A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2)

by Frank Goldammer

  “From this, I think it’s safe to assume that we’re looking at a single perpetrator,” Heller said. “The weapon being Russian-made doesn’t necessarily point to ownership. I’m sure there are loads of bayonets like this floating around. Am I mistaken or is this an older version? I thought modern bayonets were shorter.”

  Kasrashvili barely shrugged.

  “I wonder why Cherin was attacked from behind and repeatedly stabbed in the back while Berinov, by contrast, got it through the neck. The latter isn’t very common. It’s easy to miss the target. A frontal attack makes it much easier to stab the chest.”

  “That, or he was left-handed and standing behind Berinov,” Kasrashvili remarked. It was hard to tell if he was just making light of it all.

  “I’m assuming the killer got disturbed or surprised and had to flee. Otherwise he wouldn’t have left the murder weapon behind, and certainly not this.” Heller pointed at the backpack in the corner.

  “Is the head in there?” Kasrashvili sounded surprised, apparently not expecting this.

  Heller nodded at the backpack. These were bad times. Worse than ever. Everything seemed to be falling apart. When something did work, the Russians came and took it away. There was enough food out in the country, but people were hiding it. The people in the cities were starving. Black markets thrived on every corner. Those who didn’t have anything to trade and tried to keep honest starved. Their liberators wanted to convert people, yet they ate everything up. And whenever the Soviets came marching down streets, people slammed their window shutters and barred their doors. It was all so absurd. So why shouldn’t an Oberkommissar of the People’s Police walk through the city with a backpack containing a severed head?

  “We’ve been seeing an increase in robbery homicides over the past few months,” Heller said. “Mostly cars ambushed on country roads and highways, but there’s also theft and robbery on the outskirts of town, around the Dresden Heath. Anyone traveling alone in the dark is risking their life. So it’s possible a single perpetrator attacked them both. A robbery, maybe?”

  The Dresden Heath wasn’t far. Anyone who knew their way around could vanish into the woods within minutes. Almost no one dared to leave home in the dark.

  “Both officers still had their wallets on them, money, cigarettes,” Kasrashvili said, leaving no doubt that he didn’t think it was robbery.

  “I’ll arrange for the coroner, Dr. Kassner, to examine both corpses,” Heller said. “Do you approve of my sending him over? And do you have anything against my taking photos?”

  “No, go ahead.” The doctor took off his glasses and polished the lenses on his coat. “Between us, Comrade Oberkommissar? I’m not certain what Lieutenant General Medvedev is after, but I do know that your work won’t make you many friends. The Russians, they don’t like it when people stick their noses in their business.”

  Kasrashvili’s words preoccupied Heller as he exited the barracks. It was as if the doctor didn’t feel he belonged and wasn’t one of them. Heller passed through the guarded front gate, waving at the sentries. An engine revved, startling Heller. A Russian jeep with the top down drove up and stopped next to him, its long radio antenna whipping back and forth.

  “There he is, my favorite fascist.” The officer in the passenger seat smiled. He was bundled up in an overcoat, scarf, gloves, and fur shapka, his face barely visible between the thick earflaps. Yet Heller could immediately tell who it was.

  “Colonel Ovtcharov.”

  “You recognized me.” Ovtcharov clapped his gloves together. His nose was red from the cold, and his driver kept sniffling. “I just happened to spot you. What are you doing here?”

  Heller knew the secret service colonel was lying. Ovtcharov had been waiting for him. He’d probably even been following Heller from the moment he left Medvedev’s office.

  “I’m investigating the Berinov case.”

  “That so? Me too. You must know that this matter concerns the Soviet Armed Forces?”

  “I’m aware of that. But I was assigned to the case this morning. So I’ll pursue it until German prosecutors drop the proceedings.” Heller didn’t know how else to respond. He couldn’t exactly bring up Medvedev.

  “There are no proceedings for this case,” Ovtcharov said, then pointed to the backpack. “Is that it? The backpack with the head in it? Is there any proof it belonged to Berinov or that he had it with him?”

