Böhler and the Cherry Farmer

A Chief Inspector Böhler crime novel– His Sixth Case

The Characters

• Detective Franz Böhler – Gruff, headstrong, a trench coat–wearing traditionalist in the vein of Inspector Maigret. Sixty years old, old-school through and through, he enjoys playing Jass with his buddies at the Metzgerhalle.

• Assistant Fridolin “Glarner” Blumer – Cheerful, just under thirty, beloved by the female police assistants, zips around town on his Vespa.

• Gloria Meyer – Forensics officer, smart, young, and beautiful – the woman of Fridolin Blumer’s dreams.

• Walter Glauser – The elderly farmer from the Cherry Hill Farm in Zürich-Höngg.

• Max Glauser – Walter’s son.

• Gerda Glauser-Meister – Walter’s wife.

• Paul Glauser – A cousin from Wollishofen, works as a real estate agent.

• Abram Tesfai – An immigrant and farmworker.

• Frieda Mühlethaler – An old friend of Walter Glauser’s.

Summary

Detective Böhler is called to investigate what appears to be an accident involving Walter Glauser. But was it really an accident? Is Abram Tesfai to blame, or could someone else be responsible? What role does Frieda Mühlethaler play in all this? And is the Glauser family hiding something?

Together with his team, Böhler digs deep to uncover the truth behind the incident.

Once the case is solved, Detective Böhler usually looks forward to a cold beer and a game of Jass with Remo K. and the “Schällenboys” at the Metzgerhalle.

Waid Terrace, 1970

High above the city, at Restaurant Waid with its sweeping view of Zurich, the lake, and the Alps, Max Glauser met with Frieda Ammann one Sunday afternoon. Max was nervous. He had spent weeks preparing for this moment—today, he was going to propose. For months, he had worked hard and saved every penny to buy a ring that would express his love.

“My dear Frieda,” he began solemnly, raising a glass of Schiterberger Pinot—even though he much preferred beer—“I’ve waited a long time for this moment. You would be the perfect farmer’s wife for the Cherry Hill Farm. Will you marry me?” With that, he handed her a small jewelry box from Heier’s, the jeweler in Höngg.

Frieda turned pale. She hadn’t seen this coming. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Max—but marriage, children, cherry harvests? That wasn’t the life she had imagined for herself. She dreamed of seeing the world, studying in America, maybe traveling through Australia. She wanted to escape the narrow confines of Höngg and embrace the wide open spaces beyond. Furthermore, she had been saving for years. Her ticket to New York was already booked—she was leaving next month.

Frieda, the daughter of the local Höngg baker, had known Max since childhood. Their families were close friends, and everyone had long assumed that one day, the two of them would marry.

She took a deep breath before she responded. “Oh Max… I didn’t expect this. And now I’m going to disappoint you—and our families.” She took his hand, looked him in the eyes, and continued, “I’m moving to the United States. Next month I leave via England for New York. I’ll be studying business at the university there…”

Max was devastated. Silently, he let the jewelry box fall from his hands, turned around, and ran off, heartbroken and dazed.

They would never see each other again. Years later, Max married Gerda Meister from Wollishofen. Their son Paul was born, and farm life settled into its steady rhythm.

At Cherry Hill Farm

The cherry trees were heavy with ripe fruit—it was harvest time. Paul was anything but thrilled. He’d much rather have gone to the motocross race in Frauenfeld. Grumbling under his breath, he climbed reluctantly onto the smaller tractor and headed out into the fields.

Tension between father and son had been simmering for a while. Paul had little enthusiasm for the farming life. He preferred tinkering with motorcycles alongside his friends. His dream was to start an apprenticeship with Corradi, the Moto Guzzi dealer in Oberengstringen. But under pressure from his father, he had been forced to enroll in agricultural school at Strickhof—after all, he was expected to take over the family farm one day.

Cherry Hill Farm included not only fields and woodland but also vast tracts of land where Max cultivated the prized black cherries. Over time, the city had expanded right up to the farm’s borders. The land had already been rezoned for development, and selling it would have made Max a wealthy man. But he clung stubbornly to the old farming ways. He had no interest in even discussing the sale of a single acre.

