At that moment, Leonie realized that the man on the telephone was a sick psychopath, someone who got off on inflicting pain on other people. She’d dealt with such individuals a few times, back when she was still working at the locked psychiatric ward in Kiedrich. These experiences had convinced her to specialize in working with traumatized women who had been the victims of such perverse beasts.
Suddenly, there was a beep, and the voice stopped. The tape on her old-fashioned answering machine was full.
It was completely quiet except for the sound of her own breathing. Her nose was dried out, and each breath was an effort. It felt like she was in a sauna, the tiny nose hairs burning in the hot air. But she was no longer sweating. The knowledge that there was no chance she would ever get out of this room, that she would die here, in her own home, where she had always felt happy and safe, struck her with elemental force. She didn’t care that this deviant bastard was watching her. With all her strength, Leonie strained against her bonds; she screamed as hard as she could under the duct tape, until her vocal cords ached and her head felt like it was going to burst. She refused to allow the fear of death to conquer her. She did not want to die!
* * *
The expansive garden café of the Gimbacher Hof was busy. At the tables and benches in the shade of enormous old trees, there was hardly a free seat to be found. The historic country inn located in the valley between Kelkheim and Fischbach was a popular daytime excursion destination, especially for families and hikers. Pia had first noticed this when she saw all the children romping boisterously in the playground. But she’d been so focused on State Attorney Frey and Kilian Rothemund that she hadn’t thought much about it. Meanwhile, Emma seemed oblivious to all the commotion swirling around her. She was still in shock. And it was no wonder. For her, the situation was a disaster. Her worry about Louisa was combined with concern for her unborn child and the horrible suspicion that her husband might be a pedophile.
Pia had given Emma the phone number of an experienced therapist at the Frankfurt Girls Home, since she clearly needed professional help. Child abuse was a topic that Pia had never had to deal with professionally. Of course she had followed the scandalous cases that were always coming up in the media, but she had never felt more than a superficial sadness. To see Emma so desperate, helpless, and full of worry about the physical and mental well-being of her little daughter had moved Pia deeply. Maybe she had grown more sensitive because of Lilly. Parents had an enormous responsibility for such small creatures. Children could be protected to some degree from external dangers. But what happened when your own partner, the person you trusted most, revealed such dark and hidden depths?
After an hour, Emma had to leave to go see Louisa at the hospital. Pia watched her old school friend drive off and then walked over to her own car parked farther down the hill. It was the expression in Emma’s eyes, the mixture of fear, rage, and deep hurt, that made her think of Britta Hackspiel. Kilian Rothemund was a convicted child molester. At the trial, of course, he had vehemently denied it, but the proof of his guilt had been overwhelming and decisive. The prosecution had presented photos that showed Rothemund in unambiguous poses, naked in bed with little children, as well as thousands of photos and dozens of videos of the most heinous kind on his laptop.
Now that the lab had identified the semen in Hanna Herzmann’s vagina as Rothemund’s, Bodenstein was firmly convinced that he was the one who had beaten and raped Hanna and stuffed her in the trunk of her car, perhaps together with Bernd Prinzler. Still, they could only speculate about the motive of the two men. Although the circumstantial evidence clearly pointed to the guilt of Rothemund, Pia harbored a slight doubt. Hanna Herzmann was a grown woman: forty-six years old, self-confident, successful, beautiful, with a very feminine figure. She embodied everything that would turn off a man disposed to pedophilia. Anger and hatred might be an explanation for the incomprehensible brutality. Rape had nothing to do with lust, but with power and domination. Still, something was bothering Pia about the case. This solution seemed too simple and obvious.
She drove straight through Kelkheim, crossed the train tracks, turned left toward the center of town, and followed the Gagernring to the main highway. There she signaled to turn right, then changed her mind and turned left to drive through Altenhain to Bad Soden. A few minutes later, she stopped in front of the house where Kilian Rothemund had once lived. The street was fairly crowded with parked cars, so Pia drove the unmarked police car up to the edge of the field and then had to walk back. When she rang the bell, Britta Hackspiel’s new husband opened the door; Pia had seen him only briefly yesterday. His friendly, welcoming smile vanished at the sight of her.
