Bad Wolf

by Nele Neuhaus

  As Bodenstein was driving toward Hofheim, he summoned Kai, Cem, and Christian to the station and also called the state attorney’s office to petition for a search warrant immediately for the home of Kilian Rothemund. Forty-five minutes after he made the calls, the whole team except for Pia had gathered in the watch room. Even after listening to the recording three times, nobody could say whether it was a female or male voice that in two brief sentences revealed what no one had known previously.

  The man you’re looking for lives at the trailer park on Höchster Weg in Schwanheim. And he’s there now.

  This was the first concrete tip since the regional newspapers all over southern Hessen had printed the photo of Kilian Rothemund.

  “Send two patrol cars to the trailer park,” Bodenstein told the dispatcher. “We’re leaving right away. Ostermann, if the search warrant arrives, then—”

  He broke off. Yes, then what?

  “I’ll send it as an e-mail attachment to your iPhone, boss,” Kai Ostermann said with a nod.

  “Will that work?” Bodenstein asked in astonishment.

  “Sure. I’ll scan it in,” Ostermann said with a grin. Bodenstein had no trouble using his iPhone, but modern communications technology sometimes baffled him.

  “And how—”

  “I know how it works,” said Kröger, interrupting Bodenstein impatiently. “Come on, let’s get going before this guy slips through our fingers again.”

  Half an hour later, they reached the trailer park on the banks of the Main River. Two patrol cars were parked in the lot in front of a low building painted yellow, which housed a restaurant with the pompous name of the Main Riviera, as well as the bathrooms for the trailer park residents. Bodenstein left his jacket in the car and rolled up his sleeves; his shirt was already sticking to his back this early in the morning. Next to the overflowing garbage cans, which gave off an unpleasant odor, empty beer cases were stacked to the roof. An open window with torn wire mesh in front of it allowed a view into a filthy, cramped kitchen. Dirty utensils and glasses covered every free surface, and Bodenstein shuddered at the thought of having to eat anything that was prepared here.

  One of his uniformed colleagues had tracked down the proprietor of the Main Riviera. Bodenstein and Kröger stepped onto the terrace, which was made of concrete flagstones. A big sign announced THE GARDEN CAFÉ. In the evening, the increasing blood-alcohol level of the guests probably convinced them that the strings of lights and plastic palm trees suggested a sort of vacation ambience. But in the bright sunshine, the dilapidated, ugly state of the premises was mercilessly revealed. Places like this made Bodenstein feel deeply depressed.

  At a table with a plastic tablecloth under a faded umbrella, the couple who ran the place sat peacefully having their breakfast, which seemed to consist mainly of coffee and cigarettes. The emaciated bald man was leafing through the Bild am Sonntag tabloid with nicotine-yellowed fingers and was not particularly pleased about a police visit early on a Sunday morning. He was wearing a pair of cook’s checked trousers and a dingy yellow T-shirt. Bodenstein suspected that it had been a very long time since either article of clothing had seen the inside of a washing machine. The penetrating odor of old sweat emanating from the man merely confirmed his suspicion.

  “Don’t know him,” the man muttered after casting an uninterested glance at the photo that Kröger held under his nose. His wife coughed and stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

  “Let’s see it.” She held out her hand. She wore gold rings on her sausage fingers, whose nails looked like red-polished talons. Too much black mascara and teased hair pulled back into a ponytail revealed a style popular in the sixties, when she was young. The Schwanheim version of Irma la Douce. She was big, voluptuous, and energetic. Obviously, she would have no problem handling drunken guests. A sickly sweet aroma of garbage wafted over the terrace. Bodenstein grimaced and held his breath for a moment.

  “Do you know this man?” he asked, almost choking.

  “Yeah. That’s Doc,” she said after studying the photo. “He lives in number forty-nine. Down that way. Green awning in front of the trailer.”

  The thin man gave his wife a dirty look, which she ignored.

  “I don’t want any trouble here.” She gave Kröger back the picture. “If our tenants are in trouble with the cops, it’s not my problem.”

