To Catch a Killer Page 7

  But then she thought about the husband and daughter of the woman who was killed yesterday. And Renate Rohleder. Their bewilderment and horror. Pia also thought about the young girl who had seen her grandmother’s head blown off. Damn.

  All the seats were taken in the waiting room behind the guardhouse on the ground floor of the Regional Criminal Unit. Previously, Chief Commissioner Nierhoff, Nicola Engel’s predecessor in the post, had preferred to use this space for his numerous press conferences because it was the biggest room in the building. This morning, the “Sniper” Special Commission was convening for the first time, and the room was already fully equipped with tables, a telephone, the inevitable whiteboard, PCs, printers, and a fax machine. Twenty-five officers were jammed into the space, sitting and standing. They’d been brought in from various investigative units to join the special commission, which also included Dr. Nicola Engel, the head of the regular police in the building; case analyst Andreas Neff from the State Criminal Division; and Bodenstein and Ostermann as the last contingent from K-11.

  After a very brief statement to the press was issued, which Bodenstein had done last night, the newspapers and online news ser vices were already writing sensationalist headlines such as: SECOND SNIPER MURDER! IS AN INSANE KILLER ON THE LOOSE? And the public was understandably nervous. To the annoyance of police colleagues manning the switchboard, people were already calling the general emergency number for information, so the first order of business was to set up an emergency phone number especially for this case. Since Ostermann was hardly saying a word, Bodenstein took over describing the situation to his assembled colleagues.

  “On Wednesday morning at around eight forty-five in the Niederhöchstadt district, seventy-four-year-old Ingeborg Rohleder was shot dead,” he began. “So far, we have no indications of a motive for the crime. The shooter used a rifle and Winchester .308 ammunition. That’s a very common caliber, so it’s impossible to ascertain where, when, and from whom this ammunition was purchased. At first, we assumed that Mrs. Rohleder was merely a target of opportunity, but last night at around six thirty, a second homicide was perpetrated in Oberursel in a very similar way—”

  There was a knock on the door, and someone came in. The others began whispering to one another.

  “Hey, Pia,” Matuschek from Fraud called out. “What are you doing here?”

  “Couldn’t get along without us, eh?” another said.

  There was loud laughter.

  “I thought you’re supposed to be on vacation,” said a third.

  Pia set her backpack on the table.

  “How about if we all agree,” she said frostily, looking around the room, “that for the time being, a certain word beginning with the letter V will not be part of our vocabulary.”

  Everyone nodded. Bodenstein, who once again had hardly slept a wink all night, felt a deep sense of relief when he realized that Pia had decided not to go on her trip.

  “Seems pretty stupid to me,” someone muttered. “Coming to work instead of flying off on vacation? It would never occur to me to do that.”

  “That’s precisely why you have the job you do, Officer Probst,” Pia retorted. “And you’ll keep the same rank until you retire.”

  Bodenstein’s gaze met Nicola Engel’s, and he noticed a brief smile flit across her face.

  “Sorry for interrupting, boss, please continue.” Pia nodded to Bodenstein and took a seat on the chair that Ostermann had requisitioned with a snap of his fingers from another colleague.

  “Thank you,” he said, and turned back to the group. He gave a brief rundown of events surrounding the two murders and summed up the facts they knew so far.

  “Both victims were women of retirement age. As far as the family backgrounds of the victims go, so far, there do not seem to be any parallels or points of contact,” he concluded. “The husband of victim number two is a physician; the daughter of victim number one is a florist. That’s all we really have at the moment.”

  “Thank you very much,” Chief Inspector Neff said, and then took the floor. “It’s not much to go on, but we have to assume that there is little information to be found. To me, both situations seem to demonstrate the random behavior of the shooter. I see some parallels to the case I was on when I was in the United States. In October of 2002, over a period of three weeks, two men shot people at random, killing ten of them, in the Washington, D.C., area. The targets were seemingly chosen totally at random. They killed for the sheer joy of killing.”

