Voices of the Dead hl-1

by Peter Leonard

  He had to go to the police station, tell them what happened. They were going to think he was crazy. He recited the lines in his head. “I was in the forest looking for a mass grave of Jews killed by Ernst Hess and his SS guards on April 2, 1942. His bodyguard came in a Zeppelin to kill me with a machine gun. Oh, and my friend and rental car disappeared.” He told them that, they’d put him in a padded cell. And yet, it was all true.

  Harry walked in the police station that was as quaint and Bavarian as the town, and talked to a cop sitting behind a heavy desk. He had dark hair, a dark mustache, and wore a blue uniform with matching tie and epaulets, the word Polizei over the left pocket in white letters. Harry spoke German, told him he’d been with his friend, Cordell Sims, in a rented BMW. He stopped to take a leak in the woods, and when he came out the car and Mr. Sims were gone. Harry took out his wallet and showed him his driver’s license.

  As it turned out, Herr Sims — who had no identification — was in a jail cell. The police thought he had stolen the vehicle and were holding him until an investigation could be completed. Another bizarre turn of events. The BMW was in the police-station parking lot. Harry told him to check the rental agreement in the glove box and that should clear things up.

  It did, but an hour passed before Cordell was released. He didn’t say anything till they got in the car and were pulling out of the station parking lot.

  “Didn’t mean to leave you there, Harry. But didn’t have a choice in the matter.” He opened his cigarette case, took one out and lit up. “Question is, how’d you know where I was at?”

  “I didn’t,” Harry said. “When I came out and the car was gone, I figured you’d been kidnapped. There was no place else to go.”

  “It was a mind fuck, Harry.”

  “I hear you. Had one of my own.” He told him what happened, Cordell’s eyes on him, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth against the windshield, holding the cigarette with his thumb and index finger like a comrade from Minsk.

  “You like livin’, Harry? ’Cause you want to continue, I suggest you get the fuck out of here.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t, huh? Why’s that?”

  “Something I have to take care of.”

  Twenty-one

  The uniform was tight through the shoulders but fit good enough. The cap hid his face and he had shaven off the mustache and goatee to further disguise himself for the occasion. His daughter Katya had said, “Papa, you look so different, so much younger.” Hess carried a square box filled with newspapers to give it weight, plus a couple items he would need, the box wrapped in brown paper, an ordinary parcel delivered by an ordinary postman. Nothing to call attention to himself, or arouse suspicion in this quiet neighborhood.

  The package was addressed to Wilhelm Martz, Kreuzstrasse 47. Hess rang the doorbell and waited. The door opened a few inches. A woman with dark hair and round glasses stood back in the shadows of the interior, eyeing him with suspicion, as if postmen were not to be trusted.

  “Special delivery for Herr Martz.” He smiled like a friendly jovial uncle. “It looks important. Maybe filled with money, you never know.” He smiled again.

  “Will you leave it there on the stoop, please?”

  “Herr Martz himself must sign for the package. New postal regulations. Is he at home?”

  “Please, wait there, I will tell him.” She closed the door, but not all the way.

  Hess waited a few seconds, gave her time to move into the house, pushed the door open, slipped into the dark foyer. There were rooms on both sides. Straight ahead, down a short hallway was a staircase that led to the second floor. He didn’t see or hear anyone. Rausch had been watching the house and was sure only Herr Martz and his daughter were there.

  He put the package down, leaned it against the wall in plain view, knowing it would confuse them. Now he pushed the door and heard it click as it closed and locked. He moved to his left out of the foyer into an elegantly furnished room with a view of the street. Hess sat on one of the comfortable upholstered chairs and waited. A few minutes later he heard them talking, coming toward him down the hall, he could feel his pulse quicken.

  “What is it?” a man’s voice said. “I’m not expecting anything.”

  “I don’t know. You have to sign for it.”

  “That’s crazy. Anyone can sign for a package.”

  “It’s what he told me.”

  Hess saw them walk past him into the foyer, footsteps on the hardwood floor.

  “That’s strange,” the daughter said. “It’s the package.”

  “I thought I had to sign for it.”

  This was perfect. They had no idea what was happening. Hess was grinning, enjoying their confusion. He almost laughed. He could hear Herr Martz shaking the box.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know,” Herr Martz said.

  “Why don’t you open it?”

  They came into the room, the old man ripping the paper off it. Hess stood, drew his Luger, aimed it at them and said, “It’s just some old newspapers.”

  “Ernst Hess,” the old man said, catching him by surprise.

  “Have we met?”

  “Not formally. But I remember you.”

  “I am flattered,” Hess said.

  “Don’t be. It isn’t a compliment.”

  “You still think this is Nazi Germany? You can walk into our home?” the daughter said with considerable umbrage and hostility. “What do you want?”

  Hess grinned. She was tough. If they had all been as tough as her exterminating them would have been a lot more difficult. But then, her generation had learned from the mistakes of their elders. “Where is Harry Levin?”

  “How do we know?” the daughter said.

  “But you know him.”

  The old man said, “His parents were my friends before you murdered them.”

