by Thomas Amo
"Do you hear that?"
"Yeah. Maybe someone left a television on," said Kirkland. Standing in the center of the living room James looked across into the bedroom where Valerie's dead body seemed to be looking back at him. Calling to him as he stepped into the room, James said, "At this point, Mike nothing is going to surprise me. Looking down at Valerie's dead, naked body, he tried to imagine what the killer was trying to tell him. Something instantly came to his mind. "Mike, you think Kritzler did this to her before he was killed?" Joining James in the bedroom, Kirkland looked down at her.
"It is certainly possible, which of course if he's our man, then that means his death is a suicide."
"You cut off your own dick, get your electrical cord tied around your neck and your hands behind your back bound with barbwire?"
"I've seen crazier shit, Tom."
"Something's missing."
"That noise, it's louder in here," said Kirkland as he listened for the clattering and chanting. "If I didn't know better I'd say it was coming from the closet," he said removing his gun and crossing to the door. Slowly pulling it open the two men could hear the clattering and chanting much more clearly now. Confused they stared at each other.
"Seig heil! Seig heil! SEIG HEIL!"
The sounds of the crowd chanting their loyalty to Hitler filled the room. The voices of what was clearly a group of men were firm, steady and filled with purpose. A mighty cheer that rivaled the sound of a sporting event resonated through the crowd. These were men who had loyally confirmed their vow to serve the most evil man in the twentieth century.
James looked at Kirkland to be certain he wasn't the only one who was hearing the voices. Kirkland nodded that he too was hearing the Nazi propaganda. Stepping closer to the closet they could hear the voice of Adolph Hitler speaking with great authority as he took the stage. A hollow clattering sounds accompanied his voice.
"What was that noise?"
The closet smelled of old clothes. Dust and the faint scent of almonds filled their nostrils. Looking up James saw a small chain attached to a light bulb dangling in front of him. He pulled it and closet came to life. Pushing the clothes to the right side, revealed a second coupler that held the hanger pole in place. "What have we here?" said James as he pointed the strange find to Kirkland. James lifted the pole and placed it into the coupler that was higher, causing the pole to be lop-sided.
Looking back to the left wall James saw the reflection of hinges. It was a false wall. James pressed his ear to the wall in the tiny cramped closet. The sounds of Hitler and the clattering were coming from the other side. Pushing the wall, it easily creaked open.
"Oh man Mike, it's a fucking crawlspace," he said, reaching toward his hip and getting a grip on his pistol, it gave him a small amount of relief and restored his confidence to continue on. Squeezing through the small opening followed by Kirkland, they both found themselves in the place where Hermann Kritzler truly lived. The room was long and narrow, only about three and half feet wide, but easily 12 to 15 feet deep. At the very end facing James was a banner of a swastika, which stretched the full length of the wall. At the bottom of the swastika banner was an old gray military trunk. Each sidewall sported framed photos of Hitler and other high-ranking Nazi officials. James saw that behind himself, the room went the nearly the same distance, however that wall was obscured by the flickering image of Hitler. The clattering noise now made sense—It was a film projector. The light from the projector lamp gave that side of the room a strobe effect. But who the hell turned it on, wondered James as he switched it off.
A folding chair sat in front of the projector with a makeshift sheet serving as a movie screen. You couldn't let it go, could you Hermann? You had to have a place where you could still be Hermann Kritzler the Nazi. So you built yourself a little shrine where you could keep worshipping Hitler. You sat right there in that chair watching your films, remembering the good old days. James thought.
Kirkland shook his head in disgust as he looked around the crawlspace and took in the propaganda— the swastika banner, photos and Nazi treasures hidden away by Kritzler "How does this happen, Tom? How does a guy like this manage to avoid justice, live right under our noses, collect social security?" questioned Kirkland.
"He gets a job where he's invisible. I mean who pays attention to a guy who pushes a broom?"