“It’s Sunday afternoon,” he reminded Pia needlessly when she asked for his wife. “Does it have to be now? We have company.”
People frequently tried to get rid of Pia at the door, but it was part of her job as a detective to pay unwelcome visits, and it no longer bothered her.
“I just have a couple of questions for your wife,” Pia countered, unperturbed. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“Why can’t you leave my wife alone?” he snapped. “God knows she’s been through enough already because of that pig, yet she keeps on being reminded of him. Go away. Come back tomorrow.”
Pia scrutinized the man, and he returned her gaze with undisguised aversion. In appearance, Richard Hackspiel was the complete opposite of Kilian Rothemund: heavy and bloated, with the big nose, red face, and watery eyes of an alcoholic. There was something arrogant about him, and Pia wished she could have asked him whether it bothered him to live in the same house where “that pig” used to live.
“I’m not a vacuum cleaner salesperson,” said Pia with a charming smile, because she knew that would provoke this man to a white heat. “Either you go get your wife or I’ll have her picked up by a patrol and we can have a chat at the station. It’s your choice.”
It wasn’t really her style to flaunt her authority, but that was the only language some people understood. Pressing his lips tight, Hackspiel went inside and came back a moment later with his wife.
“What’s it about this time?” she asked coolly, her arms crossed. She made no move to invite Pia inside.
“Your ex-husband.” Pia didn’t want to waste any time. “Do you think he’s capable of beating a woman so badly that she’s beyond recognition? Torturing her, and locking her naked in the trunk of a car?”
Britta Hackspiel swallowed and her eyes widened. Pia could see the struggle going on deep inside her.
“No. I don’t think he’s capable of that. Kilian never hit anyone as long as I was with him. Although…” Her face went hard. “Although I never would have believed that he would get aroused by little children. I’d known him for twenty years. Even when he was working hard, he was still first and foremost a family man, and always very conscientious. He never neglected the children and me.”
Her shoulders slumped forward. The cool demeanor, which was her defense mechanism, dissolved. Pia waited for her to resume speaking. At moments like this, it was better simply to let someone talk, especially when the situation was as emotionally charged as it was for Britta Hackspiel.
“He was a loving father and husband. We always talked to each other and made plans, and we had no secrets from each other. Maybe … maybe that’s why I was so … stunned when everything came out.” She had tears in her eyes. “I never would have thought that of him. But suddenly our whole life was just one big lie.”
“The press wrote at the time that your ex-husband had once been friends with the state attorney who instituted proceedings against him,” Pia said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s true. Markus and Kilian studied together and were very good friends. The summer when Kilian and I met, he and Markus were touring on their mopeds. At some point, the friendship fell apart.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “Kilian became a defense attorney and made a lot of money. I don’t know exactly what happened between them, but the devastating press campaign was instigated by Markus.”
“Did you ever question the accusations that were made against your husband?” Pia asked.
Britta Hackspiel drew in a shaky breath, fighting for self-control.
“Yes, at first I did. I believed his claims of innocence because I thought I knew him. Until I saw those … those disgusting videos.” Her voice was now only a whisper. “Then there was no doubt. He lied to me; he abused my trust. I can never forgive him for that. Of course we’re still connected through the children, but as a human being he is dead to me.”
