by Nele Neuhaus
“I wish you were here,” he said finally. “Nothing seems right without you.”
His words warmed her heart. Tears filled her eyes. When his image was gone, she closed her laptop and stared for a while into space. Had she ever loved a man as much as Christoph? With Henning, it had been completely different. Even when he was out driving around and she didn’t know exactly where he was, she had never missed him as much as she missed Christoph. Sometimes she’d actually been glad when Henning wasn’t around.
Her thoughts wandered to Dirk Stadler. Christoph had lost his first wife, the mother of his three daughters, in a similar way. A stroke. Out of the blue. He had told Pia how it happened, and how full of despair he’d been, abruptly left alone with three little kids. All his dreams about living in Africa with his wife had gone to the grave with her. But his kids had forced him to keep going. Thanks to them, he had been able to cope with the loss of his wife and find his way back to life, just like Dirk Stadler. But Stadler had also lost his daughter ten years later. How would he react if it turned out that his son was a quadruple murderer? Did he know what Erik had done? All the facts were pointing to Erik Stadler as the perp. Bodenstein was fairly convinced that with the detention of Erik Stadler he had caught the sniper, but Pia wasn’t so sure. Was it a sign of his innocence that he had not demanded to see his lawyer? Maybe tomorrow they would know more.
Kai had assiduously plowed through the thick file that Dirk Stadler had lent him. To his disappointment, he found only the names of Professor Rudolf and the leader of the clinic, Professor Ulrich Hausmann. There was no mention of Patrick Schwarzer. Kathrin had spoken again this evening with the husband of the dead bakery saleswoman, but he couldn’t remember ever having heard of a Kirsten Stadler. He’d been on strong sedatives and hadn’t been able to give them any useful answers.
Pia’s cell buzzed. She grabbed it and read the text that Kai had sent her.
Are you still up? Just finished researching HRMO. Some creepy shit.
Attached was a link to a Web site. After talking with Christoph, she was wide awake, so she turned on her laptop and copied the link into her browser. It took her to the HRMO Web site—which was an acronym for Help for Relatives of Murder Victims of the Organ Mafia.
“Good God,” she murmured, and began to read.
HRMO was founded in 1998 by several people who under great duress had been pressured to donate their children’s organs and signed a release only later to discover that their children, although declared brain-dead by the doctors, were not dead, but dying. Pia clicked on the button “About Us” and learned that HRMO now had 392 members, including family members and other people who had been confronted with the topic professionally or were opposed to transplantation procedures for other reasons. On the Web pages, individuals from all walks of life recounted the loss of their children, and hospital workers described the process of organ transplantation. Pia was shaken by what she read. She had never known much about the topic of organ donation, and a few years earlier had cluelessly filled out an organ donor card. She dialed Kai’s cell number and he picked up at once.
“This is outrageous,” she said.
“Lydia Winkler also wrote an account,” said Kai.
“I’ve seen it.” Pia scrolled down. “It’s horrible! I’m going to cancel my donor card.”
“I don’t think organ donation is bad—on the contrary,” said Kai. “If as an adult you’ve been informed in detail and accepted the fact that you’re not going to die in the presence of your loved ones, then it’s all right. At least you can save lives that way.”
“Would you want to die like that?” Pia was horrified. “Just imagine, you’re not really dead, like that woman in the States who woke up on the way to the operating room.”
“There are precise guidelines for the establishment of brain death,” said Kai. “The doctors have to establish proof of the clinical symptoms, and also the irreversibility of the patient’s condition.”
“Do you think they can be relied on to do that?” Pia shuddered.
Kai didn’t reply. Instead he said, “I find it interesting to see what people in this forum are concerned about. Their biggest complaint is that while in a state of emotional crisis, they are morally pressured to agree to an organ donation.”
