The Last Shot

Since Rosa returned from sick leave, everyone noticed that she had changed. More mature, older, tougher, and in a way, more dangerous. Every morning she went down to Hades, and Dr. Gangl changed her bandages. She smiled because Dr. Gangl gazed so lovingly at her small, round breasts with their pointed nipples. He grinned, not the least bit embarrassed. "Quasimodo was a real man, beneath that hump and the tattered rags." Rosa smiled gently and understandingly. She handled everyday tasks quickly and easily, and then she threw herself into the Frank Halter case like a bloodthirsty tiger. She dissected every document down to the molecules, had probably listened to Halter's call to Ron a hundred times, and read the transcript word for word. Yes, she sometimes whispered to Alfred, because the computer only thought logically and wasn't influenced by emotions.

Ron had chuckled when Alfred asked for his permission. But that, too, was perfectly logical; Alfred was actually assigned to him as his personal assistant. Now he sometimes sat next to Rosa and listened to her discussion with the clever computer. It was very interesting, but they weren't getting very far. Alfred had considered millions of possibilities. He asked if he could make a comment. "I see that you and Ronald are sitting together. So I'll offer my suggestion; it's completely far-fetched, but perhaps worth considering. You've obviously examined the basement floor at the Halter house. But there's a new type of ground-penetrating radar now, called lidar. It can detect the tiniest things beneath the floor, beneath the concrete basement floor. The Kepler University in Linz has one. Just a thought, but perhaps something might be found. Shall I put you in touch with the head of the institute there?" Ron and Rosa exchanged perplexed glances and said in unison, "Absolutely!"

The professor in Linz was thrilled to use his gadget, especially since President Wallner agreed that, if successful, the professor could refer to the criminal police — naturally, only after the case was closed. Three men arrived from Linz; the lidar looked like a lawnmower. And now they were scanning the basement floor. And lo and behold, the professor drew a rectangle on the floor with chalk. There was an underground tunnel running beneath the house, coming from here and continuing on to there. Ron stared at the chalk mark. Directly beneath the rectangle, there seemed to be a large lump of metal and some electronics. The professor scratched his head. "No entrance in sight." Rosenthal dropped his coffee cup on the floor and was about to apologize. But Ron had lain down and was staring at the slurry of coffee and dust. A hairline crack was gradually appearing where the slurry was seeping in. The secret entrance. Bodnar said, "We'll let the forensics guys hack the electronics, okay?" President Wallner leaned forward. "Exactly right, Bodnar, absolutely right. But first, get the pickaxe out of the van. We're doing it the Russian way."

Bodnar swung the pickaxe and tore open the concrete. The professor stuck his head and a flashlight into the hole. "A metal ladder, a disused sewer. Ah! A metal structure, possibly the door opener with its electronics. Simple, but effective." Everyone peered into the hole, then Bodnar completely obscured the area. They went down one by one; Rosenblatt followed the sewer to its end, where there was a locked iron door leading to the street. Rosa meticulously photographed the entire scene. The secret was out; Halter would probably discover it soon and curse. Rosa felt that Frank's relationship with his mother had become even closer since his time in prison and on vacation, so they would continue their close surveillance, paying particular attention to the secret entrance. She sat down with Bodnar and Rosenblatt for private talks to give them a piece of her mind. It didn't help their investigation if they licked the honey pot of Kerzendocht. Both of them just shrugged. Would she make a big deal out of it? No? Then we'd carry on. Of course, Bodnar and Rosenblatt had already planned everything. They were certain they wouldn't be fired. Wallner needed every single man. Rosa's shoulders slumped. But ever since, relations between her and Bodnar had been strained; she had become aggressive and grumpy.

Bodnar and Rosenblatt now sat more often in the coffee corner, whispering. An observant person would soon realize that Bodnar was questioning and interrogating Rosenblatt about incest. Bodnar looked at the nude photos of the slut and then at the ones of Elli, his eyes blazing and saliva dangling from the corner of his mouth. The images danced the cha-cha-cha in his poor brain. But no, he would never sleep with his daughter, never, Bodnar said. Yes, he too had nude photos of his wife and daughter. Rosenblatt scanned the pictures of Bodnar's unremarkable wife. But he clicked his tongue as he attentively examined the cheeky, obscenely posed daughter. Bodnar just looked at him.

Rosa, of course, knew that Bodnar put his hand under his daughter's waistband, quite innocently, naturally. Rosa gave him real headbutts, not slaps, not anymore. Sometimes she wanted to punch him in the face, but she didn't want to, or couldn't push him away. "Wake up already!" she screamed at him when they were alone. "There's no such thing as innocent finger play, you idiot! The law is unambiguous: it's incest, child molestation, and so on. Why do you act like the law doesn't apply to you?" Bodnar squirmed. It had just happened that way. It was a substitute for real intercourse, and he adhered rigidly to that boundary. His daughter left him alone when he performed the finger play and also accepted that he wasn't up for intercourse. His daughter had learned at school how to please boys. Her hand would slip onto Bodnar's cock, and she unashamedly gives him the happy ending with her fist. Bodnar grinned like an idiot. Yes, for several weeks now. Rosa glared at him angrily. "You're such a donkey, honey. You're already sliding down the slippery slope, but you don't even realize it. I'll leave you when you hit the bottom, you idiot! Leave you, without discussion!"

Ron always gave Fatme the go-ahead. Frank Halter never showed his face around her, even though he knew for sure where she worked, what the pimp's name was, and he definitely had his phone number. He really had a bad feeling in his stomach, that was for sure. He had discussed the situation with Alfred and entrusted him with the complete surveillance. Alfred was to monitor without restrictions; the privacy of everyone involved was secondary in a case like this. Alfred thought he should at least inform the president, because he had to document everything and couldn't falsify his own protocols. Ron nodded; he would inform the president, but he never did.

