Zons Crime: Fatal Puzzle Part 6

Emily's story, however, was prominently featured on the cover of the Culture section. Beaming with pride, Emily observed two women at a neighboring table who were discussing the killer and his puzzle. Both were in Zons for the first time and intended to visit the places described in the article.

"Have you solved the puzzle yet?" Anna's question interrupted Emily's thoughts.

Emily shook her head. No, she had not been able to decipher the last pages of Bastian's notebook. At some point it must have gotten wet-the ink was smudged, which made his old German handwriting, already hard to read, basically illegible. Emily had searched the Internet and found a company that specialized in the restoration of historic texts. They would eliminate the smudgy ink spots and make blowups of the respective pages. They promised her that after the treatment, 80 percent of the text would be legible. Emily was expecting the prints any day now.

She was extremely anxious, because presumably those prints would finally help her understand the killer's actions, and her research into the medieval murders would put to rest a long-held myth. Her article would be a respected piece of evidence proving that sick serial killers were not exclusively a phenomenon of modern society, but a problem that had existed many centuries ago on every continent. Granted, a single article would not be enough by scientific standards, but Emily was already dreaming about her future research on serial killers all over Europe and across the centuries. One step at a time, she told herself. First she'd have to solve this puzzle, the puzzle created by a killer in Zons five hundred years ago.

Fascinated, Oliver Bergmann stared at the front page of the Culture section in the Rheinische Post. A beautiful young woman with a mysterious smile stared back at him. Usually he wasn't particularly interested in the Culture section, but today it opened with an article about a string of murders in medieval Zons. At first he'd only read the article hoping to find out more about the journalist, the intriguing-looking woman in the picture, but the more he read, the more familiar the story sounded. Oliver frowned.

Quietly, Klaus stepped up behind him.

"She's cute. Are you reading or ogling?" Teasing, he poked Oliver in the side. Oliver blushed slightly and put the newspaper on the table.

"You should read this, Klaus. Somehow the description of the body reminds me of Mich.e.l.le Peters."

Klaus burst into laughter and shook his head. "Right, Oliver. Not only are we suddenly dealing with a copycat killer who's re-creating a medieval crime, but also our top priority is to interrogate the pretty writer on page one of today's Culture section!"

Oliver looked at Klaus. "You know what? That's exactly what we should do today."

"What is it you two should do today?"

Startled, they turned around and saw a testy Hans Steuermark glaring at them. Oliver checked his watch. Not even ten o'clock. Too early for Steuermark's ritualistic patrol. The guys from Interior were probably breathing down his neck because the investigations in the Mich.e.l.le Peters case were stalling.

Steuermark grabbed the paper from Oliver's desk and began reading the article.

"Unbelievable," he muttered after a few minutes and pressed the paper into Klaus's hand. "You better listen to what your partner says. Read this!"

Confused, Klaus looked from Oliver to Steuermark before he followed his boss's orders and skimmed the article.

The dead woman from the past had indeed not only suffered the same injuries as Mich.e.l.le Peters, but also had the same numbers and letter carved into her scalp. 1 6 K. How was that possible?

"We need to find out where this information is published and who had access to it. Start with Emily Richter!" Hans Steuermark turned abruptly and stomped out of the office.

Anna was on the verge of tears. Only a little while ago she had been enjoying life, chatting with Emily over lattes and Emily's article, and now all her cheer had disappeared. She should never have opened the mailbox. She'd known it was coming, had tried to brace herself for this moment. Now that it had actually happened, she was overwhelmed with grief. How many times had she pictured herself with the d.a.m.ned postcard between thumb and index finger, walking directly to the trashcan, and drawing a final line through her relationship with Martin?

The postcards had been their little game. From every vacation they spent together, they would send each other a postcard with loving words as a reminder of the days they had enjoyed. What made it even more special was that they arranged for the postcards to arrive not right away, but only after six months. They had found an online service that offered to mail their greetings with the desired delay.

The postcard she held now had been mailed from their romantic travels through Portugal. Was it only six months ago that they had been sunbathing on the beaches, surrounded by the marvelous cliffs of the Algarve coast? They both loved the sunny, southern European countries. Back then, Anna could never have imagined that Martin wouldn't be a part of her life anymore. She'd been convinced that he was the one. But oh boy, had she been wrong. Nor would she ever have dreamed that he was gay. Their s.e.x life had been amazing-and it never seemed like Martin felt something was missing. But apparently he did. For the past five years, the man Anna thought she knew inside out had been perfectly hiding a completely different ident.i.ty from her.

