The Runner

by Christopher Reich

  “I know all about your Teutonic heritage, Judge. However, the quaint tales your mother told you as a child have little application to the tracking down and capture of an accused war criminal. Seyss is an experienced combat officer, and I see from his file, a native of this particular region.” Jackson sighed deeply and Judge could feel the meeting coming to a rapid and unsatisfactory conclusion. “Naturally, Major, I know of your personal interest in Seyss. It was one of the reasons we took you onto the IMT in the first place. What happened to your brother was terrible. And I am sorry. But tragedies like these occur all too often in war. If they didn’t, none of us would be sitting here today, would we?”

  Judge had heard the last few words coming and had whispered them under his breath along with Justice Jackson. “No, sir.”

  “Good. Then you’ll understand when I turn down your request for a transfer. Hermann Goering must be convicted on all counts. He’s far more important than some two-bit SS hoodlum. We’re not set to prosecute Seyss and his colleagues until next year. He’s a small fry in the scheme of things. Surely your brother would understand that. He was a Jesuit, after all. It’s a question of logic, pure and simple. Love Aquinas, the Jezzies do.” Jackson leaned forward and tapped Judge’s forearm. “Do a good job with Goering and I’ll make you a lead prosecutor on the secondary trials. I’m certain Seyss will be in custody again by that time. How’s that?”

  Judge bridled at the touch. What did Jackson think? He’d trade his brother for a promotion on the IMT? “Sir, I beg you to reconsider.”

  “The decision is final. A transfer is out of the question.” Jackson slammed his hand on the table like a gavel, then rose, tugging the pickets of his vest. “Give my regards to Hermann. Did you know they call him Fat Stuff? I hear it drives him crazy.”

  Judge rose with him and when he spoke his voice had lost its harness of respectful reserve. “This morning we received irrefutable evidence that Erich Seyss ordered the massacre of our boys at Malmedy. It’s the kind of proof a prosecutor kills for: a report written by his own men implicating him at the scene of the crime. Of course, I’m aware of my responsibilities to the court and to my country, but Francis was my brother. My responsibilities to him come first.”

  “Please, Major, let’s not make this more difficult than it has to—”

  Finally, it was Judge’s turn to interrupt. “I’ve spent my entire adult life as an officer of the law,” he argued. “I’ve been trained to pursue those who break the law and taught to use my brains and my reasoning to ensure they don’t do it again. For the first time, I can use what I’ve learned to provide some measure of justice to someone close to me. If I don’t do everything within my power to bring in the man who killed my brother—the animal who murdered seventy American boys in cold blood—all my years as a cop, all my time before the bar, will have been for nothing.”

  “Hogwash,” countered Jackson, calling his tone and raising it a note. “With all due respect to you, Major, and your brother, you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding Erich Seyss. You’ll be wasting everyone’s time, especially your own. Now if that’s all, you’re excused.”

  “No, sir,” Judge retorted. “That isn’t all. If I do not receive this transfer, I plan to resign my commission effectively.”

  “And do what precisely? Find him yourself? Alone you won’t get out of Paris for a week. And if you did, what then? Do you have a car? Gasoline?” Jackson laughed gruffly. “Read your enlistment papers, son. You joined the United States Army in time of war. You serve at your nation’s leisure. You don’t have the power to resign.”

  Judge looked to Storey for backup, but his older colleague had moved to the window, and stood looking down upon the Place Vendôme, shaking his head. Suddenly Judge knew he’d gone too far, that he’d let his desire to serve his brother’s memory overrule his common sense. This was after all, an associate justice of the Supreme Court he was talking to. Still, he couldn’t give up now.

  “Dammit, sir, all I’m asking is to give Erich Seyss the chance to learn the full and proper measure of the law. You said yourself you wanted me to help drive home our new morality. Fine. Let me start with him. If it were your brother who Seyss killed, wouldn’t you want to do the same?”

  Jackson’s eyes widened—with anger, surprise, and maybe, Judge hoped, even understanding—then he turned and stalked out of the drawing room. “I’ll be back in a minute, Major. Sit down and try not to make a nuisance of yourself. Bob, come with me.”

