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“Were you going to meet her on Saturday?” she asks.
Another nod.
“But Lena didn’t show up?”
Schöffler shakes his head.
“What did you do when Lena didn’t come?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, I sent her messages and stuff.”
“Did Lena reply to your messages?” asks Michael.
Head shaking.
“Didn’t that worry you?” Yasira presses.
Schöffler looks down at the floor. “It... it... often happened that she couldn’t leave home. Sometimes her father would freak out...”
“Freak out?”
“Well, he wanted to know where she was always running off to and so on... Then she’d just stay home. Sometimes she had to babysit. Because of her brother, he’s a bit weird.”
“Do you have any idea why Lena left her cell phone at home on the day she disappeared?”
“No idea. Or wait. Lena told me she was afraid her father might have installed some kind of hidden tracking app on her phone.”
Yasira makes a mental note. She would have to ask Frank Palmer about that.
“Do you happen to know Lena’s phone code?” Michael asks.
Lena’s boyfriend shakes his head.
“Mr. Schöffler,” Yasira asks as kindly as possible, “would you please unlock your phone and hand it to me? I’d like to take a look at it.”
Schöffler hesitates. “Do I... do I have to?”
How much Yasira would just like to say “yes.” But she can’t.
“No. You don’t have to.”
“Then I’d rather not.”
Yasira smiles kindly. “Mr. Schöffler, we’re on your side. We’re trying to find your girlfriend. We’re trying to catch the rapists. Please help us.”
Schöffler looks at her like a deer caught in the headlights. Then he shakes his head.
Yasira’s gaze sharpens and with precisely measured anger in her voice she says: “Listen, we’re investigating a case of nationwide significance. It’s about a gang rape, possibly even murder. There’s already a horde of so-called homeland protectors who’d love nothing more than to enforce vigilante justice. We want to catch the perpetrators beforehand and bring them to court. But most of all, we want to find Lena.” She pauses briefly and leans closer to Justus Schöffler. “I really don’t give a shit how much weed you smoke, sell, or grow in your backyard. Give me your phone now.” After a little pause, with her most charming smile, she adds a “please.”
“I want to speak to a lawyer...”
“Listen, kid,” Yasira starts again gently. “I promise we won’t bust you for your drug problem.”
“But if you don’t cooperate,” says Michael, “we’ll make your life a living hell. What do you think the press will do to you if we tell them about Lena’s boyfriend, the twenty-seven-year-old drug dealer that Lena had to hitchhike to every week, huh?”
