Dead Woods (6 page)

“Anything else? Have you noticed any adolescents around here lately?”

“Adolescents?” Behnke scratched his head. “There’s a high school over there, next to the church, and sometimes students come here—biology lessons, out in nature. Sometimes kids in a PE class.”

“Actually, I was wondering about . . . well, teenagers up to no good.”

Behnke laughed. “Here? Voluntarily? No, there’s way too much nature here. There are bugs and worms and mud.” He shook his head. “If you knew what I have to listen to when I have to supervise a group of kids every now and then. Most of them would much rather go into the city center or hang out in the pedestrian zone over there.” He made a vague gesture toward the north, where there was a train station and a small shopping street. “None of them want to get dirty.”

Berg scrutinized the forest ranger. He appeared very open and likable, but Max’s police training made sure he didn’t take him at face value. “Do you live around here?”

“Yes. In Bondewald, right at the edge of the forest.”

“And where were you last night between eleven and three?”

“At home. My girlfriend was there, too.” He nodded. “Yes, I could have made it here in a very short time. But it’s too far away to have heard anything.”

Max got the name and address of the girlfriend. “I’d still like to talk with your employees. Maybe one of them noticed something.”

The ranger slowly shook his head. “I’d doubt it. We’re working at the other end of the woods right now. I myself haven’t been in this corner for some time. And whether they’d notice transplanted plants . . . Besides”—he raised his arms—“my colleagues are all gone by now. The weekend and public employees—the cards are stacked against you on a Friday afternoon.”

Max frowned. He was aware of that problem. He could, of course, try to reach the people at home, but that was only worth the effort if there was a reasonable chance of finding out something new. He shrugged with a sigh. “I guess it can wait till Monday. If you or one of your people remember anything before then, please call me right away.”

He handed Tobias Behnke his business card and looked around once more. The leaves of the trees formed a light green roof in the sunlight. Even though it was a hot day, here, in partial shadow, the temperature was pleasant. He heard gurgling water from not more than twenty yards away. That must be the Kollau, a little brook that begins somewhere in the north of Hamburg and flows into the Tarpenbek, one of the many Alster tributaries. Right behind the Kollau was a railway embankment, and an endlessly long freight train rumbled by at that exact moment. It was impossible to talk for quite some time.

Behnke noticed that Max was annoyed by the racket and shrugged. “We’re in the city, after all,” he said when the train had passed and he could again talk without shouting. Then his face lit up. “Wait a moment. I just remembered. They’re mapping and indexing the entire area right now.”

Max tilted his head. He had no idea what that meant.

“In all of metropolitan Hamburg, they check flora and fauna every ten to fifteen years. I received a notice from the Ministry of Urban Development and the Environment last week that it’s the Niendorfer Gehege’s turn now.”

“So, how’s that done?”

“As far as I know, they send a representative, who takes an inventory of everything that’s here. I haven’t seen him yet and nobody has contacted me so far.”

“It would mean that if anyone would notice a replanted plant, it would be this staff member?”

“That’s what I’d assume.”

“Was there a phone number in this notice?”

“I’m sure. Come with me. I’ll find the notice for you. But,” Behnke said on the way back to the forestry compound, “you won’t reach anyone there, either, this time of day.”

Tobias Behnke was right, of course. Before leaving the area of the Niendorfer Gehege, Max stopped on the shoulder and dialed the number the ranger had given him. Nobody answered. It was almost five thirty by then and he assumed nobody would be at police headquarters, either. He was wrong. When he dialed Lina’s number, she picked up immediately. He could hear the clicking of her keyboard in the background.

“Hi. You’re still there?”

“Thirty-five,” she responded.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m dealing with the thirty-fifth number. Remember? The list.”

“Poor soul,” Max said, watching a group of joggers passing him on a path in the woods. They were all in good shape and their running style wasn’t bad, either. Arms and legs pumping without wasted movement. “Have you found anything?”

“Maybe. A man remembers Philip Birkner and the woman because both left the Waldschänke shortly after him. He was standing in the parking lot with his wife, and they watched the couple tottering into the woods. Apparently they had to hold on to each other to avoid falling down, but they were in high spirits and giggled the entire time.”

“Could he give you a decent description?”

“No, but he heard the woman tell Birkner that she wanted to show him her rod.”

