by Nele Neuhaus
“It looks like … hmm … like two letters. Old Gothic letters. An … A and a B, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re right,” said Kirchhoff, taking the magnifying glass from him.
“What does it mean?” Bodenstein asked.
“I’ll resign if it turns out I’m wrong,” Kirchhoff replied. “It’s incredible, because Goldberg was a Jew.”
Bodenstein didn’t understand what was agitating the ME.
“Don’t keep me on tenterhooks,” he said impatiently. “What’s so extraordinary about a tattoo?”
Kirchhoff peered at Bodenstein over the tops of his half-moon glasses.
“This,” he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “is a blood-type tattoo, like the members of the Waffen-SS had. Twenty centimeters above the elbow on the inside of the upper left arm. Because this tattoo was a clear identifying mark, many former SS men tried to get rid of it after the war. This man did, too.”
He took a deep breath and began to circle the autopsy table.
“Normally,” Kirchhoff expounded, as if in a first-semester lecture in the auditorium, “tattoos are made by inserting a needle into the center layer of the skin, the dermis. In this case, the color has penetrated into the subcutis. Superficially, only a bluish scar was visible, but now, after the epidermis had been removed, the tattoo can again be seen clearly. Blood type AB.”
Bodenstein stared at Goldberg’s corpse, which lay with its chest opened on the dissection table. He hardly dared think what Kirchhoff’s incredible revelation might mean or what consequences it might have.
“If you didn’t know who this was on your table,” he said slowly, “what would you surmise?”
Kirchhoff stopped in his tracks.
“That the man in his younger days must have been a member of the SS. And probably from the very beginning. Later, the tattoos were done in roman letters, not in Old German script.”
“Couldn’t it be a matter of some other harmless tattoo that over the years somehow … hmm … changed?” Bodenstein asked, although he had no real faith in this theory. Kirchhoff almost never made a mistake; at least Bodenstein couldn’t remember a single occasion when the pathologist had had to revise his opinion.
“No. Especially not in this location.” Kirchhoff wasn’t offended by Bodenstein’s skepticism. He was just as aware of the implications of his discovery as everyone else present. “I’ve seen this sort of tattoo on the table before, once in South America and several times here in Germany. For me, there is no doubt.”
* * *
It was 5:30 when Pia opened the front door to her house and took off her muddy shoes on the enclosed porch. She had fed the horses and dogs in record time and was in a hurry to get into the bathroom to take a shower and wash her hair. Unlike her boss, she wasn’t upset about Nierhoff’s instructions not to start any investigations in the Goldberg case. She had been afraid that she might have to cancel her date with Christoph tonight, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She had been separated from Henning for a year and a half now. The earnings from her stock portfolio had made it possible for her to buy the Birkenhof farm in Unterliederbach, and return to her profession in the criminal police. The icing on the cake was without a doubt Christoph Sander. They’d met ten months ago at a homicide scene at the Opel Zoo in Kronberg. The glance from his dark brown eyes had struck like a bolt of lightning. She was so used to finding a rational explanation for everything in her life that she was deeply confused by the attraction that this man had exerted on her at first sight. For the past eight months, she and Christoph had been … well, what were they? Lovers? Friends? A couple? He often spent the night with her. She went in and out of his house and got along well with his three grown daughters, but they hadn’t really shared much daily life yet. She still found it exciting just to look at him, be with him, and sleep with him.
Pia caught her reflection in the mirror, foolishly grinning. She turned on the shower and waited impatiently for the water to get warm. Christoph was mercurial and passionate in everything he did. Even though he was sometimes impatient and quick-tempered, he was never hurtful. Not like Henning, who was a real connoisseur when it came to poking around in open wounds. After sixteen years at the side of an introverted genius like Henning, who could effortlessly go for days without saying a word, who didn’t like pets, children, or spontaneity, Pia was constantly fascinated by Christoph’s straightforward nature. Since she’d gotten to know him, she had developed a whole new self-confidence. He loved her the way she was, even bleary-eyed and without makeup, in stable gear and rubber boots; he wasn’t bothered by a pimple or a couple of extra pounds on her ribs. And besides that, he possessed truly remarkable qualities as a lover, which, unbelievably enough, he had withheld from any other woman in the fifteen years since his wife had died. Pia still got palpitations when she recalled that evening in the deserted zoo, when he had confessed that he was attracted to her.
