To Catch a Killer Page 3

“The woman had a dog leash with her,” Bodenstein went on.

  Renate Rohleder took a step back and sank onto a chair. Stunned disbelief followed on the heels of silent denial—this can’t be, there must be some kind of mistake!

  “She was going to come to the shop to help out after she took Topsi for a walk. There’s always so much to do before Christmas. I meant to call her, but I didn’t get around to it,” she murmured tonelessly. “My mother has a pink woolen cap. I gave it to her for Christmas three years ago, along with a pink scarf. And when she walked the dog, she always wore her old Barbour jacket, that ugly, stinking thing. . . .”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  Now the shock was setting in as she realized the finality of what had happened.

  Bodenstein and Pia exchanged a brief glance. The pink cap, the Labrador, the olive-colored jacket. There was no longer any doubt that Ingeborg Rohleder was the victim.

  “What happened? Did she . . . Did she have a heart attack?” whispered Renate Rohleder, looking at Bodenstein. Tears were running down her cheeks, which were streaked with mascara. “I have to go to her! I have to see her!”

  She jumped up, grabbed her cell and car keys from the desk, and snatched a jacket from the coatrack by the door.

  “Ms. Rohleder, wait!” Bodenstein seized the trembling woman by her shoulders and held her steady. “We’ll take you home. You can’t go see your mother.”

  “Why not? Maybe she’s not even dead, but only . . . unconscious or . . . in a coma!”

  “I’m very sorry, Ms. Rohleder. Your mother was shot.”

  “Shot? My mother was shot?” she whispered, stunned. “That can’t be possible. Who would do something like that? My mother was the kindest, friendliest person in the world.”

  Renate Rohleder staggered and her legs gave way. Bodenstein just managed to grab a chair for her before she collapsed. She stared at him, and then her mouth flew open in a terrible, shrill cry of despair that would echo in Bodenstein’s ears for hours afterwards.

  It was a manageable group that had gathered in the conference room of K-11. Bodenstein and Pia sat on one side of the oval table, Dr. Nicola Engel at the head, and Kai Ostermann took a seat on the other side so as not to infect anyone with his germs. He was sniffling and coughing nonstop and in a truly pitiful state. Outside the windows, it was already dark by the time Bodenstein finished his report.

  “We should consider taking this public,” Engel said. “Maybe someone saw the shooter leaving the playground. Thanks to the eyewitness, we at least have a firm time frame.”

  “I think that’s a good idea, but at the moment, we’re completely understaffed,” Bodenstein countered. “Pia is on vacation and only jumped in today to help out. If we set up a telephone hotline without more manpower, I’ll be the only one free to work the field.”

  “What do you suggest we do instead?” Engel raised her slender plucked eyebrows.

  “So far, we still don’t know whether Ingeborg Rohleder was shot because she was the intended target, or whether she was merely a target of opportunity,” Bodenstein replied. “We have to find out more about her circle of friends before we take this public. We spoke with her daughter, the staff of the flower shop, and a few neighbors. The deceased woman seems to have been popular with everyone, and apparently had no enemies. As things stand, we can see no personal motive for the murder.”

  “Think back to the case of Vera Kaltensee. That started the same way,” Pia put in. “In the beginning, we thought she was popular, respected, and above reproach.”

  “You can’t compare the two,” Bodenstein argued.

  “Why not?” Pia said with a shrug. “Anyone who is seventy years old has a long past in which all sorts of things could have happened.”

  “I could do some research on the victim,” Ostermann croaked.

  “Definitely do that,” Bodenstein said, nodding. “Maybe the ballistics report on the bullet will tell us something about the murder weapon.”

  “Good.” Nicola Engel stood up. “Please keep me in the loop, Oliver.”

  “I will.”

  “So, good luck.” She went to the door but then turned. “Thanks for jumping in today, Ms. Kirchhoff. I wish you a lovely vacation and a Merry Christmas.”

  “I hope you have a nice holiday, too,” said Pia. “Thanks.”

