Mason pounded harder. The doors rattled from the force of his blows. When they received no answer, Mason gave the doors a swift kick.
“Don’t take it out on the door. You’ve wanted to hit something all day. What’s eating at you, Mr. Grouchy?”
“You going to put a ‘sir’ in there somewhere?”
“Mr. Grouchy, sir.”
Without taking his eyes off the doors, Mason said, “Laura’s leaving Munich. Possibly for good.”
“What? You’re just going to let her leave?”
“She’s doing her job. What am I supposed to do, put her in handcuffs?”
“You better think of something. Snag that girl and live happily ever after.”
“Well, thanks, Miss Lonelyhearts, I’ll keep it under advisement.”
Wolski was about to say something, but Mason whirled around to face him. “For your own safety, stop right now.”
Wolski raised his hands in surrender. He stepped back and looked at the ruins beyond the gate. “You really think this is going to lead us anywhere? How many guys with night passes supposedly fitting the description have we checked out already?”
“Four.”
“I know how many. And it’s five, including the ex-soldier with one arm and a guy that looked like he was about a hundred. Whoever filled out their physical descriptions had to be drunk.”
“If you want to go back to headquarters and go through more camp documents . . .”
“No, thanks.”
They turned at the sound of horse hooves on the cobblestone street. At the end of the block, a wagon carrying two men had just turned the corner. As the wagon completed the turn, the passenger put his hand on the driver’s arm. The driver stopped the wagon. The men were too far away to see their faces, but the passenger sat very tall on the buckboard. A tense moment passed. Mason was about to pull out his gun and approach the wagon when it started up again.
“That was a little suspicious,” Wolski said.
Mason watched the men carefully, alert to any sudden movement. When the wagon got closer, Mason saw that the passenger was indeed a tall man in his thirties. The driver looked to be in his late sixties. The driver finally reined in his horse and applied the hand brake. While Wolski took hold of the horse’s reins, Mason came up to the passenger’s side and showed his CID badge.
“We’d like to talk to you, sir. Could you please step down from the wagon?”
“You, too, sir,” Wolski said to the old man. “Please step down and stand against the building.”
The tall passenger climbed down. “You are police? Have I done anything wrong?”
While Wolski questioned the driver, Mason introduced himself and Wolski. “Can I see your identification?”
Lang handed over his papers. Mason studied Lang’s face against the photograph on his identification. According to his papers, he was forty, though he looked younger. He had that German poster boy chiseled jaw and thrusting chin, his good looks marred only by thick glasses that magnified his cow eyes. He stood almost a head taller than Mason and definitely filled out his tattered and oil-stained brown overcoat. His large hands had scratches and his fingernails were full of dirt and grease. Not the hands of a surgeon. Though, Mason thought, the killer didn’t need clean hands for what he was doing to his victims.
“Why did you have the driver stop at the end of the street when you saw us, Herr Lang?” Mason asked.
“I didn’t know you were American policemen. When I saw two armed men in uniforms standing by the gate I panicked. I can only explain my fear . . . well, it sounds foolish . . .”
“Try me,” Mason said.
“For ten years we Germans lived in fear of the SiPo, the Nazi security police—”
“I know what the SiPo was.”
Lang waved his hands and sputtered, “Not that I think you nice gentlemen are SiPo. But from a distance and seeing you two in uniforms and armed, I was suddenly back during Hitler’s Reich. It is a foolish thing, I know, but after so many years of living in fear . . .”
“Was there something you did that made you afraid of the SiPo?”
“Nothing criminal, if that’s what you mean. I was a Social Democrat, and I, among others, protested against Hitler taking full power, and I . . .”
Mason lost patience listening to the same old history lesson—the tried-and-true “I was against Hitler” defense he’d heard a hundred times. He wondered if Lang’s story, like many others’, was scripted and rehearsed. Despite the man’s shabby clothes and filthy appearance, he struck Mason as more professorial than laborer. The man’s papers seemed in order, though for a hefty price legitimate papers could be obtained from unscrupulous U.S. authorities. Some guys were getting rich off selling under-the-counter papers, especially the category 5 denazification card certifying the bearer as a ‘Person Exonerated’ (though most Germans referred to it derisively as a Persilschein after a well-known laundry detergent—a veritable whitewashing of past Nazi sins). Despite the derision, it was the most sought-after document, as it kept them out of prison and gave them the right to work and better ration cards.
“How long have you been in Munich?”
“Most of my life. Until I was conscripted into the Wehrmacht.”
“What did you do in the Wehrmacht?”
“I was a chief mechanic in the Third Panzergrenadier Division. Tanks and armored cars were my specialty. I became quite proficient—”
“Do you have your army papers?”
“My Soldat Buch and other papers were confiscated when I became a prisoner of war.”
“Do you live here?”
“Could you explain to me why you are asking all these questions?”
“We are investigating a series of murders, and you have physical characteristics that match descriptions of the suspect.”
Lang froze, his mouth forming a small O. He finally muttered, “Oh, dear. But I have nothing to do with these murders.”
“You see why answering all our questions is important?”