Tonight would be the first time she would be going out with him to a public function. There was going to be a gala reception at the Frankfurt Zoo as a benefit for the construction of the new ape house. All week long, Pia had been thinking about what to wear. The few clothes that had made the transition from her marriage to Henning into her new life were all size ten and, to her horror, no longer fit her properly. She had no desire to suck in her stomach all evening, full of anxiety that some seam or zipper might burst the next time she made a careless move. That’s why she’d squandered two evenings and a Saturday morning in the Main-Taunus shopping center and at the Zeil galleria in downtown Frankfurt looking for a suitable dress. But it was obvious that the stores were all geared to anorexic women. She had searched for a salesperson her own age who might have some sympathy for her problem areas, but to no avail: All the employees seemed to be exotic beauties who had hardly outgrown their teenage years and wore size double zero. They viewed with indifference or even pity her attempts to squeeze herself into various evening attire, sweating in cramped dressing rooms. She had found something at H&M, only to learn, to her chagrin, that she was in the maternity department. At last she’d had enough, and knowing that Christoph liked her the way she was, she’d decided on a little black dress in size fourteen. She’d rewarded herself for all the sweat-inducing fittings with a supersized meal at McDonald’s, including a McFlurry with M&M’s on top for dessert.
* * *
When Bodenstein got home that evening, he found that his family had gone out, and only the dog was there to give him an enthusiastic welcome. Had Cosima told him that she was going out? On the kitchen table he found a note. Discussion about New Guinea at the Merlin. Took Sophia along. See you later. Bodenstein sighed. In the past year, Cosima had had to give up a long-planned film expedition to the rain forests of New Guinea because of her pregnancy. He had secretly hoped that after Sophia was born she wouldn’t be interested in adventurous trips anymore, but obviously he’d been mistaken. He found cheese and an opened bottle of ’98 Château La Tour Blanche in the fridge. He made himself an open-faced sandwich, poured himself a glass of red wine, and went into his workroom, followed by his eternally hungry dog. Ostermann could probably have found the information he needed from the Internet ten times faster, but Bodenstein wanted to follow Nierhoff’s instructions and not involve any colleagues in his investigation of David Goldberg.
Bodenstein opened his laptop, inserted a CD by Sol Gabetta, the Argentine-French cellist, and sipped at his wine, which was still a little too cold. As he listened to the sounds of Tchaikovsky and Chopin, he clicked through dozens of Web sites, going through newspaper archives and jotting down anything worth knowing about the man who had been shot to death last night.
David Goldberg had been born in 1915 in Angerburg, in what was then East Prussia, the son of the grocery wholesaler Samuel Goldberg and his wife, Rebecca. He graduated from secondary school in 1933, and then all traces of him vanished until the year 1947. In a brief biography, it was mentioned that after the liberation o
f Auschwitz in 1945, he had emigrated via Sweden and then England to the United States. In New York, he had married Sarah Weinstein, the daughter of a respected banker of German extraction.
But Goldberg had not joined the banking firm. Instead, he’d made his career with the American defense giant, Lockheed Martin. By 1959, he was already director of strategic planning. As a member of the board of the powerful National Rifle Association, he’d been one of the most important gun lobbyists in Washington, and several presidents had held him in high esteem as an adviser. Despite all the atrocities that his family had suffered under the Third Reich, he had always felt strong ties to Germany and cultivated numerous close contacts, especially in Frankfurt.
Bodenstein sighed and leaned back in his chair. Who could possibly have a reason for fatally shooting a ninety-two-year-old man?
He ruled out robbery as a motive. The housekeeper had not noticed anything missing, and besides, Goldberg had kept no really valuable items in his house. The surveillance system in the house was out of order, and the answering machine that had come with the telephone seemed never to have been used.
