by Nele Neuhaus
“So do I,” he replied, shaking her hand.
* * *
The meeting with the architect and the contractors had gone well. After a year of planning, the work on the Idstein Witch Tower would start next week. Marcus Nowak was in good spirits when he entered his office in the early evening. It was always an exciting moment when a project reached the imminent construction stage and things really got going. He sat down at his desk, switched on his computer, and looked through the day’s mail. Among all the bills, offers, ads, and catalogs there was an envelope made of recycled paper, which usually didn’t bode well.
He tore open the envelope, scanned the contents, and gasped in disbelief. It was a summons from the Kelkheim police. They were accusing him of negligent bodily harm. This couldn’t possibly be true. Hot rage boiled up inside him, and he furiously crumpled up the letter and flung it into the wastebasket. At that moment, the phone on his desk rang. Tina. She must have seen him going into his office from the kitchen window. Reluctantly, he picked up the receiver. As he’d expected, he had to justify why he wasn’t going to the open-air concert at the Kelkheim pool. Tina simply wouldn’t accept that he didn’t feel like it. She was upset, and while she was rattling off the usual accusations in a whiny voice, Marcus’s cell beeped.
“I’ll go with you next time,” he promised his wife without meaning it, and flipped open his cell. “Really. Don’t be mad.…”
When he read the incoming text, a delighted expression flitted across his face. Tina was still bitching and begging as he typed an answer with the thumb of his right hand.
ALL CLEAR, he wrote. BE AT YOUR PLACE NO LATER THAN 12. HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF SOMETHING FIRST. SEE YOU THEN.
Anticipation raced through his body. He would do it again. Tonight. The feeling of guilt that had tormented him so much was now no more than a faint echo somewhere deep inside him.
Friday, May 4
“We ought to notify the police.” The executive housekeeper, Parveen Multani, was seriously concerned. “Something must have happened to her. All her medications are there. Really, Mrs. Kohlhaas, I have a bad feeling about this.”
At 7:30 this morning, she had found out that one of her residents was missing, and there was no explanation for it. Renate Kohlhaas, the director of the elegant senior residence Taunusblick, was angry. Why did something like this have to happen today of all days? At eleven o’clock, she expected a delegation from the American head office to pay a visit for quality-control purposes. She wouldn’t dream of calling the police, because she knew precisely what a devastating impression the unexplained disappearance of a resident under her authority would make on the company management.
“Let me worry about it,” she said to Parveen with a soothing smile. “Go do your job, and please don’t mention this to anyone. I’m sure we’ll find Mrs. Frings soon.”
“But wouldn’t it be better—” began Parveen Multani, but the director cut her off with a wave of her hand.
“I’ll take care of the matter myself.” She escorted the anxious woman to the door, sat down at her computer, and pulled up the master file for the missing resident. Anita Frings had been living at Taunusblick for almost fifteen years. She was eighty-eight and for some time had been largely confined to a wheelchair because of severe arthritis. Although she had no relatives who might make trouble, all the alarm bells in the director’s head began to go off when she read the name of the person to be notified in case of illness or death. Real problems might develop if the old woman did not return unscathed to sit in her apartment on the fourth floor.
“That’s all we need,” she murmured, grabbing the telephone. She had about two hours to find Anita Frings. At this moment, the police would definitely be the wrong choice.
