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

by Frank Goldammer

  Heller felt forced to come to the Georgian’s defense a little. “He’s more of a musician by passion, not a doctor, a soldier even less.” He stopped talking, unsatisfied by his choice of words—he didn’t need to make the situation even worse.

  “Well, none of us is doing what we’d like. The war made soldiers of us all.”

  Heller started over. “Did you know that Kasrashvili’s father is a famous concert pianist?”

  “Was. He’s dead. He was shot in ’38, in a purge ordered by Marshal Stalin.” Ovtcharov let his words sink in a little, blowing cigarette smoke out of the corner of this mouth and tapping ashes onto his saucer. “Now, Comrade Oberkommissar, do you have any other information? Since you just happen to be here.”

  Heller cleared his throat and tried to find the right words. “Have you ever considered that the attack on the Schwarzer Peter was done to cover something up? Possibly by a member of the Soviet Armed Forces? According to Gutmann’s statement, there was a dispute between Berinov, Cherin, and a certain Franz Swoboda.”

  “Franz the Stub.” Ovtcharov picked up a file from a stack on his desk. “Vasili Cherin once told one of my men that this Swoboda was a war criminal but never wanted to discuss it any further. This was about ten days ago. We did find out that Swoboda was depending on Gutmann for drugs and did dirty work for him. Swoboda was considered unpredictable and truly violent. According to witnesses, when Cherin was drunk he threatened to ship Swoboda to Siberia. We weren’t able to pursue this, since Cherin was found dead.”

  This amazed Heller. “It sounds like you’ve been running an investigation for some time.”

  “Naturally, when a member of our Soviet Armed Forces is killed. Our initial suspicions fell on Gutmann. But he has a strong alibi for the night Berinov died. He has friends in certain circles, people who are impossible for me to act against.”

  “High military circles, you mean?”

  Ovtcharov just stared at Heller.

  “So you do know what was happening in that bar?”

  Ovtcharov said nothing, but his reaction was answer enough.

  “You want to avoid a scandal at all costs, is that it?”

  Ovtcharov sucked on his cigarette, burning down the last of his butt. Heller felt the man wanted to tell him something but didn’t trust his own department.

  “I will give you the files from our investigation, Kasrashvili’s file too,” Ovtcharov said. “However, it is crucial, Comrade Heller, that you do not mix the one matter with the other while you follow all leads.”

  “But what would you have done,” Heller said, “had Berinov not been found dead and I didn’t happen to end up on this case?”

  “You did not ‘happen to end up on this case,’ Heller, so do not fool yourself. Now goodbye.”

  February 10, 1947: Late Morning

  Public Prosecutor Speidel carefully ran his fingers along his part as he paged through the Russian investigation files. Heller observed him. He wasn’t sure what Speidel could really do with the material. After a few minutes Speidel looked up, chewing on his lower lip, deep in thought.

  “You have access to amazing sources,” Speidel said. “It’s clear to you that we’re stepping into a minefield, yes?”

  Heller didn’t answer.

  “According to your theory, Cherin and Berinov were regulars at Gutmann’s bar. Cherin got into a dispute with Swoboda. Swoboda followed Cherin and stabbed him to death. After that, Berinov killed Swoboda, cutting off his head for revenge. After that, Gutmann would’ve killed Berinov to take revenge for Swoboda, wouldn’t he?”

  “It’s just one possible scenario. Gutmann could’ve easily killed them both. Maybe he was even contracted to do it. Even so, Armin Weiler doesn’t fit in the scenario, or he played a role we don’t yet know about. We haven’t found his corpse—only his hands.”

  “Let’s leave Weiler out of it for now. How was Gutmann supposed to have managed it all physically? Sure, he’s big, but he’s not that strong; more the flabby type, right? Judging from all we know about Swoboda, he was much brawnier and very strong. And how was Gutmann supposed to have gotten close enough to Berinov while wielding a bayonet, then attack him, without Berinov putting up a fight?”