  A very healthy attitude, Bodenstein thought. He thanked her and hurried to leave the Main Riviera and its proprietors, who began arguing loudly. They had to find the trailer before the bald guy could warn Kilian Rothemund by phone. He sent his colleagues to search in every direction, because there was no rhyme or reason to the space numbers in the huge area. Cem Altunay finally found the trailer with the number 49 near the far end of the grounds. The awning may have been green forty years ago, but the number was right. A couple of young people were sitting on garden chairs in front of the trailer next door and looked on curiously.

  “Nobody home,” yelled a young man wearing a jersey with Deutschland emblazoned on it.

  Oh, great.

  The teenagers came here only on summer weekends to party, as they said. Their trailer belonged to the uncle of the patriotic soccer fan. They didn’t know their neighbor very well, but they identified him easily from the photo. Yesterday, Kilian Rothemund had had a visit from a guy on a Harley, and this morning he took off on his motor scooter. They never talked much to him, mostly just saying hello or good-bye.

  “The guy doesn’t have much to do with anyone here,” said the young man. “He mostly just sits at his laptop inside his trailer. Once in a while, he has a visitor, usually some weird people. Over at the café, they said he used to be a lawyer, but now he works in a french fry stand. That’s life, I guess.”

  Bodenstein ignored the last wise remark.

  “What about his visitors?” he asked. “What sort of people are they? Men, women?”

  “All kinds. I heard he helps people who have trouble with the authorities and stuff. Your lawyer at the trailer park, sort of.”

  The other teens laughed.

  The nephew of the trailer owner said he would be willing to serve as a witness during the search of the trailer. Kröger had already opened it with no trouble.

  “What do I have to do?” the teen asked, squeezing through the sparse hedge.

  “Not a thing. Just stand at the door and watch,” replied Bodenstein as they walked under the awning.

  “Can I go in?”

  “All right, but don’t touch anything,” Kröger warned him. He’d already put on his latex gloves and booties. Inside the trailer, it was stuffy, but everything was neat and clean. Kröger began opening the cupboards.

  “Clothes, pots and pans, books—the usual stuff,” he commented. “The bed is made. But I don’t see any laptop.”

  He checked the few drawers and found a creased photo under a stack of underwear.

  “Once a child molester, always a child molester.” He handed Bodenstein the photo with a disgusted expression. It showed a pretty blond girl about five or six years old.

  “That’s his daughter,” said Bodenstein. “She’s fourteen now. But he’s not allowed to see her or his son.”

  “Understandable.” Kröger continued the search but found nothing at first glance that was either suspicious or compromising.

  “I’ll call my boys,” he said. “We’re going to have to toss this place thoroughly. Did Kai send you the search warrant?”

  “Er, I don’t know.” Bodenstein took out his smartphone. “Where do I look?”

  Kröger took the phone from him and pressed the HOME button.

  “You haven’t even entered a password,” he reproached him. “If you lose the thing, anyone can use it to make calls.”

  “I always forget my passwords,” Bodenstein admitted. “It gets so frustrating when I enter the wrong numbers three times in a row.”

  “A real tech guy, huh?” Kröger shook his head and grinned. He pressed the letter symbol nex
t to the number 1, which showed he had a new message. “Here’s the e-mail from Kai. Look, you just have to scroll down in the text and you’ll find the link to the pdf.”

  “You do it,” Bodenstein told his colleague, reaching out his hand for his phone. “I have to call Pia.”

  Christian Kröger sighed.

  “Wait, I’ll forward the mail to me; then you can make your call. Really, Oliver, I think you need a basic course in dealing with modern communication methods.”

  Bodenstein secretly agreed with him. Somehow he’d missed the boat since Lorenz was out of the house. But maybe he could get some private coaching from his eight-year-old nephew without anyone finding out about it.

  Kröger handed him the phone, and he tapped in Pia’s number. But at the same moment, he got an incoming call. Inka! What could she want from him on a Sunday morning?

  “Hello, Oliver,” she said. “Tell me, are you still thinking about Rosalie?”

