An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken

by Thomas Amo

  Stevens pushed the steel table alongside the autopsy slab, where water was already running through a small rubber hose in order to continuously take the blood away as the autopsy progressed.

  "Sure glad I skipped lunch on this one," said Stevens.

  "Wish I could say the same," said James.

  In all the years James had been a detective, Stevens had always been the morgue attendant. He was a man who just seemed suited for the job. There wasn't anything wrong or weird about him; he just looked like he belonged here with his jet-black hair combed straight back and held in place due to an abundance of hair oil.

  "Still using that Vitalis, Wayne?"

  "You kidding? Nothing compares, of course you can't really find the old stuff anymore. Now all they want to sell you is mousse or gel. Who wants that crap?" said Stevens as he began to put on his autopsy gown. It was a garment that had most certainly seen more than its fair share of use. As James watched Stevens go through his ritual of dressing and gloving up, he mused to himself the only thing Stevens was missing was a hump on his back as he eagerly awaited Dr. Frankenstein's arrival. It was a terrible thought and he tried to push it from his mind as quickly as it had entered by changing the subject.

  "Oh Wayne, I heard CSI found a wallet in the alleyway behind the funeral home for this victim. Do you have it?"

  Stevens responded immediately, "Oh yeah, hang on they should have put it the evidence bag, it'll be in my office."

  James felt a glimmer of hope as he watched Stevens leave the room. James was now alone with one of the victims. It was an odd, creepy feeling to be the only one in the room with a dead body. A feeling he had experienced more times than he cared to remember. Walking over to the old man, James looked at him closely for the first time. The details were so much clearer in the light of the morgue then in the small tiny closet of a mortuary. A heavy sadness came over him as he looked at the barbed wire wrapped around the frail wrists.

  "Who the hell does something like this to a defenseless old man? Someone's grandfather is laying here the victim of senseless hate. There is no God!" said James angrily.

  But then remembered what Kirkland said and thought to himself. Could this be the man in the window that famous night forty two years earlier? James examined the face. He tried to imagine a crew cut and horned-rimmed glasses. It just didn't seem to fit. In his gut, he felt this was not the guy he ran into that night. But how is he connected to Amanda Carlyle, James wondered? His attention was diverted from the thought as Stevens returned with a manila envelope marked evidence John Doe #5623/10/23/10. As James took the envelope he glanced at the numbers and shook his head. Can this city really have already had that many coroner's cases?

  James didn't even want to speculate how many of those cases were homicides. He began to open the envelope and hesitated for a moment.

  "Wayne, CSI dust any of this yet?"

  Stevens looked up from his routine of measuring the height of the victim with a household tape measurer.

  "I don't know Tom. Better put some gloves on. Plenty, in the big cabinet behind you," said Stevens as he hooked the end of the tape to the old man's shoe, dragging the other end to the top of his head. James' mind wandered into a lost fog as he watched Stevens. For a moment he seemed to forget where he was and what he was doing. "Oh, right."

  James then opened the cabinet and retrieved a pair of latex gloves. Slipping them on he snapped them like a doctor preparing for surgery.

  "Okay, let's find out exactly who you are," he said reaching inside the envelope until he found the worn brown leather wallet. He sat everything else inside the evidence pouch off to the side. Opening the wallet was the final act of solving the mystery of who the dead man on the table was. At last, a typical unflattering DMV photo revealed the face of the man on the table. It was definitely him. James also noticed the license was recently renewed.

  "Richard Skylar of Hollywood, California." James furrowed his brow. You're a long way from home Mr. Skylar. What brings you to San Francisco? he wondered as he examined the driver's license intently. Date of birth, January 21, 1924. Height 5 foot 10 inches, weight 160 pounds, eyes blue, must wear corrective lenses.

  "So where are your glasses?" questioned James, as his attention was turned to the old man's eyes. They were brown, not blue.

  "Wayne, do eyes change color after death?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, if someone had blue eyes, would they turn brown from decomposition?"

