Böhler and the Drugs in City District 11

A Böhler crime novel # 2

The Main Characters

·       Chief Inspector Franz Böhler, headstrong, cleaning up crime in Zurich, enjoys playing Jass at the Metzgerhalle

·       Assistant Fridolin “Glarner” Blumer, cheerful, rides a Vespa

·       Hans Zähringer, head of pathology at the Zurich City Police, old friend of Chief Inspector Böhler

·       Willy Zehnder, head of narcotics at Zurich City Police, ambitious

·       Gerhard Zurbuchen, district forester at Zürichberg Forest

·       Renzo Blum, apprentice from Schwamendingen, in love with Tadja

·       Mergim B., Albanian forestry worker, orderly

·       Tadja B., daughter of Mergim B., nicknamed “Püppchen” (“little doll”)

·       Alban B., cousin of Mergim, drug dealer, playboy

·       Cestislav Z., unstable henchman of Alban

·       Remo K., observant retiree and walker, regular at the Metzgerhalle

·       Daniela S., waitress at the Metzgerhalle, familiar with the local scene

Summary

At the “Waldhüsli” in the Zürichberg forest, a wounded boy, drugs, and cash are found. Could it be the drug gang from Friesstrasse at work? Chief Inspector Böhler, a staunch supporter of “old school” investigative methods, teams up with Assistant Blumer to tackle the case. In Zurich, crime must not go unpunished. Once the case is solved, Böhler looks forward to a cold beer and a game of Jass with the “Schällenboys” at the Metzgerhalle.

An Incident in the Zürichberg Forest

“Is this the police? Help, there’s a dead man here!” cried Remo K., completely distraught, barely able to speak clearly into his phone. His hands were trembling and sweat poured down his forehead. “Come quickly to the Waldhüsli! I think he’s still alive,” he almost screamed into the phone. Suddenly, the supposed corpse moved and groaned. Startled, Remo K. jumped backward. But then he realized it was a young man, somewhere between sixteen and nineteen years old, with a huge lump on his forehead — a laceration that was swelling rapidly. Blood streamed down the young man’s face, his carefully styled hair matted with blood and dirt, his white jeans completely ruined.

Remo K., ever the gentleman even in his older years — you never know — pulled a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to him. “Are you in pain? How are you feeling? What’s your name?” he asked gently.

“I’m Renzo Blum from Schwamendingen. Yeah, yeah, I’m okay… my head’s pounding, and I’m dizzy,” the young man muttered.

The office telephone rang furiously. Chief Inspector Böhler was sitting at his desk, reviewing the investigation report from his friend Zähringer. That case was closed — a tragic accident. The deceased had drunkenly stumbled off the platform into the path of the incoming S15 train. At first, they suspected foul play, but the video footage clearly showed the drunken man’s accidental fall.

“Disgusting, how the phone’s terrorizing me again today,” Böhler grumbled. “Where’s Blumer, anyway?”

He picked up. “Yeah, Böhler here, what’s going on? I’m already here.” The dispatch center thoroughly briefed him: a wounded apprentice had been found in the forest near the Zürichberg Waldhüsli. Additionally, the patrol had discovered a significant amount of cash and a bag full of crystal meth on a bench — certainly not an everyday find.

“All right, I’ll handle it,” Böhler said curtly and slammed the receiver back onto the hook. Unlike all his colleagues, he still used an old rotary phone at his desk, much to the amusement of his assistant Blumer.

A Conversation Among Crooks

At the worker’s restaurant Metzgerhalle — the meeting place for the Oerlikon clubs and a gathering spot for the older population — two men of Albanian descent sat in a corner, speaking heatedly. Daniela, the waitress who had just served them beers, managed to catch a few snippets of their conversation. Apparently, something shady had gone wrong. From experience, she kept her distance and didn’t let on that she had understood part of what they were saying.

The older of the two men was well-known: Alban B., a notorious drug dealer, a ladies’ man, and a would-be playboy. His usual hangout was the Lovac restaurant on Friesstrasse, a favorite spot for people from the former Yugoslavia, well-known for its Balkan cuisine and its plum brandy, Slivovitz.

Alban drove a souped-up BMW 5 Series M with a customized exhaust system that announced his arrival from afar. For several years, he had been running a local smuggling gang and had excellent connections in Durrës and Tirana. His clan was originally from Vora, and several family members had settled in Germany and Switzerland years ago.