Mason began to notice that, for all Lang’s stammering and glib patter, his body expressed the opposite: no nervous tics, his eyes fixed, his breathing steady. Mason had learned the physical signs of a man who felt cornered or feared being caught, but Lang seemed to feel nothing. A void behind a theatrical face.
“I’m sorry,” Lang said. “What was your question?”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, my residence was destroyed, but I do enjoy the quiet this situation provides me. It is also my workshop.”
“You know, for all your appearance as a humble junk collector, you sound pretty educated, Herr Lang.”
Wolski instructed the old man to stay where he was and joined Mason. Lang took a step back when he noticed Wolski.
“This is not my chosen occupation,” Lang said. “The war changed that. Now I do what I must to survive.”
“What were you before being drafted into the army?” Wolski asked. “An engineer? A doctor, maybe?”
Lang turned his upper body to face Wolski. “Do you like the idea of a German professional fallen from grace because of the war? Does that make you feel superior?”
First he’s the humble junkman, now an indignant member of the upper class. Mason couldn’t quite figure the man out. Something about him didn’t fit, but Mason had no more than a vague notion of this, like a faint disturbing odor.
“You didn’t answer his question,” Mason said.
“I worked as a factory supervisor for Mercedes-Benz while studying industrial engineering at the University of Kassel. Have I adequately answered the question?”
“There’s no way for us to know, Herr Lang. Just so our minds are at ease, why don’t you show us your workshop?”
“Of course,” Lang said and pulled out his keys. As he unlocked the doors, he sai
d, “You will find all is in order. Perhaps then you will stop this harassment and leave me in peace.”
“That depends on what we find.”
Lang pushed open the doors. Mason gestured for Lang to go first. Wolski instructed the old man to follow them, then he caught up to Mason. “The driver’s papers check out. Got his name and address. He said that Lang rented him and his wagon for the day. I checked the back of the wagon. Just a bunch of beat-up auto parts and the rusted guts of some radios or something.”
When they entered the courtyard, Mason took in the shattered and burned shoe factory. “Your workshop is here?” Mason said. “Good place to do things you don’t want anyone to know about.”
Lang fished the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the single door. “You shall see why I chose this place.”
Lang opened the door, and Mason pushed in past him. Wolski followed Lang inside while keeping a hand on his pistol. Lang opened the big double doors. The blue-gray light of dusk poured into the center of the room, but still left the corners in shadow.
“Stand just outside the doors, please,” Wolski said. “And no sudden moves.”
“Why do you treat me like a criminal? I have done nothing wrong, and I resent the intrusion—”
“Shut up,” Wolski said and pointed to a spot outside the doors. “When I said don’t move that meant your mouth, too.”
Lang complied. Mason and Wolski made a slow search of the workshop with their flashlights in hand. They first checked out the 1928 Mercedes-Benz that was now only half covered by the black cloth cover. Wolski whistled in admiration, while Mason checked the interior for anything suspicious. The Altmann car was next, then they wove through the shelves, examining the various tools, automobile parts, and clock mechanisms.
“The owners don’t mind that you took this place over?” Mason asked.
“Am I allowed to speak?”
“Only to answer questions,” Wolski said.
“The original owner was Jewish. He was forced to give it away, and a group of Nazi officials took it over. I imagine they are either dead or in detainment camps. I knew about this machine shop, as a friend of mine used to work here.”
“Did you fix all these clocks and things?” Mason asked.
“Of course. I found everything in unclaimed ruins. They were worthless before I repaired them.”
Mason examined a brass torsion pendulum clock under a glass dome. “My grandmother had one of these,” he said to Wolski. “When I was a kid, I’d stare at it for hours.” He looked at Lang. “You do very nice work.”
Lang bowed his head. “I am fortunate to have a skill that helps me survive.”
Wolski called Mason over, and Mason looked where Wolski had trained his flashlight beam. On the floor in the corner lay a small mattress with rumpled sheets. It confirmed Lang’s story about sleeping there. They both surveyed the shelves of Lang’s repaired objects. On the last turn Mason saw a long narrow object under a canvas cover. He and Wolski stepped over to it, and Mason pulled off the cover. Underneath sat a half-built Horex motorcycle.
Wolski whistled. “You did this?”
“Why do you keep asking me this? Yes, it was just a twisted hunk of metal when I found it, but parts are difficult to find. It will take me a long time to finish that project. The clocks and radios help me to eat, but cars and motorcycles are my passion.”
Mason and Wolski continued to scan the darker areas with their flashlights. Nothing seemed suspicious, and Lang didn’t look nervous at all about them searching his workshop.
Another dead lead.
“Let’s get out of here,” Mason said. He walked up to Lang and stood directly in front of him. He leaned in as if to catch a scent of guilt while watching Lang’s eyes. “I’m not totally convinced you’re who you claim to be. We’ll be checking in on you from time to time. Have a good evening, Herr Lang.”
• • •
Dr. Ramek, a. k. a. Alfred Lang, watched the two detectives drive away. He pulled off the thick-lensed eyeglasses and tried to rub away the strain that element of his disguise inflicted upon his eyes. He could still smell the stench of their presence. He felt physically violated, sodomized by their prying gazes, their superior tones, and their demeaning questions.