  "I don't know, I don't think so. Why?"

  "This guy has brown eyes and his drivers license records them as being blue."

  "Maybe it's a mistake. You done with that?" asked Stevens, holding out his hand, commanding that James hand over the wallet.

  "Not really, do you need it now?" asked James.

  "Yeah, I gotta document the contents for the doctor."

  "Oh, sure thing Wayne, sorry," James said, handing over the wallet to him. The loud buzz of a door buzzer clanged in the next room.

  "That must be Bobby," said Stevens as he left the room. Moments later Stevens returned with Bobby Stillwell and Kirkland. James smiled at the sight of his comrades.

  "Hey about time there Detective Kirkland, I was starting to feel like I got stood up by my prom date," joked James.

  "Oh baby, you know what I like," said Kirkland is his best Big Bopper impression.

  Stevens shook his head as he helped Stillwell carry in his CSI kits. James crossed to Stillwell and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

  "Hey kid, you okay? I know this morning was a bit intense."

  "Yeah, thanks Tom, I'm okay. But I have to tell you, I won't be sorry to have this case behind me."

  "I know what you mean," replied James.

  The young CSI began preparing his fingerprint kit. Taking a tube of ink and squeezing just the right amount on to a smooth steel plate. The ink had the look and texture of greasepaint. It reminded James of his days, as a young aspiring actor. Sitting in front of an old cracked mirror at the Palace melodrama theatre where the older actors taught him how to apply greasepaint makeup for maximum effect. He could still hear the director reminding him, "The guy in the back row needs to be able to see everything the guy in the front row sees." It was times like this that made James wish he had tried harder to make his living in the theatre instead of law enforcement. His daydreaming faded as he heard Stillwell talking to Stevens.

  "Wayne, how soon can I print this guy?"

  "After the doctor scrapes and clips the nails."

  James walked back over to Kirkland, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking as if a nap would better suit him than being the second official witness for the dead. Both men jumped with a start as Roberts stepped into the room. The boom of his hand against the swinging double doors could just as easily have been a gunfighter entering a saloon.

  The tall man looked around the room briefly, his expression flat.

  "Wayne! Where's the Carlyle girl?"

  Stevens began to stutter as Roberts slapped his notepad down on the counter. "She's in the walk-in. I thought you wanted to do the John Doe first," said Stevens, trying to soften the news that he had made the wrong choice.

  "NO! The Carlyle case is far more involved than any damn hanging," shouted Roberts.

  Definitely Mr. Hyde today, mused James.

  "I'm sorry doctor, I'll get her ready in five minutes," said Stevens as he dashed out of the room not waiting for an answer.

  The tension in the room was ripe as Stillwell quickly tried to change the mood.

  "Dr. Roberts, I can get a jump printing this guy, if you want to examine his nails?"

  Roberts looked over his glasses at the young CSI.

  "You're new here aren't you?"

  "Yes sir."

  James and Kirkland both grimaced at the thought that Stillwell was about to be torn a new one.

  "If you want to be old here, never keep the man with knife waiting. You understand?" Roberts didn't
wait for an answer, he only pressed harder.

  "Did you get your shots of the hands yet?"

  Stillwell trembled at the thought of saying no, but he responded with a quick concise answer.

  "No sir, only because you hadn't had a chance to examine them yet, and I didn't want to contaminate the case by touching it before you could give me the all clear."

  Roberts stared silently at the young CSI. Kirkland and James held their breath. Roberts then bellowed, "Good man, start snapping."

  Both James and Kirkland blew out a sigh of relief as they watched Roberts go to work, talking rapidly into a small handheld voice recorder as Stillwell moved around him snapping photos. The flashing and clicking of the camera reminded James there would be reporters outside to deal with later.

  As the two men wrapped up taking evidence from the old man's hands, Stevens returned with the body of Amanda Carlyle.

  "Just let me get her on the table doctor and we're ready to go," said Stevens.

  "No hurry," said Roberts as he placed the contents from the fingernails and clippings into a small pale evidence jar.