Through his cousin Mergim, Alban had initially found work at a construction company but had quickly moved on. His companion was the unstable Cestislav Z., whom he had met during his brief time at the construction firm. Alban had once helped Cestislav out of a bad situation, and since then, Cesti had loyally served as his henchman, taking care of the dirty work.

Cestislav, a passionate nationalist, often wore a bright yellow double-eagle shirt, loitered around the carwash, and proudly maintained his red VW Golf GTI with wide tires and chrome rims. He was, by all accounts, a good-for-nothing.

“Hey man, where’s the cash and the crystal meth, you idiot?” hissed Alban, fixing him with a piercing stare. “I was trying to find a good spot to bury the goods when that damned teenager disturbed me,” stammered Cestislav. “I put the package on a bench near the Waldhüsli and listened to him. He must’ve recognized me — he mentioned Tadja, the ‘Püppchen,’ and told me to stay away from her. We argued, I hit him with the shovel, and he fell. Then I noticed an older man about 20 meters away who had been watching us. As the old man started moving toward me, I panicked and fled. I had to leave the money and the drugs behind. I hid in the underbrush but couldn’t go back — a police car showed up, and the old man was yelling for help. I had no choice but to run.”

Alban B. made it unmistakably clear that Cestislav would have to make good on the loss — and that he was lucky if the bosses back in Albania didn’t hear about it.

Remo K. reports to the Police

After the patrol officers had taken the money, the crystal meth, and the injured young man away, Remo K. gave as much information as he could. He described the perpetrator as a Southeastern European wearing a distinctive yellow double-eagle shirt.

The officers offered to drive him home, but Remo politely declined. He needed fresh air to process what had happened. He boarded the tram at the Zoo stop and, after a few transfers, arrived thirsty in Oerlikon.

He decided to stop at the “Sternen” restaurant. He liked the Metzgerhalle — it reminded him of the happy days of his youth. Besides, he was craving a plate of liver with onion sauce and Rösti. And Daniela would surely bring him a beer too — he had plenty to tell.

With a determined step, he pushed open the door, called out a cheerful “Hoi zäme” (Hello, everyone), grabbed the Tages-Anzeiger newspaper, and sat down at his favorite spot by the window.

The Little Doll Tadja

A few days before the events in the Zürichberg Forest, Tadja — known to everyone as “Püppchen” (“little doll”) — was wandering from boutique to boutique at the Glattzentrum shopping mall. She was looking for the perfect outfit to win the “Miss Party” title at Saturday’s big event in Zurich.

Her slim figure and attractive curves made even the boldest fashion styles look good on her. Although her black hair couldn’t rival Taylor Swift’s golden locks, her body would surely drive any partygoer crazy.

Her father, Mergim, was anything but thrilled with his daughter’s fashion obsessions. He worked hard all week in the forest, his hands rough and calloused from heavy labor. He loved his work dearly. Since the death of his wife, he had toiled to provide Tadja with a good future.

He wished she would dedicate herself more to traditional household duties — he deeply missed the supportive hand of his late wife.

Tadja, however, cared only about partying. She meticulously maintained her nails, which of course left no time for housework. Lately, more and more young men had shown interest in her, much to her father’s concern — especially those from his homeland Albania, who tried to impress Tadja with flashy cars, money, and promises of fun.

Renzo, the young apprentice from Schwamendingen, seemed much more suitable to him.

“This is all so expensive,” Tadja sighed, stopping in front of her favorite boutique window. “Hey, no problem, Tadja. I’ll buy the dress for you. You can pay me back later,” offered Cestislav, who was suddenly behind her, casually twirling his car keys on his finger.

As always, he wore a double-eagle polo shirt, his short hair slicked back stylishly with hair oil. “Come on, let’s go inside. You pick what you want, and I’ll take you to the party tonight,” he said enticingly, pulling out his Segrid wallet.

Renzo, who had been quietly following her around the mall for a while, witnessed the scene. He hadn’t yet found a chance to approach her, and now this show-off from the former Yugoslavia was making it even harder.

Party in Rümlang 

Loud music blared from the nightclub in the industrial district of Rümlang. Young people lined up outside, hoping to impress the imposing bouncers and gain entry.

