by Nele Neuhaus
Usually, she and Bodenstein shared impressions after an interview, discussing the answers, reactions, and behavior of the people they had questioned. But this time, Andreas Neff prevented any such exchange of ideas. He started talking as soon as he hit the backseat, dissecting every sentence spoken into its smallest components. He didn’t seem to take even a single breath.
“Good Lord, I can’t form one clear thought with all your babbling!” Pia finally yelled at him. “Are you a psychologist, too?”
“Never in my life has anyone called my observations and analyses ‘babbling,’ ” Neff replied, offended. “I have learned that things can best be brought into a cognitive perspective by exchanging opinions with one’s colleagues immediately following an interview.”
“Just imagine, we came to that realization years ago,” Pia snapped. “I would appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut for the next ten kilometers.”
Before Neff could say a word, the phone rang and Bodenstein pressed the speaker button, but when he saw the caller’s name on the display he took the call on his cell. He listened, grumbled agreement a couple of times, and ended the conversation without saying good-bye.
“Engel?” Pia asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Bad?”
“You could say that.”
“Because?”
“Pressure from IM.”
“The media, huh?”
“Yep.”
After working together for seven years, Pia and Bodenstein were like an old married couple, and they sometimes communicated in telegraphic style.
“I take it this rudimentary type of communication is intended to exclude me,” Neff grumbled in the backseat.
“Not in the least,” said Bodenstein, astonished at his insinuation. “Dr. Engel called to tell us that after all the media reports, the public is starting to panic, and the Ministry of the Interior is concerned. In plain speak, that means we’re getting pressure from above. Satisfied?”
“Hmm,” Neff grumbled.
Pia glanced at the clock in the dashboard. Four forty-three P.M. By now, Christoph must have left for the airport, and she wouldn’t see him again for three endless weeks.
“There’s certainly not much happening on the road today,” Bodenstein said. “Normally at this time on Fridays, we’d be sitting in a traffic jam forever.”
“You’re right,” said Pia. “You think it’s because of . . . ?”
“Afraid so,” Bodenstein said with a nod.
“It’s terrible the way the two of you massacre the syntax of our beautiful language,” Neff carped.
“For real?” Pia sounded surprised.
“Totally,” Bodenstein said with a grin.
And then they both laughed, although there was nothing really to laugh about.
The police had tried in vain to find witnesses in Oberursel, and Niederhöchstadt and to coax any information out of the victims’ acquaintances. They were feeling frustrated. All day long, they had gone from one house to another, knocking on doors, gleaning nothing but regretful denials and shrugs. Even on the hotline, not a single sensible tip had come in.
Professor Rudolf had never heard the name Ingeborg Rohleder, and likewise Renate Rohleder had no idea who Margarethe Rudolf was. The only similarities that seemed to exist between the two victims was that they were both women and each had a daughter.
The crime scene investigation in Oberursel had produced no leads, just like the one in Niederhöchstadt the day before.
“No traces of the projectiles, no cartridge casings, no footprints, and no clues about the perp, who remains a phantom,” Christian Kröger concluded his disappointingly brief report.
“Unfortunately, I have nothing more to add,” Bodenstein said. “Apparently, there were no striking warning signs such as threats, anonymous phone calls, or the like for either victim. It seems that we’re dealing with two rather hopeless cases, and we’ll have to wait for ‘Inspector Coincidence’ to check in. Or for the perp’s killing instinct to expose him.”
Silence descended on everyone seated at the table in the conference room.
“I don’t regard these cases as hopeless as the rest of you seem to do,” Andreas Neff piped up.
“Well, great,” Pia muttered, rolling her eyes when he stood up, straightened his tie, and buttoned his sport coat.
