I Am Your Judge: A Novel (46 page)

He turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him and leaving the whole team baffled. Beet red with his lips pressed together, Neff grabbed his briefcase, got up, took his jacket, and left the room without another word.

“Bye-bye, Napoleon,” muttered Kai. “And don’t ever show your face here again.”

“Wow, I’ve never seen the boss that furious before,” Kathrin whispered; then she grinned. “People, this booting-out is worth a whole case of champagne! I’m sure glad we’re finally rid of that slimy bastard.”

*   *   *

Karoline’s father wasn’t home when she returned to the house in Oberursel in the early afternoon. Ever since their argument, he seemed to be avoiding her, and that was okay with her. At four, Karoline had a meeting with Irina, her mother’s Russian cleaning lady. The woman wanted to discuss how things would be arranged from now on. She used to come twice a week to take care of the brunt of the cleaning, while Mama had done all the rest. But now her father needed someone to do his laundry and cook for him, too. As she waited for Irina, she looked through the mail that her father, as was his habit, had tossed in the silver bowl on the sideboard in the entryway. He’d taken what interested him into his study, leaving behind all the letters of condolence stacked up in the bowl unopened. Among them was also an opened envelope with a notice from the Oberursel registration office, saying that Mama’s body had been released for burial. Her father hadn’t even considered that worth giving her a call, she thought in annoyance. As usual, he couldn’t be bothered taking care of practical matters. She rummaged through the silver bowl and found the card from the mortuary that had transported Mama’s body to the forensics lab. She also found the inspector’s business card, which her father had likewise tossed in the bowl. Karoline called the mortuary and asked them to take care of her mother’s funeral and all the formalities. She promised to fax the registration office and let them know. As soon as she hung up, Irina called and burst into tears before Karoline could even say hello. Half an hour later, she’d finished up everything. She wrote her father a note to tell him that Irina would be coming in every other day between nine and noon. If that didn’t suit him, he would have to call her and arrange his own schedule.

Karoline sat down at the dining room table, where she’d sat so often with her mother, and opened the condolence cards. As soon as the date was set for the funeral, she would have to make a list of addresses to send out the notices, which the mortuary would design for her. She had to decide on a fitting quotation and also have a talk with the pastor about renting a venue for the funeral reception. Then she had to notify all the associations and organizations that Mama had joined. Her eyes were burning and her back hurt, but she didn’t allow herself to take a break. For days, she’d been handling one task after another; it was the only thing keeping her going. There was nothing desperate about her search for the truth in her father’s past, but she was convinced that it might be the only reason why she hadn’t lost her mind or simply collapsed.

Outside the windows, darkness had already fallen. In a few hours, the new year would arrive. She still had time to get in her car and drive over to see Greta. It wouldn’t take more than four hours at most. She remembered the notebook that Vivien Stern had given her that morning. Karoline got up and turned on the light. She took the notebook out of her pocket and began leafing through it curiously. It seemed to be a diary that Helen Stadler had kept day by day, jotting down every triviality that passed through her head. Karoline had viewed Vivien Stern as a rather flipped-out young woman, yet her anxiety had been genuine. She didn’t know what to make of Vivien’s claim that Helen Stadler was murdered.

In March, the style of the diary entries changed. Karoline attempted to decipher the meaning of the dates, figures, names, and cryptic squiggles that seemed to make no sense. But then she began finding names that she recognized, and she felt a fluttering sense of excitement. Was Helen after the same thing that she was looking for? The young woman had not shied away from speaking directly with the men whom she blamed for the death of her mother. Professor Ulrich Hausmann, Dr. Hans Furtwängler, Fritz Gehrke—even Professor Dieter Rudolf. Karoline swallowed hard. Helen had met with him on June 7. Why? What did she want to ask him? Had he given her an answer? She quickly leafed ahead, just skimming the pages, but then she stopped short.

“Oh my God,” she murmured when she understood what all these names meant, the ones that Helen had written down.

Suddenly she realized how late it was. Her father might come home at any minute, and he was the last person she wanted to see this evening. She would call the police inspector when she got home. She hurriedly stuck the notebook back in her pocket, placed the note she had written to her father on the table, turned off the light, and left the house.