Bodnar entered the president's office. "I have something private to discuss, boss." Wallner nodded and gestured to the chair. Bodnar lowered the blinds; it was supposed to remain private. Wallner pushed the papers aside, lit a cigarette, and waited attentively. "Mr. President, I request my resignation. Perhaps early retirement; that would be very kind." Wallner signaled that he didn't understand a word. "Mr. President, I'm 56 now. I was a loyal civil servant for over 35 years, at least until the day before yesterday. I've become dishonest; I'm no longer a loyal civil servant. I've tarnished my honor and that of my family. I would only be a burden in your ranks, Mr. President." Wallner leaned back. "Are we talking about Kerzendocht or your daughter?" Bodnar was utterly taken aback. Apparently, nothing escaped the President's notice. He took a deep breath, but Wallner continued speaking. "What you and Rosenblatt are doing with the Kerzendocht would, of course, be grounds for firing you cock-driven donkeys on the spot if I knew. But I don't know, I don't want to know. Are we finished, are you going back to work?"

Bodnar remained seated, letting his shoulders slump forward. "I didn't mean to bring up the Kerzendocht incident, Mr. President. Rosenblatt and I deserve to be seen as pimply schoolboys. The Kerzendocht acts like a convenient harlot, but she certainly isn't one. No, it's the other matter, that's what I was really talking about." Wallner slumped back in his chair. "Your daughter, then? Laura?" Bodnar nodded unhappily. "I've disgraced my family. I deserve a good kick in the pants, Rosa warned me. And now it's all over. I'm no longer a decent policeman, certainly not a loyal public servant. I'm asking you for a simple dismissal so that at least I don't lose my pension." Wallner leaned his head against the wall. That he had to work with immature men like Bodnar and Rosenblatt, well, ... "Listen to me carefully, Mr. Bodnar (he addressed Bodnar formally for a reason), listen to me. You were and still are a good and decent police officer, and a good detective to boot, I must say. I wouldn't dream of firing you or anything stupid like that. You're going back to work, and that's my final word."

Bodnar sat there like a drowned rat. The president had addressed him informally all his life, and with the unexpected formality, he emphasized his authority and his arbitration. Bodnar was paralyzed; it had taken an unexpected turn. Wallner leaned forward, his Roman nose hinting at why he used to be called the Falcon. "Look, Bodnar. Rosenblatt's sleeping with his daughter, and he's not even trying to hide it. Did I fire him? Did I transfer him to the archives? No, you see, I can tell a capable detective when I see him. I couldn't care less where, how, or with whom Rosenblatt does it. He's doing a very good job, so why should I shoot myself in the foot just because he has a private life that, strictly speaking, is none of my business as long as his daughter isn't committing a crime? To hell with him, to hell with you! You work for me, and that's that. Maybe you shouldn't broadcast your incest with Laura as much as Rosenblatt did; that would be decent. I'm NOT making a note of it in your personnel file, just like I didn't for Rosenblatt. I don't know, I don't want to know, and it's absolutely none of my damn business. Now get to work, I'm sure you have enough to do!" Wallner grabbed the stack of papers and didn't even glance at Bodnar again. Bodnar left silently, lost in thought.

Ron sat next to Rosa, and they went through the recordings from the cellar. Rosa said suddenly, "I broke up with Bodnar yesterday, I'm serious." Ron jumped. "Breaked up with him?" Rosa nodded. "I warned him; I wouldn't tolerate incest, even as a lover." Ron looked at her. "Incest?" Rosa nodded. "Rosenblatt and Bodnar, those idiots, don't just sleep with the two old ladies twice a week, they sleep with their daughters too. Both of them. I'm certainly not prudish or uptight, but that's a red line for me, and I warned Bodnar that I'd be gone if he couldn't control himself. At least you're not a sex-crazed idiot, Ronald."

Ron laid his head in his hands. "How sure are you, Rosa?" She tilted her head to the side. "100%. Bodnar told me himself. He rode straight into her trap at full gallop and made Laura his wife before he sobered up. And there's no such thing as being half-pregnant, Ronald. So, 100%." ​​Rosa frowned. "For years he gradually gave in to her. At first, he just slipped his hand under her waistband and gently stroked her, nothing more. That went well for a while. Then she got him to do the fingering. That was the second time I yelled at him and warned him. She'd done it to the boys, so she did it to him too, the whole shebang with a happy ending. She's been diligently milking his seed every night for the past six months. I gave him proper headbutts and screamed bloody murder, as you can imagine. And two or three days ago, she snapped the trap shut and the idiot made her a woman. I know how to provoke that sort of thing; I was 15 once too. But my father took me in his arms and said, 'We'll leave that alone, young lady.' And I'm grateful to him that he wasn't a dick-driven moron, God rest his soul."

"And what do we do next?" Ron asked. Rosa thought for a moment. "Bodnar wanted to talk to Wallner about leaving. I predict Wallner will give him a real dressing-down, and he certainly won't want to hear anything about leaving. The president is convinced that the four of us are the best. He won't let any of us drop out between stations. Not until we have the Halter. After that — who knows?!" Ron tilted his head. "Whether we like it or not, we're split into two groups. You and I and Alfred, Rosenblatt and Bodnar. The two of them will be united because they both ride with their daughters and because they both climb upon Kerzendocht." Rosa flinched slightly. "What, you know that too?" He looked at her, amused. "I'm a detective inspector, not a parking enforcement clerk. I've known since the first week of the surveillance, when Kerzendocht lay naked and truly magnificent before me on the kitchen table. Bodnar and Rosenblatt, they're good, but sexually unreliable. I put two and two together and got three. And the president knew it immediately, too. But as their superior, he has to look the other way or fire them both. Fire them? Never in a million years!"

Rosa and Ron agreed to continue the close surveillance, now that they knew how Halter could sneak into the house. The net was closing in on Halter. The president gave the surveillance his blessing — keep it up!

