by Nele Neuhaus
A man was lying on his stomach on the wet lawn not far from the house. He was barefoot, wearing only a T-shirt and shorts, and his hands were bound behind his back with plastic cuffs. Two officers helped him to his feet. In the front door, which had been smashed in, stood a dark-haired woman, her arms around a boy of about twelve, who was sobbing hysterically. A second boy, somewhat older and almost as tall as his mother, refused to cry, but his fright at the dawn attack was clearly etched on his face.
Dr. Nicola Engel, wearing a gray pantsuit, over which she had put on a bulletproof vest, stood in front of the bearded giant like David facing Goliath. She looked composed and self-confident, as usual.
“Mr. Prinzler, you are under provisional arrest,” she said. “I assume that you know your rights.”
“You are such a bunch of idiots,” said Bernd Prinzler, outraged. His voice was deep and rough, definitely not the one on Leonie Verges’s answering machine. “Why did you have to terrify my family? There’s a doorbell at the gate.”
“Precisely,” Bodenstein muttered.
“Take him away,” said Commissioner Engel.
“May I put on some clothes first?” Prinzler asked.
“No,” said Nicola Engel, her voice icy.
Pia could see that the man would have liked to make a rude reply, but he knew all about being arrested. Any insult would not improve his situation. So he contented himself with spitting in the grass right next to Nicola Engel’s Louboutins. Then with head held high, he walked between the two SAU men, who looked like dwarfs next to him, and got into one of the black vans.
“Mr. Bodenstein, Ms. Kirchhoff, you may now speak to his wife,” said Nicola Engel.
“I want to talk to Mr. Prinzler, not to his wife,” countered Bodenstein, which earned him a dirty look, which he chose to ignore. A commotion and babble of voices in the house drowned out her reply. In a room in the basement of the house, the police had found two young women.
“Well, well,” said Dr. Nicola Engel with a triumphant note in her voice. “I knew it.”
* * *
Last night after leaving the hospital, Meike had sent him a text message. She’d been waiting in vain for a reply ever since. She hadn’t heard from Wolfgang since Sunday, except for the conversation on Monday morning in his office, but at that time there had been no chance to exchange a personal word with him. She felt that she’d been left in the lurch. Hadn’t he promised to take care of her? To stand by her? Why wasn’t he getting in touch with her? Had she done something wrong, something to offend him? Several times that night, Meike had awakened and checked her smartphone, but he’d sent neither a text nor an e-mail. Her disappointment grew from one minute to the next. If there was one person in her life she could always depend on, it was Wolfgang. Her disappointment changed to anger, then to worry. What if something had happened to him, too?
By nine o’clock, she could no longer stand it, so she called him on his cell. He picked up on the second ring. Meike, who hadn’t expected him to answer, didn’t know what to say.
So she said, “Hi, Wolfgang.”
“Hello, Meike. I didn’t see your text until this morning, and I’d turned off the ringer on my phone,” he said. She had the feeling he wasn’t telling her the truth.
“No big deal,” she lied. “I just wanted to tell you that Mama is doing a little better. I visited her twice yesterday.”
“That’s good. She needs you right now.”
“Unfortunately, she still can’t remember anything. The doctors say it may take a while until her memory of the attack returns. Sometimes it never does.”
“Maybe that’s for the best.” Wolfgang cleared his throat. “Meike, I’m afraid I have to go to an important meeting now. I’ll call you—”
“Leonie Verges is dead,” Meike said, interrupting him.
“Who is dead?”
“Mama’s psych lady in Liederbach, where we were on Saturday.”
“Good Lord, that’s horrible,” Wolfgang said, sounding upset. “How do you know this?”
“Because I happened to drop by there. I wanted to ask her about something, on account of Mama. The front door was open and … and I saw her. It was … awful. I just can’t get that sight out of my mind.” Meike made her voice sound shaky, like a scared little girl’s. This trick had always worked on Wolfgang. Maybe now he’d feel sorry for her and invite her to stay at his house again. “Somebody tied her to a chair and taped her mouth shut. The police said she probably died of thirst. I gave them Mama’s computer from her office. Do you think that was the right thing to do?”
