Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(88)

“Well?” he asked. Kr?ger handed him the dead man’s briefcase. Bodenstein took out the ID and stared at it. He read the name a second time. Could it be a coincidence?

* * *



The head doctor of the psychiatric ward had informed Kirchhoff about Thies Terlinden’s condition in as much detail as her oath of confidentiality allowed. Now Pia was even more curious to see the man. She knew that she shouldn’t expect too much. The doctor had said that Thies probably wouldn’t answer her questions at all. For quite a while Pia observed the patient through the window in the door. Thies Terlinden was an extremely good-looking young man with thick blond hair and a sensitive mouth. It was impossible to tell by looking at him what sort of demons he struggled with. Only his paintings revealed something of his internal torments. He was sitting at a table in a bright, cheery room, all of his attention focused on what he was drawing. Although he had calmed down under the influence of the medications, he wasn’t allowed any sharp implements such as pencils or paintbrushes, so he had to settle for crayons, which didn’t seem to bother him. He didn’t look up when Pia entered the room, accompanied by the doctor and an orderly. The doctor introduced Pia and explained to him why she was here, saying that she wanted to talk with him. Thies bent farther over his picture, then leaned back abruptly and set the crayon on the table. The colorful crayons weren’t lying helter-skelter; he had lined them up precisely like soldiers at roll call. Pia sat down on a chair across from him.

“I didn’t do anything to Amelie,” he said in a strange, monotone voice before Pia could say a word. “I swear. I didn’t do anything, do anything.”

“Nobody is saying that you did,” Pia replied in a friendly voice.

Thies’s hands were fluttering uncontrollably, and he was rocking his upper body back and forth. His gaze was fixed on the picture lying before him.

“You like Amelie a lot, and she visited you often, isn’t that right?”

He nodded vehemently.

“I took care of her. Took care of her.”

Pia exchanged a glance with the doctor, who had sat down a short distance away. Thies again grabbed a crayon, bent over the picture, and continued drawing. There was silence in the room. Pia thought about what question to ask next. The doctor had advised her to speak normally to Thies, not as if to a child. But that turned out not to be so easy.

“When did you see Amelie the last time?”

He didn’t react, but kept drawing as if possessed, changing to a different crayon.

“What did you and Amelie talk about?”

This was completely different from a normal interview. Thies’s face revealed nothing; his expression was as rigid as a marble statue. He didn’t answer any questions, so Pia asked him no more. The minutes went by. Time meant nothing to autistic patients, the doctor had explained to Pia. They lived in their own world. Patience was required. But at eleven o’clock the funeral for Laura Wagner was being held at the cemetery in Altenhain, and she wanted to meet Bodenstein there. When she got up, disappointed, and was about to leave, Thies suddenly spoke.

“I saw her that evening, from the eagle’s nest.” He spoke in clear and distinct sentences that were grammatical and correct. Only the melody of the sentences was lacking, a result of his robotic delivery. “She was standing in the barnyard near the barn. I wanted to call out to her, but then … the man came. They talked and laughed and went into the barn so nobody could see what they were doing. But I saw it.”

Pia cast a bewildered look at the doctor, who merely shrugged, uncomprehending. Barn? Eagle’s nest? And what man had Thies seen?

“I can’t talk about it,” he went on, “or else they’ll put me in a home. And I’ll have to stay there till I die.”

Suddenly he raised his head and looked at her with bright blue eyes, as desperate as a figure in the paintings in Dr. Lauterbach’s office.

“I can’t talk about it,” he repeated. “Can’t talk about it. Or they’ll put me in a home.” He pushed the picture he had drawn over to Pia. “Can’t talk. Can’t talk.”

She looked at the picture and gave a shudder. A girl with long dark hair. A man running away. Another man bashing in the head of the dark-haired girl with a cross.

“That isn’t Amelie, is it?” Pia asked softly.

“Can’t talk,” he whispered hoarsely. “Can’t talk. Only draw.”

Pia’s heart beat faster as she grasped what Thies was trying to tell her. Somebody had forbidden him to talk about what he had seen. He wasn’t talking about Amelie. And the picture didn’t show Amelie either, but Stefanie Schneeberger and her murderer.

Thies had turned away from her again, grabbed a crayon, and was raptly drawing a new picture. It seemed as though he had withdrawn completely now. His features were still tense, but he had stopped rocking back and forth. Slowly Pia realized what this young man had been through in recent years. Someone had put pressure on him and threatened him so that he wouldn’t tell anyone what he had seen eleven years ago. But who had done that? Suddenly she also realized what danger Thies Terlinden was in if that person found out what he had just told the police. To protect him she had to pretend, even to the doctor, that it was completely irrelevant.

“Oh well,” she said. “Thanks a lot, at any rate.” She got up, and the doctor and orderly did too.