Bad Wolf (30 page)

“Rothemund must be staying somewhere in the vicinity,” Bodenstein said. “He rode a motor scooter to Langenhain.”

“I’ve got Prinzler’s address.” Kai looked up from his laptop. “He lives at Peter-Böhler-Strasse One forty-three in Ginnheim. I’ve got a gut feeling that Rothemund could be hiding out at his former client’s place, because he owes him a favor. It might interest you to know that Kilian Rothemund was Prinzler’s defense attorney in several court cases. In two cases of aggravated assault, Rothemund got him acquitted due to lack of evidence.”

Bodenstein nodded. That actually sounded quite promising. At any rate, they could assume that Prinzler would not let himself be taken without resistance.

“Let’s go over there right now,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Kai, call our colleagues in Frankfurt. I’ll need backup team of at least six men. They have to be there at precisely five-thirty
P.M.
”

Maybe they’d get lucky and the Hanna Herzmann case would be cleared up in a couple of hours so that they could get back to concentrating on the Mermaid, who still lay nameless in a freezer at the Frankfurt Institute for Forensic Medicine.

*   *   *

Hanna had lost all track of time. How long had she been lying here? A day? A week? What date was it? What day of the week?

It drove her crazy that she couldn’t remember anything. But no matter how hard she tried, there was nothing in her head but impenetrable fog. She realized that was a specific gap in her memory, because she knew her name, her birthday, and she could recall even the smallest details, up until the argument with Jan after the wrap party.

The doctors had told her this morning, before they took her to the OR for the second time, that she had suffered a skull fracture and a severe concussion; temporary amnesia was not unusual in such cases. They had advised her not to push herself too hard. At some point, her memory would return on its own. Skull fracture. Severe concussion. Why did they have to operate a second time? Why could she hardly move?

The door opened and the dark-haired female doctor whom she’d seen several times came over to her bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked in a friendly voice.

Dumb question. How would anyone feel lying in Intensive Care with no memory and not even a single visit from her own daughter?

“Pretty good,” Hanna murmured. “What happened, actually? Why did I need an operation?”

At least she was able to articulate halfway understandably. The doctor checked the monitors behind Hanna’s bed, then pulled up a chair and sat down.

“You were the victim of a crime. Someone attacked and raped you,” she said with a serious expression. “This caused serious internal and external injuries. We had to remove your uterus and part of your intestine and perform a colostomy.”

Hanna stared at the woman in silence. Comprehension came in shock waves. She hadn’t had an accident. She’d been
raped.
That couldn’t be true. Things like that happened to other people, not to her. She was the one who reported on that sort of event. Victim of a crime? No, no, no! She didn’t want to be a victim, someone people would gape at and pity.

“Does … do the media know about this?” Hanna murmured. She could picture the headlines on the front pages of the tabloids:
HANNA HERZMANN BRUTALLY RAPED
. Maybe even with a photo showing her helpless and half-naked. The image made her shudder in horror.

But to Hanna’s relief, the doctor shook her head.

“No, the hospital has imposed a news blackout. But the police would like to speak with you.”

Of course. The police. Now she was a
victim.
A rape victim. Sullied, abused, violated. She’d had so many women on her show who’d been raped, and she’d talked to them about trauma, fear, and perpetrators, about psychotherapy and self-help groups that went on for months or even years. She had feigned sympathy and understanding, but secretly she had despised these women. It’s your own fault, she’d thought, if something like that happens. Anyone who runs around dressed like a hooker or cowers like a scared rabbit should expect to be attacked and raped. And now the same thing had supposedly happened to her? The thought was absolutely intolerable.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. If you like, you can speak with a psychologist.” The doctor put her hand briefly on Hanna’s arm. Looking in her eyes, Hanna saw sympathy, which was the last thing she wanted.

