Breach of Power (The Action-Packed Jake Pendleton Political Thriller series Book 3)

by Chuck Barrett

  9

  Scott Katzer opened the doors to the Katzer Funeral Home at precisely 8:00 a.m. so the McClaine family could start making funeral arrangements for Mr. McClaine's 86-year old father who passed during the night after a prolonged battle with prostate cancer. Katzer gave McClaine an orientation package and tour of the facility including a breakdown of the fees associated with each portion of the post-mortem care for his departed father.

  Katzer excelled at developing the calm, reassuring demeanor and sympathetic voice that was crucial for a funeral director. Clients who entered the door were usually grieving and vulnerable which, as his mother had reinforced repeatedly over the years, made them spend more to ensure their departed loved one rested in comfort for eternity.

  Maybe it was a result of the years of his mother's sardonic influence, but the whole idea seemed ludicrous to begin with, Katzer thought, that families would spend several thousands of dollars to bury the dead. In reality, the money wasn't spent on their dead loved one—it was spent to make them feel better. If they could think logically about death, they would realize it didn't make any difference to the dead whether they were laid to rest in a solid mahogany casket with velvet lined interior or a simple wooden box or, for that matter, cremated. Grief, and perhaps guilt, overshadowed their judgment, which his mother claimed was good for business.

  Katzer systematically maneuvered McClaine into the casket room, the money room in the funeral home business according to his mother, where the price markup on a casket could be as high as 250 %. In some cases, the profit margin alone on particular high-end models could amount to a few thousand dollars. His mother trained him to always give the illusion he cared and to try to comfort and console the grieving family while convincing them that their dead loved one was worth the price they were spending. But at the end of the day when he locked the doors, she said it was all about the money. And the Katzers had made plenty with their lucrative business.

  McClaine's father had been a respected businessman in Nashville for several decades and the wealth of the family was well known—including their lavish lifestyle. Katzer guided McClaine to the newest model casket in the showroom, the Mercedes. The casket was a 32-ounce solid bronze sealer with brushed natural bronze rails, a beige velvet interior, and full glass inner seal. Basically, a casket within a casket. Double protection. Katzer noticed McClaine's instant attraction to the gleam from the casket. Lighting around the casket had been meticulously placed to enhance its luster and shine—his mother's idea. A cheap trick but it worked. With a price tag of just under $12,000, the Mercedes was a moneymaker. A splendid choice for a man who would want a grand display for hundreds of the area's upper echelon guaranteed to be in attendance at his ceremony.

  As Katzer explained the merits of the double seal protection, an associate director interrupted.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Katzer?"

  "What?" Katzer heard the annoyance in his own voice too late. He was on the verge of making the sale and the interruption could give the wealthy McClaine son time to reconsider his choice.

  "I'm sorry." She looked at McClaine then back to Katzer. "Mrs. Katzer requests you come to the office immediately."

  "Tell her I'll be there in a few minutes."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but she was quite insistent that I take over so you can go to the office at once."

  "Very well." Katzer looked at McClaine and smiled. "I am very sorry for the interruption, Mr. McClaine, but it seems I must attend to an urgent matter. This is Heather Anderson. She is one of our Associate Directors. She's been with us for five years so you're in good hands." He turned to Heather. "I was just explaining the advantages of the double seal protection on the Mercedes to Mr. McClaine."

  Katzer stepped away and motioned to the casket to draw McClaine's attention back to the casket. "If you'll excuse me please while I check with Mrs. Katzer. Heather will answer any questions you may have."

  Scott walked into his office to find his mother, Heidi Katzer, waiting. She had an ambivalent look on her face, he thought, a mix between concern and relief depending on how the light from the window played across her pasty white skin.

  "What's so important, Mother, that couldn't wait until I finished with Mr. McClaine? I was about to cinch a sale on the Mercedes."

  She looked at him with her blue eyes, still resilient at her advanced age. "Did you read the newspaper this morning, Scott?"

