To Catch a Killer

by Nele Neuhaus

  “I have something to show you.” Pia took a copy of the obituary out of her backpack and handed it to Ms. Rohleder.

  “What’s this?” The woman hesitated.

  “The perpetrator sent it to us, the one who shot your mother,” Pia said.

  Ms. Rohleder read the notice. All color drained from her face. She dropped the piece of paper as if it were on fire.

  “No!” she whispered in horror. “No! That . . . that can’t be true! Ms. Kirchhoff, you . . . you don’t think that I . . .”

  She didn’t dare say the words that would make her responsible for her own mother’s death.

  “We think it’s authentic,” replied Pia somberly. “We’ve received a similar obituary for each victim.”

  The bell over the door jingled as a customer came into the shop.

  “Please come back later,” Ms. Rohleder said. Then she took a key out of the pocket of the green apron that she wore over her black dress, went to the glass door, and locked it. Then she leaned against the door, pressed a hand to her chest, and shut her eyes for a moment.

  “That’s a hideous accusation. I won’t stand for it. I’ll sue for slander and defamation of character.” In her indignation, she was confusing two offenses. “The very thought that I would be guilty of my mother’s death . . . No!”

  “The only person guilty of your mother’s death is the one who shot her,” Pia said. “He has already murdered three innocent individuals, and we’re afraid that he will keep going. The perpetrator could be someone who knew Kirsten Stadler. Ms. Rohleder, you knew the Stadlers and may be able to help us. Who would do such a thing?”

  Renate Rohleder swallowed hard. She rubbed her face.

  “She was . . . so . . . so cold,” she said softly. “She gave me the creeps, the way she stood there and said to my face that she would make sure that I’d never be happy again in my life.”

  “Who was that, Ms. Rohleder?” Pia prodded.

  Renate Rohleder sighed.

  “Helen. Kirsten’s daughter,” she replied. “A few months ago, she showed up here at the shop, together with a man. Initially I didn’t even recognize her. She accused me of causing her mother’s death. As if I’d done something that made Kirsten have a hemorrhage!”

  “Did you know the man who accompanied her?” Pia asked.

  “No,” Rohleder said, shaking her head. “He didn’t introduce himself.”

  “What did he look like, and how old was he?”

  “No idea, I’d guess mid- to late thirties.” She shuddered. “He was very good-looking. But he had something . . . dark and fanatical about him. I was afraid of him, even though he didn’t say a word.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that the perp is a woman?” Pia asked her sister after they left the flower shop and went back to the car.

  “If you’re thinking about the Stadlers’ daughter, probably not,” said Kim, who had stayed in the background during the conversation between Pia and Ms. Rohleder. “She seems to be a rather impulsive person who has a hard time controlling her feelings. People like that tend to act emotionally, but that’s not the behavior exhibited by the sniper. The murders have a clearly masculine stamp to them. Women kill differently from men, but you know that already. In the twenty years I’ve been in my job, I’ve encountered plenty of horrific and profoundly evil acts, but never a woman who killed innocent people.”

  “The exceptions prove the rule,” replied Pia. “Just think of the female suicide bombers in the Middle East. They even accept the deaths of innocent children.”

  “I still think it’s out of the question. Really, Pia, forget the daughter.” Kim shook her head. “In order to do something like this, a person has to have strong nerves and a lot of patience.”

  “But who could the man be?” Pia stopped beside the car.

  “You need to ask Helen Stadler,” Kim suggested. “Come on, let’s get in before I freeze my ass off.”

  Pia grinned and unlocked the car. At first glance, her sister didn’t seem like the type of woman who would use such expressions.

  “Anyway, I’m still betting on a pro,” Kim said. “You really ought to search for him in the army and the police.”

  “What would we be searching for? We don’t have enough info to ask targeted questions.”

  Pia’s cell rang. It was Ostermann, who told her that he had traced the husband of the deceased Kirsten Stadler by querying the Residents’ Registration Office. His name was Dirk Stadler and he lived in Liederbach.