  “Rosalie?” Bodenstein frowned. Had he missed or forgotten something? “What about her?”

  “Today at noon, she has the cooking contest at the Radisson Blu,” Inka reminded him. “Cosima isn’t here, and we promised her we’d go.”

  Shit! The cooking contest had completely slipped his mind, even though he had sworn to his daughter that he’d be there. Being chosen to participate was a high honor. She would refuse to accept any excuse about professional obligations preventing him from coming, and his sister-in-law Marie-Louise would hold it against him forever.

  “What time is it now?” he asked.

  “Twenty to eleven.”

  “I actually did forget about it,” Bodenstein admitted. “But of course I’ll be there. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “No problem. Let’s meet at quarter to twelve in front of the hotel, okay?”

  “All right. See you soon.” He ended the call and uttered a rather vulgar curse, which was rare for him. It caused Kröger to glance at him, aghast.

  “I have to go. Family matter. Tell Pia to call me if something comes up.”

  * * *

  Sheer exhaustion had made her fall asleep, and in an uncomfortable position at that. It was completely dark in the room except for a few narrow beams of light coming through the closed shutters, telling her that it was bright daylight outside. How long had she been asleep? The hope that she had only dreamed the night’s events evaporated when she felt the cord restraints that cut painfully into her wrists. The duct tape that they had stuck over her mouth and wound around her body several times was tightly fastened and pulled at her hair every time she moved. But that was the least of her worries. They had bound her to a chair that stood in the middle of the therapy room, her ankles strapped to the chair legs, her hands pulled behind her back and fastened to the back of the chair. A tight plastic strap around her waist fixed her to the damned chair. The only thing she could move was her head. Although her situation was more than shitty, at least she was still alive, and she hadn’t been beaten or raped. If only she weren’t so thirsty and didn’t have this awful pressure on her bladder.

  On her desk, the phone rang. After the third ring, it broke off, and she heard her own voice. Hello, you have reached the psychotherapeutic practice of Leonie Verges. I will be out of the office until July 12. Please leave me a message and I will call you back.

  The answering machine beeped, but nobody said anything on the tape. All she heard was hoarse breathing, almost like wheezing.

  “Leonie…”

  She twitched in shock at the sound of the voice before she realized it was coming from the machine.

  “Are you thirsty, Leonie?” The voice had obviously been disguised. “You will get even thirstier. Did you know that dying of thirst is probably the most painful death there is? No? Hmm … The rule of thumb is: Three to four days without water and you’re dead. The first symptoms begin after one to one and a half days. The urine turns quite dark, almost orange, from the lack of water, and then you stop sweating. The body sucks all the water out of the organs, which don’t need it as urgently. The stomach, intestines, liver, and kidneys shrink. It’s unhealthy, to be sure, but not immediately fatal. The good thing is that you no longer have to pee.”

  The caller laughed maliciously, and Leonie closed her eyes.

  “The water is directed to the most vital organs, the heart and the brain. But at some point they begin to shrink, too. The brain no longer functions properly. You develop delusions, panic attacks, and can no longer think clearly. And then you fall into a coma. After that it’s only a matter of hours until you die. Not a pretty thought, is it?”

  Again the revolting laugh.

  “You know, Leonie, you should have chosen the people you associate with more carefully. You have definitely picked the scum of the earth. And that’s why you now have to die of thirst. Nice of you to hang a sign on your door so no one will disturb you before you fall into a coma. And if someone finds you in a few days, with any luck you’ll be a very appetizing corpse. Unless a fly wanders into your house and lays its eggs in your nostrils or in your eyes. But that would be no concern of yours anymore. So long! And don’t take it too hard. We all have to die sometime.”

  The scornful laughter echoed in Leonie’s ears. There was a click and then silence. Until then, Leonie had consoled herself with the fact that she hadn’t really been harmed and that somebody was bound to find her soon. But now the hopelessness of her situation dawned on her, and fear hit her like a piledriver. Her heart began to race and the sweat broke out from every pore. She desperately tried to free herself from her bonds, but they were so tight that they refused to budge even a millimeter. By sheer force of will, she quelled the rising tears. Every tear she cried would be a dangerous waste of her bodily fluids, and she was also afraid that her nose would get stopped up and she would suffocate because she couldn’t breathe through her mouth.