A wave of love swept over her as she read his fond words on the postcard. How could this all have been a lie? How had he been capable of pretending so convincingly? And why had he stayed with her for so long to begin with, when, in fact, he preferred guys? She simply could not wrap her head around it, nor would she ever. Over the past few weeks she had actually believed she was over him. Gradually it had been easier to push aside the many questions that were haunting her. There had been entire days when she didn't think of Martin at all. Now this postcard had dragged her back into her old world of pain, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Why did he have to cut her out of his life so completely? At first she'd been glad for the distance; it helped her keep him out of her head. But three months of absolutely no contact seemed unreasonably drastic. She would have expected him to at least be polite enough to ask her how she was doing. It seemed, though, that his new universe with Christopher in Berlin was so exciting that he had forgotten about her for good. She wondered whether he was holding her postcard in his hands at this very moment. Would he reminisce about their time together? Would he at least feel a tinge of regret?

Impulsively she grabbed her cell phone and dialed his number. It went directly to voice mail. Perhaps he was in a dead spot or his battery had died, as usual. Anna hung up, disappointed and relieved at the same time.

Oliver Bergmann rubbed his sweaty hands nervously against his jeans. He was in Lindenthal, a neighborhood in central Cologne, standing in front of an impressive-looking apartment building-the graduate student dorm. It was close to the university campus and as busy as the Berlin train station. The chilly temperatures hadn't kept the laughing young crowd of students inside, and the main entrance door opened and closed frequently. Oliver tried to focus and find Emily Richter's name on one of the many nameplates, but every time the door swung open, he had to step aside and lost his orientation. Finally, after studying the tiny plates with the fading handwriting for the fourth time, he found her. He took a deep breath and resolutely pushed the ringer.

A female voice crackled through the intercom. "h.e.l.lo, who is it?"

"Oliver Bergmann, Crime Commission Neuss. We spoke on the phone."

"Right, please come up."

Emily Richter lived on the sixth floor of a walk-up. Once at her door, Oliver tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead and look calm. He smiled politely and followed Emily into her small studio.

Several piles of paper were stacked on a desk in one corner; the rest of the studio seemed well kept and tidy. Emily noticed Oliver glancing at her desk and apologized for the chaos.

"You know, I'm planning on writing three parts altogether about the historic murder cases. One part for each murder. But I still haven't been able to solve the puzzle that made the killer so famous back then. I leave all my research material spread out in case I need to look up something."

"No worries," Oliver rea.s.sured her. "Our desks in the precinct look the same when we're working on a case. Obviously we also have huge bulletin boards . . . but everything that somehow belongs together gets thrown in one big pile."

"May I offer you something to drink?" said Emily, in hostess mode. "Tea, maybe?"

"I'd love some, but only if it's not too much work."

Emily disappeared in the kitchen and resurfaced after a brief moment carrying a tray. Apparently she had already had the tea ready for Oliver's arrival. He was more pleased than he let on about the foresight her hospitality suggested.

"How can I be of a.s.sistance, Herr Bergmann?" Emily asked while she carefully poured him a cup of aromatic Earl Grey.

"I need to know a thing or two about your article. I've noticed a few details that could be related to the recent murder in Zons."

He bit his tongue. The crush he had developed on this beautiful and capable young woman must not make him lose his professionalism; he mustn't share with her the so-far-undisclosed facts about the murder of Mich.e.l.le Peters. To date they had released only the victim's name and the cause of death. Only a few investigators in the loop knew about the shaved hair and the grisly, inscrutable carvings on her scalp.

He explained quickly the reason for his visit. Five hundred years separated the two cases, yet both victims had been found hanging from the tower at the Schlossplatz in Zons.

Oliver asked Emily where, exactly, she had done her research. She showed him all of her material and mentioned the visit to the county archive. Oliver made a note to stop by there next. It seemed highly possible that Mich.e.l.le's killer had gathered his knowledge at the very same place. According to Emily, this was the only place that held descriptions and sketches of the historic corpse. One glance into the age-old notebook of that Muhlenberg guy had been sufficient to determine that the symbols on Mich.e.l.le Peters's scalp were identical to the ones on Elisabeth Kreuzer's. 1 6 K.

