To Catch a Killer Page 2

  “I’m no longer so sure about that,” she replied, setting her cup on the table. “That’s why I’m taking a leave of absence next year. I’d like to spend more time with Greta. And I’m thinking about selling the house.”

  “Really?” Margarethe Rudolf raised her eyebrows but didn’t seem particularly surprised. “Why is that?”

  “It’s much too big,” said Karoline. “I’m looking for something a bit smaller and cozier for Greta and me. Something like this.”

  She had chosen to leave the house as it was when she bought it: stylish, luxurious, and energy-efficient, 4,300 square feet of living space with exposed concrete floors and every conceivable comfort. But it had never felt really homey, and she secretly yearned for her parents’ comfortable old house where she grew up—with its creaky wooden stairs, high ceilings, battered checkerboard floor tiles in the kitchen, bay windows, and the outmoded bathrooms.

  “We should drink a toast to your new life,” her mother suggested. “What do you think?”

  “Sure, I’m on vacation, after all.” Karoline smiled. “Have you got a bottle in the fridge?”

  “Of course. Champagne,” her mother said with a wink.

  A little later, they were sitting across from each other, clinking their glasses in a toast to Christmas and to Karoline’s decision to make some fundamental changes in her life.

  “You know, Mama,” she said, “I’ve been so driven, wanting desperately to live up to the perfect image that everyone had of me: disciplined, reasonable, organized down to the last detail. But it was stressing me out because I wasn’t doing all that out of genuine interest, but only because everyone expected it of me.”

  “You’ve set yourself free now,” her mother concluded.

  “Yes. Yes, I have.” Karoline took both her mother’s hands. “At last I can breathe again and sleep soundly. I feel like I’ve been living underwater for years but suddenly surfaced and realized how beautiful the world is. Work and money aren’t everything in life.”

  “No, sweetheart, you’re right about that.” Margarethe Rudolf smiled, but her expression was sad. “Unfortunately, your father has never come to that realization. Maybe someday he will, after he retires.”

  Karoline doubted it.

  “You know what, Mama? We’re going shopping,” she said firmly. “And we’re going to cook together on Christmas Eve, the way we used to.”

  Touched, her mother smiled and nodded.

  “Yes, let’s do that. And why don’t you bring Greta over tomorrow evening, and we’ll bake cookies. Then you two will have something to munch on when you’re here for Christmas.”

  Half an hour later, Oliver von Bodenstein showed up at the scene where the body had been discovered.

  “Thanks for covering for me,” he said to Pia. “I can take over now.”

  “Oh, I don’t have anything to do today,” she said. “If you want, I can stay awhile.”

  “I won’t turn down an offer like that.”

  He grinned, and it occurred to Pia how much her boss had changed in the past two years. After the breakup of his marriage, he had often been distracted and unable to concentrate, but now he had regained his former sense of authority and his keen perception; he had also begun to treat himself with greater forbearance. In the past, Pia had been the one who liked to follow her hunches and energetically push things forward, while he did things correctly and by the book, putting the brakes on her. Now it sometimes seemed that they had switched roles.

  Only someone who has suffered an existential loss and survived is capable of maturing and making fundamental changes. Pia had read this sentence somewhere, and it certainly seemed valid—not only for her boss, but for herself as well. In a relationship, you could fool yourself for a long time, close your eyes to reality, and act as though everything was fine. But inevitably, the day would come when the illusion would burst like a soap bubble and you would be faced with a choice: to go or to stay, to merely survive or to truly live again.

  “Have you already talked to the witness?” Bodenstein asked.

  “Yes,” said Pia, pulling on her hood. The wind was icy. “He was riding his bike along Dörnweg. That’s the name of the road that connects the sections of the town. He came from Eschborn and was heading in the direction of Niederhöchstadt. He was about the same distance away as the electrical tower over there when he saw the woman collapse. He thought she’d had a heart attack or something, so he rode over to her. He did not hear a gunshot.”

