The Peratrovich brothers glanced at each other and gave a slight mutual nod.
“Yes,” Anotklosh said, answering for both Tlingits.
“Done,” Maj. Higgins said and stepped away from his chair to shake hands with Henry and Anotklosh.
The handshake was sufficient as a bond, and the two Tlingits left the conference room for their dinner and a flight back to Hoonah.
“Now, as distasteful as it is and as difficult a time as this is, we need to establish the whereabouts of each the Gabler party members during the presumed time of the general’s death. The question I will put to each of you—and I will do it separately—is this: where were you between two-thirty or maybe as late as three to about five-thirty a.m. night before last?
“Lt. Perez will escort you to separate rooms before he and I will question you. Thank you all in advance for your cooperation.”
The two MCU officers questioned Maj. Rick Saunders first.
“So, Major, do you have an alibi for the time in question?”
Saunders looked the two Alaska law enforcement officers directly in their eyes without sign of evasiveness, guilty conscience, or nervousness. He had lived most of his adult life under the shadow—and, indeed, under the thumb—of Glen Gabler. As a result, he had developed a thick skin and an ability to avoid flinching or looking away when challenged. He was only five foot four inches tall and 145 pounds soaking wet, but he had genuine courage—proved in battle—and had not feared another man—even the general—for more than twenty years. He was a thin man with a monk’s tonsure male pattern baldness, a sallow complexion, wore thick horn rim glasses, and had crooked teeth that had never been properly aligned. He was the quintessential Casper Milquetoast in appearance but not in character.
“I was in my bed asleep,” he answered without hesitation.
“Anyone able to corroborate that, Major?”
“All of the young Gablers and I played cards—bridge and pinochle—until a little after one, maybe one-twenty, then we made our way to the bathrooms. We got together with the general at about two-fifteen for a final celebration drink and retired into our separate bedrooms. The next thing we knew of each other was when the young staff girls screamed after finding the general hanging from the rafters.”
“Do you know who the beneficiary is or who are the beneficiaries of Gen. Gabler’s will, Maj. Saunders?”
“I do know that. Each of the sons receives an equal portion of fifty percent of the estate. I receive ten percent. The final forty percent goes to the Army’s disabled veteran’s programs.”
Maj. Higgins and Lt. Perez got almost identical answers from all of the Gabler sons. The stories sounded unrehearsed and not word-for-word as if scripted, but the gist was the same.
Maj. Higgins reassembled the Gabler party and asked one more small set of questions: “Did any of you hear or see anything suspicious throughout the rest of the night? Any sounds of a struggle, any possibility of blows being struck? Anyone walking in the hallways?”
The answers were uniformly “No,” and the two MCU officers believed them.
“All right, gentlemen. You are free to go. We’ll get you back to the Alaskan Bear Lodge, and they can see to your needs. Sorry to have inconvenienced you, and we are genuinely sorry for your loss. Leave your names, addresses, and telephone numbers; so, we can contact you if need be and to give you updates. Thanks again for your cooperation, and we wish you all the best from here on out.”
The questioning of Neille Bastrup and his staff was less genteel and more like a serious cross-examination which went on for several hours. Everyone involved was exhausted, offended, distressed, and—in the end—frustrated, at not knowing anything more about the murder of Gen. Gabler than they had nearly forty-eight hours before when his body was first discovered. The Bastrup contingent was flown home to the lodge and—like the Gablers and Maj. Saunders—slept the sleep of the dead until late morning the next day. Glen Jr. made arrangements for the transfer of the remains of his father back to the lower forty-eight, then their gear was collected and travel arrangements completed.
“Don’t worry about the fish. I’ll get it all cut up, packaged, and frozen. We’ll get it to you by the first flight out on Friday, and you should have it late the same day. If there’s anything else I can possibly do for you, don’t hesitate to let me know,” Neille said, and he meant it.
CHAPTER SIX
Lomas de los Carolinos, Córdoba, Argentina, August 9, 1962
Carlos Aguillara-Dominguez left his business office on Alberto Soriano Street early on a cold August afternoon to keep an assignation with his mistress, Anna Maria Lobos, as he did every Friday. He wore an anticipatory smile, his best suit, and a new pair of shoes imported from Italy; and he carried an extravagant bouquet of flowers, as he did every Friday as he walked the six blocks to Anna Maria’s apartment on Avenida San Pedro y Paulo. In all ways, Carlos was a creature of habit. He looked a decade younger than his sixty-four years thanks to a fine limited nip and tuck maintenance job of plastic surgery done the year before in Buenos Aires and to regular discreet hair dying which kept his full coiffure an even jet black. His facial appearance had changed dramatically from what it had been fifteen years ago when he had his first facial reconstruction. His generally handsome mature face was slightly marred by the presence of a transverse dueling scar on his left cheek. He had once been mildly bothered by the presence of the scar for several reasons; but Anna Maria told him it was sexy; so, he got over the negative sense of his appearance. He was slim, patrician, and fit, even martial, in appearance. Carlos never went out in public dressed in anything but the tailored ensemble that befitted his status as a wealthy and successful import-export company president and the employer of one-hundred-seventy-five loyal workers.