  JUDGE POURED HIMSELF A GLASS of water from a crystal carafe, then collapsed onto a yellow couch, exhaling deeply. Taking a sip, he could hear Jackson’s and Storey’s voices behind the bedroom doors, raised in a not altogether friendly conversation. A frank exchange of views, the papers would say. He just hoped Storey was arguing in favor of his transfer, not against a court martial. Someplace back there, he’d passed insubordination in a hurry. His only consolation was that Francis would have done the same for him.

  Closing his eyes, he remembered the last time he’d seen his brother. August 2, 1943. Frankie’s departure to England. The two of them saying good-bye, alone among a crowd of ten thousand packed onto Pier 4B at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Francis was wearing a GI’s olive drab fatigues, captain’s bars pinned to one lapel, the Savior’s cross on the other. He was staring at ten days of rough seas, tight quarters, and lousy chow, not to mention the Nazi wolf pack breathing down his neck, and he’d never looked happier.

  “Hey, kid, don’t go being a hero,” Judge said, mimicking Spencer Tracy’s rough-and-tumble voice while patting his brother on the arm. Francis couldn’t get enough of Tracy. Boys’ Town, Captain’s Courageous, Woman of the Year—they were his favorite films.

  “That’s God’s decision,” Francis replied stoically, “not mine.”

  “Hey, Frankie, I was joking. Whatcha gonna do, anyway? Throw Bibles at Hitler?”

  Finally a smile. “If it would stop the war a day sooner, I surely would.”

  Francis was taller by four inches and outweighed him by a good seventy pounds. If the Roman Catholic Church had mandated a vow of hunger, he’d have never made it through seminary. Judge came in for a last hug. He kissed his brother’s cheek and let himself be drawn close. He knew he should be the one going. Francis was forty-three years old. He couldn’t see past the hem of his cassock without his glasses, and he cried like a baby at the pictures. This was him all over. Drawing the hardest duty and smiling about it.

  “I love you,” Judge said.

  Francis stared at him long and hard, confused by his brother’s sentiment. The fact was, the two had never been especially close. Too much sermonizing on Francis’s part. He’d been talking fire and brimstone since he was twenty-three and Judge thirteen. Repent all sinners, lest ye be cast into the abyss. Love was couched threefold behind expectation, responsibility, and since Judge’s divorce, indignation. As Jackson had said, he was a “Jezzie.” One of Ignatius Loyola’s Soldiers of Christ. What could you expect?

  “Don’t worry about me, Dev. I’ll be just fine.” And then, as if to prove his point or, looking back, maybe his invincibility, he’d removed the leather lanyard from his neck, yanked off the crucifix and handed it to Judge. “Remember, Dev, the Lord looks after his own.”

  Judge opened his eyes, calling back the photographs he’d seen that morning. Francis lying prostrate in a muddy field, a dozen bullet holes his final benediction. Seyss’s boot in a soldier’s back. No, Frankie, not anymore he doesn’t. Nowadays, you have to look after yourself.

  JACKSON AND STOREY REENTERED THE drawing room an hour later. If a solution had been reached, their grim demeanor gave no clue of it. Judge stood, wanting to make a final plea, but Jackson spoke before he got a chance.

  “Believe it or not, I do appreciate your dilemma. You made a persuasive case for yourself. And if I don’t recognize the law behind your argument, I do recognize the sentiment. Never underestimate the value of emotion on a jury. Or passion. Sometimes a tear i
s all it takes to topple the soundest defense—though I’ll thank you to leave my brother out of it, if there’s ever a next time.”

  Judge no longer had a problem following Storey’s advice to keep his mouth shut. Any lawyer could recognize the preamble to good news. One thing bothered him. Why the hell did Storey look so glum?

  A knock came at the door and Storey rushed to open it. A messenger wearing sand-colored puttees, crash helmet under one arm, handed over a yellow envelope, asking Storey to sign a receipt. Storey scribbled his signature, then handed the envelope to Jackson, all the while avoiding Judge’s inquisitive glare.

  “I believe this is yours,” said Jackson, thrusting the envelope toward Judge.