You had to meet certain standards to get in — usually not a problem for Tadja, and especially not tonight.

Cestislav led her straight past the line, and after discreetly slipping a small plastic bag to the bouncer, the two were allowed inside.

The evening went as expected: Tadja danced wildly, sipped a rum and Coke, and ultimately won the “Party Queen” contest. She was overjoyed, feeling on top of the world, and knew all her friends would envy her.

She never suspected that Cestislav and his Albanian buddies had rigged the contest.

Like a true gentleman, Cestislav offered to drive her home, assuring her that this way her father wouldn’t worry. Tadja happily accepted, certain that her father wouldn’t cause trouble this late at night — and he didn’t.

The next day, Tadja devoted herself to spending time with her father, who savored the moments with his “star.”

She did not tell her father who had paid for the dress or what Cestislav had whispered to her in his red Golf GTI — that he expected something in return.

She trembled at the thought that he might demand something sexual.

But that wasn’t it.

“I need you to store some things for me and bring them to me when I ask,” Cestislav had said. “You know, I work for Alban, your father’s cousin, and thanks to him, I can make a lot of money. I’m about to join his crew on Friesstrasse.”

Insecure but trapped by Cestislav’s influence, Tadja had promised to help.

The Hidden Stash in the Forest

On Monday, Cestislav picked Tadja up from work — she had a part-time job at a sportswear company’s front desk.

They drove to the “Altes Klösterli” restaurant, and from there, they hiked into the woods to the Waldhüsli.

On weekdays, the area was deserted, maybe the occasional dog walker. About 100 meters behind the old log cabin lay a giant boulder — a glacial erratic that the Glarus glacier had once deposited. Some carvings on it suggested that lovers had once met here and immortalized their names.

Tadja shivered — she didn’t trust Cestislav at all. What was he planning here?

Starting at the boulder, he paced ten steps east, pulled a folding spade from his backpack, and began to dig. After brushing aside, the dry leaves and removing a few shovelfuls of earth, a metal box appeared. Carefully, he lifted it out and opened it. Inside were countless plastic bags filled with colorful pills and whitish powder — about half the rusted box was packed full. There were also bundles of cash, wrapped in cling film.

From a Freitag bag he had brought, he pulled out more cash bundles and bags of pills and added them to the stash. Then he carefully reburied the box and disguised the spot with leaves, so it was nearly impossible to notice anything had been disturbed.

“Remember this place well,” he told Tadja before they left. “You might have to fetch something for me now and then.”

Following Days and Renzo’s Suspicion

A few days later, Cestislav called Tadja and asked her to be ready — he would pick her up so they could go to the forest together. Tadja waited outside her house when suddenly Renzo appeared on his scooter, hoping to invite her for a ride.

“Sorry, Renzo,” she said apologetically, “I can’t today. I’m meeting a colleague who’s picking me up any minute.” Sure enough, right then, a red VW Golf GTI pulled up, and Tadja got in. Who the heck is that?” Renzo thought, feeling a pang of jealousy. Without hesitating, he decided to follow them at a safe distance.

He tailed the red Golf to the “Altes Klösterli” restaurant and watched as Tadja and Cestislav took a path into the woods. “What are they doing alone out there?” Renzo wondered, jealousy gnawing at him. He imagined confronting the man — and maybe giving him a well-deserved beating, depending on what he found. As he followed, the Waldhüsli came into sight, and he saw the two figures disappear into the thicket.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the forest meadow, an elderly walker sat on a bench, taking a break. Next to him lay a piece of bread, some cheese, and a Cervelat sausage. He was just opening his pocketknife for a snack and about to take a well-earned swig of beer. He spotted the two young people and smiled to himself: “Must be young love. Nice to see.”

He didn’t notice Renzo sneaking along behind them — at that moment, he was too focused on his lunch.

Chief Inspector Böhler Gets Involved

When Chief Inspector Böhler heard about the drugs and the injured apprentice in the Zürichberg Forest, his mood darkened significantly. He called the head of narcotics, Willy Zehnder, and unleashed a barrage of questions.

“Zehnder, what’s happening in Zurich? First thefts, then murder, now drug crime — what kind of city are we running? Do you know about this case?” he thundered into his black rotary phone.

