The Ice Queen: A Novel (27 page)

It was almost ten when Pia showed up at the autopsy and once again ran into Löblich, who was representing the DA’s office. This time, the DA was wearing not a stylish suit, but jeans and an oversize T-shirt, which Pia easily identified as one of Henning’s. It wasn’t hard for Pia’s exhausted psyche to connect the dots.

“Now we can finally get started” was Henning’s only comment. All of a sudden, Pia felt like a stranger in this room where she and Henning had spent countless hours together. For the first time, she realized that there was no place for her in his life anymore. Sure, she was the one who had left him, and she had to accept it if he was now doing the same thing and looking for a new partner. Still, it gave her a shock that she wasn’t prepared to handle in her present condition.

“Pardon me,” she murmured. “I’ll be right back.”

“Stay here!” Henning snapped, but Pia fled from the autopsy suite into the next room. Dorit, the lab technician, who had agreed to some overtime hours in order to perform the stat analyses, had made coffee, as usual. Pia took a ceramic mug and poured herself some. It tasted bitter as gall. She set down the cup, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples with her fingers to alleviate the pressure in her head. She’d seldom felt as worn-out and demoralized as she did this morning, which might also be due to the fact that she had gotten her period. To her annoyance, she felt tears burning behind her eyelids. If only Christoph were here so she’d have somebody to talk and laugh with. She pressed her palms on her eyes and fought back the rising tears.

“Is everything okay?” Henning’s voice made her jump. She heard the door close behind him.

“Yes,” she said without turning around. “It’s just all been … a bit much the past few days.”

“We could postpone the autopsy until this afternoon,” he offered. So that he could go back to bed with Löblich while she sat around alone?

“No,” she said curtly. “I’ll be all right.”

“Look at me.” He sounded so sympathetic that the tears she had almost quelled now surged into her eyes. She shook her head mutely like a stubborn child. And then Henning did something he had never done in all the years they were married. He took her in his arms and held her tight. Pia stood stock-still. She didn’t want to drop her guard with him, especially if she thought he might tell his lover about it.

“I can’t stand it when you’re unhappy,” he said softly. “Why doesn’t your zoo director take better care of you?”

“Because he’s in South Africa,” she murmured, allowing him to take her by the shoulders, turn her around, and lift her chin.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded. She obeyed and saw, to her surprise, that he actually looked worried.

“The colts got out last night, and Neuville injured himself. I had to chase them all over the neighborhood for two hours,” she whispered, as if that was the explanation for her pitiful condition. And then the tears started running down her face. Henning pulled her into his arms, stroking her back to console her.

“Your girlfriend will probably be mad if she sees us like this,” Pia said, her voice muffled by the fabric of his green smock.

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” he replied. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“I have no right to be. But still.”

He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded different.

“You know what?” he said softly. “Why don’t we get this job done, and then you and I can go out and have a proper breakfast. And if you want, I’ll go back to Birkenhof and take a look at Neuville.”

The offer was clearly made in the spirit of friendship; it wasn’t a crude attempt at a pass. Henning had been present last year at the birth of the colt, and he was a horse lover, like herself. The prospect of not having to spend the day alone was tempting, yet Pia resisted it. In reality, she didn’t want Henning’s sympathy, and it would be unfair to encourage him just because she was feeling shitty and lonesome. He didn’t deserve that. She took a deep breath to clear her head.

“Thank you, Henning,” she said, wiping off the tears with the back of her hand. “That’s very kind of you. I’m happy that we still understand each other so well. But I have to get back to the office later.”

That wasn’t true, but it made her refusal sound less like a rejection.

“Okay.” Henning let her go. She saw in his eyes an expression that was hard to interpret. “But first, have your coffee in peace. Take your time. I’ll wait for you.”

Pia nodded and asked herself whether he was aware of the double meaning of his words.

Monday, May 7

“Robert Watkowiak was murdered,” Pia announced to her colleagues at the morning meeting in K-11. “The consumption of alcohol and pills did not occur voluntarily.”

