by Nele Neuhaus
“In early December, you gave a lecture at a conference in Vienna about psychobiological characteristics of violent offenders, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. At the Forensic Psychiatric Congress at the Palace of Justice.” Kim smiled. “When my sister told me a little about your current case yesterday, I remembered a similar case that I worked on in the States.”
“Don’t tell me it was the John Allen Muhammad case!” shouted Kai Ostermann without looking up from his laptop.
“That’s right,” Kim replied in astonishment. “Why?”
“Because our highly regarded colleague Neff from state headquarters has been jabbering away about it for days,” Ostermann said. “To hear him talk, you’d think he solved the case all by himself when he was with the FBI.”
“Oh, really?” Kim seemed a bit surprised. “I spent two years at Quantico, but I can’t recall a German officer being involved in the investigation.”
“No surprise,” Nicola Engel interrupted the discussion. “Let’s get back to business here, and afterwards, I’d like to speak with you, Ms. Freitag.”
“All right,” Kim said with a smile.
“Ms. Kirchhoff, please give me a rundown of the current case,” said the commissioner, sitting down on Pia’s chair.
Pia rattled off the facts they had so far as she sketched on the whiteboard the situation at the crime scene and the perp’s probable escape route.
“As for ammunition, it was again a large-caliber semi-jacketed round, and once again, the shooter used a suppressor,” she ended her report. “This time, he left behind his first clue: footprints from his shoes, and he was seen by the woman he handed the letter to. Regrettably, the witness’s description is quite vague.”
“I found the victim’s father on Wikipedia,” Ostermann said. “Friedrich Gehrke, born 1931 in Cologne. Studied medicine, married Marianne Seitz 1953, doctorate 1955, joined his father-in-law’s firm in 1958. And so on and so forth . . . Wife deceased, company incorporated . . . blah blah blah . . . 1982 remarried. In 1998, company sold to U.S. investor. A good number of honors and awards, including the Federal Cross of Merit First Class.”
“That ‘blah blah blah’ might interest me,” Bodenstein interrupted him. “What sort of company was it?”
“Originally a factory that produced stomach tablets,” Ostermann read from his screen. “Seitz and Sons. But since the next Seitz had no sons, it was changed to Seitz and Son-in-Law. And Gehrke was a diligent partner, expanding the small company into a pharmaceutical corporation named Santex, which specialized in generic drugs. He sold the business in 1998 for two billion dollars to an American corporation. So he is not a poor man.”
“There’s something else worth considering,” Kim put in. “The sniper shot the first two victims in the head, but Maximilian Gehrke was killed with a shot to the heart. His father told us that Maximilian had heart disease.”
Bodenstein looked up.
“Until he got a donor heart a few years ago,” he said.
“Maybe the perp knew about that and wanted to destroy the transplanted heart on purpose,” Kim surmised. “As a symbol of his omnipotence.”
For a moment, nobody said a word.
“That might be the connection between the victims.” Bodenstein jumped up and went to the whiteboard. His eyes were shining with excitement. “Our first real clue.”
He tapped on the name MARGARETHE RUDOLF.
“Her husband is a transplant surgeon, and our last victim received a heart transplant. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Ostermann’s fingers were clacking on the keyboard.
“Professor Dieter Paul Rudolf, born 1950 in Marburg,” he read aloud, and then whistled. “The guy is an eminent authority. He worked with Christiaan Barnard in Capetown, then at the University Hospital in Zürich and at the University Hospital in Hamburg-Eppendorf. He invented several new procedures and has a reputation as one of the best heart transplant specialists in Germany. In 1994, he became head surgeon at the Frankfurt Trauma Clinic. In 2004, he moved to a private clinic in Bad Homburg, and apparently, that’s where he still works today. He’s written a zillion books and collected a pile of awards.”
“How many hospitals in this area do heart transplants?” Bodenstein wondered out loud. “We ought to talk to Professor Rudolf. Maybe he remembers a patient named Maximilian Gehrke.”
