Ruins of War

by John A. Connell

  “My uncle had a pig farm. Nothing could smell worse than that,” Wolski said.

  They followed Becker down the ladder and met him in a man-sized tunnel of timeworn brick. Mason detected a pungent-sweet odor just below the sulfurous miasma of sewage. A small stream of brackish water trickled along the bottom of the tunnel.

  “This way,” Becker said.

  Mason and Wolski turned on their flashlights and followed Becker.

  “There has been another development in the last hour aside from what you are about to see,” Becker said. “A woman by the name of Frau Hieber came into our precinct this morning and said she recognized the victim from the sketch we posted throughout the city. She identified him as Richard Hieber, her brother-in-law. She said he has been missing for five days. He was a doctor with a small private practice. He also worked at a clinic on Rheinstrasse. I telephoned the clinic. Several nurses confirmed that he hasn’t been seen at the clinic since his shift on Friday.”

  “A doctor killing a doctor,” Wolski said.

  “There could be any number of reasons why the killer chose him,” Mason said, “but it’s something to keep in mind. Did Frau Hieber know of any rivalries with another doctor, or him receiving threats of any kind?”

  “Both Frau Hieber and the clinic staff said he was a kind man. Everyone respected and had great affection for him. He had no enemies that anyone knew of, and he was rather reserved, spending most of his time at the clinic or helping his sister-in-law with her children. He studied at Berlin University. He was a surgeon in the Luftwaffe with a rank of major, serving mostly on the eastern front. We are trying to obtain his records, but we have to request Luftwaffe records through the American army. The amount of red tape . . .”

  “We’ll take care of that,” Mason said. “What about a wife or immediate family?”

  “His parents died before the war. His wife and daughters were killed in the Battle of Berlin.”

  A moment of awkward silence passed between them—the tragedy of it all, the loss of so many families.

  “I have Frau Hieber’s address,” Becker said. “She has consented to another interview if you have additional questions.”

  Mason shook his head. “Sounds like you covered everything.”

  “She drew out his usual path to the clinic and listed the places he visited on a regular basis. I’ll give you everything once we’re done here.”

  “Good. I’d like to talk to the clinic staff.”

  “Of course.”

  The tunnel ended, and the three detectives climbed down a short ladder that descended into a large square chamber of concrete and brick. Two sets of stairs led to platforms at various levels. Pipes and electrical conduits covered much of the ceiling and snaked into smaller tunnels. Twelve feet below, dark water rushed through an open trench. A group of German police stood in the corner of a platform, while others searched the area with their flashlights.

  Mason identified the odor he’d detected in the tunnel: the unmistakable stench of putrefaction.

  “This is a maintenance area accessing several sewer branches,” Becker said over the sound of the rushing water. “A couple of workmen made the discovery this morning. The last time anyone came down here was a month ago.”

  Mason and Wolski followed Becker to the corner where the policemen were gathered. There, next to an intricate metal grid, lay a limbless corpse. The skin had turned greenish yellow and black. Much of the torso had gouges or chunks missing. The eyes and nose were gone. The mouth gaped wide.

  Mason felt his stomach contract. Wolski turned away for a moment. Mason tapped him on the shoulder and eyed the ladder behind them, but Wolski indicated that he was okay.

  “Unfortunately, the rats have feasted on the corpse for some time now,” Becker said.

  “Looks like the body’s been there two or three weeks,” Mason said.

  Becker nodded. “You see the Y incision is the same.”

  “He cut open the rib cage, but didn’t distend it like in the other victim. Since the organs are in pretty bad shape, we’ll have to wait for an autopsy to see if he removed any of them.”

  Wolski took a step back, suppressing a gag.

  “I need you to contact headquarters and the ME’s office. Get them down here right away.”

  Wolski gave Mason a weak but grateful smile and left.

  “What about the arms and legs?” Mason asked.