Gerda, on the other hand, was not entirely opposed to the idea of selling. She felt the weight of age and hard labor pressing down on her. A simpler life would have suited her just fine. Instead, she now found herself having to deal with Abram Tesfai—the refugee and farmworker from Eritrea. While she appreciated his diligence and reliability, there were aspects of him she found difficult to understand. Max, however, often praised Abram enthusiastically. More than once at dinner, he would mutter, “If only Paul showed half the interest Abram does,” while pushing the food around on his plate with a sigh.

Abram

The political situation in Eritrea left Abram Tesfai with no choice. As the son of a farming family, he refused to join the brutal military and fight in a war he did not believe in. With no other way out, he made the difficult decision to flee his homeland in the dead of night. For weeks, he traveled—on foot, crammed into overloaded trucks, and in dark, overcrowded boats—driven by the hope of finding freedom. At last, after an arduous and exhausting journey, he arrived in Switzerland.

He arrived with nothing—no money, no knowledge of the language, no friends. But he did bring one thing with him: an unshakable will. With help from a local aid organization, he eventually found work at Cherry Hill Farm with Farmer Glauser.

Abram made a promise to himself: he would integrate into his new home as quickly as possible. The farm—this was where he belonged. Even though everything was different from what he had known—the climate, the machinery, the way of working—he immediately felt a deep connection to the land. Before long, he was proudly seated on the green John Deere tractor, plowing straight rows through the fields and planting crops on his own. He worked with precision, learned quickly, and never shied away from hard physical labor.

Farmer Glauser soon came to trust him completely. He often praised Abram’s skill and endurance. Even the farmer’s wife treated him kindly, though at times she seemed a little reserved, as if his foreignness still unsettled her in some way.

Only the son, Paul, seemed to regard Abram with suspicion. His dismissive glances and pointed remarks cut deeper than Abram let on. But he understood: prejudice couldn’t be defeated with words alone—it had to be overcome through actions. So he kept quiet, gritted his teeth, and continued to work—hoping that one day, he would no longer be seen as the outsider, but simply as one of them.

An Unexpected Visitor

“Hello, my name is Frieda Mühlethaler. Is Max home?”

Gerda blinked in surprise. What did this elegantly dressed woman want with her Max?

“And who might you be?” she asked, her voice laced with a hint of suspicion.

“He’s out picking cherries with the farmhand,” she added a bit curtly.

The visitor smiled kindly. “I completely understand your skepticism. Someone just shows up out of the blue, asking strange questions. I used to be Frieda Ammann—the baker’s daughter from Höngg. When I was young, I went to New York to study. Later, I met my husband, Gregor Mühlethaler, and married him.”

Gerda relaxed a little and looked the stranger over more closely. “Yes, Max told me about his first love,” she said eventually. “Come on in—may I call you ‘du’? I just put on a fresh pot of coffee.” She opened the door wide and motioned for Frieda to step inside.

“Max and Abram—the farmhand—should be back soon,” Gerda added as she set cups on the table. “Around this time, they usually come in for a midafternoon snack.”

But the minutes passed, and no one showed up. Finally, Frieda offered to take the cider, bread, and sausage out to the field herself. She still remembered the area well, even though much had changed over the years.

From a distance, she spotted a ladder propped against a cherry tree and the tractor nearby, loaded with crates. But Max was nowhere in sight. The grass reached up to her ankles, and as she stepped cautiously closer, a strange unease crept over her.

A few steps further and she froze in place. The sight took her breath away: Max lay motionless in the tall grass, his body twisted unnaturally beside the ladder. Between his legs, a basket of ripe cherries had spilled—red fruit scattered across the green like little splashes of blood.

For a moment, Frieda stood paralyzed. Then she pulled herself together, reached into her handbag, and with trembling fingers took out her phone. Without hesitation, she dialed the number for the police.

On the Case: Blumer

“Blumer. Fridolin Blumer. Where are you? There’s a case for you in Höngg. You need to head over there immediately—I’m tied up elsewhere. And take Gloria with you.”

