I Am Your Judge: A Novel (29 page)

“I agree completely,” said the state attorney.

Bodenstein’s cell rang. Cosima. She had always had a talent for calling him at the least convenient moments.

“Excuse me,” he said, retreating to a corner of the room to take the call.

“Hello, Oliver!” his ex-wife shouted after he picked up. “I just wanted to say that I’m on the train to Königstein. There weren’t any cabdrivers at the airport who would take me to the Taunus.”

“I thought you were on your way to Siberia,” Bodenstein replied in amazement.

“It was just too cold for me.” Cosima laughed, but it didn’t sound genuine. “My team is still working, but I’ve pretty much lost interest. Shall I pick up Sophia later at your place?”

“Okay, if you like. She’s with Inka. I’m stuck working on a tough case. And I have to go to a press conference right now.”

“Is it that sniper? People are completely hysterical about it.”

“I have to go, d—” He stopped himself. He’d almost let the word “dear” slip out. After four years. Good God, he hoped she hadn’t noticed.

“No problem,” said Cosima. “I’ll pick her up from Inka, if I can get from Königstein to Ruppertshain somehow.”

“Okay, I’ll let Inka know that you’re coming,” he said.

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” And she ended the call.

In twenty-five years, Bodenstein had never seen Cosima leave a film expedition early—no matter what the external circumstances might be. Something didn’t add up. Had she heard that her mother changed her will? Was that why she was coming back? He quickly sent a text to Inka. She would certainly not be sad if Sophia went back to her mother three weeks earlier than planned. The thought gave him a slight pang of regret.

His cell rang again, and this time it was Ostermann.

“Erik Stadler just came home,” he said. “What should we do?”

“Just a sec.” Bodenstein went over to talk to Engel and the state attorney.

“Do you have enough circumstantial evidence for an arrest warrant?” Rosenthal wanted to know.

“Nothing really concrete,” Bodenstein admitted. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be enough for the magistrate.”

“But enough for a temporary detention order, at any rate,” said Dr. Engel.

“Okay, then bring him in and interview him,” agreed the state attorney, consulting his watch. “We have to go.”

“Kai,” Bodenstein said to Ostermann, “keep surveillance on Stadler’s house in case he tries to take off. When I’m done here, I’ll drive to Frankfurt and bring him in.”

On the way to the stage, where a table and five chairs had been set up, he texted Pia again and then turned off his smartphone.

*   *   *

“Closed at six thirty. What crap!”

Pia peered inside the dark window of the goldsmith shop and tapped on the glass door. Maybe Jens-Uwe Hartig, the fiancé of the late Helen Stadler, was in a back room. But nothing moved, and the place remained dark.

“Goes home right on time,” said Cem. “Have we got a private address for Mr. Hartig?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Pia pulled out one of her last business cards and sat in the car to write a note on the back. The long day, the relentless tension, and the damp cold were taking their toll. She was feeling irritated, her whole body ached, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up on the couch. Just as she was climbing out of the car, an elderly man appeared. He came over and planted himself right in front of her.

“Can’t you read the signs over there? This is a pedestrian zone!” he snapped at her. Pia’s quota of courtesy and forbearance was all used up for the day.

“Go buy yourself some new glasses,” she responded. “Vehicles aren’t allowed from nine
A.M
. to six
P.M
., but it’s six thirty now.”

She left him standing there and went over to drop her card in the store’s mail slot.

“Let’s drive up to the Winklers in Glashütten,” she said to Cem and Kim. “That’s more important.”

In the meantime, the old man had fished a cell phone out of his jacket pocket and was standing in front of the car to take a picture of the license plate. Pia paid no attention to him and handed the keys to Cem.

“Can you drive? I’ve had it for today.”

“Sure.” Her colleague took the keys and got in behind the wheel. Pia got in the passenger seat, and Kim sat in back. During the trip, no one spoke, and Pia was grateful for the peace and quiet. The roads were deserted, and when they reached Königstein, the rain turned into a heavy snowfall. Pia finally noticed the text from Bodenstein.

Erik Stadler has turned up. After the press conference I’ll go see him.

