The Last Witness

by Jerry Amernic

  Hodgson was staring Jack in the eye.

  “I saw it and I smelled it,” Jack said. “Every day. That’s what happened to all those people from Lodz … and Kalisz … and Kutno … and Lask … and Poznan … and Warta … and Zgierz … and Klodawa … and Chodecz … and everywhere else on that list of yours.”

  Hodgson checked the list again. “What was that last one you said?”

  “Chodecz.”

  “You’re right. Here it is. They’re all here.”

  “You know nothing about this, do you?” said Jack.

  “About this?”

  “You never learned about it in school? When you were a boy?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “And you’re an American. A New Yorker.”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is exactly what Christine has been fighting all these years.”

  Hodgson had the envelope on its edge. It sat on his lap, his big hands going up and down the sides. Up and down. Up and down. “What I don’t understand is why,” he said. “Why did they want to kill all those Jews? For what possible reason? What did they stand to gain from it?”

  “You mean the Nazis?”

  Hodgson nodded.

  “Lieutenant, what do you know about Nazis? And Hitler? What do you know about him?”

  “What I know …” Hodgson said more to himself than to Jack, “is from old movies. At least, those that went digital. But they were just movies.”

  “The Nazis were a lot more than movies.”

  “But that still doesn’t tell me why. Why did they do it?”

  “Lieutenant Hodgson, can I tell you something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think you’re a nice man. A decent man. But you are the victim of an ignorant people.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ignorant people. Americans … Westerners … people all over the world. They are ignorant. We have a whole generation of people who know nothing about the human condition and that’s the danger. That’s why it can happen again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean people don’t know and what’s worse they don’t even want to know.”

  “They don’t want to know what?”

  “The truth.”

  Hodgson eased his huge frame back into the chair.

  “Lieutenant Hodgson,” said Jack, “you’re a police officer and I’m sure you’ve probably seen a lot of bad things in your day.”

  “I have.”

  “Do you ever ask yourself why these things happened?”

  “All the time.”

  “Now you know how I’ve lived my life for the past ninety-five years.”

  22

  Colton Brock was six-four and 245 pounds. Chiselled. They called him Coal and it fit. He was all rock and no emotion except for rage, and it came in a torrent. When he fought on the street, it was in blue jeans and black boots that were laced up his shin. The boots were heavy and did a lot of damage, especially the way he kicked with those steel-pipe legs built through merciless hours in the gym. But in the ring he was bare-chested and barefoot, and he wore shorts. Money was at stake and they wanted to see what he looked like – the sculpted torso, the rippling arms, the tapered back, and those two pillars of muscle that he stood on. If he had boots in the ring, the bouts would have been over much faster. A flurry of jabs and uppercuts and the odd roundhouse with his right would soften his opponent and prepare for the final blow, more often than not a well-placed kick to the side of the head. Coal had cracked more than one skull that way. The boots – jackboots – were perfect for it, but in the ring there were rules; an open battle was waged within the confines of a prescribed space, the only weapons your hands and feet and any other part of the body you want to risk. No three-minute rounds or anything like that. It was a brawl, but organized. Structure but not too much structure. Coal preferred fighting in the street where there were no rules at all, but you couldn’t make a living there. One did carve a reputation, however.

  His opponent today was of similar size, two raw specimens in the super heavyweight division about to battle, and there was great anticipation leading up to the match. Both men were undefeated, and large sums of money were wagered. Coal was the favorite, but at 3-2 not by much, and he was surprised with the odds because he had little respect for this man. He had never fought anybody good, not really good like Coal, who for two years now had been destroying everyone they threw at him. The fight was held in an intimate arena for 1,000 people who forked over money to witness the spectacle of two professional fighting men pulverizing each other. Before things got regulated, the bouts were illicit affairs in an abandoned warehouse in the Jersey backwoods. But that attracted organized crime, so they opened it up with official sanction. As headliners for the night, Coal and his opponent would each take home a handsome stipend, the winner a little extra. There was no referee. Only an announcer.

  The bell sounded and it started like a boxing match with the two behemoths sizing each other up, feigning moves to one side and then the other. But their hands were bare, not even taped, open and constantly circling in front of their bodies. Their feet never stopping. Their brains strategizing about what to do next. And, of course, they could use their legs, too.

  Coal knew this man liked to begin with his right, either a punch or a kick. It could be high or it could be low and if he did lead with his right, a punch or a kick, it might be a fake to set up with his left. Then again, maybe not. Coal allowed this to go on for a minute or two, waiting for his chance. He waited and waited, and then the man made his move. He leaned to his left and brought his right arm back to deliver an uppercut, but Coal saw how he planted his left foot on the mat, bracing himself for a kick. Not an uppercut. Coal knew what was coming. He swerved his head to the side and the big foot came up high just off his ear. No contact. Not even close. Now the man was off balance. He had just lunged full force with his right leg, hit air and had to come down for a landing. And he did. All his weight was on his right foot, his other foot far to the side.

  It meant there was an opening.

