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THE BOYFRIEND

While Michael is still battling his chicken, Yasira receives an email with Lena’s movement profile from the past four weeks.

Along with the detailed call log. Thankfully, Timo has already processed both.

There was one particular route that Lena repeatedly traveled after school.

The destination was Heimstedt, a village about eighteen kilometers from Halberstadt.

Eighteen? One and eight, A and H. No, no.

You shouldn’t go crazy. If you want to see a conspiracy, you’ll see it everywhere.

The number Lena called most frequently belongs to a Justus Schoffler.

Registered address in Heimstedt. Well, if that isn’t Lena’s mysterious boyfriend.

Yasira tells her colleague about it.

“Bingo,” is all Michael says.

After lunch, they set off immediately. The main road toward Heimstedt is mostly dead straight and offers somewhat tiring views of farmland to the left and right.

Schoffler lives in a large single-family home that has seen better days.

They don’t want to scare him off too soon, so Michael drives past the house, turns around and then parks some distance away.

The road curves slightly, giving them a good view of the whole property from their current position.

At the front is a neglected garden. At the back, a chain-link fence separates Schoffler’s land from a wild meadow.

It slopes slightly upwards and leads to a forest. Yasira points to the trees. Michael nods.

“A forest,” he says. “Like in the video. But there’s forest everywhere.”

Yasira gets out and leads the way, Michael panting behind her. A rusty old Opel Corsa is parked in Schoffler’s driveway. Yasira takes photos of the car and its license plate.

Then she rings Schoffler’s doorbell. The young man who answers the door looks sleepy. But he suddenly snaps to attention when Yasira shows him her badge.

He briefly tries to pretend to be surprised but Michael cuts the episode short by asking him at the front door: “Mr. Schoffler, what is your relationship to Lena Palmer?”

“I . . . what . . . ?” he stammers.

“Mr. Schoffler,” says Yasira gently. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the terrible crime. Maybe even seen the video . . .”

“Either you talk to us here, or we’ll summon you to the station,” Michael snaps. Justus Schoffler looks at him, startled. It’s the old routine. Good cop, bad cop. But as long as it works, there’s no reason to change it.

“Why don’t we just take a seat in your kitchen?” Yasira asks in a friendly manner. “That would be best for everyone.”

Schoffler steps aside and makes way. Inside, there is a huge mess.

The furniture looks a hundred years old.

Schoffler probably inherited the house from his grandparents.

Pizza boxes are lying around. packages. Beer bottles.

A large flat screen sits enthroned on a desk.

In front of it, a gaming chair like the one Zara’s cousin got for Christmas.

Michael inhales noticeably through his nose.

Yasira nods. From the smell of the apartment, she’d bet a month’s salary that the guy makes a living selling pot.

Judging by the little luxury in his apartment, only on small scale and he’s probably his own best customer.

“Sorry,” says Schoffler. “You . . . you could have called, then I would have tidied up a bit.”

He leads the two investigators into his kitchen, where all three sit down at the dirty table.

“I . . . I mean . . . how . . . why me? I honestly don’t know what you want from me,” says Schoffler.

“Why are you lying to us, Mr. Schoffler?” Yasira replies calmly. “We have Lena’s movement data, and we know she was constantly on the phone with you.”

“You were with her,” Michael says sharply. “The longer you deny it, the more suspicious you make yourself!”

Schoffler’s expression completely collapses. Where just moments ago he had been trying to feign surprise and indifference, Yasira now sees pure despair.

“I . . . I . . .” He stammers something incomprehensible.

“Was Lena your girlfriend?” Yasira asks gently.

Schoffler nods, almost in tears.

“And did you . . .” Michael begins.

“Of course I saw the video!” Schoffler snaps at him, only to apologize immediately afterwards. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Yasira can’t decide whether his despair stems from Lena’s fate or his own.

“Lena’s disappearance was hell for me,” says Schoffler, with his voice breaking. “You have to believe me.”

“Why didn’t you contact the police?” asks Michael.

