I Am Your Judge: A Novel (60 page)

“That’s why Helen Stadler had to die,” Kim suspected.

“Then Hartig as her murderer makes no sense,” Bodenstein interjected.

“That depends. He could have been in on the Kirsten case,” said Pia. “Or maybe she found out that he was on Rudolf’s team, and threatened to tell her father.”

“I think Vivien Stern has pegged Hartig as Helen’s murderer because she’s personally afraid of him,” said Kim.

“That’s my view, too,” Bodenstein grumbled.

Pia turned left onto the B 455. Ostermann called again as they were driving through Kelkheim.

“The cab was reported stolen this morning,” he said. “But—and this is the good news—it has a GPS chip, so the taxi company found it only two hours later.”

“Where?”

“Now the bad news: in front of your house, boss.”

“Pardon me? Bodenstein was baffled. “This shithead is playing games with
me
?

“A clear display of power,” said Kim.

“The cab went straight from the airport to Ruppertshain,” Kai recounted. “The taxi company thought it was a regular trip at first, until the driver radioed in and said he’d been put out of action with a blow to the head and left in the woods near Unterschweinstiege. The company has a hundred and thirty cabs on the street, and at the cab garage this morning, only a young female dispatcher who didn’t immediately understand what was going on.”

“He took an enormous risk by hijacking a cab,” said Pia. “The drive from the airport to Ruppertshain is about thirty-five minutes. That means they arrived around seven thirty. Before that, they must have stopped somewhere to transfer Burmeister from the taxi into one of their cars. At about noon, the e-mail with the photo was sent. Doing an amputation and treating the wound takes time. So they must be somewhere in the vicinity.”

That was really no help, because “in the vicinity” included one of the most densely populated areas in Germany. Several hundred uniformed officers were searching abandoned buildings all over the Frankfurt region, and an APB was running on radio, TV, and the Internet for Hartig and Stadler, but it was like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. At a recent seminar, Bodenstein had listened to arrogant colleagues from Berlin saying that the Lower Taunus was merely the “unsophisticated provinces.” This condescending attitude angered him every time, because there was probably no region in Germany that was less provincial than the Rhein-Main area, which included the Frankfurt Airport and so many banks and multinational corporations. But today he wished he actually were working in the provinces. Then he’d have to search only a couple of villages with ten farms, a school, and maybe two gyms. The instant that thought popped up, his brain made a connection that he’d overlooked until now.

“Of course!” he shouted excitedly, making Pia jump.

“You want me to have an accident?” she said gruffly.

“Stadler worked for years at the building commission. That means he knows all the public buildings in the city. Museums, schools, gyms, swimming pools, and so forth. We can narrow our search to the city limits of Frankfurt.” He tapped in Ostermann’s number, wanting to alert the team to his idea. But before he could say a thing, Kai told them another piece of news.

“Are you guys on your way here?” he asked. “We just got a new e-mail. This time no photo, but there’s a video file attached.”

*   *   *

“I’ll tell you straight off, it’s not for the faint of heart,” Kai warned them, loading the eight-minute video to project on the big screen.

Burmeister’s face, distorted with fear, appeared in close-up, his eyes almost popping out of his head. Nothing remained of the vital, self-confident man with the laugh lines around his eyes who had warmly embraced his daughter at the airport.

“No!” he begged desperately. “No, please, please, no! You can’t do this! Please! I … I have money, I … I’ll do anything you want, but please not my hand, please!”

The camera panned from his face across his torso to his left arm, which was strapped to a base and professionally tied off above the elbow.

Pia felt sick. She turned away, shuddering. She wished her ears were plugged, because Burmeister’s screams of pain were unbearable. She couldn’t stand it anymore, so she pushed through the crowd of officers, ran down the corridor, and left the building through the back door. Outside, she sat down on the top step, breathing deeply and fighting the nausea and the rising tears of rage. With trembling fingers, she got her cigarettes and lighter out of her jacket pocket, but she couldn’t manage to light the cigarette. She could have saved Simon Burmeister! Why hadn’t she simply taken him into custody? The bitter sense of failure grew with each breath she took. She leaned back against the cold wall and closed her eyes. She didn’t even look up when the door opened and someone sat down beside her.

