To Catch a Killer

by Nele Neuhaus

  “Okay,” Engel agreed. “I’ll see what we can arrange. Put together all the info you have. And, Bodenstein, we have to release Erik Stadler from investigative custody if we have no new evidence against him.”

  “But since he’s been in custody, there haven’t been any more shootings,” Bodenstein remarked.

  “No judge in the world is going to accept that reasoning,” said Dr. Engel, shaking her head.

  “Then at least I want him kept under surveillance,” Bodenstein demanded. “We do have other possible suspects, but we haven’t ruled him out completely.”

  “I’ll get it approved,” the commissioner promised, and turned to go. “Order his release, and keep me in the loop.”

  Dr. Peter Riegelhoff still hadn’t called back. The attorney was neither at his office or at home, and his cell was turned off.

  “When somebody so obviously goes out of his way to avoid us, it means he’s got something to hide.” Bodenstein was more furious than he’d ever been before. It was bad enough that the information from the witness in the high-rise hadn’t been checked out until now. Even worse was Ehrenberg’s reaction. Everyone on the special commission team was working full-bore and with total concentration, and a single unmotivated slowpoke like Ehrenberg negated all their efforts. Valuable time had been wasted, time that could cost a person his life. Ostermann had given clear instructions to the officers who were taking and evaluating the hotline calls: Every tip, no matter how unlikely its connection to any of the crime scenes, had top priority.

  “Maybe Riegelhoff is on vacation,” Pia said. “Lots of people were gone over the holidays, and—”

  “Let’s go out to Liederbach,” Bodenstein interrupted her as they drove along the A 66. “I want to speak to Stadler Senior one more time.”

  Pia put on her turn signal and took the next exit off the autobahn. A couple of minutes later, they found Stadler loading a suitcase into the trunk of his car.

  “Going somewhere?” Pia asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to visit my sister in Southern Bavaria,” replied Stadler. “Nobody should have to spend New Year’s Eve alone. I’ll be back on Wednesday. Got to get back to work then.”

  “Please give us your sister’s address and a cell number where we can reach you,” Pia requested.

  “Of course. Come on, I’ll write it down for you.”

  Stadler closed the trunk with a bang, then limped off toward the house. Pia and Bodenstein followed him. It was dark inside the house; all the blinds had been rolled down. Stadler pulled out the drawer in the sideboard in the hall, took out a pad and pen, and jotted down an address and several phone numbers.

  “What’s going on with my son?” he asked Pia as he handed her the piece of paper.

  “He should be coming home today,” replied Bodenstein. “Mr. Stadler, we have a question for you. Do you know how to shoot?”

  “Me? No way.” Dirk Stadler shook his head with a hint of a smile. “I disapprove of firearms. I’m a confirmed pacifist.”

  “Did you serve in the army?”

  “No.”

  “One more thing,” said Pia. “When was the last time you spoke with Mark Thomsen?”

  “That was a long time ago.” Stadler frowned and thought about it. “Two or three weeks after Helen’s funeral.”

  “He hasn’t tried to get in touch with you recently?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “And how about Jens-Uwe Hartig? Have you spoken with him recently?”

  “No. Jens-Uwe broke off contact completely after Helen’s death. And I can understand that. Helen was our connection.”

  “Why were you making payments to Mr. Hartig once a month?” Bodenstein asked.

  “That was my contribution to household expenses and for Helen’s studies,” Stadler replied. “Officially, she was still living here, but in reality, she was almost always at his place. She had no income of her own, and I didn’t want Jens-Uwe to have to pay her bills as long as they weren’t married.”

  That sounded logical, since Stadler had stopped making payments after Helen died.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Stadler. That’ll be all for today,” Bodenstein said with a nod. “Have a nice trip and a Happy New Year.”

  “Thank you, and I wish you both the same,” Stadler said with a smile. “I hope you will have a quiet night tonight. And if you have any further questions, just give me a call.”