  Dr. Jeykll has returned, thought James.

  Stevens, stood ready as Stillwell got the all clear from Roberts to proceed with printing the old man.

  Roberts began talking into his voice recorder, then stopped for a moment and pointed at Kirkland.

  "What's your name?"

  Kirkland felt a leap in his heart, and his voice faltered for a moment. "Michael Kirkland, San Francisco, homicide."

  "Case number 5622, Amanda Marie Carlyle, 22-year-old female, victim of apparent homicide, Lawrence Roberts pathologist, witnesses Inspector Thomas James and Detective Michael Kirkland of San Francisco, homicide."

  As Roberts delved into recording the details of the case, Stillwell finished printing the old man and quietly packed up his kit and started for the door.

  James stopped him and whispered. "You gonna run those prints through the system?"

  "I hadn't planned to. It was just routine," said Stillwell who froze as Roberts looked up from his recorder and in their direction. James pushed Stillwell out of the autopsy room and into the foyer of the morgue, "Run them anyway, I'd just feel better if you did."

  Stillwell nodded to James and departed as quickly—and silently—as he could. James returned to the autopsy of Amanda Carlyle. As was the protocol, Stevens began to slowly remove each item of Amanda's clothing once Roberts was satisfied there was no further evidence to be gathered. Soon the young woman lay naked before the four men.

  "She's got herself a tramp stamp," noted Roberts pointing to her freshly shaved pubic area.

  James looked closer. "Looks new too."

  Roberts and James leaned in to get a better view. Kirkland stepped away from the table.

  "Think I'll skip this show guys."

  James furrowed his brow as he attempted to read the tattoo. "It looks like a drawing of a pig. What does that say?"

  Roberts clicked his recorder on. "Decedent has a single color tattoo on the mons pubis. Pictured is a cartooned design of a pig facing towards the left side of the body, with the words on the side of it reading: 'I Get Sex: Sin' The colon could also be used to denote the symbol for the word 'equal' meaning, 'I Get Sex, equals Sin.' "

  Roberts looked at James for a reaction. James shrugged his shoulders. He then returned to the wall next to Kirkland. Roberts resumed talking into his recorder once again dictating the current state of the body. Stopping he placed his hand on her chin. Slowly turning her head left and then repeating the ritual by turning it to the right. Confused both James and Kirkland watched him.

  "This girl has had a cerebral hemorrhage," said Roberts.

  James pulled himself away from the wall.

  "Really?"

  Roberts motioned for James to come join him.

  "Look there, the eye on the right. See how the pupil is all the way open and the eye on the left appears to be normal?"

  James nodded his understanding.

  "Her brain has been blown out. I guarantee once we get inside the skull there will be blood, this may not be a homicide boys."

  James was suddenly confounded.

  "Wait a second, this girl was alive last night at a club with another girl. I know it's odd she ended up in a funeral home ahead of schedule, but how can you say it might not be a homicide?"

  "Come on, Tom, this sort of thing can be congenital, weak arteries, high blood pressure, habitual cocaine abuse. How do you know she's not a junkie?"

  "So she just brings a life sized portrait of herself to the local mortuary, finds a casket she fancies, shoots a little smack and hops in?" James asked. "Come on Larry, look at her, she's beautiful. I admit that she's dead, but does she look like a junkie?"

  Roberts put his recorder down. "Remember your first case, the 10-year-old girl? Same thing, her grandfather said she slept all weekend long, he thought she had the flu, when he finally came in to wake her up she had been dead two days."

  "I remember."

  Kirkland cut into the conversation. "So what was it?"

  Roberts turned to him. "We couldn't figure out what had happened based on the history. Then I saw the overly dilated pupil. Examined her arms for signs of shooting up, nothing. Then I remembered a colleague of mine had dealt with a similar case. You remember what I did Tom?" asked the doctor.

  "Yeah, you looked between her fingers with a magnifying glass."

  "Exactly, and that's where we found the needle marks."