It took a moment for him to answer. Wolfgang was a cautious man and always took time to deliberate before he said anything. No doubt he needed a moment to process this information. Meike heard a buzz of voices in the background, footsteps; then a door closed and it was quiet.
“Of course that was the right thing to do,” Wolfgang said at last. “Meike, you should keep out of all this and let the police do their job. What you’re doing is dangerous. Can’t you go stay with your father for a few days?”
Meike couldn’t believe her ears. What kind of shitty suggestion was that?
She mustered her courage.
“I … I thought maybe I could stay with you for a couple of days. You did offer, after all,” she said in her little-girl voice. “I can’t go off to Stuttgart and leave Mama all alone.”
Again, it seemed to take endless seconds before Wolfgang replied. She had caught him off guard with her request to stay with him; he hadn’t actually offered any such invitation. Secretly, she hoped for comforting words and a spontaneous “But of course,” yet the longer he made her wait for an answer, the more she knew that he was trying to think of an excuse that wouldn’t hurt her feelings.
“I’m afraid that’s just not possible,” he said at last.
She could hear the discomfort in his voice and knew what a conflict of conscience she had caused him. That gave her a malicious satisfaction.
“We have a house full of guests until the weekend.”
“All right, then, I guess not,” she replied lightly, although she would have liked to howl in fury at his rejection. “Did you have time to think over the internship idea? I’m out of a job now.”
Another man might have told her to stop bugging him, but Wolfgang’s innate courtesy prevented him from saying anything like that.
“Let’s talk about that on the phone later,” he replied, hedging. “Right now, I really have to get to that meeting. They’re all waiting for me. Keep your chin up. And take care of yourself.”
Meike flung her cell onto the sofa and burst into tears of disappointment. Nothing was going the way she’d hoped. Damn it! Nobody was interested in her. In the past, she would have gone to see her father and demanded his sympathy, but now that he had a new girlfriend, his interest in his daughter had waned. The last time Meike had visited Stuttgart, that bitch had had the nerve to tell her that she should start behaving like an adult instead of like a pubescent fifteen-year-old. Since then, Meike hadn’t bothered to visit.
She dropped onto the sofa and thought about what to do, whom she could call. But she didn’t have a clue.
* * *
The two terrified young women they had found in the basement of Bernd Prinzler’s house were anything but enthusiastic about their “liberation.” The fact that they were Russians and staying in a less than luxurious room was enough proof to the squad leader that they were prostitutes who were being held against their will. Victims of human trafficking. In the euphoria over this discovery, the police hadn’t allowed the women to bring along any personal items. Later at the Frankfurt police headquarters, it turned out that Natasha and Ludmilla Valenkova were in no way streetwalkers. Natasha was working as an au pair for the Prinzlers. She possessed a passport and a valid residence visa. Ludmilla, her older sister, had previously worked for the family as an au pair, but was studying financial IT in Frankfurt. She, too, was living in Germany legally, on a student visa.
All in all the morning’s action had proved to be the height of senselessness and had cost a pile of money. Prinzler’s attorney, a tough woman in her mid-thirties, had made it clear that she would sue for destruction of property as well as for damages due to pain and suffering. She was planning to ask for a considerable sum for the anxiety the family had suffered.
Pia knew that Bodenstein felt no satisfaction at having been proved right. And it infuriated him that his colleagues in Frankfurt had not yet given him an opportunity to speak with Prinzler. But the morning circus had produced one positive result, because Bodenstein happened to run into an old colleague at police headquarters on Adickesallee who had led the previous arrest of Kilian Rothemund. Lutz Altmüller had also been part of the Leopard Special Commission, which had worked the so-far-unsolved case of the other dead girl, who had been found in the Main River on July 31, 2001. Altmüller was willing to meet with Pia, Christian Kröger, and Cem Altunay, and he had suggested they convene at the Unterschweinstiege Restaurant, not far from the Frankfurt Airport. That sounded good to Pia, because she had promised Bodenstein she would drive him to the airport. His flight to Munich left at two-thirty, and since he had only a carry-on, Kai had already checked him in online and downloaded his boarding pass on his iPhone. Bodenstein would be there in plenty of time if she dropped him off at one-thirty at Departure Hall A.