  “Who is this guy?” Pia whispered as Neff recounted the story of John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo.

  “The secret weapon from Wiesbaden,” said Ostermann, rolling his eyes. “Offering assistance to the hick cops.”

  “That’s Andreas Neff, case analyst from the State Criminal Police,” Bodenstein added in a low voice.

  “A profiler?” Pia frowned. “What’s he doing here?”

  Ostermann shrugged mutely.

  “Dr. Engel made the decision,” said Bodenstein. “And I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  Pia waited until Neff had finished his lecture.

  “After what happened yesterday, there’s no way I’d believe that our perpetrator is shooting victims at random,” she objected. “The very location of the crime scene last night tells me it wasn’t a crime of opportunity. The victim’s house is located behind a tall hedge at the end of a cul-de-sac. The shooter not only had to find a suitable spot from which to fire, but he also had to scout out his exact escape route. There must be some connection between the two victims, even though we’re not yet able to see it. That’s why we should examine closely the background and social circles of both victims.”

  Neff had listened politely to her and now nodded, giving her a smile.

  “Naturally you should do that,” he said. “I have merely presented my assessment of the situation. It’s possible that I’m wrong, but—”

  “Thank you very much for your preliminary evaluation, Chief Inspector,” Bodenstein interrupted him, and stood up. “Ms. Kirchhoff and I will be interviewing Ms. Rudolf’s relatives today. You’re welcome to go with us if you like.”

  Then he assigned various tasks to other colleagues and ended the discussion. Kai Ostermann made no secret of what he thought of Neff.

  “Have fun with the smart-ass,” he croaked. Bodenstein gave him a dirty look.

  Pia had nothing against taking Neff along with them. She had never worked with a case analyst before, but she’d heard that profilers often noticed details that had could contribute decisively to solving a case. One thing was clear: Time was tight. The perp could strike again at any moment.

  “In order to carry out an analytical reconstruction of the crime, what investigators most lack is time. I’m sure you know that. So it was a wise decision to include me in the investigation at this early stage.” Chief Inspector Andreas Neff walked around the plainclothes car, opened the passenger-side front door, and was about to get in.

  “You sit in back,” said Pia, stepping in front of him.

  Neff looked at her, then shrugged and smiled. He was a slight man, about an inch shorter than Pia, with an ordinary-looking face, the kind that was easily forgotten. But his small stature seemed to have had no effect on his high opinion of himself.

  “You know, this is something that I often encounter.” He sat down in the backseat. “As a case analyst with the State Criminal Police, I don’t belong to any specific team. We are deployed only where our colleagues have no idea how to proceed. And that means we’re not particularly popular at first, because who wants to admit to failure.”

  Pia didn’t know what he was getting at.

  “What is it you often encounter?” she asked.

  “People send me signals, sometimes not very subtly, that I am basically unwanted,” he replied. “I’ve studied human behavior for years. The act of human communication consists of only eight percent speech, and ninety-two percent body language. From your body language, I deduce a sense of u
ncertainty toward me. You cover up this uncertainty, of which you are probably unaware, with an aggressive attitude. Many female colleagues do the same. They already feel isolated because of their gender, and this is compounded by a feeling of physical inferiority. The fact that I’m relegated to the backseat while you sit in front is a display of dominance on your part, intended to put me in my place and clearly indicate my subordinate rank on the team.”

  “Is that right?” Pia was stunned. “I do not feel physically inferior to you. Nor am I uncertain.”

  “Yes, you are,” Neff insisted. “But I’m familiar with this reaction, and I understand your behavior. You see, when a person such as myself is constantly examining and analyzing even the smallest detail, over time, that person develops an acute sensitivity for the power structures of a team. In the United States, they’re far ahead of us with regard to equal rights in the workplace and the acceptance of women on the police force. Here in Germany, we are limping along, de cades behind.”

