I Am Your Judge: A Novel (27 page)

She fell silent and broke into tears. But talking about it seemed to have done her good, lessening the shock. Celina Hoffmann sobbed in despair. Pia handed her a pack of tissues and waited patiently until the young woman regained her composure and spoke again.

“I … I couldn’t even understand what happened,” she went on after a moment. “Hürmet lay there in front of me, and I was screaming like a crazy woman until a guy slapped me and took me away from there.”

“Did you see the direction the shot came from?” Pia wanted to know.

“No. I … I was only looking at Hürmet.” She stopped and glanced up. “But it was definitely from behind me to the right, up high. Because … because she was standing with her back half turned to the parking lot, and … and … her face … it just exploded somehow.”

The young woman covered her face with her hands as she relived the horror of the last half hour—a scene that her mind so wanted to eradicate. Pia was impressed. It was extremely seldom that an eyewitness could remember something in such detail. Often, it seemed heartless to question a person immediately after they had lived through or seen something terrible. But the sooner a witness could be questioned, the greater the chance of getting an unexpurgated and thus fairly factual statement. If the witness first had a chance to think everything over and talk to other people, then what they saw could be mixed up with all sorts of conclusions and emotions. The human brain was designed to protect the person by erasing the memory of terrible events or breaking them into fragments. For this reason, people often failed to remember accidents they had seen or even experienced, and this type of amnesia was generally permanent.

“I know that it’s not easy for you,” Pia said sympathetically. “But you’ll need to talk to my colleague from the evidence team.”

Celina Hoffmann nodded. Pia jotted down her name, address, and phone number, then made sure that her coworkers from the bakery were allowed to see her. In the meantime, Christian Kröger and his team had arrived and begun to examine the crime scene.

“According to the witness, the shot came from the right, behind, and above,” Pia reported to Kröger and Bodenstein. “So if she was standing here, the bullet came from somewhere over there.”

She pointed toward the furniture store.

“Hmm, I figured more like from the roof of the building under construction,” Bodenstein said.

“No, the angle of the shot doesn’t match.” Kröger looked around and shook his head. “I concur with the witness. The bullet entered above the left ear and passed through the skull. I’m guessing the shooter was on the roof of Mann Mobilia. We’ll go up there and do a trajectory analysis.”

“Her telephone is ringing!” called one of Kröger’s people, and held out Hürmet Schwarzer’s purse to Pia. She exchanged a look with Bodenstein, then stuck her hand in the purse and pulled out the phone.

The display said
PATRICK CALLING
. Whoever that was, it must be a close friend, if Hürmet Schwarzer had stored him under his first name. Pia took the call.

“Hürmet, where the heck are you?” the man shouted. “Why don’t you pick up?”

“This is Pia Kirchhoff from the criminal police, Hofheim,” she said. “With whom am I speaking, please?”

“Where’s my wife?” the man asked after a brief pause. That explained his relationship to the dead woman. “What’s going on? Why doesn’t she answer her phone?”

“Mr. Schwarzer, where are you now?” Pia countered with another question. No telling what the news of his wife’s death might trigger if the man was possibly at the wheel of a forty-ton truck.

“I … I’m at home,” said Patrick Schwarzer, giving his address. His voice sounded shaky, losing its self-confidence. “Please tell me, what has happened to my wife?”

“We’ll be over there right away,” replied Pia, terminating the call, and handed the phone to her colleague, who slipped it into an exhibit bag.

She felt a great reluctance to confront the bewilderment and grief of a relative for a fourth time in a week. She would rather delegate the task to someone else.

“Come on,” said Bodenstein, who knew exactly what was going through her mind. “Let’s get it over with.”

*   *   *

“What does the victim’s husband say?” Dr. Nicola Engel wanted to know an hour later at the improvised meeting being held in Pia and Ostermann’s office. “Is there a connection between his wife and the other victims? Did he know Kirsten Stadler?”

“We didn’t have a chance to question him.” Bodenstein waved aside her query. “He works in customer service at a savings bank in Hattersheim and had come home for lunch as usual. Because he hadn’t listened to the radio, he didn’t know what was going on in Eschborn. He was completely unprepared.”