  Becker led him to an upper platform on the other side of the chamber. Two legs and an arm lay on the platform in a haphazard fashion. Rats had consumed much of the flesh and muscle.

  “If the killer arranged them in a similar pattern, we’ll never know,” Becker said.

  “Did he leave a note?”

  Becker shook his head. “And, fortunately for the sewer workers, neither did he engineer a booby trap.”

  “His method is cruder, and he didn’t display the corpse like before. But it’s him. It looks like he’s refining his techniques. The torture and butchering aren’t enough. He wants his killings to be a spectacle.”

  Becker turned to look at Mason. “Then what are we to expect from his next one?”

  TEN

  His excitement filled him with a surge of energy and strength, the cold having no effect whatsoever. He fought to maintain a somber appearance, emulating those around him, their heads held low by the burdens of subjugation. It had been his punishment to wander among the masses of oppressed and oppressors, among the ruins, amid the suffering, step past the rubble still hiding the dead, tramp upon the ashes of the incinerated.

  Today was the day, and he was ready, the sap in his left coat pocket and the bottle of his mixture of diethyl ether and chloroform in his right.

  He kept pace with the Chosen One, ten meters behind, with his hat pulled down on his lowered head. His left hand clutched his coat tightly under his chin, with the collar high across his cheeks and mouth, as if protecting himself from the wind and blowing snow. But he was not cold. An electrical heat radiated deep inside, and his groin was engorged with hot blood.

  Dusk still illuminated the sky. The place where he would strike lay another kilometer away. He knew the path the Chosen One traveled at this hour of the day, and in ten minutes he would quicken his pace. She would stay on Schellingstrasse, a large street cutting across the Maxvorstadt district, then turn on a narrow street of ruined buildings.

  The crowds of pedestrians grew thicker as they approached an intersection. Women carried children bundled in their arms. An elderly man pushed a cart with sacks of weeds to make a thin soup. A group of ex-Wehrmacht soldiers huddled around a barrel fire.

  U.S. Army jeeps and olive drab sedans roared by. On the corner, American MPs randomly checked identity papers. German police stood alongside them or patrolled the streets in pairs. The voices placed many obstacles before him, trying to prevent him from attaining his salvation. But he had spent months learning Munich’s damaged landscape. He had memorized every street, the areas where he could trap his prey, the routes for taking the bodies back to the place of sacrifice. And now he knew the places where he would make altars of the sacrificed for beatification, each one more glorious than the last, pleasing the dark spirits that held him on this odious sphere. It must work. He longed for an ending to it all, an ultimate sacrifice that would culminate in his resurrection.

  This time They had led him to a Chosen One in female form, frail but tall, with a broad nose and eyes black as soot that matched her full, wavy hair. But most of all, They had sent him One with one leg slightly shorter than the other. He judged that the defect had not been present at birth but rather had resulted from a fracture, an injury that had shattered bone and, once healed, left her to limp the rest of her life. He knew well the type of injury; he knew the source. After all, he was a doctor. He had treated enough shattered and abused bones to know. Her face and her limp—how perfect. How magn
ificent for him to discover One so like those he had sinned upon in the past.

  She left her companions on the final segment of her journey home, turning onto this forgotten street. It was supposed to take her home the quickest way. He knew she shared the apartment with two other women, only two blocks from the end of this narrow and dark street, a mere hundred meters of burned and crumbling structures. He imagined her being warned not to use this street. A warning unheeded—another sign she had been chosen for him.

  The woman glanced behind as she entered the street, but he had already slipped into a shell of a building where he had previously cut a path through the ruins. He moved quickly, knowing he had only a few seconds to reach the spot. She always quickened her pace as she walked along the broken buildings. He knew the path by heart and moved in almost total darkness. At one moment he got a quick glimpse of her as she passed a hole in a building’s outer wall. Fifteen meters to the doorless entrance. There the street took a sharp angle.

