A QUIET GUY
Yasira and Michael are standing in front of Messerschmidt’s registered address.
He lives in an apartment on the fourth floor of an old building in Kreuzberg.
The area is hip, but the building itself is nothing special.
Its facade probably received its last coat of paint shortly after the reunification.
Messerschmidt has apparently lived here for thirteen years.
Yasira rings the doorbell of a Jens Krüger on the second floor.
If you intend to speak to someone, it’s always better not to ring the doorbell downstairs, but to knock directly on their door.
With that unmistakable police knocking technique.
And then immediately show them your badge.
It makes a completely different impression than one of those chopped-up conversations over a mostly half-defective intercom.
This one is now crackling.
“Yes?” asks Jens Krüger, who has just been rung. “Who is this?”
“,” says Michael.
That’s the quickest way. No questions are asked. The door buzzer is already buzzing.
Yasira pushes the door open. It’s a typical Berlin hallway. Mailboxes on the right. Straight ahead leads to the courtyard and the rear building. On the left, a staircase leads upstairs, which they take. On the second floor, a man in a bathrobe stands in his open doorway.
“I didn’t order anything,” he grumbles. “And let me tell ya, I’m not a parcel store. Ring the doorbell somewhere else next time. Because I have . . .”
Michael flashes his badge in front of the man’s face.
“Federal Criminal Police, Mr. Krüger,” he says. “Thanks for the helpful clarification, but we are well aware that you are not a parcel store. Now why don’t you go back into your apartment and close the door from the inside.”
Jens Krüger’s jaw drops. He is still staring after them when they reach the third floor.
On the fourth floor, Yasira rings Messerschmidt’s doorbell. Michael next to her is panting heavily.
“You should get back into more exercise,” Yasira says.
“Ugh. There’s no point,” grumbles Michael. “Too old anyway.”
Yasira rings again. Messerschmidt doesn’t answer. So Yasira knocks. Police style. With the flat of her hand against the door. Maximum vibration.
“Mr. Messerschmidt!” Michael calls out. “Please open the door. This is the Federal Criminal Police.”
Yasira knocks on the door a second time. “We just want to talk to you, Mr. Messerschmidt. It’s about your expertise.”
Nothing stirs in Messerschmidt’s place. Instead, the door of the neighboring apartment opens.
“Federal Criminal Police?” asks the blonde woman who opened it. Yasira estimates her to be in her mid-thirties. Two little blond boys cling to her legs.
Michael puts on his most charming smile. “That’s right. We’re looking for your neighbor.”
“Well . . . well . . . I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“How long is in ages?” Yasira inquires.
“Um . . . er . . .” the woman ponders.
“Mom, are these police officers?” asks one of her little boys.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“But they don’t look like that.”
“They’re from the BKA.”
“What’s the BKA?”
Michael bends down to the boy. “The BKA is something similar to the FBI,” he says. But unlike the dark-haired Emily, this doesn’t help the little boy one bit.
The mother turns to Yasira again. “Sorry about that. So, I think the last time I saw him was about half a year ago. Can’t date it exactly, of course.
But I think it was in spring. Mr. Messerschmidt was just leaving his apartment when I came back from shopping, or was it from the hairdresser or maybe from work, anyway I had just come home and he was leaving his apartment.
We greeted each other. Nothing more. We hardly have any contact.
But if you find him, I got an package for him shortly after I last saw him, I think it was actually the day after. It’s still in the hallway . . .”
She disappears for a moment and hands Yasira the package. With a grin, she points to Michael. “He’s the man.”
Her partner takes the parcel.
They then walk through the house and talk to the other residents. No one has much to say about Messerschmidt. Apparently he is a quiet guy. So quiet that he’s probably not even present most of the time, Yasira thinks. No one has a key. That would have been too easy.
Something is definitely wrong here, Yasira concludes in the car.
While Michael is driving her back to the office, she calls Cyber-Chris and asks him to track down Claus Messerschmidt.
“How so?” is the reply.
“What do I know?” says Yasira. “Hack into his account and tell me where his parcels are delivered. Messerschmidt’s mailbox is empty. So he probably has a forwarding order too. Check with the post office. I want to know where he really lives, not where he’s registered.”
She hangs up. There’s obviously a book in Messerschmidt’s package.
“So there are actually people who still order books from and not hand blenders or large packs of condoms,” she says.
“How the hell did you come to the conclusion that people order bulk packs of condoms from ?” asks Michael.
Yasira laughs. “I’m sure people do, don’t you think?”
“Sure they do. Not me, but I’m sure there are people who do.”
Yasira laughs again. It’s good to laugh. Despite everything. “I’ve never ordered bulk packs of condoms either. Don’t get any weird ideas. But when it comes to hand blenders, I can’t guarantee that I’ve never ordered one. It must have come from somewhere.”
Yasira thinks about her botched date with handsome Steven. Was that last week? Or has it already been two weeks? It feels like something from another life. It all started that evening. Should she call him again? She feels so lonely. Absentmindedly, she tears open Messerschmidt’s package.
“Now, listen, that’s not yours, partner,” says Michael with feigned indignation.
The package contains a biography of Elon Musk. Kind of disappointing. Yasira had hoped for something more exciting.
“What did the chief actually want from you?” asks Michael.
“To stare at me,” Yasira says.
“Oh, that number,” grumbles Michael. “That means we don’t have long before he takes us off the case.”
“Yes.” Then, giving herself a push, she lets her partner in on the question that’s still bothering her despite the boss’s refusal.
“What if we let something slip?” she asks.
“To the press?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“A bad idea,” is all Michael says.
“But it just drives me crazy that everyone is freaking out, that I’m in danger myself, that my daughter is in goddamn danger because of an event that may never have happened.”
“I understand that,” replies Michael. “But what if you’re wrong? Picture the damage to the BKA’s credibility if we claim the video is fake but it’s real!”
“I know it’s fake! I just know it!”
“Even if it is. How stupid do you think the chief is? You ask him to tell the press, he says no and then something leaks out. He wouldn’t have become our boss if he couldn’t at least add one and one together.”
Yasira is silent for a while. Michael is probably right.
Nevertheless, she wants to tell the whole world about what she has found out.
It must have some effect. Doubt is good, isn’t it?
Anyone in doubt won’t try to storm the Reichstag.
Or is it perhaps the other way around? Damn it! It’s so complicated.
Didn’t the handsome Tinder Steven mention that he works for some newspaper? Which one was it again? She could just give him a call. Meet up casually. Just a little chat.