Forgive Me, Alex

by Lane Diamond

  "Okay." What else can I say? The rest is for him.

  "I know you've been curious for a long time, and that you've had your suspicions, especially after that hypnosis episode with Art Reynolds back in 1978. The things I'm about to tell you may be difficult to believe, and may even bring to mind those spy novels you love so much. Try to keep your imagination in check and bear with me. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Art worked with the CIA, and I worked with him until I retired in 1959. He passed a few years back, by the way. I never mentioned it."

  CIA? Yeah. Why am I not surprised? "I'm sorry. Was he a friend?"

  "Yeah, we worked together starting right after the war—that would be World War II. We came out of the OSS, which was the wartime precursor to the CIA. They recruited me during the war to do some fieldwork and...." He scratches his palm. "Dear me, suddenly I'm nervous."

  Color rushes to his face, and a tremor has attacked his hands. He's eighty-eight, sure—but he's Frank! He swallows hard.

  "It's okay, Gramps. You know you can tell me anything."

  "I know." He takes a deep breath. "I was what the OSS called an asset. I'm German, Son, or at least I was. I obtained American citizenship in 1950. My real name, the one I was born with, was Franz Wollman. I worked as a psychiatrist with the German army during the war. They forced me to do some... unpleasant things, to participate in ungodly experiments."

  "My God, are you telling me you were a Nazi?"

  He clasps his hands together in an apparent attempt to control the shaking, and squeezes. His jaw muscles begin popping and he looks as if he's about ready to stroke-out.

  Damn! I should—

  "I was hardly a fervent believer. They forced me. I had two options: participate or die. They would have killed Marta—that was Martha's real name—as well."

  He pauses again to take yet another deep breath, and closes his eyes as if remembering.

  He opens them again, and says, "I complained about it at the time, quietly and in tight circles, which ultimately attracted the OSS agent to me. He offered to smuggle Marta and me to America, but first I had to provide what he called vital information. I jumped at the opportunity, but those next six months were the most difficult of my life.

  "I was torn about betraying my country, but witnessing the savagery of the Nazis made that easier. Many people went along, but they did so out of fear and misguided patriotism, at least in the beginning. Those were such desperate times. After the war, most good folks felt ashamed and guilty, maybe a little angry, and many struggled against a new onslaught of nightmares.

  "I begged my handler to get me out of Germany immediately, but they needed me where I was. The things I saw and, God help me, the programs in which I participated. I pray every day for forgiveness, and I must trust that God has heard those prayers. I must also trust that I helped to defeat that terrible evil in my own small way, and by doing so helped save many more lives. I must believe these things. The pain would be too much to endure otherwise."

  He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face and neck. The handkerchief lingers a few seconds at his eyes, holding back the tears, I think.

  I've never seen him so distraught.

  "When Marta and I escaped and came to this country in 1943," he says, "the OSS put me to work with their intelligence officers. They were attempting to understand the German mindset and determine how they'd react to certain events, to make best use of the Nazi psyche during the war. I had insight into such matters."

  "You weren't a Nazi at all," I say. "You worked against your own country. Even though it was the right thing to do, it must have been difficult."

  He nods and sighs, as though the vice that had been gripping his heart just eased back. "Indeed. My conscience is mostly clear, though it would be more so, had they allowed me to leave prior to those horrifying six months. I'm not an overtly emotional man, as you know, part of my rigid German upbringing, I suppose...."

  Yeah, sure... not emotional.

  "...Nonetheless, I often awoke screaming and crying afterwards. I spent many therapy sessions working with Art, and he helped me recover from those horrors. He was a young man then, recently out of school, but wise and talented beyond his years."

  He leans back, takes his deepest breath yet, and his shoulders relax into his chair, the tremors in his hands gone. "Truman disbanded the OSS after the war, but it wasn't long before they created the CIA. I joined them and performed various duties, always related to psychiatry. That was it, until I retired in '59."

  "This is unbelievable," I say, "real movie-making material. The one thing I don't understand is the money. Were you wealthy in Germany?"

  A half-smile overtakes his face, and he laughs under his breath. "No, that's another story of which I'm not particularly proud, but one for which I've tried to make amends. Before I left Germany, I stole from one of the Nazis, who were themselves stealing from all over Europe and North Africa. They took whatever they could get their hands on: paintings, sculptures, jewelry, gold and silver, money, valuable trinkets of any kind. They were murderers, to be sure, but they were also thieves."

  "I've read about that," I say.

  "It was true. One field marshal assigned to our headquarters had built quite a little stash for himself. I got a peek at it accidentally one day. The last thing I did before being smuggled out of Germany was break into his office and steal his hidden stash, all of which was ill-gotten in ways I dared not imagine."

  "Stash," I say. "What in the world are you talking about?"

  "It will be easier to show you. Walk with me."

  Frank accepts my arm and stands gingerly, more fragile than usual, as though talking about this, remembering it, further stresses an old and tired body and mind. We meander through the kitchen and out the back door.

