THE FATHER
Shortly before they reach their destination, Michael has to turn into a small cobbled street to get to the station.
“A dead end,” mumbles Yasira, pointing to the sign.
“Hopefully not,” grumbles Michael.
The Harz police station is a large, somewhat oversized-looking brick building. Yasira half expects to encounter jurisdictional disputes with the local sheriffs, as seen in American TV series, but of course that’s nonsense.
The police director, a slim, clean-shaven man in his fifties with short military hair, is delighted to be able to relinquish control of the case. He even set up a temporary office for Yasira and Michael.
“To be honest,” he says. “We’ve never had a situation like this before.
It’s a bit much for us.” He scratches his head.
“We also have little experience with the national press.” He then smiles somewhat painfully.
“And there’s no point in trying to hide it, you’ll soon find out anyway .
. . We’ve found out frustratingly little so far. ”
In their new office, Michael and Yasira read the protocol of the conversation with Lena’s father when he filed the missing person’s report.
That was three days before the video. More precisely, three days before Yasira saw the video.
Jenny has not yet been able to find a version of the recording with a timestamp in the metadata.
It is therefore not entirely clear when the video was made.
The protocol is not particularly fruitful.
Frank Palmer knows astonishingly little about his child.
He has no idea where his daughter disappeared to on Saturday afternoon.
He was out doing archery with his son when Lena left the house.
So he didn’t even know what clothes she was wearing or whether she had a backpack or other luggage with her.
He reported her missing on Sunday afternoon.
Based on current information, the video first appeared online on Wednesday.
The precinct leader had not yet started searching for Lena because he had no useful clue where to start.
Unfortunately, Lena had left her phone at home.
So she couldn’t be tracked. That seems odd to Yasira.
She wouldn’t know any sixteen-year-old who would voluntarily leave her phone at home.
Unless she doesn’t want anyone to know where she is.
But maybe that’s just the criminalist’s mind getting carried away.
The girl could have simply forgotten her cell phone.
But Zara would have turned around immediately in such a case and fetched it.
The colleagues have secured the device but have not yet been able to access it.
It’s an older iPhone. Lena’s father’s old one.
He doesn’t know her code. Of course he doesn’t.
Yasira gives instructions to send the device to headquarters.
Maybe the nerds from the technical service can find out something about it.
Frank Palmer, Lena’s father, teaches as a professor at the Harz University.
Public Law in the Department of Administrative Sciences.
His son Emil, Lena’s little brother, was diagnosed with a mild form of autism five years ago.
His wife Tanja died of uterine cancer a year and a half ago.
Some families have subscribed to misfortune.
Yasira dreads the conversation, but she will have to talk to the father herself. And if there’s something unpleasant she has to do, she prefers to do it straight away. So she asks the precinct leader to announce her visit and drives with Michael to the Palmer family home on the outskirts of town.
On the drive, Yasira thinks about how she would react if something like this happened to her daughter.
Would she go on a vendetta like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill?
Would she throw herself into work? Would she just break down?
Sometimes, when Zara stays out a little longer than agreed, she has these dark fantasies about what might have happened to her.
Then she has to stop herself from calling her daughter every five minutes.
Is this something every mother has or is it an occupational disease?
Does worrying about your children ever stop? Probably not . . .
A few reporters are already lurking outside the Palmer house. Without a word, Yasira walks past the microphones and cameras held in front of her. Michael asks the journalists to stay back and respect Frank Palmer’s property line, which has the desired effect. Outside the door, they are alone again.
When Lena’s father opens the door, he looks like a living dead to Yasira.
He leads them through a hallway. Yasira hears a piano from the living room.
As they pass by, she catches a glimpse through the door of a boy of about ten sitting at the keys.
That must be Lena’s little brother Emil.
He is playing Chopin’s Prelude in E minor.
A deeply sad piece which the composer had wished to be played at his own funeral.
Yasira’s mother—a pianist in Beirut and piano teacher in Lüneburg—forced her daughter to practice Chopin until her fingers almost fell off.
It’s actually a miracle that she still likes his melodies.
Frank Palmer leads them into the kitchen. Everything is spotless there. Lena’s father is probably trying to keep himself busy somehow. He asks them to take a seat and they sit down at the kitchen table with the yellow oilcloth.
