To Catch a Killer

by Nele Neuhaus

  He stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed his face. Pia was reminded of what Franka Fellmann had told her about Helen Stadler.

  “We’ve heard that Helen had serious mental problems, yet she refused to see a therapist.”

  “She suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder. She didn’t need therapy, just love and security. The feeling of being safe. And that’s what I gave her.”

  “It apparently wasn’t enough. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have taken her own life.” Pia was eager to see how Hartig would react to this provocation. She was expecting an angry outburst, a fierce protest, but she got the opposite response.

  “Yes,” said Hartig calmly. “It obviously wasn’t enough for her. That’s the worst thing about it. I failed her.”

  “People have told us that Helen never tried to work through the trauma; instead she wallowed in it. And you supported her choice. Last summer, you and Helen visited the flower shop owned by Renate Rohleder, whose mother was the first victim of the sniper. What were you looking for there?”

  “I did not encourage Helen to dwell on the trauma. I helped her to work it out.”

  “By threatening people?”

  “No one threatened anybody,” said Hartig, shaking his head. “Helen was totally beside herself when she stood there, facing that woman. Until we walked into that flower shop, I had no idea who Renate was.”

  Pia asked him a few more questions about Helen, Dirk and Erik Stadler, Mark Thomsen, and Helen’s grandparents. Hartig answered calmly and without hesitation. Everything he said sounded absolutely credible and sincere. His expression matched his tone of voice, and he didn’t try to gloss over or conceal anything. No contradictions, no exaggerations. The perfect surviving relative who was still wrestling with the loss, but who wanted to regain his footing in life. A little too perfect. Pia was amazed that Bodenstein, who was an extraordinarily good judge of character, had been fooled by Hartig. He had called him a Good Samaritan who’d been utterly derailed by Helen’s death. The man who stood before her seemed in no way devastated. Either he was making a gigantic effort to process the loss of his beloved fiancée and his failure to save her or he was an ice-cold, calculating psychopath who was leading them all down the garden path.

  Lis Wenning showed up without an attorney. She made a bleary-eyed but composed impression. Bodenstein took her into his office and offered her a seat in one of the visitors’ chairs.

  “I would walk through fire for Erik,” she began. “We’ve been together for six years now, and have weathered both highs and lows in our relationship, especially since Helen’s suicide. Erik loved his sister very much, and her death hit him hard. But he also viewed her shortcomings realistically. Helen suffered a psychological trauma because of her mother’s death, but above all, because of the breakup of her family. She clung to her father, and he in turn found comfort in being with his daughter. She was truly sick: she had anxiety attacks, an extreme fear of loss, and she could not cope with even the slightest change.”

  Lis Wenning shook her head.

  “When her father wanted to buy a new car, she had a fit; she locked herself in the old car and cried like a little girl. New furniture scared her. If something was simply moved in the house, she was frightened. Dirk humored her and changed nothing. He idolized her. And she could be extremely lovable sometimes.”

  “Your boyfriend’s bookkeeper told us quite different stories about Helen,” Bodenstein remarked.

  “Franka? Yes, I bet she did. Erik had Helen working for him for a while, when his father was extremely busy. Franka was insanely jealous. She would rather work a twelve-hour day than have assistance from anyone else. She took over everything in the company, and Erik let that happen because it was convenient for him. But then she started treating him like a child. And she would snap at clients on the phone because she was completely swamped and could no longer attend to her own work. So finally, he decided to fire her.”

  “Oh, she told us that she had quit,” Bodenstein remarked.

  “Yes, this time she did,” Lis Wenning agreed. “When Erik tried to fire her two years ago, she promised to improve, so he changed his mind and hired a receptionist.”

  “Back to Helen.” Bodenstein stretched out his legs. “How was her relationship to Mark Thomsen?”

  “She liked him a lot,” Wenning recalled. “I’d almost say she worshipped him. For a long time, he was the only person she confided in. When girls reach a certain age, they no longer tell their fathers everything.”