“For me,” Neff began, “a clear pattern is already emerging. The perpetrator is proceeding arbitrarily, true, but having made thorough plans. We must also assume that he is a very intelligent person who, although impulsive, has his impulsiveness well under control. He is no longer young, but no more than about thirty, because he must be able to run and climb well. The type of victim is also beginning to crystallize—women between sixty and seventy-five. And although a case analysis has little to do with psychology, but is based on criminology, I will venture the prognosis that the perpetrator is a man with a pronounced mother complex.”
He gave a self-satisfied smile and looked around the table expectantly.
“What are we supposed to do with that?” Ostermann whispered to Pia. “Maybe issue a bulletin: ‘Warning, all women over sixty! Don’t go outdoors and keep your blinds shut when you’re at home.’ ”
Pia just shook her head and made a face. She hoped that Dr. Engel, who was on the phone out in the hall, would soon notice what a pompous ass this guy was. Pia was listening with only half an ear, because she was eagerly awaiting a call from Christoph.
“Pardon me saying so,” Kröger replied, “but that’s utter nonsense. With the few clues we have, you can’t possibly work up a profile of the perp.”
“Maybe you can’t,” Neff snapped, still smiling. “But I can. From the FBI, I learned—”
“I was in the States for two years, and I learned a lot over there, too,” Kröger cut him off. “Above all, that you don’t rush to make prognoses before all the facts are on the table. You can only evaluate the whole picture once every single detail is considered.”
“And that’s exactly why I’ve been called in,” said Neff genially. “To keep the big picture in mind, because people like you often get rashly tied up in details.”
Kröger’s face turned red. Surly muttering was heard from the other officers. Even though Kröger sometimes acted like a prima donna, his skills were indisputable. His meticulous work methods and his keen perceptions had often contributed to solving a case.
“So, that’s enough of that,” Bodenstein intervened when he felt that Neff had gone too far. “Inspector Neff, I’d like to have a word with you in my office. The rest of you can go. Have a pleasant evening. But please remain available. Tomorrow morning at ten, we’ll meet for our next discussion.”
“Oowee-oowee,” Kai Ostermann whispered. “Engel’s secret weapon is going to be on Christian’s shit list.”
“Mine, too,” said Pia. “A shame he has to put on that macho act. I really think that a profiler could help us a lot.”
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Kathrin Fachinger looked as though she’d just been snatched from the jaws of death. Her thin face was pale and she had dark circles under her eyes. She dragged herself into the conference room and dropped into a chair.
“Watch out that the sniper doesn’t shoot you down,” Kröger said cynically. “You look like your own grandmother.”
“Why don’t you take a look in the mirror. You’re not as fresh as the morning dew either,” Kathrin countered, sounding annoyed. “I put in extra hours to help you out, and the first thing you do is insult me.”
“Christian didn’t mean it personally.” Ostermann grinned. “But Engel’s secret weapon posed a theory yesterday.”
“Who?” Kathrin asked, and sneezed.
“The FBI genius from Wiesbaden,” Kröger said in a disparaging tone. “He knows everything, does everything better, and he claims that he pretty much solved the D.C. sniper case all by himself.”
“Andreas Neff, a case analyst from state police headquarters. He’s
supposed to support our investigation,” Pia explained. “He analyzed both cases and is firmly convinced that the perp is targeting elderly women.”
“Great. Thanks a lot!” said Kathrin, her eyes shooting daggers at Kröger.
She was the youngest team member in K-11. With her smooth, girlish face, angular glasses, and petite figure, at first glance, she looked much younger than twenty-six. But her nonthreatening appearance was misleading. Kathrin was self-possessed and fearless. A few years back, she’d been the one who resolutely read Frank Behnke the riot act and finally made sure that he was suspended from the force.
“What kind of cop is that?” she asked.
“You’ll meet him in a minute,” replied Kai, who was leaning on the windowsill and looking down at the parking lot. “The poor man’s Dale Cooper is heading this way.”