Assistant Blumer didn’t need to be told twice. Finally, an opportunity—not necessarily to prove himself, but more importantly, to spend some time alone with Gloria Meyer. He quickly had the department’s BMW made ready. With a bit of luck, maybe he could even invite her for a drink afterward—perhaps on the terrace at Restaurant Waid.

When they arrived at the scene, Blumer quickly scanned the area. A ladder was leaning at an odd angle, set strangely far from the tree.

“Clear case. He must’ve fallen,” he muttered. “But why’s the ladder so far away? What do you think, Gloria? Looks like a broken neck. Maybe a dizzy spell? Cardiac arrest?”

Gloria knelt silently next to the body. “We’ll know more after I’ve examined him,” she said coolly. “You can have the body transported. In the meantime, start talking to the witnesses.”

Fridolin Blumer was, once again, quietly amazed by Gloria’s composure. Delicate as she appeared, she was absolutely unshakable at a crime scene. No sign of distress or hesitation.

In the middle of this peaceful, almost picturesque landscape, the body lay beneath the old cherry tree. Ripe cherries were scattered in the tall grass like little splashes of red. Were it not for the contorted position of the corpse, one might have thought he was simply asleep.

Back at the farmhouse, Blumer questioned the farmer’s wife and Frieda. Both were visibly shaken, but something didn’t sit right. Paul, the son, and Abram, the farmhand, were nowhere to be found.

“Abram was with my husband—may he rest in peace—where could he have gone?” Gerda asked, stunned. “Did he run off? And my son was supposed to be out working the field with the small tractor… but he often shirks his chores. What are we supposed to do now?”

Fridolin made a mental note: two people missing. No witnesses to the supposed accident. A ladder standing far from the tree.

He wasn’t going to write this one off as just a tragic fall.

Later, Frieda left the farmhouse, grief heavy in her heart. She had come too late to see Max one last time.

The letter she had received from Max—she chose not to mention it.

It was her secret now.

Abram on the Run

Abram saw the farmer fall—heavily, silently, as if the entire world had suddenly stopped breathing. For a brief moment, everything was frozen in time. Then, panic took over. A wave of raw fear gripped him. Without thinking, he dropped everything and ran—across the fields, away from the orchard, toward the open land that sloped down to the city.

Surely, he would find shelter somewhere—maybe with fellow countrymen, or perhaps through the charitable organization that occasionally visited the farm. Someone would help him, take him in, hide him.

Abram already knew what was coming. He could see it playing out in his mind: Paul and his mother would blame him. They would say he had pushed Max, or worse—that he had killed him. Paul had been watching him with cold eyes for weeks, jealousy written all over his face. Max had treated Abram with warmth and patience, like a father—just as Abram’s own father had back in Eritrea.

The farmer’s wife had been polite, proper on the surface. But there was often a chill in her gaze that left no doubt: to her, he was just the “brown farmhand.” A foreigner. Someone you didn’t trust. Someone you blamed when something went wrong.

Abram sprinted down the slope of Hönggerberg, raced across Meierhofplatz, and pushed on toward the Limmat River. His breathing was heavy and ragged, but he forced his legs to keep moving. He had to reach the river, had to cross the Hardegg pedestrian bridge, had to get to Langstrasse. There, in the narrow streets, surrounded by strangers and the rush of city life, he might be able to disappear. Hopefully.

His mind was a storm of chaotic thoughts. The police would come looking for him—maybe they already were. And then what?

People like him were always guilty. No matter what had really happened.

Paul

Paul found his mother in the living room, crying.

“Where have you been? The police want to talk to you,” she called out the moment he stepped into the room. “Did you have a fight with your father?”

“What happened?” Paul asked, his brow furrowed.

Between sobs, his mother told him about the accident—Max’s fall, the strange woman who had suddenly appeared, and the fact that Abram had taken off, fleeing in a panic.

Paul felt a surge of anger rise within him. “He must’ve done something stupid! He’s the one to blame!” he shouted.