Ron's phone buzzed. It was Frank Halter. Ron raised his hand, and everyone fell silent instantly. Alfred put everyone on speakerphone. "God bless, Halter, what brings me the honor off your call?" Frank Halter remained silent, surprised. "God? Which God? The one who had my father murdered in prison, or the one who doesn't stop me, even though he certainly doesn't find my works amusing?" Ron was in good spirits. "Both, Frankie, both. But I'm sure you didn't just want to philosophize with me?" Halter paused briefly. "Well, you've finally found my special entrance, a hearty bravo from me. It took a year, but good things come to those who wait, don't they?" Ron turned serious. "You're no longer a ghost to us, Frank. Just a simple stage magician who amazes us with tricks and fake wallpaper doors. But we've found your trick, you can't play the vanishing-the-wall anymore." Frank replied immediately. "You demolished it with a pickaxe, Mother told me." Ron asked slyly, "Have we restricted your range of action?" Frank laughed. "If I hadn't been prepared, you really would have locked me out. You should know that's not the case, Ronald. I see my mother and Rachel whenever I want. Morgentau will confirm that I enjoy sleeping with women; I used to sleep with her at all hours of the day and night." Ron forced a laugh. "Yes, since then Morgentau keeps a tube of lube in her purse, in case you come back for her, Frankie." Frank thought for a moment. "I should have strangled Morgenau right there on the spot, the ungrateful bitch! She squealed with delight, Ronald, squealed with delight like Juliet at Romeo! Let's not leave anything out. The truth is the truth and will remain the truth. She squealed like a piglet and then squealed with delight at the end! Or isn't that in her report?!" Ron saw out of the corner of his eye that Rosa flinched.

He decided to object. "Everything except the squeaking is in the report, neatly laid out. And that you have a compass tattooed right there, otherwise your thing wouldn't know where to go." He waited, had he touched a nerve? Frankie chuckled. "Oh, that! A boss from Yakutsk gave me the compass rose when he briefly captured me. It's considered a mark of shame among Russians, a sign of pedophilia. The guy had every reason, too; I'd defiled his sheltered little daughter. I slit his and his wife's throats, and three lustful days later, I did the same to the daughter; I had no use for her anymore." Ron was silent for a long time. "You're a disgusting pedophile and murderer, but we both know that." Frank didn't reply. "Well, back to the point. What exactly was the reason for your call?" Ron asked.

He could hear Frank's soft laughter. "Well, I was wondering if you had a court order when you demolished my house, my property? A court order?" Ron explained. "For this action, the CID don't need a court order, nor the consent of your mother, who, according to Artem Galebnikov, is the rightful sole owner. And she was standing right there, mouth agape. You can't have a say; the house doesn't belong to you, my smarty-pants friend. All you own is the cell where we'll lock you up and throw away the key." Frank could be heard sharply inhaling. "The Nurembergers don't hang anyone unless they've got him first. A clever saying. First, you'd have to catch me, and that's not going to happen." Ron ventured onto thin ice again. "The women are under surveillance. We're not stupid enough to put a uniformed officer on their doorstep. Surveillance, I said, Frankie. Ghosts you'll never see. And we'll simply grab you as soon as you enter the perimeter. You'll only incur considerable personnel costs, but we can handle it. Nothing is too expensive for the good feeling of seeing you handcuffed at his feet, the Chief of Police. Yes, the Chief of Police nods and slaps his thighs with pleasure."

Frank didn't react quickly or rashly. Ron's threats bounced off him. "It was nice chatting with you, Ronald. I'll get in touch again when it suits me. All right?" Click, he'd hung up. Ron looked around. The Chief of Police had opened his glass door and was giving him a thumbs-up. Bodnar growled, "Throwing dirt at Rosa, that's exactly what he wanted. Search warrant. That's ridiculous." Rosa stood up and went to the restroom. Rosenblatt, who had been diligently taking notes, said, "It was definitely just idle chatter. He wanted us to know that he didn't care that we'd found the secret entrance. He apparently intends to continue visiting and stamping his mother and Kerzendocht. He thinks we can't stop him. Everything else was just talk. There's absolutely no evidence that he ever slit the throats of a Russian mob boss, his wife, and their daughter. It may be true, or it may just as easily be a tall tale. It has no bearing on our investigation."

Ron went into the women's restroom. Rosa was squatting on the floor, her eyes red and teary. She said nothing when he sat down next to her. Overcoming his shyness, he took her hand. Her tears flowed freely again. "It's true what Frank said, Ron. Every word. Damn it, I'm a woman, and my body reacts the way a woman's body reacts. No matter what my mind says. I spat at him every time, but that spitting came from my brain, not my gut." She leaned her head against his upper arm. "I'm ashamed in front of all of you, Ron. I kept from you how pleasurably and ecstatically my body reacted. I only reported that I spat at him, full of contempt. That's true, too; that's how my mind, that's how my dignity reacted."

Ron was still holding her hand. "We all feel this way, Rosa, don't worry. Remember how my body reacted back then. My body reacted to Hanna Rosenstingl's stunningly sexually attractive curves; that was pure Eros. My mind, my intellect, saw the entrails, the monstrous violence inflicted upon a human being; that was Thanatos. My facial expression fascinated you because, ultimately, Eros won out. The last time that happened to me was at school when I discovered that the music teacher wasn't wearing underwear. In every music lesson, Eros won, grinning maliciously. Don't judge yourself, especially not so unfairly. Everyone in our department understands your reaction, Rosa." He added, "No Frank Halter can divide us that easily."

Ron had no idea whether his bluff about the surveillance had worked. Of course, Rosa had only ever compared all the women and men involved in the Artem Galebnikov or Frank Halter court cases in some way, but she couldn't find a single match with the people on Frank Halter's hit list in the wine cellar. Well, except for Fatme, of course. Ron tried to put himself in Frank's shoes. Frank wanted to torment Rosa, he'd admitted that. Could it be that he hung up portraits of completely uninvolved, random people just to make Rosa believe he had another dozen people on his hit list? Then, however, his bluff would be exposed as nothing more than hot air.

He brought up this dilemma the next day at the aquarium. The reactions were mixed. Rosenblatt and Rosa thought the bluff had been blown. Wallner and Bodnar were convinced that Frank had fallen for it. Ron himself believed both were possible. He stood up. "If Frank throws a body at our feet within the next ten days or two weeks, then the bluff was completely ineffective. If there's no body, there's a chance the bluff worked. But it's also possible that the whole hit list was just a hoax to give our Rosa a good scare. Putting my friend Fatme on the list would only amplify the effect on Rosa. Seeing through that guy is beyond me. I admit it."

