Bad Wolf (12 page)

A young woman came into the room.

“The photos,” was all she said as she shoved brusquely past Bodenstein and Pia without greeting them. She sat down at the computer on a little table by the wall and started typing. A moment later, the skeleton of the dead girl appeared on the screen. The days when black-and-white X-rays were clipped to light boxes were long gone.

Kronlage and Kirchhoff interrupted their external examination of the body and stepped over to the computer to analyze what they saw there: broken bones in the face, ribs, and extremities. And like the external injuries, some were old and healed, but some were fresh. They counted twenty-four fractures.

Pia shuddered at the thought of the horrible martyrdom this girl must have endured. But more important to the forensic physicians than the fractures were the various indicators of the age of the skeleton. Fusing of the cranial growth sutures and of the long bones enabled a preliminary estimate of the victim’s age.

“She was at least fourteen, but no more than sixteen years old,” Henning Kirchhoff said at last. “We’ll be able to be more precise very soon.”

“In any case, the child was abused over a period of years,” Professor Kronlage added. “Also, the abnormal pallor of the skin and the almost complete lack of vitamin D in the blood, as reported by the laboratory, are striking.”

“Striking in what way?” asked the young lawyer.

“Vitamin D is not actually a vitamin, but a neuroregulatory steroid hormone.” Kronlage peered over the top of his half-moon glasses. “The human body creates the hormone whenever the skin is exposed to sunlight. Nowadays, vitamin D deficiency is nearing epidemic proportions worldwide, because dermatologists and health authorities have been stirring up hysteria about skin cancer and advising people to stay out of the sun or to use sunblock with an SPF of thirty or higher. Which means that—”

“What has that got to do with the dead girl?” Tanouti asked him impatiently, interrupting.

“Just listen,” Kronlage chided him.

Tanouti silently accepted the rebuke and merely shrugged.

“A value of fifteen to eighteen nanograms per milliliter of blood, as was determined in a large-scale screening in the USA after the winter months, is considered a sizable deficiency. The optimum is fifty to sixty-five nanograms per milliliter of blood,” the professor went on. “Only four nanograms per milliliter was measured in the blood serum of this girl.”

“So? What do we conclude from that?” Tanouti’s voice sounded even more impatient.

“I have no idea what
you
conclude from it, young man,” Kronlage replied calmly. “For me, this fact, combined with the skin pallor and the porous bone structure evident in the X-rays, supports the assumption that the girl had not been exposed to sunlight for a very long time. This may mean that the girl was held captive.”

For a moment, the room was totally quiet. Then a cell phone rang.

“Excuse me,” said State Attorney Frey, and left the room.

The general condition of the girl was very poor; her body was extremely undernourished and dehydrated, her teeth were full of cavities, and she had apparently never been to a dentist. That eliminated the possibility of determining her identity from dental records.

The external examination was concluded; now the actual autopsy would begin. With a scalpel, Kronlage cut the scalp from one ear to the other, folded the skin forward and then left it to an assistant to open the cranium with an oscillating saw in order to remove the brain. At the same time, Henning was opening the chest and abdominal cavities with a single vertical incision from neck to pubis. The ribs and breastbone were separated with the saw, and the organs that were removed were placed on a small metal tray above the dissection table and examined immediately. Tissue samples were also taken. Condition, size, shape, color, and weight of each organ was determined and logged.

“What have we here?” Henning asked himself, ignoring the onlookers. He had cut open the stomach to take samples of its contents.

“What’s that?” Pia asked.

“Looks like … fabric.” Henning smoothed out the oily scrap with two pair of pincettes and then held the scrap up to the bright light. “It’s been pretty well damaged by the stomach acid. Well, maybe the lab can make something out of it.”

Ronnie Böhme held out an evidence bag and made a note of the finding.

The minutes passed and turned into hours. The chief state attorney had left. The pathologists were working, focused and meticulous. Henning, who was responsible for the report, spoke the findings into the microphone he wore around his neck. It was four in the afternoon by the time Böhme placed the organs back inside the body and sewed up the incisions. The autopsy was completed.

“The cause of death was clearly drowning,” Henning summed up in his closing comments. “There were also serious internal injuries caused by kicks or blows to the abdomen, chest, extremities, and head, which sooner or later would also have resulted in death. Ruptures of the spleen, lungs, liver, and rectum. In addition, the massive injuries to the vagina and anus indicate that the girl was sexually assaulted shortly before her death.”