His gut feeling this morning upon reading Emily Richter's article in the Rheinische Post had not failed him. All the details pointed to a copycat killer.

He stood, thanked Emily, and shook her hand.

"I'll send two colleagues over later to make copies of your research material."

Emily nodded attentively, and as she saw him to the door, she looked at him and smiled, her brown eyes shining. His heart flipped over. He had sensed it the moment he first looked at her photo in the newspaper. He had fallen head over heels for Emily Richter.

Back at his desk at the precinct, Oliver saw that the lab report on the filaments found on Mich.e.l.le Peters's body had finally been delivered. Eagerly, he opened the envelope and began to read. No surprises but one: the filaments from the linen gown wrapped around the dead body seemed to match those of a seat cushion typically found in a Ford Mondeo, more specifically a Ford Mondeo manufactured between the years 2000 and 2003.

Alarm bells began to clang in the back of Oliver's head. Almost as if controlled by external powers, his hand reached for the Body in the Woods file on the sideboard. Witnesses had described the getaway car as a Ford Mondeo, and the respective lab report listed the same filaments. Or at least the filaments were a.s.sociated with the same Mondeo production series.

Again, as if on autopilot, he dialed the number of the lab and asked the technicians to run a test to determine whether the filaments from both cases were identical. Could there really be a link between that body in the forest and the dead woman in Zons?

XVI.

Five Hundred Years Ago

It was almost midnight. Bastian felt a slight dizziness and forced himself to stand as still as possible. Wernhart stood next to him, almost as tense as Bastian. It was yet another in the long series of excruciatingly icy nights, and a full moon was shining up in the clear sky. Tonight was the night Dietrich h.e.l.lenbroich planned to kill his next victim-but this time the people of Zons were prepared.

The girls were safely locked inside the church, with each entrance-and all the city gates-secured by two men from the City Guard. An additional soldier stood watch on each tower, and Bastian had ordered that all visitors be registered at the city gates beginning even a day before the full moon. Everyone arriving or leaving had to report with his or her full name.

Bastian had further hired four scriveners-one for each gate and tower-to register the names neatly with quill and ink on thick paper scrolls. From his perspective, there was absolutely no gap for h.e.l.lenbroich to slip through into the city. In his head, Bastian went through the long list of safety measures again. No. He was sure he had considered all eventualities.

He looked up into the breathtaking night sky. The full moon was round and blinding white, and thousands of stars twinkled down. He would have loved to share this beauty in sweet togetherness with Marie. They had not seen as much of each other recently as they had in previous months. Ever since the first murder, Bastian was always busy, and even when he did spend time with Marie, his mind was preoccupied with h.e.l.lenbroich. He recalled the terrified, worried look in Marie's eyes after he'd fallen from the Zollturm. That glance held all the love she had for him, and once this nightmare was over he promised himself to spend more time with her again. She really did not deserve to be so neglected.

Wernhart interrupted his thoughts with a whispered complaint. "d.a.m.n it, my leg's asleep." Grimacing, he rubbed his right calf and tried to move his foot up and down. "What time do you think it is?" he asked Bastian.

"Should be shortly after midnight." Bastian, too, stretched his stiffening limbs.

They had spent the past six hours standing almost motionless in a small alley in front of the church, and the long, uncomfortable night was nowhere near over. Bastian himself had ordered that the guards remain on their posts until daybreak. This time they had to be on top of everything!

XVII.

Present

An entire week had pa.s.sed since Anna had first tried to reach Martin on his phone, and still she had not dared tell Emily. Emily would certainly be disappointed. She thought of Anna as strong and steady, and while Anna usually fit comfortably in that role, she also knew there was a well of insecurity within her that she kept thoroughly hidden from everyone, even her best friend.

She had tried Martin's phone on a daily basis, and while she was terribly embarra.s.sed about this, she was also growing increasingly worried. It was so not like Martin, who could not spend a second without his phone. Now it had been switched off for over a week? At first she'd figured he was in a place with no reception, but when all seven of her calls went straight to voice mail, she discarded the idea. That was too much of a coincidence.