Kirkland angrily turned away and kicked the film projector. It rocked and fell over ripping the sheet exposing a secret exit. Kirkland looked up behind the projector. "Up there Tom, see the make-shift ladder? That's the opening to the airshafts. That's where he got in and out."
James looked and could see the homemade ladder rising up to the ceiling. A crude hole had been cut into the air duct. A hole that was just large enough for a man to crawl through.
"I'm going up to have a look," said Kirkland.
"Be careful will ya? I'll have a look down here," said James as he turned back to the trunk, making his way back to the crawlspace. The framed photos on the wall gave him the chills. There was a young Hermann Kritzler shaking hands with Hitler. Next to that photo was another of him sitting and laughing with Himmler and Heydrich in an outside cafe.
"How's it going? You see anything up there?" inquired James.
"Not so far. But I'm also trying to not break my neck by falling off this rickety ladder. What about you? Anything of interest?"
"Well, from the photos on the wall, Herr Kritzler it seems was a member of the inner circle. There's pictures of him down here with Hitler and Himmler."
Reaching the trunk, James knelt down and opened it. Inside were several more photos as well as a small swastika flag wrapped around something solid and square. Pulling the swastika off, it revealed an old metal box. James gently opened it. Inside was a photo of Kritzler and another SS soldier. Kritzler was proudly holding up some kind of old hammer. He turned the photo over to the back, which simply read, Afrika 1941.
Underneath the photo was a small can of film marked,
"Der Platz, in dem Engel nicht treten." James tried to make out the old German writing, but it was no use. He would have to have it translated. Then he remembered Dr. Roberts would know. Flipping open his cell phone he scrolled down until he found the pathologists phone number. He pressed send and while waiting for an answer continued examining the remaining contents of the trunk. Under the film can was Kritzler's SS uniform along with a black gas mask. Holding it up, it suddenly made sense to him.
The Pig Man, he said to himself in a matter of fact tone. Lawrence Roberts answered on the other end.
"This is Lawrence," he said curtly.
"Dr. Roberts, it's Thomas James. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm at the crime scene in The Aleris Hotel. Seems our Nazi was living in the famous Fatty Arbuckle suite."
"No kidding," said the doctor in an annoyed tone.
"Anyway, there's a lot of Nazi paraphernalia here, including a film can with some German writing on it. I was wondering if you spoke any German and could translate it?" James could hear a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "Okay, what is it?"
"You have to bear with me, because it's in old German script, you know what I'm just going to spell it for you," said James as he slowly spelled out the unknown language to Roberts.
"That should be it."
"Hold on, I'm writing it down." There was a long silence on the line. Long enough for James to think the call had been dropped.
"Doc? You still there?"
"Yes."
"Were you able to figure out what it says?"
"You're sure that's all the letters? There's nothing else?" quizzed the doctor. James looked at the film can again, top and bottom, nothing other than the sticker on the face of the can.
"That's it, can you tell me what it says?" After another long pause, Roberts finally spoke.
"It says, 'The place in which Angels will not Tread.' "
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Place Where Angels Will Not Tread
James silently stared
at the film can. He ran the words that Lawrence translated for him over and over in his mind. The place in which angels will not tread? What can that mean? he wondered, slipping the film canister into his coat pocket. Looking up to the airshaft, James called to Kirkland, "Well what's the verdict, Mike? Can you see anything up there?"
"There's something it's just around the corner, but I can't tell from here. I'm going to have to get inside this thing to find out," he said as the airshaft began to groan from his weight against it.
"Doesn't sound too safe Mike, maybe we should wait."
"No, I just need to climb in a few feet. What ever it is, it's just around the corner, Tom," said Kirkland as he tried to hoist himself up inside the shaft. Once again the metal groaned a defiant warning.
"Hold the ladder would you?" asked Kirkland as he once again tried to lift himself inside. Holding the ladder in place James looked up and could see the securing brackets slipping as dust began to billow down from the ceiling.
