I Am Your Judge: A Novel (31 page)

They crossed the street and went to the street door. Bodenstein didn’t want to warn Stadler and possibly give him a chance to escape, so he pressed one of the lower buttons and hoped that the nameplates were arranged according to the location of the apartments. A woman who lived on the ground floor opened the door. After she had seen Bodenstein’s ID and the uniformed officer, she merely nodded and then closed her door. They took the elevator to the eighth floor and then walked up a couple of steps to the penthouse. They could hear loud techno music through the closed door to the apartment. Bodenstein rang the bell. The music stopped, footsteps approached, and the door opened. Erik Stadler was wearing only boxer shorts and a white undershirt, which revealed his buff torso. There was an artistic tattoo on Stadler’s left shoulder. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the police.

“Did the stodgy bastards downstairs complain about the noise again, eh?” he said. Then he recognized Bodenstein. An anxious expression came into his eyes, and his smile suddenly seemed forced. “Is that why the Kripo is here?”

“Good evening, Mr. Stadler,” replied Bodenstein. “We’re not here because of the music. May we come in?”

“Yes, please do.” He stepped aside and let them in.

Like his father, Erik Stadler also seemed to have a penchant for extravagance. Most of the load-bearing walls had been replaced by support columns, so as to create a very spacious room. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed a view over the roofs of the financial district. At the far end was an open kitchen, and next to it, stairs led up to a gallery. A lovely apartment, and certainly not cheap in this part of Frankfurt.

“What’s this about?” Erik Stadler wanted to know. He was trying to act relaxed, but he was not. Uneasiness was oozing out of every pore of his body.

“Where were you today at around one
P.M
.?” Bodenstein asked him.

“Right here,” Stadler said. “I was working here at home, as I often do. I can concentrate better here than at the office.”

“Do you have any witnesses?” In his career, Bodenstein had looked into the faces of many individuals who tried to lie to him. They all thought they could fool him, but very few succeeded.

“No, why?” Erik Stadler was an amateur liar with a guilty conscience. He was having trouble maintaining eye contact with Bodenstein.

“Where were you on Wednesday, December nineteenth, around eight in the morning?” Bodenstein asked without answering Stadler’s question. “On Thursday, December twentieth, at seven in the evening, and on Tuesday, December twenty-fifth, around eight in the morning?”

Stadler pretended not to understand.

“On the twenty-fifth? That was Christmas.” He scratched his head, tugged on his earlobe and his nose, and crossed his arms. “I was out running early that morning. I exercise a lot, to balance out all the hours I spend sitting at a computer.”

“Where were you running, and between what times exactly? Did anyone see you? Did you speak to anyone?”

“I can’t remember. I run every day. Why is this important?”

Bodenstein didn’t let Stadler’s questions throw him off the track. He noticed the sweat on the man’s forehead, the nervous fidgeting of his hands, the evasive gaze. Nobody remained calm when being questioned by the criminal police. Bodenstein knew that. But Stadler’s nervousness exceeded the norm.

“You’re a biathlete?” he asked. “Unusual for someone from this neighborhood.”

“During my stint in the army, I was in the alpine division,” replied Stadler, and this time he was telling the truth. “That’s how I got into the biathlon. Nowadays, I seldom have time for skiing.”

“But you do have time for other unusual extreme sports.”

“Now and then. What are you getting at?”

“Are you a good shot?”

“Yes. In the past, I was pretty good, at least. But that was several years ago.”

Bodenstein mentioned the names of the sniper’s victims, but Stadler apparently knew only Ingeborg Rohleder, the mother of his former neighbor, and Professor Rudolf. He claimed he’d never heard the names Maximilian Gehrke or Hürmet Schwarzer.

“Mr. Stadler, you don’t seem to have sufficient alibis for the times I asked you about,” Bodenstein said. “I must advise you that you are under suspicion of having committed four murders. Because of that, I need to ask you to come with us to police headquarters.”

“You can’t be serious!” Stadler protested. “I’m no murderer!”

“Then tell me what you were doing during the times when the murders were committed.”

“I … I can’t.” Stadler again ran his hands over his hair. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do that down at the station,” Bodenstein said. “Please get dressed and pack a few things. My colleague will accompany you.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Temporarily detained,” replied Bodenstein, and read him his rights.

