Work Text:
Lunge had no idea why Dr. Tenma invited him for coffee.
He was returning from a lecture at the police academy when he noticed a familiar face at the bus stop. Tenma stood facing the sun, his jacket draped over his shoulder. The moment he saw Lunge, his expression briefly changed—eyes widening and lips parting—before he eventually came over to say hello.
A short exchange of words. Lunge mentioned that he will be a guest at a seminar dedicated to the history of the BKA at the Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich next week. It turned out that Tenma would be in Munich that day too.
“I’m going to see a friend. Would you care to join us for coffee?”
It wouldn’t be a one-on-one meeting. Understandable.
Some things couldn’t be undone.
But at least these things made Lunge look through the data stored in hidden folders on the hard drive of his mind’s computer. And thanks to this, he gained another topic to discuss with his daughter—he discovered she knew quite a lot about the problem of systemic racism.
I’ve been interested in this since high school. Thought it was obvious.
This was her answer when he shared his observations during one of their meetings in a café in Düsseldorf. Lunge detected a hint of irritation in her voice, but a second later, she smiled at him, leaving him puzzled.
Don’t try to understand women! His colleagues from his previous job would say. Yet Lunge found it difficult to comprehend why he occasionally felt disoriented in the company of other men as well.
And the events in Ruhenheim have deepened this impression. The computer in his mind had ceased to function properly—or it hadn’t been functioning properly for a long time, and what happened in Ruhenheim had only emphasized that.
So when he arrived at the café located in the center of Munich, he wondered what to do with his hands as he fixed his gaze over the shoulder of the man Tenma referred to as his friend.
That man was Dr. Gillen. And it was Dr. Gillen who Tenma called when he had to cancel the meeting at the last minute because of an emergency.
They were sitting across from each other, nursing their drinks in silence. Lunge was sure that Gillen was asking himself the same question: why did Tenma invite someone who had dedicated a decade to chasing him?
Lunge tapped his fingers against the cup. Conversations and music in the background melded into a dull hum.
He recalled his small victory from years ago, when, after several attempts, he managed to get information from Gillen about Tenma’s whereabouts—a victory he was so proud of at the time. The feeling of pride had faded now, but it still gave him a little boost of much-needed confidence.
This little boost of confidence allowed him to notice that Gillen positioned his hand as if he were holding a tape recorder.
“I see you have formed your own work-related habits as well.”
Gillen moved his arm away from the table. “Well, I’d be lying if I told you otherwise.”
Silence fell again. Lunge wanted to finish his coffee and leave; it made no sense to sit here, they had nothing to talk about, and they were wasting their time. But when he was about to reach for his briefcase and say goodbye, Gillen spoke up again:
“You’re still processing the events in Ruhenheim, aren’t you?”
Oh, Gillen wanted to psychoanalyze him? This could be interesting; the computer stopped lagging, his fingers began to work.
“Are you starting to regret that you don’t have your tape recorder with you, doctor?”
Gillen looked through the raindrop covered window.
“Because I’m for sure still processing it.”
A black screen popped up. Lunge brought the empty cup to his mouth.
Gillen intertwined his fingers. “Have you ever tried to observe your thoughts?”
Days later, Lunge still wondered whether there was more sincerity or sarcasm in Gillen’s question.
Why was he still thinking about this? Gillen tried to test his psychological tricks on him, Lunge knew them too well; he had the dubious pleasure of observing them closely in his line of work.
But he couldn’t deny that Gillen was different from most of the psychologists he had met. More attentive to detail. More meticulous. More inquisitive. Lunge still remembered his book Premise on Transcendental Criminal Psychology, especially pages 262 to 294.
He was constantly observing his thoughts. How else was he supposed to do his work?
You can try thinking of it as a problem to solve.
This was what Gillen added when Lunge didn’t answer his question. And it was another thing that made him question whether it was a joke or serious talk. On the one hand, Gillen said it in a subdued tone, but on the other, a small smile appeared on his face.
Lunge closed the door to his apartment. In recent days, he found a new rhythm: after coming home from work, he listened to music.
In the last few decades, he has tossed music into a folder with other mind-numbing distractions. The bizarre musical groups his daughter listened to as a teenager further solidified his position.
But now, he has rediscovered some appreciation for jazz.
Gillen’s words still buzzed in the back of his mind as he looked through his modest album collection. A problem to solve? His thoughts weren’t a puzzle to solve, they were a well-arranged Excel table.
Kind of Blue was a good choice for a quiet evening. He retrieved the vinyl record from the box and carefully set it on the record player. He brought down the needle. A soothing ritual.
A well-arranged Excel table. Could he rely on a table based on data collected on a defective computer?
The first notes resonated from the speakers. Maybe there were too many thoughts in his head—maybe some of them weren’t stored properly. Maybe that was the reason the computer was functioning poorly—its processor had overheated.