“Ah, Chief Inspector Böhler, in good form again today, I see?” Zehnder teased. “Yes, I’ve heard about it. News like these spreads fast. It seems after a period of quiet, Balkan groups have begun expanding their operations into Zurich. We’ve found that synthetic drugs are increasingly sold in the northern parts of the city. There are rumors that members of the so-called Friesstrasse Gang meet regularly at the Lovac restaurant.

The leader of the gang is said to be an ambitious young Albanian named Alban B., who’s eager to climb the hierarchy of the southeastern European community.

We’re working on it. We even have an informant close to the B. family,” Zehnder said calmly, in his usual measured tone.

He prided himself on a controlled manner and systematic work ethic — he was aiming for the top spot at the Zurich City Police, and thanks to his academic background and spotless record, his chances were quite good.

The Berisha Family

Chief Inspector Böhler reviewed the information from his colleague Zehnder carefully.

“Friesstrasse isn’t far from my favorite pub, the Metzgerhalle. Maybe I should stop by there. And I need to speak with the injured boy; I need a description of the attacker,” he thought, before calling his assistant Blumer for a meeting.

“Blumer, let’s head to Waidspital. That apprentice probably saw something and can help us track down this drug ring. With tram line 15 and then bus 69, we can be there in under 30 minutes.” Trying to convince Böhler to take a squad car was always a lost cause — Blumer wisely didn’t bother arguing.

“Alright, young man, tell me exactly what happened before you got whacked with the shovel,” Böhler pressed while Blumer eagerly took notes.

“Well… I’ve admired Tadja from afar for a while,” Renzo confessed, blushing, “so I followed her into the woods. I saw that guy digging up a box, putting plastic bags inside, and handing Tadja some money and a bag with white powder. He was wearing a double-eagle shirt and looked like the guys you see around Friesstrasse — Balkan types. You don’t mess with them; they’re aggressive and stick together. Tadja must have seen me too.

She’s Albanian, but her father really distances himself from those people. From what I know, one of her cousins is involved with the Friesstrasse gang.”

Renzo gave Blumer the address of the Berisha family and insisted that Tadja was innocent.

Using the reliable Zurich public transport, Böhler and Blumer traveled to the Stettbach stop in Schwamendingen, then walked to Roswiesenstrasse 108 and rang the Berisha’s’ doorbell.

Mergim B. opened the door. After checking their badges, he let them in.

“Tadja, two gentlemen from the city police want to speak with you. Were you involved in something yesterday?” he asked.

Tadja broke down and confessed everything to her father — how she had been pressured by Cestislav, how she had fled, how she had sworn to keep silent out of fear.

Slowly, the full story came out.

Felix Blumer meticulously documented everything, while Böhler questioned Tadja gently. Mergim’s face was tense with anger and worry. “I told you a thousand times to stay away from them! Even back in Albania, they were nothing but trouble,” he said.

“I never wanted to be part of that clan stuff. I’d rather work hard as a forester for Mr. Zurbuchen and keep my honor, just like I promised your mother. I bet it’s that rotten cousin Alban behind all this. Cestislav is too stupid to pull this off alone — he just follows orders.”

He hugged his daughter tightly.

Böhler thought to himself,

“That was easier than I expected. I was ready for the usual wall of silence from Balkan families. There are still honest people in this world — sometimes even more honest than my own countrymen.”

“Blumer, that’s enough for today. Let’s head back to Oerlikon. We’ll see how this unfolds. Mr. Berisha, take care of your daughter. If these drug dealers think she’s taken money or drugs, they might come looking. We don’t want anything happening to you or her.”

At the restaurant Metzgerhalle

Bus line 75 was quite crowded; children sprawled across the seats, leaving only standing room for Böhler and Blumer. “Could do them some good to stand,” Böhler grumbled, earning a scolding look from a mother. At the Sternen Oerlikon stop, they got off and walked straight to the Metzgerhalle.

“What does the old man want in his local pub now?” Blumer wondered but followed dutifully.

Böhler was a familiar face here — a few guests nodded in greeting. At his usual spot by the back window, Remo K. stood up and waved them over to the empty seats at his table. Curious, Remo asked if there were any updates on the investigation.

