Ruins of War

by John A. Connell

  Wolski shook his head. He managed to maintain a neutral expression, but Mason could see his neck and jaw muscles bulge from tension.

  Treborn said, “If you have to vomit, make sure you do it in the sink.” He pulled a metal lever and opened the door.

  Despite the cold, the pungent odors of formaldehyde and disinfectant assaulted their nostrils. The large, rectangular room had white concrete walls, though the white was now tinged in shades ranging from ocher to tobacco-stain brown. They passed rows of shelves containing various boxes of laboratory supplies and bottles of chemicals, followed by two overloaded desks and two long workbenches laden with lab glassware, microscopes, and X-ray photographs. Then, beyond these chaotic trappings of any research lab, came the defining objects of a morgue: four porcelain autopsy tables flanked by large sinks on one side and three rows of six refrigerated storage lockers for the deceased.

  Mason and Wolski followed Treborn to the first autopsy table. Mason and Treborn took opposite sides, while Wolski chose the foot of the table as if thinking a little more distance might lessen the shock.

  After one quick glance at Wolski, Treborn pulled away the white covering, the disturbance of air bringing up the scent of decaying meat like a butcher’s shop on a hot day. Beneath lay the head and torso of the victim. Wolski stepped back as if pushed by an invisible force. Mason remained where he was, though icy fingers squeezed his stomach. Dead bodies he was used to—the clouded eyes, the marbled flesh—but this man had died in midscream, his eyes and mouth wide in agony and terror. The Y cut from the shoulders down to the pelvis was now sewn closed with coarse thread. There was a sewn incision from ear to ear around the top of the head, where Treborn had removed, examined, and measured the brain.

  “I’d put the time of death at between eighteen and thirty-six hours before the time the engineers were able to bring the body down, and approximately four hours before being hung up on the column.”

  Mason looked up at Treborn. “It would have taken him a good hour or two to rig the body.”

  “Assuming he was working alone,” Wolski said.

  “Oh, this guy is working alone,” Mason said. “Psycho killers rarely share, and definitely not one who makes such a spectacle of his handiwork.”

  “He could have rigged the whole thing beforehand; then it’d be a matter of an hour or so to tie it up there.”

  “It’s possible. Even with that, to rig the body to the column, place the limbs on the floor above, cover his tracks, then set the booby trap. That’s two to three hours. That means the place where he killed was a maximum of an hour or two from the factory.”

  Treborn said, “Before you get too carried away, remember the four hours is just an estimate.” Treborn turned the victim’s head slightly and pointed to the back of its neck. “I did find a contusion on the basal ganglion from a blunt instrument. This occurred hours before death. A blow like this could have rendered the victim unconscious or semiconscious.”

  “What are those purple bands across the shoulders, hips, and forehead?” Mason asked.

  “They’re also on the arms and legs,” Treborn said. He motioned for them to follow him to the next table. Once there, he pulled aside a covering sheet. No less shocking than the torso were the severed arms and legs. “See the two purple bands on the arms?” He pointed to the wrist and upper arm; the skin within the bands looked jagged and ripped as if someone had taken coarse sandpaper and shredded the skin down to the muscle and tendon. “Here we have them on the thigh, calf, and ankle. These abrasions are where the killer tied the victim down with restraints. It’s the most solid evidence that this victim was strapped down and tortured.” He pointed to the Y incision in the torso. “Plus, look at those cuts. They’re jagged, like the victim had struggled. Then there’s the fluid in the lungs, around the heart. The throat is swollen with lacerations from screaming. Rigor mortis set in very quickly, judging from the tension in his muscles. Especially around the jaw.”

  Mason scanned the skin of the torso, arms, and legs. “Aside from the obvious, I don’t see any other outward signs of torture,” he said.

  “I didn’t find any,” Treborn said. “No lacerations, puncture wounds, or burns.”

