by Dion Baia
His muscles tensed and his body convulsed. He slowed, and a deep breath escaped his mouth. His eyes relaxed. Garland Crane was dead.
The suite door crashed open and Special Agent Helms and Agent Mathers rushed in, both men simultaneously taking in the carnage before them. They automatically aimed their handguns at Walter and began barking out orders.
“Hands in the air!” Helms screamed as loud as humanly possible.
“Don’t you fucking move, you fucking piece of shit!”
Walter threw his hands in the air.
Helms hurried over to Crane and checked his pulse, then began clearing the rooms.
Mathers grabbed the .38 in Walter’s hand, tossed it to the floor, and frisked him at gunpoint, turning him around and discovering the empty Colt .45 under his arm and the other empty .38 in his waistband Walt still had on him from the car. He threw both onto the carpet. Mathers shoved him to his knees and put his new automatic to the back of Walt’s head.
“So what now?” Walter asked over his shoulder. “Is a bullet to the back of the head gonna be my final exit?”
There was no response from either agent.
Finally, Helms spoke. “Okay. Let’s roll.”
Mathers holstered his gun, took out a long switchblade, and finished cutting Crane loose from the rest of his restraints. His body fell to the floor. Mathers took hold of Crane’s shoulders and started to drag him toward the adjoining bathroom.
“So are you guys the FBI?”
Helms holstered his shiny automatic and lit up a cigarette. “We’re not FBI, but close enough.”
He pulled over one of the overturned office chairs and sat down in front of Walter, who was still down on his knees. He took a deep breath and exhaled out. The plume of smoke engulfed the detective’s face. He jabbed his cigarette at Walter. “How much do you know about what’s going on? Really know?”
“I’m getting there. Kinda. Still finishing the four corners of the jigsaw,” Walter confessed in a slightly defeated tone.
“Well…” Helms took another drag and exhaled it as he went on, “…we’re under a time constraint now that victory has been declared in Europe. I’m Agent Ed Helms, and officially meet my partner, Agent Gene Mathers.”
Agent Mathers didn’t acknowledge the introduction, only continued his laborious task, sluggishly pulling Crane’s body into the enormous claw-foot tub in the bathroom near the staff’s small kitchen and dry bar. Once most of the body was physically in the tub, Mathers retrieved a small bottle from inside his suit jacket.
Helms pulled out a black-and-white photo from the inside of his single-breasted suit and held it out for Walter to see. It was a magnified picture of the man with the scarred eye, dressed in a Nazi SS uniform, photographed with a long telephoto lens somewhere in a forest. “You ever see this guy?”
Walter took a moment to figure out his response.
He heard a sizzle, like bacon going onto a hot grill, and glanced over at the bathroom. Mathers carefully finished pouring the bottle’s contents all over Crane’s face. Walter saw vapor from the acid escape and float into the air. Mathers delicately placed the bottle down onto the sink then methodically raised both of Crane’s hands so the fingers would touch the face, singeing the fingerprints.
Helms followed Walter’s gaze to the sounds of flesh burning and acid eating away at the skin. He looked back at Walter, who was still processing what he was seeing. “Okay, I’m done playing games. You ever see this guy?”
Walter looked at the photo in the agent’s hand. “I’ve seen him.” This was the mystery fella Walt last seen in The Creo Room basement and at the Icehouse, with the dead eyes.
Helms nodded and put the photo away. “His name is Oberscharführer Hans Von Stroheim, Nazi SS high command. For the past three years he’s been the behind-the-scenes overseer of the Auschwitz concentration camp. Which leads us to our next man.”
Helms pulled out a second photo and showed it to Walter. “Have you seen this man?”
There was a pause.
Walter’s brows furrowed. “I don’t think so.”
Helms took another long drag, held it deep in his lungs, then exhaled it out toward Walter. “You sure?”
“I’ve seen the backs of some people. But I reckon they were important people, sure. By how that Obermeister or whatever you just said, that Von Sto—”
“Stroheim.”
“Stroheim,” Walter continued. “Well, by how they all acted together, especially your man there, and how I saw him greet one guy in particular the other night.”
Helms appeared more interested than ever. “How about this guy? Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” The picture in his hand was a black-and-white photo of a dark-haired white man, probably in his early forties. “Does he look familiar?”
“He does not.”
Helms put the picture back into his pocket. “Have you ever heard anyone refer to someone as the ‘Angel of Death,’ Mister Morris?”
Mathers exited the bathroom carrying a large, sleek art-deco trash canister, and placed it in the middle of the floor. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to systematically wipe down various areas with one hand, spraying a substance from a spray bottle in his other hand on fabric and plastic surfaces, which instantly began breaking down the topical area of the material it landed on. Mathers scanned the room, and anything that could be classified as evidence, he threw into the trash can.
Walt watched Mathers tending to his various tasks with a curious fascination. All the while, Helms didn’t break eye contact with Walter.
“I have not,” Walt said.
“The man in that last photo is Doctor Josef Mengele, head doctor of the Auschwitz concentration camp. These are the men we have to find before it’s too late.”
That made Walter break his concentration and look back at Helms. “What do you mean ‘before it’s too late’?”
