by Nele Neuhaus
He grimaced in disgust.
“All three of them acted dumb, those self-righteous, arrogant old Nazis with their comrade evenings and their old-fashioned adages. I couldn’t stand them even before, any of them.”
“And when those three didn’t help you, you shot them,” said Pia.
“Precisely. With the Kalashnikov I always carry around. So arrest me,” Ritter challenged her sarcastically. He turned to Bodenstein. “Why would I have bothered to kill those three? They were ancient; time would do the job for me soon enough.”
“And Robert Watkowiak? What did you want from him?”
“Information. I paid him to tell me more about Vera. Besides, I was able to tell him who his real father was.”
“How did you know that?” Pia asked.
“I know quite a bit,” replied Ritter condescendingly. “The story that Robert was the illegitimate son of Eugen Kaltensee is a fairy tale. Robert’s mother was a seventeen-year-old Polish maid at Mühlenhof. Siegbert had repeatedly assaulted her, until the poor girl got pregnant. His parents sent him off at once to college in America and forced her to have the baby in secret in the basement. After that, she disappeared, never to be seen again. I presume that they bumped her off and buried her somewhere on the grounds.”
Ritter was talking faster and faster, and his eyes shone as if from a fever. Bodenstein and Pia listened in silence.
“Vera could have given up Robert for adoption as an infant, but she preferred to let him suffer under the assumption that he was an unfortunate indiscretion. At the same time, she enjoyed the way he admired and worshiped her. She has always been arrogant, considering herself untouchable. That’s why she never destroyed the trunk with all its explosive contents. Too bad for her that Elard happened to form a close friendship with a contractor who specialized in restorations and came up with the idea of having the mill renovated.”
Ritter’s voice sounded full of hatred, and Pia only now realized the full extent of his bitterness and desire for revenge.
He laughed maliciously. “Oh yes, and Vera has Robert on her conscience. When Marleen fell in love with Robert, of all people—her half-brother—then they were in dire straits. Marleen had just turned fourteen and Robert was already in his mid-twenties. After the accident in which Marleen lost her leg, Robert fled from Mühlenhof. Shortly thereafter, his criminal career began.
“Your wife lost a leg?” Pia asked, recalling that Marleen Ritter had actually dragged her left leg behind her when she walked.
“Yes. As I said.”
For a while, it was totally quiet in the little office, except for the humming of the computer. Pia exchanged a quick glance with Bodenstein; as usual, she couldn’t tell by looking at him what he was thinking. Even if Ritter’s information was only half true, it was definitely dynamite. Had Watkowiak had to die because he had learned the truth of his origins from Ritter and had then confronted Vera Kaltensee?
“Will that also be a chapter in your book?” Pia inquired. “It sounds a little risky to me.”
Ritter hesitated, then merely shrugged. “It certainly is,” he said without looking at her. “But I need the money.”
“What does your wife say about you writing something like that about her family and her father? I wouldn’t think she’d be pleased.”
Ritter pressed his lips together to a narrow line.
“The Kaltensees and I are at war,” he replied histrionically. “And in every war, there are victims.”
“The Kaltensee family won’t take this lying down.”
“They have already arrayed their troops against me,” said Ritter with a forced smile. “There is a temporary restraining order. And an injunction has been filed against me and the publisher. In addition, Siegbert has issued numerous threats against me. He says that I’ll have no more joy from any of my royalties if I ever make my claims public.”
“Give us the diaries,” said Bodenstein.
“They aren’t here. Besides, the diaries are my life insurance. The only insurance I have.”
“I hope you’re not making a mistake.” Pia took a test tube out of her shoulder bag. “You certainly don’t have any objection to a little saliva test, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” Ritter stuck his hands in the seat pockets of his jeans and sized her up disparagingly. “Even though I can’t imagine what use it will be.”
“So that we can identify your corpse more rapidly,” Pia replied coldly. “I’m afraid you’re underestimating the danger you’ve gotten yourself into.”