The gray morning had turned into a gray day with no wind. Bodenstein had gotten the keys to an unmarked car from the motor pool. Deep in thought, he strolled across the courtyard, toward the garages. He located the car and got in behind the wheel to wait for Pia and her sister, who were still in Nicola Engel’s office.
Ever since his talk with Cosima’s mother the night before, Bodenstein was feeling a bit off balance. He was honored and flattered by Gabriela’s trust in him, but it also filled him with concern. In the Bodenstein household, there had never been a lot of money. Except for the estate with the castle between Schneidhain and Fischbach, the Bodensteins possessed hardly anything of material value. He didn’t have the faintest idea about the banking world or running a business, but it was something he was going to have to learn, even if he didn’t agree to Gabriela’s plan. After all, she had put him in her will as preliminary heir for his children, which meant the responsibility for their fortune lay on his shoulders.
Her attorneys, banking people, and foundation staff, all of whom had been working for her for years, would notice in no time that he was completely clueless, and might even try to skim off money and defraud him. And there was no way he could predict Cosima’s reaction to her mother’s plans. He’d often thought that she wasn’t that interested in money, but it was easy to act indifferent if you were as wealthy as the Rothkirchs. When her father died, Cosima had received a large sum of money from a trust fund, and with it, she financed her film projects, her trips abroad, and her whole life.
His police salary, on the other hand, was laughable. True, he never could have afforded the house in one of the better residential areas of Kelkheim, which they had built twenty years ago, or the expensive private schools for the children. It wouldn’t be easy for most men to be married to a woman who could afford anything she wanted, but it was not something that bothered Bodenstein, thanks to his strict upbringing to live modestly. Now everything was going to change. He wouldn’t have to work as a police inspector anymore. But what would he do if he gave up his profession, which for him was far more than simply a job?
At any rate, he had decided last night before driving back to Bad Homburg that he wasn’t going to mention it to anyone at first, not even to Inka. Especially not to her. She wasn’t thrilled about him phoning Cosima or meeting his ex-wife whenever he picked up Sophia. It didn’t matter how often he reassured Inka that his marriage to Cosima was over and done with. She didn’t seem to believe it. If he took Gabriela’s offer, he would be tied to the family of his ex-wife more closely than ever.
“Here we are.” Pia yanked open the passenger door and got in, startling Bodenstein out of his musings. “The phones are ringing off the hook, and Kai was cursing. Somehow the press has already gotten wind of the murder.”
“I don’t think that’s so bad.” Bodenstein started the engine. “With a little luck, somebody may turn up who saw something.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Okay, Dr. Freitag? What did the big chief say?”
“She considers me competent enough to serve in a support role,” Kim said with a smile. “Though she made it perfectly clear to me that I’m here only as a temporary guest. No salary and no responsibility for anything until the Ministry of the Interior Ministry agrees that I may be taken on as an external adviser for the case. But that’s okay with me. I have plenty of vacation time saved up and nothing better to do right now.”
“Well, then, congratulations and welcome to the team,” Bodenstein said. “Nicola Engel isn’t easy to convince.”
He liked Kim. She was just as astute as her sister an
d not afraid to assert herself. She also had a good sense of humor.
“She’s a pro, I’m a pro,” Kim said. “And special cases demand special measures.”
“Hear, hear!” said Bodenstein, driving out of the courtyard onto the unusually deserted street.
Twenty minutes later, Bodenstein, Pia, and Kim were facing Professor Rudolf’s daughter. She was dressed all in black, and she looked as though she hadn’t had any rest since Thursday evening. Her skin was pale and blotchy, her eyes swollen and red.
“Hello, Mrs. Albrecht.” Bodenstein extended his hand. “How are you doing? And how is your daughter?”
“She hasn’t spoken a single word. To anyone,” replied the woman. “My ex-husband and his family left this morning to visit his parents by Lake Starnberg. They took Greta along.”
“That was a good decision,” said Bodenstein. “Maybe you could use a change of scene as well?”