But what was he supposed to do with these thoughts? Should he re-organize them? And how was he supposed to identify the ones that looked more like black spots than anything else?
He lingered by the window, hands tucked away in his pockets. The world outside looked like it was shrouded in fog.
The song that was playing reminded him of a combination he used in his college days when he was preparing for exams: coffee and jazz. With coffee and jazz, even subjects that didn’t interest him became a piece of cake.
Coffee and jazz were a great combination for focus. But what he needed right now was a moment of respite. There was a bottle of Pilsner in the fridge.
He opened the beer and poured himself a glass. On his vacation in Prague, he discovered that the first sip was the most pleasurable one, so he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the slightly bitter taste.
He should listen to music more often—it could make preparing materials for his lectures more enjoyable.
The fog began to disappear. Lunge looked out the window again: light came on in the apartment across the yard, revealing the silhouette of a tall man with blond hair and a purple shirt.
Lunge choked on his beer; he coughed, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
That damn thing inside his head was broken.
Have you ever tried to observe your thoughts?
Lunge sat down in the chair. The events in Ruhenheim. Maybe these were the files that were overcharging his memory? He took another sip and breathed through his nose.
New folder: Ruhenheim. Sort by: date.
A postcard that depicted the scenery of the small town.
A man entered the hotel Versteck with a bag slung over his shoulder. He introduced himself with a fake name and told a fake story about a lonely picnic and getting lost on the way. The smile on his face too wide to be true, his voice too bright to be true.
Lunge and the man with the fake name arrived at the same place using different clues.
A house with dozens of unfinished portraits of twins. A boy who had lost his bike was hiding inside—the man with the fake name crouched down to comfort him.
The man with the fake name listened to the story of murders in Zweifelstadt without a smile; his face tightened in grave concentration.
The man with the fake name returned to the hotel with his clothes rain-soaked. He and Lunge arrived at the truth using different paths yet again.
The man with the fake name grabbed a hunched Klaus Poppe by the vest, uttering words full of pain and anger. The words were so real that everything else around him became almost non-existent.
Lunge asked the man with the fake name to buy him a beer after everything went back to normal. But there was no normal to get back to.
And there was no real name to get back to—there was just this other fake name. Wolfgang Grimmer.
Lunge finished his beer, his throat so tight that it almost hurt.
Would Grimmer enjoy this Pilsner? What beer would he choose if they had the opportunity to go to a pub together?
Would he tell him more about his life? Would they exchange emails? Would he be curious about Lunge’s daughter and grandson? Would he reveal to him a secret that no one else knew? Would something in Lunge—as insignificant as the way he accented some words or the look in his eyes—unlock a memory from his childhood?
Would it be a pleasant or a bad memory?
Lunge shook his head. What was supposed to be an observation of thoughts resembled more trivial daydreaming.
Their acquaintance would probably end with one outing together. It was highly likely that Grimmer would discover something too off-putting about Lunge to maintain their relationship. His history with Tenma—this obsessive attempt to erase his identity and create the portrayal of the perfect criminal mind—might bring up associations with Klaus Poppe that were too strong for Grimmer to turn a blind eye to.
A lump swelled in his throat, but there were no tears, as if his tear ducts had been surgically removed. The album was almost over. Lunge wanted to do something with his hands—something that wasn’t tapping his fingers on an invisible keyboard.
He wanted to touch something real and human. He closed his eyes, tiredness setting in after the long day.
Thoughts were coming and going.
An accidental touch while reaching for the mug of beer. Grimmer’s face was so close that Lunge could see the fine wrinkles around his eyes. He could feel his breath on his skin… Too close… Or maybe it was Tenma’s face… Something in between…
It was too much. Standing up, he opened the window wide, allowing the cool air to refresh his warm face; an almost burning sensation, he needed to walk it off, take a shower, and go to bed.
And tomorrow, with the accompaniment of jazz and coffee, he would take a closer look at the files he collected this evening. It would be interesting if he could create a database out of it.
Lunge still didn’t know why Tenma decided to invite him for a coffee. But one thing was certain: if it hadn’t been for that chance meeting at the bus stop, he wouldn’t have been able to have that brief conversation with Gillen. Without it, the evening could have looked completely different.
Lunge pulled the covers over himself. He expected to fall asleep fast. But, yet again, expectations didn’t match reality.
The feeling of emptiness was still lurking somewhere: sure, he collected some data, but it didn’t change the fact that it was scarce, and therefore couldn’t reveal the real person that was hiding behind the name Wolfgang Grimmer.
He touched his cheeks—they were wet from tears, for the first time in... he had no idea how long.
The sleepy feeling came over him.
The next day, he got an email. His daughter wanted to see him—she had a book she thought would interest him. And she wanted to bring his grandson with her this time.
He read the last sentence several times.
I'm glad you’re working on yourself, Dad.