The Boy from Berlin

by Michael Parker

  Lawrence glared at him. There was a malevolence in the man’s expression, which didn’t surprise Amos at all. In some respects it unsettled him.

  ‘That would make me an accessory,’ Lawrence said after a silence filled with menace. ‘Doctor Robertson was an exceptional man; a brilliant doctor. He wouldn’t have missed something like that. I think you are mistaken, Lieutenant; Doctor Robertson would never have conspired to forge an autopsy report either. When he spoke to you he must have been,’ he shrugged, ‘well, I don’t know. I find it impossible to believe.’

  ‘Well, I must ask you again,’ Amos pressed, ‘can you recall anything about the meeting you had with him that day?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Lieutenant; I really can’t.’

  Amos breathed in deeply and eased himself up out of the chair. ‘Well, Judge, thanks for your time. If you do think of anything, you will let me know, won’t you?’

  Lawrence came round the desk and shook Amos by the hand. He seemed relaxed; relieved that the conversation was at an end.

  ‘I’ll show you out and yes, if I think of anything, I’ll let you know.’ He opened the office door. ‘I hope you catch his killers, Lieutenant.’

  Amos looked straight into the judge’s eyes. ‘I intend to, Judge. I intend to.’

  Lawrence closed the door and Amos walked along the corridor, wondering how Judge Lawrence knew that Doctor Robertson had spoken to him. After all, he hadn’t told him that he had met with the doctor. And why did the judge assume the doctor had been murdered by more than one killer?

  It was another little piece of Amos’s own private jigsaw that he hoped would build into a picture of high powered collaboration on a murderous scale.

  He took the steps two at a time and hurried out to his car. With little thought for safe and controlled driving, Amos pulled away from the parking lot and sped off down the main street looking for a drug store. What he had in his mind had no basis in logic, but his inherent instinct as a law officer gave him an insight into the criminal mind and he needed to do something that could trap a killer. Or at least point him to the man responsible.

  He pulled up outside a shopping mall and went inside to find a pharmacy. It was getting late and the mall was still filled with shoppers. It took Amos a while to find a drug store. When he did he purchased a pack of syringes. A couple of minutes later he was back in his car and heading for the precinct HQ.

  The front desk sergeant looked up as Amos waved an arm at him in greeting. Despite his bulk, Amos took the stairs two at a time. If his wife had seen him, she would have been mortified, but Amos had something on his mind and he needed to get to his desk as soon as he possibly could.

  The squad room officers took little notice of Amos as he hurried through to his office, not even wondering why he closed his door behind him; something he rarely did. He slumped into the chair behind his desk, his breathing pretty laboured, and unlocked the drawer containing the syringe. He took it out, still wrapped in the evidence bag, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he removed the syringes he had purchased from the drug store and cleaned one with his handkerchief. Satisfied he had removed all trace of fingerprints, not that there should have been any, he slipped the syringe into a clean evidence bag, marked it very discreetly and put it into the open drawer. He then arranged the contents of the drawer in such a way that he would know if anything had been disturbed. Then he closed the drawer and locked it.

  Amos sat in his chair for a few moments composing his thoughts. If he had misinterpreted the signs, and misunderstood his own gut feeling, he knew he would never trap the person who was responsible for the deaths of Senator Robbins and Doctor Robertson. He also understood the reality of getting too close. It could become extremely dangerous. He thought of the doctor’s young daughter, Nicole, and how she had been used to persuade her father to change the autopsy report. Then he thought of his own young daughter, Holly.

  He stood up, took the new syringes from his desk and shovelled them into his pocket and walked out of his office, leaving the door open behind him. None of the squad officers acknowledged him as he made his way out of the squad room and out of the building. He climbed into his car and motored away from the precinct house in a more sedate fashion than the one in which he had arrived.

  Amos lived out at Madison, about a twenty minute drive from the precinct on a good day. Today, traffic was light so he made it home without too many problems. All the while he kept thinking about his wife and his daughter, Holly. As a police officer, he lived with the fear that some retard would seek some kind of vengeance on his family. It was an ever present thought and one that he, like most officers he knew, tried to keep at the back of his mind. He had known some who couldn’t live with it and abandoned policing. He knew of one officer whose family had been attacked by the criminal who was the prime suspect in the officer’s case. He also knew of one detective whose wife had been kidnapped, raped and murdered simply because he was getting too close to the gang he was investigating. And he thought of Doctor Robertson and his daughter Nicole.

  He swung into his driveway and could see the lights were on in the house. He killed the engine and shoved the gear stick into ‘Park’. He clambered out of the car and immediately saw his daughter’s bicycle lying on its side beside his prize, sculpted privet bush. He smiled and picked up the bicycle, wheeling it towards the side entrance into the rear garden.

  Amos could hear music coming from the kitchen window as he walked round to the rear of the house and propped the bicycle up against the wall. He pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen. His wife turned as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Hallo Amos, you’re late.’

  He walked up to his wife and wrapped his arms around her, planting a kiss on her lips. ‘Hallo sweetheart,’ he said softly, pulling away. ‘Where’s my other favourite girl?’

  Judith leaned to one side and called out over Amos’s shoulder.