His voice cracked as he continued, louder now: “He was always sucking up to Dad! And as far as I know, he was even supposed to inherit part of the farm. Can you believe that? I’m sure he had a hand in it!”

He was ranting now, all the resentment that had built up over the past months—his jealousy, his frustration, the constant feeling of being overlooked—came spilling out in a torrent of emotion.

Then he stopped short, breathing heavily.

“What about this woman?” he asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know much,” his mother replied wearily. She recounted the unexpected visit from a woman his father had known in his youth—the daughter of a baker from Höngg.

“That’s strange,” Paul thought, snorting quietly. His father had never mentioned her. Why would she show up now, of all times?

A new idea began to form in his mind—one that stirred a dark, unsettling kind of hope.

“Maybe she wanted to buy land,” he muttered aloud. “That would make a lot more sense than all this endless farming. What do you think, Mom? Maybe now we can sell the place. You could finally get some rest…”

He paused for a moment, swallowed hard. “…and I could finally live my dream. Open my own motorcycle shop.”

For a split second, greed flickered in his eyes. But somewhere deep inside, something else stirred too—something softer, harder to pin down: a faint, fleeting hint of guilt.

His mother shook her head. Disbelieving. Heartbroken.

“Don’t lose your soul, son,” she said quietly, almost pleading.

But Paul avoided her gaze. He knew: the path he was about to take could cost him everything—or finally bring him the life he’d always wanted.

At the Police Station

“Chief, we confirmed that Farmer Glauser fell from the tree and broke his neck,” Assistant Blumer reported. “What remains unclear is why he fell. We found no evidence of tampering with the ladder, and the branches weren’t sawed through. Still—something’s off: Abram Tesfai, the farmhand, has vanished. And Paul, the son, also wasn’t at the scene, even though he was supposed to be helping. I interviewed him later. He claimed he was out with the tractor collecting baskets. According to him, it was just ‘the Black guy’ picking cherries.”

nspector Böhler furrowed his brow. “Hmm. Good work, Blumer. And how did things go with Gloria up on the Waid terrace?”

ridolin Blumer blushed slightly. “You really do know everything, Chief. But yes—the gentleman enjoys and says nothing.”

“Back to business. What about the women?” Böhler asked sharply.

“The farmer’s wife was in the house the whole time, and that’s backed up by both a neighbor who came by to buy cherries and by Ms. Mühlethaler herself,” Blumer said. “It was Frieda Mühlethaler who found the body and called emergency services. She seemed genuinely shaken. Turns out, she hadn’t seen Max in over forty years—they used to be a couple. He even once proposed to her, though apparently Gerda Glauser knows nothing about that.”

nspector Böhler nodded, deep in thought.

“Let’s sum up what we have,” he said, rising from his chair and beginning to pace slowly across the office:

• “Gerda Glauser has what appears to be a solid alibi. Still—is a neighbor’s word enough to confirm everything?

• Frieda Mühlethaler showed up unexpectedly. Why now, of all times? Was it really just a random visit?

• Paul, the son, has no clear alibi for the critical timeframe. His relationship with his father was tense—he didn’t want to inherit the farm.

• Abram Tesfai has vanished without a trace. A refugee who bolts—was it fear, or something more?”

Böhler came to a halt, arms crossed, and looked at Blumer intently.

“You see, Blumer—on the surface, this looks like a tragic accident. But too many things don’t quite add up. Why was the ladder positioned at such a strange angle? Why was the basket lying exactly where it was? And why does someone run if they have nothing to hide?”

He took a deep breath.

“Maigret would’ve likely reached similar conclusions:

1. We need to find Abram—alive, and willing to talk.

2. We need to understand exactly what was going on between father and son in the days before the incident.

3. We need to find out what Ms. Mühlethaler really wanted. Not everything she said rang true to me.”

Chief Inspector Böhler reached for his trench coat hanging on the hook. He took a final sip of his now-cold coffee, winced at the taste, and said dryly:

“Let’s get to work, Blumer. You find the Eritrean. I’m heading to the Mercure Hotel in Zurich City. Something tells me Ms. Mühlethaler might be more talkative—if asked the right questions.” 

