had it that the girl was the one who broke it off, which might have caught him by surprise. But he was out of town at
the time of her murder.”
They were silent for a while. Lina nibbled on her salad.
“And?” Max asked. “Is there more?”
Hanno shrugged. “Julia Munz was strangled in a park after a party.
She was partially undressed but hadn’t been raped. It’s possible that the murderer was interrupted or he wanted to make believe it was a rape.”
“Were there tracks? Hair? Fibers? DNA?” Max pressed.
“DNA evidence was secured, but at that time they couldn’t analyze
it yet. The technology simply wasn’t there. They did find hair from at least four different men on the dead girl’s clothes.”
“An attempted gang rape?” asked Lina.
Hanno shook his head again. “Not likely. According to witnesses,
Julia Munz had been quite generous with her affection at the party,
throwing herself first at one guy and then at another.”
All three were quiet again until Max said what all of them thought.
“Does this have anything to do with our case, or doesn’t it?”
Hanno leaned back and took a sip of his Coke. “Just in case, I
requested the old file. When we’re running out of ideas, we can look into it.” He waved with his piece of paper. “But I also have something more recent: the list of telephone numbers on Birkner’s cell.
Remarkably many women.” Hanno looked up. “At least for a man
who’s in a strong relationship. Look into it.”
Lina and Max looked at each other. “And what about Jensen?”
Max asked. “I’d like to keep him here until we’ve checked out his alibi.”
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Maria C. Poets
Hanno was not convinced. “What was it—he claims to have been
on a booze cruise in Eppendorf on Thursday? And you think after that he drove to the Niendorfer Gehege to kill his former boss? How did he know that Birkner was in the forest?”
“He might have trailed him in the evening, clobbered him with
two guys he hired, and then driven back to one of his favorite haunts to have an alibi,” Lina said, watching the straw she clutched dissolve slowly.
“Hm,” responded Hanno. “I’m sure you know all this is quite far-
fetched, don’t you?” Then he grinned. “It looks like a pub crawl is on your schedule today. You only have yourself to blame. But if you don’t come up with something, you let Jensen go immediately. Understood?”
On a late Saturday afternoon, the area around the Eppendorfer
Marktplatz was rather dead. Most of the fashionable shops were already closed and it was still too early for barhopping. Lina and Max strolled down the street, looked in the shop windows, and were silent. It had stopped raining and the air felt humid and close. Lina took off her
jacket and wrapped it around her waist.
They began with the Almira, one of the bars Frank Jensen often
frequented—maybe also on Thursday. Nobody in the little bar remem-
bered having seen the man in the photo Max handed around. No one,
not the woman behind the bar, the innkeeper, or the regular customer who claimed to be there practically every night, had seen the man on Thursday.
“I know you almost live here, Willi,” the woman behind the coun-
ter said to the man in his late sixties with gray stubble on his face. “I’ve been wondering why you bother going home to sleep.” The woman
looked as if she were in her late fifties, probably was in her midforties, and seemed to be part of the furniture. The furnishings inside the bar 72
Dead Woods
were shabby and the drink menu was short. As for food, they offered
bread with rendered fat, sausages, and goulash soup. Since smoking
was allowed here, it seemed likely that Frank Jensen would turn up at the Almira from time to time.
“But haven’t you seen this man before?” Max asked. The woman
looked at the picture again. “Yes, sure. He’s been here quite a bit lately.
Drinks his beer and doesn’t say much.”
Lina looked at the name of the bar written in elaborate script above the counter. How did the joint end up with this name? Beerheaven or
The Crown would be better fits than the slightly exotic Almira.
The next place was the Tropicana. Here, the name lived up more to
the promise: Brazilian flair, Brazilian music, and Brazilian servers—at least from the looks of them. The bar was large and hall-like; a cocktail bar rather than a tavern. The door leading to a small front garden stood wide open. Lina suggested they order something to drink, her treat.
“People open up more that way,” she explained. She had noticed