  ‘Holly! Daddy’s home.’

  There was a short silence followed by a high pitched squeal, then the sound of running feet as their daughter burst into the kitchen.

  ‘Daddy!’ she screamed in delight and launched herself at her father.

  Amos saw this lovely bundle of olive-skinned delight come racing into the kitchen, her eyes wide with joy and her toothy grin spread all over her face as he scooped her into his arms and gave her as strong a cuddle as he dared, while Holly closed her arms around his neck and tried to squeeze the living daylights out of him. And in that moment, Amos felt an unsettling moment of fear, and didn’t want to let his daughter go.

  He put Holly down and knelt beside her. ‘What’s my little darling been up to?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m writing my poetry,’ she told him. ‘It’s about you and Mummy.’

  He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good girl. Now, you run along and get on with your poetry, and I’ll talk to your ma.’

  She hugged him and took herself off to her room. Amos watched as she disappeared and tried to shrug off the uncomfortable feeling that assailed him.

  It was a week later when Amos discovered the syringe had been moved. In fact, it had been switched. He had opened the drawer of his desk and seen immediately that the marker he had left had been disturbed. The syringe was still there in the evidence bag, or so it looked until he checked to see if the mark he had made on the evidence bag was still there. It wasn’t. He knew there could only be one answer. Doctor Robertson had told him how he could no longer trust the police. But now Amos knew he could no longer trust people like Judge Lawrence.

  He sighed and shook his head, closing the drawer slowly. As he looked up he caught sight of the photograph on his desk of his wife and daughter. The uncomfortable feeling he was experiencing so much more of late crept back, and he began to feel afraid for his little girl.

  Bill Mason was putting the finishing touches to the regular polish of his beloved Buick Convertible when he heard the sound of a car pull up. He straightened and tossed the cloth on to his w
orkbench, then walked out of the barn into the sunlight.

  He could see Babs Mason’s Red Rubicon Jeep with the prominent bull bar on the front bumper parked out the back of his ranch house. Babs was about to step up on to the back porch when she saw Mason coming across the yard towards her.

  ‘Still driving that piece of tin?’ he called out to her.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Still polishing yours?’

  They both laughed because it was a standing joke between the two of them. Mason had no time for the huge four-by-four vehicles that many of the high rollers drove. They were never ever likely to encounter the kind of terrain the cars were designed for, and were more of a status symbol; a kind of ‘in your face’ oversize bauble that cost the earth to maintain and the earth to run. It never occurred to him that his ’47 Buick Convertible could arguably fall into the same category.

  He kissed Babs lightly on the cheek, recalling distant memories of when their kisses were more passionate. Now their friendship was more affected; something Mason regretted, although keeping each other at arm’s length did seem to be a problem for both of them.

  ‘So what brings you here, Babs?’ he asked, taking her arm and walking with her into the house.

  ‘I had business in Hutton and thought I’d drop by.’ She hitched herself up on to a stool beside the breakfast bar, unconsciously allowing her skirt to ride up above her knees.

  ‘Want a coffee?’ he asked, feasting his eyes on Babs’s shapely legs.

  ‘Sure. Black.’

  Mason walked over to the other side of the kitchen. ‘What can I do for you, Babs?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about Gus,’ she told him.

  He glanced over at her as he pulled two mugs towards him. ‘Why, what’s he been up to?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing; just wants to run for president.’

  Mason laughed. The sound rolled out of his throat like someone who had just found something that had been lost. He poured coffee into the cups and handed one to Babs.

  ‘I knew he wanted to run, but not yet; he needs time.’

  She took the coffee from him. ‘It’s never too soon, Bill. He’s going for it.’

  He leaned up against the breakfast bar. ‘It’s a big gamble. If he loses this he will not get another chance.’

  She sipped the hot coffee and put the mug down. ‘He has powerful backers, but he’ll need your support too.’

  Mason agreed with the fact that his son would need his support, but he wasn’t sure he was happy to give it. ‘I’m not convinced it’s a good idea. I’d be nothing more than an appendage; something to be brought out of the closet for a bit of window dressing.’

  ‘You’d be helping Gus.’

  ‘But would it help me?’

  Babs frowned. ‘How do you mean, would it help you?’

  He opened his hands and looked down at them as though he had suddenly discovered there was something wrong with them.

  ‘These are all I have to protect me. Up to now, they are all I’ve needed.’

  Babs shifted her position. ‘You’re not making sense, Bill. What have your hands got to do with Gus?’

  ‘It’s the metaphor, isn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘With these hands I built this and that. The Pharaohs built great pyramids, although they didn’t, did they? I’m on my own, I make out OK. I look after myself, no one bothers me.’ He looked at her sharply, letting his hands fall down to his side. ‘But they would if Gus becomes a serious candidate for the presidency. And if he made it, I’d have the secret service crawling all over this place.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want it.’

  He didn’t say any more but picked up his mug and took a mouthful of coffee.

  ‘It isn’t about what you want, Bill,’ Babs told him gently. ‘It’s about Gus, what he wants. And what the American people want.’