“Well, she’s only sixteen and I’m twenty-seven. That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

Yasira nods. What Schoffler has just said is nonsense, but an astonishing number of people believe it. Maybe for the best.

“So you kept your relationship a secret?” she asks.

“Lena was afraid of what her father would say.”

Understandable, thinks Yasira. If her daughter came home with a twenty-seven-year-old, she’d tear into both of them.

“Where did you meet?” asks Michael.

“Only here, actually.”

“I meant, where did you first meet?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . at a party . . . in a, uh, disco.”

“When?” asks Yasira.

“Well . . . in spring.”

“Are you employed?” asks Michael.

“I’m currently looking . . .”

“When Lena came to see you,” asks Yasira. “How did that happen? I mean, how did she get here?”

“Mostly I picked her up,” says Schoffler.

“Mostly?”

“Sometimes she hitchhiked.”

Michael sighs. Yasira clutches her head.

“Hitchhiked?” she asks. “Seriously?”

This isn’t a case from the eighties. What the fuck?

“There are just very few buses to Heimstedt,” Schoffler defends himself. “And sometimes I didn’t have time to pick her up. Or my ride was acting up again. What were we supposed to do?”

Yasira sighs.

“The ride you mentioned is the old Corsa outside your door?” asks Michael.

Schoffler nods.

“Were you going to meet her on Saturday?” she asks.

Another nod.

“But Lena didn’t show up?”

Schoffler shakes his head.

“What did you do when Lena didn’t come?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, I sent her messages and stuff.”

“Did Lena reply to your messages?” asks Michael.

Head shaking.

“Didn’t that worry you?” Yasira presses.

Schoffler looks down at the floor. “It . . . it . . . often happened that she couldn’t leave home. Sometimes her father would freak out . . .”

“Freak out?”

“Well, he wanted to know where she was always running off to and so on . . . Then she’d just stay home. Sometimes she had to babysit. Because of her brother, he’s a bit weird.”

“Do you have any idea why Lena left her cell phone at home on the day she disappeared?”

“No idea. Or wait. Lena told me she was afraid her father might have installed some kind of hidden tracking app on her phone.”

Yasira makes a mental note. She would have to ask Frank Palmer about that.

“Do you happen to know Lena’s phone code?” Michael asks.

Lena’s boyfriend shakes his head.

“Mr. Schoffler,” Yasira asks as kindly as possible, “would you please unlock your phone and hand it to me? I’d like to take a look at it.”

Schoffler hesitates. “Do I . . . do I have to?”

How much Yasira would just like to say “yes.” But she can’t.

“No. You don’t have to.”

“Then I’d rather not.”

Yasira smiles kindly. “Mr. Schoffler, we’re on your side. We’re trying to find your girlfriend. We’re trying to catch the rapists. Please help us.”

Schoffler looks at her like a deer caught in the headlights. Then he shakes his head.

Yasira’s gaze sharpens and with precisely measured anger in her voice she says: “Listen, we’re investigating a case of nationwide significance.

It’s about a gang rape, possibly even murder.

There’s already a horde of so-called homeland protectors who’d love nothing more than to enforce vigilante justice.

We want to catch the perpetrators beforehand and bring them to court.

But most of all, we want to find Lena.” She pauses briefly and leans closer to Justus Schoffler.

“I really don’t give a shit how much weed you smoke, sell, or grow in your backyard.

Give me your phone now.” After a little pause, with her most charming smile, she adds a “please.”

“I want to speak to a lawyer . . .”

“Listen, kid,” Yasira starts again gently. “I promise we won’t bust you for your drug problem.”

“But if you don’t cooperate,” says Michael, “we’ll make your life a living hell. What do you think the press will do to you if we tell them about Lena’s boyfriend, the twenty-seven-year-old drug dealer that Lena had to hitchhike to every week, huh?”

Justus Schoffler doesn’t say anything anymore. He just shakes his head.

Frustrated, Yasira and Michael leave the house. They walk to the car, waiting for them around the curve.

“Shit,” says Michael. “That could have gone better. The guy’s hiding something.”