They strictly maintained the close surveillance. The house was only unguarded between midnight and 6 a.m. Only a uniformed man sat on the bench in front of the door, reading a newspaper or dozing. Bodnar, and later Rosenblatt as well, lost all inhibitions. Mrs. Halter remained unnaturally passive and hid her face in a pillow whenever the two men shagged her. Of course, it had been Mrs. Kerzendocht's idea, but the men eagerly took advantage of it. The Kerzendocht only wanted her friend to share in the sexual bliss, and her age really didn't matter. It was a cheap, slutty charade. Ron grabbed the Kerzendocht by the arm when she tried to sneak past in the morning. He interrogated her harshly and relentlessly in the kitchen, not caring that Mrs. Halter was mortified. Ron's first thought was that this, exactly this, would drive Frank Halter into a white-hot rage if Rosa's analysis of the mother-son relationship was even remotely accurate.

Kerzndocht was a treasure trove. She hadn't seen Frank Halter in years; she didn't really know him at all. But dear Dr. Weissmann came almost every night to make her and Roxane happy. Her eyes sparkled; no, she wasn't an actress, she was a simple housewife who was on cloud nine when it came to Dr. Weissmann. And the doctor was quite angry when he learned that the officers were also enjoying themselves with Roxane. The burly one and the bald one, yes, they were taking care of Roxane too. Yes, they were constantly mating with Roxane, sticking it all the way in and thrusting into her quite properly, Rachel told the doctor clearly and distinctly, because he didn't want to believe it. Several times, of course, which brought tears of anger to Roxane's eyes. Yes, the smitten Rachel told the enraged doctor, both men were really pumping Roxane hard several times in a row, and she simply couldn't understand why her friend resisted the climax so vehemently, even though she was sometimes surprised by it. Yes, said the doctor grimly, no one can resist that.

Ron immediately brought up the idea of ​​extending the surveillance to the entire night, but Wallner waved it off wearily. "Hofstätter, midnight until 6 a.m.? We could only do that with a court order and would have to provide a solid, written justification for each individual night. A nightmare, I tell you. We'd have to rouse a judge from his bed every single night. Politicians are keeping a close eye on these court orders right now, ever since the scandal in Klagenfurt. No, once or twice, that might be possible, but certainly not every night. And don't go it alone, Hofstätter, they'll hang us by the scruff of the neck based on the sacred hours; no interior minister will be able to help us with that. We're all patrolling and handing out tickets to illegally parked cars." Ron asked if the president hadn't heard this too? The bureaucratic horse neighing. Wallner didn't find it funny at all and growled, "I can hear two things: the bureaucratic mare and the fat, politically motivated brewery horse."

Ron consulted with Rosa. She leafed through the laws on the screen, even consulted an AI and Alfred too. The law was clear. Midnight to 6 a.m. was the official resting time for citizens, and yes, the thing about the court order was exactly as Wallner had said. Ron asked her directly, "And what if we, just by pure chance...?" Morgentau spread her ten fingers to ward off the Beelzebub. "Guys, Ronald, I don't go on patrol anymore, and I don't write parking tickets anymore either. On my career ladder, it's only up, never down. I don't do that, and I strongly advise you against it. No police chief and no interior minister will slow your downfall. You'll fall flat on your ass, my friend." Ron reluctantly abandoned the thought. "Bureaucracy, brewery horse, and Morgentau against me — I guess I have no choice," he said, shaking his head. "And Frank, that guy, knows it perfectly well. Six hours gives him plenty of time to... er... massage both women." Rosa chided him, "Ron, what a choice of words!" They both laughed uproariously.

The close-up surveillance had resumed. For the president's sake, Ron had only postponed midnight until 3:00 a.m., and the relief shift usually arrived as early as 5:30 a.m. Frank Halter's window of opportunity had shrunk considerably. Bodnar and Rosenblatt were becoming increasingly brazen, now lying next to the amorous women and shamelessly using the lulls in their respite to have sex. Rosa went down to the cellar when the ladies dozed off and sat beside the broken floor, flashlight and pistol at the ready. She must have been distracted for a moment, because a hairy arm grabbed her and dragged her down into the hole. The flashlight and pistol tumbled across the brick floor of the old sewer. Defenseless, she lay on the ground, her last hour had struck. The pistol was somewhere out of reach. She was at Frank Halter's mercy.

Frank ripped off her uniform skirt and panties. In the beam of his flashlight, she could see him clearly. He laughed boomingly as he pulled down his trousers. "I know it would be better to kill you right now, Rosa. But today it's not your blood that excites me, but... I'm craving some firm female flesh, and you've always done it so well for me, my little dove! So be peaceful, and I won't kill you today. I promise." Rosa's paralysis broke. She carefully reached for him and made him stiff. Then, sighing and cursing, she forced him inside her. Yes, she squealed like a piglet and whooped and cheered in ecstasy. He continued, his pent-up desire overflowing. He raped her a second and third time, then Rosenblatt was heard entering the house with a clatter. Frank broke free during the fourth round and ran out the front exit of the sewer.

Rosa got dressed again and climbed back up to the basement after retrieving her flashlight and pistol. Rosenblatt asked why she looked so battered, but Rosa didn't answer. Rosenblatt dropped her off in front of her house. Rosa didn't arrive at the office until noon. She wrote everything in the report, except for the squeals, cheers, and jubilation, of course. She included the rape, and that Frank hadn't intended to kill her. Ron had read the report and questioned her, but all he could do was shake his head. "And then suddenly you have a wire noose around your neck, Rosa." She shook her head. "No, I believe him that he doesn't want to kill me anymore. I can feel it clearly, Ron, he just wants to have sexual amusement with me."

Rosa was right. Frank seemed to know exactly when she was on duty, and as soon as she sat down by the hole in the concrete floor, he pulled her down and "only" raped her. Rosa had been with a lot of men, but she'd never made so much squealing, cheering, and jubilation for any of them. She kept her pistol holstered, but as long as he wasn't threatening her, but "only" raping her, she saw no reason to shoot Frank. She took note of Ron's head-shaking the next day, but she stuck to her guns for weeks. If she'd known what other atrocities he was planning, she would have arrested him, without a doubt.