  Coal jammed his knee into the unprotected groin and the man went limp, but before he hit the mat, Coal hit him again. Twice. He delivered a one-two exchange, first with his right fist flush in the face, and then the follow-through with his left into the abdomen. Boom! Boom! One knee, two blows, and it was all over. But no. As Coal backed away to a corner, the man ordered his body to climb up off the mat, and he staggered to his feet. That was the trouble with big men. They didn’t know when to stay down. You had to destroy them physically and if that wasn’t enough then destroy their will. Coal looked at him. He was reeling, his head teetering, his arms hanging weak at his sides. A simple jab would put him away now, but all these people had paid good money to watch the match and it was going to be over quickly. Too quickly. Coal the showman decided to give them what they wanted.

  He sniffed. Heavy. A bull ready to charge. Pushing off the ropes in the corner, he was three steps into his run when he leapt from his left foot and then led with his right shoulder into a 360-degree turn. His ripped body twirling backwards in mid-air. Coming out of the turn, he unleashed a ferocious, flying kick at precisely the right moment. His naked foot was a guided missile and it struck its target. The side of the head. There was a wicked smack and the air sapped from the man’s lungs like a balloon just pricked. He went down. A pool of blood and fragments of teeth were on the floor beside him.

  “Winner of the match. Colton ‘Coal’ Brock!”

  It was a good night’s take, but to Coal the money wasn’t for a few minutes of action. It was for two years of fighting without a single loss. It was for all those scrapes in the street where he earned his mettle. It was for forty weeks as a Navy Seal, which taught him everything there was to learn about underwater demolition, close-quarters combat, land warfare and firearms. Coal was a natural swimmer and this was the perfect career for him. It was the first time he had ever found any
thing that satisfied him physically as well as mentally.

  He had left school early only to get into trouble with the law. Nothing major. Petty thefts, a few fights. He was young and couldn’t get his mind wrapped around anything useful, at least, not until the Navy Seals. They made him complete. They made him a force. But two months short of completing the program, he had killed a man with a kick to the head in training. He wasn’t supposed to hit him that hard, but he did and the man, just a kid really, went into a coma and never recovered. It was an accident. To make matters worse, his victim was black – a boy of eighteen. Coal was red-flagged as a crazy who couldn’t control himself. He was released and no charges were laid. Now what to do? He was a fighting machine and the options were few.

  Only once did he ever get hurt on the street – hurt bad – and it was a kick to the head, but it wasn’t so much the force of the blow as the boot. The man who helped him off the pavement that day was a runt named Cobra Creeley. Cobra wasn’t his real name, but that’s what he went by. He was about a foot shorter than Coal and a hundred pounds lighter.

  But more dangerous.

  He had a tattoo on both his arms just above the elbow. The same tattoo on each. It was the body of a snake, at the front its mouth wide open with fangs exposed, ready to consume the tip of its own tail. On his back between his shoulder blades was another tattoo, a bigger one – King Cobra – with the forked tongue of the snake painted a bright blood-red.

  “You got beat by an inferior,” he told Coal. “You’re wearing shoes with a soft heel and he had jackboots. That was the difference. If you want I can get you a pair.”

  The boots were made of tough, black leather and went up the leg over the calf. They were pliant, offering freedom of movement, and looked good. Why this Creeley character took such an interest in him, Coal didn’t know, but just like he said he got him the boots and they worked. After that, Coal always wore them on the street.

  Coal was a man of few words, but when you were his size and of his cut, you didn’t need many. Creeley was different. Small and nothing to look at, he was a fast talker with lots of ideas who made up for his lack of brawn with his street-smart ways. He knew what made people tick. He knew that if you dig deep and liberated whatever it was that drove them, they would be indebted to you. In Creeley’s mind, the core of every man was frustration at not being able to deal with life’s basic instincts, which were programmed into our DNA from the beginning. All he had to do was unlock it, and his key was a blog that he wrote called The Cobra. He built up a following, and over time it grew into an ezine with thousands of subscribers who paid to hear what he had to say.

  One thing led to another and Creeley introduced the big man to his friends. Some of them were physical types, who like Coal came from the military, while others had done time behind bars. The common ilk was that all of them were white and diehard nationalists. At first it was a social thing, a chance to mix and exchange stories. Coal’s story was that he was a Navy Seal and got tossed out because he was too mean.

  “If it was a white kid you killed nothing would have happened to you,” said Creeley. “There are lots of accidents. Same thing with the marines. It happens all the time and they try to hush it up but you killed someone who was black. That was your mistake.”

  Coal started going to the meetings. They weren’t all skinheads, but some were and like Creeley most of them had tattoos. Coal wasn’t into that. He always treated his body with respect. No disfigurations for him and, aside from the crucifix around his neck, no jewellery either and when they told him why he was no longer a Seal, he bought it. Why else would they dismiss the best fighting man in the unit?

  “You got shafted,” Creeley said. “The military isn’t for you and you know why? It’s too organized. There are too many limits. Too many restrictions. That’s not for a man like you. You have potential but you have to be free to realize it. What you need is a path with some structure. But not too much structure.”

