by Nele Neuhaus
“Yes, of course. My wife’s old man founded the thing,” he replied. His tone turned sarcastic. “Smart idea, wasn’t it? An inexhaustible supply for perverse child molesters.”
* * *
Pia felt her cell vibrate and took it out of her pocket.
She read Bodenstein’s name on the display and took the call.
“Where are you?” her boss asked, and he didn’t sound pleased.
“At Josef Finkbeiner’s birthday reception,” she said in a low voice. “I told you that I—”
“Rothemund turned himself in and Prinzler talked,” said Bodenstein, interrupting her. “This Finkbeiner is the father of Prinzler’s wife!”
Pia held her hand over her left ear to hear him, because people were talking all around her.
“… and he’s … head of … ring molesting children!… wanted Hanna Herzmann … but … somehow leaked out.… Stay there.… send … colleagues … come myself … nothing…”
“I didn’t get all that,” she said. “Oliver? I…”
“… got a gun! Watch out!” A woman suddenly screamed.
Almost in the same instant, two shots rang out, and Pia looked up in surprise.
“What was that?” Bodenstein shouted in her ear, then she heard nothing more, because a commotion broke out. Two more shots rang out. People jumped up from their chairs, screaming hysterically, or threw themselves to the ground. The prime minister’s four bodyguards awoke from their lethargy and pushed their way through the throng of people fleeing in panic.
“Oh shit!” For a couple of seconds, Pia felt paralyzed with shock. What was all this? An attack on the prime minister? A crazy man running amok? She resisted the reflex to take cover, straightened up, and watched in disbelief as the slim dark-haired woman in the pink dress who had been standing behind her holding a bouquet was knocked down by a man.
Pia stuck her cell in her pocket and tried to move forward. Unpleasant memories of the mass panic in the Dattenbach Hall in Ehlhalten last year flashed through her mind as she was borne roughly along by screaming people, but she fought her way across tipped-over chairs toward the speaker’s podium.
“Somebody call a doctor! Get a doctor, quick!” several voices were shouting.
Shaking all over, Pia tried to get an overview of the chaos. In a few seconds, the peaceful scene in the festively decorated garden had turned into a battlefield. All around her, sobbing, shocked people were holding on to one another, while the musicians in the jazz band stood on the bandstand as if frozen, still holding their instruments. Men, women, and children were calling one another in panic.
One of the victims was slumped in his chair, legs and arms crossed, as if he were still listening to a speech, but half of his head was gone—a gruesome sight. The other man had tipped over sideways; he must have landed right in the lap of the person sitting next to him. What a horror! Pia gazed around helplessly. Chief State Attorney Markus Maria Frey stood in the midst of the confusion, rigid with shock, his face white as a sheet, a pistol in his hand. At his feet lay the dark-haired woman in the pink dress. A white-haired woman had thrown herself over a man lying on the ground; Pia couldn’t tell whether he was dead or just wounded. The woman was shrieking like a crazy person as a younger, weeping brunette tried to pull her away from him. Pia spied Emma in the second row. Her friend sat there motionless, eyes wide with terror. Her sun yellow dress, her face, her arms, and her hair were spattered all over with blood, and for a moment Pia feared that she was dead. Next to Emma stood a little girl, who was staring vacantly at the dead people sitting right in front of her. It was the sight of the girl that catapulted Pia back to reality. Resolutely, she shoved a chair aside, grabbed Emma by the arm, and pulled her up. Then she snatched up the girl and carried her away. Emma staggered behind her in a daze.
“What happened here?” Pia asked, her knees still weak from fright. She cautiously put down the girl.
“The woman … the woman…” Emma stammered. “Suddenly … suddenly she was standing there and … she was shooting.… There was … blood everywhere.… I saw a man’s head explode in front of me like … like a … watermelon.”
Only then did she emerge from her shocked state enough to look at her daughter, whose back was also covered in blood. “Oh my God, Louisa! Oh God!”
“Sit down.” Pia was worried. Emma’s baby was due any day. “Where’s your husband?”