  Heller shook his head.

  “Well, that’s what I thought. I am certain that it has nothing to do with this case. Has anyone found any other body parts? A coincidence, I tell you, nothing more. The men can’t be prohibited from doing everything, you know. They’re only human, after all.”

  Heller didn’t understand what Ovtcharov was trying to say. Yet he didn’t want to inquire further. The situation was awkward, and he just wanted to leave. Besides, he was freezing, he felt a sore throat coming on, and his stomach still ached. The sentries behind him must have heard every word. What would they think of him speaking in a conversational tone with an MVD officer? People like Ovtcharov had planted themselves in the regional court at Münchner Platz and in the former Hotel Heidehof after Soviet HQ had moved from there to the Justice Ministry, and their methods weren’t much different from those of the Gestapo: confiscation, abduction, torture, imprisonment. People knew to avoid the cellar of the Heidehof at all costs. Many who were detained there were taken to the prison in Bautzen, guilty or not, without a trial.

  “Is your son not back yet? I hear he’s had the pleasure of enjoying over two years of our Russian hospitality.”

  “He’s not back yet,” Heller said, doing his best to keep his composure. Why would Ovtcharov mention Klaus? Klaus was supposed to have arrived the day before, but Karin had waited in vain at Neustadt train station for hours. Ovtcharov was tough to read. Did he know something about Klaus? Could he somehow be preventing Klaus’s return home? No, Heller told himself, that was just paranoia. Until just a few hours ago, he’d had nothing to do with the secret service colonel.

  Ovtcharov finally brought his little game to an end. “Well, it was a pleasure seeing you again. Here, take this, as a token of friendship.” He reached behind his seat, pulled out a small bundle of rolled-up packing paper, and handed the package to Heller.

  “What’s this?” Heller asked.

  “Payek. Do svidaniya!” Ovtcharov said, then ordered his driver to go.

  Heller watched the jeep roll on, weighing the little package in his hands. It was surprisingly heavy, and he took a few more steps away from the gate before carefully unfolding the paper. He could hardly believe what he saw: a large piece of pork, a half stick of butter, two carrots, and a little pack of sugar.

  He didn’t receive these little packages often. Their Soviet occupiers used tactics like this to obtain the cooperation and favor of certain people. Payek was a magic word. Those who acted at the Soviets’ discretion received payek, and it could be crucial to survival. Those who received lots of payek could in turn win the favor of other people. Heller closed the package, not exactly sure where to put it.

  He heard someone calling for him. “Herr Oberkommissar!” It was Oldenbusch, waving at him from the Ford parked across the road.

  Relieved, Heller crossed the street.

  “Let’s get going, Max,” Oldenbusch said. “I don’t like being around here for long.”

  “Why so worried?” Heller asked as he sank into the passenger seat.

  “Some Russian just tried confiscating the car, that’s why. Right in the middle of the street.”

  Heller snorted. That sort of thing happened a lot, unfortunately. In broad daylight.

  “He tried to stop me, aiming his machine gun. I just held my ground and hoped he wouldn’t shoot.” Oldenbusch drove off, turned, and then headed down Radeberger Strasse toward the city center. “Was that one of those MVD men you were talking to?”

  “Yes, and he was apparently waiting for me right there by the front gate. He hinted that we should
stay clear of the matter.”

  “As expected. Fine by me. I don’t want anything to do with their squabbles. No one’s safe among them. Even the likes of Medvedev can vanish without a trace.”

  “True, Werner. But what are we supposed to do about this head?”

  “That’s for the public prosecutor’s office to decide. We certainly don’t have anyone on file complaining about missing a head.”

  “Werner, I wish you wouldn’t always be so sarcastic. Soon it will turn into cynicism. And cynics don’t believe the world can change. Hey, let’s take a little detour by Neustadt train station.”

  Oldenbusch sighed. “We’re nearly out of gas, and I’m not sure we’ll be getting any in the next few days. We’d be in a real fix if we couldn’t use the car.”

