by Nele Neuhaus
“Was Herrmann Schneider involved with these deals?” asked Pia. Like pieces in a puzzle, little by little the whole story seemed to be fitting together with her own theories. Everything had a meaning that would become clear as the total picture emerged.
Ostermann nodded. “Yes. He was a consultant to KMF Suisse.”
“What’s happening with the company shares now?” Bodenstein inquired.
“That’s the thing.” Ostermann straightened up. “Here it comes: According to the shareholder agreement, no shares could be bequeathed or sold. On the death of the shareholder, they pass to the executive shareholder. And this clause could be a real motive for four of our murders.”
“How do you mean?” asked Bodenstein.
“According to the estimates, KMF is worth about four hundred million euros,” said Ostermann. “There is an offer from a British leveraged-buyout firm for more than twice the present market value. You can do the math and see what that means for the individual shares.”
Bodenstein and Pia exchanged a brief glance.
“The CEO of KMF is Siegbert Kaltensee,” said Bodenstein. “So he acquires the shares of Goldberg, Schneider, Watkowiak, and Mrs. Frings upon their death.”
“Apparently, that’s right.” Ostermann set his notebook on the desk and gave his colleagues a triumphant look. “And if eight hundred million euros isn’t a motive for murder, then I can’t imagine what is.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
“I agree with you,” remarked Bodenstein drily.
“Siegbert Kaltensee could neither sell nor take the firm public before that because he didn’t hold a majority share. Now things look completely different. If my calculations are correct, he holds fifty-five percent of the stock, including his own twenty.”
“Even ten percent of eight hundred million is nothing to sneeze at,” mused Pia. “Any one of them could have benefited if Siegbert acquired the controlling shares and then converted their own shares into some serious dough.”
“I just don’t think that’s the motive for the murders,” said Bodenstein, drinking the rest of his coffee and shaking his head. “I think it’s much more likely that our perp—without intending it—has done the Kaltensees a big favor.”
Pia had taken the files from Ostermann’s desk and was studying his notes.
“Who is this Katharina Schmunck, anyway?” she asked. “What does she have to do with the Kaltensees?”
“Katharina Schmunck’s name today is Katharina Ehrmann,” explained Ostermann. “She’s Jutta Kaltensee’s best friend.”
Bodenstein frowned, thinking hard; then his face lit up. He remembered the photos he’d seen at Mühlenhof. But before he could say anything, Pia jumped up and rummaged in her pocket until she found the business card on which the real estate agent had written the name of the house owner.
“That can’t be true,” she said when she found the card. “Katharina Ehrmann owns the building in Königstein where we found Watkowiak’s body. How does all this fit together?”
“It’s obvious,” said Ostermann, who seemed to be holding out the greed of the Kaltensee family as the most plausible motive. “They killed Watkowiak and wanted to throw suspicion onto Katharina Ehrmann. That way, they’d kill two birds with one stone.”
* * *
Ritter’s eyes burned and his head was roaring. The letters on the monitor started to blur together. In the past two hours, he’d written twenty-five pages. He was dead tired and at the same time in high spirits from sheer adrenaline. With a mouse click, he saved the file and went into his e-mail program. He wanted Katharina to read first thing in the morning what he’d done with her material. With a yawn, he stood up and went to the window. He had to put the diaries into the ATM-accessed safe-deposit box before he went home. Marleen might be naïve, but if she got her hands on this, she’d understand everything. And in the worst case, she’d turn to the page about her family. Ritter’s gaze fell on the empty parking lot. The only other vehicle was a dark panel truck next to his convertible. He was about to turn away, when for a fraction of a second a light in the front seat of the truck went on and he saw the faces of two men. He heart began to pound frantically. Katharina had said that the files were explosive, maybe even dangerous. In the light of day, that hadn’t bothered him. But now, at 10:30 at night in a lonely back courtyard of an industrial area in Fechenheim, this idea definitely had more menace to it. He grabbed his cell and punched in Katharina’s number. She picked up after the tenth ring.