  Mason had a sickening feeling he knew the answer to his next question. “Then how was he tortured?”

  Treborn pulled the sheet up to cover the limbs. “My guess, he was cut open while he was still alive and without anesthesia.”

  They all turned slowly to look at the silently screaming corpse.

  Treborn continued, “He was sliced open, his ribs cut from his sternum with heavy shears, then extended out with retractors. The same procedure you’d perform for an autopsy, but on a living man. His intestines were surgically removed. The killer left the heart and lungs intact so as not to kill him, though I venture to guess the victim was half-dead, unconscious, or out of his mind by that time. The arms and legs were removed, each one with surgical precision. That’s how he finally died. Exsanguination—he was allowed to bleed out. The killer fixed the cloth mesh to prevent the rest of the organs from falling out, so he could hang the torso by the head to drain the rest of the blood. He did that carefully, but there is a slight abrasion on the victim’s neck.”

  “Any clues to his identity?” Wolski asked.

  “He was uncircumcised, so we can rule out Jewish or Muslim, and since a higher percentage of American males tend to be circumcised, the odds are he was European. He was at least middle class, from the dental work. Plus he had an appendectomy. He wasn’t a laborer, by the condition of his hands, though he has some pronounced arthritis in his lower back and hips. Also, he does show the onset of malnutrition.”

  Mason cursed under his breath.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Wolski said. “That he’s not American? I for one am glad this crazy fucker’s not hunting Americans.”

  Mason shook his head. “It also means that Colonel Walton is going to put this case on the low-priority pile.” He turned to Treborn. “So, with the malnutrition he’s probably a middle- or upper-class German who wasn’t a combat soldier or laborer.”

  “Or a displaced person or ex–concentration camp inmate, though then he would have shown signs of long-term malnutrition or abuse. And you can’t rule out other Europeans. There were plenty of experts in various fields brought in from Nazi-occupied France, Holland, Belgium, Sweden . . .”

  “We can dangle that idea in front of the colonel to keep him from burying this case,” Wolski said.

  “Regarding your suspect,” Treborn said, “I can tell you that he knows human anatomy and surgical and autopsy techniques. He is not your man off the street. You might be looking at a doctor, nurse—anyone with specific medical expertise. I’ll write up a full report and send it to Colonel Walton tomorrow. I sent samples to the toxicology lab in Frankfurt, but I doubt there will be anything relevant to your investigation.”

  “If there ever is an investigation,” Mason said.

  “I hope there is. You need to find this killer before he does something like this again.”

  SEVEN

  Mason turned heads when he and Wolski entered the squad room, the amused looks following him as he crossed the room. Mason figured he must have firmly planted his feet into some kind of horse manure, but damned if he could figure out what.

  Wolski apparently noticed it, too. “Maybe you should check your fly.”

  Mason nodded toward Colonel Walton, who madly waved for Mason to come to his office. “Looks like I’m about to find out.” He passed through the outer office, where Walton’s secretary shook his head like a disappointed parent. Mason ignored the man as he knocked on Colonel Walton’s open door and entered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Colonel Walton retreated behind his desk and thrust the newspaper in Mason’s direction. “That doe-eyed look of yours means you haven’t seen today’s Stars and Stripes.”

&n
bsp; Mason took the paper and looked at the special guest column Colonel Walton had featured in the top fold. A knot formed in his stomach when he saw a photograph of himself during the riot, standing on the jeep and firing the machine gun. In bold typeface it declared, “CID Investigator Demonstrates New Method of U.S. Occupational Diplomacy.” The byline read, “Laura McKinnon, Special Reporter,” with a thumbnail sketch of her smiling face.

  Anger and embarrassment both fueled the flush in Mason’s cheeks. “Colonel, the riot was getting out of control—”

  Colonel Walton held up his hand for Mason to stop. “I’ve talked to the MPs handling the riot. General Jenkins, the CID’s top commander, wanted to bust you down to private. I had to eat crow and defend you because I need you. But you do something like this again, and I won’t lift a finger to help you. Do you understand?” When Mason nodded, he turned his attention to the folders in Mason’s hand. “That the ME’s report on the slasher case?”