“Like Kirsten Stadler’s parents were,” Pia said. “The doctors told them about patients who would die if they didn’t get a new heart or a new kidney right away. Mrs. Winkler told us that the doctors really put on the pressure, asking her whether she wanted to be responsible for another person’s death because she was taking so long to decide. That’s so absurd!”
“And then there’s the fact that someone who is brain-dead doesn’t even look dead,” Kai added. Pia heard the clacking of his keyboard. “Given the state of shock that they’re in, people don’t realize that their loved one is going to die. Naturally, they hope that he’ll regain consciousness. On the other hand, the doctors can’t wait forever, because organs can be removed only from a living person, not a dead body. According to the definition, someone who’s brain-dead is dead. I was looking at a linked article about a conference of the German Ethical Board, which posed the question, ‘In practice, what is the protocol regarding morality and human dignity associated with the definition of brain death?’ And the conclusion is: ‘The brain-dead individual is physical existence on the cellular level, but without any capacity for understanding or social interaction—signifying a vegetative state and not life.’ In the definition of brain death, the interests of transplantation medicine have always played a role.”
As he spoke, Pia clicked on the masthead of the Web site.
“Joachim Winkler is deputy chairman, Lydia Winkler is secretary,” she interrupted her colleague. “The chairman is a Mark Thomsen who lives in Eppstein, which is also the official seat of the organization. There’s even an emergency hotline. The HRMO people are on call round the clock to offer assistance to anyone in a crisis situation.”
“Are Erik Stadler and his father members?” Kai asked.
“They’re not listed on the board, at least,” said Pia. “There is no communication between Dirk Stadler and his in-laws, and he has spoken disparagingly about HRMO. I don’t think he’s involved. I suspect that he decided long ago not to think any more about that topic. If someone continues to dwell on a particular problem, he won’t be able to get over it eventually. And I got the impression that Dirk Stadler has successfully dealt with the loss of his wife. In any case, he’s no lone wolf sociopath. He has good relations with his neighbors, for example.”
“Hmm,” was all Kai said.
“I’ve thought over the fact that the murders of Hürmet Schwarzer and Maximilian Gehrke don’t really fit into the pattern,” Pia said, changing the topic. “Why did Gehrke have to die? Because he received Kirsten Stadler’s donor heart?”
“No, because the perp wanted to punish his father,” Kai countered.
“For what?” asked Pia. “What had his father done?”
“He’s influential and has a lot of money,” said Kai. “He may have bribed someone so that his son could get a new heart sooner.”
“But that doesn’t make sense at all.” Pia shook her head. “Eurotransplant decides who gets an organ. And they have to match the parameters. Not everyone can tolerate every organ.”
“Don’t you read the newspapers?” Kai asked with a mocking undertone. “Right now, there’s a juicy scandal in the news because cheating has been going on at the clinics, and patients who really shouldn’t have been allowed to get a new liver got one anyway.”
“I know.” Pia had to yawn. “We’re going to have to ask an expert exactly what the procedure is. I’m just afraid they’re all going to stonewall us if we ask them that sort of question.”
“Then ask your ex,” Kai suggested, yawning, too. “Maybe he knows. Well, I think I’m hanging up work for tonight. Tomorrow is another day.”
They said good night, but Pia was still too wound up des
pite her fatigue to think about going to bed. She surfed the Net till far past midnight and learned things that made her understand why so many people preferred not to fill out an organ donor card.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
In the night, the snow had stopped, and the temperature had climbed a few degrees. Bodenstein drove through the dim early morning light along the winding road from Ruppertshain to Fischbach. Late last night, Ostermann had sent him the address of Jens-Uwe Hartig in Kelkheim-Münster. Hartig’s house was on the way to the station in Hofheim, so he decided to drop in and visit the fiancé of the late Helen Stadler before he talked to the man’s brother.