She looked at the clock. It was a few minutes past eight in the morning. A quick glance at her BlackBerry informed her that her first business meeting was after ten. That left enough time to swing by Martin's old apartment.

Fifteen minutes later, Anna parked her car near the City Park in Neuss and walked over to one of the big old apartment buildings. The City Park was one of the most popular residential areas in Neuss. When she visited Martin, Anna had always enjoyed the lush, green surroundings.

She looked up to his windows. They were all dark. She walked to the front door and was just about to ring the bell when the door squeaked open and Martin's landlord, Herr Hengsteberg, stood in front of her, looking tired with dark circles under his eyes.

"Good morning, Herr Hengsteberg!" Anna greeted him, surprised.

"Good morning, Frau Winterfeld, how are you? I haven't seen you around in ages!"

"I've been really busy lately," Anna said evasively.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm glad I've run into you," Herr Hengsteberg told her. He pushed his frameless spectacles up his nose. "I haven't seen your boyfriend for months, and honestly, I'm quite annoyed with him because he still owes me last month's rent. I've just gone up to his apartment to talk with him, but he won't open the door. Let me tell you, I don't even think he's home. I've been trying for weeks, but his neighbor hasn't seen him around at all either."

"Well, to be frank, he broke up with me. I haven't had contact with him for a while. And his cell phone seems to be switched off."

"Oh, I am so sorry to hear this, Frau Winterfeld. You two were such a lovely couple. What happened?"

Anna looked down and said nothing.

"I apologize, Frau Winterfeld, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. However, I do want to know the whereabouts of your ex! You will understand that I do need the payment of the rent."

"I understand very well," Anna said quietly, and she added, "I still have a key. Why don't we take a look?"

"I was going to suggest that myself, Frau Winterfeld. I think having you here while we look is a G.o.dsend; perhaps you can find some clues to his whereabouts."

They walked up to Martin's third-floor apartment in silence. Anna had a strange feeling in her stomach. Of course, Martin had moved to Berlin with Christopher. But why had he not given Herr Hengsteberg notice? Besides, he would never be late with the rent. He was far too responsible.

Up on the third floor, the landlord separated Martin's key from all the others on his large ring. One twist of the key and the door sprang open.

Stale, stuffy air greeted them, and the faint smell of decay gave Anna a wave of nausea. She turned around and stepped back out into the hall.

Herr Hengsteberg didn't seem to mind the rotting smell. Undeterred, he walked into the apartment. Anna could hear him open the windows.

"Just wait a few minutes and the bad smell will be gone. It's probably the trash that hasn't been emptied."

Anna waited until she felt a fresh, cool breeze on her cheeks before she followed Herr Hengsteberg into Martin's apartment. Everything looked as if Martin could show up at any moment. Then she saw his wallet on the dresser in the hall and his cell phone on the kitchen table. Now she understood why she hadn't been able to reach him. The phone was off, and the battery had probably been dead for a while. The landlord was emptying the reeking trash into a large garbage bag.

"That's been taken care of," he declared, satisfied, and closed the bag with a knot.

Pale-faced, Anna sat down on a kitchen chair. The uneasy sense of foreboding she had felt all through the past week seemed to be shaping into a sad reality.

"Something's wrong, Herr Hengsteberg. Martin would never leave without his wallet and his phone."

With deadpan expressions on their faces, Oliver and Klaus were contemplating the neglected state of the county archive's interior. The archivist limped over to a shelf on the left side of the lobby, where he began rummaging through a box of file cards.

"Here it is!" the two detectives heard him say, his voice full of self-importance. When the two had first arrived and flashed their badges, he had suddenly felt like a celebrity. Recently, more and more people were coming to him wanting to learn about the historic murder cases and the fatal puzzle.

He limped back to the detectives and handed them the five file cards that identified each person who had borrowed the related doc.u.ments.

"n.o.body cared about those doc.u.ments for the past ten years. But during the last nine months I have issued them to five different people!"

"We appreciate your help. This is a very important clue for us."

Oliver noted the names and the dates on which they'd borrowed the doc.u.ments. Only one name on the list was familiar: Emily Richter. A brief smile flashed over his face at the thought of her.

"I'd be happy to tell you everything you want to know about the killer and his puzzle," the archivist said with a grin, puffing out his chest with pride.