Bodenstein listened in silence and with a stony expression. Now and then, he nodded, but he asked no questions. Kirchhoff looked at him.

“Well, I’m sorry, Bodenstein,” he said. “We can rule out suicide. But whether the injuries were due to an accident or the result of murder is your job to find out.”

“Why do you rule out suicide?” Pia asked.

“Because—” Henning began, but he got no further.

Tanouti broke in. He suddenly seemed to be in a hurry. “Dr. Kirchhoff,” “I want the autopsy report from you on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That goes without saying, Mr. Tanouti. Tomorrow morning, it will be in your mailbox.” Henning smiled with exaggerated charm. “Shall I type it up myself?”

“If you like.” Tanouti was so blinded by his own importance that he didn’t even notice how in a matter of seconds he’d become the most unpopular member of the state attorney’s office. “So we can announce to the press that the girl in the river died of drowning.”

“I didn’t say that.” Henning peeled the latex gloves from his hands and tossed them in the wastebasket next to the washbasin.

“Excuse me?” The young man took a step back into the autopsy room. “But you just said that the girl obviously drowned.”

“Yes, that’s true. But you interrupted me before I could explain why I’ve ruled out suicide. In fact, she did not drown in the Main.”

Pia gave her ex-husband a baffled look.

“When someone drowns in fresh water, the lung tissue is so severely overinflated that the water pours out when the chest cavity is opened. We call this phenomenon emphysema aquosum. But here, that was not the case. Instead, a pulmonary edema had formed.”

“And what is that in plain German?” snapped Tanouti in annoyance. “I don’t need a lesson in forensic medicine. Just give me the facts!”

Henning cast a disparaging look in his direction. He had an ironic gleam in his eye. Tanouti had spoiled any chance of ever being on good terms with the pathologist.

“A more detailed knowledge of the field of forensics is never a drawback,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Especially if someone wants to make a name for himself in the tempest of flashing cameras from the press.”

The young attorney flushed and took a step toward Henning, but he had to beat a hasty retreat because Böhme shoved the gurney with the body of the dead girl right up against him.

“For example, a pulmonary edema can form in salt water.” Henning took off his glasses and polished them calmly with a paper towel. Then he held the glasses up to the light and squinted at the lenses to see whether they were clean. “Or by drowning in chlorinated water, such as in a swimming pool.”

Pia exchanged a quick glance with her boss. That was really an extremely important detail, and typical of Henning that he’d left it until the end.

“The girl drowned in chlorinated water,” he said at last. “In the next few days, a precise analysis of the water sample taken from the lungs will be done by the lab. Now you’ll have to excuse me. Pia, Bodenstein, Mr. Tanouti, have a pleasant day. I have to type up the autopsy report.” He winked at Pia and left the room.

“What an arrogant idiot,” grumbled the young attorney; then he left as well.

“Well, everyone eventually meets his match,” Bodenstein commented drily.

“And in that guy’s case, it happened twice today,” said Pia. “First Engel and now Henning. That should be plenty for one day.”

*   *   *

When Emma arrived with Louisa from child care, the table on the terrace had already been set for coffee. Her in-laws were sitting in comfortable rattan chairs in the shade of the pergola, which was covered with ivy and blooming wisteria. They were playing Scrabble.

“Hello, Renate! Hello, Josef!” Emma called. “We’re back.”

“Just in time for tea and cakes.” Renate Finkbeiner put down her reading glasses and smiled.

“And just in time to witness my three to two victory,” Josef Finkbeiner added. “QUAGGA. That makes forty-eight points. I win.”

“What kind of a word is that?” Renate protested with feigned indignation. “You just made that up.”

“No, I didn’t. A quagga is an extinct type of zebra. Just admit that today I was simply better.” Josef Finkbeiner laughed, leaned over, and kissed his wife on the cheek. Then he shoved back his chair and spread his arms wide. “Come over here to Grandpa, princess. I’ve filled up the wading pool extra high for you. Why don’t you go put on your bathing suit?”

“Sounds great,” said Emma, who wished she could stretch out full length in the wading pool herself. Usually, she was immune to heat waves, but these temperatures, combined with the high humidity, were absolutely unbearable.

