Even as a child, Björn Wildermuth had known he wanted to be a policeman. Inspired by Colombo and Hercule Poirot, he’d pictured himself hunting down criminals someday, too.

His childhood dreams had only somewhat come true: he’d since learned that everyday cops’ main responsibility was doing the dirty work. Today was no exception—and on his birthday, too. At least he wouldn’t have to go to the girl’s parents today. Not yet. What would he have said? “Hello, your daughter is dead. I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

He’d first seen the girl yesterday afternoon. It was his first dead body. Some junkie’s girlfriend had found the girl in their apartment; she’d probably been lying there for three or four days already. The girl had had intercourse with the man shortly before her death, and the fact that she’d used right afterward, in his apartment, deepened Wildermuth’s suspicion that he’d been her pimp. The stuff he’d given her had been bad somehow, so bad that she’d stopped breathing almost immediately.

The girl’s body showed evidence of sexual assault as well—yellowish bruises on her wrists and on the insides of her thighs. Strange that the addict pimp hadn’t done any of the bad heroin himself. Possibly just a coincidence, of course.

Björn’s supervisor, Harald Mayer, was leaning toward negligent homicide, possibly even premeditated murder. Björn himself suspected that the girl had made herself available of her own free will, accepting these perverse little games as the price she paid for the dope she wanted so badly. He figured it was just bad luck that this particular batch had killed her—and maybe that was the kind of risk one had to take as a junkie.

Björn headed out for Besigheim. A guy out there had reported his roommate missing a week ago. The girl fit the description perfectly: his roommate had turned tricks and used heroin in the past, and now the guy was afraid she’d slipped back into that scene. He gave them a few tips on where the girl might be found, and with whom.

As he drove, Björn grew more and more nervous. It’s just the roommate, he reminded himself, trying to calm himself. He really hoped this guy would be able to identify her. By the time the others at the station had managed to find her parents, Björn wanted to have a solid ID on this dead girl—because he had no interest in standing around in the morgue beside a hysterical, shrieking mother. It was bad enough that he was going to have to see the corpse yet again today.

The apartment was in a well-kept duplex with a small yard at the end of a quiet back road—probably an expensive neighborhood. Not exactly what he pictured when he thought of junkies. The building was large, with a white facade and old-fashioned shutters over the windows. Björn noticed there were padlocks all around the windows on the bottom floor. Someone was obviously paranoid about burglars.

He straightened his uniform and pressed the buzzer. The door opened almost instantly. When Björn stepped inside, the first-floor apartment door was already open, and a guy who looked to be a few years younger than Björn was standing in the doorway. He was tall and muscular, and he looked like he’d just gotten back from the gym. His eyes flew over Björn’s uniform, and something like panic crossed his face. Maybe this girl was more than just his roommate? His girlfriend? The guy looked to be about the right age.

“Mr. Danijel Taylor?” Björn asked.

“Yes. What happened?”

“Officer Björn Wildermuth,” he said, extending his hand. “May I come in?”

Taylor stepped out of the way, and Björn followed him into the apartment.

“What happened?” Taylor asked again.

“We received a call about the body of a young woman found in an apartment on the east side of Stuttgart. She looks like she might fit the description of the person you’re looking for.”

Taylor cursed softly in English.

“Let me stress that we are in no way certain of the identity of the deceased,” Björn hastened to add. “She had no ID on her, so she may be someone else entirely.”

Danijel Taylor ran both hands through his hair, seemingly struggling to maintain composure. “Did she overdose?”

“We’re still waiting on the autopsy results, but it looks like it was a toxic reaction to heroin.”

Taylor cursed in German this time and began pacing up and down the hallway. “Was she raped?”

How does this kid know that?

“There’s no final report yet,” Björn said. “But the possibility hasn’t been ruled out.”

“I can’t believe this!”

He’s going to freak out on me here in a minute …

Björn attempted to comfort him. “It may not be her. Would you come with me to identify the body?”

“Yes,” he said, chest heaving. “Just…let me change clothes real quick.” He turned away, but then stopped and turned back almost immediately. “Whatever, I’ll go like this.” Then he turned yet again and walked off in the direction he’d come from. “Gotta call my girlfriend,” he mumbled.

His girlfriend? So the dead girl really was just a roommate. Björn breathed a sigh of relief.

After making a quick call in the other room, Taylor took his keys from the hook beside the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Don’t you want me to take you?”

“I’ll drive myself,” he said.

Even better, Björn thought. That would save him a trip back. And some awkward conversation. Now he’d have time to grab breakfast before he had to be back at the station.

 

The two men descended the short flight of stairs to the cold basement. A silver metal table waited in the center of the room, covered by a white sheet. The outline of a person was clearly visible underneath.

Björn stepped up to the table, while Taylor remained two steps behind him. To Björn, the other man seemed very composed, maybe even impatient. “Are you ready?” Björn asked him.

“Just take the goddamn cover off already!”

Björn pulled the sheet back and watched Danijel Taylor closely. He showed no reaction, no emotion whatsoever.

Goddammit, it’s not her! Björn waited a moment before covering the body again. Then he noticed that Taylor’s lip was bleeding. He kept running his tongue over it to lick the blood off.

“That’s her,” was all he said.

“Are you sure?”

“No doubt.”

Björn began to worry. The other man suddenly seemed completely apathetic, disconnected from the world around him. Paralyzed, almost. “Are you all right, Mr. Taylor?” He reached out to give Taylor a friendly pat on the arm, but the other man pulled away almost furiously and strode toward the exit. Björn walked after him, two paces behind. “Can I bring you anything? Or drive you home?”

“My girlfriend’s coming,” Taylor replied.

“Do you need any help?”

Danijel Taylor shook his head and walked out of the morgue without another word.