She closed her eyes. Just don’t think about it, she told herself. The best thing would be to stop trying to remember. If she didn’t remember, then maybe she could repress the fact that it had happened. As soon as possible, she needed to call her agent so that he could think up a suitable story for the press and the public. It would be impossible to hide that something had happened to her. An accident would be good. Yes, she could live with a car crash.
In the glare of the headlights, something dashed across the street in front of her, and she instinctively spun the steering wheel to the left.
Hanna twitched in shock, the situation had suddenly seemed so real. She’d been on her way home when an animal ran in front of her car. She’d managed to avoid hitting it and then … Loud music. The animal in the headlights. A badger or a raccoon.
POLICE—PLEASE FOLLOW
. The warning triangle. Flashes of memory shot like lightning through the fog in her brain, random and unwelcome. She had been raped. Who had found her? Some strangers who had seen her weak, ugly, and abused?

Hanna balled her hands into fists and fought against the rising tears. Good God, what a disgrace! How would she ever be able to live with it?

*   *   *

Instead of the two patrol cars, a complete SWAT unit was waiting when Bodenstein, Kröger, Altunay, and Kirchhoff pulled up to Peter-Böhler-Strasse.

“What’s this all about?” Bodenstein asked the team leader in annoyance when he saw the men in their black battle uniforms. A moment later, he realized that when he called for backup Ostermann had mentioned that the target to be arrested was a Road King, so his request was forwarded by the dispatcher to the Department of Organized Crime, and the Special Assignment Unit was then notified.

“Were you guys just planning to ring the bell and march inside?” asked the SWAT team leader in a condescending tone.

“Certainly,” Bodenstein replied coldly. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do now. I don’t want to cause a fuss and provoke the man unnecessarily. Not when he may have a pile of testosterone-boosting weapons.”

The team leader gave him a scornful look. “I have no desire to sit around afterward writing up reports for hours because you provincial sheriffs have underestimated the situation,” he said. “I will coordinate the action. My boys know what they have to do.”

More and more passersby were taking notice, and residents were sticking their heads out of windows in curiosity or leaning over balcony railings. Pia shook her head impatiently. Her boss was once again letting his innate sense of courtesy get in the way.

“If you guys stand around discussing this much longer, the bird will have been warned and flown the coop,” she put in. “And I want to go home sometime today.”

“What were you expecting to—” began the SWAT team leader, but his arrogant tone of voice and his macho attitude finally got to Bodenstein.

“Just stop,” Bodenstein said, interrupting the man. “We’re going in now before the TV cameras show up and our target sees his house on the local
Hessenschau
news. You’ll stay down here and guard the exits.”

“You’re not even wearing a bulletproof vest,” griped the officer, who felt his honor had been insulted. “My boys and I will accompany you.”

“If you insist,” Bodenstein said with a shrug, and set off. “But stay back.”

Building number 143 was one of many faceless gray apartment blocks from the sixties. On this warm Saturday evening, most of the residents were outdoors. People were sitting on their balconies, children were playing soccer on the lawns between the buildings, and a few youths were tinkering with a car. Just as the police approached the building, the door opened. Two young women with strollers came out, giving them suspicious looks.

“What’s going on here?” one of them asked when she saw the SWAT team.

“Nothing. Move on,” snapped the SWAT team leader.

Of course this had the opposite result. The two women stayed where they were, and one even pulled out her cell phone. Pia urged the officers to hurry. The whole action was attracting far too much attention.

“Prinzler,” Cem read from the list of residents on the wall. “Fourth floor.”

The foyer was filled with the smell of food cooking.

“Pia and I will take the elevator, you guys the stairs,” Bodenstein said to Altunay and Kröger, pressing the button.

“Wouldn’t you rather take the stairs?” Pia asked innocently.

She knew what her boss would say, but she couldn’t help teasing him. Last summer, he had loudly declared that he was going to lose a few pounds without any stupid fitness or nutrition plans, because in the future he would simply take the stairs instead of the elevator. Since then, she’d seen him take the stairs only two or three times when there was a functioning elevator.

The elevator arrived.

“Every day I bitterly rue having taken you into my confidence regarding my fitness plans,” replied Bodenstein after the elevator doors closed. “You’re going to tease me till the end of my days about that thoughtlessly uttered remark. I propose we take the stairs back down.”

“As usual, that is.” Pia grinned knowingly.

Moments later, they stood in front of a scratched-up door adorned with a dusty wreath of plastic flowers. The mat bade a hearty welcome to visitors. Bodenstein rang the bell. Behind the thin plywood door, a radio was blasting, but there was no other sound. After a second ring, the radio was turned off. Bodenstein knocked.