Böhler sidestepped the question and instead asked whether Remo, being from Seebach, had heard about shady dealings around Friesstrasse. Remo eagerly shared that shady figures often loitered near the Lovac restaurant, that older folks no longer felt safe walking past, and that groups of young men in flashy BMWs and Audis often gathered there, smoking and hitting on young women.

It was rumored that the Lovac was the headquarters of a Balkan gang — the first generation had smuggled goods, the second generation had shifted to drugs.

Their connections were international, and the gang leader supposedly drove a black BMW M5.

“Blumer, we need to check that out. What do you think?” Blumer nodded dutifully and kept taking notes. In the meantime, Daniela the waitress approached, greeted Böhler warmly, and offered coffee — they were still technically on duty. As she brought the coffees, Böhler casually asked her if she had ever noticed suspicious people while working.

“Of course, Franz,” she said — they were already on a first-name basis.

She described seeing Balkan men, usually two at a time, keeping a watchful eye on the room. Recently, she had seen two men: one older and well-dressed, the other younger and nervous, wearing a double-eagle polo. They had argued about “valuable items” left behind somewhere — likely referring to the drugs and cash at the Waldhüsli.

Her description matched exactly what Remo, Tadja, and Mergim had said. “Blumer, let’s go. We’re heading for Friesstrasse to look at the Lovac. Maybe we’ll grab a bite there too.”

At the Balkan strip

Böhler enjoyed the short walk — past the Cholehof, under the railway bridge, past the former Amaducci Bar (now an Indian grill) — until they reached the corner of Friesstrasse and Eisfeldstrasse. There sat the Lovac, once a lively youth pub. Rock music used to blare from the jukebox, beers were cheap, and the pinball machines were busy. Back then, the bar had a different name, and the street was filled with workers from the battery factory, BBC, and other industries. The Amaducci was famous among Italian immigrants for its grappa.

Everything Remo had reported checked out: There were souped-up cars parked along the street, with oversized exhausts, wide tires, and mirror-hung football flags or lucky charms. Young men with dark hair and beards stood around smoking, reluctant to make space for the two officers — they probably realized immediately that they were cops.

Böhler didn’t care for subtlety.

They sat at an empty table and ordered food and a cold beer from the red-haired, voluptuous waitress. “Blumer, let’s eat. We’re officially off duty now — a hard-working man’s got to eat, right?” Blumer wasn’t about to disagree — it wasn’t every day that the boss treated him on the department’s dime.

“Later, we’ll have a chat with the guy in the double-eagle shirt,” Böhler muttered. “Let’s make them a little nervous.”

Renzo in the hospital

Renzo Blum lay in his hospital bed in the outpatient department. His head was still heavily bandaged, but the pain had subsided. The doctor said he would be discharged within the next two days. They had stitched up his nasty head wound and ordered bed rest for his mild concussion. His mother had visited earlier, bringing him gummy bears; his father was planning to stop by after work. He had already spoken to his apprenticeship company — they wished him a speedy recovery. Renzo couldn’t stop thinking about Tadja.

Why had she run away?

Why had she been with that older guy in the forest?

Was he her boyfriend?

The thought hurt. He blamed himself — why hadn’t he spoken to her sooner? His natural shyness often got in the way. People at his company liked him for his calm, reliable nature, but it didn’t help him much in love. He had dated before, but no relationship had lasted very long. And then he had seen Tadja — stunning, with full lips and dark hair, a breathtaking figure. It had been love at first sight.

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Just then, the door opened — but it wasn’t the nurse coming to check his vitals. Through his half-closed eyes, he saw an angel dressed in pink step into the room. A fresh, youthful perfume filled the air. He stared, speechless. “It’s really her,” his heart shouted, as she whispered:

“Hi Renzo… how are you?”

Tadja looked visibly shaken at the sight of him — head heavily bandaged, traces of disinfectant on his skin, a catheter in his arm, his face slightly swollen. “I’m so sorry, Renzo,” she cried. “I didn’t know what he was planning. When he came at you with that shovel, I panicked. I should have stayed. I thought he had killed you… I ran all the way to Klösterli.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

Renzo smiled weakly “Well, I’m still alive… and I’m really happy you’re here,” he said.

He admitted that he had followed her because he was jealous — he thought the other guy was her boyfriend. It embarrassed him to confess it, but when Tadja’s eyes suddenly sparkled, his heart soared.

