Grave Intent Read online

  He made his way back to the lobby and was scanning a directory sign when a young woman came up next to him. She was three heads shorter and wore a tight green T-shirt that accentuated her athletic body. But her serious expression and her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail made her seem forbidding and severe. Of course, the pistol and pepper spray only added to his impression. Women with weapons spooked him.

  “You look a little lost,” she said in a kind voice. “Are you new here?”

  Chandu considered making a sarcastic remark but then realized how he must appear to this woman. He was wearing biker boots, torn jeans, and a dark leather jacket. Add the tribal tattoos on his forehead, and he must seem as foreign to this female cop as she was to him.

  “I am.” He smiled widely. “Thanks for asking. Could you tell me where Jan Tommen conducts his meetings?”

  “Aha, you must be that Chandu fellow.”

  “Yep, I am that Chandu fellow.” He wondered if there was a poster with his image and name on it somewhere in the station.

  “I heard about you.”

  “You’re not the only one.” Chandu had no idea what Jan had been saying about him, but it didn’t exactly help his line of work when every cop in Berlin knew who he was.

  The woman was eyeing him up and down. “Hmm,” she muttered. She seemed to like what she saw.

  “The conference room?” Chandu said, unnerved by her thorough inspection of his body.

  The woman flinched and went back to being all business. “Uh, go down that hallway all the way to the end. Take a right; second door on the left.”

  Chandu walked past the woman. He could feel her watching him until he was all the way around the corner.

  Max was waiting for him in the meeting room. Seeing a trusted face put him immediately at ease. “Hey there, Max.” He gave the young computer freak and sometime hacker a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  Max’s long hair stuck out in all directions. His pants were too short for his skinny legs, and those green sneakers he never took off were probably part of his feet by now. The only aspect of his appearance that had changed in the weeks since Chandu had last seen him was his T-shirt, which was bright red with the word Bazinga in large black letters.

  Max looked up, grinned, and then turned back to his keyboard. “Be done in a sec. Just have to finish connecting to Forensics.”

  “Don’t let me disturb you,” Chandu said and went over to a bulletin board near the door. On one side hung photos of a large home. The stark rooms were shot from various perspectives. Next to them were images of a cemetery. The body of a man lay facedown in a rectangular open grave that looked freshly dug. Next to the grave stood a simple wooden cross on which was painted a name, date of birth, and date of death.

  Jan had left comments on the photos with little Post-its. On the living room, one note read CRIME SCENE? Jan had noted MURDER WEAPON NOT DETERMINED on a grisly close-up of the back of a completely shattered head.

  Chandu was looking over a map of the cemetery when Jan strode in.

  “Good morning, old buddy!”

  “Morning.” Chandu gave Jan a big hug with his massive arms. Then he stepped back and took a good look at his friend. Jan had surely been up all night. His thatch of brown hair hadn’t been combed, and his shirt was wrinkled, but that mischievous grin of his—like that of some teenager who’d pranked his schoolteacher—outshone his weariness.

  Jan was an experienced investigator, but in his last case he’d come under suspicion of murder himself. He had gone into hiding at Chandu’s place, and the whole episode had been incredibly rough on Jan. Chandu wasn’t sure if he was ever going to be the same “good old Jan” again.

  “How does it feel to be working for Homicide?” Jan asked.

  “Don’t go exaggerating, now,” Chandu replied. “I’m just a freelance informant.”

  “Admit it. You’re getting off on it.”

  “On what?”

  “Being in Homicide.”

  “The last time I was here, I was questioned about the murder of a pimp. They suspected me of being a henchman for the Russian mob—not to mention what they said about me being a debt collector. So to answer your question: no.”

  Jan changed the subject. “Are we all here?” he said.

  “We are,” Max answered, turning his laptop around. The screen showed Zoe over in Forensics, in the pathology lab. She had her long hair pinned up and wore a white lab coat. Her eyebrows were perfectly plucked on her flawless face, and her dark-brown eyes blazed with mystery even through her thick safety glasses. Chandu lamented that she swung the other way.

