Red Fox
Laying in the middle of the garage is a dead Black man.
Riedel had pressed his gun to the back of his kneeling victim’s head and pulled the trigger.
The bullet exited under his chin. The man’s face is still intact and, seen in light, he is obviously not one of Lena’s rapists.
Apart from the cap, the only thing he has in common with them is the color of his skin.
“Shit,” mumbles Yasira.
Yasira sighs. “If he didn’t even put the cap on him himself.”
“He probably had to drive quite a way for that,” Michael says. “Hard to imagine he found the poor guy right here in Dürrhahnbach.”
“Think of all the false leads we’ve gotten from the public,” says Yasira. “In their Telegram groups, the members of the Active Homeland-Protection also send each other tips.”
“And they’re probably just as wrong,” mutters Michael.
Yasira glances at the dead innocent in the garage.
“Obviously.”
The victim is quickly identified because his papers are in his jacket.
One of the forensic experts, who arrived simultaneously with Yasira and Michael and are already swarming over the crime scene, hands them to Yasira.
The victim’s name is Tesfaye Yemane, a twenty-one-year-old asylum seeker from Eritrea.
Later, during the interrogation, Yasira’s suspicions are confirmed that Red Fox is not the brightest candle on the cake, or—if you want to stick with the theme—not the brightest torch on the march. But he is defiant. His reaction to Yasira is particularly hostile.
“I’m not talking to someone like that . .
.” he hisses. He leaves it unclear whether his problem is that Yasira is a woman—or if he just doesn’t like the color of her skin.
Normally, that alone would be reason enough for Yasira to press the dirtbag even harder.
But in this case, her sole focus is to get as much information as quickly as possible.
So she leaves the interrogation to her colleague and just observes.
Red Fox shows no remorse whatsoever. Even when Michael makes it clear to him that he has definitely shot an innocent man, he just says: “One less is all that matters.”
He probably knew from the start that he was dealing with an innocent man.
Yasira hates the guy. As far as it’s within her power, she will make his life a living hell. The Katjas should find out which German prison has the fewest white inmates. There she would put the asshole. But of course that’s just a fantasy. It’s not up to her where the scumbag ends up.
“So, what do you think?” asks Yasira as they leave the interrogation room.
“I’d bet my dinner that this guy is a loner,” says Michael.
“Aren’t foxes loners too?”
“I think so.”
“So, a copycat?” Yasira asks.
“The only connection to Bear, as far as I can tell, is that he watched his videos obsessively—almost manically.”
“You could say the same about us . . .”
“In a way,” says Michael, “we can be thankful to the Red Fox. After all, he has given us our first real investigative success.”
Yasira snorts.
“At least that’s how we can present it externally,” Michael continues.
“Even if his deed really has nothing to do with the Lena video, other than having seen it,” grumbles Yasira.
“Still,” says Michael.
“And I’m supposed to be the cynic . . .” Yasira murmurs.
But her partner is right. The rapid arrest will make headlines, and at best it will deter other would-be homeland protectors from taking up arms. Unfortunately, Tesfaye Yemane won’t be benefiting from this.
They are already on their way back to Berlin when the boss calls. He is just as happy about the success as Michael is.
“You’ve bought yourself some time,” he says. “You’ve bought us some time.”
“But . . .”
“But nothing!”
So Yasira remains silent.
“The interior minister is holding a press conference this evening,” says Gebhardt. “Make sure you come.”
“What?” Yasira asks in surprise. She’s startled by the idea. “Why? That . . . that’s . . . that’s not the usual procedure.”
“Politics thinks in images, Ms. Saad. In emotions. The interior minister wants to make sure that it’s not just a bunch of white men sitting in front of the cameras in this case.”
“But that’s not my job at all,” Yasira protests.
“You’re the face of these investigations,” says the boss. “The interior minister has requested that you be present, so you will be present. Understood?”
Yasira sighs. “Understood.”
She hangs up.
