204/398
♫ The Ungraspable ♫
204/398
I enter the corridor with several sheets in my hands, on which I’ve jotted down my CV and a list of names. Some I’ve circled to discuss with Albo. He left me in his office and hasn’t shown back up. Did someone find another heart somewhere in Berlin after all?
When a hand drops onto my shoulder, I flinch. “Don’t run off, we need to talk.” It’s Albo. In his other hand, he’s holding a folder. He looks like he’s trying to digest terrible news as he pushes me back into his office.
“Sit down,” he says.
“I’ve got…” I start, but he suddenly snaps: “Sit down, goddammit!” I sit.
He slumps heavily into his chair and deflates. He grabs his head in both hands and rakes his fingers through his hair. Then he says: “I got the analysis back from the lab. You’re not gonna like it.”
I look at him, waiting.
“The blood has the exact same DNA as the previous three times.”
“But there was no fourth heart [in the package] (http://archiv.korridorium.de/text201),” I protest. “Maybe it’s old blood, blood from one of the hearts we already found.”
Albo slowly shakes his head. “That’s not it.” He looks me straight in the eye. “It’s dried, yeah, age indeterminable—could be from one of the three hearts. But that’s not it.”
What is it, then?
“It’s about your blood. The fresh blood from your middle finger. The lab tested that, too.”
“Am I…?” I don’t dare finish the thought. Did they diagnose me with some fatal disease?
Albo lets out a pregnant pause. He looks utterly wrecked. Whatever I’m not going to like, he hates it just as much.
“Your blood has the exact same DNA as those three hearts.”
It takes a few heartbeats before what Albo just said truly registers.
“That has to be a mistake,” I say, but Albo gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “I’m having an external lab check it. But don’t expect them to come up with anything different.”
For a few breaths, we both sit there in silence. Several times I start to say something, only to freeze up. I flip my little stack of notes over to study our hypotheses, our killer profile. There’s nothing on that sheet about me being the victim—the triple victim. My gaze goes blank.
“Uwe, I don’t know anything about this. I have nothing to do with it. I’m as clueless as you are,” I say. Albo nods. Then he leans forward and claps me on the shoulder. Good to know I have a true friend in him.
“We’re both going home now to read the fifty new texts. You’re under police protection until further notice.” Albo pulls a stack of copies from the folder and slides them over to me. “I have to make a few calls. Do me a favor and be back here bright and early tomorrow.”
Albo reaches for the phone receiver. I gather my pages.
“It can’t be,” I say. “It’s impossible.”
Albo is already dialing a number, but he pauses and looks at me. “Got someone who can stay with you tonight?” he asks. He interprets my hesitation as a no, asking: “Want me to come over?”
I shake my head. “My cat will watch over me,” I say, trying in vain to sound lighthearted.
On the way home, a sudden sob escapes me. A strange sensation: a deeply buried grief breaks through for a brief second, and then the episode passes. Everything goes numb again, my thoughts packed in cotton. I share the exact same blood as the three victims. In a sense, it was my own heart, three times over. But how? What the hell does my DNA have to do with these murders?!
An unmistakable, demanding meow greets me as I unlock the door and step into the apartment. Plurabelle rubs against my legs, starving, and as always, the first thing I do is open a can of cat food for her.