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The 30-Year-Old Man 1.1

The 30-Year-Old Man Who Fell Out the Window and Died



A Lisa Becker Short Mystery



by Falko Rademacher


© 2014 by Falko Rademacher, 13597 Berlin


All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Also by Falko Rademacher




A Philip Eckstein Thriller


A Suitcase Full of Blood

American, Die




A Lisa Becker Mystery


Heads Off

Dead Beauties

The Vampire from Berlin




A Lisa Becker Short Mystery


The 30-Year-Old Man Who Fell Out the Window and Died


Window of Death


2:30pm on a Tuesday was not the best time to be lying around dead on the street. But Durmus Durmus never did give a rat’s ass. Typical of him, they would all say. Antisocial and obnoxious till the end.

Aside from being on his way to meet his maker, he probably would have quite enjoyed the spectacle, after all he was being the center of attention. Not even with his white convertible Mercedes, for which he would have had to cough up another four years’ worth of payments, could he have turned so many heads, even if he had cruised up and down the Ku’damm all Saturday night – something he had done many, many times.

Durmus Durmus lay there, his head on the edge of the large flower bed that was in front of the building where he lived. The rest of his body – angled away slightly due to the broken neck – was spread over the sidewalk. In the meantime, the whole thing had been covered by a piece of tarp, courtesy of the hard working boys at the criminal investigation department. There was no suspicion of crime, but with a violent death there had to be some investigation to exclude foul play; such was the law.

The house was on Breite Straße in Old Town of Spandau. It was a pedestrian zone, something the riot police officers were grateful for, since there was no traffic to redirect. A bit of police tape, a couple of guards, and it was taken care of. Right next to the dead Turk was a self-serve bakery, where the team was cheerfully stuffing themselves with mini-donuts and minced raw pork rolls, and on the other side, on the ground floor of the building, was an upscale Italian restaurant. There were eight tables outside, all of them fully occupied.

Think I’ll take Liz out for a pizza later, chief inspector Fabian Zonk decided, as he watched the forensic team work and waited for his colleague. He was the first at the scene of “crime” (in case there was one), since he lived less than three-hundred yards away. Well, there she is. And boy does she look hot again…

Chief inspector Lisa Becker had parked her VW Polo in the parking on Lindenufer. She almost always did that, since she visited Fabian at least once a week. Sometimes she felt surprised that the flirting, which had started out as nothing more than sarcastic exchanges with her colleague, seemed to be developing into a long-term relationship. Which is why she was already beaming at him from afar – something that was probably not “appropriate” given the “present circumstances”.

Look, it’s right by that great pizzeria, noted Lisa happily. Let’s hope Zonk will spring for some chow, it’s his turn after all. And boy, does he look hot again…

While few would question the handsomeness of the Zonkian appearance – tall, trim, and irresistibly sexy in jeans and leather jacket – the facts were somewhat different when it came to Frau Becker. Lisa couldn’t hide her 190 pounds, and anyway she had stopped trying a long time ago. Instead she dressed as casually as possible without looking like a shelter tent, let her wide haunches do as they wanted, and happily showed a little more cleavage too, now that spring was in bloom. And in her case, “a little” was enough to conjure up a big satisfied grin on Fabian’s face.

They didn’t kiss. After all, not only were there five other colleagues present from various departments, but also at least forty spectators who kept their proper distance from the fatally damaged human being, attentively taking pictures with their phones and politely hypothesizing with each other about how Durmus Durmus might have managed ...

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