Erik Stadler. Was he close to his sister? What was it like for him to look on as she suffered all those years? Was his sister’s suicide the cause of the murders? Erik Stadler and his father had a double reason to hate Renate Rohleder, Dieter Rudolf, and Fritz Gehrke. Pia yawned. It was so hot in the car that it made her tired. Right now, she could have been on a ship with Christoph, sitting in the sun, without a care in the world. Instead, she was riding through the snowy dark, making no progress on the investigation. It was terrible having to react instead of being able to act. Four dead! And they were still fumbling in the dark.

“Here we are,” Cem said suddenly, startling Pia. “The light’s on, looks like they’re home.”

Kim closed her iPad and they got out, trudging through ankle-deep snow to the Winklers’ front door. Pia rang the bell.

Lydia Winkler, the mother of Kirsten Stadler, was a slight woman with short hennaed hair and a worn-out face full of wrinkles.

“Please come in,” she welcomed them. “I’m sorry you had to drive up here in such terrible weather.”

“No problem.” Pia forced a smile. “Fortunately, the state of Hessen allocates winter tires for our official cars.”

The house was bigger than it looked from outside. It was built in typical ’70s style, with dark wooden ceilings, Persian rugs on dark brown tiles, old-fashioned curtains, and huge windows with metal frames. It resembled Fritz Gehrke’s place. Mrs. Winkler led them into the living room, which was as big as the entire ground floor of Pia’s house at Birkenhof, though it looked smaller because of the dark ceiling beams.

“Just a minute, and I’ll get my husband.” The woman vanished without inviting them to sit down. Pia, Cem, and Kim exchanged glances, then looked around the room. On a sideboard stood dozens of framed photos, and Pia examined them curiously. Most of them showed Kirsten Stadler or her children at various ages; the son-in-law was nowhere to be seen. Photos of their dead daughter also hung on the walls. Kirsten Stadler had been a pretty girl and later an attractive woman with a warm smile.

It took quite a while before Mrs. Winkler reappeared, her spouse in tow. He was a good bit taller than his wife, with a sinewy bald head and thin face, bitter lines etched around his mouth. In his light blue eyes lurked an irritability just waiting to surface at the slightest provocation. Pia thought he was disagreeable at first sight.

“Ah, the police. I don’t suppose you could have thought to come later,” said Joachim Winkler sullenly, shoving his hands demonstratively in his pants pockets. Pia didn’t reply, and for a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence. It was very warm in the house, and she felt herself sweating. Her mouth was dry as dust, and she had developed an instant headache.

“What do you want from us?” Winkler asked brusquely.

“You may have already heard from your son-in-law, Dirk Stadler, that the sniper murders in recent days are most probably linked to the death of your daughter,” Pia began without preface. Winkler’s hostile expression darkened when she mentioned the name of his son-in-law.

“No, we didn’t know that,” Winkler replied gruffly. “We don’t keep in contact with our daughter’s husband.”

Neither he nor his wife asked what the link might be. They seemed tense, but not particularly surprised or even interested. A disconcerting reaction.

“The murder victims are relatives of people who might have been connected with the death of your daughter,” Pia went on. “Mr. Stadler mentioned that he thought you might also have something to do with it.”

She noticed Cem’s dumbfounded look but caught her mistake too late.

“What the—?!” Joachim Winkler exploded, his face crimson with indignation. “How dare that man claim something like that?”

The conversation was clearly off on the wrong foot before it had really begun. Pia’s clumsy misstatement, which had made Winkler see red, was due to fatigue or maybe because of her instinctive dislike of Stadler’s father-in-law. But exhausted or not, as a professional, she should not have made such a mistake. It was best to turn over the interview to Cem, who was much more diplomatic than she was.

“Don’t get excited, Jochen.” His wife reached out, tried to pat her husband’s arm, but he roughly shook it off.

“I refuse to listen to this nonsense,” Winkler snorted in rage. “I have nothing to say.”

He turned around abruptly and left the room with stiff strides. A moment later, somewhere in the house, a TV was turned on full blast.

“Please excuse me.” Pia shrugged regretfully. “I expressed myself poorly, but we’ve been under enormous pressure for several days.”