“Kati,” said Ritter, trying to sound calm, “I think I’m being watched. I’m still at the office, working on the manuscript. Down in the parking lot there’s a panel truck with two guys sitting in it. What should I do? Who could it be?”
“Calm down,” replied Katharina in a low voice. Ritter could hear in the background the buzz of voices and a piano playing. “You’re probably imagining things. I—”
“I’m not imagining things, damn it!” Ritter snapped. “They’re down there and they might be waiting for me. You said yourself that these files could be dangerous!”
“That’s not how I meant it,” Katharina assured him. “I wasn’t thinking of bodily danger. Nobody knows about the material. Now go home and get some sleep.”
Ritter went to the door and turned off the ceiling light. Then he went over to the window again. The panel truck was still there.
“Okay,” he said. “But I still have to get the diaries to the bank. Do you think something could happen to me there?”
“No, that’s nonsense,” he heard Katharina say.
“All right, then.” Ritter felt somewhat relieved. If there really was a danger, she would react differently. After all, he was her golden goose; she wouldn’t put his life on the line. Suddenly, he felt silly. Katharina must think he was being ridiculous.
“By the way, I sent you the manuscript,” he said.
“That’s great,” said Katharina. “I’ll read through it first thing tomorrow morning. Now I’ve got to go.”
“All right. Good night.” Ritter ended the call; then he put the diaries in a plastic bag and his laptop in his backpack. His knees were shaking as he walked down the hall. “Just my imagination,” he muttered.
Wednesday, May 9
“You’re not going to believe who called me yesterday,” said Cosima from the bathroom. “I tell you, I was totally flabbergasted!”
Bodenstein lay in bed, playing with the baby, who reached for his finger with a gurgle and held it with astounding strength. It was about time they solved this complex case—he wasn’t getting any time to spend with his youngest daughter.
“So who was it?” he asked, tickling Sophia’s tummy. She shrieked with delight and thrashed her little legs.
Cosima appeared in the doorway, only a towel wrapped around her, a toothbrush in her hand.
“Jutta Kaltensee.”
Bodenstein stiffened. He hadn’t told Cosima that Jutta Kaltensee had called him at least ten times in the past few days. At first, he’d felt flattered, but the conversations rapidly became too familiar for his taste. Not until yesterday, when she finally asked quite bluntly if they could have dinner together some time, did he realize what she was trying to do. Jutta Kaltensee was clearly putting the moves on him, and he didn’t know how to react.
“Oh really? What did she want?” Bodenstein forced himself to keep his tone casual and continued to play with the baby.
“She’s looking for people to work on her new image campaign.” Cosima went into the bathroom and came back wearing a dressing gown. “She said she thought of me after she met you at her mother’s house.”
“Is that right?” Bodenstein didn’t like the idea that Jutta had been gathering information about him and his family behind his back. Anyway, Cosima didn’t do advertising films; she produced documentaries. The line about the image campaign was a lie. But why?
“We’re meeting for lunch today, so I’ll hear what she has to say.” Cosima sat down on the edge of the bed
and applied lotion to her legs.
“That sounds nice.” Bodenstein turned his head and looked at his wife with a guileless expression. “Make sure to let her pick up the tab. The Kaltensees are loaded.”
“Do you mind if I go?”
Bodenstein didn’t know exactly what Cosima was getting at.
“Why should I?” he asked, instantly resolving to ignore Jutta Kaltensee’s calls in the future. At the same time, it dawned on him how much he’d allowed himself to daydream about her. Too much. The mere thought of that shrewd and excitingly attractive woman aroused fantasies in him that weren’t proper for a married man.
“Well, her family is the focus of your investigations,” said Cosima.