* * *
Bodenstein was standing with his arms crossed in front of the big whiteboard in the conference room of K-11. Three names were printed on the board: David Goldberg, Herrmann Schneider, and Monika Krämer. And despite the bulletins announced on the local radio station, to which he’d agreed yesterday, there was still no trace of Robert Watkowiak. His eyes followed the arrows and circles that Fachinger had drawn with the marker. There were a few similarities. For instance, Goldberg and Schneider had both had close relations with the Kaltensee family; they’d been killed with the same weapon; and in their younger days, they had belonged to the SS. But that didn’t take him any further. Bodenstein sighed. It was enough to drive him crazy. Where should he start? What reason could he present for another talk with Vera Kaltensee? Since the investigation of Goldberg’s murder had been officially taken away from him, he couldn’t very well mention the lab results or the DNA traces on the wineglass. It was not certain that Watkowiak’s girlfriend had been killed by the same person who had shot Goldberg and Schneider. There were no eyewitnesses, no fingerprints, no evidence—except from Robert Watkowiak. He seemed to be the ideal perp: He had left traces at all the crime scenes, he had known all of the victims, and he needed money badly. Maybe he’d murdered Goldberg because the old man had refused to come up with any cash; maybe he’d killed Schneider because the old man had threatened to turn him in, and Monika Krämer because she’d been a liability. At first glance, everything seemed to fit perfectly. Only the murder weapon was missing.
The door opened. Bodenstein was not particularly surprised to see his future boss.
“Hello, Dr. Engel,” he said politely.
“I thought you would prefer formality.” She scrutinized him, raising her eyebrows. “All right, then. Hello, Mr. von Bodenstein.”
“You can skip the ‘von.’ What can I do for you?”
Dr. Nicola Engel looked past him at the board and frowned.
“I thought the Goldberg and Schneider cases were solved.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Chief Commissioner Nierhoff told me that the evidence against the man who killed his girlfriend was overwhelming.”
“Watkowiak left some traces behind, that’s all,” Bodenstein replied. “The fact that he may have been at the crime scenes does not automatically make him a murderer in my eyes.”
“But that’s what it said in the morning papers.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
Bodenstein and Engel stared at each other. Then she looked away, crossed her arms, and leaned back against a table.
“So all of you let your superior go to the press conference with incorrect information,” she said. “Is there some special reason for that, or is it the custom around here?”
Bodenstein didn’t react to this provocation.
“The information was not incorrect,” he replied. “But unfortunately, it’s not always possible to slow down the chief commissioner, especially when he considers it essential to have a quick, successful resolution to an investigation.”
“Oliver, as the future leader of this unit, I want to know what’s going on. So, why was there a press conference yesterday if the cases have not yet been cleared up?” Her voice sounded sharp and reminded Bodenstein unpleasantly of another case and another place. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to cave in to her, even if she was going to be his boss.
“Because Nierhoff wanted it that way and he refused to listen to me,” he replied in the same sharp tone. His expression was calm, almost indifferent. For a couple of seconds, they stared at each other. She backpedaled, trying for a calm voice.
“So you don’t accept that all three persons were killed by the same perp?”
Bodenstein ignored her placating approach. As an experienced detective, he was well versed in interrogation techniques and was not thrown off by her switching from aggression to conciliation.
“Goldberg and Schneider were killed by the same person. My theory is that somebody didn’t want us continuing with our investigations, so they tried to direct our suspicions to Watkowiak. We haven’t located him yet, but at this point it’s pure speculation.”
Nicola Engel stepped over to the whiteboard. “So why did they take you o
ff the Goldberg case?”
She was petite and delicate, yet she could have an intimidating effect on people. Bodenstein wondered how his colleagues—especially Behnke—would get along with the new boss. Bodenstein knew her well enough to realize that Dr. Engel would not be satisfied with written reports as Nierhoff had been. She had always been a perfectionist with a blatant desire to maintain control. She wanted to be kept informed at all times, and she was good at sniffing out intrigues behind the scenes.
“Somebody who has a lot of influence in the right places is afraid that something may come to light that should be kept hidden.”
“And what might that be?”
“The fact that Goldberg was not a Jewish survivor of the Holocaust, but a former member of the SS. A blood-type tattoo on his arm clearly attests to that fact. Before they took the body away from us, I was able to order an autopsy.”
Nicola Engel offered no comment about this revelation. She walked around the table and stopped at the end.