“Let me give you a quick rundown of the meager results from the ballistics tests,” said Kröger, paging through the reports he’d brought with him. “After examining the two bullets, it’s clear that they were fired from the same weapon. Unfortunately, the weapon has never been registered, so we don’t have it in our system.”
“So it’s a sure thing that it was the same perp in both incidents,” Ostermann remarked.
“The one with the mother complex,” Pia added.
“Grandmother complex.” Kröger winked at her and then left the conference room.
Pia’s thoughts wandered to Christoph. Yesterday before his flight took off, they had talked on the phone. By now, he must have landed in Quito. There was a six-hour time difference from Frankfurt, so it must be four in the morning there. Too early to call. But she could send him a text and tell him how much she already missed him. After their phone call yesterday, she had unpacked her bags and gone to bed early. Amazingly, she’d slept soundly for the first time in a week. Maybe it was a sign that her decision to stay here was the right one.
Andreas Neff walked into the conference room. Dark suit, white shirt, black tie. His short dark hair was perfectly combed, his black shoes polished to a high shine. He carried a cup of coffee, ostensibly from the break room at the end of the hall.
“Good morning!” he shouted energetically. His eyes looked past Kai and Pia to Kathrin. “Ah, and who have we here?”
“Kathrin Fachinger,” she croaked. “Don’t come any closer if you don’t want to catch this cold.”
“My name is Neff. I’m from State Kripo headquarters.” He briefly looked her over and lost interest. “Are you the secretary of this department?”
Kathrin’s eyes narrowed.
Kai exchanged a glance with Pia and turned away, trying hard not to laugh. Some people could really put their foot in it.
“So,” said Neff, turning to Ostermann. “Last night, I thought of something else. Over Christmas, of course, nothing else is going to happen. Our perpetrator has strong social ties, as well as—”
“You have my cup,” Kathrin interrupted him.
“—a family, and he may have even left the area.” Neff paid no attention to her. He walked slowly around the table and took another gulp of coffee. “The timing of the murders is a clear indication. It’s significant that he struck before the holidays.”
Kathrin Fachinger got up, stepped in front of him, and pointed at the cup in his hand.
“That’s my cup,” she repeated emphatically. “It says so right there, see? ‘Kathrin’s Cup.’ ”
“Ah, yes.” Neff frowned. “The others were dirty. You ought to wash them more carefully. A little detergent works wonders.”
“Hand over the cup,” Kathrin countered angrily. “Next time, bring your own.”
“One should always try to get along with secretaries.” Neff smiled and handed her the porcelain mug. “Otherwise, the coffee won’t taste very good.”
“I am not the secretary,” Kathrin snapped. “I am Detective Superintendent Kathrin Fachinger.”
Andreas Neff was neither embarrassed nor did he apologize.
“All right, then. Where did I leave off? Oh yes. Back to the perpetrator’s profile.”
“Given the sparse information available, how did you come to such a conclusion?” Kai Ostermann asked.
“We have our methods,” said Neff superciliously. “And naturally, a good deal of experience.”
The telephone in the middle of the table rang. Pia, who was sitting closest, leaned over and grabbed the receiver. She listened for ten seconds. “On our way,” she said, and hung up.
“What is it?” Kathrin asked.
“Shots fired in the Main-Taunus shopping center,” said Pia, jumping up. “Kai, please try to reach the boss. Kathrin and I are going over there now.”
“I’ll come along,” said Neff, eyes glistening.
“No, you won’t.” Pia grabbed her jacket and backpack. “If we need you, we’ll let you know.”
“What am I supposed to do here?”
“Keep working on the big picture,” Pia suggested. “That’s why we called you in.”
“I’ll help you, Papa,” Sophia told him, dragging the little plastic footstool from the bathroom to the kitchen. “I know what you need to put in chicken soup.”
She placed the stool next to him.
“Really?” Oliver von Bodenstein was somewhere else entirely in his mind and forced himself to smile. “And what would that be?”
