I Am Your Judge: A Novel (55 page)

“Kirsten Stadler’s husband was paid a large sum of money by Fritz Gehrke to keep quiet, and the young doctor at the hospital was bullied into silence,” Pia went on. “The whole matter seemed settled until Kirsten Stadler’s daughter began to make inquiries. She spoke with Professor Hausmann, Professor Rudolf, Dr. Janning, Dr. Furtwängler, and with you. And she noted the date and time of each conversation.”

Burmeister turned up the collar of his jacket because of the blasts of cold air coming through the automatic doors.

“She gave you an ultimatum with a deadline of Christmas. That was when she was going to turn over the whole story to the press, if all of you refused to admit to what had gone wrong back then. Are you aware that Helen Stadler took her own life in September?”

“I had not heard about that,” said Burmeister.

Pia considered this statement a lie, but decided not to comment.

“What did Helen Stadler want from you?” she asked.

Burmeister took a step to the side and scratched his head.

“She leveled several vague accusations at me,” he said. “The whole matter had been cleared up long ago, but she didn’t want to accept that. She was quite confused. After she had called me at least thirty times, I asked her to leave me alone, or I would report her for harassment.”

“Did she threaten you?” Pia asked.

“Yes, but I didn’t take it seriously.” He made a dismissive gesture, but his nonchalance was clearly feigned. “As I said, this matter had been resolved, a settlement had been reached, and the family received a generous payment.”

Pia doubted that he in fact took such a casual view of the matter. Burmeister was an ambitious man and the respected chief physician of Transplantation Surgery at the UCF. He also had a remarkable reputation as a surgeon. For him, everything was at risk should he be revealed to have acted unethically or with intent to deceive: he could lose his job, his future, his own good reputation, and ruin the reputation of the hospital itself. Helen’s curiosity had no doubt been a threat to his very existence. A man like him, with such a great need for admiration, could not live without an excellent reputation and the recognition of his peers.

“Now you know the story and why we’re concerned,” Pia said in conclusion. “We can offer you our protection, but we can’t force you to accept it.”

“Thank you for the heads-up and your candor.” Burmeister managed to force a smile. “I’ll think about all this, then get back to you.”

“Oh, and one more thing.” She had purposely left this part till last. “Your former superior, Professor Rudolf, is at present in police custody under suspicion of negligence in the death of Kirsten Stadler. We have also spoken with Drs. Hausmann and Janning, and Mr. Gehrke.”

“Indeed? And why is that?” Burmeister’s expression turned steely. But underneath was a flicker of fear.

“I think you know why,” replied Pia. “Cancel your appointment and come with me to the station. Perhaps you can help us.”

That last sentence was a mistake. Pia saw the steel and worry in Burmeister’s eyes change to relief. Whatever it was the doctor was afraid of, she had clearly revealed that she had no idea what it might be. Damn!

“Thanks for your offer, but I think I can take care of myself just fine.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go. It was a long flight, and I have to be at the clinic by ten.”

Pia shrugged and handed him her card, which he ignored with a disparaging smile.

“As you wish,” she said. “It’s your life.”

*   *   *

Kirchhoff had spoken to Burmeister for almost twenty minutes. He had no idea what they discussed, but she seemed annoyed. She shrugged, offered him her card, which he did not take, and then walked off with the two uniformed officers. He was relieved. Plan B would have been much more complicated; now he didn’t have to alter anything or improvise. Burmeister was an arrogant idiot and believed he was untouchable. And that’s exactly what he’d been hoping for.

Now he had to act fast. He grabbed his cell at the same moment Burmeister did and left the building. Burmeister followed him only a moment later, talking quietly on his phone with a strained expression.

He stopped outside, went a little farther, looked around. He was looking for a taxi, and here came one. It stopped next to Burmeister. The driver popped the trunk from inside and then got out to load the suitcase. Burmeister got into the right rear seat.

He couldn’t repress a satisfied smile. Despite the warning that Kirchhoff had most definitely given the doctor, the mouse had arrogantly stepped right into the trap. He walked around the taxi, opened the left rear door, and climbed in next to Burmeister.

*   *   *

“I have no alibi,” Thomsen repeated, still refusing to have a lawyer present. “I’ve already told you that.”