  Heller thought it over. Karin was sure to have gone to the station again, plus Klaus knew where they lived. His boy had survived both the war and a Russian camp, so he could certainly manage the last few miles on his own. “Fine. Drive to Dr. Kassner. Then to the police department. And these photos need to get developed soon.” He held up the camera.

  They drove on in silence before Heller finally lost the battle with his conscience and pointed at the little package on his lap. Oldenbusch had surely been wondering about it.

  “Ovtcharov gave me an extra ration. Do you want to split it?”

  “You take it, boss. You need it more than me. Besides, you have to provide for that older lady you and Karin are living with.”

  “Yes, true. And you’re all provided for?”

  “I get a package through the district committee.”

  Heller stared at Oldenbusch. “From the Russians? What for?”

  Oldenbusch’s look showed a certain degree of pity. “In a word: Socialist Unity Party of Germany.”

  So Oldenbusch received his payek for joining the SED. That was nothing more than favoritism, Heller thought, perturbed. He didn’t even want to think where all this might lead. It hadn’t even been two years, and already people had had more than enough of the Russians and their system of favors and privileges.

  “That’s actually five words,” he muttered.

  February 6, 1947: Late Afternoon

  Heller’s bad foot was making it hard for him to cover the last few yards of the Rissweg to get home. He was in pain, and the street was slippery with packed snow. Despite Ovtcharov’s recommendation, Heller had arranged for the few remaining cadaver-tracking police dogs to start searching tomorrow for the body belonging to the severed head. They would start at Bautzner Strasse and Jägerstrasse, right above the slope where Major Berinov’s body was found. Heller saw the matter of the severed head as an independent incident, separate from the Russian major’s death, and thus Heller’s responsibility. The MVD couldn’t prevent him from doing the work, since the public prosecutor’s office had initiated appropriate criminal investigation proceedings against persons unknown.

  The ride home in the streetcar had taken an eternity. He’d left his dreary office in the cellar of the bombed-out police headquarters, where the detectives were currently housed due to space constraints, and had to take a detour over Augustus Bridge because Carola Bridge was still out of commission. The streetcars were crammed, the mood depressing. The train had even broken down for ten minutes.

  “Power’s out!” the conductor had shouted.

  Many passengers were coughing; all looked ashen, haggard. They carried bags, packs, and suitcases in case they spotted anything edible or useful—though all too often they would return home with empty baggage. One person had a single coal briquette stuffed into their overcoat pocket; others bundled deadwood in their arms. Most looked around warily and avoided the gaze of others, scared of getting robbed.

  Heller had to stand the entire way in the jolting train, anxiously pressing his briefcase to his chest. The smell of the meat was intoxicating, and those around him must have smelled it too.

  The temperature had peaked at just 20 degrees that day and dropped severely once the sun went down. He felt chilled even with his scarf wrapped around his neck, mouth, and nose. Once he reached Frau Marquart’s garden gate, he hesitated. Nothing indicated that Klaus was back. No one stood at the window or came to meet him. He passed through the little front yard, taking long strides, then knocked on the front door and opened it.

  “Karin? Look what I have!”

  Karin came rushing down the stairs, his old overcoat wrapped tightly around her. She balanced on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss.

  “Here, look.” Heller opened his briefcase, but Karin only glanced inside.

  “Max, Frau Marquart is sick.”

  “What’s she have?”

  “High fever. Severe chest pain. Hopefully it’s not pneumonia. All she can handle is tea.”

  “But she was fine this morning.”

  “And now she’s sick, Max.”

  “There’s no one I could try right now,” he said.

  “What about that Dr. Ehlig at the hospital, the professor? You’ve worked with him before.”

  “I’ll give it a try.” Heller gave Karin his briefcase, which she took into the kitchen, and went to the hallway telephone they’d had installed when the new police force took him back about a year ago.

  “Max, you even got meat!” Karin beamed when he entered the kitchen ten minutes later.

  “A colonel in the secret service gave it to me.”

  Karin’s expression dimmed.