Max frowned. “Show him her rod? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you have an easier question? I double-checked, but the witness was absolutely sure that
she
wanted to show him
her
rod and not the other way around. He told me he even discussed it with his wife, whether the woman might have buried her curling iron somewhere in the forest.”

Lina was quiet and Max again heard the low clicking sound and then the more energetic clack of the “Enter” key. Then she yawned. “And what have you come up with?”

“Not much. Birkner’s former employee, Frank Jensen, wasn’t home. His wife seems to have left him a short while ago. But my witness to this is a demented eighty-six-year-old who even forgot that she had a great-grandson.” He looked out the window at all the green surrounding him. “Just now, I had a nice conversation with the forest ranger. Can you imagine having the forest as your workplace and being required to live there? An old forestry lodge as your official residence, in theory at least—how sweet is that?”

“Is it envy I hear? I haven’t seen this side of you.” Something rustled on the line. Lina was probably eating a sandwich out of a paper bag. “But I’m sure you didn’t call to wax lyrical about your new dream job or to feel sorry about the great-grandchildren of demented ladies.”

Max laughed. How well she knew him. “Right you are. I wanted to ask whether you’d come with me tomorrow morning to pay Frank Jensen a visit. His neighbor, the aforementioned demented lady, said that he’s constantly drunk these days. Under the circumstances, we might find him home early tomorrow.”

“How early?” Lina made no effort to hide her suspicion.

“Around eleven?”

“That’s reasonable.”

“Good, then. I’ll pick you up.”

Chapter 6

The duplex in the small side street didn’t look any friendlier today than it had yesterday. At least there was sunshine yesterday. Now the sky was overcast and a cold wind was blowing. Lina was in an altogether different mood, too. Contrary to yesterday, she felt almost perfect today. She had set the alarm clock for nine, taken a long shower, run out for fresh rolls, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. Downing two cups of coffee had steeled her against anything the world might throw at her.

They were standing at the door and Max rang the bell. No response. He rang again and, since nothing stirred, lifted his hand to knock. He had hardly touched the wood when the door swung inward, squeaking quietly. It hadn’t been shut all the way.

Max and Lina looked at each other, not sure what to do. Then they nodded almost simultaneously and Max pushed the door completely open.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Herr Jensen, are you home?”

Both stood and listened. Nothing. A musty, biting odor drifted toward them from inside the house. Max slowly took one step forward and Lina followed.

They almost stumbled over a pile of shoes in the hallway. One pair of dress shoes with leather soles looked quite good even though they were covered with a thin layer of dust; a couple of sneakers and a pair of heavy hiking boots, with dried mud on the soles. Frank Jensen wore size 44, which fit perfectly with tracks at the crime scene.

The living room was completely empty: no sofa, no shelves, and no wall unit. A lonely chair and an old TV on the floor. Next to the kitchen was a small home office. A computer sat on a table, which was cluttered with a layer of notes and letters, some of which had slid to the ground. Lina recognized the district court logo on one of the letters and the heading “Eviction Notice.” The computer keyboard was dusty and seemed not to have been used for some time. From the workplace one had a beautiful view of the little garden with old trees and a few low-maintenance bushes. The lawn hadn’t been mowed for weeks and not a single flower was in sight. Lina looked away.

The camping table in the kitchen was strewn with breadcrumbs and dirty dishes. A real kitchen table had probably stood there once, with room for a family of four. Now only this rickety substitute and a stool were here. The counters were stained.

Max loudly called Frank Jensen’s name again. They listened but still heard nothing. Max motioned to the narrow stairs leading to the upper floor. The uppermost step lay in darkness, but when Max switched on the light, the upstairs hallway was dimly lit by a 40-watt lightbulb. It was quiet; only muffled traffic noise was audible. There was a low hum that Lina hadn’t noticed before. Max went up slowly and when he was upstairs, Lina followed. The humming became louder. Lina was halfway up the stairs when the house suddenly went pitch-black. She managed to stifle a cry before realizing that the bulb must have burned out. Max exhaled audibly. Then he groped for one of the closed doors and pushed it open. Pallid daylight lit the hallway and Lina climbed the rest of the steps.

The door Max had pushed open led to what had been a child’s room. The wallpaper showed animals and on the floor was a play rug with images of streets on it. The room was empty except for a screwdriver on the windowsill and a crumpled plastic bag in a corner. A little girl must have once lived in the next room. Hundreds of replicas of Princess Lillifee laughed from the walls and the floor was soft, plush, and pink. This room, too, was empty.