“I … I don’t know.…” Emma plopped onto a chair and drew her daughter into her arms. “He … he was sitting next to me and had Louisa on his lap.…”
In the distance, sirens were approaching, and a helicopter circled above the treetops. Soon after, two patrol cars came racing toward the scene.
Pia never liked to question the relatives of murder victims while they were still under the influence of events, but she knew from experience that it was actually the best time to talk to them, while memories were still fresh and uncorrupted.
“Do you know the woman?” she asked.
“No,” said Emma, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“What exactly did she do?”
“She … she was suddenly standing there, as if she’d popped up out of the ground,” Emma said, her voice still shaky. “She stopped in front of my father-in-law and said something.”
“Can you remember what she said?” Pia pulled out her notebook and fished in her bag for a ballpoint. This was routine for her, and it made her feel a bit more steady.
Emma thought hard, mechanically stroking the back of her daughter, who had snuggled up to her and was sucking her thumb.
“Yes.” She raised her head and looked at Pia. “‘Aren’t you happy to see your little princess again?’ That’s exactly what she said and then she … fired. First at my father-in-law and then at the two men sitting next to him. They were old friends of his.”
“Do you know who those two were? Do you know their names?”
“Yes. Hartmut Matern was my husband’s godfather, and the other man was Dr. Richard Mehring.”
Pia nodded and took notes.
“Can I go back upstairs in the house?” Emma asked. “I have to get Louisa and myself out of these clothes.”
“Yes, of course. I know where to find you if I have any more questions.”
Medics shoved the gurney with Emma’s father-in-law into an ambulance that was parked only a few yards away. The white-haired woman that Pia had noticed was now being supported by two younger women. She was weeping, her hand pressed to her mouth.
“Who’s that?” Pia asked.
“Renate, my mother-in-law. And my sisters-in-law, Sarah and Corinna. Corinna is the administrative manager of Sonnenkinder.” Tears came to Emma’s eyes. “What a disaster. My poor mother-in-law. She was so looking forward to this day.”
The doors of the ambulance closed and the blue light on the roof began to flash. Louisa took her thumb out of her mouth.
“Mama?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Is the bad wolf dead now?” the child asked. “He can’t do anything to me anymore, can he?”
Pia met her friend’s astonished look; then she recognized an expression of confused understanding in Emma’s eyes.
“No,” Emma whispered through her tears as she rocked her daughter in her arms. “The bad wolf will never do anything to you again. I promise you.”
* * *
Pia took her police ID out of her bag and returned to the scene of all the horror. State Attorney Frey was still standing there like stone with the gun in his hand, his shirt and trousers covered in blood. He stared as if hypnotized at the woman lying right in front of him. Pia touched Frey’s arm, and he awoke from his daze.
“Ms. Kirchhoff,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “What … what are you doing here?”
“Come with me,” Pia said firmly, and took his arm. Uniformed officers stormed into the garden. Pia showed them her ID and instructed them to cordon off a wide area around the garden, grounds, and street to m
ake sure that no rubberneckers and especially no reporters sneaked inside. Then she put on a pair of latex gloves and got out an evidence bag. Carefully, she took the pistol from the state attorney’s hand, removed the clip, and stuck both in the plastic bag.
“Who is the woman?” asked Pia. “Do you know her?”
“No, I’ve never seen her before,” said State Attorney Frey, shaking his head. “I was standing at the podium and saw her coming up the center aisle holding a bouquet of flowers. And suddenly … suddenly she had a pistol in her hand and … and…”
His voice failed, and he ran his fingers through his hair, pausing for a moment with his head lowered. Then he looked up.
“She shot my father.” He sounded incredulous, as if he hadn’t yet fully comprehended what had just occurred. “For a moment, I was paralyzed. I … I couldn’t stop her from shooting two more people!”
“Your father isn’t dead,” said Pia. “But you put yourself in mortal danger when you disarmed the woman.”