“It’s not your fault.”

Bodenstein had apparently regained his composure.

“Yes, it is,” said Pia. “I should have made him come with me.”

“You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.”

“Oh, if only I’d flown to Ecuador with Christoph.” Pia wiped away the tears with the back of her hand, opened her eyes, and tried once more to light a cigarette.

“I’m glad you didn’t go.” Bodenstein gently took the lighter from her hand and the cigarette from her mouth, lit it, and handed it back. Then he took one for himself.

“Why did we make so many mistakes?” Pia asked despondently. “Why didn’t we look on Facebook for any of Helen Stadler’s friends?”

“Because we didn’t have time to think things through,” replied Bodenstein. “He left us no time. He kept putting out false leads. I’m quite sure he deliberately picked the Christmas season for his series of murders, because he knew we wouldn’t discover a lot of the information in time.”

“He made such a … normal impression.” Pia blew smoke into the cold air. “I almost felt sorry for him, idiot that I am. My intuition failed me completely.”

“Wrong,” said Bodenstein, shaking his head. “From the start, you knew something wasn’t right about him.”

They sat next to each other for a while, smoking and not talking.

“This is no time to get discouraged,” Bodenstein said at last. “You and I, we’ve fought so many battles together; we’re going to win this one, too. We’re right on his heels. Burmeister was his last victim. All the rest are safe.”

“Still, I have a nagging feeling that we’ve missed something.” Pia flicked the butt into the bushes. Bodenstein stubbed his out and crumbled it absentmindedly between his fingers.

“I have the same feeling,” he admitted. “But I know that I’ve done everything in my power. We’re just people, Pia, not robots or superheroes. And people do make mistakes.”

They looked at each other.

“Where do we go from here?” Pia asked.

“Rudolf has just arrived. He’s going to have to watch the video, a hundred times if necessary, until he breaks down,” replied Bodenstein. “But first we’ll put the screws to Thomsen. Kai has e-mailed the photo of Burmeister to Janning and Hausmann, so they’ll understand how serious the situation is. Hausmann has a daughter who works at a bank in Frankfurt. We’re giving her police protection.”

He stood up and gallantly held out his hand to Pia. She gave him a crooked grin.

“Time for the last battle.” Bodenstein smiled. “Today we’ll get him.”

*   *   *

Mark Thomsen looked at the photo and the video.

“Finally.” A faint smile flitted across his face. “The pig got what he deserved.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bodenstein wanted to know. “Are you still not telling us something?”

“No. I really don’t know who the shooter is,” replied Thomsen. “Until the shot was fired from the high-rise, I was guessing it was Erik. But not after that. No mere sportsman could have made that shot.”

“Why is he doing that to Burmeister? Why did he change his strategy?” Pia pressed him.

“No idea,” Thomsen said with a shrug. “Burmeister and Rudolf are megalomaniac bulldozers.”

Pia exchanged a quick glance with Bodenstein.

“Rudolf and his old pal Furtwängler spent years searching for a drug that could change the blood type of a live patient. Innumerable laboratory animals died in hundreds of experiments. In the end, at least three human beings died, too. Rudolf and Burmeister transplanted hearts into these patients, deliberately choosing donors who had a different blood type, after they had initially been treated for weeks with specific drugs. The experiments were financed primarily by the pharmaceutical giant Santex. Fritz Gehrke, who was chairman of the board of Santex, was not entirely unbiased in terms of his involvement. He hoped that Rudolf would succeed and thus save his son’s life.”

Thomsen paused for a moment.

“The testing of the drug was still in the animal testing phase, but Rudolf and Burmeister started using it on their own patients. These individuals were utterly desperate and knew they would die unless a miracle occurred. Rudolf convinced them that he could bring about this miracle, but it failed in every case. The organ recipients survived the transplantations for only a few hours or days, then died in torment when their bodies violently rejected the organs. The number of unreported cases might have been even higher, but Hartig, who was on Rudolf’s team, knew about three for sure. After that, Gehrke wanted to resign as chairman of the board of Santex. The experiment seemed to be foundering, and Rudolf and Burmeister panicked. If their process succeeded someday, then there would be no more problems with incompatible blood types, and they would be able to save many more human lives. In addition—and this was probably a more important reason—Rudolf would certainly have won the Nobel Prize.”

