“And if it isn’t?”
“Then we’re out of luck. Afterward, if you can manage it, call Anastas. Make it anonymous, but try to find out if the ‘Freedom and Nature’ group has been heard from again. You can do it.”
He nodded.
“Sure. I’m an expert in making anonymous phone calls and beating up night watchmen.”
I proffered the Beretta. He made a face.
“No thanks. Breaking and entering and bodily injury-OK, with a good lawyer; but I won’t take the rap for knocking off Schmidi. Not for a paltry seven hundred marks.”
“Suit yourself.”
He shook his head, raised his index finger to his forehead. “See you later.”
I headed toward the main drag. Half an hour later, I stood in front of the wrought-iron gate of Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic. The rain had stopped, and the large brick building looked peaceful in the morning light. Birds were twittering in the trees that surrounded the edifice, and white bedclothes had been hung out to air from some of its windows. A nurse was pushing a man in a wheelchair across the lawn. I pushed the bell. The intercom asked me what I wanted.
“It’s a family matter. My uncle, well, he’s really my wife’s uncle …”
“How’s that?”
I stopped. The voice was aggressive. “Please express yourself clearly.”
“Well, he’s totally confused, and needs care.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? For admissions, you need to speak to Mrs. Hengstenberger on the second floor, office number three.”
The gate swung open, the sand squeaked under my shoes. The drive had just been raked, and I was the first to leave my footprints on the fine wavy lines. To my left, a large lawn extended all the way to the wall behind which Villa Bollig stood. A gardener was trimming rosebushes. Complete silence reigned. It almost seemed as if the clinic were closed until further notice. For a moment a head moved past a window, then a second and a third, until I realized it was just one person doing her rounds. Near the entrance, I passed the patient in his wheelchair and his nurse. The patient giggled and said something. I walked through the glass door and up a flight of stairs. Then I almost collided with a mountain of flesh two meters tall. Dressed all in white, he looked like some kind of attendant or male nurse.
“Now, now,” he said quietly. He was rolling a matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. He stared at me with indifference.
“Sorry,” I murmured. He smiled.
“I want to see Mrs. Hengstenberger.”
He spat the match into a flowerpot and said, “Crazy, huh?”
When I said, “Not me, my uncle,” he smiled again.
“Mrs. Hengstenberger?” I repeated.
He said, “Crazy, huh.”
With a friendly nod, I pushed past him. He chortled.
The door to office number three stood ajar. She was on the phone.
“… No, I’m sorry, the patient does not have permission to receive visitors … not even his mother … what was that? You got a letter from him? That’s impossible, the patient does not have permission … Nonsense. He’s receiving the best medical care. No reason to worry, at all … all right, I’ll see what I can do. Good day.”
She hung up and punched a two-digit number.
“Hengstenberger here. Kunze? Please check up on room thirty-four. He’s managed to smuggle a letter to the outside. All right?”
I knocked.
“Come in.”
It was a voice to cut glass with. Mrs. Hengstenberger was leaning over her desk, writing. An old book case stood in a corner, next to some health insurance calendar with flowers. The room was white and clean, with a view of the drive. She put her pen aside, folded her letter, and put it in an envelope. Without looking up, she asked, “How can I help you?”
“I would like to have permission to visit Oliver Bollig. He’s been in your care for seventeen years.”
“Your name?”
“Kayankaya.”
Her face relaxed.
“You’re not a relative? I’m afraid I can’t give you that permission. I’m very sorry. Good day.”
After a triumphant glance at me, she went back to the materials on her desk. I walked to the window and lit a cigarette.
“Smoking is not allowed here.”
I bounded over to her. “Listen, sweetie”-she gasped for air-”I don’t have a whole lot of time. I need that boy, or else the file on his illness and treatment. I need to know why he’s been cooped up here for seventeen years. It’s a question of a murder case. So just get me the file. Here …”
I tossed my license on the desk. She picked it up as if it were dirt, glanced at it, put it back.
“I have to notify Dr. Kliensmann. Please wait outside.”
I shut the door, sat down in the hallway. Everything was quiet. I lit another cigarette and shot smoke rings through the air. Now I could hear occasional cries, echoing as if from a great distance through the white hallways. I had just decided to go back in to get a little action out of Mrs. Hengstenberger when the mountain of flesh came up the stairs, a fresh matchstick in the corner of his mouth. He approached slowly and stood in front of me, his arms crossed. “Come with me,” he said. Then he smiled, but his eyes remained cold. He led down a flight of stairs, then down another one. In the basement we walked down a hallway, until he ushered me into a windowless yellow room, lit by a fluorescent tube protected by a black iron grate. Thin rubber matting covered the walls and the floor. The mountain leaned against the door, still smiling. “Crazy, huh?”
I walked up to him with a twinkle in my eye. “Listen, you look like a smart fellow. Take me to your boss. If you do, I’ll let you try out my car. On the freeway, if you like. OK?”
He looked offended, took a step forward, and punched me in the stomach. I fell down, and he said, “The doctor will be here in a minute.” The door slammed shut. I reached for my loaded Beretta. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? I crawled to the door, and an acrid smell rose into my nostrils. Something began to coat my brain like a layer of lead. In slow motion, I managed to pull the gun out of my pocket and aim at the lock on the door. “Sleep,” I thought. “Sleep, and never wake up again.” I almost forgot the Beretta while I pursued that thought, but the first shot woke me up. Then I emptied the whole clip into the door. My fingers clawed at the crack, and a moment later I fell through the door into fresh air. I dragged myself a couple of meters down the hall and sat down. Just as my head was beginning to clear again, I heard footsteps come downstairs, and the mountain of flesh reappeared with a pair of handcuffs in one hand. He looked at me in astonishment.
“How did you do that?”
I pulled the Beretta out from behind my back and let him take a good long look at it.
“Pretty good trick, eh?”
He looked offended, studied his shoes. Slowly, holding on to the wall, I managed to rise to my feet.
“Take me to the Bollig kid.”
“Oh …” He sounded scared. “The doctor won’t like that at all.”
I waved my cannon, and he led the way.
The Bollig kid was so tall he had to stoop if he wanted to stand up in his cell. I motioned to him to sit down again. With a dull gaze, he went back to his clothespin construction, his long back bent over the table. It seemed as if he had never learned to speak; he reacted to none of my questions. He was a seventeen-year-old wreck, nothing but pale skin and bones. A faint beam of light fell onto his worktable from a barred window. An iron bed stood in a corner. The mountain leaned against the wall. He looked miserable.
“How long has he been doing that shit?”
“Dunno. But,” he came closer and whispered, “that’s all they know how to do.”
“But you, you know better things to do, don’t you?”
Oliver Bollig could have grown up to be a big strong man, but seventeen years in Ruhenbrunn Private Clinic had turned him into an idiot beanstalk. He resembled his father, Friedrich Bollig, about as much as I resemble a Swedish tennis star. I stood there for a moment, watching the last of the Bolligs fiddling with his clothespins. I stood there a moment too long. Something exploded above my head.