I Am Your Judge: A Novel (3 page)

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 pictures, 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 whatever 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.

“Thanks 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.

“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.”