They drove to the Unterschweinstiege, parked in the parking garage, and walked across the street. Cem and Christian were waiting in front of the former forester’s lodge and waved to them as they wandered in search of the restaurant in between the office buildings and the airport hotel.
Chief Detective Inspector Lutz Altmüller was sitting at the first table near the entrance, enjoying an impressive serving of beef brisket with green sauce and salted potatoes. Pia hadn’t eaten anything all day, so the sight of his food made her mouth water.
“I thought that as long as we’re meeting here at lunchtime, we might as well eat lunch,” Altmüller admitted frankly after the greetings and introductions were done. “Have a seat, everyone. Have you eaten yet? I can highly recommend the green sauce.”
He brandished his knife and fork, talking with his mouth full.
“Where’s Bodenstein?”
“He’s flying to Munich,” Pia said. “Tonight, he’s going to be on Germany’s Most Wanted.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. He told me about it.”
It was hard to imagine that Lutz Altmüller had ever been a successful track and field athlete. In 1996, he had participated in the Olympics in Atlanta, and that had given him a special status on the Frankfurt police force. Since then, his muscles had been transformed into flab, the sad result of eating too much fatty food in combination with lack of exercise.
“So, kids, what do you want to know?” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, took a swig of hard cider, and leaned back. The chair groaned under the weight of his hefty bulk.
“At present, we’re investigating three cases,” Pia began. “And we keep running into the names Kilian Rothemund and Bernd Prinzler. Prinzler was arrested this morning, but Rothemund is still a fugitive. We’d really like to learn more about that man.”
Lutz Altmüller listened attentively. His body may have turned sluggish in the intervening years, but his memory was sharp. Back then, in July 2001, he’d been one of the Kripo officers who had driven to the site where the girl’s body was found, and he’d played a leading role in setting up the special commission. Three days after they found the dead girl, a big commotion arose. An anonymous caller had claimed that he knew where the girl was from. It was their first hot lead—and, unfortunately, also their last. The caller refused to speak with them in person and so had sent his lawyer.
“Kilian Rothemund,” Pia guessed.
“Precisely,” Lutz Altmüller confirmed. “We met at a pub in Sachsenhausen with Rothemund, who at that time would not reveal the identity of his client. He claimed that the girl may have been the victim of a child-porn ring. His client, also an affected individual, was firmly convinced of this and was able to finger the men who were pulling the strings. All of this was very vague, of course, but it was our first promising lead. Anyway, only a few days later, the state attorney’s office initiated an investigation into Rothemund himself, and in raids of his office and home, they found a huge number of incriminating photos, videos, and even a compromising tape that showed Rothemund having sexual intercourse with underage children.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense at all,” said Christian Kröger. “Why would Rothemund draw attention to himself like that?”
“Good question.” Altmüller nodded and frowned. “It was extremely strange. Rothemund was brought to trial and ended up behind bars. His client remained anonymous and was never heard from again. And so the case was never solved.”
“Nine years later, we fish another dead girl out of the Main with signs of abuse on her body,” said Christian. “And at the same time, this Rothemund again pops into the focus of our investigation.”
“So far, we don’t know whether he actually has anything to do with our Mermaid,” Cem put in. “It’s only a hunch.”
The waiter appeared at the table and took away Altmüller’s plate. Pia ignored her rumbling stomach and ordered only a diet Coke. Cem and Christian also chose not to have anything to eat.
Altmüller waited until the waiter had brought the drinks, then leaned forward.
