“I’ll have to mark this day on my calendar, the day you decided to request this from me instead of going over my head.” He gave Mason a stern glare before acquiescing with a nod. “I’ll put in a call to General West.”
Mason left Colonel Walton’s office and headed for the operations room located on the next floor. Wolski caught up with him on the stairs.
“I called 508th headquarters and OMGB and gave them the Ravensbrück lead,” Wolski said. “Becker was out, but I left him a message.”
“Yeah, good,” Mason said as they entered the new operations room—really a conference room with a dozen chairs, a blackboard and corkboard, and a table with two telephones. Timmers and MacMillan answered the constantly ringing phones. As Mason had predicted, tips and sightings had been coming in since the sketch of “Dr. Scholz” had been distributed. Aside from Timmers and MacMillan, Mason had already met Pike and Cole. The other two had come over from Company C: Mancini and Curtis.
“I hope you all enjoyed your five hours of sleep,” Mason said. He walked up to the corkboard, where he’d pinned up photographs from the three crime scenes and one of Scholz. “I’m sure everyone here is running into the same problem, that there are no records for a Dr. Heinrich Scholz. He was using an alias, which knocks us back a step. You’ll see from your copy of the letter found in his apartment that his sister or sister-in-law went by Heidi Mendel, so be sure to include that name in any of your searches. However, we have one new development. I just finished talking to a woman who identified Scholz as an SS doctor at a concentration camp called Ravensbrück.”
The phones fell quiet for the moment, so Timmers and MacMillan joined the group. Mason then reviewed the rest of Frau Walczak’s statement. He spelled out the names on the chalkboard, and the investigators notated the information. “Wolski and I will coordinate with the different departments to track down any documents pertaining to this man. I’ll also have Inspector Becker see what he can do on his end. The rest of you continue with your assigned tasks. Timmers and MacMillan still have the three remaining surgeons and about twelve surgery staff left to interview at the hospital this morning.” He turned to Cole and Pike. “What about the canvass around the doctor’s apartment?”
“Not much more than the landlady said,” Cole said. “He was rarely seen, once or twice with a blond woman in her thirties—that’s the best we could get for a description. No one knew or talked with him.”
“I checked in with our German police liaison, Inspector Becker, earlier this morning. Nothing new from the canvass around the hospital. Our man seems to have disappeared.”
Mancini raised his hand. “A few tips have come in that might be worth looking at.”
“You and Curtis check them out. Wolski and I are going to have another go at the chief of surgeons and the chief hospital administrator. Remember, this is our prime suspect, but I don’t want to drop our other lines of investigation. Also, Scholz—or whatever his real name is—may strike again, and we know he transports the bodies by night, so when we’ve exhausted the canvasses and interviews, Lieutenant Wolski will assign a team to go through U.S.-issued night passes or related permits to civilians. I’ve asked our German liaison, Oberinspektor Becker to check out all liveries to see if one of them rented a wagon and horses to someone fitting his description. Maybe we can pin down the area he usually operates in.”
The phone rang and Wolski answered it.
Investigator Cole raised his hand. “I used to deal with civilian passes and permits over at 508th headquarters. We’re talking about doctors, ambulance services, city administrators, police, fire, utility and maintenance workers. . . .”
“It’s a lot of ground to cover, I know—”
“Chief,” Wolski said when he hung up the phone. He motioned for Mason to come over. “That was Colonel Walton. He talked to General West about getting the files on the Nazi doctors. It’s going to be close to two weeks before all formal requests and orders are moved through channels.”
“Then we forget about channels.”
“You’re not planning to go over General West’s head, too, are you?”
Mason moved for the door. “You can take it from here. Get these teams moving.”
Wolski called after him. “Where are you going?”
“To see a friend at the CIC.”
TWENTY
Mike Forester, a major in the army’s Counter Intelligence Command, or CIC, had a small corner office on the third floor of the McGraw Kaserne’s main building. When Mason knocked, a raspy voice told him to enter. Forester, a heavy smoker, was lighting one cigarette from the hot crown of another as Mason walked in.
“Mason. Good to see you. I heard you were in Munich working for the rival team.”
The office had large windows, upon which Major Forester had hung venetian blinds that were tightly closed. Mason took a seat. “As much as I hate Nazis, I didn’t want to spend my days hunting them down.”
“CIC’s not all Nazi chasing.” Forester lowered his voice, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “Now that we’ve beaten the Nazis, there’s a new threat, and it could be bigger and bloodier. I see another war, God help us, brewing with the Commies. We need good intelligence men to find out what the Russians plan to do with the sixty divisions they’ve got planted on the borders. If war comes, we’ll be slugging it out in Germany. They’ve already got a battalion of spies snooping around on our side. You could be a great asset for our team.”
“I’m a detective, not a spy. Thanks, though, for the offer.”
Forester shrugged as he puffed on his cigarette.
“What’s with the closed blinds?”