*   *   *

Bodenstein had to stop at the railroad crossing in Kelkheim, and he used the time to look at his smartphone, which had been ringing for a while now. Inka had sent him a text, and he also had a new e-mail. He gave a start when he read the sender’s name: [email protected]. Was this some nasty joke, or was the sniper contacting him directly? After the press conference, his name had been all over the media as the leader of the investigation, so it was a simple matter to find his e-mail address. Damn! The message had come in half an hour ago, and in his anger at Neff’s negligence, he hadn’t noticed. After he’d blown his top and thrown that guy out, he’d tried at once to call Dirk Stadler, but his cell was turned off, and no one had answered his sister’s phone either. After twelve days of high tension, Bodenstein’s nerves were just about shot. Quickly, he opened the e-mail and the file attached.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. Adrenaline shot through his body. He didn’t notice that the crossing gate had lifted until the car behind him honked. He swiftly put on his turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of the Kelkheim police station, which was only fifty meters ahead on the left side of the road. From there, he called Pia. New Year’s fireworks were already going off here and there. The whole world would be boisterously celebrating, but somewhere a person was about to die on this last night of the year if he didn’t prevent it.

“The Judge got in touch with me, this time by e-mail. Listen to this,” he said when Pia called. “‘Tonight Number Five will die. It won’t be long now before the whole truth will be revealed to you.’”

“We have to find Riegelhoff right away,” Pia said. Not a word of complaint that she’d have to keep working. “Maybe we should bring him in for a talk. He’s probably the only person who knows all those involved back then.”

“And Professor Rudolf,” Bodenstein replied. “I am at the station in Kelkheim. I’ll send a cruiser over to get him. By the way, I couldn’t reach Dirk Stadler, either on his cell or at his sister’s.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Pia told him. “And I don’t think Rudolf is going to reveal something tonight, of all nights.”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll bring him into the station.” Bodenstein was standing in front of the station door. “We have to talk to him. I’ll come by and pick you up.”

He broke the connection and read the text from Inka.

Sorry,
she wrote,
Emergency in Usingen. Be there later!

Emergency here too,
he wrote back.
I’ll be in touch. In case I don’t see you—Happy New Year!

Then he put away the phone and went inside the station.

*   *   *

After Bodenstein’s call, Pia ran around, feeding the horses and dogs, and tried to call Kim. Her sister didn’t answer, so she sent her a text. Then she walked in the dark along the track between the paddock and the riding area, thinking about Christoph. Over in the Galápagos, it was only eleven thirty in the morning.

She wished she could put a tail on all the suspects and tap their phones, but they didn’t have enough manpower for that, and the Frankfurt judges were known for their reticence when it came to signing warrants for wiretaps. On that topic, Bodenstein always went strictly by the book, while she would have taken a more flexible approach, especially when there was a chance of learning something significant. When Neff had admitted today that he’d done research on his own that was only semi-legal, her boss had not been happy. Yet it was the first truly useful action that conceited little snot had taken. Then he’d ruined it all by being just as slipshod and inattentive to detail as Ehrenberg, who had overlooked what was probably the most important piece of information to surface since the start of the investigation. No wonder Bodenstein had lost his cool. They were all on edge.

Pia opened the big gate and shut it behind her. Above her droned the traffic on the autobahn. It was pitch dark and cold as hell. She understood her boss’s reaction. The sense of powerlessness they all felt had stripped them of any remaining scraps of patience. But the most unpleasant thing was the way the administration of the UCF was stonewalling. Even after four deaths, they still didn’t seem to comprehend the gravity and the urgency of the situation. Or—and this seemed more likely to her—they were afraid that something might come out that had previously been so carefully hushed up.

A car emerged from under the autobahn overpass. The glare from the headlights approached swiftly, and the car reached her a few seconds later.

“Riegelhoff is at home and is waiting for us.” Bodenstein shifted into reverse and backed into the dirt road to turn around. “But just to be safe, I sent some officers over so he won’t change his mind.”

“Why didn’t he call and tell us to come over?” asked Pia, fastening her seat belt.

“We’ll have to ask him that.” Bodenstein was irritable and tense. The car bumped over the train tracks.

“Why is the Judge now announcing his attacks?” Pia asked. “What’s the point of that?”