“How certain is it that this perp is the sniper?” Nicola Engel asked.

“One hundred percent. It’s the same ammunition he used for the other three victims,” said Pia.

“Why do you think he decided to make contact with the press?” The commissioner hadn’t been at the morning meeting when Bodenstein presented the letter from the Judge to the journalist Konstantin Faber. “What’s your opinion of his message?”

“‘A great injustice has been done. The guilty parties shall feel the same pain as the one who has suffered because of their indifference, greed, vanity, and thoughtlessness. Those who have taken guilt upon themselves shall live in fear and terror, for I am come to judge the living and the dead.’” Andreas Neff, leaning on shelves for document binders, read the message aloud.

“A psychopath,” he then pronounced judgment. “A megalomaniac who sets himself up as the Judge over life and death. With this message, the perpetrator reveals quite a bit about himself. For example, he is religious. The last sentence of his mail is taken from the Catholic profession of faith. He has a mission and at the same time wants to challenge his pursuers. For him, it’s a game. Our perpetrator is an adventurer.”

He looked around the room, inviting confirmation.

“Do you believe me now? Was my profile right?”

The question was directed at Kim, who was standing next to him.

“To believe means not to know,” she replied without even looking at Neff. He, on the other hand, scrutinized her with unconcealed interest. It was clear to everyone that he liked her. But it was equally clear to everyone except himself that Kim was not the slightest bit interested in him. She didn’t deign to respond to his theory, as she bit her lower lip, obviously thinking about something else.

“Has anyone talked to Helen Stadler yet?” she suddenly broke her silence. “Why was she at Renate Rohleder’s?”

Bodenstein and Pia exchanged a quick glance. In the hectic rush of the past few hours, they had completely forgotten to inform the team what they had discovered earlier in the day.

“Helen Stadler, the daughter of Kirsten Stadler, committed suicide a few months ago,” Bodenstein said. “One of Erik Stadler’s colleagues told us that today, and his father confirmed it.”

“Erik Stadler was once a biathlete. He does stuff like BASE jumping and other extreme sports,” Pia added reluctantly, because it seemed to support Neff’s theory. “He even won a bronze medal at the Olympics. In addition, he was in the army. That means he knows how to shoot. He may even be an expert marksman. And today at noon, he was not at work or at home.”

“There you have it.” Andreas Neff nodded with satisfaction. “He’s the one. As the son of Kirsten Stadler, he also has a suitable motive.”

“How do you see it, Oliver?” Nicola Engel asked.

“Erik Stadler does seem to meet all the conditions,” Bodenstein admitted, rubbing his unshaven chin.

“Then you should put him on the wanted list,” Engel advised.

“Officers from Frankfurt are already staking out his apartment,” said Kai Ostermann. “I’m sending another patrol over to his office. He’s bound to turn up sooner or later.”

“Kirsten Stadler’s parents haven’t called in either,” Cem told them. “They have at least as strong a motive as the widower and the son.”

Engel thought for a moment, then got up from her chair.

“We’re going to the media,” she announced. “We’re going to give them everything we know to date. Four victims in ten days! This case is upsetting the whole region. We’ve been ordered to ask for assistance from the public, so that means all crime scenes and times will be published. Someone must have seen something. For both the print media and television, I want detailed reconstructions of the crimes, including the possible escape routes used by the perpetrator.”

“I’m worried about that,” said Ostermann.

“The press will also point out that the perpetrator must have had a sports bag or large shopping bag with him,” Cem Altunay added. “That’s what he used to transport the stripped-down rifle.”

“I want results,” Engel said emphatically. All that was missing was for her to clap her hands. “So, get to work!”

“The motive of the perp seems to be retaliation, not mere revenge,” Kim remarked.

“What’s the difference?” asked Kathrin Fachinger skeptically. “It boils down to the same thing—lynch law.”