  "Just a quick glance. Looked like the same partisan mudslinging that's been dominating the news for months. Politicians are all crooked anyway." His mother's stern look gave him pause then he thought about what he had said. "Almost all."

  He could tell something was troubling her. "What was in the paper?"

  She turned the paper facing him and pointed her finger at a small sidebar article no more than three inches tall. "This could be it." She said.

  "It?" He gave an inquisitive look and slipped on his reading glasses.

  "Just read."

  Germany: Hikers find human remains inside glacier

  Garmisch| A German news agency has reported that two American hikers have found the well-preserved remains of a man inside the Höllentalferner glacier below the summit of Zugspitze, Germany's highest peak.

  Police told the German Press Agency the hikers located the corpse of the frozen man while exploring an ice cavern carved out by the summer's glacial melt. The hikers were scaling the famed mountain located on the German/Austrian border when they discovered the remains.

  No identification was found on the dead man but experts say they believe the body dates back to World War II. Authorities conducted an extensive search of the ice cavern but found no clues as to the man's identity or how he got there.

  "Wow." Scott Katzer removed his glasses and set them on top of the newspaper. "And you think this is him? After all these years."

  "I never knew if Don was still alive or dead." She struggled to stand. "I need you…to go find out."

  "You want me to fly to Germany?"

  "Yes, I do." She hobbled toward the door. "Find out about the book. I don't want to know how you do it…I don't care how you do it. Just find out whether it's him or not. And if it is him, find out what happened to my journal."

  "I can't leave right now, we have three services scheduled over the next two days. And that's provided the phone doesn't ring again." He was protesting her order more than making a solid argument. "You can't handle this by yourself."

  "Yes I can. I might be old, but I'm not helpless. Give your mother some credit. Besides, I have Heather."

  "But—"

  "No, Scott. I need you. I expect you on a plane this afternoon. Tonight at the latest." She stood in the doorway without speaking for almost a minute. Then she spoke without facing him. "Don't come back unless you know for sure about the book."

  Heidi Katzer walked out without another word.

  * * *

  The mission was called Task Force Christman in honor of Private William Christman, a Civil War soldier who was the first soldier buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Troops from Delta Company of the 1st Battalion of the 3rd Infantry Regiment were tasked with the execution of the mission. They were known as the Old Guard, the Army's official ceremonial unit, which provided escorts to the President and helped conduct military funerals.

  Sergeant Blaine Roberts wasn't dressed in uniform but rather blue jeans, a t-shirt, and flip-flops—all approved attire for this mission. The mission was to photograph the more than 219,000 grave markers and more than 43,000 cremated remains markers at Arlington National Cemetery. The army's task, as mandated by Congress, was to visually account for every grave, update the cemetery database, and digitize the cemetery's maps. In order to accomplish this without disrupting funerals, therefore this portion of the mission was conducted at night after the cemetery was closed to the public.

  Roberts had been doing it all summer, walking through the graveyard and taking pictures with an iPhone. The photos taken by him and the rest of his Company were c
ompared and matched with other records in order to identify any discrepancies that needed to be corrected. Congress tasked them with this mission due to the scandal over mismanagement at the nation's most famous cemetery. But the hours were getting to him. All summer he'd been walking the graveyard. Night after night, the same routine, sleep during the day, walk the cemetery all night.

  At 3:20 a.m., Roberts wasn't at the top of his game.

  His routine had been simple, walk down a row of headstones, stop and take pictures, and log the headstone information on his clipboard. After snapping the photo, penlight between his teeth, he walked to the next marker while writing on his clipboard. Combining the tasks expedited his mission. He'd done it all summer so now it was a mindless rote habit.

  Tonight was warm and muggy. His clothes clung to his sweaty body. Earlier in the day thunderstorms drenched the cemetery leaving the ground saturated and the nighttime air hot and sticky. Roberts had just finished a row and rounded the last marker to make his next sweep in the opposite direction. Preoccupied by logging in the last marker, his foot caught on a pile of wet dirt.

  Then, he fell.