“Just listen to what she has to offer,” he suggested against his will. An unpleasant feeling came over him. What had been a harmless flirtation with Jutta Kaltensee could easily become an incalculable risk, and he certainly didn’t need anything like that. It was time to put her in her place in a friendly but firm manner. No matter how sorry he was to do so.
* * *
Although she’d had only a few hours’ sleep, Pia was already at her desk at a quarter to seven the next morning. It was essential to talk with Siegbert Kaltensee as soon as possible; that much was clear. She sipped at her coffee, stared at the screen, and thought about Ostermann’s report and conclusions from yesterday. Sure, it was conceivable that the Kaltensee siblings had hired someone to commit the murders. But there were too many things that didn’t fit: What was the purpose of the numbers that the murderer had left behind at all three crime scenes? Why were the murders done with an ancient weapon and sixty-year-old ammunition? A hit man would probably have used a weapon with a suppressor and not taken the trouble to roll Anita Frings in her wheelchair from the retirement home into the forest. There was something personal behind the murders of Goldberg, Schneider, and Anita Frings. Pia was sure of it. But how did Robert Watkowiak fit into the picture? And why had his girlfriend had to die? The answer was hidden in a maze of phony sidetracks and possible motives. Revenge was a strong motive. Thomas Ritter knew the Kaltensees’ family history; he had been deeply humiliated and hurt.
And what about Elard Kaltensee? Had he shot his mother’s three friends—or ordered them shot—because they wouldn’t tell him anything about his true origins? After all, he had admitted that he hated them and even felt a desire to kill them. Finally, there was Marcus Nowak, whose role seemed quite dubious. His van had not only been seen at Schneider’s house at the time of the murder; he had also been at the house in Königstein when Watkowiak died and at Taunusblick on the evening Anita Frings was murdered. It couldn’t be mere coincidence. For Nowak, it was always about a lot of money, as well. Nowak and Elard Kaltensee were much better friends than Kaltensee had wanted to admit to the police. Maybe they had committed the three murders together and might have been seen by Watkowiak … or was this all wrong, and the Kaltensees were really behind everything? Or was the perp someone else entirely? Pia had to admit that she was going in circles.
The door opened and Ostermann and Behnke came into the office. At the same moment, the fax machine beeped next to Ostermann’s desk and began to hum. He set down his bag, took out the first page, and studied it.
“Well, finally,” he said. “The lab has results.”
“Let’s see.” Together, they read the six pages that the crime lab had sent. The weapon used to shoot Anita Frings was the same one that had fired the deadly shots at Goldberg and Schneider. Even the ammunition was the same. The DNA that was found on a glass and on several cigarette butts in Schneider’s home movie theater belonged to a man whose data were stored in the computer at National Crime Police headquarters. A single hair found beside Herrmann Schneider’s body was confirmed in DNA analysis to be from an unknown female. On the mirror at Goldberg’s house was a clear fingerprint, which, unfortunately, could not be matched. Ostermann logged on to the database and discovered that the name of the man who’d been in the theater in Schneider’s basement was Kurt Frenzel, who had a police record for several assaults and hit-and-run charges.
“The knife that was found next to Watkowiak was clearly the weapon that killed Monika Krämer,” said Pia. “His prints were on the hilt of the knife. But the semen in her mouth was not from Watkowiak; it was from some unknown man. The deed was committed by a right-handed person. The evidence in the apartment came mostly from Monika Krämer and Robert Watkowiak, except for some fibers under her fingernails that could not be matched, and a hair that’s still being analyzed. The blood on Watkowiak’s shirt also came from Ms. Krämer.”
“All of it sounds very unequivocal,” said Behnke. “Watkowiak bumped off his old lady. She was driving him crazy, after all.”
Pia gave her colleague a dirty look.
“It couldn’t have been him,” Ostermann reminded them. “We have the tapes from the surveillance cameras from the branches of Taunus Savings and Nassau Savings which show Watkowiak trying to cash the checks. I’d have to confirm the exact times, but I think it was between eleven-thirty and twelve. According to the autopsy report, Monika Krämer died between eleven and twelve o’clock.”