Helms stared at Walter intently. “Mister Morris, what hasn’t been released to the public yet is what the Krauts have been doing at these camps. It’s only beginning to be disseminated in the public square.”
Mathers threw papers from Crane’s briefcase into the canister then tossed in some liquor from the dry bar, lit a match, and everything went up in a flash.
“What do you mean?” Walter asked.
Helms was contemplating if he should continue when Mathers walked up to them. “We can’t stay here.”
Agent Helms took his eyes off Walter and looked over at where Agent Mathers was standing. “Agreed.”
They both stared at Walter.
He looked between the two. “Can I get up now?”
Chapter 21
LAYING IT ALL OUT
Helms drove uptown at an incredible rate of speed, using the car’s deafening siren to deter the crowds and move the stagnant vehicles out of their way. Walter rode shotgun, while Mathers sat in the back seat. They quickly made some much-needed distance between themselves and the throngs of revelers in Times Square.
Once traffic had eased, Helms continued on with the discussion from Hayden’s office. “They organized a mass deportation of the Jewish population, sending them to the concentration and work camps they set up in Dachau, in the hills of Mauthausen, and Buchenwald. But what about the Jews who couldn’t be used as workers?”
Helms glanced in the rearview mirror at Mathers, who picked up the conversation. “At first they would put a bullet in the base of the neck and throw them in a ditch. But soon this became a waste of a much-needed bullet.”
Helms looked at the private detective.
“Jesus Christ,” Walter muttered.
Mathers nodded. “The deportees were coming in from all over Europe. They arrived in groups by train, up to six hundred at a time. Sometimes they’d get up to a dozen transports a day.” Mathers dug a photo of Von Stroheim from his inside breas
t pocket and handed it to Walter, whose expression was betraying his interest in the agent’s information. Mathers pointed at the picture. “This Von Stroheim that we’re looking for, he spearheaded the next step.” Mathers exhaled deeply. “Large buildings were specially developed; they housed several gas chambers and were connected to crematoriums.”
Helms jumped in. “They told them they were cleaning and disinfecting them for lice or fleas after their long journey. Sometimes, while they waited to enter the buildings, they would play music to keep the atmosphere relaxed.”
Helms took his eyes off the road and looked directly at Walter.
“Once they undressed, the prisoners were locked in the chamber and gassed with Zyklon B, a cyanide-based pesticide. Afterward, the bodies were cremated in a furnace. We’re told they averaged,” the agent took a breath to make sure any level of emotion he felt didn’t unconsciously make his voice alter or crack, “…around three hundred at a time. Their best day was nine thousand, from one single furnace.”
About ten seconds of silence followed with the vehicle’s cabin. He then continued. “Herr Stroheim ran the entire show flawlessly. His very own assembly line.”
Mathers picked up where Helms left off. “Those chimneys,” he looked over to Walt to make sure they made eye contact, “…they burned bright in the Birkenau sky for three whole years, Mister Morris.” He emphasized the syllables in the words. “Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.” He placed the photo back inside his pocket, a bitterness and wave of frustration passed over his face.
Walter looked out at the night sky. “My God.” It was too much for him to process. If everything they were saying was true, all on the level…it was just too much to even comprehend. This whole conversation disturbed Walter on a guttural level that made him dizzy in the head and emotional.
Helms handed him another picture. “Doctor Josef Mengele there, he would force those he deemed healthy enough to work in appalling conditions manufacturing supplies for the war. He also picked the ones he deemed to be unworthy of life, like the old and the frail, the sick, even women with young children, the people who wouldn’t separate…he was the one that sent them to the chamber.” Helms tapped the photograph. “He was the crematorium’s chief provider.”
Walter looked away from the photo in disgust, nausea weighing heavily in his stomach.
“We have it on good authority that he’s hiding out here in the city,” Mathers went on. “We need to get this guy. This lunatic did medical experiments on the mentally ill, on women, children, and babies, all without any kind of anesthetic. He chose who would live and who would die.”
“That’s why they refer to him as The Angel of Death,” Helms chimed in. “Always dressed in white, he personally chose from the tens of thousands getting off the trains who would be sent to the chamber and gassed.”
Dressed in white… Walter frowned. The man Stroheim had greeted so eagerly at Icehouse #4 was dressed impeccably in white.
“The ones who made it through the initial selection, the average prisoner,” said Helms, “we’re told they only lasted about twelve weeks.”
There was a long, reflective silence within the sedan. Walter decided to keep the knowledge of the doctor to himself for now; after all, these were the same men who’d roughed him up just a few nights ago. But there was something he was curious about. “What are the totten core?”
Helms slammed on the brakes. Mathers and Walter rushed to brace themselves, both holding out their hands to grab the nearest surface. The cars behind them honked their horns and Helms pulled the vehicle over to the side. He turned to Walt. “Where did you hear that?”
Walter wasn’t sure what to say. Should he trust them and lay all his cards out on the table?
After a short moment of Helms not getting an answer, he started the car and drove off in a different direction than the one they had been traveling.
“Wait, where are we going?” Walter asked.
Mathers looked at Helms through the rearview mirror and raised an eyebrow.