The look in Ritter’s eyes turned hostile. He took the cotton swab from Pia’s hand, opened his mouth, and drew the swab across the inside of his cheek.
“Thank you.” Pia took the test swab and sealed the tube in accordance with regulations. “Tomorrow we’ll send our colleagues by your place to pick up the diaries. And if you feel in any way threatened, call me. You have my card.”
* * *
“I don’t know if I believe everything Ritter told us,” Pia said as they crossed the parking lot. “The man is obviously obsessed with revenge. Even his marriage is pure vengeance.”
Suddenly, something occurred to her, and she stopped abruptly.
“What is it?” asked Bodenstein.
“That woman in his office,” said Pia, trying to remember her conversation with Christina Nowak. “Beautiful, dark-haired, elegant—it could be the same woman that Nowak met in front of the house in Königstein!”
Bodenstein nodded. “You’re right. She seemed familiar to me, too. I just couldn’t place her.”
He handed Pia the car keys. “I’ll be right back.”
He went back inside the building and ran up the stairs to the top floor. He waited for a moment outside the door until he was no longer snuffling like a walrus, then rang the bell. The receptionist batted her fake eyelashes in astonishment when she saw him.
“Do you know the woman who was in Dr. Ritter’s office earlier?” he asked. She looked him up and down, tilted her head, and rubbed her right forefinger and thumb together.
“Could be.”
Bodenstein got it. He took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty-euro bill. The woman’s contemptuous frown changed to a smile when a fifty appeared.
“Katharina…” She snatched the bill and held out her hand again. Bodenstein sighed and handed her the twenty, too. She slipped both bills into her boot.
“Ehrmann.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice confidentially. “From Switzerland. Lives somewhere in the Taunus when she’s in Germany. Drives a black BMW five with Zürich plates. And if you happen to know anyone who’s looking for an experienced secretary, think of me. I’ve had enough of this outfit.”
“I’ll ask around.” Bodenstein, who took it as a joke, winked at her and stuck his business card in the keyboard of her computer. “Send me an e-mail with your CV and references.”
* * *
Bodenstein hurried along the rows of parked cars as he checked his e-mail on his cell. He almost ran into a black panel truck. Pia was thumbing a text as Bodenstein returned to his BMW.
“Miriam is going to check whether what Ritter just told us is correct,” she explained, fastening her seat belt. “Maybe there are still some church records in existence from 1942.”
Bodenstein started the engine.
“The woman who was in Ritter’s office before was Katharina Ehrmann,” he said.
“Oh yeah? The one with four percent of the vote?” Pia was astonished. “What does she have to do with Ritter?”
“Ask me something easier.” Bodenstein maneuvered the BMW out of the parking space and pressed the multifunction key on his steering wheel to activate the callback function. A moment later, Ostermann checked in.
“Boss, all hell is breaking loose here,” his voice said over the loudspeaker. “Nierhoff and the new woman are planning to set up special investigations for the pensioners and for Monika Krämer.”
Bodenstein, who had expected something like this to happ
en, but much earlier, remained calm. He glanced at the clock. One-thirty. From the Hanauer Landstrasse, it would take him about thirty minutes at this time of day if he took the road across the Riederwald and then the Alleenring.
“We’re meeting in half an hour at Zaika in Liederbach for a situation meeting. The complete K-Eleven team,” he told Ostermann. “Order me carpaccio and chicken curry if you get there before I do.”
“And a pizza for me!” shouted Pia from the passenger seat.
“With extra tuna and anchovies,” Ostermann said, completing her order. “Sure. See you.”
For a long while, they drove in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Bodenstein was thinking about the accusation that his former boss in Frankfurt had often made. Detective Superintendent Menzel had claimed, preferably in front of the whole team, that he was inflexible and not a team player. Without a doubt, he was right. Bodenstein hated wasting time in meetings, squabbles over credentials, and stupid power plays. That was one of the reasons he’d been glad to transfer to Hofheim, to a manageable department with only five people. He still believed that too many cooks definitely spoiled the broth.
