The Ice Queen: A Novel (4 page)

“This could turn into a tricky situation.” The noncommittal amiable expression that Commissioner Nierhoff normally wore had vanished, and the crafty tactician now came to the fore. “An American citizen of the Jewish faith and a survivor of the Holocaust executed with a shot to the back of the head. For the time being, we should keep the press and the public out of it.”

Bodenstein nodded in agreement.

“I expect you to conduct the investigation with the utmost tact. No screwups,” he said, to Bodenstein’s annoyance. Since K-11 had been moved to Hofheim, Bodenstein couldn’t recall a single investigative screwup on his watch.

“What about the housekeeper?” Nierhoff asked.

“What about her?” Bodenstein didn’t quite understand. “She found the body this morning and was still in shock.”

“Maybe she has something to do with it. Goldberg was quite wealthy.”

Bodenstein’s anger grew. “For a registered nurse, there are probably less obvious opportunities than shooting someone in the back of the head,” he noted with light sarcasm. Nierhoff had been concentrating on his career for the past twenty-five years and hadn’t taken part in an actual investigation that whole time. Yet he still felt obliged to offer his opinion. His eyes darted here and there as he pondered and weighed the pros and cons that might emerge from this case.

“Goldberg was a very prominent man,” he said at last in a low voice. “We’ll have to proceed with the utmost caution. Send your people home, and make sure there are no leaks.”

Bodenstein didn’t quite know what to make of this strategy. In an investigation, the first seventy-two hours were crucial. Evidence grows cold very fast, and witnesses’ memories grow fainter the more time passes. But of course Nierhoff was afraid of precisely what Dr. Kirchhoff had prophesied this morning: negative publicity for his office and an abundance of diplomatic red tape. Politically, it might be a sensible decision, but Bodenstein didn’t see it that way. He was an investigator; he wanted to find the murderer and arrest him. An old man advanced in years, who had experienced abominable things in Germany, had been murdered in cold blood in his own house. It went completely against Bodenstein’s perception of good police work to waste valuable time for tactical reasons. Secretly, he was angry that he had even bothered to include Nierhoff. At any rate, Nierhoff knew the head of his department better than Bodenstein imagined.

“Don’t even think about it, Bodenstein.” Nierhoff’s voice sounded like a warning. “High-handed behavior could have a very unfavorable influence on your career. You probably don’t want to spend the rest of your life in Hofheim running after murderers and bank robbers.”

“Why not? That’s the reason I became a policeman in the first place,” said Bodenstein, irritated by Nierhoff’s implied threat and the almost contemptuous dismissal of his work.

With his next words, the chief commissioner made matters worse, even if they were meant to be conciliatory. “A man with your experience and your talents should assume responsibility and hold a leading position, Bodenstein, even if it’s uncomfortable. Because that’s precisely what it is, I can tell you that.”

Bodenstein was trying hard to keep his composure. “In my opinion, the best people belong in the field,” he said, his tone bordering on insubordination, “and not behind some desk, wasting their time on political squabbling.”

The commissioner raised his eyebrows and seemed to be pondering whether this remark was meant as an insult or not.

“Sometimes I ask myself whether it was a mistake for me to mention your name at the interior ministry with regard to deciding on my successor,” he said coolly. “It seems to me that you’re totally lacking in ambition.”

That left Bodenstein speechless for a couple of seconds, but he was able to exercise his iron self-control; he’d had plenty of practice concealing his emotions behind a neutral expression.

“Don’t make a mistake now, Bodenstein,” said Nierhoff, turning toward the door. “I hope we understand each other.”

Bodenstein forced himself to give a polite nod and waited until the door closed behind Nierhoff. Then he grabbed his cell phone, called Pia Kirchhoff, and sent her straight to the pathology lab in Frankfurt. He had no intention of canceling the autopsy that had already been approved, no matter how Nierhoff might react. Before he set off for Frankfurt himself, he stopped by the conference room. Ostermann, Fachinger, and the DIs who had showed up in the meantime, Frank Behnke and Andreas Hasse, all looked at him expectantly.

“You can all go home,” he said curtly. “I’ll see you on Monday. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

Then he turned and left before any of his astonished colleagues could ask a question.

