I Am Your Judge: A Novel (45 page)

“It was a female witness,” replied Ehrenberg. “She lives on the ninth floor and saw him outside her window on the construction scaffolding. He was probably on his way down. Because the façade had been under construction for months, the sight of workers is nothing unusual for the residents. The woman noticed him only because he had a bag slung over his shoulder.”

Footsteps came down the hall, and Nicola Engel entered the room.

“A witness observed something at the high-rise in Eschborn and called it in on Saturday,” Bodenstein told her, giving Ehrenberg a withering glance. “Unfortunately, our colleagues didn’t find out about it until today.”

Nicola Engel had no comment, but Ehrenberg’s face flushed.

“What’s on the video?” she asked brusquely.

“Just a moment.” Kai rewound a little ways. The video was in black-and-white and rather grainy. At 11:33
A.M.,
a man entered the foyer, resolutely turned right, and strode toward the elevators. He was wearing a white hard hat over a hood, and he was careful to keep his face turned away from the camera. Over his shoulder, he carried a dark-colored sports bag.

“I don’t believe it,” Bodenstein snapped through clenched teeth. Nicola Engel admonished him with a glance.

“Her description was quite accurate, but it’s not much help,” Ehrenberg continued. “Height between five-eleven and six-one. The woman couldn’t see his hair because the man had pulled his collar up to his nose and wore a hood under the hard hat. Gloves, jeans, black jacket, white hard hat. He looked athletic and wore sneakers instead of work boots.”

This description would fit Erik Stadler as well as Mark Thomsen or Jens-Uwe Hartig.

Kai tried to improve the sharpness of the image.

“How did the man get into the building?” Nicola Engel wanted to know.

“He simply rang the bell.” Ehrenberg gave a shrug. “Apparently, he was pretending to be a delivery guy. They’d been working in the building for months. The front doors are often left open, and nobody looks very closely at strangers and construction workers anymore. He must have been there a couple of times before, or he wouldn’t have known the way to the roof. Then he found a spot where he could wait undisturbed to take his shot.”

“Good, thank you, Officer Ehrenberg,” said the commissioner. “You may resume your work.”

“I’ve been answering the phone for the past three days,” he said. “When are we going to be relieved?”

“Never.” Nicola Engel fixed her gaze on him sharply. “Every available officer in the station will remain on duty until we catch this perp.”

“But I—,” Ehrenberg began.

“You’ll be paid the standard surcharge for Sundays and holidays, as well as overtime. What else do you want?” she cut him off. “I expect more careful work in the future. No more lapses will be permitted.”

Ehrenberg turned away without comment, though not without casting a dirty look at Bodenstein, as if he were to blame for the whole thing.

“With this video footage, we can now narrow down our search,” Pia remarked after he’d gone. “During the Mermaid case, we also received a decisive tip when the investigation was featured on
Germany’s Most Wanted
. Maybe somebody saw the guy getting into a car. A photo always sparks people’s memory.”

“Okay,” Engel agreed. “I’ll see what we can arrange. Put together all the info you have. And, Bodenstein, we have to release Erik Stadler from investigative custody if we have no new evidence against him.”

“But since he’s been in custody, there haven’t been any more shootings,” Bodenstein remarked.

“No judge in the world is going to accept that reasoning,” said Dr. Engel, shaking her head.

“Then at least I want him kept under surveillance,” Bodenstein demanded. “We do have other possible suspects, but we haven’t ruled him out completely.”

“I’ll get it approved,” the commissioner promised, and turned to go. “Order his release, and keep me in the loop.”

*   *   *

Dr. Peter Riegelhoff still hadn’t called back. The attorney was neither at his office or at home, and his cell was turned off.

“When somebody so obviously goes out of his way to avoid us, it means he’s got something to hide.” Bodenstein was more furious than he’d ever been before. It was bad enough that the information from the witness in the high-rise hadn’t been checked out until now. Even worse was Ehrenberg’s reaction. Everyone on the special commission team was working full-bore and with total concentration, and a single unmotivated slowpoke like Ehrenberg negated all their efforts. Valuable time had been wasted, time that could cost a person his life. Ostermann had given clear instructions to the officers who were taking and evaluating the hotline calls: Every tip, no matter how unlikely its connection to any of the crime scenes, had top priority.

