by Nele Neuhaus
“So what did she do after that?”
“I think she signed up at the university. To study sociology and psychology, or something like that. But she never graduated.”
“Where did she live?”
“Here, with her father.” Fellmann cocked her head toward the house. “She didn’t want to move out, although Jens-Uwe has a pretty big apartment.”
“So you know her boyfriend, Jens-Uwe Hartig?”
“Yeah, sure. A funny guy.” She dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “With a high-level need to take care of somebody. He only had eyes for Helen. He was always hanging around her, mothering her and doing favors for her, just like the boss and his father. But what I found strange was how those two were always talking about the past. Like two people in an old folks’ home. They seemed to live only in the past. Instead of getting Helen back on track, Jens-Uwe may have reinforced her craziness instead.”
“They were planning to get married, weren’t they?”
“Yes. In early October. In church and at the registration office in Kiedrich. That’s where Jens-Uwe is from. I had the invitations printed, that’s how I know. I think secretly Erik, his girlfriend, and his father were all happy, because then they would finally be rid of the responsibility for messed-up Helen.”
She sobbed again.
“I have a feeling that I’m letting Erik and the others down, but I just can’t keep on like this. For weeks, he’s rarely been at the office, doesn’t tell me where he is, doesn’t answer his cell. The job got to be too much for me. And now he doesn’t even show up on my last day, even though yesterday he swore he would.”
“Was he at the office yesterday?” Pia asked.
“No. I haven’t seen him since before Christmas,” Fellmann replied.
“Did he tell you where he was? Was he abroad, by any chance?”
“No idea. He didn’t tell me a thing.”
The cell phone in her pocket rang. She took it out and looked at it.
“My son,” she said apologetically, wiping away the tears. “I have to pick him up at a friend’s place.”
“Just one more question,” Pia said. “Do you happen to know whether Jens-Uwe Hartig is a marksman?”
“A marksman?” Fellmann looked puzzled for a moment. “No, sorry, I have no idea.”
“Why did you tell us such a tall tale last time?” Pia asked Dirk Stadler as they stood facing him a little later. He had taken the decorations off the Christmas tree and moved it to the terrace. He was busy vacuuming when they arrived.
“What tall tale?” Stadler gave them a baffled look. He limped over to a stool, sat down, and massaged his leg.
“About the day your wife died. It didn’t happen the way you told us.”
“Of course it did. Why would I make up a story about that?”
“Because someone paid you to keep your mouth shut,” said Pia. “So that you would give up and keep quiet and not tell anybody that your wife was still conscious when your son administered CPR and brought her back to life. How much did they pay you?”
That was a risky interpretation of what Erik Stadler had told them, but Pia dared take the gamble, anticipating a vehement denial. But Stadler merely sighed.
“Fifty thousand euros. But what you’re saying is nonsense. Erik couldn’t do anything to save Kirsten. She was unconscious and no longer responsive.”
“How would you know? You weren’t there.”
“Erik told me himself,” Stadler claimed.
“So truth and justice were worth fifty thousand euros to you?”
“I don’t think you understand,” Stadler said with a shrug. “Nobody did anything wrong. But my father-in-law wouldn’t agree to say that he was the one who had given permission to remove her organs. He was the one who wanted to file a complaint, but I was convinced that doing so would be fruitless. The opposing side had his signature on the consent form, so I was sure to lose in a trial. They offered me money if I would retract my complaint, and I accepted. Put yourself in my place. I had simply run out of energy. A pointless lawsuit against a hospital, which might drag on for years and probably bankrupt me. And it wouldn’t have brought Kirsten back. I would have to look for a new job so I could take care of my children, especially Helen, who at the time was only fifteen. I agreed to the settlement and took the money. That way I could at least provide some starting capital for their lives.”
“What was the basis for your suit?” asked Bodenstein. “How did you find out that the procedures weren’t properly followed?”
“I gave you the documents,” replied Stadler.
“I’d prefer to hear the details from you,” Bodenstein persisted.