Frieda Mühlethaler’s Secret

While Blumer zipped through the city on his Vespa, headed to the office of the Eritrean diaspora, Inspector Böhler took public transportation to the hotel on Vulkanstrasse. He had called ahead, and Ms. Mühlethaler had agreed to meet him in the hotel lobby.

Frieda Mühlethaler—a striking woman in her early seventies, stylish and well-groomed—was sitting calmly in a comfortable leather chair. Böhler noticed immediately that she had been crying. Her reddened eyes and slightly trembling hands betrayed a deep sadness.

Gently, he started the conversation and suggested they move to the bar. From experience, he knew that people often opened up more easily in a relaxed, informal setting.

“Inspector Böhler,” she began in a soft voice, “Max—Mr. Glauser—was my first love. He wanted to marry me back then. But I had different dreams. I wanted to see the big, wide world, and I decided to pursue my studies in New York.

“Max was devastated. He left without saying a word. After that, we never saw each other again. I could have written to him, yes—but then I met Gregor Mühlethaler, and I started a new life with him.”

She paused briefly, brushing her hand across her forehead before continuing.

“To my shame, I have to admit that I nearly forgot about Max for many years. Until a few weeks ago, when a letter from him arrived. In it, he told me he had never forgotten me. He had, by chance, obtained my address in New York through an acquaintance. He wrote that he was rethinking his will—and that he had considered including me.

“He told me his life had, for the most part, been harmonious. But his relationship with his son had become strained, and that weighed heavily on him. I had the impression that Max was reaching out, asking for help.

“That’s why I decided to return to my old home. And now… I’m too late. There’s nothing I can do for him anymore.”

She handed Böhler a carefully folded letter. “This is the one. It also includes the contact information for the attorney in Höngg that Max mentioned.”

Böhler accepted the letter, skimmed the first few lines, and nodded thoughtfully.

“In a certain light,” he said calmly, “you may have had a motive.”

He let the silence hang for a moment as he studied her face.

“I’ll be in touch. Please make yourself available for further questions.”

With a curt nod, Böhler took his leave of the older woman. As he stepped out of the hotel, he pulled out his phone and called his assistant, Blumer.

The Mission on Langstrasse

Abram had indeed found shelter—among friends at a refugee home run by the Eritrean Mission. Slowly, a sense of calm began to return. But as he spoke with his fellow countrymen and the center’s staff, one thing became clear: running had only made him appear more suspicious. And yet, he had done nothing wrong—on the contrary, he had seen what happened in the cherry orchard from a distance. But who would believe him?

Assistant Blumer parked his Vespa 300 GT in front of the mission’s modest building. He was hoping for a lead—perhaps Abram had checked in, maybe he was even hiding out here.

Blumer was surprised when the director of the home told him that Abram was there—visibly shaken and currently speaking with other Eritreans in the common room.

“A decent guy,” the director said. “One of the few who integrated quickly. He even speaks the local dialect pretty well.”

ogether, they entered the common room. Four Eritrean men stood in a lively conversation, gesturing animatedly, clearly agitated.

Blumer stepped forward.

“Mr. Tesfai, I’m Fridolin Blumer from the local police. I need to speak with you.”

Abram immediately stood up. His hands were open, his posture defensive.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said quickly. “I only ran because I was scared. But I saw… I saw that he…”

He stopped, swallowing hard, his eyes clouded with turmoil.

Blumer raised a hand, interrupting him gently but firmly. “Mr. Tesfai, I understand. But please—tell me everything later, step by step, at the station. Right now, you’re a suspect. Mr. Glauser has unfortunately passed away.”

Abram blinked rapidly. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“I only wanted to help…” he whispered.

“A patrol will escort you,” Blumer explained, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “We’ll sort everything out in due time.”

He pulled out his phone and called his boss.

“Chief, it’s Blumer. I found Abram Tesfai. He’s cooperative. We’ll be at the station in about half an hour.”

As he ended the call, one thing was clear to Blumer: Abram knew something.

