Bad Wolf (41 page)

All in all the morning’s action had proved to be the height of senselessness and had cost a pile of money. Prinzler’s attorney, a tough woman in her mid-thirties, had made it clear that she would sue for destruction of property as well as for damages due to pain and suffering. She was planning to ask for a considerable sum for the anxiety the family had suffered.

Pia knew that Bodenstein felt no satisfaction at having been proved right. And it infuriated him that his colleagues in Frankfurt had not yet given him an opportunity to speak with Prinzler. But the morning circus had produced one positive result, because Bodenstein happened to run into an old colleague at police headquarters on Adickesallee who had led the previous arrest of Kilian Rothemund. Lutz Altmüller had also been part of the Leopard Special Commission, which had worked the so-far-unsolved case of the other dead girl, who had been found in the Main River on July 31, 2001. Altmüller was willing to meet with Pia, Christian Kröger, and Cem Altunay, and he had suggested they convene at the Unterschweinstiege Restaurant, not far from the Frankfurt Airport. That sounded good to Pia, because she had promised Bodenstein she would drive him to the airport. His flight to Munich left at two-thirty, and since he had only a carry-on, Kai had already checked him in online and downloaded his boarding pass on his iPhone. Bodenstein would be there in plenty of time if she dropped him off at one-thirty at Departure Hall A.

They drove to the Unterschweinstiege, parked in the parking garage, and walked across the street. Cem and Christian were waiting in front of the former forester’s lodge and waved to them as they wandered in search of the restaurant in between the office buildings and the airport hotel.

Chief Detective Inspector Lutz Altmüller was sitting at the first table near the entrance, enjoying an impressive serving of beef brisket with green sauce and salted potatoes. Pia hadn’t eaten anything all day, so the sight of his food made her mouth water.

“I thought that as long as we’re meeting here at lunchtime, we might as well eat lunch,” Altmüller admitted frankly after the greetings and introductions were done. “Have a seat, everyone. Have you eaten yet? I can highly recommend the green sauce.”

He brandished his knife and fork, talking with his mouth full.

“Where’s Bodenstein?”

“He’s flying to Munich,” Pia said. “Tonight, he’s going to be on
Germany’s Most Wanted.
”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. He told me about it.”

It was hard to imagine that Lutz Altmüller had ever been a successful track and field athlete. In 1996, he had participated in the Olympics in Atlanta, and that had given him a special status on the Frankfurt police force. Since then, his muscles had been transformed into flab, the sad result of eating too much fatty food in combination with lack of exercise.

“So, kids, what do you want to know?” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, took a swig of hard cider, and leaned back. The chair groaned under the weight of his hefty bulk.

“At present, we’re investigating three cases,” Pia began. “And we keep running into the names Kilian Rothemund and Bernd Prinzler. Prinzler was arrested this morning, but Rothemund is still a fugitive. We’d really like to learn more about that man.”

Lutz Altmüller listened attentively. His body may have turned sluggish in the intervening years, but his memory was sharp. Back then, in July 2001, he’d been one of the Kripo officers who had driven to the site where the girl’s body was found, and he’d played a leading role in setting up the special commission. Three days after they found the dead girl, a big commotion arose. An anonymous caller had claimed that he knew where the girl was from. It was their first hot lead—and, unfortunately, also their last. The caller refused to speak with them in person and so had sent his lawyer.

“Kilian Rothemund,” Pia guessed.

“Precisely,” Lutz Altmüller confirmed. “We met at a pub in Sachsenhausen with Rothemund, who at that time would not reveal the identity of his client. He claimed that the girl may have been the victim of a child-porn ring. His client, also an affected individual, was firmly convinced of this and was able to finger the men who were pulling the strings. All of this was very vague, of course, but it was our first promising lead. Anyway, only a few days later, the state attorney’s office initiated an investigation into Rothemund himself, and in raids of his office and home, they found a huge number of incriminating photos, videos, and even a compromising tape that showed Rothemund having sexual intercourse with underage children.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense at all,” said Christian Kröger. “Why would Rothemund draw attention to himself like that?”

“Good question.” Altmüller nodded and frowned. “It was extremely strange. Rothemund was brought to trial and ended up behind bars. His client remained anonymous and was never heard from again. And so the case was never solved.”

