I Am Your Judge: A Novel (33 page)

“Then we’ll send out beefed-up patrols,” Pia said. “That’s all we can do.”

They divided up the tasks, and then Pia adjourned the meeting.

“I’m going to interview Erik Stadler,” she announced. “Kim, I’d like you to listen from the next room.”

“I’ll go with you,” Nicola Engel offered, and Pia nodded, surprised. “You do the questioning and I’ll listen in.”

It was extremely rare for the chief to participate personally when a suspect was interviewed. But this case was also extremely tricky.

“All right, then,” Pia said. “Let’s go downstairs.”

*   *   *

Bodenstein was looking at the jewelry in the display cases of the small shop. Rings, brooches, chains, watches, and clasps made of silver, gold, and platinum, adorned with pearls, diamonds, and gemstones, some simple, some artistic, with intricate filigree.

“You made all these yourself?” he asked, impressed.

“Sure. It’s my profession.” Jens-Uwe Hartig smiled. “Naturally, I do repairs, too, but it’s much more fun to design my own jewelry.”

“And where do you work?” Bodenstein looked around.

“Come on, I’ll show you the studio.” Hartig disappeared behind a curtain, and Bodenstein followed him down the hall to a surprisingly large room. There he saw four workbenches, shelves full of casting forms, chemicals, vises, plastic boxes of tools, and propane bottles.

“We make everything here ourselves,” Hartig declared, stroking the worn wooden top of one of the workbenches. “Special commissions, reworking and refurbishing of old jewelry, as well as cleaning and repairs. But we also galvanize, forge, roll, and solder.”

“We?” Bodenstein asked, looking at the tongs, files, saws, and hammers hanging neatly at each workplace.

“I have two employees and one apprentice,” Hartig explained. “The art of the goldsmith is one of the oldest types of metalworking in the world, and a truly fascinating profession. It requires creativity, but also patience and good motor skills. Naturally, we use laser welding tools and work with CAD technology, but I particularly love the traditional methods. This, for example, is a blowpipe.”

“Interesting. And the material that you work with? Where do you store that? It’s pretty valuable, isn’t it?”

“At night, we put everything in the safe,” replied Hartig. “Filings are separated after alloying and recycled.”

He led the way from the workshop and stepped into a small room that obviously served as kitchenette, break room, and office.

“Coffee?” asked Hartig, switching on the coffeemaker.

“Please,” Bodenstein sat down. “Black.”

The grinder began to clatter as Bodenstein looked around. On the wall hung a large black-and-white photo of a beautiful young woman.

“That was Helen,” said Hartig, who had followed Bodenstein’s eyes. “My great love. My soul mate.”

“You miss her a lot, don’t you?”

“Since her death, I feel like I’m only half a person,” Hartig admitted, setting down a cup of coffee for Bodenstein. “Sometimes I ask myself whether I’ll ever feel whole again.”

Bodenstein refrained from offering any pat phrases of sympathy or any pseudopsychological advice. Instead he told the goldsmith the reason for his visit and his suspicion that the sniper might be someone the Stadlers knew, someone who was retaliating against those who had caused the family such suffering and pain.

Hartig leaned on the sink, coffee mug in hand, and listened attentively but without saying a word.

“When and where did you meet Helen?” Bodenstein asked.

“It was about four years ago. I gave a speech at a support group that her grandparents regularly attended. And Helen frequently came with them.”

His reply caught Bodenstein’s attention.

“And why were
you
there? Have you also lost a relative?”

Hartig heaved a sigh and sat down at the table across from Bodenstein. He shoved a stack of notes aside and set down his coffee mug.

“Even worse,” he said bitterly. “I am someone who has killed.”

“What do you mean?” Bodenstein asked, startled.

“I was a doctor.” Hartig leaned back. “I come from a true dynasty of physicians. Great-grandfather, grandfather, father, uncle, cousins—all doctors. Not simple country doctors, but geniuses of medicine. Pioneers in their fields. Highly respected. That’s the world I grew up in, and for me, there was nothing else. And God blessed me with the attributes that a good surgeon needs. Medical study was easy for me, and my name opened doors that remained closed to others. But I lacked the mental toughness and cold-bloodedness that are needed to become really good. I began to have doubts about what I was doing. I was too soft, too sympathetic.”