Cosima had come to get Sophia last night, but Inka didn’t stay the night with him. She was going to have to get up several times during the night to check on a horse that had been operated on for colic, so it was more practical for her to stay at home. At first, he thought of proposing that he go to her house—maybe she had secretly even counted on it—but after such a strenuous day, he felt like being alone and not doing any more talking. Down the hill in Kelkheim there was thick fog, and it was a couple of degrees colder than in Ruppertshain because of an inversion layer, which was common after a few winter days with no wind.
Bodenstein found the address without using the GPS. He got out and rang Hartig’s doorbell, but there was no answer. Just as he was about to return to his car, the front door of the apartment building opened and a woman with a baby stroller and a dog on a leash came toward him.
“Let me help you,” he said. He held the door open for her until she had maneuvered the dog and stroller outside. Then he showed her his ID and asked for Jens-Uwe Hartig.
“He just drove off a minute ago,” said the woman. “No doubt headed for the cemetery. Since it happened, he goes there every morning before work.”
“Since what happened?” Bodenstein asked.
“Well, since his girlfriend killed herself. Two weeks before the wedding. It’s really been hard on him.”
The dog was jumping around impatiently, getting the leash tangled up in a wheel of the stroller.
“Did you know his girlfriend?” Bodenstein bent down to untangle the leash.
“Thanks.” The woman smiled. “Yes, I did know Helen. She stayed with him now and then.”
“But she didn’t live here permanently?”
“No. After the wedding, they were going to move to Hofheim. He has a house there. But now he doesn’t want to live there without her.”
“I see. Do you happen to know which cemetery Helen is buried in?”
“At the Main Cemetery.” The woman took a step toward him and lowered her voice. “Her father lives in Liederbach, but Jens-Uwe wanted her to be buried in Kelkheim. So that he can ‘take care’ of her. Sounds a little freaky, don’t you think?”
Bodenstein thought so, too. He thanked the informative neighbor and headed off to the Main Cemetery.
“What was it like ten years ago?” Pia wanted to know. “Were the procedures as strictly administered back then as they are today?”
She and Kim were sitting across from Henning at his desk in the Institute for Forensic Medicine. They had been listening to him explain how an organ transplant was conducted and what prerequisites an organ recipient had to meet. He also described the regulations, which were under strict oversight by the German Foundation for Organ Transplantation, in particular after the scandals in recent years, which had drastically reduced the willingness of the German public to become organ donors.
“Yes, even then, the regulations were very strict,” said Henning. “Maybe not quite so much as they are today, but we learn from each instance of inappropriate behavior and error, and then new regulations are adopted.”
“Would it be possible for someone to buy himself or a relative preferential treatment?” Pia asked.
“What are you getting at?” Henning took off his glasses, polished them, and looked at Pia with a frown.
“We’re wondering why the sniper shot Maximilian Gehrke,” Pia replied. “He was the recipient of Kirsten Stadler’s heart. His father is rich. Maybe he pulled some strings with the doctors at the UCF.”
Henning put his glasses back on and thought about it.
“A patient on the Eurotransplant list can, of course, be registered as an especially urgent case,” he said at last. “Although only high-urgency patients are considered anyway. If the histological and immunological conditions are a match and the patient happens to be nearby when there is a donor heart, then it might be possible.”
“Do you know of any cases when that has happened?” Kim asked.
“Not in the case of heart transplants. But these days, there’s a lot of media coverage of donor livers,” Henning replied. “For a heart, the body size and weight cannot deviate more than fifteen percent. And naturally, the blood type must match. It’s impossible to do a transplant across blood-type boundaries. In the past, attempts were made in the USA and in Switzerland. In 1997, there was a successful transplant in Bern, but in 2004, a female patient died because the doctors apparently had confused the blood types of the donor heart and the recipient.”
“What do you mean, confused?” Kim asked in astonishment.
“If a donor heart has the universal type O, then it will match with all other blood types,” Henning explained in his best professorial tone. “Conversely, however, a donor heart of blood types A, B, or AB will not match with a recipient of blood type O. It’s also unusual for anyone to pay to get an organ.”