  “Well, I see the Three Stooges are back together,” she said.

  “Glasses don’t work on you,” Chandu said, taking a chair across from the laptop.

  “Shut it, Mr. T.”

  “Ah, my little honey. I’ve missed you.”

  “Well, the feeling is decidedly not mutual. And don’t call me your little honey.”

  “I really hate to break up this heartwarming reunion,” Jan said, “but it seems we’ve been assigned a murder case—and it’s a pretty unusual one.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Chandu said.

  “From who?”

  “Your bosom buddy, Patrick Stein.”

  “Patrick?” Jan asked in confusion. “How did you . . . and he—”

  “Long story,” Chandu said. “I’ll tell you later. So, why is this case so unusual?”

  Jan pointed to a whiteboard propped on an easel. “Our victim is Dr. Bernhard Valburg. Fifty-three years old. A lung specialist with his own practice. Two days ago he’s at the cemetery to tend to his wife’s grave site. There he discovers an empty grave and a wood cross with his name on it.”

  “Whoa, that’s macabre, man, real macabre,” Max remarked.

  “It gets better. The wood cross has the day he dies on it. That’s too much for Bernhard Valburg, so he calls police emergency.”

  “And you guys didn’t protect him?” the young hacker asked.

  “Now we know better, but at the time it just looked like some kind of sick prank. The woman at the call desk suggested he come in to the station and talk to an officer about the incident. But he never showed.”

  “Why didn’t you follow up?” Chandu asked.

  “You have no idea how many prank calls and nut jobs call that number. Saturday nights, all hell breaks loose in Berlin. Patrols are on calls nonstop. Plus, you can’t go putting every victim of a sick joke under police protection.”

  “But this joker was getting serious.”

  “No one could have known that.”

  Jan pointed to a photo of an elegant home with a landscaped garden, a spotless white garage, and a footpath laid with bright marble slabs.

  “The crime scene, presumably his home on Dorenstrasse. We found his blood on the floor of his living room.” He turned to Zoe. “How far along are you with the autopsy?”

  “We’re not quite finished, but I’m getting the gist of it.” Zoe took off her safety glasses. “Bernhard Valburg was beaten to death. We’re working on determining the murder weapon, but I’m betting it was a hammer. A blow smashed the top of his skull and penetrated deep into his brain. Blood at the crime scene included brain mass, which tells us the victim was murdered at home. He died immediately.”

  “There is one other small matter,” Zoe continued. “The victim had his eyes gouged out.”

  “His eyes gouged out?” Jan asked. “Why in the hell would someone do that?”

  “No idea. Why don’t you swing by and ask the dead guy.”

  “Gouged out with what?” Chandu asked.

  “When you’re dealing with vitreous bodies, it’s tough to say. I’m guessing a screwdriver or something similar.”

  “Anything else out of the ordinary?”

  “Not externally. Still running tests for alcohol, drugs, poison—all that fun stuff.”

  “Now we know where and how he died, but how did the murderer get the body to the
cemetery?” Chandu asked. “From the photos, I’m guessing this Bernhard Valburg was over two hundred pounds.”

  “Two hundred and twelve,” Zoe confirmed. “No one just heaves weight like that over a shoulder real quick.”

  “It’s a good first question,” Jan said. “The more intriguing one is why. The murderer went to great risk digging out a grave like that. It wasn’t enough just to simply murder his victim. He bashes in the man’s skull at home, gouges out his eyes, and transports the body to the grave. Even in the middle of the night, tons of people could have observed him doing it. He even creates a gravestone to warn his victim that his death will occur on June twenty-third. Now, the victim, Bernhard Valburg, could have locked himself inside his home out of fear or hired a security firm or flown to Hawaii, even. Why didn’t he?”

  “You’re saying the murderer knew his victim?”

  “Bingo,” Jan said.