Louisa happily allowed her grandfather to pick her up.

“Shall we get your bathing suit?” Emma asked.

“Naw.” Louisa squirmed out of her grandfather’s arms and climbed onto one of the easy chairs. Her eyes were fixed on the table. “Wanna have cake.”

“All right, then.” Renate Finkbeiner laughed and lifted the cover she’d put over the cake to keep the bugs off. “Which would you rather have? Strawberry tart or cream-cheese cake?”

“Cream cheese!” Louisa shouted, eyes sparkling. “With extra cream!”

Emma’s mother-in-law cut slices of cream-cheese cake for both Louisa and Emma and put them on plates. Then she poured Emma a cup of Darjeeling. Louisa shoveled the cake into her mouth in record time.

“Want another one,” she demanded, her mouth still full.

“What’s the magic word?” asked her grandpa, who had put away the Scrabble game.

“Plee-eez,” murmured Louisa with a mischievous grin.

“But just a little piece,” Emma admonished.

“No! A big one!” Louisa countered, and a morsel of cake fell out of her mouth.

“Now now, what sort of way is that to behave, princess?” Josef Finkbeiner shook his head disapprovingly. “Well-behaved little girls don’t talk with their mouths full.”

Louisa gave him a dubious look, not quite sure whether he was being serious or joking. But he was looking at her sternly as she gulped down the last bite of cake.

“Please, dear Grandma,” said Louisa, holding out her plate. “Another piece of cheesecake, please.”

Emma didn’t say a word as her daughter gave Josef a beseeching look.

He nodded and winked at the child. Louisa’s face instantly lit up, and Emma felt a tiny stab that felt like jealousy.

No matter how hard she tried, she’d found no way to draw close to her daughter. Since they’d been living here, it had become even harder, and she often felt completely shut out. Louisa simply didn’t respect her. And yet she obeyed Josef and Florian without protest—even happily complying with their wishes. What was the reason for that? Did Emma lack the voice of authority? What was she doing wrong? Corinna thought it was normal for girls to side with their father and rub their mother the wrong way, especially at Louisa’s age. Emma had read the same thing in various parenting manuals, but it was still painful.

“Now I think I’ll leave the ladies to their tea.” Josef Finkbeiner got up, tucked the box with the Scrabble game under his arm, and hinted at a bow, which made Louisa laugh loudly. “Renate, Emma, princess—I wish you a pleasant afternoon.”

“Grandpa, will you read me something?” Louisa called.

“Today I can’t, unfortunately,” replied Josef. “I have to go somewhere right now. But tomorrow I will.”

“Okay,” Louisa accepted his explanation without further comment.

If Emma had refused like that, Louisa would have thrown a fit. Emma stabbed the last piece of the cheesecake crust with her fork as her father-in-law left. She appreciated Josef, liked him a lot, in fact, and yet at moments like this he always made her feel that she was a complete failure when it came to raising a child.

The warm air was full of the buzzing of bees eagerly gathering nectar in the rosebushes and flower beds surrounding the terrace. Farther away in the park, a lawn mower was droning, and there was a smell of freshly mown grass.

“Do you happen to have the guest list with you?” Renate asked, tearing Emma out of her gloomy thoughts. “Oh, you don’t know how much I’m looking forward to seeing all my children again at last.”

Emma pulled the folder out of her shoulder bag and slid it across the table to her mother-in-law. She was happy that Corinna had left the guest list and the design and mailing of the invitations to her. It gave her the feeling that she really belonged to the family and wasn’t merely a guest. She had drawn up the list from an existing Excel file; she didn’t recognize 95 percent of the names. Renate, on the other hand, emitted a little cry of joy at each check mark that indicated a guest had accepted the invitation.

Her genuine enthusiasm touched Emma.

Renate was a woman who went through life with a cheerful smile, simply ignoring anything negative. She was not the least bit interested in what was happening in the world, and didn’t read the newspaper or watch the news on TV. With scarcely disguised contempt, Florian described his mother as unworldly, naïve, and tiresomely superficial. It was true that her persistent cheerfulness was sometimes hard to take, but it was certainly preferable to the constant harping and morose pronouncements of Emma’s own mother.