  Heller considered Speidel’s objections irrelevant. “For one: someone actually did it this way. Two: Berinov had a prick on his upper arm. The murderer could have surprised him with an injection of Evipan and waited until he was sedated before stabbing him in the neck. Of course, it could also have been someone else, but we did find the medicine and needles at Gutmann’s.”

  “Out in the open? And why didn’t he take the backpack with him?” Speidel’s skepticism was clear.

  “Well, perhaps he was surprised by workers heading home from the late shift and had to flee. Like I said, it’s only a hypothesis. We have two dead Soviets, some body parts from two dead Germans, a dead girl, rumors of a second dead girl, yet no concrete evidence or witness statements. It seems like all I do is wander the city following up on incidents. Unless we can come up with something more plausible, we might as well stick to this scenario. I’ve seen murderers with less motive, Herr Public Prosecutor. I’m happy to hear all your suggestions. I plan to question Gutmann again this afternoon. He caved a little yesterday evening once I made it clear that he could easily be charged with certain crimes—homicide, failure to assist, fencing stolen goods, and immoral behavior.” Heller didn’t want to reveal anything about Fanny for now. He’d pursue the lead just as soon as he could leave the prosecutor’s office.

  “About the Gutmann issue,” Speidel said, avoiding Heller’s gaze and brushing imaginary dust from his lapel instead.

  Heller sat up in his chair, resolved not to give this former Nazi even an inch of room.

  “Gutmann’s free,” Speidel said.

  Heller stared at Speidel in disbelief. “That can’t be. A young woman, just a kid, died in his building. He admitted to attempting to cover up her death. We also had solid suspicion that he’d suppressed evidence related to Swoboda’s death.”

  “I know all this, Comrade Oberkommissar. I wasn’t the one who released him. Nor a judge. Someone from the SMAD secured his release. Someone way up high.”

  “How long has he been out?”

  “Since around seven a.m.”

  “Has anyone been assigned to track his movements?”

  “I only learned of his release after the fact. And, Heller, between you and me? We’d be risking our own necks if we had him followed now.”

  “Just assuming Gutmann believes he’s the main suspect, wouldn’t he try to get rid of any other witnesses?” Heller was thinking about Kasrashvili, among others.

  “If he were smart, he’d relocate to the west,” Speidel said.

  “He wasn’t released so he could take off. Someone instructed him to clean house!” Heller rose and leaned across the table to take back the files Ovtcharov had given him. He wondered who in the SMAD had the most to gain from keeping the German population’s emotions in check. A couple of names came to mind.

  With every step closer to the Dresden Heath, Heller felt more exposed. Apart from the slice of bread inside his overcoat that was supposed to be his lunch, he hadn’t been able to rustle up anything he could take to the children. It would have been impossible to ask Karin to donate something, since they only lived on what little they obtained during the day. He knew only too well how Karin scrimped and saved just to provide him with that tiny bit of extra sometimes; he knew she was giving Frau Marquart some of what little broth she had left, even though the sick woman still kept spitting it out. And there was always that fear they wouldn’t be able to scavenge anything today, or the next day. There were no reserves left, not anywhere. What if Karin were to become sick? What if she couldn’t continue because of hunger or exhaustion? She was barely more than a shadow of herself already. She had felt so small in the night, so fragile.

  He walked down Bischofsweg and onto Priessnitz Path and continued under the tall Carola-Al
lee overpass. Seeing it reminded him yet again that at the end of the war people in despair had jumped to their deaths from there because they couldn’t bear the downfall of the German Reich and so deeply feared Russian retaliation.

  There was another reason Heller felt exposed. He had given Oldenbusch his pistol for safekeeping because he intended to show the children that he meant what he’d said. For the same reason, he had ordered Oldenbusch not to follow him or make any attempt to search for him. He’d told Oldenbusch to keep an eye on Gutmann instead.