  Pia saw that Bodenstein was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

  “And is it your expert opinion that I’m uncertain only because I’m sitting in the front seat of the car?” she interrupted Neff’s screed. “Or am I per se uncertain because I’m a woman?”

  “Both.”

  At first Pia thought Neff meant this to be a joke, but he was nodding his head in earnest.

  “It’s also a matter of how you demonstrated your position of power with regard to me. By saying ‘You sit in back,’ you meant it to be a command, not a polite request. In addition, you stepped in front of me, which means you were giving your command physical emphasis as well.”

  “Ha!” Pia said, shaking her head. “Now, just a minute. I sit in front because there’s no GPS in this car and I know the way to the crime scene. You don’t. Besides, I always sit in front.”

  “Ah yes,” said Neff. “ ‘I always sit in front.’ What does this seemingly benign sentence actually tell us about you and your attitude? You are inflexible. You insist on routines because they suggest security. Furthermore, it signifies that you’re afraid of change and innovation. I could go much deeper with this analysis, but let’s leave it at that.”

  Pia said nothing, although she had a caustic retort on the tip of her tongue. She did feel unexpectedly uncertain, and that made her mad. Neff seemed to take her silence as affirmation of his theories. He began talking about the profiling methods that he had learned during his time with the FBI.

  “With serial killers, in particular, there are certain patterns that, statistically speaking, can and must be linked to specific socioeconomic classes,” he pontificated from the backseat. “As profilers, we draw our conclusions based on criminological expertise, with the help of clues, crime-scene information, and circumstantial evidence. In this respect, it is unfortunate that I’ve seen only photos from the crime scenes. Normally, I prefer to be able to get a feel for the crime scene in person.”

  Bodenstein signaled and turned off at the Königstein roundabout in the direction of Kronberg. They drove past the Opel Zoo, and for a few seconds, Pia considered asking her boss to let her out. She could still take the plane to Ecuador and the Galápagos Islands instead of being insulted by this know-it-all shithead.

  “Excuse me for interrupting your lecture,” she then said to Neff. “But do you happen to have any questions? Yesterday I was at the crime scene only an hour after the woman was killed.”

  “I’m well aware of that. I did read the case file, after all,” Neff replied, sounding peeved. “Of course I have questions that I will ask. I am part of the team.”

  On paper, maybe, Pia thought to herself, doubting that Andreas Neff was at all capable of participating in a team effort.

  “Please allow us to handle the interview with the victim’s relatives.” Bodenstein finally intervened after not uttering a peep for the past fifteen minutes.

  “Why is that?” Neff protested. “I must—”

  “We are the investigating officers, you are the external case analyst. That means your role is to observe and analyze what you observe,” Bodenstein explained in a calm voice. Pia could have kissed him for making Neff finally shut his trap.

  Margarethe Rudolf was from Oberursel, which was where she had lived her whole life. The lovely old villa had belonged to her parents, but when they passed away early on, she and her husband had moved in. Like Ingeborg Rohleder, Margarethe Rudolf was a woman who had been both well liked and respected. She was involved with the church congregation, the sports club, and the cultural circle; she had played bridge, led a literary group, and was active in the Lions Ladies Club. Among her extended circle of acquaintances, there was absolutely no one who could have wanted her dead—this was something that her husband and daughter stressed again and again. Both were in utter shock, and no one could blame them.

  “I’d gladly offer you a cup of coffee, but . . . but my daughter and I . . . we simply can’t manage to do . . .” Dr. Dieter Rudolf, a slim man in his early sixties with snow-white hair, didn’t finish the sentence, but Bodenstein and Pia understood what he meant. The crime-scene cleaners had done their work well, and not the tiniest fleck of blood could be seen in the kitchen, yet it had to be terrible for them to even go into that room.

  The professor answered all their questions with composure and made a great effort to preserve the outward appearance of normalcy, just as his daughter did. Two people who were used to having their personal and professional lives in perfect order. Karoline Albrecht was wearing the same outfit as the night before, a sure sign that she hadn’t had any sleep.