  It was rush hour at the supermarket. People were carrying bottle rockets and firecrackers to their cars, stocking up on groceries and booze as if there were no tomorrow. Even at the bakery next door, business was as brisk as usual, Hürmet Schwarzer already forgotten. Management didn’t think the tragic death of a shop clerk was worth even a photo with a black ribbon. It was only three days ago, and the bloodstain in front of the shoe store was still clearly visible. In her place, other pretty young women were selling loaves of bread, rolls, and pastry, smiling just as insincerely as lovely Hürmet had. That’s how people were. Repress and forget.

  He carried his shopping bags to the car, which was at the far end of the parking lot, and glanced over at the high-rise, as almost everyone had done since last Friday, giving an involuntary shudder. People were still talking about what happened, and they avoided stepping on the bloodstain. A few candles and flowers had been left there, and some people were even taking pictures of it. But the incident didn’t particularly affect them; it had nothing to do with their miserable little world. They soothed their guilty conscience with stupid clichés like “Life must go on” while deep inside, they knew that their lack of empathy, their selfishness, and their hunger for sensationalism were disgusting. He looked into people’s faces and saw heedless animals who thought only about themselves, gobbling their food, and propagating as if their genes were worth it. He was having a harder and harder time tolerating other people. He was glad that he could escape because he had no ties to any of them.

  He stowed the shopping bags and the case of mineral water in the trunk; then he drove under the autobahn toward Sossenheim, the district with the ugly apartment buildings. His garage was one of 250 others that had been built in long rows. Twenty metal doors on the left and twenty on the right. No one gave a rat’s ass about anyone else here. He stopped in front of the door marked 117 in the fourth row, climbed out, opened the door, and pulled on his gloves before he backed out the other car. He left the motor running so the heater would warm up. Then he drove his car inside, transferred his purchases, and closed the garage door. This procedure was always a bit laborious, but it was a matter of security. Since the police had turned to the public for help, the newspapers, radio, and television were running daily reports about him. He had to be more careful than ever, because he still had a lot to do. He had discarded the idea of turning to the public via the reporter in order to divulge his motives. All the evidence against him would probably come out during his trial, but until the, he’d arranged everything. It was good that he had this house, this place of refuge. He drove on the A 66 autobahn and glanced at the clock on the dash as he turned onto the B 8 at the Main-Taunus Center. Ten more hours. Then number five would die.

  “I wasn’t jogging, but I . . . I couldn’t tell you what I was doing. Lis would have left me instantly.” After three days of investigative custody, Erik Stadler looked much the worse for wear.

  “Were you with another woman?” Pia asked.

  “No!” Stadler hung his head. “I . . . I went climbing with a friend on the construction site of the European Central Park and . . jumped off.”

  Bodenstein and Pia stared at him, speechless.

  “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell us that sooner?” Bodenstein was the first to regain his composure. “We suspected you of being a murderer. Even worse, we wasted a lot of time on you. Time we could have spent tracking down the killer.”

  He was super pissed off.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Stadler, ashamed of himself. “I was thinking only of myself. We’d been planning th
e jump for months.”

  “You could get killed doing stuff like that.” Pia still couldn’t believe it.

  “I’m not afraid to die,” said Stadler. Now that he’d been released, he seemed relieved. “A boring life would be much worse for me.”

  Bodenstein sighed with fatigue and rubbed his face. He’d never experienced anything like this before. This man would rather let his business suffer and be accused of murder than admit to a misdemeanor that, in comparison, was truly ludicrous. Pia’s intuition had been right after all. As had been the case with Professor Kaltensee and Markus Nowak’s previous cases, Erik Stadler’s suspicious behavior was based on entirely different motives.

  “You may go,” said Bodenstein, now feeling depressed.

  “You mean you’re not going to charge me with anything?”

  “No.” He shoved a notepad and pen across the table. “Please give us the name of your . . . friend who’s also willing to risk his life. And then get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Pia. “What did you talk about with Jens-Uwe Hartig on Friday?”