Pia was disappointed, because she had believed she’d found the sniper’s motive with regard to Maximilian Gehrke’s father.
“Reasonably unusual, but not impossible,” Henning went on. “In Germany, hundreds of people are waiting for a donor organ, but the willingness to donate is rather small compared to all the other European countries. That means that many patients have to spend months on a waiting list and in the meantime have to be treated with drugs. At the hospitals, the doctors who do the procedures are very familiar with these patients and their medical histories. If a potential donor is delivered to this clinic, the information is sent to Eurotransplant, which then sends back the names of several potential waiting high-urgency patients. But if the clinic says they have a possible recipient right there on-site, then that patient might receive preferential treatment. A heart must be transplanted within four hours of removal from the body of the donor; otherwise, it will no longer function.”
“How do you know all this?” Kim wondered.
“Just like you, I often serve as an expert witness for the state attorney’s office and clinics.” Henning smiled. “If you like, I can try to find out more about this particular case.”
“That would be great.” Pia finished her coffee, looked at the clock, and got up. “The UCF has stonewalled us completely. As if they have something to hide.”
“And they may well have,” said Henning with a nod. “Something must have happened and they want to keep it quiet.”
“Kirsten Stadler’s family sued the UCF back then, but the lawsuit ended in an out-of-court settlement and payment of damages,” Pia told him.
“Punitive investigations against doctors who are alleged to have acted negligently are often settled out of the public eye, and the lawsuits are dismissed,” Henning said, also standing up. “But I do have to come to the defense of my fellow physicians. It’s actually surprising that more things don’t go wrong in hospitals, because the doctors and other personnel work under incredible pressure. It’s common knowledge that after ten or twelve hours, no one is in any shape to concentrate anymore. And a surgeon and anesthetist can’t afford to make mistakes by not being able to concentrate. An auto painter can always paint over a bad spot, but the surgeon doesn’t get a second chance. The pressure is intense, and the responsibility huge.”
They had reached the hallway when Pia thought of something else.
“Could you take a look and see whether an autopsy was performed here last September on a Helen Stadler
who committed suicide?” she asked her ex-husband, who seemed especially kindly disposed today. “She threw herself in front of a commuter train on September sixteenth, 2012, in Kelsterbach.”
“Sure.” Henning nodded. “I’ll let you know.”
In the parking lot of the Kelkheim Main Cemetery, there was only one car at this early hour, a dark Volvo with a company name painted on the side: GOLDSMITH HARTIG IN HOFHEIM. Bodenstein parked next to it, climbed out, and walked through the foggy dimness up the steps to the entrance gate. The last time he’d been here was a couple of years ago, on a radiantly beautiful summer day, when the murdered teacher Hans-Ulrich Pauly was buried. Before the chapel of remembrance, he turned left and followed the main path. He liked the peace and quiet of cemeteries. Wherever he went with his family on vacation, he would make a point of visiting churches and taking long walks through the cemeteries. He liked to read the inscriptions on gravestones, wondering who these people were who had found their last resting place there. Old cemeteries in particular suited his slightly melancholy nature, and even Cosima’s mocking criticism had never broken him of this habit.
Cosima. What could have happened? Why had she broken off the long-planned trip so suddenly? Did it have something to do with a man, a disappointment? Although they’d been divorced a long time now, he was not completely indifferent to his ex-wife’s feelings, and he felt anger at whoever might have hurt her. As he slowly walked along the rows of graves through the fog, among the bare winter trees with rain dripping from their branches, he thought about how strange and unpredictable the human psyche was. No one had ever hurt and disappointed him so deeply as the mother of his three children, and yet here he was, feeling sympathy for her.
In the gray light of morning, Bodenstein became aware of a movement up ahead to his left. In a row of apparently new graves, some of which still had no gravestones but only a temporary wooden cross, he saw a man standing with bowed head and hands clasped. Bodenstein stopped at a respectful distance, but the man seemed to sense his presence. He looked up, turned around, and came slowly toward him.