* * *
At the zoo reception, the usual Frankfurt mixture of the old moneyed aristocracy and the brash nouveau riche had assembled, interspersed with celebrities from television, sports, and the demimonde who had generously contributed to giving the apes a new roof over their heads. The superb caterers had made sure that nothing was lacking for the discriminating palates of the guests, and the champagne flowed in rivers. On Christoph’s arm, Pia made her way through the crowd. In her little black dress, she felt acceptably attired. She had also found a flat iron in one of the many moving boxes not yet unpacked and had used it to coax her unruly locks into a proper hairdo. Then she spent a good half hour on her makeup to create the effect that she wasn’t wearing any at all. Christoph, who knew her only in jeans and a ponytail, was deeply impressed.
“My God,” he’d said when she opened the front door. “Who are you? And what are you doing in Pia’s house?”
Then he took her in his arms and kissed her long and tenderly—while taking care not to ruin her look. As a single father of three teenage daughters, he was well schooled in how to deal with female creatures and made astonishingly few mistakes. For example, he knew what catastrophic effect a single offhand remark about a girl’s figure, hairdo, or clothing could have; very wisely, he refrained from commenting. His compliments tonight were not tactical, but sincere. Pia felt more attractive under his appreciative gaze than any of those skinny twenty-year-olds.
“I hardly know anyone here,” Christoph whispered to her. “Who are all these people? What do they have to do with the zoo?”
“This is Frankfurt high society, and those who think they need to belong to it,” Pia explained. “In any case, they’re going to leave a pile of money here, and that’s no doubt the whole point and purpose of the function. Over there by the table in the corner are some of the truly rich and powerful of the city.”
As if on cue, at that instant one of the women at the table craned her neck and waved at Pia. She had to be forty, and with her tiny figure she could effortlessly find a suitable dress in any boutique in town. Pia gave her a friendly smile and waved back. Then she took a closer look.
“I’m impressed.” Christoph grinned in amusement. “The rich and powerful know you. Who’s that?”
“I don’t believe it.” Pia let go of Christoph’s arm. The petite dark-haired woman made her way through the crowd and stopped in front of them.
“Püppi!” the woman cried, and threw her arms wide, grinning.
“Frosch! Is that really you? What are you doing in Frankfurt?” Pia asked, then she gave the woman a big hug. Many years ago, Miriam Horowitz had been Pia’s best friend. Together they had lived through some wild and fun times, but then they’d lost touch.
“Nobody’s called me Frosch in years,” the woman said with a laugh. “Man, is this ever a surprise!”
The two women looked each other up and down, curious and overjoyed. Pia could see that her friend had hardly changed—except for a few wrinkles here and there.
“Christoph, this is Miriam, my best friend from school,” said Pia, remembering her manners. “Miri, this is Christoph Sander.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Miriam extended her hand to him and smiled. They chatted for a while; then Christoph left the two alone and went to join some of his colleagues.
* * *
When Elard Kaltensee woke up, he felt completely bewildered, and it took him a few seconds to figure out where he was. He hated falling asleep in the afternoon; it threw off his biorhythms, but it was the only chance he had to catch up on his sleep. His throat hurt, and he had a terrible taste in his mouth. For years, he’d rarely had any dreams, and when he did, he couldn’t remember them. But a while back he’d started having ghastly, oppressive nightmares that he could avoid only by taking sleeping pills. His daily dose of lorazepam was now up to two milligrams, and if he forgot to take the pills even once, then the nightmares descended on him—vague, inexplicable memories of fear, of voices and bloodcurdling laughter, which left him bathed in sweat and jolted him awake, his heart racing. Sometimes the nightmares would cast a shadow over the whole next day. Dazed, Elard sat down and massaged his throbbing temples. Maybe everything would get better when he could finally go back to his daily agenda. He was relieved that with the family celebration the last of the countless official, semiofficial, and private festivities in honor of his mother’s eighty-fifth birthday were finally over. Naturally, the rest of the family had expected that he would take care of everything, simply because he, too, lived at Mühlenhof, and in their eyes he had little else to do. Only now did it dawn on him what had happened. The news of Goldberg’s death had put an abrupt end to the celebration at Schloss Bodenstein.