Something that might cast the entire case in a very different light.

What Abram Witnessed

“Well, Mr. Tesfai,” Inspector Böhler began calmly, “if you haven’t done anything wrong, then there’s no need to worry. The Zurich police are nothing to fear—unless you’re a criminal.”

“When I was out in the orchard with the farmer, we were filling basket after basket with ripe cherries. I always took the heavy ones and carried them over to the trailer. Then, all of a sudden, Glauser’s son—Paul—drove up in the small tractor.

“I had taken the John Deere to pull the first trailer out to the path and was in the process of attaching the second one. From a distance, I could hear Mr. Glauser and Paul arguing—loudly, like they often did. I didn’t catch every word, but I believe Paul was trying to convince his father to sell part of the land.”

Abram paused briefly, then continued:

I had just finished hooking up the second trailer when I suddenly heard a scream. I looked up and saw Mr. Glauser falling from the tree—like a ripe fruit dropping from the branch. And then… silence.

“I saw Paul glance over at his father—and then he just climbed into his little Hürlimann and drove off. Didn’t even check on him.

“I ran over to Mr. Glauser and found him lying still beneath the tree. I think he was already dead. Probably broke his neck.

“That’s when panic set in. I was sure I’d be blamed—especially by Paul. He could never stand how much his father supported me. Max Glauser once hinted that he wanted to secure my future somehow. I’m not sure what exactly he meant, but…

“I ran out of fear. I’m just the Black farmhand. And I’ve felt Paul’s contempt often enough to know how quickly he’d point the finger.”

Inspector Böhler leaned back, studying Abram for a long moment before speaking dryly:

“Well then, that gives you a motive too, Mr. Tesfai.”

He flipped through the folder in front of him. “That said, we found no evidence of foul play—no tampering with the ladder, and no DNA traces other than Mr. Glauser’s.”

He paused, then added:

“You’ll be staying with us overnight. If anything else comes to mind—anything important—don’t hesitate to call for us.”

As Abram was led away, Böhler turned to his assistant.

“Now, let’s take a closer look at the dutiful son,” he said. “You know, Blumer—clever Gloria told me she found a substance in the farmer’s blood. One that can cause disorientation and fainting. In someone with an existing heart condition, it could even trigger a stroke.”

He furrowed his brow, then said with emphasis:

“Blumer, summon Paul Glauser. I want to take a very close look at him.”

The Truth Comes to Light

A visibly nervous Paul Glauser stepped into Interrogation Room 3—a cold, unwelcoming space where more than a few had confessed their guilt. Inspector Böhler knew how to apply pressure and get suspects to talk.

Paul sat down stiffly, arms crossed, trying to mask his unease. Böhler took his time, opened his folder, and looked at him steadily.

Well then, Mr. Glauser Jr.,” he began in a calm tone, “why don’t you tell me how you experienced your father’s fall? What were you arguing about?”

Paul avoided Böhler’s gaze.

“We weren’t arguing,” he said quickly. “It was different. Abram and my father were having a loud fight—about the future of the farm, I think. I saw Abram shaking the ladder. Then my father fell. I… I didn’t think much of it, so I drove off with the small tractor to fetch some empty baskets.”

He continued:

“On the way, I ran into my buddy Peter. We talked for a while—motorcycles, the party last Saturday. When I got back home, my mother told me Dad was dead. That damn African—he’s the one to blame. Always cozying up to the old man.”

Blumer stepped closer and said evenly:

“Mr. Glauser, during the search of your room we found several substances. Among the party drugs was GHB—commonly known as the date rape drug. What were you using GHB for?”

Paul looked caught off guard.

“Sometimes I took GHB at techno parties. It was a trend for a while,” he said, brushing it off.

Inspector Böhler studied him closely. Beads of sweat began to form on Paul’s forehead. His hands fidgeted nervously on the table.

“We also found documents showing communication with real estate firms,” Böhler continued calmly. “You didn’t need GHB for that, did you?”

Paul said nothing. His eyes darted around the room. His hands clenched into fists.

Böhler leaned forward slightly.