  “What?” Zoe’s voice blared from the laptop speaker.

  “This murder’s got a lot of personal aspects,” Chandu told her. “First, the killer had to know where Valburg’s wife is buried. Then, he knew the guy’s birthday and where he lived.”

  “Another good indicator of a personal murder is all the extra effort made,” Jan continued. “Digging a grave a foot and a half deep takes time, especially when you don’t want to be seen doing it. Then there’s the cross, carrying in the body. This was long in planning.”

  “Did your guys question the cemetery staff?” Chandu asked.

  “Yes. No one saw a thing. The last one there called it a day at six in the evening. The cemetery is far too large for personnel to check all the graves every day.”

  “Surveillance cameras?”

  “They don’t even have power,” Zoe cut in. “Our spotlights fried the fuses. I had to wait till the crack of dawn before I could see anything.”

  “What about the cross?” Chandu asked. “Fingerprints on it?”

  “None,” Zoe replied. “We didn’t find DNA either. The murderer left no clues behind. My colleagues are testing a few other samples, but I’m not optimistic we’ll find anything. The rain didn’t make it any easier.”

  “Who did the grave site belong to?” Max asked. “Did the murderer dig out one that was already there?”

  “Bernhard Valburg had reserved that grave site for himself,” Jan replied. “He wanted to be buried next to his wife.”

  “So we got nothing,” Max said.

  “Apart from a mad killer who’s still on the loose,” Zoe added.

  “Where do we start?” Max asked.

  “I’ll head over to Bernhard Valburg’s office,” Jan said. “Maybe his staff can tell me something. I’ll get a list of patients too.”

  “I’ll hit the underworld,” Chandu said. “Valburg wouldn’t be the first doctor to deal prescription meds, take drugs, or get addicted to gambling.”

  “They’re looking at the computer from his house,” Max said, “but I’ll take a look. Before that, I’ll root around the police database to see if the doctor drove too fast or got in some other trouble.”

  “I’ll have a smoke first,” Zoe said. “Then order a pizza and hit the sack.”

  “Great,” Jan said. “So we all have important things to do. Let’s meet tomorrow afternoon again, right here?”

  “No can do,” Chandu protested. “Police stations creep me out. Besides, I have my reputation to keep up. Let’s do six p.m. at my place. I’ll cook us up something tasty.”

  “Nothing with insects, though,” Zoe said.

  “For you, sweetheart, I have a roll of Smarties lying around somewhere.”

  Zoe narrowed her eyes and was about to comment, but thinking quickly, Max shut the laptop.

  “Till tomorrow,” Jan said.

  Max raised one hand in salute as he yanked the cable from his laptop with the other.

  “Happy hunting,” Chandu said and left the room.

  Back out in the hall, he looked around warily. The policewoman in the tight T-shirt was nowhere to be seen, so he hurried off, squeezed past a group of cops, then crossed through the lobby without drawing attention to his fast pace. He slipped out the front entrance and onto the street, breathing an audible sigh of relief. It was a weird feeling, working for the other side.

  Bernhard Valburg’s practice stood in a quiet suburb of Berlin. Single-family homes lined a street free of traffic, the sidewalk punctuated by narrow beech trees. Cherry laurel greened the entrance, where a sign was taped to the glass door: “Practice Closed Until Further Notice.”

  Still, Jan could see a light on inside, so he pressed the bell. A moment later, a woman in a white lab coat opened the door. Everything about her fit the mold of the long-serving doctor’s assistant. She wore her hair pinned up and just enough makeup not to be intrusive. She smiled, but her tear-filled eyes told a different story.

  “Yes?” she asked wearily.

  “Detective Tommen.” Jan showed his badge. “I’m from Berlin Police, and I’m working on Dr. Valburg’s murder.”

  “Vanessa Ziegler,” she told him, opening the door all the way. “I was Dr. Valburg’s assistant for twenty-three years.”

