The Esther Code

by Michael Danneman

  “Uh, he was born in northern Italy, near Austria,” Mrs. Rossi murmurs. Her body is now visibly tense.

  Jamie senses the hesitation, and even defensiveness, in the old woman’s voice. Time to play a few of her cards, to gain trust. “Mrs. Rossi, there is no doubt in my mind that you are innocent in this crime. I believe someone outside of your family circle is responsible.”

  Jamie pauses, watching for signs that her words have soothed Mrs. Rossi. When there is no change, Jamie elaborates, “You see, there have been other murders similar to your husband’s, and I believe there is some kind of link between them. In order to catch his killer, I need to know everything you can tell me about your husband.”

  Mrs. Rossi gives a nod of understanding. Her features relax slightly. “What do you want to know?”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Sixty-eight beautiful years,” Mrs. Rossi answers, tears glistening in her eyes. In the next moment, she smiles faintly, as though reliving those years.

  Jamie smiles sympathetically. “Is it okay if I ask you some more questions?”

  Mrs. Rossi pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs her eyes. “Yes, it is fine. Go ahead.”

  “Did your husband know anyone whom you have never met?”

  “Not really.”

  “Any enemies, death threats, or blackmailing?”

  “None that I know of,” Mrs. Rossi responds, her forehead crinkling with the effort of remembering.

  “Was he in any clubs? It could be something serious, like a political organization, or something as simple as a membership to a golf club,” Jamie expounds.

  “A poker group? They met every third Thursday night. But he hasn’t been going as of late,” Mrs. Rossi explains, emotionless.

  “Why did he stop going?”

  “Just got bored with it.” Mrs. Rossi shrugs.

  “Did he lose a lot of money? Or were there fights over money at these poker games?” Jamie presses, desperate for information.

  “No, they play for nickels and dimes.”

  The response catches Jamie off-guard. She represses a chuckle as she imagines a group of old men fighting over four or five dollars.

  “None of them were going to gamble away their retirement money,” Mrs. Rossi assures Jamie. “Well, we wives wouldn’t let them.”

  “Right,” Jamie confirms, trying to understand a poker game played with only petty change. No wonder the old guy got bored of it. “Can you get me the names of those men involved in the poker group?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Rossi begins to rise from her chair.

  “Oh, it doesn’t have to be right now,” Jamie protests with a kind smile and a wave of her hand.

  Mrs. Rossi leans back into her seat, and Jamie catches Kent’s smile of appreciation.

  “Was he a Freemason?”

  “No.”

  “Member of a church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “Catholic.”

  “Did he hold a position with the Catholic church, or maybe have connections with the priests, pastors, bishops, or other leaders?”

  “No.”

  “Did he possibly belong to a secret society? A private group? Or have a group of school friends? Maybe some people on the Internet?”

  “No, no. His whole life was our family,” Mrs. Rossi states sadly.

  “He wouldn’t have been able to make Internet friends. I couldn’t even get him to check the email account I set up for him,” Kent laments to Jamie.

  “Well, how about a long-lost family member, perhaps someone with a bad past?” Jamie presses, trying to stretch her mind to find any possible connections.

  “No, nothing like that,” Mr. Rossi denies.

  “Any shady old friends or questionable people from his past?”

  Mrs. Rossi sighs, obviously fatigued by all of the questions, “No.”

  “Did he loan any money to anyone recently?”

  “No chance,” Mrs. Rossi jumps in, “I keep the finances.”

  “Any secrets he might have kept from your family or you?”

  The old woman quietly thinks for a moment, then answers honestly, “No. He told me everything. At least I think so.”

  “If you knew his secrets, were there things he rarely talks about or doesn’t want people to know about? Maybe from his past, his job, or other financial dealings?” Jamie pursues, trying to logically follow the flow of questions and answers.

  Mrs. Rossi glances subtly towards the closet while biting her lower lip. It is so quick an action, barely more than a twitch, but Jamie notes the involuntary reflex.

  Flipping her wedding ring on her finger, the old woman replies shakily, “Everyone has their own secrets and sins they like to keep quiet.”

  Jamie slowly shakes her head. She thinks she might be close. “Any affairs of that sort? Children from other lovers?”