  She smiled, but then turned serious again.

  “But then Jens-Uwe came along, and she lost interest in everyone else. She had known him for a while before that, but he paid her little attention while he was still married.”

  “I had no idea about that.” Bodenstein was surprised and jotted down a note.

  “None of us ever met his wife, but she apparently left him. He was very upset when his marriage ended, which made him attractive to Helen. Then he fell in love with her. It was the real thing. For a while.”

  “What do you mean? I thought they were going to get married.” Bodenstein said in surprise.

  “He wanted to get married, but she didn’t. She always acted happy, but she wasn’t. I think she was afraid of him.”

  “Why would she be afraid of him? Her father told us that the relationship with Jens-Uwe had done her good, and she’d calmed down a lot.”

  “He gave her pills. He was a doctor and could write prescriptions. I don’t know much about it, but once I saw one of the prescriptions and Googled the drug. Lorazepam is a benzodiazepine, and is used to treat anxiety, epilepsy, and sleep disorders. And it’s very addictive. I told Erik about it, and he talked to Helen, but she denied everything. But I’m convinced that she was taking the pills, because she had totally changed. She often seemed far away, tired, and lethargic.”

  “Why would Hartig want to give her those pills?” Bodenstein asked.

  “So he could control her better,” replied Wenning. “Jens-Uwe was a control freak. He kept calling her and texting her, and he expected answers instantly. And Helen obeyed. Until Mark heard about it. He got her to stop taking the pills. She had terrible withdrawal symptoms that tormented her. And she probably realized that Jens-Uwe wasn’t good for her. Instead of persuading her to begin psychotherapy, he sedated her. Helen tried to break out of the relationship, but he wouldn’t let her go. All she could do was decide not to move in with him. She was very unhappy.”

  “A neighbor told me that he bought a house to move into with Helen after the wedding,” said Bodenstein.

  “He’d already owned the house for a few years. He used to live there with his ex. That’s why Helen didn’t want to move there.”

  “Do you think Hartig is capable of killing someone?” Bodenstein asked after a brief pause.

  Lis Wenning considered his question.

  “There’s something strange about him,” she admitted. “Something obsessive, like a lone wolf. But whether he could kill someone? I don’t know.”

  “What about Mark Thomsen?”

  “He’s killed people on the job,” she replied. “As an officer in the Federal Border Patrol. Mark was really fond of Helen. Like a daughter, I would say. Her suicide hit him hard. Yes, I think he could do it. After all, he doesn’t have much left to lose.”

  “Apparently, he and Helen concocted plans for revenge,” Bodenstein said. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “No.” Wenning shook her head. “Helen never talked to me about the sad incident with her mother. All I know about it is what Erik and Dirk told me.”

  “How about an alibi for your boyfriend? Why won’t he tell us where he was at those specific times?” Bodenstein wanted to know.

  “Maybe because he really can’t tell you,” said Lis. “When he’s running, he tunes out everything. And he doesn’t just run a lap through the park, like other people do. When he’s into it, he can run thirty or forty kilometers.”

  “Do you consider him c
apable of shooting anyone to death?”

  “Never!” Wenning said with conviction. “Erik might be a little crazy when it comes to his daredevil hobbies, but he loves his freedom more than anything else. For that reason alone, he would never do anything that might land him in prison. And for that matter, he’s . . . selfish. As sad as Helen’s suicide made him feel, he would never put his own life in jeopardy because of her.”

  Henning phoned Pia just as she drove into the courtyard at headquarters in Hofheim.

  “Sorry I didn’t call earlier,” he said. “But I still don’t have any results worth mentioning. The people I’m expecting information from either went away over Christmas and New Year’s, or they’re stonewalling. But I’ve done some research and spoken with a few people who worked at the UCF back when Rudolf was there.”

