19
No, I don’t pull the trigger. I draw the gun and point it at Lenzen with trembling hands, but I don’t pull the trigger. I’d sworn to myself that I’d only use the gun as leverage. I am a woman of words, not weapons; I had a long, hard struggle making up my mind to get ahold of a firearm, although I did, in the end, decide it was necessary.
And now I have been vindicated.
I don’t pull the trigger, but the mere sight of the gun has the same effect on Lenzen as if I’d already fired it. He’s as rigid as a corpse, looking at me with vacant eyes. I grip the gun more tightly; it’s heavy. I stare at Lenzen. He stares at me, and blinks. He’s understood: the table we’re sitting at has rotated a hundred and eighty degrees.
“My God,” says Lenzen. His voice is trembling. “Is”—he swallows—“is it real?”
I don’t reply. I’m not answering any more questions. Things have reached a state of emergency. The times of neat and elegant solutions involving DNA samples or a voluntary confession are over. I do not use the word “emergency” lightly. I am prepared to get my hands dirty. No more skirmishing. No games.
Lenzen is sitting before me with raised hands.
“For heaven’s sake!” he says. His voice sounds hoarse. “I don’t understand what’s…” He falters and breaks off, struggling to retain his composure.
His forehead is beaded with sweat and I can see from his heaving chest how rapidly he’s breathing. He looks as if he’s in deep shock. Did it really not occur to him that I might be armed? Surely he was aware of the possibility when he agreed to visit the woman whose sister he’d killed! The look of horror on Lenzen’s face disconcerts me. What if…?
I brush aside all doubt. Lenzen is going to leave this house a self-confessed murderer. There is no alternative.
I recall what I learned from Dr. Christensen: the Reid interrogation technique. Create stress. Wear down the suspect with endless questions. Punish any inconsistencies. Intersperse banal and undemanding questions with provoking and stress-inducing ones. Resort to false evidence, blackmail, force — anything goes.
Put the suspect under stress. Wear him down. Put him under stress. Wear him down. Eventually offer him confession as a way out. Put him under stress. Wear him down. And, finally, break him.
But first of all, I must find out whether he is armed.
“Get up!” I say. “At once!” He obeys.
“Take off your jacket and lay it on the table. Slowly.”
He does so. I pick up his jacket, without taking my eyes off him, and frisk it for weapons. But there’s nothing and I drop the jacket on the floor.
“Empty your trouser pockets.”
He puts his lighter on the table and looks at me hesitantly.
“Turn around!”
I can’t bring myself to frisk him, but I can see that neither in his trousers nor in his belt does he have a gun.
“Push your bag across to me,” I say. “Slowly.”
I pick the bag up and rifle through it. Nothing — just harmless stuff. Lenzen is unarmed. But that doesn’t make a difference. For all I know, he might kill me with his bare hands. I grip the gun.
“Sit down.”
He sits down.
“I have some questions and I expect you to answer honestly,” I say.
Lenzen says nothing.
“Do you understand?” He nods.
“Answer me!” I yell.
He swallows. “Yes,” he says huskily.
I study him — the size of his pupils, the skin on his face, the throbbing of his pulse in his carotid artery. He’s had a scare, but he’s not actually in shock. That’s good.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Fifty-three.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“In Munich.”
“How old is your father?”
Lenzen looks at me in utter consternation.
“We can skip all this,” I say. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Er…for the interview,” says Lenzen, his voice trembling. He really is pretending not to know what I’m talking about.
“So you’ve no idea why I’ve asked you here?” I say. “You, rather than anyone else?”
Lenzen looks bewildered.
“Answer me!” I snap.
Lenzen hesitates, as if he were scared I might fire the gun if he said anything wrong.
“A little while ago you said you’d chosen me because you admire my work,” he replies with studied calm. “But it’s beginning to dawn on me that that’s not the real reason.”
I can’t believe he’s still playing the innocent. It makes me so furious that I have to make an effort to collect myself. Very well, I think. It’s up to him.
“All right then,” I say, “back to the beginning. How old are you?”
He doesn’t immediately reply; I raise the gun a little.
“Fifty-three,” he says.
“Where did you grow up?”
“In Munich.”
He tries to look at me rather than into the muzzle of my gun.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” He fails.
“I have an elder brother.”
“Do you have a good relationship with your parents?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have children?”
His hand strays to his temple.
“Listen, you’ve already asked me all this!” he says, forcing himself to sound calm. “What is this? A joke?”
“It’s not a joke.”
Lenzen’s eyes open a little wider.
“Do you have children?” I ask.
“A daughter.”
“What’s your daughter called?”
He hesitates — only momentarily, but I sense his reluctance.
“Sara,” he says.
“What’s your favorite football team?”
I note his mental sigh of relief as I move off the subject of his daughter. Good.
“1860 Munich.”
Time to hit below the belt.
“Do you like inflicting pain on others?” He makes a sound of contempt.
“No.”
“Have you ever tortured an animal?”
“No.”
“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”
“Nitsche.”
“How old is your father?”
“Seventy-eight.”
“Do you think of yourself as a good person?”
“I do my best.”
“Do you prefer dogs or cats?”
“Cats.”
I can almost see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tries to work out where I’m going with all this and, more importantly, how he can disarm me. I’m holding the gun in my right hand, leaning on the table for support. I hold it correctly; I don’t allow myself to become careless. I’ve been practicing. The table is wide. Lenzen doesn’t have a chance of getting at me or the gun. To do that, he’d have to come around the table. Not a chance. We both know that.
I ratchet up the pace.
“What’s your favorite film?”
“Casablanca.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Twelve.”
“What color is your daughter’s hair?” His jaw is grinding.
“Blonde.”
The questions about his daughter are bothering him.
“What color are your daughter’s eyes?”
“Brown.”
“How old is your father?”
“Seventy-seven.”
“A moment ago you said seventy-eight.” Punish every mistake.
“Seventy-eight. He’s seventy-eight.”
“Do you think this is a game?” He doesn’t reply. His eyes flash.
“Do you think this is a game?” I repeat.
“No. It was a slip of the tongue.”
“You should get a grip on yourself,” I warn him. Put him under stress, wear him down.
“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”
“Nitsche.”
“How old is your father?” Lenzen conceals a sigh.
“Seventy-eight.”
“What’s your favorite band?”