  “Do we know anything about the victim’s identity yet?”

  “No. But I think she must live in the area, because she had a dog with her and had no car keys.”

  They stepped aside to make room for the hearse.

  “We also found the bullet,” Pia went on. “It was fairly deformed, but it’s definitely from a rifle. Dr. Lemmer says it’s a semi-jacketed round. Hunters use this type of ammunition, as well as the police, because of its superior stopping power. In the military, they’re banned in accordance with the Hague Convention on Land Warfare.”

  “Dr. Lemmer told you all this?” Bodenstein asked with a slightly mocking undertone. “Who is he, anyway?”

  “No. Believe it or not, I happen to know something about this type of gun,” Pia replied sharply. “Dr. Frederick Lemmer is the new medical examiner.”

  They heard a whistle. Pia and Bodenstein turned around and saw Kröger down by the stream, waving both hands in the air.

  “Christian has found something,” Pia said. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  A moment later, they crossed a wooden bridge and stepped onto the lower part of a playground. Swings, seesaws, multicolored jungle gyms, a zipline, sandboxes, and a pond to play in were scattered over the spacious area higher up the Westerbach stream.

  “Over here!” Kröger shouted, excited as always whenever he made a discovery. “He must have been lying in these bushes. The grass is still flattened, and there . . . over there . . . do you see it? The impression left from a bipod. Fading a bit, but still recognizable.”

  Pia had to admit that she didn’t see anything but wet clumps of grass, old leaves, and damp soil.

  “You mean the perp lay here in wait for her?” Bodenstein asked.

  “Yes. Precisely,” said Kröger with a vigorous nod. “Whether he had this particular woman in his sights or just wanted to shoot somebody at random, I can’t tell you, of course. But I do know one thing: The guy is not some amateur, firing blindly out here. He deliberately set out to ambush his victim, using a noise suppressor and a nasty type of ammunition—”

  “Semi-jacketed round,” Bodenstein muttered, and winked at Pia.

  “Right. So you already know,” said Kröger, annoyed at being interrupted. “Anyway, I think this is where he waited, probably wearing some sort of ghillie suit.”

  “A gilly—what?” Bodenstein asked.

  “Jeez, Oliver, you’re acting a bit slow on the uptake,” Kröger said impatiently. “A ghillie suit is a camouflage outfit that hunters or snipers use to conceal the shape of the human body. It allows the shooter to blend in with his surroundings. Never mind. What’s important is that somebody lay here with a rifle that he rested on a two-legged stand to steady his aim. The rest is up to you to figure out. Anyway, try your best not to bother my team. Just let us work in peace.”

  He turned on his heel and left them standing there.

  “He thinks you were trying to make fun of him,” Pia told her boss.

  “I had no idea what he meant by a ghillie suit,” Bodenstein defended himself. “I mean, it was only after he explained that I realized I’ve heard the term before.”

  “In other words: You forgot,” Pia said, helping him out.

  “No need to rub it in.”

  Bodenstein’s cell rang.

  “I’m worried about all the spectators.” Pia nodded toward the group of onlookers that had already begun to form and was growing by the minute. Some people were even holding their cell phones high and taking p
ictures, although there was nothing to see besides the red-and-white crime-scene tape and the officers from the evidence team. Other people just watched, discussing the scene with each other, exhibiting the age-old fascination with horror that seemed to be an innate human trait. Pia was always surprised to see how a violent death drew crowds.

  She went over to a colleague who was restraining two women with a couple of small children from entering the playground.

  “But we come here every Wednesday morning,” one of the mothers complained. “The children look forward to it all week.”

  The uniformed colleague frowned in irritation.

  “In a couple of hours, they can use the playground again,” he said. “Right now, it’s closed.”

  “Why? And what’s going on with the bridge? Why is it closed, too?” the other woman wanted to know. “How are we supposed to get back across the stream?”

  “Just take the road over to the swimming pool. There’s another bridge down there,” the officer advised her.

