by Nele Neuhaus
“That’s true,” Kim agreed. “The final outcome and its effect are the same. The difference lies in the motivation. In my opinion, we’re dealing with a very rare type of murderer. He is anything but a psychopath, nor is he megalomaniacal. This is no game he’s playing with us; he’s not like somebody who’s after kicks or a challenge. He seeks out his sniping positions purely from the aspect of usefulness, not as provocation. I still believe that we’re looking for a pro.”
MARGARETHE RUDOLF HAD TO DIE BECAUSE HER HUSBAND IMPLICATED HIMSELF IN MURDER OUT OF GREED AND VANITY.
Karoline Albrecht struggled with all her might against the tears and was grateful that Faber was tactfully allowing her the moment she needed to compose herself. He stood at the window of the conference room on the second floor of the newspaper’s editorial offices with his back turned to her.
“Why did he decide to send this to you in particular?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“To tell you the truth, I have no idea.” Faber turned around. “Maybe he reads our paper. Maybe he knows me personally.”
He pulled out a chair and took a seat facing her. There wasn’t much going on in the editorial office; most of the desks in the city room were empty.
“It could also be a coincidence,” he said. “Most of my colleagues are on vacation over Christmas and New Year’s. I voluntarily took over the post of editor-in-charge, especially since the week between the years is usually slim pickings when it comes to hot news stories.”
Karoline Albrecht looked at him. He had immediately believed her when she said she was the daughter of the second sniper victim. He didn’t even ask to see her ID, which listed her birth name. Probably everyone could see what a shitty time she was having.
“What do you know about the case?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” Faber said with a shrug. “That’s the point. My article is a compilation of speculations. The police were pretty mad about it, but I think the public needs to be kept informed.”
His reply disappointed her. The journalist knew less than she did.
“Why don’t you go to the police?” he asked her. “You’re related to the victim, so they’ll talk to you.”
Karoline Albrecht said nothing for a moment.
“My father is a very respected surgeon,” she replied. “He’s one of the best in the world in his field. For many people, he’s the last hope, and he has saved countless lives. But now somebody is accusing him of a murder, and my mother was killed because of it. I can’t believe it.”
“So you want to find out if your father is really guilty.”
“Precisely,” she said. “I want to know why my mother had to die. That’s of only marginal interest to the police. They just want to catch the killer. For me, that’s not enough.”
“And how would I be able to help you? I’m only the local editor of a regional newspaper, responsible for business and culture. Not some investigative reporter who uncovers conspiracies.”
Karoline Albrecht noticed his discomfort and nodded. He was a short, overweight man with thin hair and wearing a gray cardigan. He seemed like a disillusioned teacher waiting for retirement, not some Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein. Maybe he was too old and too comfortable to recognize the journalistic chance that had been offered to him because the sniper had chosen to contact him, and no one else. Konstantin Faber was no dynamo, and he’d be no help to her.
“May I have a copy of the obituary and the letter?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he hastened to reply. They got up. Karoline grabbed her purse and the four pages and followed him down the carpeted hall to a copy room.
“In case you have any more questions, please call me,” he told her as they said good-bye. His face clearly showed the relief he felt because she didn’t insist on his assistance.
“Thank you.” Karoline handed him a business card. “And perhaps you can let me know if you learn anything new.”
“I will,” he assured her, avoiding her gaze. No doubt he was promising anything just to get rid of her as fast as possible.
Dirk Stadler arrived at the same second as Bodenstein and Pia. He greeted them with a nod, drove into one of the many garages, and came limping toward them a minute later.
“I apologize for being a little late,” he said, extending his hand first to Pia, then to Bodenstein.
“We’re late, too,” said Bodenstein. “You may have heard that we have another dead body.”
“Yes, the news was on the radio,” Stadler confirmed. “Come on, let’s go in the house. It’s much warmer inside.”
