, his nose most likely broken.
After the first beating he was tied to a chair and a member of the embassy staff came in. He told Kardakov he was a captain of the OGPU, the Soviet state police.
"The bosses want to know about the traitor Trotsky," he began.
"Go to hell," Kardakov said and then more beatings came.
After more of this all he told them was Trotsky was in Istanbul.
"We know, idiot," said the captain. "Where in Istanbul? An address? Who works for him? Who helps him?"
Kardakov shook his head. "I was never told. We were cells, divided, secrets kept from us. You know your part, nothing else. You know how it works!"
"Where are the other cells? What cities? What addresses? Who are the leaders?"
But he knew nothing. So on and on it went, for hours. He was tired, hungry, filthy, weak. Soon he would beg for mercy.
Then it stopped. A hot meal came. A doctor saw him, tended his wounds. He was given a shower and clean clothing. He knew why. It was time. To go to Moscow. And there he would die.
The only way to get there was by train. Across Europe. That was a long train ride. He knew what he had to do. Somehow escape.
His new passport was ready. Train tickets were purchased. He heard them speaking. They would change trains in Berlin. He knew Berlin, spoke German, knew people there, knew enough to get away. It had to be Berlin…or he would die.