“I didn’t want to sue.” Stadler cautiously stretched out his leg with a grimace. “For the sake of my children, I wanted to push the whole topic aside. I wanted to grieve with them for their mother, and try to accept her death. But my father-in-law gave me no peace. He was obsessed, coming up with all sorts of abstruse conspiracy theories. And what Jens-Uwe told him was naturally grist for his mill.”
“Just a moment,” Bodenstein interrupted him. “Mr. Hartig told us that he met Helen for the first time four years ago. So how could he have already told your father-in-law anything back then?”
Stadler looked up, bewildered.
“It could be that he didn’t meet Helen until later. But he’d known my in-laws longer, through the support group that they discovered shortly after Kirsten’s death. He told them that he’d already learned that some examinations were not being done within the prescribed time frame, and that OR protocols were sometimes missing or falsified on purpose by the doctors. He was very persuasive, and finally I let them talk me into filing the lawsuit. After that, the topic dominated our family—for years. The wounds would never heal. No one but me noticed how much Helen was suffering because of all this. She was a teenage girl, extremely sensitive and vulnerable, but also radical in her views, the way young people often are at that age. She was firmly convinced that her mother had been deliberately allowed to die so the doctors could transplant her organs.”
“And was that the truth of the situation?” Bodenstein inquired.
Dirk Stadler slumped forward and uttered a sigh.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that there is no deception or twisting of the truth. My wife suffered a cerebral hemorrhage while jogging and died. Helen couldn’t have changed that fact, even if she’d been standing right next to Kirsten. Maybe my wife could have vegetated for another few days or weeks in the ICU, kept alive by machines, but she was never going to wake up. Her brain was dead. The EEG showed a flatline. Helen didn’t want to hear that. She was desperate, unable to escape the idea that she was somehow to blame. In the past ten years, Helen tried to kill herself six times. Sometimes she would disappear for several days. I didn’t know where she was, and each time the phone rang, I was afraid they’d found her body. But she always showed up again, saying only that she’d been at a friend’s house. Then a few years ago, she fell in love with Jens-Uwe. Everything seemed to be going better. Helen calmed down and began to take an interest in other things. Her suicide struck us like a bolt from the blue. She had finally regained her footing in life, and she was looking forward to her wedding. . . .”
Dirk Stadler stopped and rubbed his eyes.
“I still can’t comprehend it. She had just tried on her wedding dress in Frankfurt, and the same night, she took her life.”
“Why in Kelsterbach? What was she doing there?”
“That’s something else I don’t understand. To this day, it’s a riddle why she went there and how she got there.”
“Did she leave a suicide note?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Pia thought about the letter that the Judge had sent to the editor of the Taunus Echo: For I am come to judge the living and the dead. The sentence came from the Apostles’ Creed.
“Are you a religious man?” Pia asked.
“No.” Dirk Stadler shook his head. “I stopped beli
eving in a just God many years ago.”
“May we take a look at Helen’s personal effects?”
“If you like. I’ve left everything the way it was in her room upstairs.”
“Do you know where your son has been in the past few days?” Bodenstein asked.
“No.” The sudden change of topic seemed to surprise Stadler. “I last saw him on Christmas Eve, when he and Lis came to visit me. Just before you arrived, his bookkeeper brought me the keys to his office, because she couldn’t reach him. Is something going on with him?”
“We took him into police custody yesterday,” said Bodenstein. “We’ve issued a preliminary indictment against him.”
“Against Erik?” Dirk Stadler was astonished. “You . . . you believe that my son would be capable of shooting people?”
“Well, he is a good shot. He definitely has a motive. And he has no alibi for the times when the murders were committed.”
“But Erik? He would never . . . do anything like that!”
Neither Bodenstein nor Pia missed the tiny hesitation. Was Dirk Stadler not entirely convinced of his son’s innocence?
With an effort, Stadler got up from the stool and limped toward the living room. His accommodating attitude had evaporated.