“My colleagues and I thought at the time that Rothemund was framed,” he said in a low voice. “The child-porn Mafia uses all kinds of intimidation methods. They aren’t squeamish when there’s a danger of exposure, and they have an excellent network. They have connections with public agencies and officials, and at the highest levels of finance and politics. Understandably, nobody is interested in naming names. It often takes years for us to get a conviction or break up a ring, but most of the time we’re left empty-handed. They are better equipped, with more money and connections, and more advanced technology—fighting them is simply beyond our means. We’re always limping a few steps behind these criminals.”
“Why didn’t Rothemund defend himself if he was supposed to be innocent?” Pia asked.
“He did. Until the end, he disputed having had anything to do with the material presented in court against him,” replied Altmüller. “But the evidence was so overwhelming that the court paid no heed to his objections. Add to that the fact that the public had already prejudged the case in the press. It was very strange. Despite a news blackout, everything leaked out. And then there was that memorable press conference with State Attorney Markus Maria Frey.…”
“With whom Rothemund was very good friends at one time,” Pia added.
“Yes, that was common knowledge,” Altmüller said with a nod. “But the friendship was shattered when Rothemund began to defend big-time criminals and won a few spectacular cases because he was able to prove procedural mistakes and failures on the part of the investigating authorities and the state attorney’s office. He was on his way to joining the top league of German criminal defense lawyers; he could afford a big house, tailored suits, and expensive cars. I’m sure that his old pal Frey was simply jealous and searching for an opportunity to knock Rothemund off his high horse.”
“By getting him sent to prison like that?” Kröger shook his head. “That’s just plain nasty.”
“Well, yes…” Altmüller grimaced. “Just imagine if you were humiliated in public a few times by your former best friend. Then he makes a really disastrous mistake. What’s a state attorney to do? He has to follow up on the matter because of his own position.”
“Yes, very true. Especially when it’s a matter of child abuse,” Cem Altunay agreed. “But Frey could have recused himself from the case because of personal prejudice.”
“Maybe. But he might have seen a chance to reinstate and distinguish his own reputation after mistakes had been made by his department. There’s a reason why the man became chief state attorney
while only in his mid-thirties. He’s ambitious, hard as nails, and incorruptible.”
“What do you know about Bernd Prinzler?” Pia asked.
“Prinzler was once a very big deal in the Road Kings,” Altmüller replied. “People think the Kings are a motorcycle gang that does some dirty business. In reality, they are a tightly organized group with a strict, almost military hierarchy. In the struggle for dominance in the milieu that includes Kosovo Albanians and Russians, there was always collateral damage that sent a few members of the gang to court and to prison. But by and large, we didn’t try to stop them, because they imposed order with a heavy hand and saved us a lot of work. In the nineties, Prinzler was vice president of the Frankfurt chapter, and he was both feared and respected. On a couple of occasions, Rothemund successfully saved him from doing time. Then all of a sudden, Prinzler disappeared from the scene. At first, we thought he’d fallen out with his fellow members, and for a while we figured we’d find his body somewhere, but he had simply retired from the daily business and taken over other tasks in the organization.”
“What sort of tasks? And why?” Kröger asked.
“I can only speculate about that. We even managed to infiltrate the Kings by using a mole, but he got shot in a raid.” Altmüller gave a shrug. “Word was that Prinzler got married and no longer wanted to be on the front line.”
“We saw his wife and kids this morning,” Cem said. “Two sons between twelve and sixteen years old.”
“That would fit,” said Altmüller.
Pia had been listening in silence. All the information that Altmüller had given them was whirling around like puzzle pieces in her head as she tried to fit them into the right spots, even though the big picture was still incomplete. Instead of receiving helpful answers to her questions, dozens of new questions had popped up. Had Hanna Herzmann really been doing research on the Road Kings, as they had previously assumed? How had the contact between Rothemund and Prinzler come about? And how did Leonie Verges fit into the whole story?