Of course, Rosa remained on her guard, because she had no doubt how quickly his mood could change. She always let Frank know when she was taking the safety off her pistol in its holster and preparing it to fire. "I really don't intend to kill you, Rosa," Frank whined agonizingly. "I love your squeals, your whoops, and your cheers," he said every time she provocatively took off the safety of the pistol in front of him. "Just in case you change your mind, Frank. I'd hate to put a bullet in the head of a good stud; that would be a regrettable waste of a good fuck machine," Rosa said with an icy expression. He should know why she didn't shoot him, but also that she undoubtedly would. He was impressed by her toughness. The president had certainly read her reports, but he gave Rosa free rein. He had no idea what Rosa was planning.

Ron's hand stopped mid-motion as his phone chirped. Charly, the pimp. "Charly, you call me at the office!" he snapped. Charly remained subdued, still clinging to Ron's fists in his face. "Inspector, Chief, it could be important. I was supposed to go over the appointment with Fatme this afternoon, a very delicate client, we always discuss these things beforehand, always. Well, she's not answering, your phone only goes to the answering machine. I went to your house and rang the bell downstairs like crazy. Nothing. I went upstairs, your door was wide open, no Fatme. I'm at a loss, Chief. It's urgent. Perhaps you know where she could be." Ron heard Charly swallow nervously. "Wide open? You didn't try to pick the lock?" Ron asked suspiciously. Charly swore up and down. "Wide open, I told you. No joke, Chief." Ron's stomach churned. "I'll call you, Charly!" and hung up. He looked down at Rosa. "Fatme!" Ron ran into the men's restroom and vomited.

He had to sit down. He filled Alfred in. First, he had to start with the Turkish community. He gave Alfred the names and numbers of those who didn't know him very well. Alfred was to ask short, precise questions and avoid any conversation. Within an hour, they had called everyone, about 70 people. Everyone promised to keep their eyes open. He called everyone who lived in his building. Then he got a tip from Mrs. Walotschek. She had seen Fatme; she seemed ill, and her boyfriend had to support her and half-carry her. He was taking her to the doctor, the boyfriend said. Yes, it was just before noon, just before the midday bells, less than five minutes before. "Why? Has something happened?" Ron reassured Mrs. Walotschek and asked about the boyfriend. She described Frank Halter quite accurately. "A really handsome man, in his prime!" She sighed, for she was known not to be very strict about her marital vows. Ron thanked her and hung up. "Rosa, Frank has kidnapped Fatme, we have a witness. Almost exactly 4 hours ago, at precisely 12."

Ron called everyone into the conference room and informed them. Wallner immediately put out the search. "A four-hour head start, Hofstätter, that's a lot. You've got the line. Guys, drop everything, finding Fatme takes priority." Ron's phone chirped. It was Fatme's number. He answered and heard Frank's disgusting laughter. Ron raised his hand and Alfred put everyone on speakerphone. "Routing worldwide," Alfred typed on the display. Frank laughed. "No, I'm not using her phone, I'm just spoofing her number to get a quick response. Spoofing." Ron's voice trembled slightly. "Release her immediately, and you'll score major points. I guarantee it will be noted favorably in court. Let her go; she's a civilian, not a soldier. Please, Frank, let her go. I beg you. Don't do anything rash, or you'll never see your mother and Rachel again, at least not alive. They'll both die a very painful death. My word on it." Ron had said it very seriously, but now his hands were trembling, and the cell phone threatened to slip from his grasp. Rosa sat down next to him and placed her hand on the back of his. The trembling quickly stopped.

Frank spoke to Fatme. "Greet your friends, Fatme," he said to her. She called out in Turkish, "Hakim, that bastard has me..." Frank apparently pushed her away and said admonishingly, "No English, Fatme, only German!" Fatme's voice was clear; she wasn't panicking. "Ronald, I'm still unharmed, and the guest didn't treat me badly. I..." Frank apparently pushed her away and took over. "Ronald, old pal, I'm going to have a great honeymoon with Fatme. Not to Spain this time, of course. I'll treat her well, as long as she doesn't scratch and bite. I just wanted to let you know not to expect her for dinner. I'll call you again when I feel like it." Click, the line was dead. Ron rested his forehead on his forearm and closed his eyes.

Rosa said, "Alfred, play it again, and could you amplify the background noise, bring it out, please?" She turned the volume up to maximum. Rosa tilted her head toward the speaker and closed her eyes. She paid little attention to the spoken words, focusing instead on the ambient sounds. The loud rush of bathwater being run drowned everything else out. No other sounds could be discerned. "Cunning," Rosa grumbled, straightening up. "Ron, threatening his mother and the other woman was illegal, you need to understand that. Maybe he'll snap. Maybe not, maybe he'll take it literally and won't kill Fatme right away. Maybe you've bought her some time." Ron straightened up. "Rosa, I meant every word, exactly as it was. I don't care if I end up in jail. If he kills Fatme, then so be it." A cold shiver ran down Rosa's spine. Wallner approached. "Morgentau, did you tell him? We'll have to cut his stupid threat from the tape. That's completely unacceptable, Hofstätter, although I can understand it, of course. But as a detective, you have to control your emotions, otherwise I'll have to pull you, seriously." Ron looked Wallner in the face, swallowing the first paragraph and only delivering the second. "I understand, Mr. President. I'm in control from now on and intend to remain in charge. She's my fiancée, the case is mine. I won't have feelings for her again until we've got her released. My word of honor, Mr. President. Please don't pull me out." Wallner left.