“No idea,” replied Bodenstein as he got onto the A 66 heading for Frankfurt. “Maybe he wants to piss us off, play cat and mouse in order to show us what idiots we are. What really bothers me is that Faber has obviously been doing some investigating of his own behind our backs, even though I asked him several times not to do that. I’m really ticked off at him!”

Pia said nothing. In all the years they’d been working together, she’d never seen him in such a thunderous mood. Obviously something else was bothering him, too, something personal that was adding to the strain and making him touchy.

*   *   *

Here, of course, everything was less comfortable than it was at home, but that didn’t bother him. There was no dishwasher, so he washed the two pots, the plate, and the silverware by hand. He liked washing dishes. It was a satisfying task, like cleaning windows and mowing the lawn. You saw the result at once, and it was conducive to relaxing and thinking things over. He liked the small house with its simplicity and bare-bones furnishings. He fully enjoyed the time he was able to spend here. Soon he would have to exchange this place for a prison cell, and not a second went by that he wasn’t aware of that. He put away the clean dishes and silverware, wiping off the scratched sink with a microfiber cloth. The stove was making noise; it was so hot that he could walk around in a T-shirt. Here it was peaceful; there were no neighbors to bother him, no one who wanted anything from him. And above all, he had Helen’s papers here. Whenever he had the slightest doubt about the reason for his actions, he needed only to reread everything, and then his anger was reawakened and fierce, along with the thirst for revenge, for punishment and retribution. The way she had suffered, they would have to suffer, too. Death would have been too merciful for any of them. They had to endure what Helen had endured, the same helplessness and despair; they had to be damned until the end of their lives and even beyond. He glanced at the clock. It was 7:42
P.M
. He had to see about getting ready. He got dressed carefully because the night was cold, and he didn’t know how long he would have to wait. Long underwear, black jeans, over those the thermal pants, also black and with no reflectors. Then the black polar fleece pullover and the black hoodie. Three pair of socks with the cheap gym shoes, which he had bought a size bigger so they would fit. Gloves, cap. He had no real concern that the police might figure out who his next victim would be. How could they guess what names were on the list? His e
-
mail was purely intended as a provocation. They had gotten a bit closer to him, but he still had a safe head start.

The rifle was already in the car. It would take him about half an hour to drive there; he’d already timed it a couple of times. The gas tank was full. Tonight the weather was supposed to be calm. Maybe a slight drizzle, but no wind. All over Europe, people would be celebrating the New Year in a few hours, shooting millions of euros worth of fireworks into the night sky. And that suited him just fine.

*   *   *

She turned left onto Oberhöchstädter Strasse as her smartphone beeped. With one hand on the steering wheel, Karoline opened the e-mail that had just arrived. It was from Konstantin Faber and was exceedingly unfriendly.

Hello, Ms. Albrecht, why did you feel justified in passing along to third parties the information that I entrusted to you? The police called me today and accused me of forwarding one of the obituaries, because Friedrich Gehrke, the father of Victim No. 3, has committed suicide, and the obituary was found at the scene.

She heard a loud honking and saw that she had drifted over the line into the oncoming traffic. She whipped the wheel to the right, then put on her left-turn signal so she could turn off onto Füllerstrasse at the stoplight. A wave of nausea came over her. What had she done now? Fritz Gehrke had killed himself? That couldn’t be true! And she was to blame because she’d given him that obituary. But he’d seemed so levelheaded. He even seemed grateful to her because now he understood why his son had had to die. The left-turn signal turned green, and Karoline stepped on the gas. Her thoughts were racing. She drove along the road that led to the B 455, wondering whether to bother the inspector at eight o’clock on New Year’s Eve. What had she done with his business card? She rummaged through her purse on the passenger seat, then dumped everything out and flicked on the ceiling light. There it was. No, that was the card from the mortuary. But she did have … Something rushed through the beam of the headlights, and Karoline was shocked to see that she was driving too fast, way too fast. She hit the brakes hard, and the Porsche went into a skid on the rainy roadway. Tires squealing, the car went into a curve and she whipped the wheel sharply to the right. The rear end skidded out and she felt a dull thud as the rear axle struck the curb of Waldparkplatz.