“You’re making a big mistake. I have nothing to do with this,” Stadler declared.

“I hope so, for your sake.” Bodenstein turned away. “Please hurry.”

Ten minutes later, they took the elevator down to the ground floor. A woman approached them in the foyer. She had short black hair and was wearing sports garb under a light-colored trench coat.

“Erik!” she exclaimed when she recognized the man walking between the two police officers. “What … What’s going on?”

“Lis, I…,” Stadler began, and wanted to stop, but the officers hurried him along.

“What’s going on?” The woman dropped her sports bag. “I want to speak to my boyfriend. Why are you taking him away? Where are you taking him?”

Bodenstein barred her way.

“To Hofheim,” he said. “We have to speak with him.”

“Yes, but … what…?” She broke off, staring at him wide-eyed. “But you’re … I saw you before on the TV, didn’t I?”

He nodded and saw the horror in her eyes as she put two and two together and understood. Her shoulders slumped. She turned away, sat down on the stairs, and began to cry.

*   *   *

It was eleven o’clock when they got home. Bodenstein had treated everyone at the office to another round of pizzas, so neither of them was hungry. Kim had already disappeared into her room with a yawn. That gave Pia a chance to Skype with Christoph, who had Wi-Fi on board the cruise ship. For a few minutes, she could forget the whole unpleasant day and laugh with him as he comically described the other guests.

“You look exhausted,” he told her.

“I had a tough day. We now have a fourth dead body, and we’re still pretty much fishing in the dark. For some reason, the case isn’t making any progress. Sometimes I wish I could just beam myself over to you.”

“Me, too.” He smiled sympathetically, then turned serious. “I’m glad you’re not staying alone at Birkenhof.”

“Yeah, I’m happy to have Kim with me,” Pia admitted.

It was comforting to talk to Christoph. Even though there were thousands of kilometers between them, she felt that he was very close.

“I wish you were here,” he said finally. “Nothing seems right without you.”

His words warmed her heart. Tears filled her eyes. When his image was gone, she closed her laptop and stared for a while into space. Had she ever loved a man as much as Christoph? With Henning, it had been completely different. Even when he was out driving around and she didn’t know exactly where he was, she had never missed him as much as she missed Christoph. Sometimes she’d actually been glad when Henning wasn’t around.

Her thoughts wandered to Dirk Stadler. Christoph had lost his first wife, the mother of his three daughters, in a similar way. A stroke. Out of the blue. He had told Pia how it happened, and how full of despair he’d been, abruptly left alone with three little kids. All his dreams about living in Africa with his wife had gone to the grave with her. But his kids had forced him to keep going. Thanks to them, he had been able to cope with the loss of his wife and find his way back to life, just like Dirk Stadler. But Stadler had also lost his daughter ten years later. How would he react if it turned out that his son was a quadruple murderer? Did he know what Erik had done? All the facts were pointing to Erik Stadler as the perp. Bodenstein was fairly convinced that with the detention of Erik Stadler he had caught the sniper, but Pia wasn’t so sure. Was it a sign of his innocence that he had not demanded to see his lawyer? Maybe tomorrow they would know more.

Kai had assiduously plowed through the thick file that Dirk Stadler had lent him. To his disappointment, he found only the names of Professor Rudolf and the leader of the clinic, Professor Ulrich Hausmann. There was no mention of Patrick Schwarzer. Kathrin had spoken again this evening with the husband of the dead bakery saleswoman, but he couldn’t remember ever having heard of a Kirsten Stadler. He’d been on strong sedatives and hadn’t been able to give them any useful answers.

Pia’s cell buzzed. She grabbed it and read the text that Kai had sent her.

Are you still up? Just finished researching HRMO. Some creepy shit.

Attached was a link to a Web site. After talking with Christoph, she was wide awake, so she turned on her laptop and copied the link into her browser. It took her to the HRMO Web site—which was an acronym for Help for Relatives of Murder Victims of the Organ Mafia.

“Good God,” she murmured, and began to read.