  “You should join us,” said Kai. “The boss is on his way, too.”

  “All right, we’re on our way.”

  The address that Kai had given her turned out to be an older row house neighborhood in which the developer had tried to combat the uniform look of the houses by varying the style and wood ornamentation of the façades. Bodenstein was already waiting for them on the street corner. He had the collar of his overcoat turned up against the icy wind and his hands in his pockets. Pia parked behind his car.

  “Renate Rohleder was completely shocked when I showed her the obituary,” she told her boss. “Kirsten Stadler was a neighbor she knew well. She vividly remembers the day Kirsten died, and ever since, she’s had a guilty conscience because she did nothing to help. She was in a hurry, her dog took off and was hit by a car. Most likely, she wouldn’t have been able to do anything even if she had gone to her neighbor’s aid or called an ambulance, because Kirsten Stadler had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage. But the daughter, Helen Stadler, seems to have blamed Renate.”

  “Incidentally,” said Kim, “she showed up a couple of months ago at the flower shop accompanied by a man and making accusations. If the perp knows things like that, then he must be from the family’s closest circle of friends and acquaintances.”

  “Well, let’s hear what Kirsten Stadler’s widower has to say to that.” Bodenstein double-checked the address, and soon afterwards rang the bell of number 58F. A thin, almost gaunt man with short gray hair and a receding hairline opened the door.

  “My name is Bodenstein from Kripo Hofheim.” He showed the man his ID. “My colleagues Ms. Kirchhoff and Ms. Freitag. We would like to speak with Dirk Stadler.”

  “That’s me.” The man regarded them with the typical mixture of suspicion and caution that almost everyone displayed when the criminal police unexpectedly showed up at the door.

  “May we come in?”

  “Yes, of course, please do.”

  He was in his midfifties and wore gray corduroy pants and an olive green V-neck sweater over a white shirt. He had to tilt his head back to look into Bodenstein’s face.

  “My son is here for dinner,” said Dirk Stadler apologetically. From the hall, they could see into a large, open space that was dining room, living room, and kitchen combined. At the table sat a man in his late twenties who glanced up briefly from his tablet computer and nodded a greeting, but remained seated.

  “My son, Erik,” Dirk Stadler introduced him. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about your late wife,” said Bodenstein.

  “About Kirsten?” Bewildered, the man looked from Bodenstein to Pia and Kim. “There must be some kind of mistake. My wife died ten years ago.”

  “You’ve probably heard about the murders committed over the past several days,” Bodenstein went on. “In Niederhöchstadt and Oberursel, two women were shot by a sniper. Then a young man was killed in Kelkheim on Christmas morning.”

  “Yes, I read about it in the paper,” Stadler said. “And of course, it’s all over the radio and television.”

  Now his son got up, came closer, and stood next to his father. He was only a little taller, and had the same deep-set eyes and facial features. “The perpetrator has been in contact with us,” said Bodenstein. “After each murder, he wrote an obituary in which he gave reasons for his action. In the diary entries of his last victim we came across the name of your late wife. The dead man, Maximilian Gehrke, was twenty-seven years old. He might not have lived even
that long because he had a congenital heart defect. But ten years ago, he received a transplant, the heart of your late wife.”

  Father and son both turned pale and exchanged a brief glance.

  “The woman who was killed in Oberursel was the wife of the professor who performed the heart transplant back then.”

  “Oh my God,” Dirk Stadler whispered in consternation.

  “And the first victim of the sniper was the mother of a former neighbor of yours from Niederhöchstadt.”

  “That . . . that can’t be true,” Dirk Stadler stammered. “But why? After all these years!”

  “We’ve been asking ourselves the same question,” Bodenstein said with a nod. “At first, there was no connection between the individual victims, but the link seems to be your late wife.”

  “I . . . I have to sit down,” Stadler said. “But please do come in and take off your coats.”

