there’ve been a lot of rumors going around the station about it.” Oliver turned off the desk lamp. “Nierhoff is probably afraid of diplomatic complications. With a case like this, he isn’t going to win any kudos, and he knows it.”
“But he can’t just prohibit the investigations. That’s obstruction of justice!”
“No, it’s not,” Oliver said, putting his arm around Cosima’s shoulder. “It’s just politics. But the hell with it. Let’s go to bed; tomorrow’s another day. Maybe our little princess will let us get some sleep.”
Sunday, April 29
Chief Commissioner Nierhoff was worried—extremely so. Early Sunday morning, he got an unpleasant call from a high-ranking official in the National Criminal Police, who had given him strict orders to cease all investigations in the Goldberg case, effective immediately. Nierhoff wasn’t keen on bringing himself and his office under the spotlight of criticism because of political intrigues that might easily arise from the murder case, but he was also not happy about the way they had treated him. He called Bodenstein into his office and told the superintendent of the investigative team in confidence what had happened.
“Salomon Goldberg arrived this morning on the first flight from New York,” he said. “He demanded the immediate surrender of his father’s mortal remains.”
“From you?” Bodenstein asked, astounded.
“No.” Nierhoff shook his head indignantly. “Goldberg brought backup: two people from the CIA and the U.S. general consul all showed up at the office of the President of police. Of course he had no idea what it was all about, so he contacted the Interior Ministry and the NCP.”
The interior minister had dealt with the matter personally. Everyone convened at the Institute of Forensic Medicine: Nierhoff; a state secretary from the Interior Ministry; the Frankfurt police president; Professor Thomas Kronlage, head of the institute; two officers from the NCP; Salomon Goldberg, accompanied by the influential chairman of the Frankfurt Jewish community; the American general consul; and the CIA agents. A state of diplomatic emergency was in effect; the demands of the Americans were unambiguous. They wanted Goldberg’s body without delay. From a legal standpoint, of course, no one from the delegation of German and American authorities had the right to interfere in an ongoing homicide investigation, but the interior minister had no interest in a scandal, especially not six months before the election. Barely two hours after Salomon Goldberg showed up, the case was in the hands of the NCP.
“I don’t understand anything anymore,” Nierhoff concluded in consternation. He had been pacing around his office but now stopped in front of Bodenstein. “What’s going on?”
Bodenstein had only one explanation for this unusual action on a Sunday morning at the crack of dawn: “At the autopsy yesterday, a tattoo was observed on the inside of Goldberg’s upper left arm that indicated he was formerly in the SS.”
Nierhoff froze, and his mouth almost fell open.
“But … but … that’s ridiculous,” he countered. “Goldberg was a survivor of the Holocaust. He was in Auschwitz and lost his whole family.”
“At least that was his cover story.” Bodenstein leaned back and crossed his legs. “But I have complete faith in Dr. Kirchhoff’s opinion. And it would explain why Goldberg’s son showed up with a whole entourage less than twenty-four hours after we discovered his father’s body. He wanted to prevent further investigations. Either the younger Goldberg or someone else has connections and an interest in making the mortal remains of his father disappear as quickly as possible. Goldberg’s secret had to stay secret. But we were faster.”
Nierhoff took a deep breath, then sat down behind his desk.
“Okay, I agree that you’re right,” he said after a moment. “But how could Goldberg’s son mobilize all these people so
“But he can’t just prohibit the investigations. That’s obstruction of justice!”
“No, it’s not,” Oliver said, putting his arm around Cosima’s shoulder. “It’s just politics. But the hell with it. Let’s go to bed; tomorrow’s another day. Maybe our little princess will let us get some sleep.”
Sunday, April 29
Chief Commissioner Nierhoff was worried—extremely so. Early Sunday morning, he got an unpleasant call from a high-ranking official in the National Criminal Police, who had given him strict orders to cease all investigations in the Goldberg case, effective immediately. Nierhoff wasn’t keen on bringing himself and his office under the spotlight of criticism because of political intrigues that might easily arise from the murder case, but he was also not happy about the way they had treated him. He called Bodenstein into his office and told the superintendent of the investigative team in confidence what had happened.
“Salomon Goldberg arrived this morning on the first flight from New York,” he said. “He demanded the immediate surrender of his father’s mortal remains.”
“From you?” Bodenstein asked, astounded.
“No.” Nierhoff shook his head indignantly. “Goldberg brought backup: two people from the CIA and the U.S. general consul all showed up at the office of the President of police. Of course he had no idea what it was all about, so he contacted the Interior Ministry and the NCP.”
The interior minister had dealt with the matter personally. Everyone convened at the Institute of Forensic Medicine: Nierhoff; a state secretary from the Interior Ministry; the Frankfurt police president; Professor Thomas Kronlage, head of the institute; two officers from the NCP; Salomon Goldberg, accompanied by the influential chairman of the Frankfurt Jewish community; the American general consul; and the CIA agents. A state of diplomatic emergency was in effect; the demands of the Americans were unambiguous. They wanted Goldberg’s body without delay. From a legal standpoint, of course, no one from the delegation of German and American authorities had the right to interfere in an ongoing homicide investigation, but the interior minister had no interest in a scandal, especially not six months before the election. Barely two hours after Salomon Goldberg showed up, the case was in the hands of the NCP.
“I don’t understand anything anymore,” Nierhoff concluded in consternation. He had been pacing around his office but now stopped in front of Bodenstein. “What’s going on?”
Bodenstein had only one explanation for this unusual action on a Sunday morning at the crack of dawn: “At the autopsy yesterday, a tattoo was observed on the inside of Goldberg’s upper left arm that indicated he was formerly in the SS.”
Nierhoff froze, and his mouth almost fell open.
“But … but … that’s ridiculous,” he countered. “Goldberg was a survivor of the Holocaust. He was in Auschwitz and lost his whole family.”
“At least that was his cover story.” Bodenstein leaned back and crossed his legs. “But I have complete faith in Dr. Kirchhoff’s opinion. And it would explain why Goldberg’s son showed up with a whole entourage less than twenty-four hours after we discovered his father’s body. He wanted to prevent further investigations. Either the younger Goldberg or someone else has connections and an interest in making the mortal remains of his father disappear as quickly as possible. Goldberg’s secret had to stay secret. But we were faster.”
Nierhoff took a deep breath, then sat down behind his desk.
“Okay, I agree that you’re right,” he said after a moment. “But how could Goldberg’s son mobilize all these people so
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