Free Until the Debt Is Paid by Alexander Hartung

wounds were their eyes. Broken. Empty. Without hope.
    Jan found it hard to look closely at the pictures, although his friend Chandu seemed capable of examining each photo precisely.
    “It doesn’t bother you?” Jan said.
    “I’ve seen this too often. Lots of prostitutes get beat up by their johns or their pimps.”
    “You think these are prostitutes?”
    “I know at least three of them are. There are a couple others I’ve seen around too. Besides, what other woman would undergo this kind of beating and end up being photographed—and never report a word to the cops?”
    “Maybe some of the girls were secretly involved with the judge and didn’t want it getting out,” Jan said.
    “Young things like that don’t go having affairs with an old fossil like Holoch. Maybe one girl with kinky preferences, but definitely not twenty of them. These girls were paid for.”
    “Where can we find them?”
    Chandu flipped back a few pages. “The first one was Manu. Nice girl from the country.” He sighed. “She came to Berlin for an education. Met the wrong guy, he got her addicted, she ended up on the street at twenty-one. Three years later, she was drifting dead down the Elbe.”
    He flipped pages. “Jasmina.” He pointed to a photo of a woman with eyes swollen shut from blows. “She’s from the Czech Republic. Was turning tricks for this nasty scumbag while living in a cellar hole in Marzahn. Eventually she disappeared, never seen again.”
    “You think all the women in these photos are dead?”
    “Manu and Jasmina are, I know that for sure. But this one here,” Chandu said, turning the page, “I saw two weeks ago. Sarah, works an illegal streetwalk over in the poorest part of the Wedding District. We’re lucky, we’ll find her there.”
    Jan grabbed his jacket. “Come on.”
    A lead, finally.

    Patrick held his pistol out in front of him as he went up the grimy stairway. The wooden steps were worn and splintered, the walls smeared with graffiti. Overhead, the decrepit ceiling plaster was peeling off, and the whole place reeked of vomit and urine. On the second floor, a couple was having a shouting contest. If that wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, the barking of a ferocious dog was interspersed with an infant’s screams.
    This was one of those Berlin buildings no one would ever enter by choice, but Patrick had a good reason. He’d traced the car Jan had climbed into during his escape; the trace led to this address. Considering how expensive that Mercedes had looked, Patrick could hardly believe the owner lived on such a run-down street.
    He waved over two officers in bulletproof vests. One of them carried a metal battering ram. Without speaking, they positioned themselves next to a door. Patrick checked the safety on his pistol and nodded to the officers. The lock broke with a dull bang, springing open the door. The three men stormed inside.
    “Berlin Police!” Patrick shouted. He stepped on an open blue trash bag and turned his face away in disgust. The little studio apartment was piled up with garbage. Cockroaches roamed over food scraps and empty beer bottles. It stunk of mold and feces. Rats scurried around between the shelves. In the middle of this shambles, a man lay on a tattered couch. He stared at the newcomers through bleary eyes. Patrick aimed his weapon, but the man just waved at him, smiling.
    “He’s no threat,” one of the officers said. “Guy’s all doped up.”
    Patrick lowered his pistol and navigated his way to the couch. Luckily he’d just gotten a tetanus shot.
    “My name is Patrick Stein,” he said, showing his badge. “Berlin Detectives. You’re Peer Runge?”
    “Yo, boss,” the guy said. “Sit on down, help y’self.” He pointed to a large pile of blue pills and a spoon that looked like it had been cooking heroin.
    Patrick wrinkled his brow. He’d seen a lot of things, but no one had ever offered him drugs before. But he wasn’t about to arrest this guy for possession.