“No, I can’t leave my father alone right now.” Karoline Albrecht pulled her knitted cardigan tighter and crossed her arms. “Besides, I have to arrange for Mama’s funeral.”
Bodenstein had seldom seen such profound despair as he now saw in her green eyes. He was not prepared for such immense pain and grief. Normally, he managed to preserve a professional distance to the victim and his or her relatives; it was something he’d learned to do in the many years he’d spent on the job. But he felt moved by this woman, who stood before him with a straight back and stony expression, mobilizing all her reserves to be strong for others.
“Don’t you have a friend you could lean on?” Bodenstein asked gently.
“It’s Christmas,” she reminded him. “I could not and will not demand that of anyone. I’ll manage all right. Life must go on.”
Bodenstein put his hand on her arm and gave it a squeeze. Yes, she would get through it. Karoline Albrecht was a strong woman. She would not go to pieces because of this fateful blow, even though she must feel devastated right now.
“We need to speak with your father,” Bodenstein said. “Would you be kind enough to tell him we’re here?”
“Of course. Please come in.”
They followed her into the house, which smelled better than it had at their last visit. The dining room table was cleared, the Christmas decorations put away. Karoline Albrecht left them in the dining room and then came back a few minutes later.
“My father is waiting for you in his study,” she said.
It was obvious that the professor had also suffered in the last few days. He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by bookshelves that reached to the ceiling. He looked like a gray shadow of himself and did not get up to greet them.
“Would you mind leaving us alone?” he asked his daughter, who immediately left the study, discreetly closing the door behind her. Bodenstein then told the professor about the murder that had occurred early that morning in Kelkheim.
“The victim was a young man, only twenty-seven years old,” he said. “His father told us that he’d had heart problems since birth and was saved by a heart transplant operation.”
“Tragic.” Professor Rudolf looked at him without much interest.
“We thought that you might know him. His name was Maximilian Gehrke.”
“Gehrke? That doesn’t ring a bell.” The professor shook his head wearily. “For over twenty years, transplants have been my daily bread. I rarely recall individual cases.”
“But you must remember cases that are special or unusual,” Kim said. “Maximilian was a young man with a congenital heart defect. Please try to think back.”
The professor took off his glasses, rubbed his reddened eyes, and carefully thought it over.
“Yes, I do recall the boy,” he said at last, looking up. “He came into the world with a tetralogy of Fallot, and from that, he developed a right ventricular hypertrophy, with other associated unfavorable factors. After a couple of unsuccessful operations, the boy had virtually no hope of survival. His last chance was the HTX. The heart transplant.”
Bodenstein and Pia exchanged a glance. Could this be the breakthrough they’d been waiting for? Did this establish the connection between two of the sniper’s victims?
“Let me ask you again: Does the name Ingeborg Rohleder mean anything to you?” Pia asked.
“Who would that be?” The professor put his glasses back on.
“The first victim,” said Pia. “She was seventy-four years old, lived in Eschb . . . uh . . . Niederhöchstadt.”
“Ah yes, you did ask me that already. No, I’m sorry. I really have never heard the name before. Is that all?”
“Not quite.” Bodenstein searched for the right words to broach the sensitive topic. “What do you think the perpetrator was referring to in his letter?”
“Believe me, I’ve been pondering that question night and day since you told me about it.” The man’s shoulders slumped forward. “For the life of me, I can’t make any sense of it. In all the years I’ve worked as a physician, I’ve never had a problem with a patient’s relatives.”
Bodenstein and Pia then said good-bye and left the house without seeing Mrs. Albrecht again.
“That was great, the way you got him to remember Maximilian,” Pia said to her sister as they crossed the street to their car.
“I was thinking of that map in your head.” Kim smiled. “The way you never forget a dead body or a murder scene. I was hoping that it might be the same for a doctor.”