“I didn’t even think about it,” Frey murmured. “Suddenly, I was standing behind her and I grabbed her arm, the one holding the gun.… Somehow … I must have fired a shot. Is she … is she … dead?”
“I don’t know,” said Pia.
Distraught children were crying and looking for their parents. Ambulances and EMTs arrived, along with more police. Pia’s cell was buzzing and vibrating nonstop, but she didn’t pay any attention.
“I have to go to my family.” State Attorney Frey straightened his shoulders. “I have to look for my wife. And my mother needs me now. Oh God, she saw it all.”
He looked at Pia.
“Thank you, Ms. Kirchhoff,” he said in a quavering voice. “If you need me, I am at your service anytime.”
“All right. Now go see about your family,” Pia said, giving his arm a sympathetic pat. She watched him go and did not envy what he now had to do. Then she finally answered her cell phone.
“Pia, damn it, where are you?” Bodenstein yelled in her ear. “Why aren’t you picking up your cell?”
“There’s been a shooting here,” she replied. “At least two dead and two seriously injured.”
“We’re already on our way.” Bodenstein sounded somewhat calmer. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, nothing happened to me,” she assured her boss. She turned around and went a few steps. From a distance, the whole scene seemed as unreal as a movie set. She sat down on the edge of a fountain, wedged her cell between her ear and shoulder, and looked in her bag for cigarettes.
“Listen,” Bodenstein said. “Prinzler finally talked. Hanna Herzmann was researching the topic of child abuse. As a child, Prinzler’s wife was abused by her own father and wanted to go public with the truth after she saw the story about our Mermaid on TV. Leonie Verges was her therapist and had been for years. Through Leonie, contact was made with Hanna Herzmann, Rothemund, and Prinzler. It’s all connected. And the whole thing goes even further back, as we thought. There’s a child-molestation ring that operates internationally, and Josef Finkbeiner plays a central role in it. But if what Prinzler said is true, then there are also a number of other influential people involved who won’t stop at murder to prevent exposure. Pia, it’s probable that the murder of the undercover agent years ago in Frankfurt also has something to do with this!”
His words echoed in her ears as if he’d shouted them. She stuck a cigarette between her lips and flicked her lighter, but her fingers were shaking so hard that she could hardly get it lit.
“Pia? Pia! Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” she said softly. She slipped off her shoes and dug her toes into the summer-warm gravel. The water splashed in the fountain; a blackbird hopped across the grass in front of her and then flew off. Quiet. Peace. And twenty minutes ago, two people had been executed in cold blood not a hundred yards away.
“We’ll be there in ten minutes,” she heard Bodenstein say; then he ended the call. Pia tipped her head back and looked up at the deep blue sky with little white clouds sailing across.
She was overwhelmed by the realization that once again, against all odds, she’d been right. The tension inside her released, and she began to sob.
* * *
In his years on the force, Bodenstein had seen innumerable scenes of murder and manslaughter, and he secretly classified them according to a personal system. What he saw now undoubtedly belonged to the worst type, in the five-star category. A woman had executed two men and seriously wounded another in front of two hundred grown-ups and children. Maybe it would have been even worse if someone hadn’t risked his life to overpower the assassin and disarm her. Bodenstein had known Chief State Attorney Markus Maria Frey for many years, and he never would have believed him capable of taking such fearless action. But in dangerous situations, some people surpass their normal capabilities, especially if it is a matter of their own family. Kröger had informed Bodenstein of Frey’s family relationships on the drive to Falkenstein, and Pia had tersely related what had happened. By now, she had recovered from her initial shock. What she had to do now was tend to her job, and she was enough of a professional to do that even though she was just as stunned as the other guests.
“Where was the prime minister when the shots were fired?” Bodenstein asked.
“As far as I know, he, the district executive, and the mayor were sitting on the other side of the aisle. In front on the right sat Josef Finkbeiner and his wife, next to them the two dead men.” She glanced at her notebook. “Hartmut Matern and Richard Mehring, old friends of Finkbeiner. In the row behind them sat Finkbeiner’s son Florian with his daughter on his lap, next to him his wife, Emma, my classmate, who invited me to the party.”