  Hess wasn’t expecting that. “Why was he in the forest outside Dachau with a shovel? What was he looking for?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” the daughter said.

  “I am asking you.”

  “We have no idea what you are talking about,” Herr Martz said.

  “Let me help you.” Hess took a black-and-white photo out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “Harry Levin drove here yesterday. You gave him a shovel.” He pointed with the barrel of the Luger.

  The old man said, “He is doing this for me. Digging up lilacs in the forest to transplant in my garden.”

  He was digging up something. The mass grave of Jews was in that general vicinity, but how would Harry Levin know about it unless he was there? Was this possible?

  Hess took them down to the cellar, made them undress and kneel on the brick floor. He tied their hands behind their backs with the rope he had brought in the box. The daughter had a remarkable body, full breasts, and slender waist, round hips, a high backside. He could feel himself getting aroused. That was part of the pleasure. “Was Harry Levin at Dachau?” He would have been a teenager and there were not many that young.

  The old man said, “I remember one day prisoners were packed in the back of trucks and taken somewhere. The trucks would return for more. Almost six hundred people disappeared that day. We were told they were being transferred to a sub-camp to work in the factory.”

  Hess said, “Were Harry Levin and his parents on those trucks?”

  “You didn’t kill everyone,” the daughter said. “You weren’t paying attention. That was your mistake. There are witnesses. Survivors. They came out of the grave and now they are coming after you.”

  Hess walked up and placed the barrel tip of the Luger against the old man’s temple. “Tell me the names of these witnesses.” He said it looking at the daughter, eyes moving down to her beautiful breasts, making the old man’s life or death her responsibility.

  It was 6:27 in the evening when Harry dropped Cordell off. Sorry he’d missed the 5:30 phone call with Joyce. But they could reschedule. He went b
ack to his hotel and phoned Martz. No answer. He was probably out to dinner. Martz was seventy-six. He had some quirks. Liked to eat early. If he ate too late he couldn’t sleep. That seemed reasonable. Harry showered, dressed and tried him again. Still gone. He called Colette and told her he had to stop by and see Martz. He’d be over as soon as he could.

  Harry took the elevator down, went to the bar and ordered a Dewar’s and soda, nursed it and tried Martz again at 7:45, let it ring a dozen times. Nothing. Now Harry was concerned. According to Martz, he was a creature of habit. Got up at the same time every day. Had his meals at the same time. Went to bed at the same time.

  Harry paid for the drink and took a taxi to Martz’ house on Kreuzstrasse. The house was dark, but as he walked to the front door he could see a light on in the salon. He rang the bell. No one came. He heard the phone ring inside. No one answered it. Harry walked around the house, through the garden to the back door. Looked at his watch. It was 8:10. Again, his gut told him something wasn’t right. Martz had a weak heart. Maybe he’d had a heart attack.

  He looked around for a key. Checked under the doormat, under the copper planters that flanked the brick entryway, and realized Martz wouldn’t leave a key. He was too paranoid. Harry scanned the back of the house and noticed Martz’ bedroom window was open a couple inches. Under the window was a metal trellis crisscrossed with vines that extended seven feet up the back wall of the house. Harry grabbed the frame and pulled. It felt secure, bolted to the stucco wall of the house.

  It was dark but there was enough light from a full moon to see what he was doing. Harry climbed to the top of the trellis, reached up and pulled the sides of the window open. He boosted himself up on the sill and climbed in. The bed was made, the room, like Martz himself, neat and tidy.

  There were two more bedrooms down the hall, Lisa’s and a guest room. He checked them, went downstairs. There was a box filled with newspapers on the living-room floor, the label addressed to Wilhelm Martz. He knew one thing, Martz wouldn’t leave the place like this.

  Harry went down the hall to his office. Martz’ desk had been ransacked, drawers pulled out, papers strewn across the antique rug and hardwood floor. He left everything where it was, walked out and checked the rest of the first-floor rooms. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

  The only part of the house he hadn’t seen was the basement. He opened the door, turned on the light and went down the stairs. It was damp and musty, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling on a wire, but it was enough to see them, Martz and Lisa, on their stomachs on the floor. It startled him, took his breath away.

  Harry stood next to them, felt sick to his stomach. They were naked. Both had been shot in the back of the head, blood pooling under their faces, running in dark lines like tributaries, disappearing under boxes stacked in the back corners of the room.

  It looked a lot like the crime-scene photographs Harry had seen on Taggart’s desk at the Washington DC police station. The bodies shot and positioned in a similar way, the bloodstains suggesting that Martz had fallen a foot to his right and was dragged next to Lisa. Harry wondered if there was some connection between Martz and Lisa and the Washington couple. Were they related? Harry went upstairs, called the police, asking for Detective Huber, and when Huber got on the phone, told him who he was and what had happened.

  Harry could hear the sirens. He sat in an overstuffed chair staring out the front windows of Martz’ house. Within a few minutes, three police cars and an ambulance pulled up in front. He met the police at the door, Huber and three detectives. Harry led the way to the cellar, and stood off to the side with Huber six feet from the bodies. The medical examiner was squatting next to Martz and Lisa, measuring and chalking lines around them. Another detective was shooting photographs from different angles.