  His clipboard flew from his hands knocking the penlight from between his teeth.

  He tumbled against a moist earthen excavation pile, rolled down, and crashed onto something hard at the bottom of the pit.

  A casket.

  A sharp pain shot through his right shoulder from the impact. Dirt and mud caked his face and clothes. He spit the grit from between his teeth. Musty damp earth filled his nostrils.

  How could he have been so careless?

  But the bigger question stirring around in his mind was why a grave was left open? Even with the heavy rains, the pit should have been covered. No casket should be left in an open gravesite. And no open gravesite should be left without, as a minimum, flagging to prevent what had just happened.

  The casket rocked back and forth while he climbed from the pit. He looked for his penlight and clipboard and found both in the wet grass. He didn't remember seeing any notices of interments among his assigned markers, so why was this one open?

  Sergeant Blaine Roberts flashed the beam of light down into the grave.

  "Holy crap."

  10

  Scott Katzer almost missed his connecting flight to Germany because of a weather reroute around thunderstorms in the D.C. area. His flight from Nashville left on time, but with the last minute booking, his layover time at JFK was short. The en route weather delay left him with only twenty minutes to change planes. And at JFK, that meant changing concourses as well.

  He arrived in Munich on time, but his luggage didn't. The airline informed him it would be the next day before his checked bag would arrive. Fortunately, Katzer carried the bare essentials in his carry-on. Enough to get him by until the airline delivered his bag to him in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. What he didn't have, he would buy.

  Garmisch, in the west, and Partenkirchen, in the east, were separate towns for centuries until 1935 when Adolph Hitler forced the two respective mayors to combine the two towns in anticipation of the 1936 Winter Olympic Games. Even though the two towns maintain separate identities, the twin townships are generally lumped together and referred to simply as Garmisch.

  Katzer didn't want to spend the time required for the long train ride from Munich to Garmisch, so he paid too much to rent an automobile to make the 120-kilometer drive. At least this gave him some mobility after he arrived at his destination. Upon arriving in Munich, Katzer received a text message from his mother; she had booked him for three nights at the Hotel Bavaria in Garmisch.

  His fluent German paid off after he arrived at the Garmisch Polizeistation—police station—since the only English-speaking officers had gone home for the day. He inquired about the man recovered from the glacier and was informed the body was being kept frozen at the Klinikum Garmisch-Partenkirchen, the clinical center in Garmisch. Further query revealed the officer in charge of the case was the only person that could approve a viewing and even then only when accompanied by him.

  Katzer arrived at the police station early the next morning and was met by Gerhardt Zeilnhofer, officer in charge of the investigation of the man found inside the Höllentalferner glacier. Zeilnhofer was a short man, maybe 5'6" with an athletic build, close-cropped blond hair, and a defined swagger when he walked.

  "Mr. Katzer, how may I be of assistance?" Zeilnhofer asked.

  "The man you found inside the glacier last week, have you identified him yet?"

  "No, his identity remains a mystery to us, but we are still in the infancy of our investigation. The only thing we have determined is he appears to have fallen into the glacier sometime in the mid-1940s. Probably around the end of the war."

  "Did he have any belongings on him, perhaps a book of some sort?" Katzer knew his lack of tact would draw suspicion, but he already had a cover story—the truth—with some selective omissions.

  Zeilnhofer was silent for a few seconds. "A rather pointed…and somewhat odd question wouldn't you say, Mr. Katzer? Perhaps you have something you would like to share."

  "So he did have something on him," Katzer said.

  "No, Mr. Katzer, he did not." Zeilnhofer pointed to a chair. "Have a seat. Please, explain yourself and your questions. I insist."

  Katzer spent the next ten minutes explaining that his mother, who was from the small Austrian village of Ehrwald, fell in love with a United States soldier who went AWOL while serving his post at Zugspitze in 1946. She met the man after his father died in the war. The only thing missing other than the man was her diary. If the man they found had the diary, then that would provide positive identification.