  “With Jens-Uwe?” Stadler looked up from the notepad.

  “Yes. With your sister’s fiancé.”

  “I haven’t heard a word from him in months,” said Stadler. “Here’s my friend’s number.”

  “Last Friday from seven forty-five P.M. till nine oh nine, you spoke with Hartig on the phone,” Pia persisted. “What about?”

  “I swear to you, I didn’t,” Stadler argued. “The last time I talked to him was at Helen’s funeral.”

  Something began to dawn on Bodenstein. He got up abruptly, tore open the door, and went out in the corridor. Pia grabbed the notepad from the table, nodded to Stadler, and ran after her boss. She caught up with him on the stairs leading to the second floor.

  “What is it?” she asked him, out of breath.

  Bodenstein said nothing. With a grim expression, he turned left and strode into the conference room. Ostermann, Neff, Kim, and Kathrin looked up in astonishment.

  “Neff!” Bodenstein barked. “Whom did Jens-Uwe Hartig talk to on the phone last Friday evening?”

  “Uh . . . just a moment . . .” Napoleon was rummaging frantically through his documents. “I’ll find it in a second.”

  “Hurry up,” Bodenstein grumbled. A deep crease had formed between his eyebrows, a sign that he was really angry.

  “Here it is. Aha,” Neff said with an uncertain smile. “From seven forty-five to nine past nine, Mr. Hartig was on the phone with Dirk Stadler.”

  “With Dirk Stadler?” Bodenstein asked to make sure.

  “Yes, that’s what I just said.”

  “That’s not what you said earlier today.” Bodenstein was just about to lose control. “Pack up your things and get out of here, Neff. I’ve had enough of your sloppy work methods!”

  “But . . . ,” Neff began, and that word was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  “Don’t give me any goddamned excuses. When I say something, I mean it!” Bodenstein shouted at him. “Get out at once! And turn in your visitor’s ID downstairs in the watch room. I don’t want to see you here again.”

  He turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him and leaving the whole team baffled. Beet red with his lips pressed together, Neff grabbed his briefcase, got up, took his jacket, and left the room without another word.

  “Bye-bye, Napoleon,” muttered Kai. “And don’t ever show your face here again.”

  “Wow, I’ve never seen the boss that furious before,” Kathrin whispered; then she grinned. “People, this booting-out is worth a whole case of champagne! I’m sure glad we’re finally rid of that slimy bastard.”

  Karoline’s father wasn’t home when she returned to the house in Oberursel in the early afternoon. Ever since their argument, he seemed to be avoiding her, and that was okay with her. At four, Karoline had a meeting with Irina, her mother’s Russian cleaning lady. The woman wanted to discuss how things would be arranged from now on. She used to come twice a week to take care of the brunt of the cleaning, while Mama had done all the rest. But now her father needed someone to do his laundry and cook for him, too. As she waited for Irina, she looked through the mail that her father, as was his habit, had tossed in the silver bowl on the sideboard in the entryway. He’d taken what interested him into his study, leaving behind all the letters of condolence stacked up in the bowl unopened. Among them was also an opened envelope with a notice from the Oberursel registration office, saying that Mama’s body had been released for burial. Her father hadn’t even considered that worth giving her a call, she thought in annoyance. As usual, he couldn’t be bothered taking care of practical matters. She rummaged through the silver bowl and found the card from the mortuary that had transported Mama’s body to the forensics lab. She also found the inspector’s business card, which her father had likewise tossed in the bowl. Karoline called the mortuary and asked them to take care of her mother’s funeral and all the formalities. She promised to fax the registration office and let them know. As soon as she hung up, Irina called and burst into tears before Karoline could even say hello. Half an hour later, she’d finished up everything. She wrote her father a note to tell him that Irina would be coming in every other day between nine and noon. If that didn’t suit him, he would have to call her and arrange his own schedule.

