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“Of course not. But given its worldwide distribution, you won’t be surprised to hear that there’s a large supply on the black market. Some police authorities are also thinking about phasing out the MP5 because of its relatively limited range and penetrating power. The Thuringians, for example, have already replaced them.”
“What are you trying to say? That some of the decommissioned weapons have found their way onto the black market?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Karsten replies. “I’m just sharing the information I have. It’s up to you to decide what’s relevant, boss.”
“Hmm. Anything else?”
“Just a, what do they call it now? Ah yeah, afun fact.”
“Afun fact?”
“The Red Army Faction used the MP5 in their logo.”
Yasira remembers the familiar logo with the red, five-pointed star, the weapon on it and the three letters “RAF” above it.
“I always thought that was a Kalashnikov,” says Yasira.
“Yeah, most people do. Probably even the RAF members thought so. But Ulrike Meinhof’s acquaintance, who drew the logo, obviously had no idea and accidentally chose the MP5 instead of a Kalashnikov as a model, the standard weapon of the class enemy. My kind of humor.”
Yasira has to take her phone away from her ear as Karsten’s loud machine-gun laughter erupts.
“Thanks,” she says afterwards. “Keep us updated.”
She hangs up and scrolls through the comments under the video. There are hundreds. Bear gets a lot of approval. A lot of approval. Apparently half the country consists of wannabe manhunters. It puts her in a bad mood. Yasira puts the cell phone aside and looks at Michael. “Drive faster.”
THE FATHER
First they need to visit the local police station. Michael follows the GPS instructions because neither he nor Yasira have ever been to Halberstadt before. Just over forty thousand inhabitants live in the district town known as the gateway to the Harz Mountains. But that already makes it the sixth largest in Saxony-Anhalt. They pass many houses whose GDR origins are still apparent. Halberstadt was hit hard during the Second World War. Fittingly, they are driving along the Street of the Victims of Fascism. What a weird address that must be if you have to name it somewhere, Yasira thinks.I live at the Street of the Victims of Fascism No. 33.Strange.
Shortly before they reach their destination, Michael has to turn into a small cobbled street to get to the station.
“A dead end,” mumbles Yasira, pointing to the sign.
“Hopefully not,” grumbles Michael.
The Harz police station is a large, somewhat oversized-looking brick building. Yasira half expects to encounter jurisdictional disputes with the local sheriffs, as seen in American TV series, but of course that’s nonsense.
The police director, a slim, clean-shaven man in his fifties with short military hair, is delighted to be able to relinquish control of the case. He even set up a temporary office for Yasira and Michael.
“To be honest,” he says. “We’ve never had a situation like this before. It’s a bit much for us.” He scratches his head. “We also have little experience with the national press.” He then smiles somewhat painfully. “And there’s no point in trying to hide it, you’ll soon find out anyway... We’ve found out frustratingly little so far.”
In their new office, Michael and Yasira read the protocol of the conversation with Lena’s father when he filed the missing person’s report. That was three days before the video. More precisely, three days before Yasira saw the video. Jenny has not yet been able to find a version of the recording with a timestamp in the metadata. It is therefore not entirely clear when the video was made.
The protocol is not particularly fruitful. Frank Palmer knows astonishingly little about his child. He has no idea where his daughter disappeared to on Saturday afternoon. He was out doing archery with his son when Lena left the house. So he didn’t even know what clothes she was wearing or whether she had a backpack or other luggage with her. He reported her missing on Sunday afternoon. Based on current information, the video first appeared online on Wednesday.
The precinct leader had not yet started searching for Lena because he had no useful clue where to start.
Unfortunately, Lena had left her phone at home. So she couldn’t be tracked. That seems odd to Yasira. She wouldn’t know any sixteen-year-old who would voluntarily leave her phone at home. Unless she doesn’t want anyone to know where she is. But maybe that’s just the criminalist’s mind getting carried away. The girl could have simply forgotten her cell phone. But Zara would have turned around immediately in such a case and fetched it. The colleagues have secured the device but have not yet been able to access it. It’s an older iPhone. Lena’s father’s old one. He doesn’t know her code. Of course he doesn’t. Yasira gives instructions to send the device to headquarters. Maybe the nerds from the technical service can find out something about it.
Frank Palmer, Lena’s father, teaches as a professor at the Harz University. Public Law in the Department of Administrative Sciences. His son Emil, Lena’s little brother, was diagnosed with a mild form of autism five years ago. His wife Tanja died of uterine cancer a year and a half ago. Some families have subscribed to misfortune.
Yasira dreads the conversation, but she will have to talk to the father herself. And if there’s something unpleasant she has to do, she prefers to do it straight away. So she asks the precinct leader to announce her visit and drives with Michael to the Palmer family home on the outskirts of town.
On the drive, Yasira thinks about how she would react if something like this happened to her daughter. Would she go on a vendetta like Uma Thurman inKill Bill?Would she throw herself into work? Would she just break down? Sometimes, when Zara stays out a little longer than agreed, she has these dark fantasies about what might have happened to her. Then she has to stop herself from calling her daughter every five minutes. Is this something every mother has or is it an occupational disease? Does worrying about your children ever stop? Probably not...
A few reporters are already lurking outside the Palmer house. Without a word, Yasira walks past the microphones and cameras held in front of her. Michael asks the journalists to stay back and respect Frank Palmer’s property line, which has the desired effect. Outside the door, they are alone again.
When Lena’s father opens the door, he looks like a living dead to Yasira. He leads them through a hallway. Yasira hears a piano from the living room. As they pass by, she catches a glimpse through the door of a boy of about ten sitting at the keys. That must be Lena’s little brother Emil. He is playing Chopin’s Prelude in E minor. A deeply sad piece which the composer had wished to be played at his own funeral. Yasira’s mother—a pianist in Beirut and piano teacher in Lüneburg—forced her daughter to practice Chopin until her fingers almost fell off. It’s actually a miracle that she still likes his melodies.