  The house was already lovingly decorated for Christmas. On a sideboard stood a whole orchestra of hand-carved little angels next to a “smoking man” incense burner with a yellowish beard. Pine boughs in a tall glass floor vase were decorated with Christmas ornaments. The heavy dining room table was dominated by a tasteful Advent wreath, with the last candles still unlit. In front of the tall mullioned windows that faced the snow-covered garden hung large and small Christmas stars in red and white.

  An imposing Nordmann fir outside on the covered terrace waited, probably in vain now, to be decorated. Nothing in this house would ever be the same. It was bad enough to lose a loved one because of a heart attack or a serious illness, but a murder was beyond comprehension.

  “Ms. Albrecht,” said Pia gently, “we would like to speak with your daughter, Greta.”

  “What’s the point of that?” Karoline Albrecht retorted. “It was dark outside, and the light was on in the kitchen. She didn’t see anyone.”

  “Where is your daughter now?”

  “With her father and his family in Bad Soden. A familiar place and a little normalcy are very important for her right now.”

  She stopped talking and pressed her lips together. Her father touched her arm, and Karoline Albrecht placed her hand briefly on his. Although they were sitting right next to one another, they seemed oddly lost and not like people who were especially close to each other. An unexpected death in the family, especially a murder, often made relatives forget their animosities and come together in order to lend each other solace and support. But such an event could also bring long-smoldering conflicts to light and totally shatter families. Pia decided not to insist on talking with Greta at this time. With a brief nod of her head, she signaled to her boss that he should take over.

  “Had you noticed any change in your wife in recent weeks?” Bodenstein asked. “Was there anything she might have observed? Or did she feel threatened in some way?”

  “No.” The professor shook his head absentmindedly. He sat there rigidly, his strikingly slender hands clasped as if in prayer. A light shadow was on his cheeks, and the look in his dark eyes was veiled, his expression impenetrable.

  “Was there a workman in the house that your wife didn’t know, or someone who wanted to read the electric or water meters?” asked Bodenstein gently. “Was anything out of the ordinary, or had anything unusual happened?”


  The professor thought about this briefly. “Not that I know of.”

  “Does the name Ingeborg Rohleder mean anything to you?” Pia now asked. “From Niederhöchstadt?”

  The professor frowned in thought. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard that name.”

  “Ms. Albrecht, would your mother have told you if anything strange was going on?” said Bodenstein, turning to the daughter. “How was your relationship with your mother?”

  “Good. And very warm,” Karoline Albrecht replied. “I’ve always worked a lot, but I phoned Mama every day. Sometimes only briefly, but occasionally we would talk for an hour or more. She is . . . She was always the steady rock in my life.” Her voice quavered, but she had her emotions fiercely under control. “I . . . I’m quite sure she would have told me if there were anything on her mind or worrying her.”

  Pia sensed what it must be costing this woman to keep her composure. In addition to her grief over her mother, she was clearly concerned about the emotional welfare of her daughter. At some point, her strength would inevitably run out, and the floodgates of despair would open. Pia hoped for the sake of both Ms. Albrecht and herself that this would not happen right now. That sort of emotional meltdown could seriously hinder future contact with the woman. She would be ashamed of her behavior, and that would not make another conversation any easier.

  Bodenstein, Pia, and Andreas Neff, who had actually kept his mouth shut, got up. Karoline Albrecht also stood up.

  “My mother was a dear person who never hurt anyone. Nobody would have any reason to kill her.” She uttered an inarticulate sound, half laugh, half sob, and then her father, too, lost his iron self-control and began to weep. “There are thousands of people who deserved to be shot instead of my mother!”

  On the drive back, Pia took the wheel. She didn’t want to go by the zoo again, so she turned off toward Bommersheim. From there, the L 3004 led directly to the junction with the A 66 at the end of Miquelallee, and she avoided driving through town with all the traffic lights and drivers creeping along at less than thirty kilometers an hour because they didn’t have on snow tires.