  A blast of heat radiates off the patio, and the humidity glues my shirt to my chest within seconds. Also always happens when we step outside his house, an invisible aromatic mist—some weird mixture of field grass, fresh-cut lawn, and more than a dozen flower varieties—lay over us like nature's perfume.

  He points us toward the garden and leads the way, and although I'm unsure how this relates to our discussion, I follow.

  We cross the gothic bridge and he stops before a tree trunk. "Remember how I put the pumps for the stream into sawed-off tree trunks?"

  "Yeah, but this isn't one of those."

  "It's special in another way. You see that hole down there?" He points to a knotted opening—circular, approximately six inches in diameter—at the base of the trunk.

  "Sure, I see it."

  "Reach inside, and be careful of spiders."

  Spiders? Crap, I hate spiders! I stoop down on one knee to look inside before reaching into the hole. "What's this metal lever?"

  "Pull that straight out toward you."

  When I do so, the top of the trunk rises to a slight angle. "What in the world is this?"

  "Now lift the top until it's straight up."

  The hollowed-out trunk, constructed differently from those Frank created for his stream pumps, contains one item: a black box.

  "Leave the box inside the trunk," he says, "but raise the lid. Inside are several velvet bags of varying colors. Grab the blue bag and open it."

  "Holy smokes! Are these real sapphires?"

  "Yes, and in the red bag are rubies, in the green bag emeralds, in the white bag diamonds—you get the idea."

  "Good heavens, some of these stones are huge. How much are these worth?"

  "Been several years since I last checked, so I'm not sure, but as long as you don't get carried away, and along with other investments I have, there's probably enough there to last your lifetime. I've used them sparingly and only when necessary, and I've been generous with charities from time to time, which is how I tried to make things right. Believe me, Field Marshal Kleinschmidt would have been less generous had I left them.

  "It's a tradition I expect you to uphold. They belong to you no
w."

  "What? Wait a minute. You're giving them to me?"

  "It's time, and my needs are modest, so you may now give me money. Also, we'll make arrangements for you to take ownership of the property."

  "Holy cow, this is moving too fast! I have so many questions. How do you convert the stones to cash? Is it difficult? What about the IRS?"

  "It was difficult at first but I've had many years to work through it. I have three primary contacts, jewelers and dealers who move the stones. I'll make the necessary introductions soon and we'll talk about the procedures. As for the IRS, do they even know you exist?"

  "Ummm...." My head is spinning, suffering a serious case of information overload. I heft the bag of sapphires and try to gauge their weight, as if that will mean a damn thing to me. "I don't know. Since I haven't officially had income for the past eleven years, and since I've filed no returns, and functioned under several different identities, I suppose not."

  "There you go. We'll just maintain that circumstance."

  "And what's this about the property?" I gaze about the place that's been as much Frank's baby as anything in life. "I don't want to take your home."

  "It's your home too, and I planned to leave it to you in my Will, but giving it to you prior to my death offers certain advantages. Again, you'll learn all this over the next few weeks. I have an attorney to help with such matters. He's a fairly unscrupulous fellow, much more interested in money than in the law but, given the circumstances, he'll do nicely."

  The mystery of Frank Willow revealed, quite a story, though there's clearly much more that I should like to learn. I suspect we'll have some interesting conversations.

  "I suppose this is overwhelming," he says. He scratches his palm again, something he's been doing a lot today.

  "Hell yes! This is unbelievable. Seriously, I couldn't have dreamed this up."

  "Do you think less of me for what happened in the war?"

  "Are you kidding? Frank, you're one of the most remarkable men I've ever known. You're Gramps. Nothing has changed. If anything, you're more remarkable than ever."

  His shoulders relax and he so deflates in a huge sigh, I'm afraid his strength is going to give right out, collapsing him in a heap. I rush to put an arm around him for support.

  "Thank you, Son." He pats the back of my hand and nods. "I'm glad to hear it hasn't harmed your feelings for me. I was afraid it might."

  "Nothing could ever do that, Gramps."

  "Good." He squeezes me tighter in our embrace. "We'll have plenty of time to talk later, assuming I don't keel over. Let's go inside. It's too damned hot and muggy out here, even for these old bones."

  ***

  I was still reeling from Frank's story when I heard the car pull up. I hustled to the front door to await our visitor.

  I've been anxious to see Linda, and not just to find out what's happening with Norton and the new murder investigations. I haven't seen her since the day before yesterday, which she took for herself to shop and read her books. It's only been a one-day separation and yet it's made me edgy.

  How can that be? I want to hold her and smell her and kiss her and....

  She smiles brightly as she walks up, watching me watch her. At the door, she leans in to hug and kiss me.

  I swim in her lightly perfumed scent. That's more like it!

  I step aside to let her in and follow her into the kitchen. She lights up when she sees Frank, and she skips around the table to kiss him on the cheek.

  "Thank you, my dear," he says. "Don't you smell lovely? How is my flower garden supposed to compete with that?"

  There he goes again. If I said that, it would sound corny at best, ridiculous or phony at worst. Yet from Frank it sounds like exactly what it is: sincere appreciation. She giggles and blushes slightly. Frank has an extraordinary talent for bringing out the best in people.