In front of her lay the preliminary autopsy report, which had pretty much surprised everyone yesterday, including herself. The stat analyses of blood and urine from the deceased indicated a high level of intoxication. The cause of death was doubtless the extreme concentration of tricyclic antidepressants in combination with a blood-alcohol level of 0.39 percent, which had led to cessation of breathing and circulation and subsequently to death. In addition, Henning had found hematomas and bruises on the head, shoulders, and wrists of the corpse. He suspected that Watkowiak had been bound and chained. Fine purpuric longitudinal tears in the tissue of the esophagus and traces of Vaseline had corroborated his suspicion that someone had administered the deadly cocktail to the man by means of a tube. Additional samples would be examined in the forensic laboratory in Wiesbaden, but Henning could conclusively state that death had resulted from the intervention of another, unknown individual.

“In addition, the site where the body was found was not the site of the crime.” She passed around the photos taken by their colleagues from the evidence team. “Someone deliberately swept the floor so as not to leave any tracks. But it seems to have been an afterthought; it probably didn’t occur to the perpetrator until after he’d laid Watkowiak down on the floor. The victim’s clothes were full of dust.”

“So now we have our fifth murder,” said Bodenstein.

“And we have to start from scratch,” Pia added despondently. She felt done in. The nightmares of the night before, in which Elard Kaltensee and a Luger 08 had played a frightening role, were still haunting her. “Although we really hadn’t made much progress.”

They agreed that whoever had murdered Goldberg, Schneider, and Frings was not the same person who had killed Monika Krämer. But to Pia’s disappointment, no one seemed to share her suspicion that Elard Kaltensee might be the triple murderer. She had to admit that her reasons, which she had considered absolutely conclusive on Saturday, now sounded pretty far-fetched.

“But it seems crystal clear to me,” said Behnke. He’d shown up promptly at seven o’clock and was now sitting grumpy and bleary-eyed at the table in the conference room. “Watkowiak shot the three old people because he needed money. He told Krämer about it, and when she threatened to spill the beans, he killed her.”

“And then what?” asked Pia. “Who killed
him
?”

“No idea,” Behnke admitted grouchily. Bodenstein got up and went to the whiteboard on the wall, which was now covered with writing from top to bottom, along with a series of crime-scene photos. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the jumble of lines and circles.

“Erase all of this,” he told Kathrin Fachinger. “We have to start over. Somewhere we missed something.”

There was a knock at the door. A female duty officer came in.

“Here’s some more work for you. We received a report of aggravated assault early this morning.” She handed Bodenstein a thin folder. “The individual who was injured has several stab wounds to the upper body. He’s in the hospital here in Hofheim.”

“Great,” Behnke grumbled. “As if we didn’t have enough to do already with five homicides to investigate.”

His whining did no good. K-11 was responsible for working the incident, no matter how many murders were waiting to be cleared up.

“I’m sorry,” said the officer, not sounding particularly sympathetic, and left. Pia reached for the folder. They were not making any progress on the homicide cases, and they had to wait for the lab results, which could take days or even weeks. Bodenstein’s strategy to keep the press out of the investigations for the time being had one serious drawback: There would be no tips, either absurd or helpful, coming in from the public that might give them a lead. Pia skimmed the report by the patrol that had responded to the anonymous 911 call at 2:48
A.M.
and discovered the seriously injured man named Marcus Nowak in his totally trashed office.

“If nobody has any objections, I’ll take this one.” She wasn’t especially keen on spending the whole day sitting at her desk with nothing to do, waiting for lab results—and being demoralized by Behnke’s negative energy. She preferred to combat her own gloomy thoughts with activity.

*   *   *

An hour later, Pia spoke with the head of plastic surgery at the Hofheim Hospital. Dr. Heidrun van Dijk looked exhausted; she had dark rings under her eyes. Pia knew that the doctors who were on call over the weekend often had to put in inhuman seventy-two-hour shifts.

“I’m not allowed to tell you any details.” The doctor pulled out Nowak’s records. “Only this: It was no bar fight. The guys who beat him up knew what they were doing.”

“How do you mean?”

“They didn’t just beat him. His right hand was smashed. We operated last night, but we might still have to amputate.”

“An act of revenge?” asked Pia, frowning.

“Torture, more likely.” The doctor shrugged. “They were pros.”

“Is he out of danger?” Pia asked.

“His condition is stable. He came through the operation well.”

They walked down the hall and Dr. van Dijk stopped in front of a door. They could hear an outraged woman’s voice coming from inside the room.