*   *   *

Robert Watkowiak finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had to take a piss, but he didn’t feel like walking past the rowdy idiots who’d been playing darts beside the door to the john for the past hour. Only the day before yesterday, those guys had stupidly harassed him, trying to start a fight over Robert’s regular seat at the bar. He glanced over at the dartboard. It wasn’t that he couldn’t deal with them; he just wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

“I’ll have another.” He shoved the empty glass across the sticky bar. It was 3:30. By now, they were all crowded together, dressed to the nines, guzzling champagne and acting as though they were overjoyed to be allowed to take part in celebrating the old snake’s birthday. What a bunch of phonies! Actually, none of them had much use for the others, but on such occasions they acted like one big happy family. Of course they hadn’t invited
him.
Even if they had, he wouldn’t have gone. In his daydreams, he’d smugly pictured throwing the invitation at her feet with scorn and sneering at her shocked and horrified face. It was only yesterday that he had realized they had denied him that satisfaction by not inviting him at all.

The bartender shoved a freshly tapped pilsner over to him and added another tick to his beer mat. Robert reached for the glass and noticed angrily that his hand was shaking. Shit! He didn’t give a fuck about the whole lot of them. They’d always treated him like dirt and made him feel that he didn’t really belong in their crowd because he was an unwanted bastard. They would whisper about him behind their hands, sending him meaningful looks and shaking their heads. What self-righteous, archconservative assholes! Robert, the loser. Had his driver’s license revoked again for drunk driving. The third time? No, the fourth time! Now he’ll probably get sent back to the joint. Serves him right. He had all the advantages in the world, that guy, and he never made anything of himself. Robert grabbed his glass and watched his knuckles turn white. That’s how his hands would look if he put them around her wrinkled chicken neck and squeezed till her eyes popped out of her head.

He took a big gulp of beer. The first one was always the best. The cold liquid ran down his esophagus, and he imagined it flowing with a hiss over those smoldering lumps of envy and bitterness inside him. Who was it that claimed hate was cold? A quarter to four. Damn it, he had to go to the john. He fished a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. Kurti would show up eventually. He had promised him last night. At least he’d been able to pay him back what he owed, after he leaned on Uncle Jossi a little. He was his godfather, after all, and that ought to count for something.

“One more?” the bartender asked in a businesslike tone. He nodded and looked in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. The sight of his slovenly appearance, the greasy hair falling to his shoulders, the glassy eyes, and the beard stubble threw him instantly into a rage. Ever since that fight with the asshole in the Frankfurt-Höchst train station, he was missing another tooth. It made him look like a thug. The next beer arrived. The sixth one today. He was gradually reaching operating temperature. Should he convince Kurti to drive him over to Schloss Bodenstein? Just the thought of how they would all stare when he sauntered in, climbed up on the table, and calmly emptied his bladder made him grin. He’d seen somebody do that in a movie once, and he thought it was cool.

“Could I borrow your cell for a minute?” he asked the bartender, noticing that he was having trouble speaking clearly.

“Use your own,” she replied pertly, pulling another beer without looking at him. But unfortunately, he no longer had it. What a bummer. It must have fallen out of his pocket somewhere.

“I lost it,” he slurred. “Don’t give me that look. Come on.”

“No way.” Then she moved past him and, carrying a full tray, went over to the guys at the dartboard. Looking in the mirror, he saw the door open. Kurti. Finally.

“Hey, man.” Kurti slapped him on the shoulder and sat down on the bar stool next to him.

“Order whatever you want; I’m buying,” said Robert magnanimously. The dough from Uncle Jossi would last for a couple of days; then he’d have to look around for a new source, and he already had a good idea. He hadn’t visited his dear Uncle Herrmann in quite a while. Maybe he should let Kurti in on his plans. Robert twisted his face into an evil smile. He was damn well going to get what he was entitled to.