  Ostermann pushed back his chair and walked shakily to his office, coughing all the way. Pia followed. There was a whole row of medications on his desk, with a thermos of tea and a box of Kleenex.

  “I haven’t had a cold this bad in a long time,” Ostermann moaned. “If we didn’t have a homicide case right now, I’d just stay home tomorrow. You’d better leave, Pia, before you catch what I’ve got and sit around on the cruise ship coughing and sniffling.”

  “Jeez, Kai, it makes me feel terrible to leave you alone with this,” she said.

  “Ah, bullshit.” Ostermann sneezed and blew his nose. “I wouldn’t feel guilty in the slightest if I’d booked a vacation trip, and you had to sit around here, half dead.”

  “Thank you. You say the sweetest things.” Pia flung her little leather backpack over her shoulder and gave him a grin. “So I’ll just wish you a speedy recovery and Merry Christmas. Ciao, pal!”

  “Say hi to the sun at the equator for me.” Kai Ostermann waved and sneezed again. “Now, get the heck out of here!”

  Thursday, December 20, 2012

  Bodenstein had not slept well. After tossing and turning for half an hour, he was wide awake and decided to get up before he woke Inka, who was sound asleep next to him, snoring quietly. He left the bedroom without turning on the light, pulled on a fleece jacket over his pajamas, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, he turned on the brand-new coffeemaker that he’d given himself as his favorite Christmas present, and set a cup under the spigot.

  Two people out sick in K-11, Cem Altunay and Pia on vacation, and a murder case that didn’t seem like it would be cleared up anytime soon. The flu season had run riot among his colleagues, so there weren’t even any reinforcements to fall back on from other investigative units.

  The grinder in the coffeemaker rattled, and a few minutes later, the coffee ran into the cup and a marvelous aroma filled the kitchen. Bodenstein slipped his bare feet into his short lambskin-lined boots and stepped out onto the balcony. He took a sip of coffee—he had never had better—and sat down on the synthetic cotton couch under the protruding eaves. He wrapped himself in one of the woolen blankets that he took from the neatly folded pile on one of the easy chairs. The air was frosty cold, but so clear that Bodenstein could see the running lights of an airplane landing at the Frankfurt Airport. The view over the Rhein-Main plain, from the city past the industrial park in Höchst to the Frankfurt Airport, was always spectacular—day or night, in summer and winter. He loved sitting outside like this, losing himself in his thoughts and letting his gaze roam free. He had never regretted for a single second buying this half duplex in the Ruppertshain district of Kelkheim. For him, it meant a return to normal life, which had been abruptly shattered after his divorce from Cosima four years ago. The only constant during that chaotic time had been his job, and he still had that only because Pia had saved his ass several times. His inability to concentrate had led to some serious mistakes, which he was ashamed to acknowledge, but she had never wasted one word on castigating him or attempted to expose his errors in order to nab his job as the head of K-11. Undoubtedly, she was the best colleague he’d ever had, and the thought that he would have to solve the murder of the old lady from Eschborn without her made him more uneasy than he wanted to admit. The sliding door opened. He turned his head and was astonished to see his eldest daughter, Rosalie.

  “Hey, sweetheart, why are you up so early?”

  “I couldn’t sleep anymore,” she said. “Too many things running through my head.”

  “Come here.” Bodenstein scooted over a bit. She sat down next to him. For a while, father and daughter enjoyed the view and the quiet of th
is early winter morning. He could sense that something was bothering her, but he wanted to wait for her to bring it up herself. Her decision to take a position as sous-chef in one of the best hotels in New York City at the age of twenty-four was courageous, especially for Rosalie. Since childhood, even the tiniest change had brought on abdominal pain. She had finished her training as a chef the previous year by winning best in her class, and her mentor, the star chef Jean-Yves St. Clair, had advised her to spend some time abroad to gain experience.

  “I’ve never been away from here for longer than a week or two,” she began quietly. “And I’ve never lived alone before. Only with Mama or with you. And now America, all of a sudden, New York!”

