central register of residents, Niels Hinrichsen had lived here alone in a two-bedroom apartment
since the death of his mother. Using the key that he had found among Niels Hinrichsen’s personal effects, Max unlocked the door. The stair-way smelled of cleaning agents and the floor looked as if it had just been mopped.
He climbed the steps to the second floor. A pot with geraniums
stood on the windowsill of the landing, and next to it a watering can.
There were three apartments on the second floor, all with the uniform nameplates of the building cooperative. Niels Hinrichsen’s apartment was the one in the middle.
When Max opened the door, he was greeted by a musty odor. The
apartment looked gloomy and run-down. It was obvious that it hadn’t
been painted in decades. Max walked slowly from room to room and
tried to imagine the person who called this home. The entire apart-
ment had gray linoleum floors. The only rug was a threadbare one
in the living room. There wasn’t even a small rug in front of the bed.
Judging by the pattern, the curtains were from the seventies—so they were modern again. The only furnishings in the living room were a
sofa, two chairs, and a chest of drawers with a TV on top. A painfully awful oil painting of a bellowing stag hung on the wall. The right side of the couch, most likely Niels Hinrichsen’s favorite spot to watch television, was noticeably worn out. A neatly folded woolen blanket rested on the left side of the couch. The tiny kitchen next to the living room was little more than a kitchenette. It was reasonably tidy and clean. An 171
Maria C. Poets
unwashed, chipped plate sat on the counter and next to it, a knife with a smear of margarine. The floor was stained and covered with crumbs.
In the bedroom, only one-half of a very old double bed was covered
with linens. They hadn’t been changed in a while and exuded the biting odor of sweat and loneliness.
He opened the wardrobe and found clean pants and shirts on coat
hangers and neatly folded pullovers. He located two pairs of shoes, size 43, on a lower shelf and underwear and socks in drawers. He discovered an old traveling bag on top of the wardrobe and put some of the clean clothes into it to bring to Niels Hinrichsen in the hospital.
He found a thick illustrated book, 2000 Plants, Text and Images, on a shelf in the living room. It too must have been from the seventies. The pictures had a blue cast and the pages were yellowed. It was an obviously often-read volume. Some pages were marked with bits of
torn-out newspaper, and others were dog-eared.
The kitchen cupboards offered nothing interesting. A package of
sliced bread, margarine. There were cheese and salami in the fridge. No steel pipe with traces of blood. No indication that Niels Hinrichsen had hidden other evidence here. Max briefly looked into the tiny, windowless bathroom. The sink and toilet bowl were old and cracked but, like the rest of the apartment, reasonably clean. Max took the tooth-brush and toothpaste and added them to the other things in the bag.
When he left the apartment, he saw that the door to the right
was ajar, though the security chain was attached. A gray-haired woman looked out suspiciously. In the background he could hear a radio playing elevator music.
“What’s your business in Herr Hinrichsen’s apartment?” She spot-
ted the traveling bag and was about to slam the door. “I’ll call the police!”
Max brandished his badge and showed it to her. “Max Berg,
Hamburg Major Crimes,” he said, introducing himself.
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The woman scrutinized the badge skeptically. She was tall and
skinny, and her gray hair was properly cut and combed.
“Did something happen to Niels?” she asked, looking at Max.
“He has a laceration, a cut on his head, and has to stay in the hos-
pital for observation.” The woman’s first reaction had been to assume that something had happened to Niels Hinrichsen. She hadn’t asked
whether he had done anything wrong, and now she looked alarmed.
“It’s nothing serious. Don’t worry,” Max reassured her. Before she could ask more questions, he motioned to the apartment with his head.
“Does he live here alone”—he glanced at the name tag next to her
door—“Frau Meyer?”
Her expression brightened when he used her name and smiled.
“Yes, ever since his mother died, eight years ago. He took care of her, as well he could, but he’s not the brightest, you know.”
“Does he do everything by himself, I mean keeping house and