The conference room on the third floor of the Stralsund police headquarters felt bare, almost stark. Through the wide windows stretched a view of the harbor, gray and sluggish in the early afternoon light. Only the gulls seemed restless. The ventilation hummed softly, and from a distance came the pounding of construction work.
Katja rubbed her temples. Fatigue clung to her bones, but she was alert enough to catch every nuance of the briefing. Babsi was bent over her tablet, Heinrichsen tapping at his phone.
Konrad Vohwinkel, wiry, his torso always pitched slightly forward, spoke quickly and in a low voice. “I have Ullrich’s final report on Faris Mertens. No signs of foul play. No hematomas, no injection marks apart from the one, no traces of struggle. The body emaciated, massive organ damage. Key finding: pancreatic carcinoma, end stage.”
He set the papers aside. “Natural death. Ullrich confirms it too. The corpse was left at the old cemetery. No shoeprints, no tire tracks, no classic crime scene.”
Sven leaned back. “So, no homicide. But violation of burial law and disturbance of the dead, section 168 of the penal code.”
Katja allowed herself a faint smile. She knew his fondness for citing statutes to the letter. “And what about Sina Fehrmann?”
Heinrichsen put his phone away, lowered his voice. “DNA profile is clear. She’s Elin Volkmar. Single mother, ran a women’s shelter, once active in leftist autonomist circles. In the BKA database for fifteen years. Squatting, breach of the peace, that’s why her DNA was collected. Case dismissed, trace remained.”
“Hundred percent match?” Sven pressed.
“Yes. No doubt. But psychologically…” Heinrichsen trailed off.
Sven slammed his fist onto the table. “So there it is. Either she tripped on something years ago or she’s schizophrenic. Calls herself Sina, claims she’s from 1489, talks about an execution and her husband Matthes. Poetic, archaic, but she understands everything. Amazing what people can make themselves believe.”
Katja stayed serious. “We have Faris, dead from cancer. And we have Elin, terminal, liver failing. Both gravely ill, both with the tattoo. That’s the link.”
Heinrichsen stroked his beard. „Faris’s case: nothing except disturbance of the dead and violations of burial law. No murder. And according to his wife, it was his wish.”
Sven shook his head. “And then a dead Faris falls off a funeral van. I still say something stinks here. Hard to crack though. And Elin?”
Katja’s phone buzzed. “Hang on, it’s Marit.”
She answered. “Yes… we have results. Sina is Elin Volkmar. DNA is conclusive. Tomorrow morning, Helios Hanse Clinic. Please don’t let her out of your sight. Yes, the beach, flowers, do something nice for her.”
She hung up. “Marit’s staying with her. Clinic tomorrow.” She sighed. “Elin, a normal women’s shelter life, and suddenly she shows up emaciated in medieval clothes, talking about 1489. The gap gives me knots in my stomach.”
“Maybe the relevance lies elsewhere,” Babsi said quietly. The room turned toward her in surprise.
“Where? In fairyland?” Vohwinkel grumbled.
Babsi flushed. “I just mean… she seems convinced. Not confused, but clear. Only… from another world.”
Katja steered the discussion back. “Family? Friends?”
Heinrichsen nodded. “Mother, two daughters, nine and twelve. Account frozen for weeks, salary redirected to the mother, kids with the grandmother. Death certificate issued by Dr. Crämer, unblemished record and outraged that anyone would even question his competence.”
Katja kept taking notes. “So: officially dead, children provided for, mother involved. But Elin, or Sina, is talking about details you don’t just make up.”
Sven reached into the empty sideboard. “Babsi, note to self: restock gummy frogs.”
Vohwinkel shook his head. “The tattoo points to a cult. But there’s no indication of an organized group. Everything looks staged individually.”
Katja stood. “I want to talk to her mother.”
Vohwinkel raised a warning hand. “One more thing. The linen robe is gone. Yesterday I spoke with staff at the open-air museum in Groß Raden. From the way I described it, they said it was an execution garment and asked me to send it over. They’d examine it for us. But when I came into the lab this morning, the package was gone. And with it, all the samples. Everything. Even the data was deleted. It’s as if it never existed.”
“How can something like that happen?”
“No idea. Maybe we’ve got a mole inside. Whoever it was knew our internal systems. But out of habit I printed an overview yesterday.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket. “Linen, handwoven. Residue of ash, sulfur, iron oxide, tar, and traces of human blood. Old, degraded.”
Katja stared at him. “So it really was an execution robe?”
“Possible. Groß Raden said everything pointed that way. Stitched like a neck collar, with loops for transport. It looked used multiple times.”
Katja gazed out toward the harbor. “It’s as if someone wants us to believe a particular story. Even if it sounds very, very strange.”
Sven’s phone buzzed. “Yes, Mr. Prosecutor.”
His voice stayed calm, but Katja saw his jaw tighten.
Moments later he returned. “The investigation’s closed. From now on, fraud division takes over. For us the case is done.”
Katja stared at him as though he’d spoken a foreign language.
“Excuse me?” Her voice was quiet, almost too quiet. “No case file? No jurisdiction? A woman thought herself dead, talks about 1489, carries a strange symbol on her skin, and a naked corpse turns up hidden in a cemetery grove. The whole thing staged like a discovery.”
“I know,” Sven said softly. “But Faris died of natural causes. No external injuries, no toxins, no foreign DNA. And Elin—Sina—she’s alive. For our unit there’s no homicide. The prosecutor decided to hand it over to fraud. For homicide division, it’s over.”
“Or we just don’t see the crime that really happened,” Katja shot back. “You can kill someone with a smile, or with a perfectly orchestrated disappearance. We’ve got a woman who is officially dead, whose kids are already in line for survivor benefits, and she’s walking the beach. If that’s not grounds for investigation, I don’t know what is.”
“Maybe so,” Heinrichsen said, “but it’s not murder. If anything, it’s fraud. That’s another division entirely. All we can do now is testify.”
Babsi looked up from her laptop. “If it’s fraud at all. Maybe she had no idea. Maybe the mother cooked it all up. Without clear evidence, all we’ve got is speculation.”
Katja crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Maybe. But until someone proves me wrong, I’m staying on it.”
Sven sighed. “Exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Oh, and you’re just going to swallow that?” Katja snapped at him.
“Stick to the rules. We have our orders. We’re not private detectives.”
She scoffed. “So you don’t find it strange that this linen shroud and every single sample disappears, and at the same time we get the order to drop the case?”
Sven didn’t look away, but it was clear he was wrestling with it inside.
“I want vacation, Sven. Right now. Otherwise I’m calling in sick.”
For a heartbeat the only sound was the faint hum of the ventilation. Heinrichsen flipped through his papers, Babsi held her coffee cup as if she were drinking.
“You’re impossible,” Sven muttered at last, resignation creeping into his voice.
“I’m curious, damn it.”
“Then I guess we’re on the same page.”
He sighed and reached for the phone. “Fine. We’ll call it overtime and report a family emergency. But no solo stunts. No hero crap.”
Katja nodded, her smile giving her away. She’d already won.