Juli Zeh - In Free Fall

Rita will question everybody she can get hold of today. In the afternoon she will drop by the cycling club once again. The detectives who are dealing directly with the hospital scandal update her around the clock. Rita tosses the documents onto the desk and stretches her arms. She thinks she will solve this case before Detective Chief Superintendent Schilf can buy his train ticket to Freiburg. At least she will not fail for lack of persistence.

She recognizes Sergeant Schnurpfeil’s knock. As always, he waits for a clear “Come in!” before he opens the door slightly, sticks his head in, and smilingly waits for the invitation to be repeated. Only when Rita has said “Yes, come on in!” does he gather up his bulk and bring it to rest in the center of the room. Schnurpfeil is ten years younger than the detective and the only person in the precinct who, in his stoical manner, knows how to deal with her. The young female officers-in-waiting think he is the best-looking man at police headquarters. And yet he always seems uncertain, as if there were a frightened boy behind his mass of muscle, constantly worried that he will be asked to emerge one day. Even now, Schnurpfeil does not seem comfortable with the vantage point granted him by his height. When his colleagues ask him how he puts up with Rita Skura’s moods, he shrugs and says that she is clever and also a good detective. He cannot say whether her hair looks like a horse’s; and whatever else he thinks of her, he keeps to himself. The senior policeman is always sent when there is bad news. He knows that as well as she does. He stands next to the desk, twisting his cap in his hands. Rita has never yet offered him a seat.

“Schnurpfeil,” she says, looking as if she is still checking something in the file, “are you driving me to the hospital?”

“Yes,” Schnurpfeil replies. After some thought, he adds, “As well.”

He looks up and tries smiling once again. What his colleagues will never understand is that he likes talking to Rita Skura. He doesn’t mind formalities and thinks nothing of it when she addresses him in military fashion by his last name. After all, he is only a young senior officer, while she is an up-and-coming detective. He generally knows how to reply to her in a manner that will not agitate her, and he is proud of that.

“Break it to me gently,” Rita says, pushing her heavy curls off her forehead.

Rita can’t stand the summer, just as she cannot bear many other things. If it were up to her, it could be autumn or winter the whole year long. It’s easier to think when it’s cold and clothing is more sober.

“Three more senior doctors had their heads chopped off?”

Schnurpfeil avoids looking at her unshaven armpits. “A child has been kidnapped,” he says briefly.

Rita’s gaze lights on the senior policeman with hatred, as if he were criminal, victim, and witness all in one. “Say that again, if you dare.”

“A child has been kidnapped,” Schnurpfeil repeats.

Rita lets go of her hair and throws herself back in her chair, which tips gently. “The blond guy with the bloody shirt?”

“How do you know?”

She waves away his awed tones with a dismissive gesture. She should have known right away. Since she had taken the guy at reception for a tramp, he must be a professor at least.

“The father?”

“His son has been gone for four days.”

“And he’s only come in now?”

“The kidnappers stopped him. He didn’t dare go to the police.”

“Money?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“What?” Rita jumps up and takes a few threatening steps toward Schnurpfeil, who clearly considers retreating, but decides against it.

“Until now,” he says, “they have demanded absolutely nothing.”

“But they’ve been in touch with him?”

“On the day of the kidnapping. They told him to wait.”

“What a fucking story.” Rita turns away and slams the window shut with such force that the glass rattles in the frame. She waves her large hands in the air a couple of times, as if brushing aside fog in order to see the senior policeman clearly.

“Doesn’t sound like pedophiles,” she says. “Probably something within the family. Has his statement been taken?”

“All done. He’s sitting downstairs.”

Rita suddenly lets her hands drop. “He’s not a doctor, is he?”

“Professor of physics at the university.”

“Thank you, Lord!” Rita shouts.

Schnurpfeil grins, as though this is meant for him. Rita leans back against the edge of the desk, which presses into her bottom slightly, and raises her index finger, which she always does when she feels overwhelmed.

“The press does not like child kidnapping cases,” she says didactically.

“We’ll separate them,” Schnurpfeil says. “The press doesn’t need to know anything about the kidnapping right now.”

Rita nods, her shoulders relaxing. As is often the case, the senior policeman has thought of something that calms her down.

“Listen, Schnurpfeil. With the best will in the world, there’s no way I can look into this personally.”

“Of course. The chief suggests that Sandström could take on the case.”

“Sandström is a total idiot,” Rita says. “Tell him that.”

Schnurpfeil reaches for a notebook.

“He should drive to the professor’s home with him. Get the technical guys and the shrinks on board. Bug the telephone, the whole lot. And interrogate him for as long as he holds out. Family problems, friends, job. I’ll drop by in the evening if I can.”

Schnurpfeil puts his notebook away. “I’ll just run down and let them know,” he says, “then I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“Good.”

Rita Skura looks past Schnurpfeil at the bulletin board, on which there is a snapshot of her cat next to photographs of the crime scene.

“Four days,” she says. “Makes you feel sorry for the man.”

THEY HAVE TAKEN HIS CAR. They have taken his mobile phone. They have taken his shirt and his trousers and put them in plastic bags. He is wearing a suit made out of paper, which rustles with every step and makes him feel like a cross between a clown and a corpse. Right this minute he would have nothing against being laid out in an aluminum drawer with a tag on his toe, and being shoved into the wall. Cool at last. Quiet at last. To sleep at last.

They have taken the keys to his apartment from him, and now they are taking the apartment. Three plainclothes officers are on the street watching to see if the house is being watched. In the hall, a man wearing headphones is lying on his stomach, a black box by his side, fumbling in the telephone socket with a tiny screwdriver. Another man is leaning against the wall, making suggestions and flicking cigarette ash onto the parquet floor. In the kitchen, Sergeant Sandström is sitting at the table making himself a ham sandwich with gerkins and mustard. He had asked if he could “borrow” the Prosciutto di Parma. On the sofa in the living room, which Sebastian will always associate with the worst days of his life, a small woman shrouded in moss-green wool is crouching on thin legs, sticking her aristocratic-looking nose into the family photo album. A bird dressed in human clothing could not have looked stranger than she does. This is the experimental film that this apartment and I have been waiting for the whole time, Sebastian thinks.

When he had stepped into the Heinrich-von-Stephan-Strasse early this morning, the thought of letting the proper authorities deal with the situation made him nauseous with relief. The statement he’d feared making had turned out to be the simplest bit. He had been required simply to tell them what had happened (the grabber machine, pathetic stuffed animals, Vera Wagenfort); he’d kept only one sentence back from them: Dabbelink must go . After that, one thing had led to another. There was a practically endless stream of questions about anything and everything. Except whether he had killed a man.