  “Don’t worry, it was casual.” Heller’s voice lowered. “There’s apparently a deadly feud going on among some Russian officers. He’d like me to keep clear of it.”

  “You mean that dead Russian they found over near Waldschlösschen?”

  Heller was always amazed by how fast the news and rumors spread.

  “A little farther down from there along that steep slope, but yes, him.”

  “And you’re staying out of it, right?”

  Heller nodded, but Karin’s eyes kept searching his. “Don’t lie to me!” she warned. “What about that Dr. Ehlig?”

  “They wouldn’t even put me through. Ehlig isn’t on duty right now. All they told me was that we should take her to the hospital.”

  “Then let’s do that.”

  “She’s better off here, Karin. Trucks are leaving the hospitals every day with thirty, forty dead, heading for the crematories. I did speak to Dr. Kassner earlier.” It was only a brief discussion, since Kassner had little time.

  “So? Can he help?”

  “What do you think? He’s a coroner.”

  Karin bristled. “But we have to do something!”

  “We’ll make compresses and give her tea. Maybe she’ll recover during the night.”

  “And if she dies?”

  “Karin, there’s nothing else we can do.” Heller took Karin in his arms. She fought him at first, then gave in.

  “I know, Max,” she whispered into his chest. “When will all this end?”

  Heller was reminded of the Soviet doctor—Kasrashvili. Maybe he could beg the man for help, at least to stop the fever.

  “Does the name Kasrashvili mean anything to you?”

  Karin thought a moment. “Sure. That piano concert.”

  “Right.” Now Heller remembered. It must have been fifteen years ago.

  “Tariel Kasrashvili, the Georgian piano virtuoso. It took some getting used to at first, remember?”

  Heller nodded, lying a little. He couldn’t even remember where the concert was. “I met a doctor today named Kasrashvili, a Georgian. Wonder if they’re related.” It was probably pointless thinking about it—the name could be as common as Müller in Germany. He let go of Karin. “Maybe he could help. Tomorrow. Let me try the neighbors and see if someone has some broth left over. I’m just afraid no one has any to spare.”

  “Take this with you.” Karin pressed the little packet of sugar into his hand.

  Heller reluctantly took it. He didn’t like having to take it but didn’t let on.

  Th
ey heard an awful screech from upstairs. Heller whipped around.

  “She’s been doing that,” Karin said and kept him from heading up the stairs. “She doesn’t want to see anyone else. Just me.”

  Heller grabbed his cap and scarf. “Any news about Klaus?” he asked before opening the front door.

  Karin bit her lip and shook her head.

  February 7, 1947: Early Morning

  Heller started awake and took a moment to get his bearings. The doorbell shrilled yet again, and someone knocked on the door. He tossed the covers aside, shuddering from the sudden cold, and thrust his feet into his worn-out slippers.

  “Turn the light on,” Karin muttered. “I’m half-awake anyway.”

  Heller switched on the night-table lamp and checked the clock. It was half past three in the morning. The doorbell rang again. He went into the hallway and turned the light on there too. He could hear Frau Marquart wheezing heavily in the neighboring bedroom. He had barely slept, worrying about her. He hadn’t been able to find help. So Karin had made cold compresses to cool the sick woman’s forehead.

  Heller’s heavy overcoat hung next to the door when he wasn’t wearing it inside the cold house. He threw it around himself, shouted, “I’m coming already!” and went down the stairs. Another forceful knock. By the next ring he was sure it couldn’t be Klaus—his boy would’ve never made such a racket.

  Before Heller opened the front door, he reached into his overcoat pocket and grasped his duty pistol. He opened the door with his other hand. Freezing air rushed in.

  The silhouettes of two uniformed cops showed in the dim glow of the gas streetlamps. From their distinctive stiff shako hats, Heller recognized them as People’s Police.

  “Comrade Oberkommissar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Corporal Neubert. You’re needed immediately,” one of them said. “There was an attack, with hand grenades and machine guns.”

  “There any dead or injured?”

  “It’s not exactly clear yet what’s going on. They tried calling you but couldn’t get a connection.”