  “Oh no, no!” Mrs. Rossi exclaims, defensively but without malice. “He loved me dearly.”

  Jamie stands up and walks toward one of the antique dressers, so she can look at the pictures again. The faces of children and grandchildren are clustered on a large, oblong doily that rests on the top of the bureau. A picture in the back catches Jamie’s eye. It is a wedding picture in an old frame. She picks it up and brings it back to the easy chairs. Pointing to the beautiful young woman in the picture, Jamie asks, “Is this you?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Rossi acknowledges sadly, examining the picture. For a couple of seconds, it is obvious that her mind is in her memories, and not in the present.

  “Where were you married?” Jamie continues, handing the picture to Mrs. Rossi.

  “Switzerland,” Mrs. Rossi tells her dreamily, accepting the framed picture.

  “Wow! Switzerland! It must have been a beautiful wedding. What year?” Jamie wonders aloud. Her mind is still calculating her approach, even while she is trying to make a sincere emotional connection with the widow.

  “September, 1945. We eloped.” Mrs. Rossi’s eyes are still seeing things from the past instead of the present.

  “Romantic. How did you guys have money for such a trip right after the war? You must have been quite young,” Jamie reflects, leading Mrs. Rossi on to answer the question.

  “He was twenty one, and I was eighteen,” she replies. One more tear escapes from her eye and runs down her cheek. “He had saved some money during the war, so we could elope.”

  Jamie’s knows it was highly unusual for a young person to amass any amount of money during the war that ravaged Europe. Her questions instantly become more precise. “Was he in the army?”

  “Yes, for the Austrians.”

  “Why not for the Italians? Did his family move to Austria after he was born?” Jamie is fishing as casually as possible, but Mrs. Rossi is not blind to the net.

  “Something like that,” the old woman responds blandly, essentially avoiding the question.

  Standing up, Jamie returns the wedding photo to its place on the dresser. She slowly examines a few of the pictures on the wall before she continues her questioning.

  Jamie casually walks to the bedroom closet. “May I?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She enters the closet and looks around. She keeps the door open, to have an unobstructed view of Mrs. Rossi. “Did he have anything that he didn’t tell anyone about, except for you?” Jamie words her question carefully. Despite the lack of specificity, however, Jamie has no doubt that Mrs. Rossi fully comprehends her meaning.

  Mrs. Rossi again gazes, apparently without thinking, towards the top shelf of the closet. Jamie marks the look, which confirms for her that there is something significant hiding in the closet. Some kind of secret that Mr. Rossi would want to keep from his family, from everyone, from the world. It is time to ask the hard questions.

  “Mrs. Rossi, this is important.” Jamie’s tone is apologetic, but also insistent. She points at the top shelf. “I need to know what he was hiding. It may be the only way we hav
e to catch the guy. You do want us to catch your husband's killer?”

  Jamie pauses, but Mrs. Rossi does not reply. Jamie persists, “I’m going to ask you again directly. Does your husband have any secrets in his past?”

  The old woman cannot look Jamie in the face. Her eyes dart around the room, as though she is searching for an escape from the question. Jamie senses an internal struggle as Mrs. Rossi rapidly twists her wedding ring over and over again on her finger. Then, strangely, Mrs. Rossi stops and stares into space for a few seconds. She shakes her head slightly, ending the silent reverie. At this point, Jamie is sure that she will get an answer from Mrs. Rossi, but she cannot tell if it will be the answer she needs.

  Swallowing hard, Mrs. Rossi begins, “I’m sure this is nothing.…”

  “Mom, you don’t have to divulge anything you don’t want to,” Kent interrupts. His demeanor and tone are suddenly strong and professional. But his eyes are afraid. He doesn’t know either.

  “Kent, your father would never want you to hear this, so please leave the room,” Mrs. Rossi implores him.

  “Mom, I’m not leaving. I can handle whatever you have to tell me about Dad’s past.”

  “Honestly, it will be a relief for me, in a way, to finally take this burden off my shoulders,” Mrs. Rossi muses, almost to herself. “I hate secrets.”

  The words transform Mrs. Rossi into a feeble old woman. She tries to stand, but her face goes pale, and her body shakes as if bitterly cold.