  Judge tore open the telegram. It read: “Per verbal orders supreme commander armed forces Europe. Major Devlin Parnell Judge, JAG, is forthwith and immediately transferred on temporary duty to the Office of the Provost Marshal, United States Third Army, General George S. Patton, Jr., commanding. The duration of the transfer shall last no longer than seven days and will end at midnight, 15 July 1945. Every member of this command is to provide this officer with all assistance he requests. Signed, General Dwight D. Eisenhower.”

  Judge wanted to smile. He’d gotten his transfer to Patton’s Third, and with Eisenhower’s blessing, no less. But something in the telegram bothered him. Reading it a second time, his eyes tripped over the words that left stillborn his excitement. “The duration of the transfer shall be seven days.” Seven days! It would take him a day just to travel to Bad Toelz and get acquainted with the setup. The transfer was hardly better than being turned down altogether. If ever he’d won a Pyrrhic victory, this was it. So much for Storey’s downcast look.

  “I can’t have you traveling all over Europe at your discretion,” explained Jackson. “This will put a rush on things. Do your work, find him, and get back. I hope I’m making you happy.”

  Judge kowtowed as decorum demanded. “Yes, sir, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Thank you.”

  Jackson ambled to a dresser and poured himself a tumbler of scotch. “By the way, you should feel right at home in Bad Toelz. The provost marshal is a fellow named Mullins. Ring a bell?”

  “Would that be Spanner Mullins, sir?”

  “If Spanner is some kind of nickname for Stanley, yes, it would. Your former precinct commander is delighted to have you aboard. Said Tallyho is pinching his resources in a terrible way. He asked if you might be granted a longer stay, but I had to turn him down. Told him you were too good a man to lose indefinitely.”

  Judge mumbled “Thank you” again. He was happy to be reporting to Mullins but hardly surprised. Half of New York City was in Europe. His commanding officer at Interrogations was John Harlan Amen, the former district attorney for Brooklyn. Telford Taylor, a prominent Park Avenue attorney who’d recruited him out of law school was also working under Justice Jackson, and now who should turn up but Spanner Mullins, commander of the Twentieth Precinct during his ten years as a New York City cop. He’d heard his former boss was attached to Patton’s staff. He should have figured it would be in the provost marshal’s office.

  “I’m flying to Nuremberg tomorrow morning,” said Jackson. “If you want to hitch a lift, be at Orly Airport at nine o’clock. Seven days, Major. Next Monday, I want you at the Ashcan in Luxembourg beginning your interrogation of Fat Stuff. Is that clear? Oh, and Judge, one last thing. You’re going to Patton’s command. Make sure your shoes are shined.”

  BACK IN HIS OFFICE AT 7 rue de Presbourg, Bob Storey locked the door and rushed to his desk. Unlocking a cabinet near the window, he removed a scuffed black telephone, pulling the cord behind it so he could set the apparatus on his desk. Lifting the receiver, he dialed a five digit number in London.

  A woman answered after three rings. “Personnel.”

  “I need to speak to Walter Williams, please. It’s his nephew, Victor.”

  “Thank you. I’ll put you right through.”

  Two minutes passed until a deep, gravelly voice came onto the line. “That you, Bob? We secure?”

  “Yes, Bill, the line’s clear,” said Storey. “We’ve got a rather interesting situation developing over here. A war criminal’s escaped and one of Jackson’s boys wants to go after him.”

  “A lawyer? You’re kidding?”

  “I believe we all practiced the trade at some time in our life. Unlike us, this one did the exciting stuff before joining the bar.”

  Storey had spent the first part of the year on a mission for his friend “Bill.” Traveling behind Russian lines, he’d accompanied a team of Red Army jurists as they dealt with suspected war criminals. Usually, the accused were brought before the court at dawn, tried by lunch, and shot by dusk. It wasn’t the exercise of justice. Just power.

  “Is that right?” asked Bill. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

  “This man happened to be a peace officer in his other life.”

  “We call them policemen outside of Texas,” Bill laughed. “Give me the details.”

  Storey relayed the news of Seyss’s escape, Judge’s interest in the German officer, and his success in obtaining a transfer to Patton’s Third Army, Office of the Provost Marshal. He even recited the text of Eisenhower’s orders verbatim. A photographic memory was one of the attributes that had made him such an attractive find.

  “And when is Judge leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Storey.