“What’s up?” asks Michael.
“I have to go to the press conference,” moans Yasira.
Michael laughs, knowing how much Yasira hates public appearances.
“That’s not funny!” she says and punches him on the shoulder.
Before the conference, Yasira sits with Jenny in the room behind the podium going over the key points. She’s more nervous than she was before the raid at noon today.
“What was the victim’s name again?”
“Tesfaye Yemane,” says Jenny. “Tesfaye means hope, by the way.”
“How do you know that?”
“I googled it.”
Yasira shakes her head. “Hope. How sad. Do you sometimes also feel like fate is playing a perfidious game with us?”
Jenny doesn’t get into it. “We’ve tried to locate relatives, but haven’t had any success yet. It seems like he came to Germany on his own.”
“And in Eritrea?” asks Yasira.
“What do you know about Eritrea?” asks Jenny.
Yasira thinks about it. “Practically nothing.”
“They call it ‘the North Korea of Africa,’” reports Jenny. “The dictatorship is iron-fisted, censorship is omnipresent, and forced labor is commonplace.”
“It’s not a particularly cooperative regime . . .” Yasira suspects.
Jenny nods. “No idea if Tesfaye’s parents will ever learn about the tragic end their son has met here.”
Yasira sighs.
“Had I lived there,” says Jenny, “I would have fled too.”
Yasira doesn’t have to say much at the press conference.
It’s not just the interior minister who’s present, but also a spokesperson from the BKA and the attorney general.
And the important people all love to hear themselves talk.
There is quite a stir when the attorney general announces that Red Fox’s victim is not one of Lena’s rapists.
News reports start to flood into the editorial offices.
Everyone wants to be the first to report this new twist in the drama.
The public is asked to remain calm and allow law enforcement to do its job.
You might as well have asked a pot of milk on a stovetop set to maximum not to boil over, Yasira thinks.
At the end of the press conference, she herself gets her big moment to report that the investigations are ongoing, promising leads are emerging, but that for operational reasons she can’t say any more at the moment.
It’s a cipher for “we don’t know anything concrete yet.
” And of course the assembled press are also aware of this.
After the press conference, the interior minister quickly shakes her hand and asks her to clear up the case as quickly as possible. Oh, I see, Yasira almost says. If that’s what you want, then we’ll stop dawdling. I had no way of knowing. But of course she just nods dutifully.
Even at home, Yasira can’t let go of the case. The news is full of it. She keeps seeing herself, too. Yasira doesn’t like that at all. She has officially become the face of the investigation and is even more in the line of fire. Just because “politics thinks in images.”
A number of left-wing groups have spontaneously called for a vigil for the murdered Tesfaye that very evening. Right-wing channels are agitating against it. The Active Homeland-Protection mobilizes its members.
Zara is not at home, but at the movies with friends. Although Yasira knows where her daughter is, she is worried. The atmosphere in the city is so tense and aggressive. Nevertheless, she forces herself not to keep calling Zara. She doesn’t want to go helicoptering.
While she fixes herself something to eat, she leaves the TV on.
The local news is reporting on street clashes between right-wing extremists and antifa.
Yasira is glad to only have to witness this on the screen.
Before the police can get everything under control again, another person is killed.
A twenty-one-year-old antifascist, a student at the Free University, was hit in the head by a stone.
It is impossible to reconstruct who threw the stone.
Over a hundred people are arrested in connection with the street brawl.
She mutes the television. The silence is unbearable.
Unable to stand it any longer, she calls her daughter.
“I’ll be home in a minute,” Zara says immediately. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s just . . .” Yasira begins. “In the news . . .”
“I’ve seen it. I’ll be right there.”
Yasira hangs up and turns the volume back up.
Everything has turned out much worse than Yasira feared.
And it’s not over yet. For the day after tomorrow, large demonstrations have been announced.
From the right and against the right. The police union is calling on Berlin’s Interior Minister to request more reinforcements from other federal states. They fear violent riots.