“If you would like to see Helen’s room, it’s upstairs, the second door on the right. Please pardon me if I stay down here, my leg is bothering me quite a bit today.”
“Of course,” said Bodenstein.
Stadler bent toward the vacuum cleaner, but then something seemed to occur to him.
“If I were you, I’d talk with Jens-Uwe. Or with Mark Thomsen.”
“Mark—who?”
“The chairman of HRMO,” said Stadler with a bitter smile. “Helen’s . . . surrogate father. As if she needed one.”
There was a lot of activity at the Seerose Mall in Eschborn. All the sensation-seekers were out in force. People had come from near and far, not to shop, but to see and take pictures of the spot where Hürmet Schwarzer had died. The shoe store’s display window with the bullet hole had already been replaced, and the bakery where the victim had worked was again open for business. As if nothing had happened.
“Unbelievable,” said Pia in disgust as they drove past, seeing the crowd trying to get a look at the bloodstain. “Why do people do stuff like this?”
“I’ll never understand it,” said Bodenstein, shaking his head. “But right now, I’m starving. Want to get something to eat?”
“Good idea,” Pia agreed. “How about that Burger King up ahead?”
“If you must.”
Bodenstein was no fan of fast food, but Pia felt a need for some calories, meat, and mayo. The alternative was KFC, but that wasn’t her favorite. A few minutes later, they were standing in line at one of the cash registers.
Bodenstein was studying the menu on the wall with a skeptical look. He seemed completely out of his element.
“May I help you?” The young man behind the counter slapped down a tray and took Pia’s order.
“Have you found something you’d like?” she asked her boss.
“Not yet.” Bodenstein thought about it, then turned to the cashier. “What can you recommend today?”
“Uh, what do you like to eat?” replied the young man, putting on a polite expression after a moment of irritation. “Are you a vegetarian?”
“No. Do you still have that Filet-O-Fish on your menu?” Bodenstein asked.
“No, we don’t. This is Burger King.”
Pia had to stifle her laughter as Bodenstein listened to descriptions of the various burgers and condiments available, then asked for more information. The people standing beside and behind him were gawking in astonishment. Finally he decided on a Big King XXL with fries and a mineral water. Pia let him pay, grabbed her tray, and headed for an empty table.
“Why is everyone staring at me?” Bodenstein asked as he sat down across from her.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Pia snorted, and then laughed until tears came to her eyes. “ ‘What can you recommend today?’ Who asks that in a fast-food joint?”
“I’m not familiar with their selections,” Bodenstein replied with dignity, but then even he had to grin. “So the Filet-O-Fish isn’t offered here?”
“No!” Pia shook her head and wiped away her tears with a paper napkin. “Oh man, the look that guy gave you, I’ll never forget it for the rest of my life!”
With a smile, Bodenstein unwrapped his burger, examined it critically, and then bit into it.
“Hmm, not bad,” he said. “But it doesn’t look anything like the one in the advertising photo.”
Pia shook her head as she chewed. They had spent almost an hour in Helen Stadler’s room and found nothing helpful. Plenty of books and clothes, photo albums, cosmetics, and textbooks. There were old stuffed animals in a carton in the closet; mementos in her desk drawers: used concert tickets, postcards, old photos of her mother, and all sorts of things that Helen had kept because she couldn’t bear to throw them out. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, except they didn’t find the one thing that every young person had in her room, namely a computer or laptop.
Dirk Stadler told them that Helen had owned a laptop. On the day of her death, she’d taken it with her in her backpack, as usual, and he’d never seen it again. After the investigation, the police had returned the backpack and all its contents to him, but there was no laptop. Strange. Stadler suspected that she might have left it at Jens-Uwe’s on that day.
Pia was just finishing her fries when Kai called. She’d asked him to find out about a Mark Thomsen, the chairman of HRMO.
“Dead end,” he said. “There’s no one in the area by that name.”
“But he’s listed on the masthead of HRMO’s Web site,” Pia recalled, holding her cell phone clamped between her shoulder and ear.