“Maybe Riegelhoff is on vacation,” Pia said. “Lots of people were gone over the holidays, and—”

“Let’s go out to Liederbach,” Bodenstein interrupted her as they drove along the A 66. “I want to speak to Stadler Senior one more time.”

Pia put on her turn signal and took the next exit off the autobahn. A couple of minutes later, they found Stadler loading a suitcase into the trunk of his car.

“Going somewhere?” Pia asked.

“Yes. I’m going to visit my sister in Southern Bavaria,” replied Stadler. “Nobody should have to spend New Year’s Eve alone. I’ll be back on Wednesday. Got to get back to work then.”

“Please give us your sister’s address and a cell number where we can reach you,” Pia requested.

“Of course. Come on, I’ll write it down for you.”

Stadler closed the trunk with a bang, then limped off toward the house. Pia and Bodenstein followed him. It was dark inside the house; all the blinds had been rolled down. Stadler pulled out the drawer in the sideboard in the hall, took out a pad and pen, and jotted down an address and several phone numbers.

“What’s going on with my son?” he asked Pia as he handed her the piece of paper.

“He should be coming home today,” replied Bodenstein. “Mr. Stadler, we have a question for you. Do you know how to shoot?”

“Me? No way.” Dirk Stadler shook his head with a hint of a smile. “I disapprove of firearms. I’m a confirmed pacifist.”

“Did you serve in the army?”

“No.”

“One more thing,” said Pia. “When was the last time you spoke with Mark Thomsen?”

“That was a long time ago.” Stadler frowned and thought about it. “Two or three weeks after Helen’s funeral.”

“He hasn’t tried to get in touch with you recently?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“And how about Jens-Uwe Hartig? Have you spoken with him recently?”

“No. Jens-Uwe broke off contact completely after Helen’s death. And I can understand that. Helen was our connection.”

“Why were you making payments to Mr. Hartig once a month?” Bodenstein asked.

“That was my contribution to household expenses and for Helen’s studies,” Stadler replied. “Officially, she was still living here, but in reality, she was almost always at his place. She had no income of her own, and I didn’t want Jens-Uwe to have to pay her bills as long as they weren’t married.”

That sounded logical, since Stadler had stopped making payments after Helen died.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Stadler. That’ll be all for today,” Bodenstein said with a nod. “Have a nice trip and a Happy New Year.”

“Thank you, and I wish you both the same,” Stadler said with a smile. “I hope you will have a quiet night tonight. And if you have any further questions, just give me a call.”

*   *   *

It was rush hour at the supermarket. People were carrying bottle rockets and firecrackers to their cars, stocking up on groceries and booze as if there were no tomorrow. Even at the bakery next door, business was as brisk as usual, Hürmet Schwarzer already forgotten. Management didn’t think the tragic death of a shop clerk was worth even a photo with a black ribbon. It was only three days ago, and the bloodstain in front of the shoe store was still clearly visible. In her place, other pretty young women were selling loaves of bread, rolls, and pastry, smiling just as insincerely as lovely Hürmet had. That’s how people were. Repress and forget.

He carried his shopping bags to the car, which was at the far end of the parking lot, and glanced over at the high-rise, as almost everyone had done since last Friday, giving an involuntary shudder. People were still talking about what happened, and they avoided stepping on the bloodstain. A few candles and flowers had been left there, and some people were even taking pictures of it. But the incident didn’t particularly affect them; it had nothing to do with their miserable little world. They soothed their guilty conscience with stupid clichés like “Life must go on” while deep inside, they knew that their lack of empathy, their selfishness, and their hunger for sensationalism were disgusting. He looked into people’s faces and saw heedless animals who thought only about themselves, gobbling their food, and propagating as if their genes were worth it. He was having a harder and harder time tolerating other people. He was glad that he could escape because he had no ties to any of them.