“Nine years later, we fish another dead girl out of the Main with signs of abuse on her body,” said Christian. “And at the same time, this Rothemund again pops into the focus of our investigation.”

“So far, we don’t know whether he actually has anything to do with our Mermaid,” Cem put in. “It’s only a hunch.”

The waiter appeared at the table and took away Altmüller’s plate. Pia ignored her rumbling stomach and ordered only a diet Coke. Cem and Christian also chose not to have anything to eat.

Altmüller waited until the waiter had brought the drinks, then leaned forward.

“My colleagues and I thought at the time that Rothemund was framed,” he said in a low voice. “The child-porn Mafia uses all kinds of intimidation methods. They aren’t squeamish when there’s a danger of exposure, and they have an excellent network. They have connections with public agencies and officials, and at the highest levels of finance and politics. Understandably, nobody is interested in naming names. It often takes years for us to get a conviction or break up a ring, but most of the time we’re left empty-handed. They are better equipped, with more money and connections, and more advanced technology—fighting them is simply beyond our means. We’re always limping a few steps behind these criminals.”

“Why didn’t Rothemund defend himself if he was supposed to be innocent?” Pia asked.

“He did. Until the end, he disputed having had anything to do with the material presented in court against him,” replied Altmüller. “But the evidence was so overwhelming that the court paid no heed to his objections. Add to that the fact that the public had already prejudged the case in the press. It was very strange. Despite a news blackout, everything leaked out. And then there was that memorable press conference with State Attorney Markus Maria Frey.…”

“With whom Rothemund was very good friends at one time,” Pia added.

“Yes, that was common knowledge,” Altmüller said with a nod. “But the friendship was shattered when Rothemund began to defend big-time criminals and won a few spectacular cases because he was able to prove procedural mistakes and failures on the part of the investigating authorities and the state attorney’s office. He was on his way to joining the top league of German criminal defense lawyers; he could afford a big house, tailored suits, and expensive cars. I’m sure that his old pal Frey was simply jealous and searching for an opportunity to knock Rothemund off his high horse.”

“By getting him sent to prison like that?” Kröger shook his head. “That’s just plain nasty.”

“Well, yes…” Altmüller grimaced. “Just imagine if you were humiliated in public a few times by your former best friend. Then he makes a really disastrous mistake. What’s a state attorney to do? He has to follow up on the matter because of his own position.”

“Yes, very true. Especially when it’s a matter of child abuse,” Cem Altunay agreed. “But Frey could have recused himself from the case because of personal prejudice.”

“Maybe. But he might have seen a chance to reinstate and distinguish his own reputation after mistakes had been made by his department. There’s a reason why the man became chief state attorney while only in his mid-thirties. He’s ambitious, hard as nails, and incorruptible.”

“What do you know about Bernd Prinzler?” Pia asked.

“Prinzler was once a very big deal in the Road Kings,” Altmüller replied. “People think the Kings are a motorcycle gang that does some dirty business. In reality, they are a tightly organized group with a strict, almost military hierarchy. In the struggle for dominance in the milieu that includes Kosovo Albanians and Russians, there was always collateral damage that sent a few members of the gang to court and to prison. But by and large, we didn’t try to stop them, because they imposed order with a heavy hand and saved us a lot of work. In the nineties, Prinzler was vice president of the Frankfurt chapter, and he was both feared and respected. On a couple of occasions, Rothemund successfully saved him from doing time. Then all of a sudden, Prinzler disappeared from the scene. At first, we thought he’d fallen out with his fellow members, and for a while we figured we’d find his body somewhere, but he had simply retired from the daily business and taken over other tasks in the organization.”

“What sort of tasks? And why?” Kröger asked.

“I can only speculate about that. We even managed to infiltrate the Kings by using a mole, but he got shot in a raid.” Altmüller gave a shrug. “Word was that Prinzler got married and no longer wanted to be on the front line.”

“We saw his wife and kids this morning,” Cem said. “Two sons between twelve and sixteen years old.”

“That would fit,” said Altmüller.