“Have you told Cosima that I’m going to be your new boss?” she asked in a casual manner. Bodenstein was not surprised by the abrupt change of subject. He had anticipated being confronted with the past sooner or later.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And? What did she say?”
For a moment, he was tempted to tell her the less than flattering truth, but it wouldn’t be smart to make an enemy of Nicola.
She misconstrued his hesitation. “You haven’t told her a thing,” she said with a triumphant flash in her eyes. “I thought so. Cowardice was always your biggest weakness. You really haven’t changed at all.”
The strong emotions behind these words both stunned and alarmed him. Working with Nicola Engel wasn’t going to be easy. Before he could contradict her erroneous assessment, Ostermann appeared at the door. He gave Dr. Engel a quick look, but when Bodenstein made no move to introduce him to the woman, he made do with a polite nod in her direction.
“It’s urgent,” he said to Bodenstein.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Don’t let me detain you, Mr. Bodenstein.” Nicola Engel smiled contentedly like the cat who caught the canary. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty of each other.”
* * *
The old woman was covered in blood and stark naked. Someone had bound her wrists and stuffed a stocking in her mouth.
“Execution-style shooting,” said the medical examiner summoned by his uniformed colleagues who were first on the scene. “Time of death was about ten hours ago.”
He pointed to the woman’s naked legs.
“She was also shot in both knees.”
“Thank you.” Bodenstein grimaced. The person who had murdered Goldberg and Schneider had struck a third time. There was no doubt about that, because the number 11645 had been printed in blood on the victim’s naked back. And the killer hadn’t bothered to bury the body; the pap had apparently felt it important that the woman be found quickly.
“This time, he moved his victim into the open.” Pia pulled on latex gloves, squatted down, and examined the corpse thoroughly. “I wonder why.”
“She lived in the Taunusblick retirement home,” the uniformed sergeant told them. “Obviously, he didn’t want to risk anyone hearing the shots.”
“How do you know where she lived?” Pia asked in astonishment.
“It’s on the wheelchair.” He pointed to a bush a few yards away, where the wheelchair was visible. Bodenstein studied the body, which a person out walking his dog had discovered. He felt a mixture of sympathy and helpless anger as he imagined how the old woman must have suffered in the last minutes of her long life, the fear and humiliation she must have felt. It upset him to think about this murderer, who was getting more and more sadistic, running around loose. This time, the perp had even risked being seen by someone. Once again, Bodenstein was overcome by an irritating sense of powerlessness. He didn’t have the faintest idea how to tackle the problem. In the meantime, there had been four murders in the course of a week.
“It almost looks like we’re dealing with a serial killer,” said Pia at that moment, which just made matters worse. “The press is going to tear us to pieces if this keeps up.”
A uniformed officer ducked under the crime-scene tape and nodded a greeting to Bodenstein.
“There’s no missing persons report,” he told the superintendent. “The evidence team is on the way.”
Bodenstein nodded. “Thank you. We’re going over to this retirement home and ask some questions. Maybe they haven’t noticed yet that the woman is missing.”
* * *
A little later when they entered the spacious foyer, Pia was flabbergasted to see the shining marble floor and the Bordeaux red carpet runners. The only retirement home she’d been inside was the nursing home in which her grandmother had spent the last years of her life. She remembered the linoleum floors, wooden handrails along the walls, and the smell of urine and disinfectant. The Taunusblick, on the other hand, seemed like a grand hotel, with its long reception counter of polished mahogany, fresh flowers everywhere, signs printed with golden letters, and soft music playing in the background. The young receptionist beamed at them as she asked how she might be of help.
“We’d like to speak with the director,” said Bodenstein, showing his Kripo badge. The young woman stopped smiling and reached for the telephone.
“I’ll tell Ms. Kohlhaas at once. Just one moment, please.”
“Health insurance would never pay for a place like this,” Pia whispered to her boss. “It’s crazy.”
