Free Dead Woods by Maria C Poets Page B

height, early to midthirties, wears glasses.”
    “Hm,” responded Hanno. “That would fit the description of the woman in the Waldschänke, no?” he asked Lina.
    “Yes, but it’s also true for approximately thirty percent of Hamburg’s women,” she replied.
    Hanno sighed. “We’ll have to keep looking. Sebastian, what’s the news from the subway stations?”
    “We just received the tapes from the surveillance cameras,” Sebastian said. One could hear that he was still upset. “I’ll look at them right away.”
    “Good.” Hanno looked at Max and Lina. “And what about this Jensen? Why did you bring him in? Did he confess?”
    “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but he can’t remember what he was doing Thursday night. And he accused Philip Birkner of ruining him.” Max summarized what had happened at Jensen’s house. After hesitating a moment, he told them about Jensen’s attempted escape.
    Hanno frowned. “So you left a suspect unattended?”
    “Hanno, the man had a tremendous hangover and could hardly keep his eyes open. And the bathroom was on the second floor.” Max drew a deep breath. “I simply wanted to give him a chance to pull himself together before we brought him in.”
    Hanno shook his head. “You are way too soft for this job,” he said, and it was only partly a joke.
    “Better too soft than too hard,” Max said quietly.
     
    A short time later, Max and Lina sat facing the suspect in one of the interrogation rooms. Jensen was wearing the shirt, pants, and jacket. Max had lent him a pair of his socks. He always kept an extra pair in his desk drawer. Jensen now resembled a regular human being and held on to the coffee cup that Lina had handed him. In front of him on the table was a plate with a roll that was sliced in half. He was eyeing it as if he didn’t know what it was. When he reached for the first half, bit off a little bit, and slowly started to chew, Max got up and turned on the light. It had started to rain and the interrogation rooms faced north.
    He switched on the tape recorder and said his and Lina’s names and the date.
    “Herr Jensen, we’re questioning you today as a witness in the murder case of Philip Birkner. I hereby inform you that you don’t have to say anything that might incriminate you. Are you going to use your right to refuse giving evidence?”
    Jensen shook his head.
    “Herr Jensen, please speak into the microphone. We cannot record gestures.” Max sounded relaxed and polite as always.
    “No, I have nothing to hide,” he responded.
    “Did you know Philip Birkner?” Max slid a photo of the dead man across the table. Jensen just glanced at it briefly.
    “Yes. He was once my boss.”
    “When?”
    “For five years, from 2004 to 2009.”
    “What happened then?”
    “His company Inoware had to declare bankruptcy and he had to let go of all the employees.”
    “When we questioned you in your house, you said that Philip Birkner ruined your life. Do you stand by that statement?”
    Jensen nodded. “Yes.”
    “Please explain your assessment,” Max said, matter-of-factly.
    Frank Jensen took a deep breath. “Philip Birkner hired me right after he started his business. I’m a programmer, and so was he. Initially we wrote the software together, but later he was concentrating on clients and customer acquisition. He was . . . He just knew how to wrap people around his little finger.” He continued by stating that the company grew, Philip hired more people, and orders came rolling in, and the business became larger. About a year before the bankruptcy, he landed a huge order. Wesseling & Kröger, a midsize metal processing company with more than five hundred employees and branches in India and Ireland, wanted Inoware to develop a new, customized software package for internal communication and data management. It had to be absolutely safe from outside attacks. “Of course,” Jensen explained, “there’s no such thing as absolute security. Even the