  Jan stepped inside the office. A mountain of files was piled on the reception desk. Hastily scribbled notes lay next to the telephone. The aroma of fresh coffee mixed with the musty smell of file folders.

  “I have to tell the doctor’s patients about his death,” Vanessa explained. “I’m trying to assign some to other pulmonologists in Berlin.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since earlier today. Dr. Valburg had me listed as an emergency contact.” Sighing, she pointed to the files. “And when I’m done with all that, I’ll have to straighten up the offices for his successor, including getting all the personal items removed and shredding a lot of files.”

  “Do you know who his successor will be?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have anything to do with that. The practice is in good shape, and Dr. Valburg had a spotless reputation. Whoever takes over is going to have it easy. There aren’t many pulmonologists looking for a practice, so it could take a while.”

  “How was your relationship with Dr. Valburg?”

  “He was a good boss. We bickered, sure, but I liked working here.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Hit the unemployment office. Hope there’s a position available.” She shrugged. “It’s not easy when your life changes course overnight. I was hoping to stay here till I retired.”

  Vanessa was having trouble holding back the tears, and she turned her face away. Jan waited till she pulled herself together. She took a deep breath, then faced him again.

  Her smile was back. “So how can I help you?”

  “I need a list of Dr. Valburg’s patients.”

  “Don’t you need some kind of official warrant for that?”

  “I actually do.” Jan winced a little. He’d been hoping to leapfrog over that paperwork.

  “Well, doesn’t matter to me. If it helps find the murderer, then I’m happy to do it.” Vanessa went into the neighboring room, started up the computer, and hit a few keys. “How do you want the list? Should I print it out or send it to your e-mail?”

  Jan’s cell phone rang before he could reply.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me, Max. I found something interesting.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I entered Bernhard Valburg’s name in the database and got a hit.”

  Jan pulled his notepad from his pocket and sat in a waiting-room chair. He wrote down every detail Max gave him. Two minutes later, he’d forgotten about the patient list and was hurriedly saying good-bye to Vanessa Ziegler.

  “I’ll be back,” he said quickly, “that or call.”

  On the way to the car, he dialed Chandu’s number. For the next round of questioning, he would need his friend’s help.

  Max strolled happily over to the candy machine and pressed the lever for
a bag of gummy bears. He wouldn’t have believed that doing an internship with the Berlin Police could be so much fun.

  The guys in IT were almost as good as he was. His system access came with a tracker that showed them his every keystroke and mouse click. That way it would be impossible for him to pull some scam or use his access for something other than his official assignments.

  It took him two days before he noticed it. But these cop geeks simply were not Maximum, the master hacker.

  First thing he did was copy the top-level administrator’s password. “NCC-1701” was easy enough to crack—as if he had never seen a single episode of Star Trek! That night he created a new user account, one that couldn’t be traced, and then he quickly programmed in a back door to the system so he’d be able to get into the cop server when his internship ended.

  He also tagged his file. Whenever someone pulled it up, he would receive a message with the name of the person opening it. That way he’d be warned in time if someone were investigating him.

  Whistling the Imperial March, he went back to his desk. He was probably the only superhacker in the world with ongoing access to a cop server.

  His phone was vibrating. Probably Jan with another question. He looked at the screen and froze. His sister had texted him.

  In B this weekend. Coming Sat eve. xo Mira.

  “Goddamn,” Max cursed. His weekend was screwed.

  Jan was waiting on the street corner as Chandu stepped out of the taxi.

  “You’re not driving?” Jan asked him.

  “You sounded so worked up on the phone, I took off right away. Wasn’t any time to get a . . . loaner. What kind of clue is so hot you pull me off my own investigation?”

  “Over there is the office of a Dr. Aaron Ewers. A cosmetic surgeon.”

  Jan gestured at a garish building. Before it rose a little lane of blooming trees amid a lawn landscaped with a fountain and precisely trimmed shrubs. The rounded front entrance was all in glass.

  Chandu nodded. “The Botox biz appears to pay off big-time. Why are we here?”