“—you doing at that time of night in the office? Where had you been? Say something!”

The voice broke off when the doctor opened the door and ushered Pia in. There was only one bed in the big bright room. On a chair next to the window sat an old lady; standing in front of her was a woman at least fifty years younger. Pia introduced herself.

“Christina Nowak,” said the younger woman. Pia estimated she was in her mid-thirties. Under other circumstances, she might have been quite pretty, with classic features, shiny brown hair, and an athletic figure. But right now, she was pale and her eyes were red from crying.

“I need to speak with your husband,” said Pia. “In private.”

“Go ahead. And good luck.” Christina Nowak was fighting back more tears. “He won’t talk to me, at any rate.”

“Could you please wait outside for a minute?”

Christina Nowak looked at her watch. “Actually, I have to get to work,” she said uncertainly. “I’m a kindergarten teacher, and today we’re taking a field trip to the Opel Zoo. The kids have been looking forward to it all week.”

The mention of the Opel Zoo gave Pia a pang. Involuntarily, she asked herself what she would do if Christoph were lying seriously injured in a hospital bed and wouldn’t speak to her.

“We can talk later.” She took a business card out of her pocket and handed it to Christina Nowak, who glanced at it.

“You’re a real estate agent?” she asked suspiciously. “You told me you were from Kripo.”

Pia took the card from her hand and saw that it was the one the agent had given her on Saturday.

“Pardon me.” She pulled out the correct card. “Could you come down to the station this afternoon around three?”

“Of course.” Christina Nowak managed a shaky smile. She looked over at her silent husband once more, bit her lip, and left. The old lady, who hadn’t said a word the whole time, followed her out. Now Pia turned to the injured man. Marcus Nowak lay on his back, an oxygen tube in his nose and an IV in his arm. His swollen face was disfigured by bruises. Over his left eye was a row of stitches; another row ran from his left ear almost to his chin. His right arm was in a splint; his torso and the damaged hand were covered with thick bandages. Pia sat down on the chair that the old woman had been sitting on and scooted a little closer to the bed.

“Hello, Mr. Nowak,” she said. “My name is Pia Kirchhoff, from Hofheim Kripo. I won’t bother you for long, but I have to know what happened last night. Do you remember the attack?”

With an effort, the man opened his eyes, his eyelids fluttering. He shook his head gingerly.

“Somebody hurt you badly.” Pia leaned forward. “With a little less luck, you’d be lying in the morgue instead of here in bed.”

Silence.

“Did you recognize anyone? Why were you attacked?”

“I … I can’t remember a thing,” Nowak muttered indistinctly.

That was always a good excuse. Pia suspected that the man remembered quite clearly who and why somebody had beaten him badly enough to put him in the hospital. Was he afraid? There could hardly be another reason for him to keep silent.

“I don’t want to press charges,” he said softly.

“That’s not necessary,” Pia replied. “Aggravated assault is a criminal offense and is automatically pursued by the district attorney’s office. That’s why it would be very helpful if you could remember something.”

He didn’t answer, just turned his head to the side.

“Think it over in peace and quiet.” Pia stood up. “I’ll drop by later. Get well soon.”

*   *   *

It was nine o’clock when Chief Commissioner Nierhoff came rushing into Bodenstein’s office with an ominous look on his face, and Nicola Engel was right behind him.

“What … the hell … is … this?!” Nierhoff flung the morning edition of the
Bild
tabloid onto Bodenstein’s desk and tapped his finger on the half-page article on page three, as if trying to bore right through the paper. “I want an explanation, Bodenstein!”

BRUTAL MURDER OF PENSIONER
crowed the bold headline. Without a word, Bodenstein took the paper and scanned the rest of the sensational details.
Four dead bodies in a week, and the police are at a loss, with no leads, offering only an obviously made-up story. Robert W., nephew of the well-known industrialist Vera Kaltensee and alleged murderer of pensioners David G. (92) and Herrmann S. (86), as well as his partner, Monika K. (26), is still at large. On Friday, the serial killer struck a fourth time, murdering the wheelchair-bound pensioner Anita F. (88) with a bullet to the back of the head. The police are groping in the dark and decline comment. The only similarity: All the victims were closely linked to Hofheim millionaire Vera Kaltensee, who now must fear for her life.…