  Pia noticed that the man walked with a limp that made him tilt to one side. It looked as though one of his legs was shorter than the other. Stadler sat down at the dining room table, and the officers all took a seat.

  Erik Stadler gathered up the dishes and carried them over to the sink in the open kitchen. High-gloss white cabinets with dark granite counters, and lots of stainless steel. In front of the big picture window in the living room stood a small decorated Christmas tree, and on the coffee table was a plate of Christmas cookies. The house was soberly but tastefully decorated throughout with black, white, and gray the predominant colors. In contrast to Professor Rudolf’s house with all the flowers, the velvet curtains, and the faded children’s drawings and notes stuck to the refrigerator door with magnets, this house seemed devoid of a woman’s touch. The only piece of furniture that didn’t fit the rest of the décor was a massive antique sideboard. On top stood a silver-framed photo of a blond woman laughing happily into the camera. Dirk Stadler had noticed Pia looking at it.

  “That’s Kirsten, my wife,” he informed her in a hoarse voice. “That picture was taken the summer before she died. It was our last vacation, on the Atlantic coast of France.”

  His son sat down on the chair next to him.

  “I . . . I can’t believe that people had to die because of my wife.” Stadler cleared his throat, visibly struggling to keep his composure. “Why? For what reason?”

  “A very personal motive is crystallizing,” replied Bodenstein. “The perpetrator seems to be focused on retribution, seeking revenge for the death of your wife. He must be someone who was once quite close to her.”

  “But my wife died from a cerebral hemorrhage,” Stadler said helplessly. “It was tragic accident, but no one was at fault. She had an aneurysm in her brain, and it burst. It could have happened anywhere at any time.”

  He ate only a little, then set down his knife and fork on the plate.

  “Don’t you like it?” Karoline asked.

  “Yes, I do. It’s very good.” Her father gave her a brief smile. “I just don’t have any appetite.”

  She felt the same way, but she forced herself to eat. The same way she forced herself to stay alive.

  “Thanks for taking care of me, Karoline. I really appreciate your support.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” She also managed a brief smile.

  For two days and nights, she’d been racking her brain over how to put into words what was on her mind. Why was it so difficult for her to speak about her suspicions to her father? What had happened to her confidence and courage? Since Mama died, they had barely spoken to each other, and she now realized that this was not really much of a change. They had maintained an illusion of harmony solely thanks to Mama; without her presence, silence had descended between Karoline and Papa. She had never had a close relationship with her father, perhaps because he’d played almost no role during her childhood and youth. He was brilliant, considered one of the best at his profession, and what he did was important, because he saved the lives of deathly ill patients. She had always been very proud of her father and happy to hear people speak of him with admiration, but over the years, the distance between them had grown. When she decided not to follow in his footsteps and pursue the field of medicine, she had disappointed him. After that, a gulf had opened up between them, a peculiar tension that permitted only strife or silence.

  Mama’s death was a chance for them to draw closer, but it seemed as though her father wasn’t interested in seizing the opportunity. Every conversation devolved into trivialities, and an unpleasant undertone seemed to creep in.

  “I have to ask you something, Papa,” she began at last, before he could get up and hide away in his study.

  “What is it?”

  “In the papers, they’re claiming that Mama was a target of opportunity for this sniper.” She avoided looking at him and chose her words cautiously. “But when I think about the circumstances, I don’t believe it.”

  She raised her head and saw that he was looking at her for the first time in days.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “Nobody walks by our house by chance,” she replied, putting aside her knife and fork. “The kitchen window faces the backyard, and behind the hedge there, isn’t even a path that anyone can walk along. The murderer must have checked out the house and the neighborhood, and that’s how he discovered the transformer shed. Choosing that particular spot was no accident.”

  He was giving her his full attention.

  “I think he specifically targeted Mama,” said Karoline. “But I just can’t imagine why. Unless . . .”

  She fell silent and shook her head.

  “Unless—what?”