He stowed the shopping bags and the case of mineral water in the trunk; then he drove under the autobahn toward Sossenheim, the district with the ugly apartment buildings. His garage was one of 250 others that had been built in long rows. Twenty metal doors on the left and twenty on the right. No one gave a rat’s ass about anyone else here. He stopped in front of the door marked 117 in the fourth row, climbed out, opened the door, and pulled on his gloves before he backed out the other car. He left the motor running so the heater would warm up. Then he drove his car inside, transferred his purchases, and closed the garage door. This procedure was always a bit laborious, but it was a matter of security. Since the police had turned to the public for help, the newspapers, radio, and television were running daily reports about him. He had to be more careful than ever, because he still had a lot to do. He had discarded the idea of turning to the public via the reporter in order to divulge his motives. All the evidence against him would probably come out during his trial, but until the, he’d arranged everything. It was good that he had this house, this place of refuge. He drove on the A 66 autobahn and glanced at the clock on the dash as he turned onto the B 8 at the Main-Taunus Center. Ten more hours. Then number five would die.

*   *   *

“I wasn’t jogging, but I … I couldn’t tell you what I was doing. Lis would have left me instantly.” After three days of investigative custody, Erik Stadler looked much the worse for wear.

“Were you with another woman?” Pia asked.

“No!” Stadler hung his head. “I … I went climbing with a friend on the construction site of the European Central Park and . . jumped off.”

Bodenstein and Pia stared at him, speechless.

“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell us that sooner?” Bodenstein was the first to regain his composure. “We suspected you of being a murderer. Even worse, we wasted a lot of time on you. Time we could have spent tracking down the killer.”

He was super pissed off.

“I’m sorry,” replied Stadler, ashamed of himself. “I was thinking only of myself. We’d been planning the jump for months.”

“You could get killed doing stuff like that.” Pia still couldn’t believe it.

“I’m not afraid to die,” said Stadler. Now that he’d been released, he seemed relieved. “A boring life would be much worse for me.”

Bodenstein sighed with fatigue and rubbed his face. He’d never experienced anything like this before. This man would rather let his business suffer and be accused of murder than admit to a misdemeanor that, in comparison, was truly ludicrous. Pia’s intuition had been right after all. As had been the case with Professor Kaltensee and Markus Nowak’s previous cases, Erik Stadler’s suspicious behavior was based on entirely different motives.

“You may go,” said Bodenstein, now feeling depressed.

“You mean you’re not going to charge me with anything?”

“No.” He shoved a notepad and pen across the table. “Please give us the name of your … friend who’s also willing to risk his life. And then get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

“Oh, one more thing,” said Pia. “What did you talk about with Jens-Uwe Hartig on Friday?”

“With Jens-Uwe?” Stadler looked up from the notepad.

“Yes. With your sister’s fiancé.”

“I haven’t heard a word from him in months,” said Stadler. “Here’s my friend’s number.”

“Last Friday from seven forty-five
P.M.
till nine oh nine, you spoke with Hartig on the phone,” Pia persisted. “What about?”

“I swear to you, I didn’t,” Stadler argued. “The last time I talked to him was at Helen’s funeral.”

Something began to dawn on Bodenstein. He got up abruptly, tore open the door, and went out in the corridor. Pia grabbed the notepad from the table, nodded to Stadler, and ran after her boss. She caught up with him on the stairs leading to the second floor.

“What is it?” she asked him, out of breath.

Bodenstein said nothing. With a grim expression, he turned left and strode into the conference room. Ostermann, Neff, Kim, and Kathrin looked up in astonishment.

“Neff!” Bodenstein barked. “Whom did Jens-Uwe Hartig talk to on the phone last Friday evening?”

“Uh … just a moment…” Napoleon was rummaging frantically through his documents. “I’ll find it in a second.”

“Hurry up,” Bodenstein grumbled. A deep crease had formed between his eyebrows, a sign that he was really angry.

“Here it is. Aha,” Neff said with an uncertain smile. “From seven forty-five to nine past nine, Mr. Hartig was on the phone with Dirk Stadler.”

“With
Dirk
Stadler?” Bodenstein asked to make sure.

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“That’s not what you said earlier today.” Bodenstein was just about to lose control. “Pack up your things and get out of here, Neff. I’ve had enough of your sloppy work methods!”

“But…,” Neff began, and that word was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Don’t give me any goddamned excuses. When I say something, I mean it!” Bodenstein shouted at him. “Get out at once! And turn in your visitor’s ID downstairs in the watch room. I don’t want to see you here again.”