“Before we begin . . .” says Yasira. “I hope you’ve already been told that we can provide you with a psychologist to help you and your son . . .”
Frank Palmer shakes his head briefly but violently.
“No.” Then he repeats what he has already told the local police.
However, this questioning took place before the video.
The situation is much worse now. Palmer is repeatedly on the verge of tears.
In the middle of the conversation, a kitchen timer rings.
Palmer gets up and puts on a kitchen glove.
“I . . . uh . . . I made a lasagna,” he says.
“It’s Lena’s favorite, you know?” He smiles sadly.
“Since she was three years old, she liked nothing better than my lasagna. But back then she always called it salagna.” He swallows.
As if to explain, he adds: “I thought she’d be hungry when she comes back. ”
Yasira nods. “Certainly.”
Frank Palmer bends down. He takes a lasagna dish out of the oven and places it on the ceramic hob. There is already a casserole dish with lasagna. No one has eaten from it.
“I made lasagne yesterday,” says Frank Palmer, as if he’s only just noticed the second casserole dish. “But I thought it tasted better fresh.”
Yasira nods again.
Michael hums in agreement.
“Would you like a piece?”
Yasira declines with thanks. She’s not hungry.
Besides, there’s probably meat in it and this is not the time or place for a conversation about why she doesn’t want to eat it anymore.
(You know, my daughter, my living daughter, my non-raped daughter who sits at home and probably watches Netflix, made me become a vegetarian. You know, because of the climate.) No.
Michael, on the other hand, gratefully accepts the offer. Her colleague can happily eat anytime, anywhere.
Frank Palmer hands him a plate of lasagna and cutlery.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he asks Yasira again. “It’s just ground beef.”
She needs a moment to understand that Lena’s father obviously thinks she might have problems with pork for religious reasons. How complicated can a lasagna be?
Yasira shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’m really not hungry.”
Palmer himself also passes.
“Have you ever seen any of the men on the video?” Yasira continues the questioning.
Palmer shakes his head.
“Can you imagine that your daughter could have known one of them?” asks Michael.
“No,” says Lena’s father. But then he sobs. “But I have to admit that I can’t say for sure. We’ve somehow become estranged over the last year.”
Yasira hands him a handkerchief.
“Since Tanja, my wife . . . Lena’s mother .
. . Since Tanja died,” Frank Palmer continues, “everything has been so difficult. Of course it hit the children hard. I took care of Emil a lot. And often just didn’t have the strength anymore.
Now I blame myself terribly for that. I think I neglected my daughter. That I didn’t look after her enough.”
“Perhaps it will help you,” says Yasira gently, “that almost all parents of teenagers know this gnawing feeling.”
“Do you have children?” asks Frank Palmer.
Michael shakes his head. Yasira nods. “One daughter. She’s Lena’s age.”
“Then perhaps you can understand . . .”
Palmer stops. Yasira understands. All too well.
“I can hardly imagine anything worse,” she says.
Frank Palmer pauses. “I can imagine something worse.”
Yasira swallows. Yes. Worse would be the day when she had to ring Frank Palmer’s doorbell again to report that his daughter was dead.
“Sometimes it’s only the worry about Emil,” Palmer explains, “that keeps me going.”
“We’ll find the men . . .” Michael begins.
“I’m not really interested in that,” interrupts Palmer. “I mean . . .” He falters. “. . . of course I hate these guys. But all I really want to know is what happened to my daughter after the crime.”
“I understand,” says Yasira.
“Part of me is convinced that she’s going to walk in here any minute,” Palmer says. “That’s why I made salagna.” He hesitates. “But if she’s still alive, why haven’t I heard anything from her? Not from her or from any kidnappers?”
“There’s always hope,” Yasira replies, but she probably doesn’t sound very convincing.
“Isn’t hope the last evil to hatch from Pandora’s box?” asks Frank Palmer.
“True, but I don’t think it was one of the evils.”
“You’re right. Of course I’m still hoping. But what if my hope is in vain? Isn’t false hope an evil?”
Yasira has no good answer.
“We’ll do our best to find your daughter quickly,” says Michael.
“May we see Lena’s room?” asks Yasira. The rooms often know more about the children than the fathers do.