“You’re not mad at me?” she asked shyly.

Before Renzo could answer, she leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his lips — as carefully as she could, given his swollen face. “I’m feeling much better now. I’ll be out in a day or two,” he said, sitting up slightly to beam at her.

Tadja then explained everything — that Chief Inspector Böhler had already come by, that her father knew, and that she had decided to confess everything. 

The Restaurant Lovac

Meanwhile, Chief Inspector Böhler and Assistant Blumer enjoyed their Balkan specialties at Lovac while observing their surroundings carefully. Almost like clockwork, customers entered the restaurant, headed “to the toilets,” and returned sometime later.

“Blumer, what do you think?” Böhler asked.

“No way anyone needs that long in the restroom,” Blumer replied, chewing a French fry.

Soon after, a young man wearing a red T-shirt with a black double-eagle emblem entered. Böhler and Blumer exchanged a glance. Blumer got up and followed the man discreetly. He passed the buffet and slipped through a side door. Blumer, pretending to be looking for the toilet, followed and peeked through the door. Inside was a private room — men of Balkan origin sat around a table, smoking shisha pipes. On the table: cards and cash. The young man in the red shirt stood to the side, speaking with a well-dressed man who oozed authority. Slicked-back hair, sharp clothes, expensive demeanor.

“Oops, sorry,” Blumer said casually, pretending to be lost. “I was looking for the restroom.”  The elegant man pointed curtly: “This is a private room. Toilets are outside — first door on the left.”

Blumer nodded apologetically, washed his hands for show, and returned to Böhler, giving a discreet nod. Without wasting time, Böhler signaled the waitress and asked to speak to the boss. After flashing his badge, she reluctantly agreed. Shortly after, the elegant man appeared.

He introduced himself: “Alban K. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Who’s the young guy in the red double-eagle shirt?” Böhler asked directly.

“That’s Cestislav Z., a compatriot. He helps now and then. Small errands. Nothing serious. Has he done something wrong?”

“And what do you do?” Böhler pressed on.

“I run this restaurant. I plan to open more places in Zurich. People love Balkan food, Cevapcici, Raznjici, Djuvec rice, and wine from Croatia. Did you enjoy your meal?”

“Very much,” Böhler said, smiling. “But tell me — could it be that your restaurant is being used to distribute drugs?” Alban K.’s face twitched slightly.

“I can’t control who walks through my door,” he said smoothly. “But if I catch anyone shady, I’ll personally throw them out.”

In the background, they saw Cestislav Z. quickly slipping out of the restaurant.

“If you hear anything suspicious, call me,” Böhler said, handing over a card.

“Of course, Chief Inspector,” Alban replied with a cold smile, signaling the waitress to bring the bill.

As Böhler and Blumer walked back toward Oerlikon, Böhler instructed: “Blumer, keep an eye on Alban K. And track down Cestislav. We’re going to reel them in.”

Böhler quickly called Zehnder at narcotics to update him.

Blumer’s Smart Move

The next morning, Fridolin Blumer was at the office early.

Using the police database, he tracked down Cestislav Z.’s address: a modest room in Zurich-Seebach, near the Sunnah Mosque.

He grabbed his Vespa 300 GT helmet, zipped across town, and parked near the Birchhof kiosk.

There, unmistakably, stood the red VW Golf GTI — complete with the Albanian double-eagle decal on the passenger door.

Blumer quickly and discreetly attached a GPS tracker beneath the car’s right rear fender.

He hadn’t gotten Böhler’s approval for this — the old-school Chief Inspector wouldn’t have liked it — but Blumer trusted in a mix of the old fox’s instincts and modern technology.

Now they could follow the car’s movements easily. 

Mergim Berisha Acts

Meanwhile, that same morning, Mergim B. stormed into the Lovac restaurant and shouted:

“Alban, come out of your office! I need to talk to you!” Startled patrons froze — no one dared intervene, given Mergim’s massive build. Alban B. appeared and waved him inside.

“Do you have to yell like that? You could talk normally.” “What I have to say can’t wait!” Mergim growled. “One of your idiots lured my daughter into helping him with his dirty business. I swear by the Prophet — if I catch him, I’ll break every bone in his body!