  Mason handed the files to the colonel. “Major Treborn’s formal report will be here tomorrow. Those are copies of the autopsy photos, dental prints, X-rays, and my notes.”

  The colonel leafed through the files. He winced at the autopsy photos. “Sweet Jesus.” He looked up at Mason. “Tell me what you found.”

  Mason told him about the ME’s estimate of the time of death before being hung on the column, the victim being strung up to be bled out, probably after hours of excruciating torture. The colonel fell back in his chair with a look of repulsion when Mason told him the ME’s opinion that the killer had made autopsy-style incisions and dissected the victim while he was still alive. “The surgical methods and the dismemberment show the killer has medical expertise. I’m still convinced this was a ritual performed by a psychopath. This is not going to be his only killing.”

  “Yeah, you’ve said that already. Any luck on the victim’s identity?”

  Mason had known that question was coming, and he hesitated while trying to formulate an answer. “Statistically, the man is likely to be European, but we can’t definitively rule out that he was American.”

  “Statistically?”

  “A combination of factors. The fact that he was uncircumcised. Signs of malnutrition . . .”

  “I don’t know of one U.S. soldier in this entire occupational zone who could claim starvation. The victim has to be German.”

  “Or a DP or former concentration camp inmate. Major Treborn also pointed out that there were a lot of foreign national experts the Nazis brought in from their occupied territories, so the victim could have been one of our Allies. Sir, I request we pursue this case with urgency. We have to do anything we can to stop this killer from doing this to anyone else.”

  “My order stands. The army works like a big-city police department: quantity not quality. Keep this case in the fire but continue with your other ones.”

  Mason hesitated. He knew what was coming but he had to ask. “Sir, I also request permission to access U.S. Medical Corps personnel files—”

  “You what?”

  “Major Treborn confirms that in all likelihood the killer has medical expertise. And the fact that the killer can move around after dark, transporting a dismembered corpse without being noticed, points to someone with permits or in uniform.”

  “For me to grant access to confidential personnel records, you’re going to have to come up with something better than that. What about a German physician or a DP with medical training?”

  “We’ll pursue those avenues with Inspector Becker’s help. But we can’t rule out U.S. personnel.”

  “If you come up with evidence, anything that would convince me and the Provost Marshal, then there’ll be no question. But for now, you’re shooting in the dark here. No. Permission denied. Get to work on those other cases. I want to see progress on that train robbery. Now, get out of here.”

  • • •

  Mason left headquarters feeling exasperated and drained. He’d spent the afternoon and evening rehashing the train robbery case, which included conducting more pointless interviews. It was all an exercise in futility, but the colonel kept looking over his shoulder or making surprise visits to the interview room. And all the while, Mason couldn’t get the slasher case out of his mind: the victim’s unbearable suffering, the horrors of the autopsy, and the vexing lack of leads. Before heading home, he needed to do something worthwhile, some little gesture of comfort. He went by the PX and caught the staff just as they were closing. With a little persuasion they allowed him to buy a bundle of chocolate bars and some cans of ham, peas, and fruit cocktail.

  Fifteen minutes later he stood across the street from the hole in the destroyed building where he’d seen the orphans flee after being chased away by the hotel MP. The two boys he’d seen gathering cigarette butts sat just outside the hole. When Mason crossed the street they scurried inside. He heard whispered voices and scuffling of feet in the darkness beyond the hole. He placed the box containing the chocolate and food on the ground just far enough away from the opening that at least one of the children would have to come out.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” Mason said in German. “I have food for you.”

  No response, no sound of movement from within.