“In any event, we now have a connection between two of the victims.” Pia zipped up her jacket to her chin. “But what does it mean? It’s enough to drive me crazy that there’s no useful clue. The perp must have cased his targets thoroughly; he knew their habits and lifestyles and found places where he could lie in wait for them undisturbed. And afterwards he was able to vanish easily and without being seen. How is it possible that nobody ever sees him?”
“Maybe people do see him but think nothing of it,” Kim said. “Like the man with the dog up ahead. You see him, and ten seconds later he’s forgotten, so long as he doesn’t do anything unusual. The perp must be a man who can adapt and move about without being noticed.”
“That thing with the letter this morning bothers me,” said Pia. “He must feel very sure of himself to take the risk of being recognized.”
“The risk was actually quite low,” Bodenstein objected. “I’m sure that he chose the woman carefully. She was old and fearful, and he also had the surprise factor on his side. Don’t underestimate the perp. He doesn’t leave anything to chance.”
“Sooner or later, he’s going to make a mistake,” Pia opined.
“I’m not waiting for that to happen.” Bodenstein beeped the remote to unlock the car. “We’re getting more and more pressure by the day. People are panicking.”
“And the perp isn’t going to leave it at three victims,” Kim prophesied. “He wants attention.”
“Then he’s going to get it,” Pia said. “Let’s give all the details to the press. That way we can calm down the public, when they realize that they’re not in imminent danger.”
“We can’t risk it.” Bodenstein shook his head and started the engine. “It might lead to collateral damage that we’d have to answer for.”
“The only one who has to answer for any of this,” said Kim, “is the perp.”
She opened the freezer, and all of a sudden she had tears in her eyes when she saw all those freezer bags. Mama had always been so thrifty. Rarely did she ever throw anything away. She rinsed out jam and pickle jars and saved them for canning fruit. Plastic ice cream containers had been reused for decades in the Rudolf household for freezing food, always carefully labeled. Szeged Goulash, Karoline read in her mother’s neat handwriting on one package, 9/12/2012.
“Oh, Mama,” she whispered, wiping away the tears. “You know what a lousy cook I am.”
She took out the goulash, closed the lid of the freezer, and went up the steep cellar stairs. Papa hadn’t budged from his study since his conversation with the po
lice officers, which was fine with her. She didn’t really want him to witness her mute dialogue with Mama. He simply didn’t belong here. At least not during the day. As far back as Karoline could remember, her father had left the house at seven every morning and seldom returned home in the evening before ten. Mama had never complained, and at one point, she confessed to Karoline that she was dreading the day when he retired and would be around the house all day long. She had settled into her own life, pursued numerous activities, and developed interests that he had not shared. His work was the only thing he thought about, nothing else.
Like me, Karoline thought, again fighting back tears. She now couldn’t understand why she had worked like a crazy woman for the past twenty years, instead of spending time with her family and friends. Everything that had always been so important seemed so banal now. She had advised top managers all over the world about values, about the reappraisal of personal deficits, about time management and strategies for improving their corporate culture and image. In doing so, she had treated with contempt all the values that had once meant something to her. In her pursuit of success and acclaim, she had sacrificed not only her marriage, but her entire social sphere had also fallen by the wayside. Don’t you have a friend you can lean on? the police officer had asked her. No, she didn’t. That was the painful truth. Her only confidante had been her mother, and now she was gone. Mama’s death had left a void inside her. In other people, that area was filled with pleasant memories and experiences, with love, happiness, partners, and friends, with people who meant something. In her, there was little that was memorable. Added to her grief was the shattering realization that so far, her life had been superficial and with very little substance.
Karoline forced herself to enter the kitchen. She used to love this room, which had always been the focal point of the house. Mama’s domain, in which there was always something simmering on the stove or baking in the oven and sending a seductive aroma through the house. An abundance of potted herbs stood on the wide recessed windowsills, and garlic and onions occupied a wooden shelf. But now the kitchen had lost its charm and had been turned into a place of horror. The window through which the bullet had entered was temporarily patched with a piece of cardboard. That was the only thing left to remind them of what happened there Thursday evening; the crime scene cleaners had been extremely thorough.