  “This is outrageous!” mother number one exclaimed, incensed. The second woman also turned aggressive and started talking about a police state and their right to freedom of movement.

  “Officer,” said Pia, “please extend the cordon over to the intersection and from there to the highway. If there are any problems, call for backup.”

  The pugnacious mother took advantage of the policeman’s momentary lapse of attention and pushed her stroller under the crime-scene tape.

  “Stop!” said Pia, blocking her way. “Please leave the restricted area.”

  “Why?” The woman’s eyes were flashing, and she jutted out her chin, looking for a fight. “What harm will it do if our kids play in the sand for a while?”

  “It will disturb official police work,” Pia said coolly. “I’m asking you politely to leave.”

  “In Germany, we are entitled to freedom of movement!” the mother insisted. “Now look what you’ve done. The children are upset because the police won’t let them use the playground. You just don’t understand!”

  Pia was tempted to tell the woman that she was the one who was acting unreasonably and escalating the situation so that the children were upset. Not the red-and-white police tape. But she didn’t have time, and it wouldn’t do any good anyway.

  “For the last time,” she said firmly, “please leave the restricted area. If you do not, you will be impeding a police investigation. We will then have to take your name and personal data and institute legal proceedings. I’m sure you don’t want to set a bad example for your children, or do you?”

  “We come here every Wednesday all the way from Kronberg, and now this happens!” The mother glared at Pia, snorting with rage when she got no further reaction, and then retreated, cursing all the while. “We’re going to file a complaint! My husband knows important people in the Ministry of the Interior!”

  A woman who obviously had to have the last word. Pia let her have it and secretly felt sorry for her husband.

  “Incredible,” said the officer standing next to her, shaking his head. “It just keeps getting worse. People think they can do what ever they want. Courtesy has become an alien concept.”

  Bodenstein was waiting a short distance away. Pia left her colleagues to deal with the curious onlookers and went over to her boss. She crossed the playground, the wet grass squishing under her shoes.

  “We’re going to ring all the doorbells and find out whether anyone knows a white-haired lady with a dog,” Bodenstein said. “Just in case someone is at home and not standing around down there, gawking.”

  They started at the first place on a street lined with row houses. Before Bodenstein had a chance to ring the bell, Pia noticed a dark brown Labrador that was cowering in fear between two parked cars across the street.

  “I bet that’s the dead woman’s dog,” she said. “Maybe I can catch him.”

  She walked slowly toward the dog, squatted down, and reached out her hand. The dog was no longer young, judging by his graying muzzle. And he didn’t care much for strangers. He jumped up, squeezed through the bushes behind the cars, and took off down the block. Bodenstein and Pia followed him, but when they turned the corner, the dog was gone.

  “I think I’ll just ring a few doorbells,” he said, opening the gate of the first house. No one home. There was no response at the second one either. He finally had success at the third house.

  The front door opened a crack, and an elderly woman peered at them suspiciously over the safety chain.

  “Can I help you?”

  “We’re from the criminal police.” Pia had her police ID ready. She and Bodenstein had often been mistaken for Jehovah’s Witnesses or unwanted sales reps. In the background, they heard a man’s voice. The woman turned around.

  “It’s the police!” she yelled, then shut the door, removed the chain, and opened the door all the way.

  “Do you happen to know whether anyone on the block owns an old dark brown Labrador?” Pia asked.

  Behind the woman, a white-haired man appeared wearing a knitted cardigan and slippers.

  “That might be Topsi, Renate’s dog,” said the woman. “Why do you want to know? Did something happen?”

  “Do you also know Renate’s last name and where she lives?” Bodenstein ignored her questions.

  “Oh, sure. Her last name is Rohleder,” the woman replied eagerly. “I hope Topsi hasn’t been in an accident. That would break Renate’s heart.”

  “She lives in number 44,” the man put in. “Up the street. The yellow house with the white bench in the front yard.”