  Zeilnhofer rubbed his chin. "And you think this Major Don Adams could be this man?"

  "I don't know," Katzer said, "but my aging mother does. Enough to send me here to find out so she can have closure. She could never accept the thought that he abandoned her. She was convinced their love was eternal. To know he died in that glacier might lift the burden of the painful memories she's carried with her nearly 70 years."

  Zeilnhofer didn't speak at first. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. Using his finger as a guide, he scanned down a handwritten list of names stopping halfway. "Major Don Adams is on the list of possible identities…but so are 30 other names. I can assure you this man's body had nothing on it but an old watch, which we could not trace back to anyone, and a Schweizer Offiziersmesser."

  "A what?" Katzer asked.

  "Swiss Army Knife, I believe you Americans call it."

  "And that was it?"

  "I assure you, Mr. Katzer, there was nothing else on him."

  "Did you search the cave?"

  "I had my men conduct an exhaustive search of the ice cave. There was nothing else in there but ice."

  "Tell me about the watch."

  "The watch?" Zelinhofer asked.

  Katzer nodded.

  "The watch was an old 1917 Waterbury, the kind the U. S. Government issued to soldiers in World War I, which is why we originally thought the remains were much older…the knife changed that. It was crafted in 1945."

  Katzer stood and pointed to Zeilnhofer's file. "How many names are on that list?"

  "Originally, thirty-three."

  "Have you ruled any of them out at all?" Katzer asked.

  "Actually we have," Zeilnhofer continued, "we have ruled out thirteen. Either confirmed dead or alive and living elsewhere."

  "Which still leaves twenty unaccounted for," Katzer said.

  "Precisely," Zeilnhofer said, "and Major Don Adams is one of them. As a matter of fact, all of the remaining names on the list are U. S. soldiers who disappeared during World War II."

  Katzer walked around the room then turned to the police officer. "This might seem an odd request, but I'd like to have something definitive to tell my mother. Is there any chance I could see the body and maybe even take a look at that file?"

  Zeilnhofer was silent. He seemed to be studying t
he taller, older Katzer. "I guess I don't see the harm." Zeilnhofer walked to his office door and pulled it open. "Meet me at the clinic in thirty minutes."

  Exactly thirty minutes later, Katzer and Zeilnhofer walked into the basement morgue of the Klinikum Garmisch-Partenkirchen. The room was cold—both in temperature and appearance—a stainless steel personality. Stainless tables, chairs, stools, and freezer compartments for the cadavers.

  Zeilnhofer walked to one compartment, opened the door, and slid out a smaller table with a corpse covered with a sheet. The police officer pulled back the sheet revealing the torso and arms of the naked man.

  "What happened to his clothes?" Katzer asked.

  "Removed for autopsy." Zeilnhofer pointed to a bag on the floor. "I can assure you we have searched them diligently looking for any indication as to his identity. Because of the length of time in the ice, there was nothing we could use."

  The man's skin was dark brown and stretched tight around his skull, limbs, and torso, yet remarkably preserved for a man dead nearly 70 years. Katzer noticed the twist in the man's arm. "Looks like he must have fallen into the glacier."

  The police officer stared at Katzer. "What makes you say that?"

  "I'm a mortician by trade." Katzer pointed to the man's arm. "The way the arm snapped, typical when someone tries to break a fall. And here." Katzer pointed to the man's abdomen. "Is that a gunshot wound?"

  "The medical examiner said it appeared to be by the nature of the wound, but he indicated the bullet must have been traveling at a relatively slow speed when it hit him. Perhaps a long distance shot." The officer handed Katzer the file. "Is there anything else you can see from a mortician's point of view?"

  "Too long in the ice to detect bruising or lacerations, however, it looks like his clavicle fractured when he fell." Katzer rifled through the police file until he found what he was looking for. The police officer took good notes but didn't seem to follow up on any leads. Or, at least what Katzer viewed as leads, anyway. "I guess this was a wasted trip. My mother will go to her grave still wondering what happened to her American soldier."