“The Hartmut Matern?” Bodenstein raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, that’s the one.…” Pia looked at her boss. “His son Wolfgang is a friend of Hanna Herzmann. Isn’t that a funny coincidence?”
“No, I’m afraid none of this is a coincidence,” replied Bodenstein. “As I already told you on the phone, everything is connected. I hope that Rothemund will confirm this for us later on.”
Dr. Josef Finkbeiner, hit by two shots in the chest and neck, had already been taken away in the ambulance. Covers had been draped over the two dead men, still sitting on their chairs. Bodenstein had transferred leadership of the team to Cem Altunay, because he thought it was more important for him to talk to Rothemund. A medical examiner arrived, as well as the crisis intervention team that Altunay had requested. Two psychologists took care of Finkbeiner’s relatives, who had been sitting right behind the murder victims. Christian Kröger and his team had already begun securing evidence, cordoning off and photographing the crime scene and the two bodies. Some distance away, a medic was attending to the unconscious assassin, who had taken a round in the abdomen. Next to her head knelt a dark-haired man in a light-colored suit. He was crying and stroking the woman’s face.
“Please,” said the medic impatiently, “let us do our work.”
“I’m a doctor,” insisted the man. “And this is my sister.”
Bodenstein and Pia exchanged a surprised look.
“Come with us.” Bodenstein bent down over the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let the medics do their work.”
The man swayed as he got up. He followed Bodenstein and Pia, but only reluctantly, to one of the cocktail tables. He was pressing a blood-smeared ladies’ handkerchief to his chest.
“May I ask who you are?” Bodenstein asked after introducing himself.
“Florian Finkbeiner,” replied the man in a shaky voice.
“Are you related to…” Bodenstein began.
“Yes, Josef Finkbeiner is my father. Our father.” Suddenly, tears came to his eyes. “The woman … that’s my twin sister, Michaela. I … I haven’t seen her in more than thirty years, not since we were fourteen. I thought she was dead—that’s what my parents always told me. I … I was abroad for many years, but last year I visited Michaela’s
grave. When she suddenly stood there today, it was … a shock.”
His voice failed, and he began sobbing. And Bodenstein understood. All at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and the whole picture made sense.
The woman who had shot the two men to death and seriously wounded Josef Finkbeiner was the wife of Bernd Prinzler. She had been abused by her father as a little girl, suffered great torment, and was finally driven into prostitution. Prinzler had been telling the truth.
“Why did your sister shoot your father? And why the two other men?” Pia asked.
As Bodenstein had expected, Florian had absolutely no idea of the torture his twin sister had endured.
“That’s not true,” he whispered, appalled, when Bodenstein confronted him with what he knew. “My sister was always troubled, that’s true. She often ran away from home, drank alcohol, and took drugs. My parents also told me that she’d spent years in a psychiatric clinic. But I was never happy, either. It’s not easy for kids when their parents care more about strangers’ children than their own. But my father never would have … touched my sister. He loved her more than anything.”
“I’m afraid you’re fooling yourself,” said Pia. “When they loaded your father into the ambulance, your little daughter asked your wife whether the bad wolf was dead now, so he couldn’t do anything to her again.”
If possible, Florian Finkbeiner’s face turned a shade paler. He shook his head in disbelief.
“Do you remember when the doctor at the hospital said that your daughter may have been abused?” Pia asked. “Emma was afraid that you might have done something to the girl. But it wasn’t you. It was your father.”
Florian Finkbeiner stared at her and swallowed hard. His fingers were still gripping his sister’s handbag.
“Michaela used to say she was scared of the bad wolf. I never understood that it was a cry for help. I thought she was just making things up,” he whispered hoarsely. “It was also my idea for my wife and Louisa to live here until the baby was born. As long as I live, I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
“Would you please give us the handbag?” Pia asked, and Finkbeiner handed it to her.