Korridorium

♫ Before the Ritual ♫

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148/398

I enter the corridor. A uniformed officer I’ve never seen around here before steps up to me. “I’m here to see Albo,” I say, and follow him down the hallway until he knocks on a door.

Inside, the detective sits in front of several monitors showing the interrogation room. Sitting alone at a plain wooden table in there is a man. He’s wearing handcuffs with his hands flat on the table.

“We got him,” Albo says, looking up at me. “And I definitely want you in that room with me for the interrogation.”

Maybe it would’ve been nice to hear an apology first for dragging me out to precinct headquarters in the middle of the night. But that’s just not Albo’s style. His call yanked me out of a dead sleep, and I still feel seasick, like the world is wrapped in cotton wool.

“He tried to break into the Alex. The TV tower,” he adds unnecessarily.

“Was he trying to… put another heart in a corridor up there?”

It’s a young guy with messy blonde hair. I can see dried blue paint on his hands and coveralls.

Albo scratches his eyebrow and shakes his head. “He disguised himself as a painter, complete with overalls and a paint bucket, but he got busted when he tried to head up the emergency stairs.”

“So, no heart,” I say with relief. “What about texts?”

“Zip,” Albo says. “That would’ve been too early anyway. He just wanted to scout out the next corridor. I’ve had my guys step up patrols around the city’s major landmarks the last night or two.”

“Did he say anything? Confess?” I try to size up the guy on the monitor. His eyes seem to be staring into nothingness, though the camera feed might be deceiving. He’s young. Way too young, really. Wet behind the ears.

“Can’t get a word out of him,” Albo says, though he still looks a little proud and relieved. He gives me a jovial punch on the thigh. “I’m hoping you can crack him for me. Before I have to resort to my own methods.”

“And what if he’s not the guy?” I ask.

Albo shifts restlessly on his stool. “What else would he be doing at the Alex?”

“Suicide,” I say. “A bet with his buddies, a grand gesture for his girlfriend…”

Albo dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

I don’t drop it. “I seriously doubt the guy knows what the Many-Worlds Interpretation is.”

“Many-Worlds Interpretation?” Albo asks.

“Text number 63” I say. “And I doubt he knows how to spell ‘Megalithic cultures,’ number 97, or…”

Albo stands up. “How about you figure out how we get a confession out of him instead!”

“Uwe, man, face facts: this isn’t the guy we’re looking for. But if your team finds fifty typewriters in his apartment, call me—even in the middle of the night—and I’ll crawl back here on my knees and apologize to you.” Sometimes you have to wave a fence post in Albo’s face—or better yet, hit him over the head with it—for him to realize he’s barked up the wrong tree.

He visibly deflates. “I was so sure.”

“You’re overworked. If I can give you a piece of friendly advice: take a few days off, head out to the cottage by the lake, sit in the sun, and stare holes into thin air.”

Albo gives a sour smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I can tell the words are practically being dragged out of him, “for dragging you out of bed. I was a bit quick on the trigger, I guess. Coffee?”

I shake my head. “Come on then,” he says, “I’ll drive you home.” I know how that goes. Screaming through red lights with the siren blaring. Never again. I’d rather call a cab.

The cab takes its time getting here, so I pop into the painter’s room after all.

“Hey,” I say, not waiting for an answer. “Maybe I can get you a permit for a graffiti piece on the TV tower. You just gotta know the right people. Is it a good quote?”

He stares at me like he’s seeing a ghost. Finally, his mouth opens and moves a few times like a fish gasping for air before he answers: “It was supposed to be our logo.”

“Ah,” I say. “A company logo?”

“No, no: ours, mine and my girlfriend’s.” Wrong order, pal, I think. You two aren’t gonna last. I’m about to ask him what kind of logo it is, but the officer who brought me to Albo steps in and whispers in my ear: “Your cab’s here.”

“Well, have fun,” I say, raising my hand. The guy actually raises his hand back, like we’re buddies. Ah, sweet innocence! This generation probably can’t think two cents’ worth because pfennigs were abolished. Everything’s going down the drain.

The taxi driver wants to chat about some soccer games. Albo would say, “Shut up and drive.” I give it a try myself—and look at that, it works like a charm.