  At last, he slipped out onto the street and waited behind a recess in the wall. A pile of rubble shielded him from view by anyone arriving from the opposite direction. If his timing was precise, no one would see. The woman would simply vanish.

  Four seconds later she passed him. He allowed her to take two more steps. With silent motion, he swept his right hand from his left coat pocket. He knew exactly where to strike with the sap. She barely had time to react to the noise, the zip of fabric on fabric, before the elongated sack full of ball bearings struck her at the base of the skull. A faint cry of pain escaped her lips before she fell dazed to the cobblestones.

  He had to be quick. He lifted her by her armpits before she completely settled on the ground. It took only five seconds to drag her back into the depths of the ruined building, then another five to pour the chloroform-ether mixture and smother her face with the soaked cloth. Just the right amount would put her in a deep sleep. He needed her quiet for two hours.

  After that, it wouldn’t matter how much she screamed.

  ELEVEN

  Mason stood on the sidewalk and flicked his still-burning cigarette into the street. He watched it take flight in a high arc, the red crown glowing bright against the night sky. Thursday evening and still no progress on the slasher case. He and Wolski had spent the morning canvassing in a wider circle around the factory then hitting a brick wall trying to gain access to U.S. medical corps personnel files. The rest of the day they had to spin their wheels tracking down dead leads on the train robbery case—per Colonel Walton’s orders. A couple, laughing, arm in arm, already a few hours into the drinking part of the evening, staggered past him and entered the officers’ club. The warm light, the odor of food, and the sounds of Benny Olsen’s Big Band came out onto the street for a moment, contrasting with the scene of ruins all around. The door closed, and Mason was in the calm darkness again. He looked to his right and across the street at the dark opening of the orphans’ shelter, the hole in the wall where he had left food two nights before. Kurt sat just outside the hole. Mason waved and Kurt waved back.

  Mason was about to cross over when he heard an army sedan’s horn honk as it rushed up to the club. The car skidded to a halt directly across the street. Wolski jumped out of the driver’s seat, ran around the front of the car, and opened the passenger’s door. He then bowed like a chauffeur. A young woman emerged and took his arm. Wolski beamed as he led the woman toward the club’s entrance. That made Mason smile; Wolski was smitten.

  They met Mason at the top of the stairs. Wolski introduced his girlfriend, Anna. Anna smiled sweetly. No more than nineteen, she had a soft, round face. Not beautiful but pretty, the kind of Mädchen face Life magazine would put on its cover to portray the rosy-cheeked future of Germany. After all she must have been through, all the horrors of a dictatorship and war, she’d managed to hold on to her aura of youth and innocent charm.

  “Didn’t you bring a date?” Wolski asked.

  “I’m fresh out,” Mason said.

  “I can’t believe you came to a dance without a girl. A couple of packs of cigarettes will get you a willing fräulein.”

  Anna playfully slapped Wolski on the shoulder, though Mason could tell she was embarrassed by the remark.

  “I don’t believe in buying a young lady with cigarettes,” Mason said.

  “Maybe the girl of your dreams is waiting inside.”

  “Let’s go in and find out.”

  They all entered the club. Light, warmth, and the band playing “Drum Boogie” greeted them. The officers’ club had taken over what had been a German dance club. It was of open design with several descending levels leading down to the large dance floor full of uniformed men and ladies in gowns, then a stage accommodating the thirty-piece band. Many of the high-ranking officers and military government officials had brought their families over for the holidays. And because the club was hosting a pre-Christmas bash, anyone above the rank of master sergeant had been invited. The place was packed. The couples on the dance floor looked like a school of sardines trapped in a fishing net, hopping to the beat, shoulder to shoulder, back to back.

  Then, like a glint off that roiling sea, Laura McKinnon caught Mason’s eye. The reporter and her partner danced near the center of the crowd. She had exchanged her uniform for a black lace-back, floor-length evening gown and looked stunning. Then he noticed that she was struggling to keep her dance partner, a gray-haired colonel, at arm’s length, but either he or the crowd kept pushing them together.