  "Listen up, you old charmer," I say with a laugh. "Don't be making a play for my woman."

  That brings her head around.

  My woman? Did I say that?

  I pull out a chair and she sits between us. After we all agree to some Mint Medley tea, Linda recounts her quiet day off. The highlight, a four-hour shopping spree, would have killed me. She also spent some time at the hotel pool reading one of her romance novels, which would have killed me as well.

  I set the tea on the table. "It sounds as though you had a relaxing day. So today it's back to the grind?"

  "Well, it's not exactly the grind. Chief Radlon did contact me and ask me to stop in to speak to your favorite neighborhood scumbag, but he lawyered-up. I didn't contribute much of anything, although I got a sense of that man."

  She said that man as though the sound of it would strike fear into the hearts of children and small pets.

  "You mean Norton," Frank says.

  "Yes, he thinks it's a game, and he finds considerable humor in it. He fancies himself some kind of comedian. He's despicable."

  "Aren't they all, my dear?"

  She laughs in that way people laugh not out of humor, but out of frustration. "Yes, but his smug attitude is more annoying than many I've encountered. Many serial killers are introverted, introspective, even considerate in their own sick way. Norton, on the other hand, enjoys rubbing our faces in it."

  I could have told her that. "So you have no doubt that he's responsible for these recent murders?"

  She shakes her head and holds up her hand. "It's far too early for that, Tony. The evidence isn't in yet. He may be responsible, or he may be having fun with us while someone else plays the copycat. There are a few subtle differences between these murders and those of 1978, but even if someone else is guilty, he's the sort to find some fun in it."

  "It must be him."

  "Not necessarily. It does seem foolish for Norton to start again, so soon and so close to home. He strikes me as smarter than that, though he might not be able to help himself. It's possible that someone else is getting his jollies here, someone who finds this unique opportunity too good to pass up. He can have his fun in someone else's back yard—one of his own, so to speak—and let Norton take the heat for it. There are so many of them. You have no idea."

  She shakes her head as she looks down at the teacup. Frank takes the opportunity to look at me as if to say, Doesn't she know what you do?

  "It's happening too fast," I say. "The sick bastard can't resist. Someone else would have had to be in the area already. No chance."

  "You'd be surprised. People would be horrified, I think, to know how many serial killers there are in this country. We know of those behind bars, and of several we're still trying to catch, but for every one we're aware, at least one more exists—unexplained disappearances, random killings that appear unrelated, or those spread so far apart geographically that no one makes the connection.

  "In fact, we believe most major cities have at least one serial killer working them. As the technologies and national databases continue to improve we may eventually be able to connect some of those dots, but we're not there yet, not by a long shot. 1995 is not quite Utopia. Most police forces have insufficient, overstressed staff, often trained inadequately for serial killers. Because they don't make the connections locally, they don't refer the proper cases to us. It's not their fault, at least not usually."

  I try to hide my frustration. Bureaucracies never function efficiently; it's the reason—well, part of the reason—I do what I do.

  "The problem," she continues, "is primarily systemic. We're making inroads and trying to fix the problem, but we need additional technological advances. Those are moving ahead at a breakneck pace, but it will take a few more years.

  "In the meantime, too many of these beasts get away with it. Sadly, the worst psychopaths are typically intelligent, which makes things tougher. We know from several recent arrests, for example, that they often keep up with the technologies and try to work around them."

  She spins her drink around to mix it, takes a sip, and stares into space. "Damn!"

&nb
sp; "It's clearly frustrating for you," Frank says.

  She nods. "We've had instances where we knew who the culprit was—I mean we knew it—but we didn't have the necessary evidence to obtain warrants and make an arrest."

  "So you had to wait until more people died?" he asks.

  Linda jolts, taken aback by the question.

  "I'm sorry, my dear." He places his hand over hers. "I don't think that sounded quite right. I didn't mean to accuse you of sitting by and watching idly. I meant that you were frustrated by the legal process, the unfortunate result of which was that more people died."

  She sighs. "That's the topic of a lot of heated discussions in every stationhouse, every courthouse, and every law school in the country. Ultimately, it's one of the costs of our freedom, I suppose. It's difficult to know where to draw that line."

  "Indeed it is," he says.

  Linda stares at her teacup again.

  Frank stares at me again.

  What did he do? Did he open some sort of door for me? She's a professional cop, near the pinnacle of her profession. I can't believe she would even consider.... No. No way. Looking the other way where I'm concerned is one thing, and probably quite difficult enough for her, but active participation?

  Never.

  Chapter 43 – May 29, 1978: Tony Hooper

  "There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, and all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and miseries." – William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, IV, iii

  ~~~~~

  The dojo sat north of town center on West Algonquin Road. My master, forty-two-year-old Ben Komura, was a first generation American born to Japanese parents who'd immigrated in 1922. His family had studied the martial arts for centuries. Once upon a time, his ancestors had been samurai. He took the family tradition, one he sought to pass down to me, quite seriously.