“And I’ve told you that it’s looking bad for you,” replied Bodenstein. The most contradictory feelings were raging inside him. Less than half an hour ago, Thomsen seemed only seconds away from confessing, but now he’d changed his tune. They needed to get a confession from him, because even though the chain of evidence against Thomsen had almost no holes, Bodenstein still lacked the positive proof that would dispel any remaining doubts.

“You have no evidence that’ll stand up in court,” replied Thomsen with a nonchalance that irritated Bodenstein because it was true. His colleagues on the night shift told him that Thomsen had stretched out on the cot in the evening and fallen into a deep, calm sleep only minutes later. Nobody who was guilty ever managed to do that. But as a former member of an elite police unit, Thomsen had received top-flight training. He knew exactly how to behave to fool his opponent. Could he possibly be a psychopath, someone who had no conscience and felt no guilt?

“Oh, yes, we do, we have plenty!” Bodenstein said, sweeping aside his own doubts. “You are an excellent marksman. And we have proof that you spied on Ingeborg Rohleder, Maximilian Gehrke, Hürmet Schwarzer, Margarethe Rudolf, Ralf Hesse, Simon Burmeister, and Jens-Uwe Hartig over a period of several months. We found all the documents in the paper recycling bin at the firm where you work. You disposed of them there when you brought back the dog. The car belonging to Mr. Mieger, whose house you were using as a hideout, was seen in the vicinity of one of the crime scenes. And it was also seen in a garage in Sossenheim that you had rented.”

“That’s not true.” Thomsen shook his head. “I didn’t rent a garage or use the car.”

“In the garage, we found an empty water bottle with a perfect set of your fingerprints,” Bodenstein went on. “How do you explain that?”

“I can’t,” replied Thomsen honestly. “But I had no reason to rent a garage. And I’ve never been in Sossenheim in my life.”

“You planned this whole action way in advance.” Bodenstein chose not to comment on Thomsen’s objections. “You used Wolfgang Mieger’s car for transportation to the crime scenes. But you made a mistake with the garage. That is going to be your downfall.”

“I told you once already that Helen was tailing all those people,” Thomsen said. He sat calmly on his chair, his hands resting in his lap, and returned every look with no excessive blinking or sweating. “It went on for months.”

“Yes, we know that. But she didn’t do it alone. She had help from you. And after her death, you turned her plan for revenge into reality. You have no alibi for any of the times of the shootings. On the evening when Mrs. Rudolf was shot, your shift ended at six
P.M
. When Maximilian Gehrke and Ingeborg Rohleder were shot, you worked the night shift. We’ve already checked out everything. And you locked us in your furnace room so you could destroy all the documents in peace and quiet.”

Bodenstein felt his frustration growing. They were going around in circles, repeating almost word for word what they had already said several times.

“How do you know Mr. Mieger?”

Bodenstein already knew what Thomsen would answer, but he let him repeat it. Maybe he’d eventually get tired, forget a detail, and give himself away.

“I don’t know him personally. He was a colleague of Helen’s father. They used to work for a structural engineering firm, doing large-scale projects abroad. Stadler and Helen took care of him when his wife died and he developed dementia. I remembered his house when I locked you in the cellar. At first I wanted to go to the Winklers’ house, but I thought you’d probably look there first.”

“Which brings us back to the question of why you disappeared. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

“It was a knee-jerk reaction,” said Thomsen, the same answer he’d given three times before.

“Where did you get the key?”

“Helen told me that she had hidden a house key under the birdbath next to the garden shed.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand the gravity of your situation, Mr. Thomsen,” Bodenstein now interrupted the cycle of repetitions. “We suspect you of having murdered five individuals! The evidence against you is overwhelming.”

Thomsen merely shrugged.

“Why would I do that? Why would I shoot anyone?”

“To carry out Helen’s plan.”

“Bullshit.” Mark Thomsen shook his head. “My life is screwed up enough. I’m not going to risk spending the rest of my days in the slammer by translating the fantasies of a mentally unstable young woman into reality.”

“Where is Mr. Mieger’s car?”

“No idea. I didn’t even know he owned one.”

“You were seen with that car,” Bodenstein reminded him, well aware that it was only a supposition.