  “No, Mom, sit. What do you need? I can get it for you.” Kent tries to coax Mrs. Rossi back into the chair.

  She looks at her son, and her eyes give him permission to witness this moment. “It’s in the closet. Top shelf in the back. A small, brown shoe box,” Mrs. Rossi instructs, as she slumps in her chair.

  Kent crosses the room to the closet. Jamie moves aside as he reaches up to the top shelf and begins pulling small boxes out of the way. He carefully forms a stack on the floor. This goes on for a few silent moments, until Kent finally removes a small, brown shoebox. He stares at it for a second, then glances at Jamie. She feels for this family, for the horrible secret that is finally going to come out. But she also needs answers.

  Kent takes the box back to his mother, who accepts it reluctantly, as though it is a time bomb. “Help me to the bed,” she requests of him. With his aid, she rises and shuffles over, motions for Jamie to follow.

  As Jamie comes to help Kent with Mrs. Rossi, the old woman places the shoebox heavily into Jamie’s hands, as though passing off her yoke. Mrs. Rossi slouches down onto the mattress and, with Kent’s help, leans back into the pillows that are propped at the top of the bed. She then bows her head, as if she is ashamed. Kent takes a seat next to his mother and puts a comforting arm around her shoulders. He watches Jamie closely, clearly blaming her for her role in his mother’s pain and discomfort.

  Jamie opens the shoebox. Although it is old, the box has hardly been handled or used. Curious, Jamie lifts the lid slowly, but she is taken aback by the contents of the box. With confusion, she realizes the box contains WWII memorabilia. An old pocketknife with the SS insignia, a few patches removed from a uniform, some photos, and an old passport. Jamie sets aside the pocketknife and instead examines the patches. The colored thread still clings raggedly to their edges. One of the patches bears the name “Kleiss.” The pictures are mostly of the same soldier.

  “Are these…” Jamie begins to ask, but she cannot wrap her head around it. She walks around the bed and sits down on the other side, where she starts laying out all of the items in the box.

  “What are these things, Mom?” Kent inquires, watching Jamie remove objects and set them on the bed.

  “They belong, or once belonged to, your father,” Mrs. Rossi quietly replies to her lap.

  Jamie scrutinizes the photographs more closely. She assumes that the soldier, who appears in picture after picture, is Mr. Rossi. Sometimes he is posing with an army buddy, while other pictures show him and his buddies with their arms around the waists of beautiful young women. After laying out all of the pictures, Jamie turns her attention to the passport. Inside is a picture of a young man, the same as the soldier in the photographs. The name on the passport was not “Martin Rossi.” The name on the passport was “Stefan Kleiss.”

  “Mom, what does this mean?” Kent asks, astounded. “Dad was a Nazi?”

  Mrs. Rossi nods her confirmation without lifting her head to face her son.

  “Wait. What exactly did he do during the war?” Jamie, despite her incredulity, stays on point.

  “He was a guard at Auschwitz,” Mrs. Rossi tells them before she breaks down, sobbing.

  Kent leaps to his feet and begins pacing the bedroom floor intoning, “Oh my God, oh my God!” over and over in a low, anguished tone. All the color has drained from his face, and his eyes are bogging.

  “I have some more questions for you,” Jamie tries to resume, almost in a daze. “But first I can give the two of you a moment alone.”

  Jamie exits to the sound of Mrs. Rossi’s continued sobs. She can hear Kent beseeching, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Jamie stands a moment in the hallway to let all of this information sink in. She will suppress her excitement, but she is sure this is the connection she has been searching for. Jamie walks down the hallway and descends the stairs to find Phil and the rest of the guests sitting in the family room next to the kitchen.

  Jamie notices that many more people, probably relatives or friends, have arrived. They all sit solemnly, holding plates full of bagels and vegetables. Glancing back at the kitchen table, Jamie notices someone, maybe a neighbor, has brought a deli tray. She gladly interrupts an intense conversation between Phil and Peter. More accurately, she saves Phil from a verbal assault by Peter. It is obvious that everyone else knows that Peter is making an ass of himself.

  “I insist you call the coroner and get me a time when they will release the body! We need to be able to plan this funeral, and we can’t without a body,” Peter yells, spraying Phil with spit.

