Melanie Raabe - The Trap

“Damn,” said Bug.

Helpless silence filled the room.

“All right,” said Jonas. “Antonia and Michael, please talk to the victim’s colleagues again. Find out if she was really planning to move away — had she perhaps already handed in her notice? You might hear something. Volker and Nilgün, please have another word with the victim’s ex-boyfriend. Maybe we can find out from him whether there had been a new man in Britta Peters’s life after all. Ask him if he really thinks Britta Peters was cheating on him. Meanwhile, I’ll get in touch with forensics again.”

As the team scattered, Jonas fought the urge to go out and light up. It was getting more and more obvious: if they really didn’t find the murderer anywhere in the victim’s circle of friends and relations, it was going to be very, very hard. He wouldn’t be able to keep the promise he had made to Sophie.

Victor Lenzen looks at me with bowed head and says nothing. I stare back. I’m going to stand my ground, no matter what happens.

We’re sitting down again. I had asked him — with raised gun — to return to his seat.

“Where were you living twelve years ago?” I ask. Lenzen lets out a tormented noise, but says nothing.

“Where were you living twelve years ago?”

I don’t raise my voice, I don’t shout; I simply ask, the way I’ve learned.

“Do you know Anna Michaelis?”

It is disconcerting looking somebody in the eyes for a long time. Lenzen’s eyes are very pale — gray, almost white. But the gray contains some tiny speckles of green and brown, and is edged with a black circle. Lenzen’s eyes look like an eclipse of the sun.

“Do you know Anna Michaelis?” Silence.

“Where were you on 23 August 2002?” Silence.

“Where were you on 23 August 2002?”

Nothing — just a frown. As if the date reminds him of something that is only now coming back to him.

“I don’t know,” he says faintly. He’s talking. Good.

“Why are you lying to me, Herr Lenzen?”

In a film, I would release the safety catch at this point to drive my words home.

“Where were you living twelve years ago?” I repeat. “Talk, damn it!”

“In Munich,” says Lenzen.

“Do you know Anna Michaelis?”

“No.”

“Why are you lying, Herr Lenzen? There’s no point.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Why did you kill Anna Michaelis?”

“I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Have you killed other women?”

“I’ve never killed anyone.”

“What are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What are you? Are you a rapist? A robber and murderer? Did you know Anna?”

“Anna,” Lenzen says, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “No.”

It does something to me, hearing him speak Anna’s name out loud like that — the name she was so proud of being able to read backward as well as forward. I tremble. I see Anna lying in a pool of blood, although blood gave her the creeps, and I know that I’m not going to let Lenzen go: Victor Lenzen will confess or die.

“Do you know an Anna Michaelis?”

“No, I don’t know any Anna Michaelis.”

“Where were you on 23 August 2002?” Silence again.

“Where were you on 23 August 2002?”

“I…“ He hesitates. “I’m not sure.”

That annoys me. He knows perfectly well where he was on 23 August 2002. He knows perfectly well what I’m driving at. The cat’s been out of the bag for ages. So what’s all this about?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, unable to conceal my impatience.

“Frau Conrads, please listen to me. Please. Do me a favor.” I’m sick of him. I’m supposed to be breaking him and instead I’m the one who’s being worn down. I can’t bear his look anymore, his voice, his lies. I no longer believe he’s going to confess.

“All right then,” I say.

“I didn’t know you’d lost your sister,” says Lenzen, and his hypocrisy makes my gun hand tremble.

Lost . The way he says that — as if no one were to blame. I feel like hitting him again, but harder and more than once.

He sees it in my eyes and holds up his hands beseechingly. Look at him, cowering there, cringing like a beaten child, trying to appeal to my pity. It’s pathetic.

“I didn’t know,” Lenzen repeats, “and I’m very sorry.” I’d like to shoot him, to see what it feels like.

“You really think I did it.”

“I know you did,” I correct him, “yes.”

Lenzen is silent for a moment. “How?” he asks at last. I can’t help frowning.

“How can you know?”

What kind of a game is this, Victor Lenzen? You know that I know.

“How can you know?” he asks again.

Something inside me rips. I can’t take any more.

“Because I fucking well saw you!” I yell. “Because I looked you in the eye the same way I’m looking at you now. So save your lies and your posturing because I can see you. I can see you.”

My heart’s pounding and I’m gasping as if I’d run a sprint. Lenzen stares at me in disbelief. Once again he holds up his hands.

I’m trembling. I force myself to remember that I’ll never find out why Anna had to die if I shoot him now.

“That’s not possible, Frau Conrads,” says Lenzen.

“And yet it’s the case.”

“I didn’t know your sister.”

“Then why did you kill her?”

“I didn’t kill her! You’ve made a mistake!”

“I have not made a mistake!”

Lenzen looks at me as if I were a stubborn child refusing to listen to sense.

“What happened back then?” he asks.

I close my eyes briefly. Specks of red dance on my retina.

“What were the circumstances of your sister’s death? Where did she die?” Lenzen asks. “If I knew a bit more about it, maybe I could convince you…”

Dear God, give me the strength not to shoot him.

“I recognized you straightaway, when I saw you on television.”

I spit the words at him.

“Maybe you really did see somebody…”

“You’re damn right, I did! Of course I saw somebody!”

“But not me!”

How can he say that? How can he? We were both there, in that room, on that hot summer’s night, with the smell of iron in the air. How can he say that and seriously hope to get away with it?

I give a start when Lenzen swoops to his feet. Instinctively, I get up and point my gun straight at his chest. No matter what he does, I want to be able to stop him in time.

He puts up his hands.

“Think about it, Linda,” he says. “If I had anything to confess, I’d have confessed long ago.”

The gun is heavy.

“A human life is at stake here, Linda. You’re the jury; I’ve grasped that now. You think I’m a murderer and you’re the jury. Is that right?”

I nod.

“Then at least grant me the right to defend myself,” says Lenzen.

I nod again, reluctantly.

“Do you have any other evidence against me, apart from the fact that you think you saw me?”

I don’t reply. The answer is galling: no.

“Think about it, Linda. It’s twelve years ago, isn’t it. Isn’t it?” I nod.

“Twelve years. And, quite by chance, you see your sister’s murderer on TV? What are the odds?”

I’d like to ignore the question. I’ve put it to myself often enough, in the long nights since the earthquake struck. I feel sick. My head is bursting. Everything’s spinning.

“What are the odds?” I don’t reply.

“Are you sure I’m guilty, Linda? Not fairly sure, not ninety-nine percent sure, but absolutely sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt? If you are, then shoot me right here on the spot.”

Everything’s spinning.