“I’m handling some highly classified stuff, and in the army’s peerless wisdom they gave me an office with wall-to-wall windows.” He offered Mason a cigarette, but Mason declined. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m following a lead on a case of multiple homicides—”
“I heard about those butcher jobs,” Forester interrupted. He had a hyperactive personality and rarely let someone finish a sentence if he could hurry the conversation along. “You’ve got a Jack the Ripper on your hands.”
“How did you know about the murders? We’ve been trying to keep that under wraps.”
“Mason, this is the CIC.”
“We have reason to believe our prime suspect is a doctor—”
“And you’re here ’cause he’s probably an ex-Nazi who worked at one of the camps.”
Mason smiled. “The only name we have for the suspect is an alias, but a Polish woman identified him as an SS doctor. She says he sterilized her at Ravensbrück. I need access to the concentration camp records to see if we can positively ID the man and track down anyone who knew him. I tried through regular channels, but no dice.”
Forester turned serious. “What makes you think this guy is your suspect?”
Mason gave him the rundown about the killer’s methods and surgical skills, as well as his messages about being in a personal hell, the events leading to the interview with Scholz, his escape, and the subsequent manhunt. “So far, an ID photo is all we have to track him down—” Mason stopped. “What do you find so amusing?”
“Let’s just say that investigating the wrong Nazi doctors right now might be a political hot potato.”
“What are you talking about? They’re war criminals. If they’re not dead, they’re in prison camps or on the run. All I’m asking for is access to information on the people at Ravensbrück performing experiments, their whereabouts—”
“I know what you’re after. But right now that all falls under the purview of American and British intelligence. Some intelligence higher-ups might not like you perusing classified files.”
“Classified? I . . .” Mason stopped and speculated on Forester’s meaning. He’d known the man for two years. They’d worked together in intelligence, and Forester had misse
d suffering the same fate as Mason in the Battle of the Bulge only because Forester had been on a forty-eight-hour leave to Paris. Mason could tell by Forester’s eyes and his cockeyed grin that he was trying to encourage Mason to continue speculating.
“It comes back to this future war with Russia, doesn’t it?” Mason said. “Intelligence wants to know anything the Nazi doctors learned by experimenting on innocent people before the Russians get to them first. But this guy sterilized women. What can they learn from that?”
“Are you sure he wasn’t involved in other experiments?”
“Like what? Are you talking about chemical weapons?”
Forester gestured for him to keep going—an irksome game of charades.
“Other weapons?”
Forester waited expectantly.
“Biological?”
Forester’s eyes signaled that he was close to the truth. “Now, if you worked for us at CIC, I’d see to it you had the clearance to see any file you want.”
“You’re talking to a cop, Mike. For me, anyone who committed a crime like that should suffer the worst kind of punishment, and not be given immunity for what he knows.”
“Sometimes you have to look the other way for the greater good.”
“I’ll make you a deal: I look at only the people involved in sterilization at Ravensbrück. You have your people review the files first and pass on any that don’t threaten American intelligence interests.”
“It’s my duty to inform you that until Intelligence deems any file irrelevant, for as long as that takes, then you will not be permitted access.” Forester made another sly smile. “It is also my duty to urge you not to go to Frankfurt and see a Colonel Donaldson at the Judge Advocate General’s office and request those files from him.”
Mason returned the smile. “JAG and the war crimes tribunal have subpoenaed all files for the Nazi war crimes trials.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it. I can say that, politically, the trials take precedence over intelligence concerns, though there are certain dossiers that are still considered classified and deemed superfluous to the evidentiary process.”
Mason stood and they shook hands. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Nonsense. You’ll have to come by when you’ve got a free evening, and we’ll have dinner, get drunk, and reminisce about old times.”
“And see who can make up the biggest lies.”
Forester held on to Mason’s hand just a moment longer. “You sure I can’t persuade you to come over to the other side?”
“I tell you what: If it looks like the Russians aren’t going to stay on their side of the fence, I’ll be the first to sign up.”
Mason turned to leave, but Forester stopped him again.
“Be sure to say hello to that beautiful reporter friend of yours.”
“How did you . . . ? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
• • •
The doctor buttoned his vest and pulled at the bottom hem so that it lay properly across his broad shoulders. He slipped on a green suit coat and brushed lint from his lapel. All must be perfect to create the illusion. His hand passed through a ray of sunlight that pierced the gap in the shutters. Only supreme control kept him from flinching, from imagining his skin burning at a mere brush of sunlight.
The sun mocked him, and he cursed it, as if it were a heavenly spotlight shining down upon him: There he is, the sinner! The hated rays, insistent, piercing, violated his room.
He took a long, calming breath, and shifted to the left to avoid the light. Lately he found it had become more difficult to cope with the burdens placed upon him. The exultation after each beatification diminished more quickly; the rapacious hunger surfaced more frequently. It would start deep in his groin and surge upward, overwhelming him until nothing else mattered but finding his next Chosen One, like Sisyphus triumphantly reaching the summit with the stone only to have it roll downhill so that he must begin again.