  “Well, you were right to let me know, Bob. Many thanks. I’ll make sure we keep an eye on him. After all, we wouldn’t want the boy causing us any trouble.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  A PERSISTENT RAPPING ON THE bedroom door roused him from his slumber.

  “Herr Seyss, it is time to wake. You are to dress and come to the salon at once.”

  “Sofort,” Seyss answered, his voice immediately clear. Right away.

  Lifting his head from the down pillow, he squinted into the darkness and willed the room into focus. Slowly, reluctantly, it obliged: the armoire where he’d hung his clothing, the night table where a basin of water had been set for him to wash; the damask curtains drawn to block out the morning light. And with it, memories of the night before.

  Free from the camp, he’d abandoned the wagon and headed into the forest. His destination was a logging road that ran along the crest of the mountain—a two-mile run uphill. His exhilaration at being free wore off after the first incline, leaving his legs trembling and his lungs afire. Hardly his nation’s greatest hope. To stoke his resolve, he seized on his shame at having nearly botched the escape, but over the last half mile, that too faded. Anger carried him over the crest of the mountain, his ire at the pitiful condition he’d been left in by Janks and Vlassov and the entire Allied war machine.

  He spotted the Mercedes right off, tucked in a copse of birch trees so that only its chrome snout was visible. A pair of headlamps flashed once and two men dressed in formal business attire climbed from the cabin. “Hurry, Herr Sturmbannführer,” one whispered. “Into the trunk. The Olympicstrasse is only clear until eleven P.M.”

  Nearing them, Seyss took a closer look at the car: A 1936 Mercedes touring sedan, black with spoke hubcaps, whitewall tires, and on its mesh grille a crimson badge displaying the letter B in ornate white Gothic script—the symbol of Bach Industries, Germany’s largest armaments manufacturer. He’d thought he recognized it; now he was sure. He’d ridden in this very car a hundred times before the war.

  At last, he knew who had summoned him. Only one further question remained: Why?

  That had been six hours ago.

  Seyss walked to the night table and splashed water in his face, then on his chest and neck. Drying himself, he crossed the room to open the curtains. Sunshine flooded the bedroom. He unlatched the window and a wave of hot air swept over him. It was not six in the morning, but six in the evening. He had slept eighteen hours without waking.

  THREE SETS OF CLOTHING HUNG inside the armoire. He chose a pair of
tan trousers and a white shirt. Putting them on, he stared at his body in the mirror. His face and forearms were colored a rich mountain brown but the rest of him was ghostly pale. The scar from the Russian’s bullet had left an ugly pink weal four inches long above his waist. He could count his ribs easily. His arms, though, had kept their tone. Once he’d done thirty-seven pull-ups to win a battalion fitness contest. He was less pleased with his posture. A late-opening parachute had compressed three veterbrae in his spine and left him slightly askew, tilted an inch or so to the left. His hair had turned nearly white in the mountain sun but his face was too slim, shadowed by the haunted scowl he’d seen on so many other soldiers and sworn never to adopt himself. Once women had found him handsome. They’d told him he had a kind mouth and soulful eyes. Moving closer to the mirror, he struggled to find a hint of the compassion they’d seen. He couldn’t.

  After buttoning his shirt, he grabbed a loden blazer and gave himself a final looking over. His shock was immediate and overwhelming. Staring back at him was a civilian. A man who would never again don his country’s uniform. A man who had lost the war. Cheeks scrubbed, hair combed, clothes just so, he looked more like a country squire than an escapee from an American prison camp. The thought came to him that he was betraying the comrades he’d left eighty miles away in a barbed-wire pen. He dismissed it. Any man who’d suffered even a little of war knew never to question his luck. Good fortune was like a weekend pass: never too soon coming and always too soon gone. Besides, Seyss didn’t imagine he’d be taking a vacation anytime soon.

  THE DRAWING ROOM OF THE Villa Ludwig hadn’t changed since the war began. Louis XV sofas upholstered in burgundy chintz crowded every wall. The Bösendorfer grand, ever polished as if for that evening’s performance, shared its corner with an immortal Phoenician palm. And sagging from the walls hung the same succession of dreary landscapes by Caspar David Friedrich. A mausoleum for the living, observed Seyss, as he entered the marble-floored chamber.