Grave Intent by Alexander Hartung

things.” Bergman looked Patrick in the eye.
    “I’d have no problem with that.”
    “Just so we don’t misunderstand one another, Stein: you really screwed things up in that last case. What I really should do is have you directing traffic all day, out on the city bypass. But the thing is, detectives don’t exactly grow on trees. This grave-killer case is your chance to redeem yourself. Jan needs someone like you, but it remains his case. You’ll have to take a subordinate role.”
    Bergman folded his hands across his chest. “We have no more resources, so I phoned around a little this morning. A former colleague is giving us a few men from security services, and we’re getting interns from various departments, plus trainees from Admin and even a few academy students. Your task will be to build a team from this motley crew. Most have no clue about police work, but they’ll do for making calls and combing through documents. Throw yourself into it. And we’ll forget the past.”
    Patrick stood and nodded to his boss. “You can depend on me.”
    “Don’t screw this up,” Bergman said.
    Once Patrick was gone, Bergman leafed through Jan’s report on Dr. Valburg’s death. He would never have tolerated such slipshod style from anyone else. It was yet more proof that Jan was still not his old self. His scars were still too raw. Patrick was the last thing Bergman would be able to give Jan. He just hoped it would prove to be enough.

    Moritz Quast’s corpse lay uncovered on the dissecting table. His eyes were closed, and his face had been cleaned of dried blood after the crime-scene analysis was completed. His whole body had been shaved and washed. Chest and abdominal cavities were opened.
    The formalities had been taken care of. Height, weight, body temp, scars, tattoos—Zoe had duly recorded it all.
    Now the real fun began: the internal inspection. Zoe bent over the corpse. One glance at liver and lungs showed her that Moritz had been no slouch when it came to enjoying himself.
    “Additional info on topic of poisoning,” Zoe said into a dictating machine she operated with a foot pedal. “No visible evidence from the external inquest. No dilated pupils as from atropine or cyanide, no contracted pupils as with opiates. No visible signs of injection to be found. The coloring of livor mortis normal. No foaming around the mouth is visible, also no blisters suggesting intoxication. Stomach and intestines are being analyzed for traces of poison. Regarding the internal inquest, no unusual discoloration or internal burning to be seen. Liquor, vitreous fluid, venous blood, and hair have already been taken to lab, as well as blood from heart and the urine. Tests on liver, brain, and kidneys to follow, along with those of stomach contents. This concludes analysis findings as of June twenty-seventh, eleven sixteen a.m.”
    She stopped recording and was reaching for a scalpel when her phone rang. She went over to the storage table and then groaned when she saw the screen. Jan always knew just the wrong time to call. Since her gloves were smeared with blood, she turned on speaker mode by tapping with her scalpel. “Not done yet,” she said, and went back over to the corpse. “I have both hands down inside his organs.”
    “I don’t want to take up a lot of your time. I just need the most important stuff. How Moritz Quast was murdered, if it was the same perpetrator.”
    Jan sounded like he was calling from a car.
    “His head got smashed in after midnight. I haven’t analyzed the wound yet, but I’m guessing it’s a hammer. Could be the same murder weapon used on the first victim.” With a flick of her hand, Zoe sliced off a piece of the liver and held it up with tweezers. “But there is one other little thing.”
    “What?”
    “His tongue was cut out.” She placed the sample in the petri dish.
    “Why?”
    “What am I, some shaman who can ask the dead?” She frowned. “You should probably go question the lead