One young man almost died because of him. Alban, I’m warning you: keep your people away from my family. Sort out your henchman — or forget about ever returning to Albania. Got it?” Alban just nodded coldly. Mergim’s threat was deadly serious.

Tracking Cestislav

Blumer kept monitoring the GPS tracker. Around 11 a.m., Cestislav moved — the red VW pulled up near Buhnrain School, then drove on toward Regensbergstrasse and parked. Blumer followed discreetly and observed. From a distance, he saw Cestislav loitering near the schoolyard, selling to teenagers. Blumer zoomed in with his phone camera and recorded everything — clear evidence of drug dealing. He waited patiently. After a while, the school emptied out, and Cestislav returned to his car, whistling smugly.

Blumer intercepted him casually:

“Hey, I heard you’re selling dreams. Interested in making a sale?” he said, pulling a 100-franc bill from his pocket. Cestislav hesitated, then agreed — fast money was hard to resist. “For a hundred, I’ll give you a sampler — some pills and a little powder too,” he said proudly.

“If it’s good, I might order more,” Blumer hinted.

They agreed to meet again the next day at 2:00 p.m. near the Zurich Zoo entrance. Afterward, Cestislav called Alban B. and bragged about the new customer — totally unaware that the police were closing in.

Böhler Spins the Web

Meanwhile, Zehnder’s narcotics team had been busy monitoring Alban B.’s crew. They picked up chatter about the fight between Mergim and Alban.

Böhler formulated a plan:

• Use Tadja as bait.

• Let Cestislav think she would help retrieve the hidden stash near the Waldhüsli.

• Have police teams, Mergim, and forester Gerhard Zurbuchen hidden nearby.

Tadja agreed bravely. Mergim insisted on being there too — he trusted no one when it came to his daughter’s safety. On the chosen day, Tadja took the bus to the Waldgarten stop and then walked toward the forest.

Blumer, Zehnder’s team, Böhler, Mergim, and Zurbuchen moved into position.

The Trap Closes

As planned, Cestislav showed up wearing a bright yellow Albanian shirt. Tadja smiled and waved, hiding her nerves.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here alone?” he joked, handing her a Freitag bag.

Together, they walked to the glacial boulder. Cestislav dug up the rusty metal box, pulled out packets of pills and bundles of cash, and stuffed them into the bag Tadja carried. Suddenly — Böhler stepped from the bushes.

“Hey, why don’t you hand me that bag? You won’t be needing it anymore,” he said calmly.

Cestislav froze, eyes wide with terror. More officers emerged from the undergrowth. Panicking, Cestislav dropped the bag and bolted toward the Waldhüsli. Inside, Mergim was ready — he had hidden in the building with the key. As Cestislav ran past, Mergim struck him down with a swift punch. The blow knocked him out cold.

When he came to — cold water splashed on his face — he found himself cuffed and surrounded. The drugs, the money, and Tadja’s statement left him no choice but to confess.

The Arrest at the Lovac

Blumer quickly returned to Letziweg to fetch the cars. Meanwhile, Böhler and Zehnder organized a raid on the Lovac. They arrested Alban B. on-site and shut down the restaurant.

With the taped conversations between Alban B. and his contacts in Vora, plus Cestislav’s full confession, they had enough to bring down the entire gang.

Celebration at the Metzgerhalle

That Friday night, the Metzgerhalle was buzzing. News of the Friesstrasse gang’s arrest had spread across Zurich, and local TV stations had picked up the story. Remo K. gave an eyewitness interview, urging citizens to support the police.

When Böhler and Blumer entered the pub, the “Schällenboys” erupted in cheers.

Daniela had set up a special table for the heroes. There would be no card games tonight — just beer, laughter, and celebration.

Böhler ordered his favorite: liver with onion sauce and Hash browns, and deferred all questions to his diligent assistant Blumer.

Aftermath

Mergim Berisha sat at home, smiling quietly to himself. That punch he’d thrown was just as strong as in his younger days. At Waidspital, Renzo was packing his things — Tadja was on her way to pick him up. His headache was gone — and so was his heartbreak.

And so, once again, crime in Zurich did not go unpunished — thanks to men like Chief Inspector Böhler and his assistant, who defended the city with vigilance, heart, and determination.

What case will they solve next?

© thomasvonriedt

Image by DALL-E