“And then Kirsten Stadler happened to be delivered to the hospital. And she was blood type O,” Pia said.

“Precisely.” Thomsen nodded. “Rudolf and Burmeister manipulated the brain-death examination, removed her heart, and implanted it in Gehrke’s mortally ill son. Everything went well, Maximilian recovered rapidly, and Gehrke, told by Rudolf that the drugs had worked, extended his engagement in the research. But then there were problems with Kirsten Stadler’s family. Rudolf wanted to hush up everything and told Gehrke that Kirsten Stadler could have survived? Gehrke probably felt guilty and offered the Stadlers money, a lot of money. At this time, Hausmann, the medical director of the UCF and formerly a good friend of Rudolf’s, also learned about the background of the three deaths and intervened. Perhaps Rudolf would have succeeded in sweeping it all under the rug if Hartig hadn’t spilled the beans about procedures at the clinic. Then the old friends fell into a disagreement and Rudolf had to leave the UCF. The hospital reached a settlement out of court with the Stadlers, and Gehrke paid an additional million euros in hush money to Dirk Stadler.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Pia.

“I am in contact with the relatives of two victims of Rudolf’s megalomania,” Thomsen replied. They had no courage, no money, and no opportunity to complain about him or the hospital. But based on their information and Hartig’s stories, Helen and I have begun to research it.”

“So you do know of specific cases.”

“Yes. With names and dates,” Thomsen stated. “About a year ago, Helen went without telling me to talk to Gehrke, Rudolf, Hausmann, Janning, and Burmeister. She had learned about the million euros shortly before and was beside herself because her father had sacrificed the truth for money. For her, the money was unimportant, nor did she feel bound by the agreement not to talk about it to which Dirk Stadler had consented. She threatened to go to the media with it, specifically with this blood type story that she knew about thanks to Hartig and me.”

“That would have caused a gigantic scandal,” Bodenstein put in.

“No doubt. But not only that,” Thomsen said. “It would also have been a disaster for the reputation of the entire field of medical transplantation, which has already suffered considerably from the scandals of recent years.”

He rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger.

“The UCF mafia was afraid of Helen because they knew that she was in contact with Hartig, and he would definitely be a credible witness before a court. They knew nothing about me. They had no choice but to eliminate the threat. So they did.”

Thomsen laughed. A bitter snort with no mirth in it.

“They were the ones who killed her, obviously.”

“Why didn’t they threaten Mr. Hartig, then?” Bodenstein wanted to know. “He’s a lot more dangerous than Helen Stadler.”

“Hartig had no interest in making the case public. And there is still his father, who plays in the same league as Rudolf and Company. That was his protection.”

“How can you be so sure that Helen was murdered?” Bodenstein was still not completely convinced.

“Would you kill yourself if you were just a hairsbreadth away from solving the greatest problem of your entire life?” Thomsen asked. “She was euphoric, overjoyed, and feeling more alive than ever before. She was just about to emerge from the shadow that had hung over her and her family for half her life. She’d even summoned the courage to tell Jens-Uwe that she didn’t want to marry him before spending a year in the States. She had applied for a student visa and been accepted as a visiting student!”

“How do you know all this?” Pia asked.

“Helen kept almost no secrets from me,” Thomsen replied.

“But the plans that she devised!” Pia shook her head. “She spied on people and kept real surveillance logs. Why didn’t you stop her?

“At first, I even helped her,” Thomsen admitted. “I even did research on the people involved. We never wanted to cause anyone harm—on the contrary. But then Hartig found out something about it, and it got out of control. He was utterly obsessed with putting pressure on his former colleagues.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think he ever got over the way they’d treated him,” said Thomsen. “From a moral standpoint, he’d acted altogether correctly, and for that he was punished.”

“But I don’t understand why Hartig first told Helen everything, then stuffed her so full of pills and controlled her to such a degree that she grew fearful of him,” Pia countered. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”