"Hurry up Mike, before this thing comes crashing down and kills both of us," said James watching Kirkland slip inside the airshaft and disappear. The sounds of his knees hitting the air shaft was similar to a heartbeat, with each crawl came a thump against the metal followed by the recoiling of the shaft itself.
"It's another ladder, looks like it leads up to a hatch of some sort," Kirkland called back to James.
"Anything else?"
"Yeah, there's some kind of pale blue looking granules all over the place. Looks like rat poison," said Kirkland as he made his way from the shaft to the ladder.
"I'm going up Tom," he said as he climbed up the ladder and to the attic roof hatch.
"Keep your radio on, Mike," James yelled up to him.
"Way ahead of you," he said adjusting his radio volume then reached up and slid the old bolt lock to the side. Kirkland then pushed open the hatch door and looked inside.
"You see anything?" called James.
"Yeah, there's another room up here. It's huge. Looks like it runs the length of this part of the hotel. God it smells like stale almonds up here, too," he said climbing through the hatchway door and into the attic loft.
James turned and walked back to the trunk and started sorting through the rest of Hermann Kritzler's Nazi treasures again. There were more photo albums and different types of female costume type jewelry.
Kirkland pulled his pocket flashlight and clicked it. The small beam of light revealed a large looming mass in the middle of the loft. Standing up, Kirkland made his way over to it. Looking up he could see it nearly touched the ceiling, which had to be at least 15 feet above him.
"What the hell is that?" he asked himself as he closed in. He could now see it was covered by a tarp. As he stepped closer his foot kicked an empty metal tin, which startled him, then rolled away. Just as he reached the tarp covered mass, his flashlight died.
As James searched through the trunk he found a large black photo album. Slowly he pulled the cover back and the album creaked announcing its age. On the first page James saw several black and white photos. From years of watching television, Hollywood movies and growing up post World War II, he knew exactly what these photos were. They were pictures of holocaust victims, mostly young girls in various stages of undress and abuse. These photos appeared to be slightly different from the ones seen so often on the History Channel. These pictures appeared to be much more personal. The kind you take when you want to capture a memory forever.
Looking down to the bottom of the page James saw a photo of Kritzler standing proudly next to another Nazi and a blonde female guard, a woman who had the most intense eyes he had ever seen. The girl was showing a slight smirk as she rested her arm on Kritzler's shoulder. Kritzler himself was mugging to the camera as the taller Nazi smiled a smile that betrayed his uniform. Under the photo was scribbled in faded black ink. "Mengele, Hermann, und mein Irma–Auschwitz 1943"
"Irma Grese and Joseph Mengle," whispered James. "Just like Lawrence said."
"Come on!" said Kirkland shaking the flashlight in a vain attempt to extract some final life out of the exhausted batteries. Reaching into his pants pocket he found his Zippo lighter. Clicking the lid and striking the spark actuator the flame came to life. As he held the firelight close to the mass he could see it was boxes and crates covered by the tarps. Lifting the tarp up Kirkland saw there was writing on the side of the crates. Placing his lighter close enough for him to read the writing on one of the crates it was clear to him that what was printed on the side of it was not English. Is that German writing? he wondered.
James turned to the next page. This one was marked with a note in a space that allowed for the album owner to record the events of the photographs. It was in German and read, Sommer Der Leib 1967. James looked long and hard at the words. Slowly he said the words aloud, sounding it out like someone just learning to read. "So mer, so mer...Der?...there? Sommer there? Leib? Wait doesn't leib mean love?" he said to himself. Then suddenly like an arrow between the eyes he said it aloud. "Summer of love!" Looking down, James saw several photos of young girls all in their late teens or early twenties. Next to each photo was a lock of hair taped to the page. On the opposite page was Kritzler in his uniform kneeling down posing next to an open furnace.
"Mother of God," whispered James to himself as saw Kritzler in his element. Right here under our very noses. But who took the picture? wondered James as he flipped the pages, each page showed more girls and the years going by. The last page was marked with the year 2011. James's radio beeped again causing him to jump.