Suddenly, everything happened at top speed. When the door opened slightly, the two SWAT team members stormed past Bodenstein and threw themselves against the door, which slammed against the wall. A shrill cry came from the apartment, followed by a second cry, a dull thump, and a choking cough. Like lightning, a white cat zipped between Pia’s legs and into the stairwell, meowing loudly.

Pia and Bodenstein stepped into the apartment. They were met by a startling sight. A petite old lady with neatly permed white hair stood in the hallway, holding a spray can, while at her feet the SWAT team leader was curled on the light gray carpet, and the other officer was leaning on the wall. He was coughing and his eyes were running. What a mess.

“Hands up!” The old lady pointed the spray can aggressively at Bodenstein. He had never been threatened by an eighty-year-old woman with gold-framed reading glasses on the tip of her nose, but he swiftly obeyed as a precaution in view of her fierce resolve.

“Please calm down,” he said. “My name is Bodenstein, from the Criminal Police in Hofheim. Please excuse the rude behavior of my colleagues.”

“We’re taking Grandma with us,” croaked the team leader, struggling to get up. “I’m charging her with assault.”

“Then I’ll charge you with breaking and entering,” countered the old lady quickly. “Get out of my apartment right now!”

More residents were gathering in the stairwell, rubbernecking and whispering.

“Are you all right, Elfriede?” called an old man.

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine,” replied the fearless senior citizen, setting the spray can of tear gas on the shelf of the wardrobe. “But after this fright, I think I need a sherry.”

She gave Bodenstein a stern look.

“Come with me, young man,” she said. “At least you have some manners. Not like these two louts, who almost slammed the door in my face.”

Bodenstein and Pia followed her into the living room. Rustic oak furniture, floral-patterned wallpaper, a serving cart cluttered with knickknacks, overstuffed furniture loaded down with embroidered pillows, pewter plates and steins in a cabinet. The gigantic plasma TV was an real anachronism. Hard to believe that a six-foot-seven tattooed giant frequented this apartment wearing motorcycle boots and a denim vest with a gang logo on the back.

“A small glass for you?” the old lady asked Bodenstein.

“No, but thank you very much,” he replied.

“Please have a seat.” She opened a glass cabinet containing a remarkable collection of various alcoholic drinks, took a glass, and poured herself a healthy shot. “So, what’s the meaning of this invasion, then?”

“We’re looking for Bernd Prinzler,” replied Bodenstein. “Is he your son?”

“Ah, Bernd. Yes, that’s my son. One of four. What’s he gone and done now?” Without embarrassment, Elfriede Prinzler tossed back the sherry.

Christian Kröger appeared in the doorway.

“The apartment is empty,” he said. “Also no sign that anyone else stayed there recently.”

“Who were you expecting? My son? I haven’t seen him in years.” The old lady sat down in the easy chair that faced the television. She started to giggle.

“You must pardon the tear gas,” she went on, chortling in amusement, and Pia realized that this was not the first glass of sherry she’d had today. “But there are so many ruffians running around here; that’s why I always keep a spray can handy. Also when I go shopping or to visit the cemetery.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Pia. “Our colleagues were a bit overzealous. We didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Elfriede Prinzler waved it off. “You know, I’m eighty-six, and life is a bit boring now. At least today something happened, and we can talk about it for the next few weeks.”

Good that she was taking it with a sense of humor. Other people would have pressed charges in this sort of situation. And justifiably.

“What do you want from Bernd anyway?” Mrs. Prinzler asked.

“We want to ask him a few questions,” replied Bodenstein. “Do you know where we could find him? Do you have a phone number for him?”

Pia looked around and went to a sideboard with framed photos from earlier times. On the wall were sepia photos depicting a young Elfriede Prinzler and her husband.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” The old lady shook her head regretfully. “My other boys come to see me regularly, but Bernd, he lives his own life. That’s how he’s always been. Once in a while, I get a letter for him, and I forward it to a post office box in Hanau.” She shrugged. “As long as I don’t hear anything about him, I’m content. No news is good news.”