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Authors: Nele Neuhaus
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Ostermann asked in disbelief.
Bodenstein nodded. “Officially, yes. Neither the Americans nor the NCP show any interest in solving the case, and Nierhoff is simply relieved to have the matter off his back.”
“What about the lab evaluation of the evidence that was collected?” Pia asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve forgotten all about it,” Bodenstein replied. “Ostermann, get in touch with the crime lab right away and do some snooping around. If they’ve already got test results back, go to Wiesbaden and pick them up in person.”
Ostermann nodded.
“The housekeeper told me that Goldberg had a visit on Thursday afternoon from a bald man and a dark-haired woman,” Pia said. “On Tuesday, a man she didn’t know was there in the early evening as she was getting ready to leave. He had parked his car right in front of the gate, a sports car with Frankfurt plates.”
“Well, that’s something anyway. Anything else?”
“Yes,” said Pia, looking through her notes. “Twice last week, fresh flowers were delivered to Goldberg. On Wednesday, they weren’t brought by the florist as usual, but by a rather unkempt man in his early forties. The housekeeper let him in. The man went straight up to Goldberg and spoke to him in a familiar way, as if they knew each other. She couldn’t hear the conversation because the man had closed the door to the living room, but this visit apparently left the old man quite upset. He ordered the housekeeper to take delivery of the flowers at the front door from now on and not let anyone into the house.”
“Good.” Bodenstein nodded. “I’m still wondering what those numbers on the mirror meant.”
“Could be a phone number,” Ostermann opined. “Or the number of a locker, a password, a Swiss bank account, or a membership number—”
Kirchhoff interrupted him. “A membership number! If the motive for the murder was actually something in Goldberg’s past, the one one six four five might have been his membership number in the SS.”
“Goldberg was ninety-two,” Ostermann mused. “Somebody who knew his number from back then would have to be almost that old, too.”
“Not necessarily,” said Bodenstein pensively. “It would be enough to know about Goldberg’s past.”
He recalled cases of murderers who had left obvious messages at the scene or on their victims as macabre calling cards. Perps who were playing a little game with the police to show off their intelligence and cunning. Could that be what was going on here? Was the number on the mirror in Goldberg’s hallway a sign? If so, what did it mean? Was it a reference to something? Or was it meant to deliberately mislead them? Like his colleagues, Bodenstein couldn’t see any rhyme or reason to it, and he was afraid that the murder of David Josua Goldberg would remain unsolved.
* * *
Marcus Nowak was sitting at his desk in his small office and carefully sorting the documents that he needed for the consultation the day after tomorrow. Finally, there seemed to be some movement in the project in which he had invested so much time. Recently, the city of Frankfurt had repurchased the Technical Courthouse, which was supposed to be torn down in the course of an extensive urban-renewal project in the Old Town. As early as two years ago, the Frankfurt city council had debated vigorously over what sort of architecture should be commissioned to replace the ugly concrete monstrosity. Renovation was planned for parts of the Old Town between the cathedral and Römerberg Square. Seven of the half-timbered structures of historical significance that had been destroyed during the war were supposed to be reconstructed, making them as true to the originals as possible. For a gifted but still mostly unknown restorer like Marcus Nowak, a commission like this meant more than merely an incredible professional challenge and full employment for his firm for years to come. He was being offered a
Bodenstein nodded. “Officially, yes. Neither the Americans nor the NCP show any interest in solving the case, and Nierhoff is simply relieved to have the matter off his back.”
“What about the lab evaluation of the evidence that was collected?” Pia asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve forgotten all about it,” Bodenstein replied. “Ostermann, get in touch with the crime lab right away and do some snooping around. If they’ve already got test results back, go to Wiesbaden and pick them up in person.”
Ostermann nodded.
“The housekeeper told me that Goldberg had a visit on Thursday afternoon from a bald man and a dark-haired woman,” Pia said. “On Tuesday, a man she didn’t know was there in the early evening as she was getting ready to leave. He had parked his car right in front of the gate, a sports car with Frankfurt plates.”
“Well, that’s something anyway. Anything else?”
“Yes,” said Pia, looking through her notes. “Twice last week, fresh flowers were delivered to Goldberg. On Wednesday, they weren’t brought by the florist as usual, but by a rather unkempt man in his early forties. The housekeeper let him in. The man went straight up to Goldberg and spoke to him in a familiar way, as if they knew each other. She couldn’t hear the conversation because the man had closed the door to the living room, but this visit apparently left the old man quite upset. He ordered the housekeeper to take delivery of the flowers at the front door from now on and not let anyone into the house.”
“Good.” Bodenstein nodded. “I’m still wondering what those numbers on the mirror meant.”
“Could be a phone number,” Ostermann opined. “Or the number of a locker, a password, a Swiss bank account, or a membership number—”
Kirchhoff interrupted him. “A membership number! If the motive for the murder was actually something in Goldberg’s past, the one one six four five might have been his membership number in the SS.”
“Goldberg was ninety-two,” Ostermann mused. “Somebody who knew his number from back then would have to be almost that old, too.”
“Not necessarily,” said Bodenstein pensively. “It would be enough to know about Goldberg’s past.”
He recalled cases of murderers who had left obvious messages at the scene or on their victims as macabre calling cards. Perps who were playing a little game with the police to show off their intelligence and cunning. Could that be what was going on here? Was the number on the mirror in Goldberg’s hallway a sign? If so, what did it mean? Was it a reference to something? Or was it meant to deliberately mislead them? Like his colleagues, Bodenstein couldn’t see any rhyme or reason to it, and he was afraid that the murder of David Josua Goldberg would remain unsolved.
* * *
Marcus Nowak was sitting at his desk in his small office and carefully sorting the documents that he needed for the consultation the day after tomorrow. Finally, there seemed to be some movement in the project in which he had invested so much time. Recently, the city of Frankfurt had repurchased the Technical Courthouse, which was supposed to be torn down in the course of an extensive urban-renewal project in the Old Town. As early as two years ago, the Frankfurt city council had debated vigorously over what sort of architecture should be commissioned to replace the ugly concrete monstrosity. Renovation was planned for parts of the Old Town between the cathedral and Römerberg Square. Seven of the half-timbered structures of historical significance that had been destroyed during the war were supposed to be reconstructed, making them as true to the originals as possible. For a gifted but still mostly unknown restorer like Marcus Nowak, a commission like this meant more than merely an incredible professional challenge and full employment for his firm for years to come. He was being offered a
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