“Retaliation is the reciprocation of an injustice inflicted as vengeance and requires a punishment qualitatively corresponding to the deed,” replied Kim. “What you did to me, I will do to you—in the negative as well as in the positive, because it’s also possible to retaliate with goodness. In the ethical sense, retaliation is the basis for the social principle of justice. Vengeance is an extreme form of retaliation, for example, blood vengeance. The avenger ignores legal means of reparations because he considers them inappropriate.”

“I don’t see any difference,” said Ostermann. “According to Section 211 StGb, revenge is a classic characteristic of murder.”

“That’s true,” Kim agreed. “The final outcome and its effect are the same. The difference lies in the motivation. In my opinion, we’re dealing with a very rare type of murderer. He is anything but a psychopath, nor is he megalomaniacal. This is no game he’s playing with us; he’s not like somebody who’s after kicks or a challenge. He seeks out his sniping positions purely from the aspect of usefulness, not as provocation. I still believe that we’re looking for a pro.”

*   *   *

M
ARGARETHE
R
UDOLF HAD TO DIE BECAUSE HER HUSBAND IMPLICATED HIMSELF IN MURDER OUT OF GREED AND VANITY.

Karoline Albrecht struggled with all her might against the tears and was grateful that Faber was tactfully allowing her the moment she needed to compose herself. He stood at the window of the conference room on the second floor of the newspaper’s editorial offices with his back turned to her.

“Why did he decide to send this to you in particular?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea.” Faber turned around. “Maybe he reads our paper. Maybe he knows me personally.”

He pulled out a chair and took a seat facing her. There wasn’t much going on in the editorial office; most of the desks in the city room were empty.

“It could also be a coincidence,” he said. “Most of my colleagues are on vacation over Christmas and New Year’s. I voluntarily took over the post of editor-in-charge, especially since the week between the years is usually slim pickings when it comes to hot news stories.”

Karoline Albrecht looked at him. He had immediately believed her when she said she was the daughter of the second sniper victim. He didn’t even ask to see her ID, which listed her birth name. Probably everyone could see what a shitty time she was having.

“What do you know about the case?” she asked.

“Not a thing,” Faber said with a shrug. “That’s the point. My article is a compilation of speculations. The police were pretty mad about it, but I think the public needs to be kept informed.”

His reply disappointed her. The journalist knew less than she did.

“Why don’t you go to the police?” he asked her. “You’re related to the victim, so they’ll talk to you.”

Karoline Albrecht said nothing for a moment.

“My father is a very respected surgeon,” she replied. “He’s one of the best in the world in his field. For many people, he’s the last hope, and he has saved countless lives. But now somebody is accusing him of a murder, and my mother was killed because of it. I can’t believe it.”

“So you want to find out if your father is really guilty.”

“Precisely,” she said. “I want to know why my mother had to die. That’s of only marginal interest to the police. They just want to catch the killer. For me, that’s not enough.”

“And how would I be able to help you? I’m only the local editor of a regional newspaper, responsible for business and culture. Not some investigative reporter who uncovers conspiracies.”

Karoline Albrecht noticed his discomfort and nodded. He was a short, overweight man with thin hair and wearing a gray cardigan. He seemed like a disillusioned teacher waiting for retirement, not some Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein. Maybe he was too old and too comfortable to recognize the journalistic chance that had been offered to him because the sniper had chosen to contact him, and no one else. Konstantin Faber was no dynamo, and he’d be no help to her.

“May I have a copy of the obituary and the letter?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” he hastened to reply. They got up. Karoline grabbed her purse and the four pages and followed him down the carpeted hall to a copy room.

“In case you have any more questions, please call me,” he told her as they said good-bye. His face clearly showed the relief he felt because she didn’t insist on his assistance.

“Thank you.” Karoline handed him a business card. “And perhaps you can let me know if you learn anything new.”

“I will,” he assured her, avoiding her gaze. No doubt he was promising anything just to get rid of her as fast as possible.

*   *   *

Dirk Stadler arrived at the same second as Bodenstein and Pia. He greeted them with a nod, drove into one of the many garages, and came limping toward them a minute later.

“I apologize for being a little late,” he said, extending his hand first to Pia, then to Bodenstein.

“We’re late, too,” said Bodenstein. “You may have heard that we have another dead body.”