“Correct. His name is there. And the town of Eppstein. But that’s all,” said Kai. “According to the residential Registration Office, there’s no Thomsen living in Eppstein. I can’t find him in our computer either.”
“Well, that’s interesting.” Pia wiped her greasy fingers on a fresh napkin. “You could call Lydia Winkler. Maybe she knows something.”
“Will do. Oh, and there’s news about Patrick Schwarzer. Get this: He used to do community service work, driving an ambulance.”
“Let me guess,” said Pia. “He was on duty on September sixteenth, 2002.”
“You got it,” Kai confirmed. “His birthday was the day before, and apparently he partied hard, so the next day, he still had quite a bit of residual alcohol in his bloodstream. When he tried to turn the ambulance around with Kirsten Stadler on board, he went into a ditch. And that resulted in a delay of a good forty-five minutes.”
Cem and Kathrin had confronted Patrick, the widower of Hürmet Schwarzer, with the message from the Judge, and that jogged his memory. He’d completely forgotten the episode from ten years before, since the patient had no personal connection to him. And it was the only blunder he’d made in two and a half years. When he realized that this mistake, so insignificant to him, had eventually cost his wife her life, he broke down and announced he was going to kill himself. Cem called a psychologist and waited until Schwarzer’s father and brother arrived.
“ ‘The guilty parties shall feel the same pain as the one who has suffered because of their indifference, greed, vanity, and thoughtlessness. Those who have taken guilt upon themselves shall live in fear and terror, for I am come to judge the living and the dead.’ ”
Pia quoted from the letter that the Judge had sent to the newspaper editor.
“The killer has evidently achieved his goal,” Kai said dryly. “The guy is completely devastated.”
On the way to the car, Pia related to her boss what Kai had told her about Patrick Schwarzer’s past.
“Another strike against Erik Stadler,” Bodenstein said, thinking out loud. “He must have been aware of the long delay back then.”
“What if we’re dealing with a professional hit man that one of the Stadlers hired?” said Pia with a shiver. It would be nearly impossible to catch a pro who may even have come in from another country and would vanish the same way.
“If so, we’re looking for his client.” Bodenstein peered out into the fog that was growing thicker.
“Then all our thoughts about profiling are no longer relevant,” Pia replied. “The murder contract could have been arranged by the elder Winkler, or Stadler with his gimpy leg.”
“Damn it,” Bodenstein cursed. “We’re no farther along than we were last week, and we’re running out of time!”
“At least we’ve found out what it’s all about,” Pia argued. On a full stomach, she was again thinking effectively. “The deaths of Kirsten Stadler and her daughter are the reasons for the murders.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Helen’s suicide was probably the trigger,” Pia suspected. She raised her hand and checked off the suspects on her fingers. “Erik Stadler. Dirk Stadler. Joachim Winkler. Jens-Uwe Hartig. Those are our main suspects, and we need to watch them closely. Even more important, we need to find any other potential victims. So we’re going to have to put more pressure on Stadler Junior, Hartig, and the UCF.”
“Let’s do it,” Bodenstein agreed with a nod. “We need to get this motherfucker.”
Sunday, December 30, 2012
The dim light of dawn filtered through the slats of the blinds as Bodenstein opened his eyes and waited for his mind to disengage from the remnants of a confusingly realistic dream. It was rare for the cases he worked on during the day to bother him at night. Yet this time, some of the people who’d been baffling him and his team with riddles had slipped into his dreams, as if they wanted to tell him something. He turned over on his back, savoring the utter silence in the house. No child calling for him, no dog who wanted to be taken for a walk. And no Inka either. The other side of the bed was untouched. She’d sent him a text in the late afternoon saying that she had to go to Limburg on an emergency case and had no idea how late she would be. Since she didn’t want to wake him, she would sleep at home. The flimsiness of her excuse made Bodenstein feel depressed. In the past, she had often come to his place in the middle of the night, and she had a key to the front door. Why was she doing this? What had happened?