Just before they reached the front door, they were stopped by a neighbor who had accepted a package for Stadler and now handed it to him.
“I have really nice neighbors,” Stadler said with a smile. “I’ve been lucky. In a row house development like this, we live pretty close to each other.”
He asked Pia to hold the package so he could unlock the front door.
“For the time being, I’m buying almost everything online,” Stadler explained as he opened the door. “It’s not good for shop owners, but easier if you’re not so steady on your feet.”
They entered the house, and he turned on the light and took off his coat. Pia put the package on the small sideboard in the hall; then she followed Stadler and her boss into the large dining room. Stadler offered them something to drink, but they politely declined.
“How did you decide that these murders might have something to do with my late wife?” Dirk Stadler wanted to know as they took seats at the dining room table.
“Renate Rohleder, the daughter of the first victim, happened to be one of your neighbors when you were still living in Niederhöchstadt. On the day your wife died, your daughter asked Renate for help, but she refused,” Bodenstein began.
“I remember her,” said Stadler with a nod. “She has a flower shop in Eschborn, doesn’t she? And she also had a dog. My wife went for walks with her occasionally.”
“Right,” said Bodenstein. “The husband of the second victim was head surgeon in transplantation at the clinic where your wife died and where her organs were later processed. The third victim was the recipient of the heart of your late wife. A young man who had a congenital heart ailment.”
“Oh my God,” Stadler whispered, visibly moved.
“And now,” Bodenstein went on, “we have a fourth victim. A young woman, twenty-seven years old. We don’t know the connection yet, but I’m afraid it will turn out that her husband was also involved in the events of September 16, 2002.”
He didn’t mention the obituaries or the letter.
“Why didn’t you tell us the other day that Helen was dead?” Pia asked.
“How could I know that her death played any relevant role?” Stadler was clearly wrestling with his self-control. “And it . . . It’s still so fresh. For years, I worried a lot about Helen, but during the past year, I firmly believed that she was stable and had finally overcome her feelings of guilt and depression. She was almost done with her studies and had a nice boyfriend. They got engaged last summer, and were planning to get married in October. The wedding invitations were already sent out. And then . . . then . . . she threw herself in front of the S-train. Without any warning.”
“Where did that happen?” Pia asked. “And when?”
“In Kelsterbach,” Stadler answered in a choked voice. “On September 16, the tenth anniversary of her mother’s death.”
“Why was your daughter depressed?” Pia dug deeper. “Why did she feel guilty?”
Stadler didn’t answer at once. He struggled for a moment. His grief was so obvious that Pia almost felt an urge to console him.
“My wife went jogging with the dog every morning,” he said at last. “No matter the weather. She was very fit, and she was training for the New York City Marathon. America had always been her great dream, and she would have preferred to live there. Helen often went running with her, but on that morning, she didn’t feel like it. She wanted to s
tay in bed a little longer. She had just turned fourteen. But after an hour, Kirsten still hadn’t returned to get Erik ready for school and go to work herself. The children were worried. They couldn’t reach her on her cell phone, so they went out looking for her. They knew the routes she liked to run. And then . . . then they found her. She hadn’t gotten very far, so she must have lain there for at least an hour. Erik phoned the EMTs from Kirsten’s cell and tried to revive her, while Helen took off to get help. Later at the hospital, the doctors established that Kirsten had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, which would not have been fatal in and of itself. If they had found her sooner and given her CPR, they could have operated and she wouldn’t have had to die.”
He looked up. His eyes glistened, and then a tear rolled down his cheek.
“All her life, my daughter blamed herself, because on that morning she didn’t bother to go running with her mother.” Stadler’s voice threatened to break. His jaw muscles were working, his nostrils quivering. “Do you understand? Helen was firmly convinced that she could have saved her mother if she’d been with her.”
“What a nightmare,” Pia said on the way back to the station. “First his wife dies, then the daughter kills herself after being tormented by feelings of guilt for ten long years. Some people really get a full dose of fate.”