“Well, first water. Then salt, pepper, and soup greens,” the girl ticked off on her fingers, leaning against the counter. “And chicken meat. But from an organic chicken, not a soup chicken. Oh yeah, and mushrooms. I love mushrooms.”
“Sounds good,” said Oliver. “That’s exactly how we’ll make it.”
“I want to cut up the carrots,” Sophia demanded, pulling out a drawer and taking out the biggest knife.
“Maybe you’d do better washing the mushrooms.” Oliver took the gigantic chef’s knife away from her.
“That’s boring. Mama always lets me cut up the carrots.” The little girl frowned and began fidgeting.
“Sorry,” said Oliver.
“But I know how to do it!”
“Mushrooms or nothing.”
“Then nothing.” Sophia jumped down from the stool and gave it a kick that sent it flying across the kitchen. She crossed her arms and sat down on the floor, sulking demonstratively.
Oliver decided to let her pout. The weekends with his younger daughter were getting more exhausting every time. From morning to night, she demanded his attention. She was intensely jealous of Rosalie and Inka, and was always acting up. Cosima apparently allowed her to do almost anything as long as she could get some sleep. Just as it was back when Lorenz and Rosalie were small. He had clearly had more to do with the children on a daily basis than she ever did, since she was always at the office or going off on business trips. Whenever she was at home for a while, it was hard for her to find her place, because the kids were used to a life without their mother. To make herself popular with them, she had spoiled both of them and allowed them to do all the things that Oliver usually prohibited. Soon the kids were taking full advantage of their mother and showing her no respect. Cosima had tried to be strict, but she was never consistent about it. During this whole period, Oliver had mediated any disputes and made sure that the rules were enforced.
These tactics had failed with Sophia, as was clearly noticeable from her behavior. The six-year-old had never learned to go without or to follow the rules. She easily wrapped her grandparents and babysitters around her little finger, but her charm didn’t cut any ice with her father. He recognized that a big problem was developing behind that pretty little face of hers, and he asked himself what he should do about it. Was it because of Sophia that Inka had still not moved in with him as they had planned? She hadn’t come right out and said so, but for quite a while now, Inka had stayed away on daddy-weekends. Oliver felt left in the lurch. When he had asked her about it, she replied that she got no attention from him anyway when Sophia was there, so she might as well stay home or work at
the horse clinic.
It hadn’t come to any open quarrel between them—it never got that far with Inka—but the essence of the conversation was an unspoken “her or me,” which left Oliver equally disappointed and relieved because Inka had made an important decision for him. Maybe it was cowardly of him; maybe it was selfish or merely a matter of convenience. But he knew in his heart of hearts that he had neither the desire nor the energy to make compromises that would extend for years into the future by bringing up a third child.
Cosima had taken him by surprise when she waited until late in the pregnancy and presented him with a fait accompli. That was the beginning of the end. The baby hadn’t been enough to satisfy her need to feel young again. She had thrown herself into an affair, taking no heed of her family. With that, she had destroyed everything. Not only her marriage, but also the opportunity for her younger daughter to grow up with both a mother and a father in the same house. Oliver asked himself over and over why he had to suffer the consequences of this situation when it was Cosima, in her boundless selfishness, who had brought it on. The relationship with the Russian adventurer had quickly crumbled. The man had been looking for a spirited lover, not an exhausted mother with a toddler.
When Oliver bought the house in Ruppertshain, he’d also been thinking of Sophia and that it would be easier for him to have her stay with him, not just on specified weekends, but also in an emergency. Yet he was not prepared to rearrange his whole life because of his daughter, or to jeopardize his relationship with Inka.
His cell phone rang as soon as he sat down at the table and had eaten a bowl of soup. It was Pia, and her voice sounded strained.
“We’re on our way to the Main-Taunus Center,” she said. “Shots have been fired, and the whole place is probably in chaos. We haven’t heard yet whether there are any dead or injured.”