  “Actually, it was her husband’s house.” The woman lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, and her eyes were flashing. “But when he left her, back then, seven years ago, and only three days before Christmas, Renate’s mother, Ingeborg, moved in with her.”

  “The police don’t want to know all that,” her husband rebuked his gossipy wife. “The Rohleders own the flower shop on Unterortstrasse, down in town. But Ingeborg is certainly at home. She usually takes the dog for a walk around this time.”

  “Thank you for the information,” Bodenstein said politely. “You’ve been a big help. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t phone the flower shop quite yet.”

  “Oh, of course not,” the woman hastened to assure him. “We’re not that close with Renate anyway.”

  Bodenstein and Pia took their leave and walked up the street. Number 44 was the last house in the row, and it stood out from the rest with its cheerful façade painted a sunny yellow. Under a carport of light-colored wood stood an old but well-kept Opel. The small front yard had been carefully prepared for the winter. A few plants were wrapped in burlap sacks to protect them from the snow and cold; Christmas ornaments decorated one bush, and a string of lights had been draped around a boxwood. A Christmas wreath hung on the front door, and there they saw Topsi shivering as he waited in vain for someone to open the door.

  The bell over the door rang, and warm, humid air and the overpowering scent of flowers and fir boughs met them as they entered the flower shop. Outside above the display windows was an old-fashioned sign: ROHLEDER FLOWERS—ESTABLISHED 1962.

  The shop behind the steamed-up windowpanes was crowded with customers. There were flowers and all sorts of ornaments in open display cases, on wooden shelves, and in baskets. Behind a long counter, three women were busy putting together bouquets.

  Bodenstein invariably associated the smell in flower shops with mausoleums at cemeteries, so it took a lot of willpower not to turn on his heel and leave. Flowers growing in gardens and meadows were beautiful to behold, but he couldn’t stand the sight of cut flowers in vases. They made him feel sick.

  He walked past the customers, despite the protests of an elderly matron who was next in line to pay for the tiny Christmas star she was holding in her hand.

  “Uh-uh, young man, that’s not polite,” she complained in a quavery voice, giving him a good bump with her walker.

  “Tha
nks for calling me a young man,” Bodenstein countered dryly. On days like this, he felt especially old. Having to give someone the news that a loved one had died violently was as difficult after twenty-five years with the criminal police as it had been the very first time he did it.

  “I’m ninety-six years old,” said the old woman with a hint of pride. “Compared to me, you’re all a bunch of young whippersnappers.”

  “Then by all means, do go first.” Bodenstein stepped aside and waited patiently until the Christmas star was packed up and paid for. Pia, who’d been looking around the shop, stepped up beside him.

  “Can I help you?” The ample blonde with a little too much eye makeup, and hands that were cracked from working with flowers and water, gave him a cheerful smile.

  “Yes. Hello. My name is Bodenstein, and I’m from the criminal police in Hofheim. This is my colleague Pia Kirchhoff. We’d like to speak with Renate Rohleder.”

  “That’s me. What can I do for you?” The smile vanished, and the thought involuntarily shot through Bodenstein’s mind that she wouldn’t be smiling again for a long time.

  The bell on the shop door announced new customers, but Ms. Rohleder offered no greeting. Her eyes were fixed on Bodenstein’s face, and she seemed to guess that some disaster was about to change her life.

  “Has . . . has something happened?” she whispered.

  “Perhaps we could speak somewhere else?” Bodenstein asked.

  “Of course. Follow me.” She raised one end of the narrow wooden counter, and Bodenstein and Pia slipped through, entering a small, hopelessly cluttered office at the end of the hall.

  “I’m afraid we come with bad news,” Bodenstein began. “This morning around nine o’clock, the body of a woman was discovered in the field between Eschborn and Niederhöchstadt. She had white hair and was wearing an olive green jacket and a pink cap. . . .”

  Renate Rohleder turned pale as chalk, an expression of incredulity spread over her features. Not a sound crossed her lips; she simply stood there with her arms hanging limp at her sides. Her hands closed into fists and then opened again.