  “Is no one hungry?” He waited a moment. “Okay, then I’ll have to throw it away.” The older of the two boys who had been sitting outside the hole peeked out. Mason backed away a few steps. “There’s chocolate, ham, peas, and fruit.”

  The boy looked to be around twelve, with a dirty face and dressed in an adult-sized overcoat. He made one tentative step onto the sidewalk. A few murmured voices behind urged him on. He approached the box, keeping his eyes fixed on Mason.

  Mason squatted. The sudden movement startled the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “Kurt.”

  “My name is Mason. Are you the oldest?”

  “The oldest boy.”

  Some of the other children vied for space at the hole to peek out. Kurt pointed to his younger cigarette-collecting companion. “That’s Dieter.” He then pointed to a freckle-faced girl of around six. “And that’s Ilsa.” The introduction seemed to give Ilsa the courage to jump out of the hole and peer into the box. She grabbed a chocolate bar and dashed back inside.

  “Everyone has to share, okay?” Mason said. He tossed Kurt a can opener. “Be sure the little ones get enough to eat.”

  Kurt nodded, and Mason backed away. Once he’d walked far enough down the street, he heard shuffling and excited voices. He looked back and saw fifteen or more children attacking the contents of the box. Kurt was trying to dole out the food equitably, but the children were too hungry to listen. He looked at Mason, clearly afraid that Mason would be angry if he failed to maintain order. Mason waved and Kurt waved back.

  As he walked away, pulling his coat tight against the cold, he silently wished them well and vowed to try to do more. He had relieved their hunger for a few days, but the worst of winter was yet to come. How many would survive?

  It was a humbling feeling for Mason to consider that no matter how many lives he could save from the hands of a psychotic killer, it paled in comparison to those facing death at the hands of a cruel winter.

  EIGHT

  Queen takes rook,” Mason said.

  Another eruption of cheers and groans. Mason could tell by the chants of the GIs surrounding their table that his opponent, a major in the Third Army’s Signal Corps, was downing another shot of whiskey.

  Lose a chess piece, down a shot.

  Mason heard his opponent slam the empty shot glass down on the table then slap the timer.

  “Knight to queen’s knight five” someone said for Mason’s benefit. The actual chessboard was invisible to Mason. He wore a blindfold, though the major did not. But he had a perfectly clear image of the board and the positions of the pieces in his mind, as if he could have reached out and touched them
.

  Despite all the grief his grandfather visited upon Mason as a child, he had taught Mason the skill and art of chess—even if it involved cracking Mason’s fingers with a ruler if he made a bad move. And as Mason improved, his grandfather had forced him to play blindfolded. It had served Mason well. He became so good over the years that by the time he reached his senior year in high school he had turned his skills into a small moneymaking enterprise; become a sort of pool shark for chess. He could triple-down the bets by donning a blindfold and challenging his unwitting opponent to one more game.

  Mason figured his exceptional memory, particularly conjuring up images in sharp detail, had come about from being forced, time and again, to track the state of the chessboard in his mind or suffer pain inflicted by his grandfather. Like exercising some normally neglected muscle, the process had developed a part of his brain so that he could bring up certain images in crystal clarity. But normally, unlike with chess, he had limited control over which images stuck; usually they were confined to ones with strong emotional ties. He could instantly recall his grandmother’s face: As if looking at a photograph he could describe the angle of her lips when she smiled or frowned and give an exact count of her wrinkles and blemishes. Or recall his ex-wife in that first week of bliss before their love had turned sour: the contour of her breasts and the intricate folds in her opal irises. But the ability had its downside. He could conjure a precise image of the mangled body of his murdered partner or, like a movie projected on his eyelids, the horrifying weeks he’d spent behind the gates of Buchenwald. Any detective would wish for this skill, but Mason’s never manifested without the accompanying emotional bonds of love or horror.

  The timer ticked down the seconds. . . .

  “Knight to king’s bishop six,” Mason said and slapped the timer.

  The crowd murmured and exchanged bets.