  Harry stared at the bodies, noticed the locket Lisa wore on a chain around her neck was missing. He asked Huber if anything had been taken off the bodies. He shook his head. The missing locket got him thinking about the random items they’d found earlier at Hess’ apartment.

  Huber’s gaze was fixed on the floor. He moved toward Martz, bent over and picked up a shell casing with the tip of his pen, turned it upside down studying the imprint on the bottom.

  “What caliber?” Harry said.

  “Nine-millimeter Parabellum.”

  Same kind he’d found at Hess’ apartment. “What kind of gun fires a cartridge like that?”

  Huber glanced at him but didn’t answer. He brought out a small spiral notebook and a pen, made a few notes.

  “What time did you discover the bodies?”

  “About 8:20.”

  He was shorter than Harry had remembered, five eight maybe, with narrow shoulders, heavier from the waist down.

  “Who are they?”

  “Martz, an old friend of my family, and his daughter, Lisa.”

  Huber wrote in the notebook. “They live here?”

  “Yes.” He reminded Harry of photographs he’d seen of Himmler, same beady eyes and thin lips. Pictured Huber in an SS uniform.

  “Why were you here?”

  “I was worried about Martz. He had a weak heart. I phoned him a number of times and he didn’t answer. I thought maybe he’d had a heart attack.”

  Two medical orderlies picked up the bodies and put them in black bags, zipped them closed and took them upstairs, one at a time on a gurney. All that was left was the chalk outlines of their bodies and the blood.

  “Do you know who did this?”

  “It was an execution,” Harry said. “Reminds me of how the Nazis used to kill Jews. One shot to the back of the head.”

  “So you think the killer was a Nazi?”

  “Or a neo-Nazi. Lisa works for the ZOB.”

  “I am familiar with the organization.” Huber wrote in the notebook. “Why did you not mention this earlier?”

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  “This could shed a different light on the homicides.”

  “You think?”

  “What is your purpose here in Munich?”

  “Do I need a purpose? I was born here. I wanted to come back and look around, see my old house, check out the neighborhood.”

  “There is no reason to be defensive. It is a simple question.” He paused. “You are staying at the Bayerischer Hof?”

  “I moved. I’m now at the Königshof.”

  “If you think of anything else, call me.” He took a card out of his pocket.

  “I’ve already got one,” Harry said, looking at the chalk lines on the floor. “What are you going to do about this?”

  “Examine the evidence and see where it leads us.”

  Twenty-two

  Harry went back to his hotel. It was 11:40. He was tired, sat on the bed and called the Washington DC Police Department, asked for Detective Taggart.

  “Taggart,” he said, coming on the line.

  “It’s Harry Levin.”

  “Harry, what’s going on?”

  “That couple murdered the night Sara died, were they Jewish?”

  “Whoa. You trying to solve that one now? I can’t give you information about a homicide investigation.”

  “These two cases might be related.”

  “Yeah, they were Jewish.”

  “How old?”

  “He was mid-forties. She was ten years younger.”

  “Were they born in Germany?”

  “How the hell do I know where they were born?”

  “You found shell casings at the scene, didn’t you?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “What caliber?”

  “You’re pressing your luck.”

  “What’re you worried about?”

  “Nine-millimeter Parabellum,” Taggart said. “Two of them.”

  Harry could hear him drawing on a cigarette, blowing out smoke.

  “What kind of gun?”

  “Luger. That’s all you get till you give me something.”


  “Anything taken off the bodies? Personal possessions: a ring, watch, bracelet, earrings, glasses?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I’m guessing,” Harry said.

  “The dentist had a gold chain. It was broken. Whatever was hanging from it is missing.” Taggart’s voice sounding faint all of a sudden like the connection was fading. “Hey, where you at?”

  “Munich,” Harry said.

  “Don’t even tell me. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Hess shot the couple in Georgetown.”

  “Yeah? Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The Krauts were right about you, Harry. You should see someone. Seriously. You’re fucked up.”

  He heard static. Taggart had hung up.

  He got to Colette’s just before midnight. Stood in front of her apartment building, felt a cool breeze blowing up the street, saw a light on in her apartment. He moved to the door and pressed the button. A few seconds later she appeared in the window, looking down at him. She buzzed him in. He took the stairs. She was standing in the doorway when he got there, wearing a robe and tortoiseshell glasses, hair up, looking sexier than ever. Harry kissed her hard and long, backing her into the apartment and closing the door while he was doing it.

  When they finally broke for air Colette was smiling and Harry was too.

  “Where have you been? Did you get a better offer?”

  He told her about Martz and Lisa.

  “My God, Harry, I’m so sorry.” She put her arms around him. “What are the police doing? Do they have any suspects?”

  “If they do, they aren’t saying.”

  “Come in, have a drink, I’ll make you something to eat.”

  Colette took him in the kitchen, sat him at the table and poured him a glass of chilled pinot gris. She cracked two eggs in a bowl and made him a ham and cheese omelet, served it with a little salt and pepper sprinkled on top. She sat across the table and watched him eat, devouring the omelet in six bites, guzzling the wine.