Ron looked at Rosa. "Shall we begin?" Rosa nodded, Bodnar and Rosenblatt rolled over some chairs, and they sat in a circle. "What Fatme first said in Turkish," Ron began, "means, 'That bastard has me...' then she broke off. You heard what she said after that. One clue she gave was that he had already raped her, but without hurting her. In the escort service, they refer to someone as a client or guest if they want sex for money. Fatme knows it's wiser to let him rape her than to let him get rough with her. That way, things usually turn out alright." Bodnar agreed; that was the custom in the vice squad as well. Ron looked around the room. "No further clues. That's all we have." He looked clear and appeared professional. "We have almost nothing. Now it's time to go door-to-door, contact all the informants, distribute Fatme's and Halter's photo, offer a reward, say 50 grand, for a crucial tip. Bring money into the mix, I'll cover it. Kiss ass or kick it, it doesn't matter. No guy can hide so well that nobody notices. Someone saw something, heard something about a vacation or a trip. You guys know how it works, so let's get going!"

All four of them threw themselves into it, the phones were ringing off the hook. Bodnar went to this bar or that, bought everyone beer, and kept on the line. Rosenblatt sifted through hotel and other bookings. Frank had to be inconspicuous, so he checked in whenever he took a room. Rosenblatt went off to the Hotel Beethoven in Laimgrube, but while the guests fit the general description, they weren't the ones. The father stood there, very embarrassed, in his underwear. His little daughter sat stark naked, spread-eagled on the double bed, laughing provocatively in Rosenblatt's face. Hour after hour passed; they did their work with utmost concentration. Of course, they all knew what Frank Halter meant by "honeymoon." He would rape Fatme, just as he had raped Rosa, again and again. No one said it out loud, but they felt sorry for Ronald. He kept his worries to himself, making the rounds of the Turkish community. His good reputation helped him a lot in his work. Tips might come from here, gossip, rumors, and real information might also come from the Turks. And when Hakim Elbagr asked them for help, they took it seriously. Hundreds of eyes and ears — that sounded reassuring. Ron didn't go home until around midnight; he had to eat, shower, and sleep.

Nothing. It was discouraging, but Ron kept them busy. It wasn't the first time they'd had to navigate the demimonde, working their way through different social strata. Late that afternoon, Rosa finally got an interesting call. She sent the woman pictures of Fatme and Halter. "Yes, that was them, definitely. They'd booked the apartment online and paid in cash a week in advance. No, not by card, but in cash. The man had come in person to pay the 800 in cash and then received the keys. That was rather unusual; I had the bills checked at the bank right away — no counterfeits. They drove a nice, dark blue VW Passat, fairly new. I noted the license plate number, of course." A rental car from Hertz Alt Erlaa, driver's license from Vienna, registered to Ing. Karl Lebknecht — no, not Liebknecht. Rosenblatt and Ron sat in front of adjacent screens, checking everything in real time, while Rosa repeated the information aloud. The woman said they'd left that morning, dropping the keys and a note in her mailbox. They'd taken the country road south. There was nothing else to report.

Rosenblatt looked up from his notes and the screen. "Anna Frühwirth, born April 21, 1998, single, no children. Graduated from secondary school in Wiener Neustadt, one sealed juvenile file. Prostitution at 16, reprimand, no punishment. Built an apartment building in 2018, six apartments for rent. She served four weeks in prison in 2018, plus a €25,000 fine, among other things for prostitution and establishing a prostitution ring with high school girls. Four women live with her in her building. District police report from 2021: Suspected clandestine prostitution. But no issues with renting out the apartments. That's all." Ron nodded to Rosenblatt. "Thanks. A fine harlot, but with a keen eye for details."

Alfred chirped. "Vehicle found, BP gas station south of Wiener Neustadt. Footage from the gas station's security camera." Everyone stared at their screens. At the very edge of the parking lot was the dark blue Passat, a man leaning against the driver's door. It wasn't clear if it was Frank Halter, but the license plate matched. About eight minutes later, an American classic car rolled up, a convertible like something from the 1940s, purple and white. No one recognized the make. After a brief exchange, Frank and Fatme got into the convertible, she apparently in handcuffs. The convertible drove to the western exit and disappeared. Ron turned to Rosenblatt to give him the assignment, but Rosenblatt just growled, "I'm on it!" There had been two classic cars, purple and white, in the Wiener Neustadt district. He printed out two addresses and handed them to Bodnar, who was already on the phone with the Wiener Neustadt Criminal Investigation Department, fully briefing them. Bodnar relayed the two addresses. Then they waited tensely. Never before had they been so close to Frank Halter.

The first, a burly rocker, had already gone for a ride that morning on his Harley Davidson, clad in leathers with a woman on the back. The grumpy neighbor had no idea which chapter he belonged to, but she knew for sure it was one with a skull and crossbones. Behind the house were four American classic cars, immaculately maintained, among them the convertible they were looking for. The grumpy old woman had no idea what he did for a living; he usually lay under a classic car, tinkering. That was all there was to it. The hood of the convertible, a Cadillac Fleetwood Eldorado, was cold.

The second guy wasn't there either. The neighbor was gushing with excitement. He had flown to Vietnam ten days ago; he had told her himself and given her the keys — watering the plants and feeding the cats, as usual. He went to Vietnam three or four times a year, probably had his sweetheart there, the eccentric old woman giggled. He usually brought back one or two girls from Vietnam, little schoolgirls. They had no shame, she ranted, they sunbathed stark naked in the back garden where no one could see them. Days later they were gone. She had confronted Freddy Eder about it, and he had acted very surprised. "They go work in the restaurant business," he had said. They weren't his girlfriend, although she suspected quite a few things.

Eder certainly wasn't one to turn down a good time, she said, the naked schoolgirls made his blood boil, that much was certain. She had seen it several times: the schoolgirl giving Eder a handjob in the blazing sun, finishing with her mouth, as one should, of course. No, of course it was a different girl each time, Inspector! She often observed the little girl climbing on top of him and giving it to him good, from beginning to end, a different one each time, of course. In the blazing sunshine, outrageous! Anyway, he wasn't faithful to his sweetheart in Vietnam, the windbag! He was on familiar terms with all the younger wives in the settlement; that says something, doesn't it? Her torrent of words died down; there was nothing more to be gleaned. The neighbor's restless eyes darted about; she didn't seem to realize that she had unnecessarily admitted to spying on Freddy Eder's private life. The officer managed to elicit from her the confession of how outraged she was that Eder only had sex with the Vietnamese girls but didn't take her, even though she had clearly offered herself to him several times. The officer continued the interrogation cautiously. What did she get for watering the plants and feeding the cats? She was careless, our spy. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Freddy Eder did it to her, once before and once after her vacation, in his bathroom, in the whirlpool, always several times in a row. He thrust into her until he went soft, the old woman giggled. That was all she got for plants and cats, she said, red with embarrassment. The convertible was parked in front of the house, a Buick Electra 225 Convertible, the police officer noted. Unfortunately, the officer hadn't checked whether the engine was still warm. Bodnar thanked his colleague and hung up. "No match," he grumbled, disappointed.

