The Ice Queen: A Novel (16 page)

“Me, neither,” she replied. She might outwardly give the impression that she was unmoved, but inside it was a different story. Even endless hours in the forensic lab had not inured her or made her impervious to the fates and tragedies of the people she encountered only as corpses. For good reason psychologists were brought in to counsel first responders at scenes of disasters, because the sight of mutilated corpses burned its way into their minds and could not be driven out. Like Pia, Bodenstein also sought refuge in routine.

“This text message on her cell,” he said in a businesslike voice, “could prove that Watkowiak was actually behind the murders of Goldberg and Schneider.”

The crime lab had found a text on Monika Krämer’s cell phone, presumably from Robert Watkowiak, from yesterday at 1:34
P.M.
It said: SWEETHEART, WE’RE RICH! GOT RID OF THE OTHER OLD GUY, TOO. LET’S HEAD SOUTH!

“If so, our homicides are solved,” Pia replied without much conviction. “Watkowiak killed Goldberg and Schneider out of greed; they knew him well as the stepson of Vera Kaltensee and had no qualms about letting him in. Afterward, he killed Monika Krämer because she knew about what he’d done.”

“What do you think?” Bodenstein asked. Pia thought it over for a moment. She wished that the solution to the three murders could be that simple, but somehow she doubted it.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “My gut tells me that there’s more behind the whole thing.”

*   *   *

The wet manure in the horse stalls was heavy as lead and the smell of ammonia took her breath away, but Pia ignored it, just as she did her aching back and the pain in her arms. She had to distract her thoughts somehow, and there was nothing better for that than hard physical labor. Plenty of her colleagues in a similar situation would seek forgetfulness in alcohol, and Pia could understand that. She doggedly shoveled one pitchforkful after another onto the manure spreader, which she had maneuvered right outside the stall until the prongs scraped over the shiny concrete floor. She scraped out the last of it with a shovel; then she stopped, out of breath, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.

She and Bodenstein had driven to the station and reported the murder to their colleagues. The manhunt for Robert Watkowiak had intensified; for a while, they were considering involving the public in the search with an appeal broadcast on the local radio station. Pia was just finishing up her work when her dogs, who had been following her movements attentively, jumped up and ran off, barking happily. Seconds later, the green pickup from the Opel Zoo pulled in next to the tractor, and Christoph climbed out. His expression was concerned as he strode toward Pia.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, enclosing her firmly in his arms. Pia leaned against him and felt the tears well up in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. It was such a relief to be allowed to be weak for a moment. With Henning, she’d never dared.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured.

“That bad?”

She felt him kissing her hair and nodded mutely. Christoph held her tight for a long time, stroking her back.

“You go take a nice hot bath,” he said firmly. “I’ll bring in the horses and feed them. And I brought us something to eat. Your favorite pizza.”

“With extra tuna and anchovies?” Pia raised her head and smiled wanly. “You’re a dear.”

“I know.” He winked at her and then kissed her. “And now go soak in that tub.”

When she emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, her hair wet, wearing a terry-cloth robe, she still felt dirty inside in spite of the bath. The brutality of the murder was horrible enough. But the fact that she had spoken with the young woman only a couple of hours before made the whole situation so much worse. Had Monika Krämer died because the police had shown up at her apartment?

In the meantime, Christoph had fed the dogs, set the table in the kitchen, and opened a bottle of wine. The seductive aroma of pizza reminded Pia that she hadn’t eaten all day.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Christoph asked when she sat down at the table and began eating her lukewarm pizza
al tonno
with her fingers. “Maybe it would do you good.”

Pia looked at him. His sensitivity was incredible. Of course it would do her good to talk. To detach herself from it, she needed to share what she’d seen. That was really the only way to deal with the trauma.

“I’ve never seen anything so horrendous,” she said with a sigh. Christoph poured her some more wine and listened closely as Pia objectively described what had happened that day. She told him about her morning visit to Monika Krämer’s apartment, about Watkowiak fleeing, and about Behnke losing his temper.

“You know,” she said, taking a sip of wine, “to a certain extent I can handle anything, no matter how terrible it might be. But the insane brutality, the cruel way that young woman was killed, was too much for me.”