  “Unless Mama had some kind of secret that nobody knew about. Not even you or me,” Karoline told him. “For the life of me, I can’t imagine what it could have been, but that must be the reason.”

  Her father stared at her, then picked up his fork and began poking at his food without replying. Several minutes passed. Once again, this damned silence! She used to let herself be cowed by it, but this time, she wouldn’t let him off so easily.

  “What did the police want from you the day before yesterday?” Karoline insisted.

  “They’re looking for connections between the murders,” her father finally replied.

  “And? Do they have any ideas? Is there a connection?” she wanted to know.

  His hesitation lasted a moment too long.

  “No. They’re still fumbling around in the dark.” He held her gaze without flinching. The realization that he was lying struck her like a punch in the stomach.

  “I don’t believe you.” Her tone of voice was sharper than she’d intended, but she hated being thought stupid. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “Why do you think I’m lying?”

  “Because you’re evading my question,” she replied. “I can always tell when someone isn’t telling me the truth. What did the police want from you? Why did you send me out of your study like a child?”

  To her surprise, he reached across the table and put his hand on hers.

  “Because I wanted to protect you and keep all this from you for a little longer,” he said softly. “I know how much you loved your mother and how much you worry about Greta.”

  For a couple of seconds, she believed him, because she wanted to. But then she saw through his attempt at manipulation. Her anger surged, mixed with disappointment and the bitter realization that in the whole wide world, there was no longer anyone she could trust.

  “You’re not telling me something, and I ask myself what and why.” She withdrew her hand and stood up. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “Perhaps you could describe briefly the circumstances of her death,” Pia said to Dirk Stadler. “What happened to her?”

  Father and son took turns explaining what had happened on September 16, 2002. Kirsten Stadler, at that time thirty-seven years old, athletic, and healthy, left on that morning to go for a walk with the dog. After that, she was going to drive the kids to school. But after an hour
, their mother had still not returned, so Erik and his sister, Helen, went out looking for her. They found her lying unconscious on the path that led through the field. The dog was sitting beside her.

  “The ambulance took her to the trauma clinic, and there they confirmed a cerebral hemorrhage,” Dirk Stadler concluded. “At the time, I was on a job in the Far East and difficult to reach. My in-laws drove to the hospital to lend support to Erik and Helen.”

  “It was horrible,” Erik recalled. “Mama was in intensive care. She looked like she was just asleep, but the doctors told us that she was brain-dead. The massive hemorrhages had damaged her brain beyond repair.”

  For a while, no one said a word. The wind howled in the fireplace and shook the bare branches of a pathetic-looking fruit tree that stood in the backyard on the few square meters of grass.

  “When I came back from China two days later, my children were completely traumatized,” Dirk Stadler went on. “My in-laws were not in much better shape. Under intense pressure from the doctors, they had agreed to an organ donation from their brain-dead daughter.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “My wife had refused to be an organ donor for various reasons; she even had a living will, which in those days was still uncommon. The doctors should have waited until I returned, but they were in a big hurry. So much so that they hadn’t observed the prescribed time mandated between the two brain-death examinations. In the clinic’s records, the times had been falsified. In addition, the doctors had removed more organs than they had previously indicated. Not only her heart and kidneys, but also her eyes, bones, skin, and connective tissue. For this reason, I later brought legal action against the clinic.”

  He stopped and looked sadly at the picture of his wife on the sideboard.

  “To this day, it’s some consolation to know that with the donation of her organs, Kirsten saved the lives of several individuals,” he said in a low voice. “But my father-in-law was beside himself with grief and rage. He was firmly convinced that he’d been ambushed and betrayed, because he never signed a consent form for organ donation, merely a power-of-attorney document for the treatment of his daughter. But when anyone sues a hospital, the outcome is always the same: The UCF offered me an out-of-court settlement with payment for pain and suffering. I accepted it, because I could no longer pay the legal fees. There were enough funds left over that I could set aside money for the children’s education.”