  “Go ahead and get a table,” Mason said to Wolski. He descended the three shallow steps, penetrated the wall of dancers, and excuse-me’d his way toward the center. As he got closer, he could see Laura getting more agitated by the colonel’s aggressive hands. Her face lit up when she saw him breaking through the final layer of dancers.

  Mason positioned himself behind the colonel and tapped on the man’s shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”

  “Beat it, mac,” the colonel said with an icy glare.

  “Sir, I would appreciate if you could be a gentleman and allow me to cut in.”

  “She’s with me, so go take a hike.”

  “I was trying to avoid this. . . .” Mason pulled out his CID badge and held it up for the colonel. “Colonel, this lady is under investigation. I suggest you step away before I’m forced to charge you with impeding an officer of the law.”

  The colonel released Laura like she’d given him an electrical shock. He glanced at them both with a skeptical eye then retreated into the crowd. Mason turned to a surprised Laura, took her hand and waist, and began to dance.

  “Thanks, but I can take care of myself,” Laura said.

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “Then why the Tarzan routine?”

  “I wanted to apologize for the other night. I went too far, and I’m sorry.”

  Laura smiled. “You hit pretty close to the bone.”

  “You did, too.”

  “I have half a mind to walk away.”

  “What’s the other half say?”

  “To put up with you long enough to get your story. That, and the murder at the factory.”

  “How did you know about . . . Oh, that’s right, your general boyfriend, Jenkins. Where is he? Won’t he be jealous of us dancing?”

  “He had other obligations.”

  “His wife is in town?”

  “Don’t be nasty. What about your date? Won’t she be jealous?”

  “I didn’t come with one.”

  “I guess I’m not surprised. Big in muscle, low on charm.”

  Mason chuckled. The music stopped and everyone applauded. The bandleader announced that they would be taking a short break. Laura pointed toward the top of the steps. “That guy is smiling at you like a proud father.”

  Mason saw Wolski standing near a group of tables with his arms crossed and a big grin. “That’s my partner.”

/>   “Are you going to introduce us?”

  Mason offered his arm and Laura took it. He led Laura up to Wolski and introduced them.

  “A reporter?” Wolski said. “Isn’t that like fraternizing with the enemy?”

  “Not you, too,” Laura said.

  “Ah, I was only kidding.”

  “I think she got that,” Mason said. “Your smile’s so big we can see your tonsils.”

  “Come over and join us,” Wolski said and nudged Mason to say something.

  “Yeah, join us,” Mason said and thrust his thumb Wolski’s way. “This guy’s a pushover. Put on a little charm and he’ll tell you anything.”

  “In that case, lead the way,” Laura said.

  They had to squeeze past tables full of raucous diners, and after helping Laura to her chair it took some acrobatics for Mason to get seated.

  Once Wolski settled in, he studied Laura for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I didn’t recognize you out of your reporter’s outfit. You were at that riot. I got a big kick out of that article about our chief.” He laughed, then stopped abruptly when he saw the expression on Mason’s face.

  The waiter came by with the menus, and they ordered cocktails. Anna nearly bounced in her seat when a waiter passed with a tray full of food. She opened the menu and grinned like a kid in a candy store.

  “Anna, are you getting enough to eat?” Laura asked.

  “Thanks to Vincent.” Anna smiled at Wolski. “The American authorities issued my mother and me the number five ration card. Only fifteen hundred calories per day. The other Germans call the five card the ‘death card’ because one cannot live long on only that much food. And people usually can’t even get that much.”

  “I hope that’s not the only reason she hangs out with me,” Wolski said.

  “No!” Anna said. “I like you very much, but sometimes I don’t understand you.”

  “So, Laura,” Wolski said, leaning into the table, “I’ve never met a woman war correspondent before.”