“Would you agree to two special commissions?” Pia asked at that moment. Bodenstein glanced over at her.
“Depends who’s leading them,” he said. “But the situation is very confused. What’s this really all about?”
“It’s about the murders of three old people, a young woman, and a man,” Pia said, thinking out loud.
Bodenstein stepped on the brake at the top of Berger Strasse to allow a group of young people to cross the street.
“We’re asking the wrong questions,” he said, considering what Katharina Ehrmann might have to do with Ritter. There was something going on between them; that was obvious. Maybe she knew him from before, when he was still working for Vera Kaltensee.
“I wonder if she’s still friends with Jutta Kaltensee?” Bodenstein asked. Pia understood at once who he was talking about.
“Why is that important?”
“Where did Ritter get the information about Robert Watkowiak’s biological father? That has to be a family secret that only very few people know about.”
“Then why would Katharina Ehrmann know about it?”
“She was always so close to the family. Eugen Kaltensee even transferred some shares in the company to her.”
“Let’s go visit Vera Kaltensee one more time,” Pia suggested. “We’ll ask her what was in the trunk and why she lied to us about Watkowiak. What have we got to lose?”
Bodenstein said nothing, then shook his head.
“We have to be very careful,” he said. “Even if she can’t stand Ritter, I don’t want to risk a sixth dead body just because we ask a few rash questions. You weren’t altogether wrong about Ritter treading on thin ice.”
“The guy thinks he’s as invulnerable as Vera Kaltensee,” Pia retorted. “He’s blind with vindictiveness, and he seems to think that any means are justified to get back at the Kaltensees. What a repulsive creep. And he’s cheating on his pregnant wife with this Katharina Ehrmann. I guarantee it.”
“I think so, too,” Bodenstein conceded. “Still, he won’t do us any good as a corpse.”
* * *
The big noon rush was over when Pia and Bodenstein walked into Zaika, and except for a few businesspeople, the restaurant was almost empty. The K-11 team had gathered around one of the big tables in a corner of the Mediterranean-themed room and were already eating. Only Behnke wore a peeved expression as he sat there sipping from a glass of water.
“I have some good news, boss,” Ostermann began when they had seated themselves at the table. “From the DNA profile that was established from a hair found in the apartment where Monika Krämer and Watkowiak were shacking up, the computer has spewed out a trace-trace hit. Looking at older cases, our colleagues from the NCP have analyzed and stored trace evidence. This perp had something to do with a previously unsolved murder in Dessau on October seventeenth, 1990, and an aggravated assault in Halle on March twenty-fourth, 1991.”
Pia noticed Behnke’s hungry look. Why hadn’t he ordered anything to eat?
“Anything else?” Bodenstein grabbed the pepper mill to season his carpaccio.
“Yes. I’ve found out something about Watkowiak’s shirt,” Ostermann continued. “Shirts of this brand are produced exclusively for a men’s clothing store on Schillerstrasse in Frankfurt. The manager was very cooperative and provided me with copies of receipts. White shirts, size forty-one, were sold exactly twenty-four times between March first and May fourth.” He made a dramatic pause in order to ensure the full attention of all those present. “And a certain Anja Moormann purchased five white shirts, size forty-one, on behalf of Vera Kaltensee on April twenty-sixth.”
Bodenstein stopped chewing and straightened up.
“Well, she’s going to have to show us those shirts.” Pia pushed her plate over to Behnke. “Here, take it. I can’t eat any more.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, polishing off the remaining half a pizza in less than sixty seconds, as if he hadn’t eaten for days.
“What about the neighbors of Goldberg and Schneider?” Bodenstein looked at Behnke, who was still chewing.
“I showed the man who saw the vehicle at Schneider’s three different logos,” replied Behnke. “He didn’t hesitate for a second and pointed to Nowak’s. He also pinned down the time. He went out with his dog at ten minutes to one, after some movie on ARTE was over. At ten after one, he returned; the vehicle was gone and the gate to the driveway was closed.”
“Nowak was stopped at a quarter to twelve by our colleagues in Kelkheim,” said Pia. “He could have easily driven back to Eppenhain after that.”