  “Some birds leave the nest earlier, some later,” Bodenstein replied, putting his arm around her shoulders. She tucked her legs up and snuggled against him under the warm blanket. “Plenty of young people move out to pursue their studies but still cling to their parents’ lifeline for years. You’ve been making your own money for a long time and you’re very in de pen dent. Besides, you’ve pretty much managed the whole house hold. Do you know how much I’m going to miss that?”

  “I’m going to miss you, too, Papa. I’ll miss everything here. I’m not much of a city person.” Rosalie leaned her head on his shoulder. “What am I going to do if I get homesick?”

  “First of all, I don’t think you’re going to have much time for feeling homesick,” Oliver said. “But if it does happen, you can Skype with the people you’re missing, or even call them on the phone. On weekends or whenever you have a couple of days free, you can go out to Long Island or up to the Berkshires. They’re only a few hours away from New York. And if I know your mother, she’s bound to go and visit you.”

  “I suppose so,” said Rosalie with a sigh. “I’m looking forward to New York, and to the job and the new people. And yet I still feel queasy about the whole thing.”

  “If you felt any other way, it wouldn’t be normal,” he replied. “In any case, I’m incredibly proud of you. Back when you first started studying to be a chef, I was convinced that it was only an act of defiance on your part and that you’d soon throw in the towel. But you not only toughed it out, you turned into an excellent chef.”

  “There were times when I felt like giving up,” Rosalie admitted. “I never had time to go out with my girlfriends to parties, concerts, or clubs. But somehow they were all so . . . aimless. And I was the only one who found her dream job.”

  Oliver smiled in the dark. Rosalie was truly a lot like him, and not only when it came to her attachment to her hometown and her sense of family. Like him, she was also prepared to take responsibility and to make sacrifices to achieve something that was meaningful for her. From her mother, on the other hand, she’d inherited a great deal of ambition, which he somewhat lacked. It put her in a position to overcome all obstacles.

  “And that’s a valuable thing. Only if you really love doing something do you have a chance of being successful and finding fulfillment in your work,” Oliver said. “I’m convinced that you’ve made the perfect decision regarding your future. The year in America will present you with all sorts of opportunities.”

  He turned his head and rested his cheek on top of Rosalie’s head.

  “Whenever things get stormy in your life and you need a calm harbor, there will always be a place for you here,” he said softly.

  “Thank you, Papa,” Rosalie murmured, and then yawned. “I’m feeling better already. I think I’ll go back to bed for a while.”

  She sat up, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and went back inside.

  Children turn into grown-ups, Bodenstein thought with a hint of wistfulness. Time went by so fast! Lorenz and Rosalie had long ago left their childhood behind, and Sophia had already turned six a couple of weeks back. In eighteen years, when she would be as old as Rosalie was today, he would be almost seventy. Would he be able to look back on his life with satisfaction? He was offered Nicola Engel’s job a year and a half ago, after he’d taken over temporarily during her suspension, but he had declined. Too much administrative paperwork, too much politics. He wanted to work as an investigator, not a desk jockey. Only later did he realize that with this decision he had taken from Pia any chance of climbing the professional ladder of the Regional Criminal Unit. Having been Chief Detective Inspector for two years, she had all the necessary qualifications to be an excellent leader of K-11. But as long as he held the post, she would have to be satisfied with being merely part of his team. In the long run, he didn’t know whether that would be enough for her. What if one day she decided to transfer somewhere else so she could take a step up the career ladder? Bodenstein downed the last of his coffee, which had by now turned cold. His thoughts returned to the homicide case that he had to solve. He would find out in the next few days what it would be like to work without Pia.

  Like her boss, Pia Kirchhoff got almost no sleep that night, and for similar reasons. She just couldn’t get yesterday’s murder out of her head. Some of her colleagues claimed that they could dismiss all thought of work from their minds as soon as they drove home, but she seldom succeeded in doing so. At some point, she got up, got dressed, and tiptoed downstairs. The two dogs yawned and crept out of their baskets, which were in the living room, and followed her outside in the cold, more out of duty than with any real enthusiasm. Pia checked on the two horses standing sleeping in their stalls and sat down on the bench in front of the stable.