  ‘The American people don’t know me, Babs, and I like it that way,’ he came back at her. ‘But they soon damn would if Gus started running for the presidency.’

  Babs slid off her stool. Her skirt remained hitched up before slipping down. ‘Bill, you have had your career. You’re now in the autumn of your years, as they say. Gus still has a long way to go. Don’t deny him your support.’ She made it sound like he was reaching that time in his life when old age shrinks a man. But even as she said it, Babs thought how remarkable he looked and her heart raced a little.

  ‘And what about you, Babs?’ he asked. ‘Is this what you want?’

  Her eyes hooded over briefly. ‘Of course. It’s natural for a wife to want the best for her husband.’

  ‘There would be a great deal in it for you too, am I right?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, naturally. I can’t deny that.’

  He looked away for a moment, and Babs could tell there was something else on his mind.

  ‘But could you deny that we had an affair?’ he said at last.

  She lifted her chin and her shoulders came up as drew herself up to her full height. ‘We’d have to, for Gus’s sake,’ she admitted. ‘Even though it’s common knowledge, really, Bill.’

  He gave her a bewildered look. ‘Hell, Babs, you didn’t even know Gus when we got together.’

  She shook her head sharply. ‘That won’t make any difference to the press; that’s why we have to deny it, or at least make little of it. The press would soon get tired of trying to expose our little secret.’

  ‘And suppose I don’t want to deny it, Babs?’ he put to her. ‘Hell, you’re a pretty fine woman.’ He stepped forward until he was standing in front of her. ‘It would put my stock up in the neighbourhood if they knew I’d bedded you.’

  Babs stepped forward and slapped him hard. He winced and rode the blow, bringing his hand up to his cheek.

  ‘You always were a feisty one, Babs, I’ll give you that.’

  Babs’s expression had hardened and her face was tinged with a reddening hue as though it was she who had received the blow and not Bill Mason. But the colour in her face was because of the fire that had been awakened in her belly. Suddenly she lunged forward and kissed him hard on the mouth. Mason responded immediately and drew her in to him by throwing his arms around her. Then they began tearing at each other’s clothing until they rolled naked on the kitchen floor. Mason rode her like one of the stallions he used to breed, while Babs responded with cries of sheer pleasure, digging her fingers into his back and drawing deep weals on his flesh.

  Soon their lovemaking subsided and Mason rolled off her. The two of them lay side by side on the kitchen floor. Babs started to giggle.

  ‘Don’t you ever, ever say that again.’ Her voice had a soft edge to it. ‘We could be anywhere.’

  Mason laughed. ‘I wish!’ Then he propped himself up on one arm and leaned towards her. He ran his eyes over her naked body, knowing how often he had wanted to look upon her lovely form again. ‘I don’t think I ever stopped loving you, Babs.’

  She turned her face towards him. ‘You’re pretty remarkable for a man of your age.’

  ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll show you just how remarkable I can be.’

  Babs laughed and slapped him on the face. Then she leapt up and ran through to the bedroom.

  Mason smiled and gathered up their scattered clothing. Somehow, he thought, this was going to be a long, but wonderful day.

  SEVEN

  BABS MASON HADN’T slept well, which was to be expected because of her circumstances and the fact that she was reliving the nightmare. Although her head ached and her body felt like it had been in a car crash, Babs faced the young writer and prepared herself for the questions that were to come.

  ‘So you restarted your affair with Bill Mason?’

  Babs was philosophical about it. ‘I don’t think I ever stopped loving him. He was a handsome man; far more warm and responsive than my husband.’

  ‘But you kept it secret.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  The young woman jotted something on her pad and changed the subject.


  ‘There was very little evidence to convict anybody over the senator’s death, but Lieutenant Amos was beginning to build up a picture and connect people, wasn’t he?’

  Babs reflected on the statement and wondered why the State of New Jersey had been blessed with such a dogged police detective.

  ‘I remember him talking about gut instinct at the trial,’ Babs recalled. ‘Nothing on which to base a case, but with the experience of several years with the precinct he knew it was well worth pursuing.’

  ‘There was a lull, wasn’t there?’ the young writer asked. ‘After Lieutenant Amos had spoken to Judge Lawrence about Doctor Robertson?’

  Babs nodded and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘You could call it that, I suppose, but it was more than a lull. We all thought we were in the clear.’ She dipped her head slightly and glanced at the young woman. ‘Nothing more happened. It must have been four years. We heard very little about the investigations into Ann Robbins’ death, and Doctor Robertson; they had been filed as cold cases. Gus was doing well; he was elected into Congress.’ She chuckled and threw her head back. ‘We had a wonderful party that night. All the big guns were there, powerful men. Fools really, I suppose.’ She shook her head forlornly. ‘Men of vision, men of power and men of violence. Can you differentiate?’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  Babs looked a little condescendingly at her. ‘Wrong? Demski,’ she said bitterly, ‘that’s what went wrong. We hadn’t counted him at all. We didn’t even know about him. Turns out he had been making inquiries through his Jewish friends about his grandmother’s death in the camps. It was a very slow process, but while Gus was canvassing for votes, Demski was looking for Heinrich Lörenz.’

  ‘The Nazi officer?’