“And so you quit and became … a goldsmith?”

“The dexterity required in this profession is the same skill that a surgeon needs.” Hartig smiled but turned serious at once. “But I no longer have to see the suffering that people go through, all the torment and pain, the despair of the patients and their relatives when they’re told there is no more hope. And I didn’t like the work atmosphere. In many clinics today, there is still a leadership culture reminiscent of the military. Dissent and independent thinking are forbidden. Maybe it would have turned out differently if my father hadn’t felt compelled to make a cardiac surgeon out of me. He sent me to work with a friend who was a transplant surgeon. When I witnessed my first multivisceral transplantation, I suffered a trauma. Do you know what the procedure is like?”

Bodenstein shook his head.

“From one moment to the next, the person is transformed from an intensive-care patient into a warehouse for replacement organs. Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, pancreas, portions of the intestines, the bones, the tissues, the eyes—all of them are used. And it has to happen fast. In a multiorgan explantation, a team of surgeons comes from all over Germany and descends upon the body and tears it to pieces. Explantation of organs always takes place at night so that they don’t disturb the hospital drainage system. The patient is brought in and is cut open. Ice water is poured into the opening in the body to cool the organs; then he is bled out. It’s a totally hectic scene, with people running around in the OR and yelling into phones. You stand up to your ankles in blood. There is always an anesthesiologist present, because brain-dead patients still react—their blood pressure rises, they twitch, they sweat, like any living human being in sleep. And then it’s over. Everyone suddenly disappears. I stood there alone with this empty shell of a human being, who only an hour earlier was still breathing. No one cared about him anymore. I ran through the hospital, trying to find someone who would at least sew up that bloodless, cold corpse.”

“What clinic did you work at?” Bodenstein asked.

“At the Dortmund Heart Center,” Hartig replied, rubbing his chin. “There was such inhuman contempt for the dead body of the donor, and the staff showed no respect or sensitivity. I found it intolerable. It’s not that I’m against organ donation per se. It can save lives, and I know that it has to be done fast at the crucial moment. What bothers me is
how
it’s done. It’s … without dignity. Most doctors have no respect for a person who has declared a willingness to help other individuals by donating his organs, and who thus relinquishes the opportunity to die surrounded by his loved ones. The current practice is simply unethical. There is no humility. The surgeons try to be faster and more efficient each time. And that’s how mistakes are made. Organs are damaged, rendered unusable, and there are arguments and wrangling among competing surgeons. It’s disgusting.”

“And that’s why you quit the medical profession?” Bodenstein asked. “You could have chosen another branch of medicine.”

“That option never entered my mind,” said Hartig as he got up. “Instead, I picked a fight with the system, because I really believed that I could change things. Would you like more coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“There are strict regulations to follow before an individual can be declared brain-dead,” Hartig continued after he’d poured himself another cup of coffee and sat back down. “Regulations that are stipulated by the Federal Association of Physicians and by the German Foundation for Organ Donation. Every action must be precisely documented, because the definition of brain death is still being debated. Over the course of twelve hours, two independent doctors who have nothing to do with explantation must examine the patient. It must be twice determined that irreversible brain damage exists and the patient can no longer breathe independently. Only then is he declared brain-dead. Before that, of course, tests are done to determine possible suitability as an organ donor: these include identifying blood type, ruling out infectious diseases, and so forth. A hospital is a business, however, and specialized clinics place great value on their reputations. Doctors want to be showcased, and use ORs on their résumés. Organ transplantation is and will remain the king of surgical disciplines. And unfortunately, that’s why adherence to the regulations is often lax—something that receives the tacit consent of the hospital’s administration and management. Many times, I witnessed how senior physicians of intensive-care medicine, neurosurgery, and transplantation surgery curtailed the prescribed examination times, though this was not officially documented. I reported this to my boss and got royally chewed out. I reported it to clinic management and was promptly muzzled. But I could no longer reconcile what was happening with my conscience. These regulations exist for a reason. That’s why I reported another violation directly to the Federal Association of Physicians. I was personally threatened, but I didn’t care. At that time, I was twenty-six and foolish enough to pick a fight with an all-powerful system in the name of justice and morality. But in the end, not a single one of those doctors suffered any repercussions. They just kept doing things the way they always had. I was out anyway, and my father was through with me. In his eyes, I had besmirched the family name, repudiating the unwritten rules of the brotherhood of physicians. I was a traitor.”