Elard Kaltensee smiled bitterly and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Goldberg had enjoyed a remarkable ninety-two summers, the old son of a bitch. No one could claim that he’d been yanked out of the middle of his life. Elard tottered into the bathroom, undressed, and stepped in front of the mirror. He gave himself a critical look. Even at sixty-three, he was in pretty good shape. No potbelly, no spare tire, no baggy turkey neck. He let the tub fill up, tossed in a handful of bath salts, and lowered himself with a sigh into the fragrant hot water. Goldberg’s death didn’t shock him; actually, he was glad that it had brought the celebration to an early conclusion. He had immediately complied with his mother’s request to drive her home. When Siegbert and Jutta had shown up only seconds later at Mühlenhof, he had taken the opportunity to withdraw discreetly. He badly needed some peace and quiet so he could contemplate the events of the past day.
Elard Kaltensee closed his eyes and rewound his thoughts back to last night, seeing with a pounding heart the sequence of the events that were equally rousing and frightening unfold before his inner eye like a clip from a video. Over and over again. How could things have gone so far? All his life, he’d had to wrestle with difficulties of both a private and professional nature, but this seriously threatened to derail him. He was filled with concern because he simply didn’t understand what was going on inside him. He was losing control, and there was nobody he could talk to about his dilemma. How was he supposed to live with this secret? What would his mother, his sons, his daughters-in-law say if it ever came out? The door flew open. Elard gave a start in alarm and covered his nakedness with both hands.
“Good Lord, Mother,” he said angrily. “Can’t you ever knock?”
Then he noticed Vera’s devastated expression.
“Jossi didn’t just die,” she gasped, sinking down on the bench next to the bathtub. “He was shot!”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry.” Elard couldn’t come up with anything but this hackneyed phrase. Vera stared at him for a moment.
“How heartless you are,” she whispered in a trembling voice. Then she buried her face in her hands and began to sob quietly.
* * *
“Come on, we have to drink a toast to finding each other again!” Miriam pulled Pia toward the bar and ordered two glasses of champagne.
“Since when are you back in Frankfurt?” Pia asked. “The last I heard, you were living in Warsaw. That’s what your mother told me a couple of years ago when I ran into her.”
“Paris, Oxford, Warsaw, Washington, Tel Aviv, Berlin, Frankfurt,” Miriam rattled off with a laugh. “In every city, I met the love of my life and left him again. I guess I’m just not suited for a steady relationship. But tell me about yourself. What are you doing, anyway? Job, husband, kids?”
“After three semesters of studying law, I joined the police force,” said Pia.
“You’re kidding!” Miriam’s eyes widened. “How come?”
Pia hesitated. She still found it hard to talk about, even if Christoph thought it was the only way to work through the trauma she’d endured. For almost twenty years, she hadn’t told anyone about the worst experience of her life, not even Henning. She didn’t want to keep being reminded of her weakness or fear. But Miriam was more capable of empathy than Pia had thought, and all at once she turned serious. “What happened?”
“It was the summer after I graduated,” Pia said. “I met a man in France. He was nice. It was a summer flirtation. We had fun. After vacation, it was over for me, but, unfortunately, not for him. He started following me, terrorizing me with letters and phone calls. He stalked me everywhere. And then he broke into my apartment and raped me.”
Her voice was calm, but Miriam seemed to sense how much it cost Pia to talk about the matter so calmly and with apparent nonchalance.
“Oh my God,” she said softly, taking Pia’s hand. “That’s just horrible.”
“Yes, it was.” Pia gave a wry smile. “Somehow I must have thought that as a police officer I wouldn’t be so vulnerable. Now I’m in the Kripo, the criminal police, in the homicide division.”
“So what else have you done to deal with it?” Miriam asked.