Ron addressed the group. "We can assume that Halter took another car somewhere, for which there is no record. Fatme was still alive, and that's a good sign. He took his time and hadn't killed her. As in other cases, he spends several wedding nights with his victims before strangling them. We can hope that Fatme still has some time. Alfred will go through the recordings of all the traffic cameras around the two addresses; perhaps we'll find out what kind of car we're looking for. Rosenblatt, send photos of Fatme and Halter to every police officer in and around Wiener Neustadt, along with a description. Anything that might be important. Do the same to every hotel, guesthouse, etc., in the area; they should also keep their eyes open. Bodnar, make me a list of all the properties and real estate belonging to Artem Galebnikow, Frank Halter, and Roxane Halter. Every single shed, no matter how small."

Ron and Rosa typed up the report together. He was so glad she was giving 150%, even though Fatme must have been more of a rival to her. He sat down with President Wallner for half an hour and discussed every detail with him. Wallner would brief the Interior Minister, as is required for any major manhunt.

Ron stayed in contact with the watchful Alfred while he showered and changed into fresh clothes after two days. He was just about to start cooking when the doorbell rang. It was Rosa. She came into the apartment, carrying her laptop in a bag. "I'm just keeping you company, nothing more." Ron said, "There's roasted ground beef with spaghetti and canned sauce. Similar to spaghetti Bolognese." Rosa nodded, "Sure, I'm really hungry." She worked on her laptop while he cooked. They ate without rushing; he had served cold beer. "The fridge is full of beer, we need to make room for carrots," he chuckled as he fetched the third beer. Their only topic of conversation was Fatme's kidnapping, until deep into the night.

"I'm sleeping on the sofa," Ron announced, but Rosa objected. "What do you always say? We need you well-rested and ironed tomorrow. I'll do the ironing. No, don't worry, no romantic nonsense. Just a friend who serves with Eros, but this time without Thanatos. A friendly helping hand, as Wallner had put it regarding Ludmilla. So, don't be a silly frog and come to bed!" Ron hesitated. Rosa, in a negligee with nothing underneath, smiled at him kindly and honestly. "Fatme would understand," he sighed finally, lay down in bed, and turned off the light.

His hand slid down Rosa's back. It was scarred, probably ugly scarred. "He disfigured you, that makes it very personal for you, Rosa. He owes you something, and you will get your revenge, you will give him a good thrashing and I will look the other way, I promise. He's scarring me right now, the miserable swine. It will give me satisfaction when the judge properly tears him apart in court and locks him up." They were silent and smoked in silence.

Alfred hadn't been able to find anything concrete. "The only things that caught my eye were a dirty-yellow Mercedes 220 D and a dark green, relatively new Range Rover. Both were equally likely, but I'd still bet on the Range Rover." He'd lost track of the Mercedes on the way to the Vienna Forrest; the Range Rover had headed straight south, where its trail disappeared on the country roads. Ron was grateful to the computer; it was reassuring to have such a watchful eye behind him. Rosenblatt hunched over the screen, but without success. There were tens of thousands of Mercedes and Range Rovers. Bodnar, still sleepy, investigated Freddy Eder to see if there was any connection to Halter. All he found out was that Eder regularly sold Vietnamese girls to massage parlors, etc. He wrote a separate report and emailed it to the vice squad. But they got nowhere. That evening, Rosa remarked, "It's my turn today. I'm bringing steaks and frozen fries. Red wine?" Ron smiled broadly. "Spanish is never out of place." He went home and took over the cooking, something he was better at than Rosa.

The close surveillance of the Halter house had been discontinued since Frank had kidnapped Fatme. Bodnar was agitated and nervous; obviously, his daughter was giving him a hard time. Ron was sometimes annoyed; a detective wasn't supposed to be agitated or nervous. So he decided to send Bodnar to the bars more often, hoping to find a lead on Halter or his associates. It was a dead end, and nothing came of it, but the department worked more calmly and with greater focus when the impulsive man was out of the way.

The week passed, then a second, and a third.

Ron's phone chirped. He answered; it was Frank Halter. Ron raised his hand, silence was immediately declared, Alfred switched on the speakerphone, President Wallner jumped to his feet and stared through the glass door. Ron's pulse raced when he heard Frank's voice, the tension of three weeks making his knees tremble. Frank asked Fatme to say hello to Ron. Ron heard Fatme's voice for the first time in weeks, in what felt like an eternity. "I'm unharmed," Fatme said, "the guest said today is my last day. Thank you for everything. Goodbye! Goodbye!" Frank took the phone. "I'm quite touched, Ronald. But I have to tell you, Fatme's no good. I expected more from an escort girl, much more." Frank's laughter turned into nervous grumbling. "Well, has that left you speechless, Ronald?" Ron was as calm as an ice cube. "I'll make you eat your own balls, you scum." Ron ignored the president's gesticulating. "I'll give you that in writing, you miserable pig. Playing the tough guy around women, huh? You'd shit yourself around a real man, crawling like a worm." Frank grumbled. "Eat my balls? That's not going to happen, not in a million years." He took a deep breath. "Fatme's golden sheen turned out to be cheap costume jewelry. That was very disappointing and sobering. Under other circumstances, I'd throw her at your feet and tell you to keep her, she's no good." Frank breathed heavily. "Today, I was disgusted by her passive disinterest, I can tell you that. I've decided to cut our honeymoon short. I'm going to give her one from Rosa's magnificent Heckler & Koch, right after I've finished you off."