“That’s all right.” Lydia Winkler managed a strained smile. “My husband is very sensitive when it comes to Kirsten. He still blames himself for everything that happened.”

Helen Stadler had felt guilty about her mother’s death. And now her grandfather seemed to be blaming himself?

“But your daughter died of a cerebral hemorrhage,” said Pia. “No one is to blame for that.”

“We’ve all been through some very difficult times. Our family was devastated by Kirsten’s death. It’s always hard to deal with a sudden, unexpected death, but when such circumstances are added, then it’s even worse.”

“What circumstances do you mean?” Cem asked.

“It’s a long story.” Lydia Winkler sighed and pointed to the sofas. “Please have a seat.”

*   *   *

Karoline Albrecht had been to a few press conferences before, but she’d always been seated on the podium. Now she was standing in the crowd, among the reporters hungry for sensationalism, the camera people, and the photographers, all of them waiting for what the police were going to announce. Konstantin Faber had sent her an e-mail telling her about the press conference to be held on short notice, but then added that he would not be attending. The turnout was large, and no one was actually checking accreditation or press cards, so it had been no problem for her to get into the hall.

It was a little past 7:00
P.M.
when the police officers and the state attorney finally mounted the stage and sat down at the long table in front of a forest of microphones. Floodlights flared and cameras flashed. The chief of the Hofheim police, an energetic redhead named Nicola Engel in a bottle green suit, was first to take the floor. To Karoline’s surprise, Engel laid all the facts on the table. She had assumed that the police would continue to keep things secret and cover up their lack of success in the investigation, not come out with such candor, no holds barred.

“You don’t have to write everything down,” said Dr. Nicola Engel to the reporters. “We’ve prepared an extensive press release packet containing all the data and facts. Thank you for your attention. You may now ask questions.”

A veritable storm broke loose, everyone jumping up and shouting at the same time. The two young women in charge of holding microphones were overwhelmed until the red-haired woman stepped in and let one reporter after another take the floor.

“Do you have any hot leads?” someone asked.

The hall fell silent, the shutters clicked, and the cameras flashed.

“Unfortunately, no,” replied Chief Detective Inspector von Bodenstein in a calm voice. “This evening, we have presented all the facts that we have. We will inform you immediately when we learn anything that will help calm the public. But regrettably, we have nothing yet. For this reason, we would like to ask everyone in the Rhein-Main area to be on high alert. The only thing we can say with certainty at this time is that the perpetrator does not pick his victims at random. We cannot tell you any more today.”

At a quarter to eight, the press conference was over. The hall emptied quickly, and only a few TV people remained, packing up their gear. Karoline asked herself why she had come here at all. To her it felt as though the memory of her mother, who was referred to only as “Victim No. 2,” had been somehow sullied. She found herself wanting to grab one of the microphones and yell at this mob of sensation-seekers so they would finally show some respect. But then they probably would have pounced on her, on the daughter of “Victim No. 2,” and try to get background information or photos from her. Or—even worse—make a sob story out of her mother’s death.

As Karoline crossed the foyer of the Stadthalle, she saw Inspector von Bodenstein, who was being badgered by a reporter with the words
TAUNUS ECHO
on his shoulder bag. That made her curious. Faber, that coward, had sent one of his flunkies instead of coming himself. She slowed her pace and pricked up her ears.

“Do you think we just sit around, twiddling our thumbs?” Chief Inspector von Bodenstein was saying, and from his expression, she couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or furious. “We have a dozen officers answering the hotline, and thanks to your colleagues’ articles, they are flooded with calls.

“As of this afternoon, the perp was allegedly seen by about two hundred people, in every likely or unlikely location. Each of these tips has to be checked out. Perhaps you can imagine how much of our manpower that ties up and how much time and money are required.”

“But this way, you might get a tip that results in a real lead,” replied the reporter almost a little truculently.

“No, it’s nothing but a waste of time.” Chief Inspector von Bodenstein looked at his cell phone and frowned. “Believe me, this isn’t the first time in my life I’ve investigated a homicide. I know when vital information should be made public and when it should be withheld. Freedom of the press notwithstanding. Tell Mr. Faber that he ought to let me know when he finds out anything more, and preferably before he publishes it in your paper.”