HRMO was founded in 1998 by several people who under great duress had been pressured to donate their children’s organs and signed a release only later to discover that their children, although declared brain-dead by the doctors, were not dead, but dying. Pia clicked on the button “About Us” and learned that HRMO now had 392 members, including family members and other people who had been confronted with the topic professionally or were opposed to transplantation procedures for other reasons. On the Web pages, individuals from all walks of life recounted the loss of their children, and hospital workers described the process of organ transplantation. Pia was shaken by what she read. She had never known much about the topic of organ donation, and a few years earlier had cluelessly filled out an organ donor card. She dialed Kai’s cell number and he picked up at once.

“This is outrageous,” she said.

“Lydia Winkler also wrote an account,” said Kai.

“I’ve seen it.” Pia scrolled down. “It’s horrible! I’m going to cancel my donor card.”

“I don’t think organ donation is bad—on the contrary,” said Kai. “If as an adult you’ve been informed in detail and accepted the fact that you’re not going to die in the presence of your loved ones, then it’s all right. At least you can save lives that way.”

“Would you want to die like that?” Pia was horrified. “Just imagine, you’re not really dead, like that woman in the States who woke up on the way to the operating room.”

“There are precise guidelines for the establishment of brain death,” said Kai. “The doctors have to establish proof of the clinical symptoms, and also the irreversibility of the patient’s condition.”

“Do you think they can be relied on to do that?” Pia shuddered.

Kai didn’t reply. Instead he said, “I find it interesting to see what people in this forum are concerned about. Their biggest complaint is that while in a state of emotional crisis, they are morally pressured to agree to an organ donation.”

“Like Kirsten Stadler’s parents were,” Pia said. “The doctors told them about patients who would die if they didn’t get a new heart or a new kidney right away. Mrs. Winkler told us that the doctors really put on the pressure, asking her whether she wanted to be responsible for another person’s death because she was taking so long to decide. That’s so absurd!”

“And then there’s the fact that someone who is brain-dead doesn’t even look dead,” Kai added. Pia heard the clacking of his keyboard. “Given the state of shock that they’re in, people don’t realize that their loved one is going to die. Naturally, they hope that he’ll regain consciousness. On the other hand, the doctors can’t wait forever, because organs can be removed only from a living person, not a dead body. According to the definition, someone who’s brain-dead is dead. I was looking at a linked article about a conference of the German Ethical Board, which posed the question, ‘In practice, what is the protocol regarding morality and human dignity associated with the definition of brain death?’ And the conclusion is: ‘The brain-dead individual is physical existence on the cellular level, but without any capacity for understanding or social interaction—signifying a vegetative state and not life.’ In the definition of brain death, the interests of transplantation medicine have always played a role.”

As he spoke, Pia clicked on the masthead of the Web site.

“Joachim Winkler is deputy chairman, Lydia Winkler is secretary,” she interrupted her colleague. “The chairman is a Mark Thomsen who lives in Eppstein, which is also the official seat of the organization. There’s even an emergency hotline. The HRMO people are on call round the clock to offer assistance to anyone in a crisis situation.”

“Are Erik Stadler and his father members?” Kai asked.

“They’re not listed on the board, at least,” said Pia. “There is no communication between Dirk Stadler and his in-laws, and he has spoken disparagingly about HRMO. I don’t think he’s involved. I suspect that he decided long ago not to think any more about that topic. If someone continues to dwell on a particular problem, he won’t be able to get over it eventually. And I got the impression that Dirk Stadler has successfully dealt with the loss of his wife. In any case, he’s no lone wolf sociopath. He has good relations with his neighbors, for example.”

“Hmm,” was all Kai said.

“I’ve thought over the fact that the murders of Hürmet Schwarzer and Maximilian Gehrke don’t really fit into the pattern,” Pia said, changing the topic. “Why did Gehrke have to die? Because he received Kirsten Stadler’s donor heart?”

“No, because the perp wanted to punish his father,” Kai countered.

“For what?” asked Pia. “What had his father done?”

“He’s influential and has a lot of money,” said Kai. “He may have bribed someone so that his son could get a new heart sooner.”

“But that doesn’t make sense at all.” Pia shook her head. “Eurotransplant decides who gets an organ. And they have to match the parameters. Not everyone can tolerate every organ.”