*   *   *

In Henning Kirchhoff’s office, Bodenstein was searching through the contents of a carton that Pia had taken from Goldberg’s house and brought to the Institute of Forensic Medicine. The two used glasses and the wine bottle were already on their way to the lab, as well as the mirror, all the fingerprints, and everything else the evidence techs had collected. Meanwhile, downstairs in the basement of the institute, Dr. Kirchhoff was performing the autopsy on the body of David Josua Goldberg in the presence of Pia Kirchhoff and an assistant district attorney who looked like a second-year law student. Bodenstein scanned a few thank-you letters from various individuals and institutions that Goldberg had sponsored and supported financially. Then he glanced at several photos in silver frames and some newspaper articles that had been carefully clipped out and meticulously mounted. A taxi receipt from January, a worn little book in Hebrew. Not much. Apparently, Goldberg had kept the majority of his belongings elsewhere. Among all the things that must have had some meaning for their original owner, only an appointment diary was of any interest to Bodenstein. Goldberg exhibited amazingly clear penmanship for someone of his advanced age, with no shaky or wobbly letters. Bodenstein turned to the previous week, in which there were notes for each day. He was disappointed by what he found: nothing but names that were almost all abbreviated. Only on today’s date was a full name written:
Vera 85.
Despite the meager results, Bodenstein took the appointment diary to the copier in the administrative office of the institute and began copying all the pages since January. Just as he reached the last week of Goldberg’s life, his cell phone buzzed.

“Boss.” Pia Kirchhoff’s voice sounded a little broken up because of the less than optimal reception in the basement of the institute. “You’ve got to come down here. Henning has discovered something strange.”

*   *   *

“I have no explanation for this. Absolutely none. But it’s quite clear. Utterly unequivocal,” said Dr. Henning Kirchhoff, shaking his head as Bodenstein stepped into the autopsy room. The ME had lost all his professional composure and cynicism. Even his assistant and Pia seemed stunned, and the assistant DA was nervously chewing on his lower lip.

“What did you find?” Bodenstein asked.

“Something unbelievable.” Kirchhoff motioned him closer to the table and handed him a magnifying glass. “I noticed something on the inside of his upper left arm, a tattoo. I could hardly see it because of the livor mortis on his arm. He was found lying on his left side.”

“Everybody who was in Auschwitz had a tattoo,” Bodenstein replied.

“But not one like this.” Kirchhoff pointed at Goldberg’s arm. Bodenstein closed one eye and examined the spot he was pointing to through the magnifying glass.

“It looks like … hmm … like two letters. Old Gothic letters. An …
A
and a
B,
if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re right,” said Kirchhoff, taking the magnifying glass from him.

“What does it mean?” Bodenstein asked.

“I’ll resign if it turns out I’m wrong,” Kirchhoff replied. “It’s incredible, because Goldberg was a Jew.”

Bodenstein didn’t understand what was agitating the ME.

“Don’t keep me on tenterhooks,” he said impatiently. “What’s so extraordinary about a tattoo?”

Kirchhoff peered at Bodenstein over the tops of his half-moon glasses.

“This,” he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “is a blood-type tattoo, like the members of the Waffen-SS had. Twenty centimeters above the elbow on the inside of the upper left arm. Because this tattoo was a clear identifying mark, many former SS men tried to get rid of it after the war. This man did, too.”

He took a deep breath and began to circle the autopsy table.

“Normally,” Kirchhoff expounded, as if in a first-semester lecture in the auditorium, “tattoos are made by inserting a needle into the center layer of the skin, the dermis. In this case, the color has penetrated into the subcutis. Superficially, only a bluish scar was visible, but now, after the epidermis had been removed, the tattoo can again be seen clearly. Blood type AB.”

Bodenstein stared at Goldberg’s corpse, which lay with its chest opened on the dissection table. He hardly dared think what Kirchhoff’s incredible revelation might mean or what consequences it might have.

“If you didn’t know who this was on your table,” he said slowly, “what would you surmise?”

Kirchhoff stopped in his tracks.

“That the man in his younger days must have been a member of the SS. And probably from the very beginning. Later, the tattoos were done in roman letters, not in Old German script.”

“Couldn’t it be a matter of some other harmless tattoo that over the years somehow … hmm … changed?” Bodenstein asked, although he had no real faith in this theory. Kirchhoff almost never made a mistake; at least Bodenstein couldn’t remember a single occasion when the pathologist had had to revise his opinion.