Pia ate the last piece of pizza and wiped her greasy fingers on a paper towel. She felt completely exhausted yet at the same time tense enough to burst. Christoph stood up to put the empty pizza boxes in the trash. Then he stepped behind Pia, put his hands on her shoulders, and began gently massaging her cramped neck muscles.

“The only redeeming factor is that it makes me even more determined to do my job.” She closed her eyes. “I’m going to find the fucker who did this and get him locked up forever.”

Christoph leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You really look all in,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry that I have to leave you home alone—it’s such bad timing.”

Pia turned to face him. Tomorrow, he was flying to South Africa. The one-week trip to Capetown to attend the Conference of the World Association of Zoos and Aquariums, WAZA for short, had been planned for months. Pia already missed him with every fiber of her being.

“It’s only for eight days.” She was acting cooler than she actually felt. “And I can always call you.”

“Be sure to call me if anything happens, okay?” Christoph pulled her close. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart.” Pia flung her arms around his neck. “But you’re still here now. And we should take advantage of that.”

“You think?”

Instead of an answer, she gave him a kiss. She would have preferred never to let him go. Henning had often gone on trips, and sometimes she hadn’t been able to reach him for days, but that had neither worried nor bothered her. With Christoph, it was different. Since the day they’d met, they hadn’t been apart for longer than twenty-four hours. The mere thought of not being able to drop by the zoo to see him filled her with desolation.

He seemed to sense the urgent, feverish desire emanating from her body. This wasn’t the first time she’d slept with him, but her heart was pounding hard enough to burst as she followed him to the bedroom and watched him strip off his clothes. She’d never known a man like Christoph—a man who demanded everything and gave everything, who permitted her no shameful withdrawal, no embarrassment, and no fake orgasm. Pia was practically addicted to the powerful way her body reacted to his. There would be time for tenderness later. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to sink into his embrace and forget the whole terrible day.

Thursday, May 3

Bodenstein felt absolutely exhausted when shortly before eight o’clock he dragged himself up the stairs to the office of K-11 on the second floor. The baby had cried for half the night. Cosima was considerate enough to move into the guest room, but he still got hardly any sleep. Then he’d been delayed by an accident on the B519 just before the off-ramp to Hofheim, wasting half an hour. And to top it off, Chief Commissioner Nierhoff came out of his office just as Bodenstein was climbing the last steps.

“Good morning, good morning.” Nierhoff smiled affably, rubbing his hands. “Congratulations! That was fast work. Great job, Bodenstein.”

He looked at his boss with annoyance, realizing that Nierhoff had been waiting for him to arrive. Bodenstein hated being ambushed like this, before he’d even taken a sip of his coffee.

“Good morning,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

“We’re going to the press right away with the news,” Nierhoff continued undeterred. “I’ve already instructed our press secretary and all—”

“What are you going to the press with?” Bodenstein asked, interrupting the chief commissioner’s flow of words. “Did I miss something?”

“The murders have been solved,” Nierhoff replied, gloating. “You’ve found the perpetrator. So the case is off the table.”

“Who says that?” asked Bodenstein, nodding to two colleagues passing by.

“Your colleague Fachinger,” Nierhoff went on, “she told me that—”

“Hold on.” Bodenstein didn’t care if he sounded rude or not. “Yesterday, we found the body of an acquaintance of the man who was at the scene of both homicides, but so far we don’t have a murder weapon or unequivocal proof that he actually committed the murders. We definitely haven’t solved the cases.”

“Why do you have to make everything so complicated, Bodenstein? The man killed out of greed; all the evidence points in that direction. And then he killed the woman because she knew too much. We’ll catch him sooner or later, and then we’ll get a confession.” For Nierhoff, the case was crystal clear. “The press conference has been scheduled for eleven o’clock. I’d like you to be there.”

Bodenstein couldn’t understand it. The morning actually seemed to be proceeding even worse than it had begun.

“Eleven sharp downstairs in the big conference room.” The chief commissioner wasn’t entertaining any objections. “Afterward, I’d like to speak with you in my office.” With that, he left with a smug smile on his face.