“Let me tell you what I think happened,” he said, his voice cool and firm.

“You slipped GHB into your father’s drink. You knew he had a heart condition. You also knew your mother didn’t. You hoped the drug would cause dizziness, maybe make him pass out. The fall would look like an accident. Your goal was simple: sell the farm and the land. The city’s expansion meant millions. You’d already had real estate agents give you rough estimates.”

Paul stared silently at the table.

“You were afraid your father might name Abram Tesfai in his will. He was a thorn in your side—loyal, hardworking, everything you couldn’t stand. You knew from a medical report you’d once seen—your father had a weak heart. You saw your chance.”

Böhler paused, letting his words sink in.

“Our forensic specialist found traces of GHB in your father’s blood, stomach, and urine—within twelve hours of death. Your father could have survived the neck injury—with ten to twelve weeks of rest, he would have recovered. What killed him was cardiac failure caused by the impact and the drug.”

Paul began to tremble.

“That’s not true!” he shouted suddenly, pounding the table in desperation.

Böhler didn’t flinch.

“There’s more. Your father intended to leave the cherry orchard to Ms. Mühlethaler. She was the love of his youth—the woman he never forgot. That orchard was where they’d shared their first kiss, under those trees.”

He took a breath.

“According to Notary Fricker, your mother was to be provided for. The farm was to be handed over to Abram Tesfai. You were to receive a generous payout—but only after several years. And now? Because of your disgraceful actions, you’ll be waiting much, much longer for anything.”

Böhler looked him straight in the eyes.

“Confess, Mr. Glauser.”

Paul collapsed, sobbing as the full weight of his guilt crushed down on him. Böhler had done it again—thanks in no small part to the excellent work of his team.

Later, both Gerda Glauser and Frieda Mühlethaler decided to entrust their share of the estate to Abram Tesfai. And so, Abram’s dream of running his own farm finally came true.

Paul, meanwhile, was sent to Regensdorf Prison. From there, he often looked longingly in the direction of home—toward the farm on the hill, and toward the mother he had lost forever. 

At Barbara’s, in the Metzgerhalle

A few days later, Inspector Böhler and his assistant Blumer were sitting on the terrace of Restaurant Metzgerhalle, watching the city traffic roll by. The sun was slowly setting over Zurich, the No. 14 tram squealed along the tracks, and a light breeze toyed with the napkins on their table.

Böhler leaned back and raised his glass.

“To justice, Blumer. And to outstanding teamwork.”

Blumer grinned broadly.

“Cheers, Chief. Without Gloria, we wouldn’t have identified that substance in the farmer’s blood so quickly.”

Böhler nodded in approval.

“Too true. Without every member of our team, we’d never have nailed Paul Glauser so cleanly.”

They clinked glasses and took a sip. For a while, they simply enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere—so different from the exhausting weeks that had just passed.

Blumer glanced thoughtfully toward the Jelmoli building at Stiere Egge on the far side of the square.

Did you hear? Abram Tesfai has taken over the farm. His mother and Ms. Mühlethaler appointed him as manager. He wants to keep it going—with new ideas, but still in the spirit of Max Glauser.”

Böhler gave a quiet smile.

“That’s good. Cherry Hill Farm is in good hands.”

Barbara arrived with their order: liver and hash browns with salad, fresh bread, and a glass of local wine from Höngg—a quiet tribute to the place where it had all begun.

Blumer picked at his food for a moment, then asked softly,

“Do you think Paul will ever understand what he truly lost?”

Böhler looked at him silently for a long moment, then said calmly,

“Maybe. But some mistakes can’t be undone.”

A final ray of sunlight cast the city in warm golden light. Böhler lifted his glass again.

“To what remains, Blumer. To what really matters.”

And as the lights of the city slowly came on below, they sat there in silence for a while—two men who knew that justice doesn’t always shout to be heard.

In the streets of Zurich, crime would never go unpunished—not as long as men like Inspector Böhler and his assistant watched over the city, vigilant and determined to uphold law and order.

What case will they solve next?

©thomasvonriedt 2025

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