  According to the initial reports, Ingeborg Rohleder was a nice elderly lady who had worked her whole life in the family-owned flower shop and had been generally well liked in her hometown. Neither the neighbors who had been questioned nor the shocked employees at the flower shop could imagine why anyone would want to put a bullet into Ingeborg Rohleder’s head. Was it a case of mistaken identity, or had the woman been a random victim of the shooter? This idea was far more alarming than any other. In about 70 percent of all murder cases in Germany, there was some connection between the perpetrator and the victim, and often the perp was from the victim’s close circle of acquaintances. Usually it was a strong emotion such as jealousy or rage that played a part, or the fear of being caught for committing another crime. A pure, unspecified desire to kill that resulted in the murder of a random victim was very rare. And such cases were extremely difficult to solve. If there was no connection between perp and victim, the police had to rely on happenstance in the form of an eyewitness, a genetic fingerprint, or some other detail. Recently, Pia had attended a seminar in which one topic had been the development of violent criminality involving firearms. Even she had been astounded by how few killings in Germany—only 14 percent—were actually committed with a firearm.

  Pia shivered. There wasn’t much traffic on the nearby autobahn on the other side of the small riding stables at this hour, only occasional headlights flashing by. In less than two hours, that would change tremendously. Pia glanced at the two dogs, who sat in front of her, shivering pitifully, obviously regretting having left their comfortable baskets.

  “All right, come on, let’s go back inside,” she said as she stood up. The dogs dashed off ahead of her and slipped into the house as soon as she opened the door. Pia took off her jacket and boots, went back upstairs, and snuggled back under the covers.

  “Ooh, what’s this block of ice?” Christoph murmured when she nestled next to his body, warm with sleep.

  “I was just outside for a few minutes,” Pia whispered.

  “What time is it?”

  “Twenty after five.”

  “What’s wrong?” He turned over to face her and took her in his arms.

  “I can’t get the dead woman from yesterday out of my head,” said Pia.

  Late last night, she told Christoph why she’d gone to work even though her vacation had already started. No one could appreciate that sort of dedication better than Christoph, who also performed his job as director of the Opel Zoo with passion and commitment. When they were shorthanded, he often gave up
his weekends and days off.

  “The woman was a nice old lady, popular with everyone,” Pia went on. “The perp used a rifle with a suppressor.”

  “And what does that mean?” Christoph stifled a yawn.

  “We’ve just begun our investigation, but I have a feeling the woman wasn’t specifically targeted,” Pia explained. “And that could mean that we’re dealing with a sniper who just shoots at people at random.”

  “And now you’re worried because so many of your colleagues are out sick or on vacation.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’d feel a lot better about going on vacation if Cem and Kathrin were there.”

  “Listen, sweetie.” Christoph wrapped his arms more tightly around her and kissed her cheek. “I understand if you’d rather stay here in a situation like this. For me, the trip is more work than vacation—”

  “But I can’t let you go off on our honeymoon alone!” Pia protested.

  “We can always go on a honeymoon later,” Christoph countered. “It wouldn’t be very relaxing for you if your conscience was bothering you the whole time.”

  “I’m sure they can handle things without me,” Pia said without much conviction. “Maybe the whole case will be solved by today.”

  “Why don’t you sleep on it.” Christoph pulled her even closer. The warmth of his body had a relaxing effect, and Pia could feel sleep overwhelming her.

  “Sure,” she murmured. “I could do that.”

  And then she dozed off.

  He leafed through the newspaper, reading each page carefully. Nothing. Not a word about the murder in Eschborn. He didn’t find anything on the Internet either—neither in the news nor on the police blotter. Obviously, the police thought it better to keep the case out of the media for the time being, which was just fine with him. In a few days, that would change. But until then, the public’s ignorance would protect him from accidental witnesses, and he could move about freely.

  He was content with his strategy. Everything had gone exactly as planned. In the parking lot at Wiesenbad in Eschborn, a few mothers had been there with their kids, but nobody had paid any attention to him when he put the sports bag with the rifle into the trunk of his car and drove off.