Bodenstein’s cell rang. He glanced at the display and excused himself for a minute.
“If we haven’t made any progress by tomorrow, we’re going to be saddled with twenty more colleagues.” Ostermann leaned back. “And I’m not looking forward to that.”
“None of us is,” said Behnke. “But we can’t just pull a perp out of a hat.”
“But now we have more leads and can ask more relevant questions.” Pia watched her boss through the picture window. He was pacing up and down with his cell at his ear. Who could he be talking to? Normally, he never left the room to answer the phone. “And do we know any more about the knife that was used to kill Monika Krämer?”
“Yes, we do.” Ostermann shoved his plate aside and searched through the files he’d brought along until he found a specific one among the colored plastic folders that were an important component of his filing system. As disheveled as he might seem with his ponytail, nickel-framed glasses, and casual clothes, Ostermann was an extremely organized person.
“The murder weapon was an Emerson karambit fixed blade with a skeletonized handle, a copy of an Indonesian design. It’s a tactical combat knife used for self-defense. Emerson is an American manufacturer, but the knife can be ordered from various Internet shops, and this model has been on the market since 2003. The serial number had been filed off.”
“That rules out Watkowiak as the perp,” said Pia. “So it could be a hit man. I’m afraid the boss is right.”
“What am I right about?” Bodenstein returned to the table and launched into the rest of his chicken curry, now only lukewarm. Ostermann repeated the info about the knife.
“Okay.” Bodenstein wiped his lips with the napkin and gave his colleagues a somber look.
“Now listen up. Starting right now, I expect a hundred percent more effort from all of you! We got a reprieve of one more day from Nierhoff. So far, we’ve been more or less fishing in the dark, but now that we have a few concrete leads—”
His cell rang again. This time, he took the call and listened for a moment. His expression darkened.
“Nowak has disappeared from the hospital,” he informed the team.
“He was supposed to have another operation this afternoon,” said Hasse. “Maybe he got scared and
took off.”
“How do you know that?” Bodenstein asked.
“We took a saliva sample from him this morning.”
“Did he have any visitors when you were with him?” Pia asked.
“Yes,” Fachinger said. “His Oma and his father were there.”
Pia was surprised once again that Nowak’s father would have visited his son in the hospital.
“A big strong guy with a mustache?” she asked.
“No.” Fachinger shook her head uncertainly. “He didn’t have a mustache, just a three-day stubble. And gray hair, a little longer—”
“Okay, great.” Bodenstein shoved his chair back and jumped up. “That was Elard Kaltensee. When were you going to tell me that?”
“There’s no way I could have known,” Fachinger said defensively. “Should I have asked for his ID?”
Bodenstein said nothing, but his look spoke volumes. He handed Ostermann a fifty-euro bill.
“Pay the bill, okay?” he said, pulling on his jacket. “Somebody drive out to Mühlenhof and get the housekeeper to show you the five shirts. Then I want to know when, where, and from whom the knife was purchased that was used to kill Monika Krämer. And everything about Nowak’s father’s bankruptcy, and whether there was really a connection with the Kaltensee family. Find Vera Kaltensee. If she’s in some hospital, post two uniforms outside her door to check who comes to visit her. We’re also going to stake out Mühlenhof round the clock. Oh, yes: Katharina Ehrmann, née Schmunck, lives somewhere in the Taunus and possibly has Swiss citizenship. Got it?”
“Yep, great.” Even Ostermann, who normally never grumbled, was anything but thrilled about the workload he’d been given. “How much time do we have?”
“Two hours,” replied Bodenstein without a trace of a smile. “But only if one hour isn’t enough.”
He had almost reached the door when he thought of something else.
“What about that search warrant for Nowak’s company?”
“We’re getting it today,” said Ostermann. “And an arrest warrant.”
“Good. Send the photo of Nowak to the press and get it shown on TV today. Don’t give out any information about why we’re looking for him. Make up something. Say that he needs medication urgently or something like that.”