When Max and Lina were back in the gloomy, narrow hall, they heard groaning. It could also have been a mixture of snoring, coughing, and yawning. Lina cautiously pushed down the door handle of the room the sound had come from. A mattress was on the floor under the window and on it, under a thin wool blanket, one could see the contours of a body. The head with shaggy hair and a beard that had long outgrown a fashionable designer stubble was turned slightly toward the door. The man lay on his back, had one hand over his eyes, and was breathing through his half-open mouth.

“Herr Jensen?” she said quietly.

His nose twitched. He scratched it as if he was about to sneeze. He moaned quietly.

“Herr Jensen?” Lina repeated, slightly louder.

Startled, the man flung his hand from his eyes, raised his head, and squinted at Lina. It was difficult to guess his age—somewhere between thirty and fifty. Spittle had accumulated in the corner of his mouth.

Max followed Lina into the room, which once must have been the master bedroom. One could still see the marks of a wardrobe and of a large bed on the carpet. The window was closed, and the room reeked of an unwashed body and booze.

“Herr Jensen, I’m Max Berg from Major Crimes, Hamburg. This is my colleague, Lina Svenson.”

The man stared at them without saying anything.

“The door was ajar and you didn’t react when we rang the bell.” Max addressed him patiently, but the man still didn’t move.

“We have a few questions we’d like to ask you. Would you mind getting up and coming downstairs with us?”

Frank Jensen frowned, still seemingly confused about the presence of two strangers in his bedroom. He gazed from Max to Lina and then from her head to her feet.

“I’ll wait downstairs,” she said and left the room.

Shortly afterward, the old wooden floorboards were creaking above her, and she heard low mumbling and swearing and then loud rumbling when Frank Jensen stumbled down the staircase. Max followed him silently.

Frank Jensen shuffled into the kitchen, paying no attention to his visitors. His jeans almost slipped down his hips and were in dire need of washing. The T-shirt looked as if it had been pulled out of a donation basket. Lina could smell yesterday’s drink on him and knew that he hadn’t taken a shower for quite some time.

Jensen claimed the only stool in the kitchen, forcing Lina and Max to stand. Still silent, Jensen fumbled around on the table until he found a pack of cigarettes. His hands were trembling when he lit one. It was sticky in the room and Max, without asking, went to the kitchen window and flung it open. Jensen didn’t even lift his head.

“Herr Jensen, we’re investigating a murder that happened the night before last,” Max said. There was no reaction. Jensen was balancing on his stool, swaying a little. “You know Philip Birkner, don’t you?” Jensen finally raised his head and looked at Max, who said, “He was murdered some time late Thursday night or early Friday morning.”

Jensen burped and then had hiccups that made his belly shake. It took a while for Lina to notice that it wasn’t hiccups—the man was laughing. Eventually he inhaled deeply and said, “Good riddance.”

Lina and Max looked at each other.

“Herr Jensen, I have to ask you where you were Thursday night between eleven and three.”

Jensen burped again. Then he frowned as if he were thinking hard. “Here,” he said. His voice sounded washed up, as if he had woken up just as drunk as he was when he fell asleep. “In some dive first, and then here.”

“In which bar?” Max asked patiently.

“Dunno. Was hopping around,” Jensen replied with another frown. “At the Almira, I think. And at Azaley and at the Tropicana. Or in that joint, what’s the name, in that street, the one near the market. Oh, man.” He wiped his face.

“Were you alone?” Max asked.

The man nodded. “In the Almira I met Dirk, or is it Dieter? No, he’s called Dirk. I’ve seen him there a few times. Or was it at the Tropicana?” He hiccupped again and then started to nod and seemed unable to stop nodding. “Philip, that son of a bitch,” he finally said in a halting voice. “He’s the one responsible for all this.” He made a vague gesture that included the table, the beer bottles, the kitchen, and the entire house that no longer was a home. “That shithead ruined me. It was all perfect. I thought,
super, finally a great job
. And then . . . bang! No chance. Herr Birkner screwed me, screwed me good. He looked for a fall guy and found me.” He hiccupped and checked whether there was some beer left in one of the bottles on the table, but Max was already searching for a glass in the empty cupboards. He filled it with tap water and handed it to Frank Jensen. Jensen emptied it in one gulp and then shook his head. “And the guy is dead now, you tell me?”