“We’re taking you to the tombs,” Helms replied. “Central booking. We need to find these guys and we need to find them tonight.”
That got Walter’s attention. “How is putting me in there gonna help you find them?”
“One less prick we need to worry about poking the barrel.” Helms shrugged without looking over at Walt. “No offense.”
Walter twisted around to see Mathers, who nodded. “And we need to debrief you as soon as possible.”
Feeling defeated, Walt turned to gaze out of the passenger window hoping to come up with some kind of plan. He sighed. “I guess I’m sorry, then.”
Helms didn’t take his eyes off the road when he asked, “Sorry for what?”
With a confident smirk on his face, Walter beckoned with his finger for Mathers to come closer and indicated down at his shoe. Mathers, looking bewildered, unconsciously moved closer, peering over the front seat to see what Walter was pointing at. Walt leaned forward as though he was grabbing something from his foot, which didn’t alarm the agents as they knew he wasn’t packing a heater since they’d already patted him down back at the hotel.
He crouched down as low as he could then shot up like a spring, smashing his head hard into Mathers’ face, while simultaneously slamming his left elbow into Helms’ temple. The car swerved abruptly and skidded along the street. It clipped a double-parked delivery truck before bouncing off of a Packard’s fender and darting to the right, where it started to slow down. Walter turned around just as Mathers was reaching for him and punched him square in his already swelling face, sending the agent flying back against the seat.
Helms cranked the wheel hard after clipping a Ford cab-over-engine truck, but he overcompensated and the sedan came to a stop in between two parked cars. Walter immediately kicked the door open and leapt out. He hurried down the street as fast as he could and disappeared around the corner. Helms and Mathers exited the car and tried to give chase. They turned the street just in time to see Walter stepping up on a park bench to jump up to and leap over the stone wall into Central Park.
Mathers drew his service revolver and took aim at Walter while he was mid-air over the wall.
Helms quickly pulled his arm down, stopping him. “What! Are you crazy?! We’re on a crowded city street!” he screamed at his younger, hotheaded partner.
Mathers sneered at Helms and threw his arms up in defeat. “I’m sorry…I guess I’m not thinking clearly, seeing how I was just hit in the goddamn head. Twice.”
The two glared at each other in frustration.
Walter came upon a trail in the park and followed it as far as he could before it closed due to playground construction. He leaped over the fence and cut through the center of the construction site before getting back out onto the street. He ducked into the first “five and dime” he could find, a Schwab’s Pharmacy. He passed the counter and hurried down the main aisle to get to the back, where luckily the telephone booth stood empty. He closed the door, leaving a small gap so the light overhead wouldn’t engage and he could have a moment alone in the dark, where he was safe enough to think.
When a stab of pain lanced his side, Walt took out a small bottle of pills from his inside pocket marked “Pervitin,” swallowing a couple dry, praying Zipper and Gray Matter’s magical glue lived up to its expectations. He settled back in the small seat and closed his eyes. He needed to clear his mind, to relax and get thoughts of his little brother and a million other things out of his head. He already felt the medicine coursing through his veins; it was beginning to work. And now that his head was starting to clear, he needed to formulate a plan.
Laszlo.
Walt needed to get to Laszlo. He knew he could break him; he just needed to apply the right amount of pressure and do it now before it became too late. He’d be performing at The Creo Room tonight. And Walt knew exactly how to ge
t in there to see him.
He picked up the receiver, pressing his finger down on the cradle a few times to get an open line. “Operator? Yes, Alexander, 4444. Thank you….” A long pause of silence passed and Walt kept his fingers crossed. “C’mon, Bugs…be in New York,” he muttered.
He listened to the soda jerk up front in the pharmacy flirt with a young girl over a banana split. He closed his eyes and saw Crane’s face and his shiny white cheekbone, looking back at him in the darkness. Walter’s eyes shot open and he exhaled with disgust.
A connection was made and a voice came across the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
“Bugs? It’s Walter!” A huge smile spread across his face. “Yeah, I’m good, listen, I need a huge freakin’ favor….”
Chapter 22
THE CREO ROOM TAKE II
Harlem was bursting tonight. The nightclubs and restaurants were popping, practically jam-packed with crowds and lovesick couples out looking to have a good time celebrating the end of the war in Europe.
Walter stepped out of a 1942 Cadillac touring car with his friend from the old neighborhood, Bugs Morganfield, one of bebop’s premiere saxophone players. The detective adjusted the silver Colt 1911 .45 automatic holstered under his shoulder and straightened his tie. He had stopped by his office to change and borrow a handgun from Jacob’s desk. Bugs retrieved his horn case and locked the car, and the two crossed the street, headed for The Creo Room.
Walter buttoned up his suit jacket and said to his friend, “Thanks again for meeting me on such short notice, and for driving.”
Bugs grinned. “No problem, you’re lucky I wasn’t going to Louisville. I wanted to stay and celebrate VE day in the city of my birth.” He gestured to the bruises on Walter’s cheek. “So, your last visit to this place musta really been fun.”
“This?” Walter laughed. “Naw, a friend of mine wants to break into the field of facial reconstruction.”