Pia had been listening in silence. All the information that Altmüller had given them was whirling around like puzzle pieces in her head as she tried to fit them into the right spots, even though the big picture was still incomplete. Instead of receiving helpful answers to her questions, dozens of new questions had popped up. Had Hanna Herzmann really been doing research on the Road Kings, as they had previously assumed? How had the contact between Rothemund and Prinzler come about? And how did Leonie Verges fit into the whole story?

“When did the raid happen when the infiltrator got shot?” she asked.

Her subconscious was sending her signals that she couldn’t interpret or understand, and it was driving her nuts.

“That was a number of years ago,” said Altmüller. “I think it was 1998. Or was it ’97? I know for a fact that Prinzler was still active then, because Rothemund had successfully gotten him off the hook. And it turned out that it wasn’t the Road Kings who shot our mole and two of the gang—it was one of our boys.”

“Erik Lessing,” said Pia.

Lutz Altmüller, who had just raised his hand to signal the waiter, stiffened, and his usual ruddy complexion—the result of high blood pressure—went pale.

“How do you know that name?” His response was very revealing. Pia’s brain was now running in high gear. Erik Lessing. Kathrin. Behnke. Dr. Nicola Engel. Kilian Rothemund. The old case in Frankfurt, which was why Engel and Behnke couldn’t stand each other. Why had Behnke always gotten away with everything? Why hadn’t they kicked him off the force despite the worst transgressions, and even appointed him to Internal Affairs in the State Criminal Police? Was someone higher up holding a protective hand over him? And if so, why?

“Was that also a screwup by the state attorney’s office?” she asked instead of answering Altmüller. “Could it be that there’s some sort of connection with our current cases?”

“Now your imagination is running away with you,” said the old chief detective inspector, shaking his head. That was the end of his willingness to share information. He waved for the waiter to pay his bill, saying he had a doctor’s appointment. Cem and Christian thanked him for his help. As they all stood up to leave the restaurant, another idea shot through Pia’s mind, and she felt a shiver of excitement. Of course, that could be the answer!

“Mr. Altmüller,” she said, turning once more to her Frankfurt colleague, “did Rothemund say
anything
back then about his client? Did he mention whether his client was male or female?”

The heavyset man leaned on one of the cocktail tables in the terrace by the entrance and frowned in thought.

“I’d have to take a look at the old files,” he said after a moment. “We recorded that conversation with him on tape, and made a transcript of it for the files. I’ll have a look and see if I can find it.”

“Thank you,” Pia said with a nod. “To what extent was this client ‘affected’? And by what?”

“Hmm.” Lutz Altmüller ran his hand over his bald pate. “I think he meant that his client had also been a victim of the child-porn Mafia. Unfortunately, we had only that one conversation with him, so we couldn’t follow up on it.”

The pieces of the puzzle were finally dropping into place as if of their own accord, and Pia grasped what she—sidetracked by Bernd Prinzler—hadn’t wanted to see. Suddenly, she was in a big hurry.

“Who is Erik Lessing?” Christian asked her after Altmüller had trudged off. “Why was the old man so shocked when you mentioned that name?”

“That was just a shot in the dark,” said Pia. “I’m not so sure I understand it all myself. But we definitely have to take another look at Leonie Verges’s house. Somehow, I feel sure that we’re going to find the key to everything in her patient files.”

*   *   *

During the drive home from the hospital in Bad Homburg, Louisa had just sucked her thumb without saying a word. At home, she had refused to climb the stairs from the car to the apartment. The prospect of chocolate pudding hadn’t helped. Asking her to be reasonable or using a stern voice hadn’t worked, either. Emma was close to tears. Just as she was trying to schlep Louisa up the stairs, despite her own condition, Helmut Grasser came out of her in-laws’ apartment like a rescuing angel. Before Louisa could protest, he’d picked her up, carried her upstairs, and set her down at the door. Corinna and Sarah came by later and brought little presents for Louisa, but they couldn’t even coax a smile out of her. Eventually, she went to her room and slammed the door.

Then Emma did burst into tears. It wasn’t her fault that her daughter had broken her arm. Still, she felt responsible. What was going to happen now? On the one hand, she wished Florian were there to support her, but on the other, she was afraid that his presence might be exactly the wrong thing. Her girlfriends had tried to console her, assuring her that they’d take care of Louisa. And Emma herself would be close by when she had her baby in the on-site delivery room.