The criminal gangs and the German police, even the loathsome populace, could cripple his path to ultimate salvation, but no one wielded more power, and thereby posed a greater danger, than a police detective of the occupying army. He would have to devise a way of dealing with this interloper.
“No, Investigator Collins, I will be checking in on you.”
THIRTY-TWO
Mason had to walk a gauntlet of cold stares directed his way from the MP guards and the protesting citizens. For a second day, the crowd of protesters had gathered for a daylong silent vigil in front of Mason’s headquarters, and a handful of MPs had been given the miserable duty of standing out in the freezing rain to keep the protesters to the opposite side of the street.
He made his way up to the operations room. Most of the investigators were out of the building checking up on tips or reported sightings, and the brief calm gave Mason the opportunity to go through the documents set aside for his review: a too-short list of potential witnesses; witness affidavits from Mauthausen but nothing conclusive; Counter Intelligence Command bulletins of newly captured Nazis. There was also a CID report about a private who had raped and murdered two elderly German ladies, a husky twenty-two-year-old who had a penchant for slicing them up afterward. Mason was sure the private had nothing to do with his case, but he had sent Wolski over to check it out.
He felt someone hovering behind him and turned. A corporal stood by the door with his eyes fixed on the horrific crime scene photos.
“What is it, Corporal?”
“The colonel wants to see you, sir. He’s hopping mad about something.”
Mason thanked the corporal and descended the stairs to find Colonel Walton waiting at his office door.
“On the double, Collins.”
Mason trudged into the office. Colonel Walton closed the door and marched over to his desk. He held up a newspaper. “Someone leaked details of the murders and the investigation to the Washington Post. And you want to know who? The woman who wrote that article about your exploits during the riot.”
The shock hit Mason like a heavy blow, and he stopped listening to the colonel. He could feel his face turn red with anger. Laura had betrayed her promise. A second later, Colonel Walton’s continuing rant reached his ears. . . .
“The article goes on to blame the army for returning too many experienced troops home, leaving green recruits and reprobates led by bottom-of-the-barrel officers as an occupying force. It draws the conclusion that if the army can’t solve a simple murder case in a country under martial law, then what’s going to happen when bigger problems arise.” He slammed the paper down. “You see where this is going? Third Army brass is taking the heat from USFET and the Pentagon, and they’re passing it on to me. I’m getting handed my balls because of this one case. Your case.”
Mason remained silent.
Colonel Walton sat and jerked his chair forward, as if mauling the chair was a substitute for what he wanted to do to Mason . . . or Laura. “Five days left and you still have squat. What are you and half my squad of investigators doing out there?”
Mason started to answer, but the colonel waved for him to be quiet.
“Don’t answer that.” The colonel let out a tired sigh. “Look, I’ve done police work in my time, and I know how tough an investigation can be. Giving you a week was unrealistic, but your failure is my failure, and I don’t need a black mark on my record. . . .” He clamped his jaw tight enough for the muscles to bulge. “I’m trying to stay calm, but my ass is on the line.” He grabbed Mason’s daily report from the previous day and waved it. “I’m tired of telling you to get things done. I
’m tired of sending in your paltry reports. I want some meat. Something I can show to keep the hounds from nipping at my heels. Lie, if you have to. Just—”
Colonel Walton took a few deep breaths to bring his rage down a few notches, giving Mason time to do the same. Colonel Walton opened a side drawer, laid out two shot glasses, and went to the file cabinet. He opened the top drawer then slammed it closed. “Who keeps stealing my goddamned scotch?” He marched back to his desk and held up Mason’s report again. “You know what ‘embellish’ means? That’s what I want you to do to these reports. I want them to read like a fucking dime detective novel. If you want to stay on this case, then give them something that’ll make their dicks twitch.”
He dismissed Mason with a backhanded wave. “That is all.”
Mason turned to exit, but the same corporal blocked his way. “What is it this time?”
“A message came in from Major Rivers at the Dachau detainment camp, sir.” He referred to his note. “A Herta Oberheuser wants to talk to you. She says she has more information about your case. Major Rivers said that if you don’t make it over there this morning, all bets are off—whatever that means.”
Mason turned back to Colonel Walton. “Sir, I need new travel orders to go to Dachau this morning. Wolski and I had planned to go over there this afternoon to interview a Dr. Blazek, but it looks like Herta Oberheuser might be ready to talk.”
“You think she’s really going to give it up this time?”
“I had JAG let it out that the Poles and Russians want to put her on trial.”
“You what?”
“You told me to lie, sir.”
Colonel Walton yelled for his assistant. “Pantina, get your ass in here.”
“I need a new one for Wolski, too,” Mason said.
“Where’s he been? I wanted to see him this morning.”
“I sent him to 508th headquarters to check out a report. I’ll go by and pick him up on the way.”
“He’s lucky I don’t issue him travel orders to the stockade for stealing my scotch.” At Mason’s look of surprise, Colonel Walton said, “I know more about what goes on here than you think.”
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