  Pia parked in the back of the lot by the garages where the service vehicles were kept, and turned off the engine.

  “Rudolf probably did circumvent certain regulations in order to help a friend’s son. The young man suffered from a cardiac disease that could only be cured by a transplant.”

  “Let me guess,” Pia interrupted him. “Maximilian Gehrke.”

  “No names were mentioned,” replied Henning. “The incident took place in the summer or fall of 2002. A patient was brought in. And she happened to have blood type—”

  “O,” said Pia, finishing the sentence. “Possibly Kirsten Stadler. What happened then?”

  “My informant refuses to testify and will deny that he ever discussed this matter with me,” Henning emphasized, “but he swears that the patient was left to die even though they still could have helped her. And he also knew that the woman’s family received a significant amount of money after the fact.”

  “Is fifty thousand euros a significant amount?” Pia asked.

  “I heard talk of a million,” Henning countered.

  How many hearts had been transplanted during the summer or fall of 2002 at the UCF anyway? And how many brain-dead women of blood type O had been brought in during this time? She couldn’t automatically assume that it was Kirsten Stadler they were talking about, but it was highly likely.

  A silver BMW drove into the courtyard and parked a few meters away. Pia watched as Andreas Neff got out and stood next to the car talking on the phone before he grabbed his briefcase and sauntered over.

  “At the moment, we’re firmly convinced that the perp is retaliating against relatives of the people he holds responsible for the deaths of Kirsten and Helen Stadler,” Pia said to Henning. “If your informant was actively involved in the Kirsten Stadler case, then he or his closest relatives are in great danger. If you tell us who he is, we can protect him.”

  “I’ll tell him that,” Henning promised. “If we don’t hear anything else today, I wish you a Happy New Year. And if you don’t have anything better to do—we’re having a few people over to celebrate at Ralf and Tina’s place, and you’re most welcome.”

  It gave Pia a little jealous pang to hear that Henning was going to celebrate the New Year with Miriam, his second wife and Pia’s former best friend, in exactly the way she’d always wanted to: on the roof terrace of Henning’s brother’s penthouse apartment, which had a fantastic view of the financial district and the fireworks. But back when they were married, Henning hadn’t had either the desire or the time. Pia had usually welcomed the New Year in one of the two autopsy rooms at the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Or she had spent the evening alone at home on the couch. A lot of things hadn’t changed for her. Tonight she’d be sitting on the couch at home, too, but at least not entirely alone.

  “Thanks for your help, Henning,” she said, opening the car door. “I hope you guys have a nice party.”

  She headed across the parking lot to the entrance of the Regional Criminal Unit. It was a mystery to her why everyone associated with the Frankfurt Trauma Clinic was so taciturn. There must be a reason for this collective refusal to testify, just as there had to be an explanation for Rudolf’s move from the renowned hospital with all its medical and financial means to a rather insignificant private clinic. What had really happened back then? It couldn’t solely be related to the Kirsten Stadler case. Something else must be involved. And it made Pia mad that as far as the UCF was concerned, she kept running into walls of silence.

  “I’m talking to you only because Helen would have wanted it that way,” Vivien Stern began the conversation. Karoline Albrecht sat across from her at a little table in the corner of Café Laumer. Last night, Vivien had left a message on Karoline’s Facebook page, agreeing to meet for coffee, much to her surprise. Since it was Karoline’s treat, the young woman boldly ordered the most expensive breakfast with a glass of prosecco. For the first time in days, Karoline had a little appetite, and decided on a brioche and a café au lait.

  “Anyway, she wanted to go to the media with what she’d found out. But she was murdered before she could do that.”

  “Excuse me?” Karoline stared at the young woman in astonishment. Vivien Stern was twenty-five years old and had spent a year at the University of Williamstown in Massachussetts, where she’d been studying earth sciences and biology. Yet if she’d claimed she was only graduating from high school next spring, Karoline would have believed her. She was very slim, with straight, ash-blond hair and a pretty face. “I thought Helen committed suicide?”