It had started to rain. Rain mixed with snow.
Bodenstein had put on his reading glasses and in the dim dome light was paging through the trial documents that Dirk Stadler had agreed to let them take along. “It’s really a tragedy.”
He was hoping to find in the files the names of additional people who’d had anything to do with Kirsten Stadler at the Frankfurt trauma clinic ten years ago. Maybe this way, they could identify potential victims and warn them.
“We have to talk to Helen Stadler’s fiancé right away,” Pia said, thinking out loud as she pressed the switch for the windshield wiper. The spray kicked up by the cars in front was mixed with road salt and kept smearing the windshield. “Good thing that her father is so cooperative. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have made any progress at all today.”
Bodenstein grumbled something. His back was bent, and his nose almost touched the page he was reading.
“We’ll be back at the station in ten minutes.” Pia said. “Then you can read more comfortably than you can here in the car.”
“You’re right.” He flopped the document binder closed. Then he heaved a sigh and stared through the windshield at the street wet with rain. His fingers were drumming on the cardboard cover of the binder, and he had pursed his lips in thought. Pia recognized that tense expression. Something was bothering her boss, but he hadn’t processed it enough to share it with her. She took the exit off the autobahn, and two kilometers farther on, she turned into the parking garage of the Regional Criminal Unit. Right past the security gate, Ostermann intercepted them.
“Engel has called a team meeting,” he told them, nodding in the direction of the break room. “There’s a big press conference tonight at seven at the town hall.”
“It’s about time.” Pia took off her wet jacket.
“Nothing from Erik Stadler yet, but the Winklers called back,” Ostermann went on.
Bodenstein nodded and handed him the binder that Stadler had let him borrow.
“The trial documents for Stadler v. the UCF,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find some names that we don’t know yet.”
“I’ll check it right away,” Ostermann promised.
“After the press conference, we’ll drive to Glashütten to talk with the Winklers,” Bodenstein decided. “Is that okay with you, Pia?”
“Sure. But wouldn’t it make more sense if I went to see Helen Stadler’s fiancé? You don’t need me at the town hall. I could also have another talk with the husband of today’s victim.”
“Dr. Engel will make that decision,” said Bodenstein, seeing his boss coming down the hallway. Her high heels hammered an aggressive staccato on the tiles.
“Already in battle uniform with knives whetted,” Ostermann remarked.
“I heard that.” Dr. Engel rushed past them, leaving behind a cloud of verbena and lemon scent. “What are you all standing around for? Go, go, get in there!”
After last evening’s conversation with Kim, Pia puzzled over what her sister could find so fascinating about Dr. Nicola Engel. Even after a long, exhausting day, this woman never seemed to run out of energy. As always, she looked perfectly turned out from head to toe: meticulously lacquered nails, discreet makeup, and her hairdo looked immaculate, as if she’d just come from the hairdresser. She wore a bright green suit with a single strand of pearls, a multicolored scarf, and five-inch patent leather heels. Although Pia knew that Engel and Bodenstein had been a couple eons ago and at one time were even engaged, she secretly imagined that Nicola Engel had no bed at home; at most, she had some sort of electronic recliner to sit on, and she would arise fully charged the next morning and ready to carry on. It was impossible to picture this woman ever wearing worn-out jogging pants or a faded T-shirt as she sprawled comfortably on the couch with no makeup on. Bodenstein seemed to have a weakness for high-maintenance women who raced through life full-speed ahead. Cosima von Bodenstein was the same type, and Inka Hansen was also essentially a cool, determined workaholic.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” the commissioner said to the team. “In half an hour, the press conference will begin at the town hall, and I don’t want to be late.”
Present were Bodenstein, Ostermann, Altunay, Fachinger, Kim Freitag, Andreas Neff, and a few officers from other units who were working on the special commission. Bodenstein and Pia took turns reporting on what happened and what was learned that day.