  Kirkland was stunned. "You're kidding me. A 10-year-old was shooting cocaine?"

  "Wayne, get my magnifying glass," ordered Roberts.

  In moments the doctor was checking Amanda's hands. From his expression James could tell he wasn't finding anything. Roberts then moved down to the girl's feet and spread her toes. His expression changed once again to one of triumph.

  "Bingo," said Roberts.

  Kirkland shook his head in denial.

  "She actually shot up between her toes?"

  "That means she's hiding her drug use from someone," said James.

  "Is it possible, Dr. Roberts, she didn't inject herself?" asked Kirkland.

  "You're suggesting perhaps that her injections were forced?" quizzed the pathologist.

  "Yeah."

  "Sure it's possible, but I don't see any signs that her feet or ankles had been bound or held down."

  Their attention was suddenly taken to the swinging doors. Stillwell stood out of breath. His faced covered in sweat and his complexion pale.

  "Tom, you're not going to believe this! You're old guy, 84-year-old Richard Skylar. He's not Richard Skylar at all. He's 95-year-old, Hermann Kritzler."

  "Okay, so the old guy lied about his age and changed his name. Big deal," said Kirkland.

  "Who the hell is Hermann Kritzler?" asked James as he saw Roberts face go white.

  "Reinhard's rapist," said the doctor in a hollow tone.

  "Reinhard's what? What are you guys talking about?" asked James.

  "Reinhard Heydrich was Himmler's number one man. He ran the Belzek death camp. Kritzler, was chosen to organize transportation of Poles and Jews to Belzek," said Roberts.

  "This guy is a Nazi?" asked Kirkland

  "He's not just any Nazi, he's a Nazi who actually begged and bribed Heydrich for his position at Belzek. A position that gave him total control over deciding which women would go immediately to the gas chambers and which would be selected for his special project."

  "Special project?" asked Kirkland.

  "Women began learning that they could avoid the gas chamber if they begged him for sex which he eagerly indulged in. He still had them killed anyway. Along with the ones who didn't offer him sex, usually the younger girls. Those were the ones he took special pleasure in raping." Roberts paused for a moment. "Later, when he came to Auschwitz the raping didn't stop, he continued at the same time having an affair with one of the women guards, Irma Grese. She took revenge by strangling the girls with their own
hair." Roberts sounded as if he was reciting a biography, James thought.

  "If I'm not mistaken, wasn't it against the law for Germans to have sex with Jews?" asked Kirkland.

  Roberts nodded.

  "Then why would a Nazi want to have sex with a race of women he hated?"

  "Rape is a act of violence, not affection detective," said Roberts.

  "This frail old man?" quizzed James.

  "This frail old man is a sadistic fiend!" said Roberts pointedly.

  "He's been on the Mossad's most wanted list for the last 60 years. His fingerprints came up instantly when I ran them through the system," explained Stillwell.

  James mind was a whirlwind of confusion.

  "You sure about this, Bobby? You're sure this old man is a Nazi, who's been on the run for the better part of the twentieth century?"

  Roberts slowly walked over and looked into the face of the old man. An old man whose hands were now bound together with barbed wire and a knotted electrical cord tied around his neck.

  "It's him," said the doctor.

  "How do you know?" asked Kirkland.

  "I think this says it all," said Roberts.

  Kirkland's stomach turned as he saw the doctor unbutton his shirt cuff and roll up his sleeve, revealing a faded blue numerical tattoo.

  "You were there?"

  "From 1942 until I was moved to Auschwitz in 1944."

  "Jesus, I'm sorry none of us had a clue," apologized James. Roberts nodded his acceptance.

  "You realize Tom, I can't proceed with the autopsy."

  "Why not?"

  "Because of who he is, we have to notify the FBI, State Department, and the German Embassy, just for starters."

  Kirkland's head was still swimming from the twist the events had just taken.

  "You just became an international celebrity Tom."

  "Great this is all I need. A case with no answers, weird serial killer kind of murders and on top of that the guy has to be a Nazi war criminal," lamented James.