"Tom, it's Bobby, we need you down here."
"Are Jessalee and the little girl okay?" James replied.
"Yeah, they're fine, Jessa took her to the hospital. I'm down in the basement. We found something."
"What do you mean you found something? Found what?"
"We found one of the hotels old incinerators."
"Is it full of human bones?"
"Yeah. Oh my God, how did you know?"
"I'm coming down."
Slowly and methodically Kirkland stepped around the crates, his lighter had gone out. He now had to feel his way. He also realized he was now into what was rapidly becoming a maze of towering crates. His foot kicked more and more empty cans. He could hear in the darkness those cans colliding with other empty cans as they rolled in all directions around the room. His next step caused him to slip on one of the empty tins and fall face first onto the dust-covered floor.
"Shit!" he cursed as he heard the tin rolling away from him and drop down through the attic hatch. Seconds later there was a loud clang as it landed below.
James looked up at the sound. What the hell was that? he wondered. "Mike is that you?" Only the sound of the escaped tin can answered James as it continued to roll until it reached the open spot on the airshaft and dropped to the floor below. James stood up as the tin stopped just short of his feet.
Kirkland struggled in the dark until he found his Zippo and flicked it once more for light. As he lay face down, he could see one of the cans he had been kicking and slipping on. It was right side up and the writing, which was bold and black, was in German. Kirkland knew exactly what this was, and what it was used for. He swallowed hard as he read the words.
James reached down and picked the tin up. Reading the side of it his face became flushed with horror, this was a German word he didn't need translating. There in bold letters the tin read, "Zyklon B".
James pulled his radio from his hip and called Kirkland. "Mike what's going on up there? You okay?"
Kirkland slowly stood up realizing the horror that surrounded him. Cases and crates full of Zyklon B filled the attic. His radio beeped again. "Mike, answer me. Mike if you don't answer I'm coming up."
Kirkland took his radio out and answered. "Tom, don't come up! You've got to get out of here and now."
"What is it, Mike?"
"The attic, it's full of cases and crates of Zyklon B, and I'm standing in the middle of it all. There must be thou
sands of crates up here."
James froze as he stared into the radio. Looking at the empty tin James's body shook with fear as it all now made sense.
"That's what Kritzler was doing in the airshafts at night. Crawling around placing these cans near the open vents of the rooms. He's turned the hotel into a 27 floor gas chamber."
James clicked his radio. "Mike, don't move! I'm calling for help! Steve Vermillion, come in." Seconds later James's radio beeped an answer.
"This is Vermillion."
"Steve, it's Thomas James."
"Yeah Tom, what have you got?"
"It's Zyklon B, Steve! That's what we're dealing with!"
"Are you sure?"
"It's everywhere! It's in all the ventilation shafts. We need you up here right away. Detective Kirkland is trapped in the hotel attic surrounded by it!" said James.
"Oh Jesus. You better be careful handling that, it's not only lethal on contact, but it's explosive anywhere near fire! Jake and I are on our way up!" replied Steve.
Kirkland flicked his lighter again, but to no avail. It had already exhausted all the fuel. He would have to save what little he had left to get himself to another door or wall and out of this maze of crates. His radio beeped. Reaching for it in the darkness it fell from his holster. "Son of a bitch!"
"Mike, hang on I'm coming up!" said James. Kirkland could hear the sounds of James crawling up the ladder to make his way inside the airshaft. Kirkland put his hands out straight as he tried to find his way in the darkness. Suddenly he felt as if he was in open space. Throwing his hands back and forth he slowly staggered across the cavernous attic of The Aleris Hotel. Once more he tried his lighter. For a brief moment there was enough light for him to see a wall straight ahead of him with some writing on it. It looked like an exit. He couldn't make out the words as his light was now completely burned out. Reaching the wall, Kirkland gave a sigh of relief and rested his face against what felt like cold metal bars. He then could hear the rustling of another person.