  Karoline sat down at the dining room table, where she’d sat so often with her mother, and opened the condolence cards. As soon as the date was set for the funeral, she would have to make a list of addresses to send out the notices, which the mortuary would design for her. She had to decide on a fitting quotation and also have a talk with the pastor about renting a venue for the funeral reception. Then she had to notify all the associations and organizations that Mama had joined. Her eyes were burning and her back hurt, but she didn’t allow herself to take a break. For days, she’d been handling one task after another; it was the only thing keeping her going. There was nothing desperate about her search for the truth in her father’s past, but she was convinced that it might be the only reason why she hadn’t lost her mind or simply collapsed.

  Outside the windows, darkness had already fallen. In a few hours, the new year would arrive. She still had time to get in her car and drive over to see Greta. It wouldn’t take more than four hours at most. She remembered the notebook that Vivien Stern had given her that morning. Karoline got up and turned on the light. She took the notebook out of her pocket and began leafing through it curiously. It seemed to be a diary that Helen Stadler had kept day by day, jotting down every triviality that passed through her head. Karoline had viewed Vivien Stern as a rather flipped-out young woman, yet her anxiety had been genuine. She didn’t know what to make of Vivien’s claim that Helen Stadler was murdered.

  In March, the style of the diary entries changed. Karoline attempted to decipher the meaning of the dates, figures, names, and cryptic squiggles that seemed to make no sense. But then she began finding names that she recognized, and she felt a fluttering sense of excitement. Was Helen after the same thing that she was looking for? The young woman had not shied away from speaking directly with the men whom she blamed for the death of her mother. Professor Ulrich Hausmann, Dr. Hans Furtwängler, Fritz Gehrke—even Professor Dieter Rudolf. Karoline swallowed hard. Helen had met with him on June 7. Why? What did she want to ask him? Had he given her an answer? She quickly leafed ahead, just skimming the pages, but then she stopped short.

  “Oh my God,” she murmured when she understood what all these names meant, the ones that Helen had written down.

  Suddenly she realized how late it was. Her father might come home at any minute, and he was the last person she wanted to see this evening. She would call the police inspector when she got home. She hurriedly stuck the notebook back in her pocket, placed the note she had written to her father on the table, turned off the light, and left the house.

  Bodenstein had to stop at the railro
ad crossing in Kelkheim, and he used the time to look at his smartphone, which had been ringing for a while now. Inka had sent him a text, and he also had a new e-mail. He gave a start when he read the sender’s name: The.Judge@gmail.com. Was this some nasty joke, or was the sniper contacting him directly? After the press conference, his name had been all over the media as the leader of the investigation, so it was a simple matter to find his e-mail address. Damn! The message had come in half an hour ago, and in his anger at Neff’s negligence, he hadn’t noticed. After he’d blown his top and thrown that guy out, he’d tried at once to call Dirk Stadler, but his cell was turned off, and no one had answered his sister’s phone either. After twelve days of high tension, Bodenstein’s nerves were just about shot. Quickly, he opened the e-mail and the file attached.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. Adrenaline shot through his body. He didn’t notice that the crossing gate had lifted until the car behind him honked. He swiftly put on his turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of the Kelkheim police station, which was only fifty meters ahead on the left side of the road. From there, he called Pia. New Year’s fireworks were already going off here and there. The whole world would be boisterously celebrating, but somewhere a person was about to die on this last night of the year if he didn’t prevent it.

  “The Judge got in touch with me, this time by e-mail. Listen to this,” he said when Pia called. “ ‘Tonight Number Five will die. It won’t be long now before the whole truth will be revealed to you.’ ”

  “We have to find Riegelhoff right away,” Pia said. Not a word of complaint that she’d have to keep working. “Maybe we should bring him in for a talk. He’s probably the only person who knows all those involved back then.”

  “And Professor Rudolf,” Bodenstein replied. “I am at the station in Kelkheim. I’ll send a cruiser over to get him. By the way, I couldn’t reach Dirk Stadler, either on his cell or at his sister’s.”