  “No way!” replied Vivien in a tone of utter conviction. “She was on the track of a huge news story and totally committed to seeing it through. She would never have jumped in front of a train.”

  “What sort of news story?” Karoline asked. It almost turned her stomach to watch the way Vivien put a slice of smoked salmon on a croissant and bit into it.

  “Helen was obsessed with the thought that the doctors had let her mother die so they could get at her organs,” she told Karoline with her mouth full. “I always found it a tad absurd, but she was collecting evidence, and eventually I was convinced that she was right. She wanted to bring to light everything that happened back then. Everybody had lied to her, and she was going to flip out if she couldn’t uncover the truth. Besides, she suspected that her friend was trying to poison her.”

  “Did you and Helen know each other well?”

  “Yes, we did. We’d been best friends in school and later studied together here in Frankfurt.” Vivien followed the smoked salmon croissant with a soft-boiled egg. She seemed to be starving.

  “I see.” Karoline looked at her notebook. She’d jotted down a few questions that she wanted to ask the young woman, but Vivien spoke first, telling her that Helen had been bossed around by her boyfriend, who had numbed her with drugs.

  Karoline Albrecht put down her pen and sighed. Vivien was turning out to be a chatterbox with a penchant for dwelling on melodramatic details and a predilection for exaggeration. Karoline was wasting her time. She was also having to strain to hear her conspiratorial whispering, because of all the background noise in the café. At the next table, a couple of middle-aged women kept bursting into cackling laughter.

  “Helen was so mentally exhausted; it was really a shame.” Vivien shook her head and took a deep breath. “I told her she ought to take a year off and come to America with me to study. A new life with new friends. Leave all this shit behind. She thought it sounded awesome, and we started to make plans. We didn’t tell anyone, but somehow Jens-Uwe got wind of it. Maybe he was hacking her cell or her laptop. Anyway, one evening he showed up at my door. He told me I’d regret it if I kept filling Helen’s head with such bullshit ideas. She loved him and didn’t want to go to the States. I told him to fuck off, and then he had a fit and beat me up. When I told Helen about it, she got very quiet. Her cell kept ringing. It was him. He always wanted to know where she was and who she was with. That scared her, especially after she found out that he’d done the same thing to his ex-wife. He stalked her until she had to get a restraining order from the court. When she told me that, I put even more pressure on her to come with me. And I want
ed her to tell her father and Mark all about Jens-Uwe.”

  “Mark?” Karoline was starting to lose track of all the people whose names she’d never heard before and who meant nothing to her.

  “A kind of fatherly friend. I think she knew him from the support group that she often went to with her grandparents. But she didn’t want to tell him anything. She said Mark would kill Jens-Uwe if he heard what was going on. The best thing would be to just disappear, from one day to the next.” Vivien sighed and took a sip of prosecco, which brought a grimace to her face. She chased it with some freshly squeezed orange juice. “So I arranged everything in secret. Student visa, apartment, application to the university in Connecticut, and plane tickets. We were supposed to leave on October first. All this time, Helen had been playing the role of the happy fiancée to keep Jens-Uwe calm. She even bought a wedding dress! At the same time, she secretly talked to all sorts of people and was convinced that she could file some kind of lawsuit against the doctor who was responsible for her mother’s death.”

  Now it’s getting interesting, Karoline thought, feeling her stomach start to flutter with excitement. Has my patience finally paid off?

  “Have you got any names?” That was the crucial question.

  Vivien hesitated.

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Karoline’s hopes were dashed.

  “Well, then, let me thank you for your time.” She forced a smile and took out her wallet to pay the bill. “Maybe what you told me will help somehow.”

  “Why don’t you let the police find out who shot your mother?” Vivien asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” replied Karoline. “And I’m sure they’ll find him. But there’s something else I’m interested in.”