* * *
A cracking sound on her left ankle made her stiffen. Her heart skipped a beat. One of the cables that the bastard had used to bind her foot to the chair leg seemed to have split. Now she could move her foot, even touch the floor with the tip of her toe. New hope flooded through every vein in her body. She mobilized all her strength and braced her toes against the floor. It was actually possible to move the chair backward a bit. An inch, and then another. Leonie was barely getting enough air, as the slightest movement strained her weakened body. Bright spots were dancing before her eyes, but outside it was pitch-dark. No light fell through the gaps in the shutters, so it must be nighttime, she realized. It was more than twenty-four hours ago that she had drunk the diet Coke in the kitchen. Her hands clenched around the wooden armrests and she pressed her toes against the floor, but no matter how hard she tried, the chair wouldn’t move any farther. The pine floorboards in the therapy room were worn and uneven, and the chair legs were caught on some obstacle. Full of despair, she tensed every muscle in her body. Suddenly, she felt the chair tipping back. She couldn’t bend forward because her upper body was bound tightly to the back of the chair. The chair toppled backward and her head struck the wooden floor. For a couple of seconds, Leonie remained motionless and stunned. Had her position improved or worsened? She lay helpless on her back like a beetle, with one foot, the only somewhat movable part of her body, sticking up in the air. Her chest rose and sank violently, but she noticed that it was no longer as hot. Hot air rises, and on the floor it was a little cooler. Leonie tried to imagine the layout of the room. How far was she from the desk? But how would that help her? She still couldn’t move. Full of rage, she strained at her bonds, fighting against the hopeless situation. The telephone on the desk rang. The answering machine turned on, but the automatic voice said only that the tape was full. The pig had surely seen what had happened. Her heart was pounding in her throat. Would he come here and kill her? Where could he be? How long would it take? How much time did she have left?
Monday, June 28, 2010
It was already almost nine o’clock, and Corinna had scheduled a meeting in the administration building for nine. Emma dreaded the upcoming celebration on Friday. It was the last time she would have to see Florian, so she would put on a good front and not ruin her father-in-law’s birthday party.
She took the shortcut across the lawn, which was still damp from the rain last night. The doctor at the hospital had assured her that Louisa was doing fine. The caseworker at the child-protection agency had left a message asking for a return call from Emma, who was firmly determined to see that Florian was officially prevented from any contact with Louisa.
The conversation with the therapist had done nothing to allay Emma’s concern; instead, it had reinforced her worst fears. She’d told the woman about the hospital doctor’s suspicion and about Louisa’s altered behavior in the past few weeks, which Florian had called a normal developmental phase for a five-year-old. The therapist had been cautious with her assessment. There might actually be a completely different explanation for why Louisa had cut up her favorite plush animal, alternated between tantrums and exhausted lethargy, and displayed unusual aggression toward Emma. In any event, it was very important to keep a vigilant eye on her behavior. Sexual abuse by fathers, uncles, grandfathers, or close friends of the family was, unfortunately, much more widespread than commonly believed.
“Little children understand instinctively that what is being done to them isn’t right. But when the abuse comes from someone they trust, they don’t try to defend themselves,” the therapist had told Emma. “On the contrary: the perpetrator usually succeeds in making the child complicit. ‘This is our secret, and you can’t tell Mama or your brothers and sisters that I love you so much, or else they’ll be sad or jealous.’ Something along those lines.”
When Emma asked how she ought to react in the future, and what she could do in the next few weeks, after the new baby was born, the therapist could offer no particularly constructive advice. Her only suggestion was that Emma stay with someone she trusted.
Great. Emma trusted Corinna and also her in-laws, but how could she prevent them from allowing Florian to see Louisa? Her only recourse was to tell them about her suspicions. Emma couldn’t imagine what sort of reaction his family would have if she accused Florian of molesting his own daughter. They’d probably think she was hysterical or just plain vindictive.
Deep in thought, she walked past the rhododendron bushes, which over the past decade had turned into a veritable jungle.
“Hello,” somebody said, and Emma jumped. On a wrought-iron bench sat an elderly woman in a white smock, smoking a cigarette. She wore a hairnet over her white hair, and her bare feet were stuck into a pair of plastic sandals.
“Hello,” Emma replied politely. Only now did she recognize Helga Grasser, whom she knew only by sight. She was the mother of the Finkbeiners’ factotum Helmut Grasser.
“So,” said the old woman, stepping on her cigarette to grind it out. “Are things that bad?”
“Two weeks to go,” said Emma, assuming the woman’s question referred to her pregnancy.
“That’s not what I meant.” Helga Grasser got up with a groan and came closer. She was big and stout, her reddened face a network of wrinkles and burst veins. A penetrating smell of sweat issued from her smock, which seemed a size too small and was straining across her stomach and breasts. Emma could see pinkish skin and shuddered. The old woman was wearing nothing underneath.