He seemed to notice Max for the first time. Then he looked at Lina.

“Who was it?” Jensen asked.

When neither of them answered, he started to laugh—scratchy and coughing, as if his body no longer knew how to do it properly.

“You think I did it?” He snorted. “Well, super, that’s all I need. But hey, it’s all full of shit, anyway. Job gone, wife gone, house gone—maybe I did do it. Who knows?” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, he deserved it!” And then he shook his head.

“Herr Jensen, I have to ask you to come with us to police headquarters.” Max paused. “Would you like to change clothes before we go?”

Jensen looked at himself and seemed to notice the stains on his pants and T-shirt only now. He slumped down and nodded silently.

“Come along.” Max helped him get up and go upstairs. Lina waited in front of the closed bathroom door while Frank Jensen freshened up. In the bedroom, Max discovered a shelf with a few T-shirts and shirts, and on a hook in the wall two suits, still in the plastic wrap from the dry cleaner’s. He took out one of the suits and folded it over his arm. In the other hand he held a white shirt—he looked like a butler.

The only sound from the bathroom was running water. Max looked at Lina and she knocked on the door. “Herr Jensen?” she said loudly. No answer. She pushed the door handle down. The door was locked. After glancing briefly at Max, she ran down the stairs and into the garden. She looked up. The bathroom window was open, and a naked figure was clinging to the gutter at the corner of the house. Lina didn’t say anything because she didn’t want to scare the man. Considering his condition, Frank Jensen was descending the downspout with astonishing agility. He jumped the last three feet, crouched, and couldn’t get up again.

Lina approached him slowly. “Why don’t you just stay here, Herr Jensen? You can’t go anywhere, naked as you are.”

She took his right arm to help him get up, but he tried to shake her off, lost his balance, and remained bent over on the ground.

Max had joined them by then, still carrying the suit. “That wasn’t a good idea, Herr Jensen,” he said and sounded as if he really regretted it.

“I know. Sorry,” mumbled the naked man, trying to cover himself.

Lina and Max pulled him up together. Frank Jensen did not resist, but he also made no effort to help them. Assisted by Max, he put on the trousers and the shirt, and Lina draped the jacket over his shoulders. He was pale and bloated, as if he had subsisted on beer and fast food for a long time.

“Come along,” Max said to the man.

Lina ran back in to get a bag with his used clothes, the hiking boots, and the one pair of good leather shoes. She saw a key on a hook in the hallway and used it to lock up.

A note from Hanno waited for them in their office at headquarters. “The autopsy report is in. Come over as soon as you’re back.” While Lina brought the bag with Jensen’s clothes and shoes to forensics, Max went to their boss’s office and knocked on the open door. Hanno looked up, as did Sebastian, who was sitting across from him.

“So, how did it go?” Hanno asked.

“We brought Frank Jensen in.” Max took one of the empty chairs. “After we roused him from sleep. We’ll try to talk with him again later, but he has to sleep it off first.” He didn’t mention that the suspect had attempted to flee. “Lina’s at forensics. They should send a team over there and look around.”

Hanno nodded. “Good. Sotny mailed us his autopsy report,” he said and waved several pages of computer printout. “Happy to say, it’s neatly done. Birkner received several blows to the head, but with different objects. Two of the knocks were probably done with a thick club—they did no damage. Just scratches. At least three blows were done with a hard, blunt object, maybe a steel pipe or something similar, and one of them was deadly.” Hanno expertly skipped over the medical terminology that was not directly relevant. “He has one more injury, a tear of a small artery in the left scrotum that caused significant swelling.” He grimaced. “Not life threatening, but extremely painful.”

“In other words, someone gave him a mighty kick in the balls,” clarified Sebastian.

“Who was kicked in the balls?” Lina asked from the door. “You?”

“Philip Birkner,” Hanno said before briefly reiterating to Lina what he had told his colleagues.

“Anything else?” Max asked.

“Nothing else. Birkner was in the best of health, seems to have worked out regularly and watched his diet. No illnesses. All internal organs and lab results that Sotny has evaluated so far are negative. However, he had a blood alcohol level of .18 at the time of death.”

“That squares with what the servers at the Waldschänke told us,” Lina said.

“He had eaten a salami pizza, most of which he vomited, though. It’s about four to five hours between the meal and Birkner’s death.” Hanno looked at Lina. “Do you know when he ate the pizza? Did they mention anything at the Waldschänke?”