“Impossible. The witnesses must have seen somebody else. Jens-Uwe, for instance. God knows he had more reason to carry out Helen’s plan than I did.”

“Helen wanted to break up with him,” said Bodenstein. “She was afraid of him, and you knew that, because you helped her kick the pills that Hartig had been giving her.”

No reply.

“Why did Hartig give Helen those pills? Why was he controlling her every step?”

“You’re going to have to ask him that.”

“Come on, Mr. Thomsen!” Bodenstein exhorted him. “Why don’t you give up and tell us the truth? Why did you flee and hide out in Mieger’s house?”

Thomsen sighed.

“I couldn’t risk landing in investigative custody before I had done something that required urgent attention,” he said, changing the choreography of the interrogation. “At first I thought you were just going to ask me a few questions and then leave, but then I realized you were going to arrest me. So it was really a knee-jerk reaction on my part.”

“What did you have to get done?” Bodenstein asked insistently. “And where?”

Mark Thomsen rubbed his unshaven cheek.

“It had absolutely nothing to do with this whole affair. When you and your colleague were at my place, I got a phone call. You may remember that.”

Bodenstein nodded. He had a vivid memory of the growling dog and the change that had come over Thomsen after that call.

“The call was from Holland. I had to go to Eindhoven immediately.”

“What for?”

“To prevent a messy business.” Thomsen returned Bodenstein’s look without flinching. “I also wanted to talk to Burmeister as soon as he returned from vacation. But now the police can do that.”

“What did you want to talk to him about?”

Thomsen stared at him for a long time, and Bodenstein’s hope of wringing a confession out of the man melted away. Only now did he comprehend how firmly convinced of success he had been.

“I recently found out that Burmeister was in Kelsterbach on September sixteenth,” Thomsen said once Bodenstein no longer seemed to be expecting a reply. “His car was caught by a flash cam that day on Kirschenallee. Only a hundred meters farther on was where Helen supposedly fell from the pedestrian bridge onto the commuter train tracks.”

Bodenstein was speechless for a few seconds.

“How did you find that out?”

“I may have been out on my ass for a while, but I do still have some connections on the force.” Thomsen shrugged. “The last thing I want is to help the police. I certainly haven’t forgotten getting the boot. After twenty years of risking my life a hundred times, the bastards at internal investigations twisted my words and made me the scapegoat. But I still don’t want to see criminals get off scot free, and that’s why I did a little snooping. I’m fairly sure that the sleazy Dr. Burmeister killed Helen because she found out something that would have destroyed his reputation.”

*   *   *

It was nine o’clock when Bodenstein left the interrogation room and stepped next door. That was where Pia, Kai, Neff, and Kim had been following his conversation with Thomsen through the one-way mirror.

“He’s not the sniper,” Bodenstein said gloomily as he sat down on a vacant chair and stared through the window at Thomsen. “He’s just a frustrated ex-cop who has a big grudge against us. Damn it, we got the wrong guy.”

Nobody contradicted him.

“We’ll have to check whether he’s telling the truth about Burmeister’s car.”

“I’ll do it,” said Kai.

“How’d it go at the airport?”

“Burmeister refused any protection,” said Pia. “I kept trying to convince him, but he doesn’t want our help. He had an appointment at ten o’clock at the clinic that was more important to him.”

“All right, then. All we can do is warn him,” said Bodenstein. “What about Dirk Stadler? Where’s he?”

“He hasn’t left his house since last night,” said Neff. “We’ve had him staked out round the clock since you and Ms. Kirchhoff were there.”

Oppressive silence. Instead of nearing their goal, they were at another dead end.

“I can’t think any more until I get something to eat.” Pia stood up. “I’ll run over to the bakery. Want anything?”

They all gave her their orders, except for Kim, who was busy on her smartphone and smiling dreamily.

“Want to come along, Kim?”

Hearing her name gave her a start, and Pia was amused to see her expression. No matter what happened in the world, life went on, and love found a way even amid murder and manslaughter.

“So, tell me where you were on New Year’s Eve,” said Pia when they were sitting in the car a few minutes later. “I don’t have the energy for another interrogation, so don’t keep me guessing.”