“Sure. But do you think he’s involved in Lena’s disappearance?” Yasira asks.

“Possible. In any case, we’ll have to put on the big show now.”

“Yeah.”

Justus Schoffler hasn’t done himself any favors.

They get in the car but don’t drive off.

Instead, Yasira calls Jenny. She describes the situation and asks her colleague to get a search warrant and a summons to the police station.

In addition, she is to file a request for an automated data disclosure regarding Schoffler’s phone, allowing them to access real-time usage data from his service provider.

Then Yasira calls the colleagues in Halberstadt and demands round-the-clock surveillance of Schoffler and his house.

“There was this old joke in the GDR,” says Michael when she hangs up. “How do you know that the Stasi11 is monitoring you?”

“How?” asks Yasira.

“There’s a new transformer box on the street and you’ve got a new built-in wardrobe.”

“What are you getting at?”

“If the sheriffs are watching him, he’s bound to notice. It’s hard to tail someone inconspicuously in a village.”

“When they arrive, I’ll tell them to make an effort.”

Michael just laughs.

Yasira rubs her hands together. It’s getting cold in the parked car, but they have to wait to be relieved. She looks at Schoffler’s house. Everything seems quiet.

“Cold?” asks Michael. “Should I start the engine?”

Yasira shakes her head.

“Too conspicuous.”

She calls Katja Jürgens and tells her about Lena’s hitchhiking trips.

“See if there are any surveillance cameras near the Palmers’,” Yasira asks her colleague. “Gas stations, bank buildings, anything. Get the recordings from Saturday afternoon. If we’re lucky, we’ll see a suspicious car on it. Maybe it was one of the perpetrators who picked up Lena.”

“What’s that supposed to be?” asks Katja Jürgens. “A suspicious car?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” says Yasira, “I have full confidence in you.”

“Thank you very much,” grumbles Katja Jürgens. “This is going to be the most boring movie night of my life . . . And I watched The Expendables 4!”

Yasira smiles briefly. It’s good that her team hasn’t lost its sense of humor.

“See if you can spot Schoffler’s car,” she says. “Was he on the road on Saturday? Or on Sunday? Where did he go? Also the days after.”

“Of course.”

Yasira says goodbye and hangs up. Then she sends the photo she took of Schoffler’s car to her team.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” says Michael after a little while. “We tacitly assume that the fourth in the gang, the cameraman, is also a chocolate kiss.”

Yasira rolls her eyes.

“What?” asks Michael hypocritically. “I thought that’s the politically correct term?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” replies Yasira. “And you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I just have this little closeted racist in my head and I can’t get rid of him, but you’ll have to forgive me because I’m challenging him right now. And not just mine. You’ve got one in your head too.”

“Me?” asks Yasira in astonishment.

“Yes, because we all seem to take it for granted that the cameraman is also a Black man, possibly a refugee, presumably from Mali, but we don’t have any proof of that. Who is to say that the cameraman isn’t a white bread, eh? A white bread like Justus Schoffler.”

Yasira thinks about what Michael said. And he’s right. The cameraman could be anyone. But Justus Schoffler?

“There’s something fishy about that guy,” Michael grumbles.

“Maybe.”

Michael fiddles a liverwurst sandwich out of his Tupperware.

“By the way, did you know that around one billion chocolate kisses are eaten in Germany every year?” he asks.

“What, a billion?”

“Sounds like a lot. But that’s only twelve per capita.”

“Yeah, sure. But there are also people who don’t eat any,” says Yasira. “Like me, for example.”

“Right, and that’s really shameful of you. That’s why I have to eat yours too. To maintain the average. And not just yours. Apart from Katja Jürgens, no one from the entire team helps me.”

“You poor thing,” Yasira says laughing. Then she looks back at the house and can hardly believe her eyes.

A backpack flies out of the back window of Schoffler’s house. She nudges Michael, who is just about to take a bite of his sandwich. Immediately afterwards, Schoffler himself tumbles out of the window.

1 The secret police of former East Germany. —Trans.