  Heller knew he was putting himself in great danger. The boy, Jörg, was ready for anything and had posted his own guards. It was clear he was committed to protecting his little community. All the younger children had known was a life of battling for survival, a struggle that might have turned them into murderers. And did Jörg love Fanny? She’d given birth to a Russian’s baby, one that he believed was his. What if he’d found out and already taken his revenge?

  Heller had walked for nearly half an hour and had followed the creek for a good while when he suddenly heard a crackling sound. He peered around for the spot where Fanny had crossed the stream. Was he already being followed? He made himself continue on as if everything was normal, fighting the urge to take cover or hide. But the children had to see that he wasn’t up to anything. He kept hearing a soft crackling and crunching, the same sound his footsteps made on the dead leaves. Could someone be hiding behind the trees with a gun aimed at him? Heller continued a little farther along the creek. It had grown dim. Clouds covered the sky, and a light snowfall was beginning. He didn’t need that.

  Two people approached, a man and a woman of indeterminate age. They carried bundles of deadwood on their backs. Heller squeezed into the bushes and waited for them to pass. Only then did he continue, eventually finding the spot along the creek where he could reach the other side by jumping stone to stone. He made his way across, slipped on the last stone, and nearly fell in before taking an awkward leap onto the other bank. A deep pain shot through his right ankle. Limping along, his hands now raised to show his peaceful intentions, he trudged up the slope. Heller stumbled when his foot got caught on some roots, yet he kept his hands above his head. He finally reached the crest of the little hill concealing the camp on the other side. He slowly lowered his arms. The camp was empty.

  It was a possibility he’d considered, but he was still disappointed. He slowly made his way down the other side of the hill. The tents had been taken down and removed, with only a few dark spots showing where they had stood. The snow would soon cover that too. The campfires had long gone cold, the shelter pulled down, the supports knocked over, the soil collapsed. Heller took a stick and poked at a few holes in the ground, pushing aside a pile of leaves without knowing what he was looking for. He discovered a pit containing garbage and tin cans as well as cooked and smashed bones. He spotted skeletons of squirrels or rats, but also larger bones, and the longer he looked at them, the more he feared they were human. Radial and ulna bones from an arm, possibly. He would’ve liked to banish the thought, but he couldn’t.

  He followed a few vague tracks that led to the narrow stream before disappearing. The children must have waded through the water, but Heller couldn’t tell if they had gone up or downstream.

  What could they have done with the sick? Carried them on their backs? One thing was clear: they had gone away because of him.

  Heller eventually accepted that it didn’t make any sense to continue his search. He wouldn’t find the children here, not now. The heath and its roughly twenty-three square miles weren’t exactly a vast impenetrable forest, but the area was large and confusing enough to hide in. It would take hundreds of police to comb through it, but even that left a way out through open fields on three sides, toward Ullersdorf, Radeberg, and Langebrück. It was hopeless.

  Disappointed and exhausted, Heller made his way back. Thick snowfall set in, which wouldn’t make it easier for the little group to survive. Their camp was sure to be even farther removed from civilization now. They would have to erect shelters and get settled in all over again. Even if the temperature did start climbing and spring came a few weeks early, these children were facing a bitter struggle.

  Heller started to head back the way he had come in but then decided against crossing Priessnitz Creek in the same place. The danger of slipping and falling was too great. He kept following the stream instead, taking shortcuts at the major bends. He reached another trail that crossed his and rose steeply, leading up to the military cemetery, he guessed. From there it wasn’t far to the garrison where Kasrashvili was posted. Before he could decide, he noticed movement on the opposite bank. He took cover and watched a person dressed in black approach. It was clearly a man, seemingly unarmed, yet clearly not the usual wood gatherer from the way he was acting. He kept stopping to look around, then hurried on. Heller thought he had seen the man somewhere before, or at least recognized the way he was moving. He let him pass and then followed at a distance.

  After a strenuous hike that demanded Heller’s complete attention, they finally reached Bischofsweg, which the man, looking determined, took until Kamenzer Strasse. They continued on down before making a slight turn into what became Martin Luther Strasse.