Nicola Engel had agreed that immediately after the meeting, Pia, Cem, and Kim would go to see Helen Stadler’s fiancé, who ran a goldsmith shop on the main street in Hofheim.
“So, here we go,” she said with a look at her watch. She was ready for action. “Ostermann, where is the statement for the press?”
“Here it is, fifteen copies.” Kai handed her a thick stack of papers in a folder, which she promptly handed to Bodenstein.
“I’ve also compiled the most important points in my profile of the perpetrator,” said Andreas Neff eagerly, straightening his tie. “I think it best if I speak after you and—”
“You will not be speaking at all. At least not to the media,” Engel told him firmly as she slipped on her coat.
“But I have the necessary expertise to—”
“We’ve got plenty of expertise for the moment.” Dr. Engel didn’t even look at him. “Joining me on the podium will be Bodenstein as lead investigator, the head of the police force, the press spokesman, and someone from the state attorney’s office.”
“Then I might as well go home,” moaned Neff, visibly disappointed. “Obviously, nobody here appreciates my abilities.”
“I appreciate it when someone takes their proper place on the team and does the job for which he was brought in,” Engel snapped, giving him a sharp look as they stood at the security gate. “To my knowledge, you are a case analyst. Your task is to deduce from crime-scene evidence the sequence of events of the crime and correlate them with the other crimes, supplementing the work of my investigators. You are not qualified to make conjectures about the psyche of the perpetrator. That’s a matter for the forensic psychiatrist.”
“I’ve never heard that there’s some quota of women that has to be met,” Neff fired back, insulted. “But everything here seems to be firmly in female hands.”
“Let’s go, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t want to keep the press waiting.” Nicola Engel signaled to the officer at the gate to release the lock. She strode outside and then noticed the rain. “Bodenstein, do you have an umbrella?”
“Red-haired biddy,” Neff sniped behind her. “She really needs a man.”
“And it would do you good to have your balls in a woman’s hand once in a while,” Kim said to him in passi
ng.
Neff turned bright red. Nicola Engel, who had heard the comment, turned around and grinned.
“Wait a minute! Stop! I have something important to tell you.” Christian Kröger came storming down the corridor excitedly.
“We’re running late, Kröger,” said Nicola Engel. “What is it?”
“We know where the sniper fired the shot that killed Hürmet Schwarzer!” he shouted, almost out of breath. “With the data we gathered, we were able to reconstruct the crime. Body size of the victim, angle of the shot, et cetera.”
“We know how it works,” Nicola Engel interrupted him impatiently. “Get to the point.”
“We’re not dealing with just a good or a very good shooter. . . .” Kröger refused to be rushed. He even took time for a dramatic pause. “This guy is an extraordinarily good marksman, undoubtedly a trained sharpshooter or precision shooter, because he is able to do what nobody could do if shooting were just a hobby. He actually fired from the roof of a high-rise on Bremer Strasse in Eschborn. From a distance of almost a kilometer.”
“Are you sure that’s correct?” Nicola Engel was skeptical.
“Oh yes. A hundred percent. No doubt at all.” Kröger nodded emphatically. “There’s no other building that’s high enough to create such an angle. We were on the roof and did a laser measurement: 882.9 meters—it’s crazy!”
“We should check with all the shooting clubs in the area,” Ostermann suggested. “An expert like that would have a reputation in those circles. And check the army and our own people: active and former reservists.”
“Good.” Engel nodded curtly. “Get it done, Ostermann.”
“And send people to the high-rise,” Bodenstein added, having already popped open his umbrella. “Ring every doorbell, talk to all the residents. And find out if there are any surveillance cameras.”
“Will do.” Ostermann saluted and nodded.
The police car pulled up at the foot of the stairs.
“Well done, Kröger,” said Nicola Engel. Then she turned away and under the protection of Bodenstein’s umbrella hurried down the steps into the rain.