“What do you know about the case of Kirsten Stadler?” Bodenstein asked, drinking the last of his coffee, which was now tepid.

“Something similar must have happened,” said Hartig. “Mistakes were hushed up, reports falsified, documents vanished. The anesthesiologist’s records disappeared into thin air. Or there may not have been any record at all, because with explantations there is technically no anesthesia involved, since a brain-dead patient is officially regarded as dead. Other documents from the OR may have been missing because they referred to external teams.”

Bodenstein studied the man, trying to assess him. His words carried a certain sense of resignation, but he didn’t seem at all bitter or vindictive. Instead he seemed happy to have escaped a situation that he hadn’t been able to cope with. The sadness in his eyes could be due to the loss of his great love rather than the fact that he had failed so colossally in his profession at such a young age. On the other hand, there might be a connection that shouldn’t be overlooked. How deeply had Hartig been involved in the Stadlers’ drama? How much had he made their tragedy his own? Hartig was not officially a member of the family, but he was quite close to being one. Did he know the name of the hospital staff member they were so urgently seeking? Were they finally nearing a breakthrough in this case?

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“At HRMO, I’ve met a lot of people whose lives were destroyed by just such events,” Hartig said. “I decided to go to bat for these people.”

“Against organ donation?” Bodenstein asked.

“No, not against organ donation as such,” Hartig replied. “But against the procedures in the clinics. Against exerting moral pressure on relatives who are overwhelmed when confronting such a crucial decision regarding their child or partner who has been in an accident. I have seen more than once how relatives who are in shock succumb to the pressure inherent in the doctor’s request for an organ donation. In the end, they acquiesced against their will because they didn’t want to be responsible for the death of another person. And after that, their lives were destroyed. Hospitals and doctors must adhere to the guidelines and act according to ethical and moral principles. They must allow relatives more time. They must provide better and more comprehensive information, also mentioning how a decision against organ donation may have an effect. The lack of available organs is already proving fatal for many who are urgently waiting for a donor organ. Because of such scandals, there is a steady decrease in the number of people willing to become organ donors.”

“Did Helen share your opinion?”

“No,” said Hartig with a shake of his head, his gaze shifting to the photo on the wall. “Helen was not in a position to hold an objective opinion. She took an extreme view, believing that organ donation was contrary to nature. She never got over the circumstances of her mother’s death. It tore her up inside. I could not heal her.”

*   *   *

Karoline Albrecht parked in front of Fritz Gehrke’s house in Kelkheim and got out of the car. The fog was hovering low between the houses, and it was getting colder. She went through the front gate and followed the path of concrete slabs that led to the house. She walked past an evergreen arborvitae and the lawn with patches of snow, strewn with brown leaves. She shuddered when she saw the dark spot on the concrete slabs. This was how far Maximilian got before the fatal shot struck him down. Mama had died on the spot, but how fast was life extinguished when a rifle bullet exploded inside a body and shredded the heart? Did Maximilian have enough time to feel anything, think anything? One last thought that raced through his mind—or simply a rip in the film, then blackout?

The closer she got to the front door, the more she doubted her decision. Why did she have to disturb an old man grieving over the loss of his only son? In order to tell him that he was to blame? What Fritz Gehrke may have done ten years ago was understandable. What father wouldn’t give his sick child an advantage if he could afford it and had the opportunity? She would have done the same for Greta. She stood at the front door for a full minute. Should she have phoned to announce her visit? Or was it better to have the element of surprise?