  Stay calm! she implored herself, but it was easier thought than done. She was sitting in her house, and on the door hung the sign that she had idiotically put up yesterday: ON VACATION UNTIL JULY 12. The sign and the drawn shades were a clear indication that no one was home. Her cell phone was on the kitchen table. The landline phone stood on her desk, twenty feet from her chair and thus unreachable. How long had she already been sitting here? Leonie balled her hands into fists and opened them again. They hurt like hell, as if her circulation had been blocked. She tried to look back over her shoulder at the clock hanging on the wall, but it was too dark for her to make out anything. She couldn’t expect any help from outside, so she would have to help herself. Or die.

  * * *

  Emma was so out of it that she didn’t notice the red light at the intersection with the road to Kronberg and barely avoided crashing into the back of the car braking in front of her. She braced herself with both hands on the steering wheel and spat out a furious curse.

  Ten minutes ago, Florian had called her from the emergency room at the hospital in Bad Homburg, where he had taken Louisa. They had gone to Wehrheim to the Lochmühle pony ride, and she had fallen off. They had discussed this a zillion times before. Louisa was still too little; she would have to wait a year or two for things like pony riding. But Louisa must have begged her father, and since he wanted to score points with her, he’d allowed himself to be persuaded. The light changed to green and Emma turned left toward Oberursel. She was going much faster than the speed limit, but she didn’t care. Florian hadn’t told her the details of what had happened to Louisa, but if he’d taken her to the ER, it couldn’t be good. Emma pictured her little daughter with crushed bones and gaping wounds. The only positive thing about this fiasco was that now she could notify the child-protection agency and insist that Louisa go back home with her tonight. No more staying in some strange boardinghouse or apartment.

  Twenty minutes later, she stormed into the lobby of the hospital. There was no one in the waiting room of the ER, and she rang the bell next to the milky pane in the door. Several minutes passed before somebody finally deigned to
open it.

  “My daughter is here,” she blurted out. “I want to see her. Now. She fell off a pony and—”

  “What’s your name?” The pimply young pup in hospital blues was used to excitable relatives and was not easily ruffled.

  “Finkbeiner. Where is my daughter?” Emma tried looking over his shoulder but saw only an empty corridor.

  “Come with me,” he said, and she followed him with a pounding heart into one of the examination rooms.

  Louisa lay on the examination table, small and pale, with a big white bandage on her forehead, her left arm in a splint. Emma almost broke down in tears when she saw her child alive in front of her.

  “Mama,” the girl whispered, feebly raising one hand. Emma’s heart bled at the sight.

  “Oh, my darling!” She paid no attention to Florian, who stood there sheepishly, or to the doctor. Emma hugged Louisa and stroked her cheek. She was so fragile, her skin so translucent that the blood vessels were almost visible. How could Florian have allowed this delicate creature to be subjected to such danger?

  “You mustn’t be mad at Papa,” Louisa said softly. “I wanted to go riding.”

  In a corner of Emma’s heart, jealous rage flared up. Unbelievable how Florian had manipulated the girl.

  “Mrs. Finkbeiner?”

  “What’s wrong with my daughter?” Emma looked the doctor in the eye. “Did she break anything?”

  “Yes, her left arm. Unfortunately, the fracture is a bit displaced, so we’ll have to operate. The concussion will heal in a few days,” replied the doctor, a wiry woman with a reddish blond pageboy and bright, alert eyes. “In addition…”

  She paused.

  “Yes, what?” Emma asked nervously. Wasn’t this bad enough?

  “I would like to speak with both of you. Nurse Jasmina will stay with Louisa. Please follow me.”

  Emma could hardly bear to leave her daughter alone in the big, sterile examination room, but she followed the doctor and Florian into a nearby office. The doctor sat down behind her desk and motioned toward the two chairs. Emma sat down uncomfortably next to her husband, careful not to touch him.