Ron said, "If you do that, you're choosing a bullet; they're not going to put you in prison. It's your decision, and it's neither brilliant nor wise." Wallner threw his arms up to the sky in despair. Halter's murder wasn't to be announced. You didn't say something like that out loud, damn it! Ron felt a cold hand squeeze his heart. "Well, if there's nothing else on..." but Frank interrupted him hastily. "Slow down, Ronald, wait a minute. If I'm seeing this right, it's High-Noon now. I want to be standing right in front of you, looking into your eyes, when I put a bullet in your brain. So grab your rifle, goddammit, and get going. At Gasometer C, out in the open, that's where Fatme and I are waiting for you. Up on the roof." Click, the line went dead.

Wordlessly, Ron grabbed his jacket and ran downstairs after Rosenblatt. They hailed the first police car they could find, and Rosenblatt sped east with flashing lights and sirens blaring, running red lights without taking his foot off the gas. Ron took his pistol from its holster and checked it carefully. "I'll go up there alone, have an impenetrable cordon set up around the gasometer. Don't let a single mouse through if Halter wins. You've got to get him, damn it. Very clever of him, the gasometer's packed full of apartments, so that's how he's planning his escape. So, be thorough." Rosenblatt didn't take his eyes off the road or his foot off the gas. "First shot, right between the eyes. Don't waste any time, take him out once and for all." He sped on at breakneck speed, having already left the other police cars far behind.

With screeching tires, they pulled up in front of Gasometer C. The city of Vienna had built three enormous gas storage tanks 150 years ago; since then, they had been repurposed — shops, apartments, a disco. They got out of the car and looked up. "Take the elevator, or your hands will shake," Rosenblatt said. Ron nodded and nodded toward the parking lot. "Form a cordon all around!" Then he ran into the imposing building. The elevator was waiting at the bottom; he went all the way to the top. He got his breathing under control, but his pulse was still racing. He found the door marked "Maintenance" and kicked it in brutally with his shoes. His fear of heights took his breath away when he saw the larger window with the iron ladder. There was no way around it; that was the only way to the roof. He climbed out, overcoming all his fears, and scaled the iron ladder, the pistol between his teeth. He cautiously peered around as he reached the roof. There, directly opposite, stood Fatme, her tattered dress flapping in the wind. She was clutching the rusty, man-high vent valve with both hands. Behind her, Frank huddled, one hand around her waist, the other holding the pistol at the ready.

A well-meaning handyman had laid down a scrap of carpet for better footing. The thickly painted, formerly retractable, and rounded silo roof was damp and slippery as ice. Ron scrambled up and stood on the carpet scrap, never taking his eyes off Fatme and Frank. He had a firm footing on the carpet and bent his knees, his other hand supporting his pistol hand, and assumed a firing position. "Hey, I'm here, Frank!" he shouted, aiming down the barrel. The icy wind carried Frank's laughter away. Ron wondered if he could shoot past Fatme, but the killer used her well as cover. "High noon, Ronald, high noon!" Frank shouted triumphantly, grumbling as he laughed. "Just the two of us, man against man!" Frank was elated with his victory. "Oh yeah, and Fatme. Are you going to shoot her to get to me?" Ron couldn't see an inch of Frank, who was cleverly ducking behind Fatme.

"Bölünme!" Ron yelled in Turkish, which meant "Spread your legs!" Before Frank knew what was happening, Fatme spread her legs wide. Ron saw Frank's legs and fired immediately, twice. The bullets ripped through Frank's knees, practically exploding his kneecaps, and exited at the backs of his knees, leaving devastating craters. Fatme screamed shrilly and jumped aside in terror, still clutching the rusty metal pipe. Frank was still standing, his face contorted in disbelief and horror. Ron's third bullet struck Frank in the abdomen. Frank screamed bloody murder and threw his arms up in the air. Ron's last bullet ripped across Frank's skull, splitting the bone. His arms flung high, Frank jerked backward and upward like a rag doll. He fell backward in slow motion, his lifeless body hitting the edge of the roof and then sliding over the edge. Frank floated like a blackbird, fluttering into the abyss, and hit the asphalt 75 meters below.

Ron straightened up. Fatme had screamed her lungs out and fell now silent, then cautiously circled the semicircular roof and threw her arms around Ron's neck. Rosa crawled over the edge of the roof and holstered her pistol. "You're bleeding, Ronald, you're bleeding!" Rosa shouted into the wind. Fatme let go of Ron and looked down at him. "There's a hole in your pants, Hakim!" she said, stunned, staring at Rosa. Rosa said, "A gunshot wound in the thigh, we need to put a tourniquet on it." She looked around and spotted Fatme's cloth belt. "Your belt, Fatme!" she commanded, impatiently untying Fatme's belt herself. Rosa knelt behind Ron and tied off his thigh just below the groin, tightening the knot as much as she could. "We need to get out of here fast, he needs to get to the hospital as quickly as possible." Rosa was the first to climb down the iron ladder, followed by Ron and Fatme; the hardest part was over. After they'd climbed through the window, Ron looked at Rosa. "I don't feel a thing, no pain at all." Rosa nudged him in the side. "Sure, Mr. Wooden Leg. It's the adrenaline pumping through your veins, nothing but adrenaline!" Rosa supported Ron. "I was aiming down the barrel of my pistol, and I would have put a bullet in his face if you'd missed, Ron. But four accurate shots in under five seconds, that really surprised me." While they waited for the elevator, Rosa offered Fatme her hand. "I'm Rosa, Rosa Morgentau, Ron's colleague and friend." Fatme returned the handshake. "Fatme, Fatme Ökdemir. I'm also Ron's friend. I'm so glad to meet you. Ron speaks very highly of you, Rosa."

Fatme sat beside Ron's bed in the hospital. The bullet had narrowly missed his femoral artery and lodged in his thigh. The operation had lasted over half an hour; the bullet was out, and the bandage was secure. An IV was running into his arm. Ron was still asleep. Rosa wanted to take Fatme with her, but she shook her head firmly. "When he's awake, when I can hear his voice." Rosa nodded; she would be back in three hours.

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