  “I’m sorry, but that is not possible. The Forensics department has the body for as long as they need. That is how we get evidence for the investigation,” Phil replies in a monotone, blinking his eyes placidly against the flying saliva.

  “Fine! What do you have to offer us then? Huh?” Peter demands, trying to rally the people around him to help him.

  Jamie can see this turning into a witch-hunt pretty quickly. “Hey, Special Agent Clark,” she calls, trying to defuse the situation.

  “Special Agent Golding!” Phil’s face beams relief as he addresses her. “What can I do for you?”

  “Can I see you outside for a moment?” Jamie points towards the exterior door. They step outside, onto the walkway, and Jamie begins, “I need a bit more time. I have found some important information, or so I hope.” She checks the area around them, then drops her voice and continues, “The victim was a guard at Auschwitz. It might be what ties our victims together.”

  “Interesting. It sounds like it could be the clue we’ve been looking for,” Phil agrees. Then his face changes to a look of astonishment as he gasps, “Wait, are you telling me I have to go back in there? Well, in that case I need combat pay!” His humor is a relief, but Jamie will not be distracted.

  “Just a bit longer. I promise I will try and be quick,” Jamie entreats him, as Phil makes his way back into the house. “At least don’t let Peter up the stairs. That’s really the most important thing.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Jamie then retrieves her cell phone from her pocket. She dials Quantico and is connected shortly.

  “Whitehouse, here.” The familiar, formal answer.

  “Hi, it’s Golding. I need you to get an analyst to find out where my victims were from 1940 to 1945.”

  “Okay. I will get right on it,” Whitehouse replies dryly.

  “Thanks, Whitehouse.” Jamie hangs up. She heads back inside and to the murder scene and inspect
s the entire area one more time. The killer simply came in, strangled him, and walked out. She climbs the stairs and makes her way to the bedroom door. From inside she hears an intense conversation going on, but the talking stops when Jamie knocks on the bedroom door. She enters without waiting for a reply.

  Mrs. Rossi has returned to the armchair. Her eyes are blotched from more crying, and she slumps low, watching Kent, who still paces the room.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more time, but I have some questions and some things to explain to you both.” Jamie pauses. Neither mother nor son says a word. “First of all, I want to tell you that no one is going to try to stir up your husband’s past now that he is gone. Also, I’m not saying that your husband’s past has anything to do with what happened, but I will tell you that it does seem to fit. Now, I need to know as much as you can tell me. Any and all details.”

  Mrs. Rossi takes a steadying breath and nods a few times. “Alright. I will tell you everything I know. And the whole truth this time.”

  “Perfect,” Jamie says, pulling out her tablet to record the information. “Where was your husband born?”

  “He was born in Austria.”

  “As Stefan Kleiss?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he become affiliated with the Nazi party?”

  “His parents joined the Nazi party in the 1930s. Martin’s older brother became part of the SS first, in 1940. At the age of seventeen, Martin joined the army and became part of the SS, in 1943. His first station was as an SS guard at Auschwitz. He was there until it was evacuated,” Mrs. Rossi recounts sadly.

  “How did you meet your late husband?”

  “I lived in a small village called Brzezinka. It was only a thirty-minute walk from Oswiecim,” Mrs. Rossi answers quietly, using the town’s Polish name.

  “Wait! Mom! So you’re saying that you met Dad while he was a guard at Auschwitz? You knew that, and you married him?” Kent interrupts, flabbergasted.

  “I don’t understand?” Jamie continues, "You lived near Auschwitz?"

  “Auschwitz and Birkenau were right outside of the town of Oswiecim. There were about 16,000 people living in Oswiecim during the war. It was not uncommon for the girls between seventeen and twenty-five to meet up with the soldiers there. I first met Martin there, at the local dance hall. Of course, back then he was Stefan. When he had time away from the camp, we would meet in town. A couple of times he actually invited me to Auschwitz. The guards’ quarters were really nice, but the part I will never forget is the luxury that the officers had. It was like being at a retreat. They did host many high-ranking Nazi guests there.” Mrs. Rossi spoke in even tones. “Officers would even vacation there.” She looks straight at the wall, keeping her face blank as she gives these answers.