“You don’t really believe all this hit man shit that the boss dreamed up, do you?” Behnke moaned. “What hit man would bother to bump off such a stupid old woman, and why?”
“To shift the suspicion onto Watkowiak,” said Pia. “The same perp also killed Watkowiak, stuck the gun and the cell phone in his backpack, and put the blood-smeared shirt on him.”
At that moment, she decided to throw out her Nowak and Kaltensee theories. She couldn’t believe that either of them would commit such a brutal murder, after first demanding a blow job. They were dealing with two perps; that much was certain.
“That does seem plausible,” Ostermann conceded, reading aloud the part of the lab report about the shirt. It was buttoned wrong, it wasn’t Watkowiak’s size, and it was so new that there was still a pin in one of the sleeves, evidently overlooked when the shirt was removed from its plastic wrapping.
“We have to find out where the shirt was purchased,” Pia said.
Ostermann nodded. “I’ll check it out.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Behnke looked through the stacks of paper on his desk and handed a page to Ostermann, who glanced at it and frowned.
“When did this arrive?”
“Yesterday sometime.” Behnke turned on his computer. “I forgot all about it.”
“What is it?” Pia asked.
“The movement profile of the cell phone that was in Watkowiak’s backpack,” replied Ostermann in annoyance, looking at his colleague, who always had an excuse for his carelessness. This time, Ostermann was really pissed off.
“Damn it, Frank,” he snapped. “This is important; you know that. I’ve been waiting days for this.”
“Don’t make a federal case out of it,” Behnke shot back. “Haven’t you ever forgotten something?”
“When it comes to a homicide case—no. What the hell is wrong with you, man?”
Instead of answering, Behnke got up and left the office.
“Now what?” Pia asked, without commenting on Behnke’s behavior. If Ostermann was also finally noticing that there was something wrong with Behnke, maybe he’d do something about it and clear up the matter, man-to-man.
“The cell phone was only used once, to send this text to Monika Krämer,” said Ostermann after a thorough study of the page. “There were no numbers stored in it.”
“Does it list which cell tower?” Pia asked curiously.
“Eschborn and vicinity.” Ostermann snorted. “A radius of about three kilometers around the tower. Doesn’t help us much.”
* * *
Bodenstein stood at his desk, looking at the daily newspapers spread out in front of him. He had the first unpleasant encounter of the day, a meeting with Chief Commissioner Nierhoff, behind him. The chief had threatened to set up a special commission if Bodenstein didn’t deliver some tangible r
esults soon. The police spokesman was being bombarded with calls, and not only from the press. The Interior Ministry had also lodged an official inquiry, wanting to know how the investigations were progressing. The whole team was feeling irritable. They weren’t even close to a breakthrough in any of the five homicides. The fact that Goldberg, Schneider, Anita Frings, and Vera Kaltensee had been friends since their youth didn’t really help. The murderer had not left any identifiable traces at the three crime scenes, so it was impossible to construct a perp profile. For the time being, the Kaltensee siblings had the best motive, but Bodenstein was reluctant to endorse Ostermann’s theories.
He folded up the newspapers and sat down, resting his forehead in his hand. Something was going on right before their eyes that they weren’t seeing. He just couldn’t figure out any way to connect the murders to the Kaltensee family and their circle that made sense. If there was, in fact, any sort of connection. Had he lost his ability to ask the right questions? There was a knock on the door, and Pia Kirchhoff came in.
“What’s up?” he asked, hoping that his colleague wouldn’t notice how insecure and helpless he was feeling.
“Behnke went over to see Frenzel, Watkowiak’s pal, the guy whose DNA we found at Schneider’s house,” she said. “He brought Frenzel’s cell phone back with him. Watkowiak had left him a voice mail on Thursday.”