  It was through them that Coal discovered the pro fighting circuit and he liked that. He was good at it and could even make money, more money than he ever had before, and money had always been a problem for him. He would have time to train and Creeley would be his manager of sorts. Ex officio. Structure but not too much structure.

  They said the white race was the superior race and history has shown this to be true. History has made that abundantly clear. Everything America accomplished that was great was on account of white Christian men and women, God-fearing people who knew their place in the bigger scheme of things. This is not to denigrate anyone else. We are not racists. We just look at the facts and the facts are plain to see. A better world is a world where the ones who pull the strings are those who are most able. Some will lead and more will follow. That has been true with every civilization. Those who are born to lead shall lead and any other way is a road to certain disaster. It was all there in The Cobra.

  Coal bought it all.

  “Now you’re the champion,” Creeley said. “You beat them. Every one of them. No matter what happens to you for the rest of your life they can never take that away from you. At this point at this time you are the best.”

  Creeley made Coal feel good about himself and not many people did that before. So on the night of his victory, Coal offered to buy drinks with his winnings. There was a group present and their women were on hand, too. One of the girls mentioned a show that went viral around the world. It was called Talk Back, and there was something about an old Jewish man who talked about extermination. Coal hadn’t seen it, but Creeley had.

  “He says he was a witness,” Creeley said.

  “To what?”

  “He talked about death camps and bodies burning in ovens. He called everyone on the program a liar and they were all experts. Educated people. Politicians. They had a man from the United Nations on it and hell he tore a strip off him too and called them a bunch of liars because they didn’t believe his story.”

  Coal listened.

  “Now this is the sort of thing that causes trouble,” Creeley said. “A lot of trouble.”

  23

  Cathy Trachter was an investigator with the Waterloo Regional Police. She had risen quickly through the ranks since joining the department fresh out of police college, beginning as a fourth-class constable who patrolled the quieter areas of Wellington County. That was all they would give her. But she soon got to see the seedy side of life – a domestic that went wrong, a robbery that erupted into a knifing, or even the occasional shooting. But shootings were rare and homicides rarer still. Not in these parts. However, Waterloo Region was a huge area to patrol and sometimes there were missing persons. The Missing Persons Report for Christine Fisher was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Christine Fisher was last seen on December 3rd, 2039 at approximately 4:30 p.m. She was leaving Williamsburg Public School where she was a teacher through a side-door exit that led to the parking lot.

  The Missing Persons Report also had other crucial information.

  Date of birth – April 11th, 2014.

  Age when last seen – 25.

  Gender – Female.

  Race – Caucasian.

  Height (Metric) – 170 cm.

  Height (Imperial) – 5 ft. 7 in.

  Weight (Metric) – 65 kg.

  Weight (Imperial) – 145 lbs.

  There were details about Build, Hair Color, Hair Description, Facial Hair, Eye Color, Eyewear, Features, Clothing, Personal Effects and Location Description. According to the Personal Effects, when last seen she was carrying her bag and at least one book. A hardcover book.

  Whenever a person went missing, the first few days were the most critical, especially the first forty-eight hours. After a week, police would hedge their bets that the person either disappeared willingly – maybe to leave a bad relationship or escape from financial problems – or was the victim of foul play. It was rarely the latter. Not in Wellington County. But this has been going on for two weeks now.

  In t
his case, the missing person was a schoolteacher who was only three years older than Cathy. Being a teacher meant that she was well educated with a position of responsibility in the community. She had a stable place of work, and judging by the preliminary investigation, no financial troubles. She didn’t take drugs, was a light drinker at best and didn’t mix with unsavoury types, so off the top there was no reason to assume she met with foul play. At least, not from someone she knew. The chances of meeting with foul play at the hands of a stranger always existed, but they were slim and in Wellington County very slim indeed.

  It was Sunday and there had been a light dusting of snow overnight, just enough to cover the ground in a thin, white blanket. Cathy was looking for a missing dog, of all things. The dog was a full-grown Collie last seen in Elora, in the park immediately west of Church Street. It had been missing for almost twenty-four hours and the family was frantic. Cathy stopped by the house and talked to the two despondent children. They said they had looked everywhere and couldn’t find their beloved Ranger, a medium-sized dog with the pointed snout typical of Collies and white fur around the shoulders.

  “Did you look by the gorge?” Cathy asked them, but they said the dog never went near there.

  “I’ll check it out.”

  She parked her car in the clearing by the bush and strolled to the edge. Lover’s Leap Lookout. It was a fancy name, but Cathy didn’t know of any lovers who ever jumped. In fact, over the past fifty years there had been only two suicides at the gorge. The first one was a middle-aged man who had been taking depressants after a medical condition. He got his things in order, wrote a letter to his best friend, stopped by the gorge, scaled the barrier and jumped. It had happened at the turn of the century. The second one was many years later. A young woman had just split with her husband after a quarrel and took her life. Just like that. It was more spur-of-the-moment than the first one, but neither incident demanded much of an investigation because both times it was obvious what had happened.