Bodenstein furiously tore open the door to the office that Hasse and Fachinger shared. Both of them were already at their desks. Hasse quickly pressed a key on his keyboard, but at the moment Bodenstein didn’t care if he was surfing the Net again, searching for a suitable spot in southern climes for his retirement.

“Ms. Fachinger,” Bodenstein said to his youngest colleague without bothering to offer a greeting, “come with me to my office.”

As angry as he was, he didn’t want to reprimand her in front of another colleague.

A moment later, she came into his office with an anxious expression and cautiously closed the door behind her. Bodenstein sat down behind his desk but didn’t ask her to take a seat.

“Why did you tell the chief commissioner that we’d solved both homicide cases?” he asked sharply, scrutinizing his colleague. She was still young and very capable, but she lacked self-confidence, and she sometimes tended to make mistakes out of sheer eagerness.

“
Me?
” Kathrin Fachinger turned beet red. “But what was I supposed to tell him?”

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know!”

“He … came into the conference room … last night,” Fachinger stammered nervously. “He was looking for you and wanted to know how the investigation was going. I told him that you and Pia were in the apartment of a murder victim and that she was the girlfriend of the man who could be tied to both crime scenes.”

Bodenstein looked at his colleague. His anger dissipated as rapidly as it had appeared.

“That’s all I said,” Fachinger insisted. “Really, boss. I swear it.”

Bodenstein believed her. Nierhoff was in such a hurry to get this case cleared up that he’d put the pieces of the investigation together the way he wanted. It was outrageous—and strange.

“I believe you,” said Bodenstein. “Please excuse my tone of voice, but I was pretty mad. Is Behnke here yet?”

“No.” Fachinger looked uncomfortable. “He … he’s on sick leave.”

“Oh, right. And Ms. Kirchhoff?”

“She had to take her friend to the airport this morning; then she went straight over to forensics. The autopsy of Monika Krämer is due to start at eight.”

*   *   *

“Have a bad night?” Dr. Henning Kirchhoff asked, greeting his ex-wife shortly after 8:00
A.M.
in Autopsy Suite 2 of the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Pia glanced in the mirror over the washbasin. She thought she actually looked pretty good—considering she hadn’t slept for half the night and had been bawling in her car ten minutes ago. Amid the chaos at the airport, her parting with Christoph had been far too brief. In Terminal B, two of his colleagues—one from Berlin and the other from Wuppertal—who were also headed for the congress in South Africa had been waiting for him. With a trace of jealousy, Pia had noticed that the colleague from Berlin was female, and fairly attractive. A last embrace, a quick farewell kiss, and he had vanished with the others into the crowded terminal. Pia had gazed after him, not prepared for the overwhelming feeling of emptiness.

“Do you remember my friend Miriam?” she asked Henning.

“Fortunately, Miss Horowitz and I met only once many years ago.” He sounded rather bitter, and Pia remembered that Miriam had called Henning a “humorless Dr. Frankenstein,” whereupon he had characterized her as a “silly party chick.” Pia deliberated briefly whether to expound on Miriam’s professional career, but she dropped the idea.

“Anyway,” she said, “I ran into her recently. She works at the Fritz Bauer Institute.”

“Her daddy probably got her the job.” Once again, Henning showed his tendency to hold a grudge, but Pia ignored it.

“I asked her to make inquiries about Goldberg. At first, of course, she couldn’t believe that he might have been a Nazi, but then she discovered documents in the institute’s archive about Goldberg and his family. The Nazis were meticulous about documenting everything.”

Henning’s assistant, Ronnie Böhme, stepped up next to Pia, who was standing beside the table on which the washed and naked body of Monika Krämer lay. In these clinical surroundings, her death had lost all semblance of horror. Pia told them that Goldberg, his family, and all the Jewish residents of Angerburg had been deported in March 1942 to the P
ł
aszów concentration camp. While Goldberg’s family had perished there, he had survived, until the camp was cleared out in January 1945. All the prisoners were then taken to Auschwitz, where Goldberg was murdered in the gas chamber that same month.