How long? How many beatifications must he perform? How long could he continue to elude the authorities? They might even be close on his trail at this very moment.
He stepped up to a mirror by the door, but before looking at his reflection, he adjusted it to be sure it showed only the bottom half of his face. He shifted to his right and the mirror reflected back a plain yet kindly face, one that people wanted to trust. He checked his teeth and his nostrils, the knot of his bow tie. His round, dark brown eyes were the only feature he could never look at.
They terrified him. Once in the last year, he’d caught a glimpse of those eyes. And when he had looked into the mirror that day and his eyes caught him staring, they showed him all the hideous things he had done. The eyes had taken him on a journey, passing images of the screaming innocents, the terror in their faces.
So many. God forgive and deliver me.
He took a deep breath, relegating the memories to a sequestered place in his mind. After one last check of his tie, he pulled on his white lab coat. With his back straight and chin high, he crossed the short hallway and entered a small office. Then, through another door, he entered an examining room.
Twice a week for the past five months, each Sunday and Thursday, he’d ministered to sick children, and he offered this charitable service in hopes of some redemption in the eyes of God. Especially the children, the children being closer to the divine. And he was determined to make the most of today’s session, as it would be his last. It had become too dangerous to continue.
On the examining table sat a boy of eight years. He was recovering from dysentery, but between the illness and malnutrition the boy was more bone than flesh. The muscles had already atrophied. His eyes lacked the spark of life. The boy’s mother stood next to him and held his bony hand.
He had seen so many children come to his office in a similar or worse condition. Malnutrition weakened them, but the disease from poor sanitation and contaminated water ravaged them. Newborns and the youngest infants didn’t stand a chance.
He leaned in to check the boy’s ears and eyes. His face not inches away, he could hear the boy’s shallow breathing, feel the heat from his body. His hand quivered . . . just once, but he looked at the mother out of the corner of his eye. She hadn’t noticed.
He pressed the stethoscope to the boy’s chest and heard the steady thump of his heart. He could almost hear the rush of blood in the boy’s veins. The hunger flared, starting in his groin and flaring in his gut. Whispers seemed to come from inside the boy’s chest. A cacophony of voices like water rushing through a pipe. The sounds rose from the boy’s lungs and into the stethoscope until he could no longer hear the boy’s heartbeat.
Please, not now!
“Herr Doktor? Are you all right?”
The mother’s voice snapped him back. His own heart pounded, and he could feel beads of sweat on his forehead.
“Yes, thank you,” he muttered. He turned his back on the child and dabbed at the perspiration with his handkerchief, buying time to clear his head. They were like hunger pangs, like a suspended moment before orgasm, when nothing else mattered, when all his energy, his mind, focused on the next hunt and beatification.
He felt the mother’s and boy’s eyes on him. A shrill voice from within warned him that they knew. They could see through his facade, see the demons ravaging his soul.
Please, not a child. I will do anything, but don’t demand a child.
“Herr Doktor?”
He turned and forced a smile. His hand twitched. He had an erection. They must leave.
“Franz is getting better,” he said in his most assuring voice, “but you must make sure he has enough to eat. And boil your water.”
“But how? We have the number five ration card. I have three other children. . . .”
He no longer heard the mother. She continued, almost in tears now, but the rush of urges fl
ooded his mind. As if invisible hands pushed him forward, he approached the boy, his eyes focusing on the boy’s bare chest where he would make the incisions. . . .
With a shaking hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of Reichsmarks. He counted off a thousand and shoved them into her hand. She mouthed words, but he couldn’t hear.
“Please, you must leave. Dress your boy and leave.”
The mother released a flood of tears. She was thanking him, he was sure.
Panic, revulsion, and craving engulfed him. Take them. Take them both. Imagine the ecstasy. No more hunger. A double beatification. Mother and child, together . . .
His entire body convulsed in one great shudder. “I demand that you go at once!”
As they rushed to leave, he fled for his connecting office and slammed the door behind him. He fell to his knees and said to the heavens, “Please, not a child.”
TWENTY-ONE
It was just shy of noon on Monday morning when Mason exited the military train at the Frankfurt central train station and stepped into a bone-chilling fog. Another train had pulled in just before Mason’s, returning from the countryside. Every day, city dwellers would take their jewelry, cameras, furs, brandy, anything left of their valuables, and trade with the farmers for food. The train cars bulged with desperate and hungry Germans. So full, in fact, that many had to cling to the outside using the handrails, and the warmer passengers had to help pry their near-frozen fingers from the ice-cold metal.
The worst scene was of another train that had arrived thirty minutes earlier from Czechoslovakia. The Czechs were expelling all ethnic Germans from the Sudetenland, close to two million of them. Ethnic Germans had lived there for generations, but after Hitler and the war, they were no longer welcome. Entire families were forced from their homes with only what they could carry and were loaded onto open freight cars to make the days-long journey into the heart of Germany.
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