  And suddenly Heller knew whom he was following. The man in front of him had just crossed Martin Luther Platz and was heading for the church. There he pulled a key out of his pocket and entered the building through a side entrance. Heller waited a few moments, looked at his watch, then followed the pastor through the large main portal into Martin Luther Church.

  February 10, 1947: Early Afternoon

  The tall edifice gave Heller a somber and chilly reception. It had survived the bombings nearly unscathed. Dull colored light streamed in from the smaller stained-glass windows of the apse. The broken large round windows in the transept were patched with wood, only a few thin rays of light breaching the cracks. Candles burned at the altar.

  Martin Luther Church was large, with plenty of seating. Heller walked along the pews. Ever since the First World War, he had entered a church on only a few occasions. There were the weddings of his two best friends, both of whom lost their lives in February ’45 along with their families, and his own wedding—like Karin wanted, having promised this to her mother, who’d passed away far too young. It was in the trenches of Belgium that he had lost the final shreds of the faith his own mother had once given him.

  It had been a small wedding. Karin became an orphan after her father’s kidneys had failed and led to his agonizing death in the hospital. Heller’s parents had been sick then as well, looking so thin and shrunken, like an elderly couple, even though they hadn’t even reached sixty years old. His mother had tears in her eyes, already sensing that she would never live to see her grandchildren.

  Heller cast aside these memories and looked around. This house of God held only a few visitors. An old woman with a headscarf sat in one of the front pews. Farther back, off to the side, sat an older man who stared ahead in silent devotion. Heller could make out a few others in the darkness.

  Instead of walking up to the altar, he made his way left along one of the pews and waited under a gallery in the dark to see what would happen. After a few minutes, the door to the sacristy opened, and the pastor came out. He wore a black suit with the collar, and his hair was parted. Taking gentle steps, he approached the old woman near the front, greeted her, exchanged a few whispers, and nodded. Then he turned to the altar, switched out the burned-down candles, and lit the new ones. When he tried to return to the sacristy, Heller stood in his way.

  The pastor looked startled. “Can I—I know you. You’re the police detective.”

  “Oberkommissar Heller. I have to speak with you, now. It’s urgent.”

  The pastor took a good look around the nave, then nodded. He invited Heller into the sacristy and locked the door behind him using a key.

  Heller looked around the small room. It was fitted with built-in cabinets, their door handles holding v
arious vestments on hangers, and had a large safe and a massive oak table with various candleholders, chalices, and altar candlesticks, as well as boxes and packages. More boxes were piled on the floor. All told, the room seemed more like a storeroom, chaotic and disorderly. And among all this was a made bed—the pastor evidently lived here. Through the high-up window, Heller could see that the snow was coming down even harder. And that the window had bars on it. He turned to the pastor.

  “Your name, please.”

  “Beger, Christian.”

  “Birth date?”

  “August 20, 1910.”

  Heller wrote this in his notebook, which he then laid on the table, his pencil next to it.

  “Herr Beger, I followed you here from the woods,” Heller began. He didn’t have much time. “I know you were with the children. I discovered that group yesterday. Today the camp was gone. Tell me where the children are. You know.”

  The pastor stared at Heller. “I couldn’t find them today either.”

  Heller gave him a stern look. “Your backpack was empty on the way back. That means you brought them something to eat in the pack, I assume.” Heller grabbed one of the boxes and pulled out a can of ham. Canned foods were stacked up in other boxes too. “I found the exact same cans in the children’s trash.” He’d seen the same cans on Gutmann’s shelves too. It was possible Fanny had obtained them from there.

  The pastor was beginning to look less certain. “How can I trust you? How do I know you won’t sic the Russians on those children?”

  “Listen. I’m worried about the infant. I’d like to persuade Fanny to come to my home. A mother and child can’t stay out there.”

  The pastor blinked erratically, his narrow shoulders drooping as if the burden of his heartache were dragging them down. “What concern is it of yours?”