“The Taunusblick is very expensive,” said Bodenstein. “There are people who buy their way in twenty years before they’re ready to move here. An apartment costs a good three thousand euros a month.”
Pia thought about her grandmother and felt a pang of guilt. The nursing home in which she’d had to spend the last three years of her life was filled with patients suffering from dementia and others who were totally disabled. That was where she’d ended up after a productive life in full possession of her mental faculties, because it was the only place the family could afford. Pia was ashamed because she had visited her Oma so seldom, but the sight of the old people sitting in their bathrobes with lost, empty expressions had depressed her terribly. The carelessly prepared food, the loss of individuality, the less than satisfactory care by surly and chronically overworked staff members who never had time for personal conversations—a life shouldn’t have to end like that. The people who could afford to spend their sunset years at the Taunusblick had probably been privileged all their lives. An example of yet one more injustice.
Before Pia could express any of these thoughts to her boss, the director appeared in the hall. Renate Kohlhaas was a thin woman in her late forties. She wore stylish rectangular glasses and an elegant pantsuit, and her hair was cut in a smooth pageboy. Her clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and her smile seemed nervous.
“How may I help you?” she asked politely.
“About an hour ago, someone walking in the wooded grounds of the Eichwald discovered the body of an elderly woman,” replied Bodenstein. “Nearby was a wheelchair from Taunusblick. We’d like to know whether the deceased might be a resident here.”
Pia noticed a flash of shock in the eyes of the director.
“As a matter of fact, we are missing one female resident,” she admitted after a brief pause. “I have just notified the police after we searched the whole complex without result.”
“What is the name of the missing woman?” Kirchhoff asked.
“Anita Frings. What happened?”
“We assume that she was the victim of a violent crime,” said Bodenstein vaguely. “Could you help us with the identification?”
“I’m sorry, but…” The director seemed to notice how odd her refusal must seem, and her voice trailed off. Her eyes darted here and there, and she was getting more nervous.
“Ah, Ms. Multani!” she shouted suddenly with obvious relief as she motione
d to a woman just emerging from the elevator. “Ms. Multani is our executive housekeeper and also our liaison for all the residents. She’ll be able to assist you further.”
The sharp look that the director gave her subordinate did not escape Kirchhoff’s attention. Then the director made a swift departure, heels clacking. Kirchhoff introduced herself and her boss and extended her hand to Ms. Multani. She was an Asian beauty with shiny black hair, snow-white teeth, and sad-looking velvety eyes. As far as the male residents were concerned, her appearance alone no doubt sweetened the late autumn of their lives. In her simple dark blue suit and white blouse, she looked like a flight attendant from Cathay Pacific.
“Have you found Mrs. Frings?” she asked in slightly accented German. “She’s been missing since early this morning.”
“Is that right? Then why didn’t you call the police earlier?” Kirchhoff asked. The housekeeper gave her a bewildered look, then turned in the direction the director had taken.
“But … Ms. Kohlhaas said … I mean, she wanted to inform the police at seven-thirty this morning.”
“Then she must have forgotten. Obviously, she had more important things on her mind.”
Ms. Multani hesitated but remained loyal.
“Today we’re having an important visit from the Taunusblick head office,” she said, trying to excuse the behavior of her superior. “But I am at your disposal.”
* * *
“Oh my God.” The executive housekeeper covered her mouth with both hands at the sight of the body. “Yes, that’s Mrs. Frings. How horrible!”
“Come with me.” Bodenstein took the shocked woman gently by the elbow and led her back to the forest path. The sergeant in charge had been right: The perp had committed the murder in the woods because at the retirement home too many people would have heard the shots. Bodenstein and Kirchhoff followed Ms. Multani back to the Taunusblick and took the elevator to the fourth floor, where Anita Frings’s apartment was located. They were attempting to reconstruct how the killer must have proceeded this time. How had he managed to get the frail old lady out of the building unnoticed?