Carlos’s only health issue for the past seventeen years had been a mild hand tremor which was coming under control with the help of an eminent psychologist in the capital city, Robert Mueller. Dr. Mueller and Carlos were members of the same Germanophile organizations and charities and moved in a close-knit and exclusive circle of helpful friends. On Fridays—Carlos smiled to himself—he lost the tremor altogether knowing that shortly any and all of his stress-related concerns would evaporate for a few hours.
When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the apartment building where he owned the apartment now occupied by his latest paramour, Carlos was annoyed to encounter a homeless man–an intolerable disgrace in this very affluent, neat, scrupulously clean section of Córdoba.
The sight of the disheveled man disturbed Carlos’s ebullient mood and brought out in him an authoritarian side he usually made an effort to suppress in public.
“Hier raus, Faulpelz!” [German: “Get out of here, lazy bum!”] he ordered imperiously. “Finden Sie ein Loch woanders verstecken!” [“Find a hole to hide in somewhere else!”]
The man ignored him. Carlos shook his head at his own mistake. Of course, this untermenschen would not know the Zunge des Vaterlandes [Tongue of the Fatherland]. Certainly no self-respecting German would appear in such a state in this place in this modern age.
“Leave a la vez, o le enviaré a la policía!” [Spanish: “Leave at once, or I will send for the police!”] he corrected himself by changing to Spanish.
Obediently the eyesore slowly pushed himself up to a standing position. There was something about the man that caught Carlos’s attention. It came to him in a flash of recognition: it was the unabashed stare of the man’s steely blue eyes.
The man flashed a gleaming razor-sharp machete and unerringly swung it with both hands at Carlos’s neck above the line of his immaculate white shirt collar and floral print necktie. Before he could react, Carlos Aguillara-Dominguez’s head separated from his body and rolled grotesquely onto the clean side walk. The homeless man stepped back and avoided the gouts of blood rhythmically spurting from the momentarily still standing corpse. He walked away briskly down Avenida San Pedro y Paulo. The murder was witnessed, but a
ll the witnesses could recall when questioned by the police was the horror of the decapitation and all that blood on the previously pristine sidewalk. It was as if the homeless man was invisible, as might be expected in Lomas de los Carolinos where few homeless ever ventured into the neighborhood, and even fewer merited any notice.
Córdoba is located in the geographical center of Argentina, in the foothills of the Sierras Chicas on the Suquía River, 435 miles northwest of Buenos Aires. It is the second-largest city in Argentina after Buenos Aires. It was founded July 6, 1573 by conquistador Jerónimo Luis de Cabrera, who named it after Córdoba, Spain, his city of origin. It was one of the first Spanish colonial capitals of the region that is now Argentina.
The wealthier suburbs west of the city are located at slightly higher altitudes, which allows cool breezes to blow in the summer bringing drier, comfortable nights during hotter periods, and more regular frost in the winter. The General Cerro de Las Rosas area is located a little less than four miles from downtown Córdoba. Lomas de los Carolinos on the old Camino a La Calera is one of the oldest sections of Córdoba. Lomas is a very affluent neighborhood famous for its schools, shops, and educational institutions. The main thoroughfare through the rich neighborhood is Rafael Núñez Avenue, which stretches for a few miles. It features posh restaurants, expensive European boutiques, banks, and other institutions and trendy shops. Most of the affluent inhabitants such as Anna Maria Lobos—kept by Carlos Aguillara-Dominguez—have moved to gated communities because of growing security reasons.
Sargentopolicíaprovbsas Policía de la Provincia de Córdoba, PPC [Corporal, Police of the Province of Córdoba] Manuel de Jesus received the first of several frantic calls from dispatch regarding a gruesome murder in Lomas de los Carolinos, one of the most panicked having come from Oficial de Policía [Police Officer] Gerhardt Möller, the most German of the men on the force. Well aware of the rarified atmosphere of the richest and oldest neighborhood in the city, he immediately called his friend from the academy, Teniente [Detective] Jose Emanuel de Corsos, to go with him and to take charge of the investigation.
Manuel was a small Indian/Latino man with dark brown skin and irises and a head of thick, coarse, black hair. He had the inscrutable face of the people whose world was taken from them by Spaniards four hundred years ago. Nimble and quick, he constantly wore a pair of aviator’s dark glasses. He was neat and entirely proper in his uniform.
Detective de Corsos was thick and bulky. He appeared to be slow—both in movement and in intellect—but he was neither. His movements were quick and precise, and he could—if required—move with alarming speed in dealing with an uncooperative man in the course of an investigation. He had a reputation of being effective—and that was known to be “unorthodox” (code for brutal) when necessary to obtain crucial information. His face was fleshy and suggested gluttony, which was at least partly true; but it also suggested slovenliness, which was not true. His civilian linen suit was always pressed, a monumental feat in the hot, wet climate of Córdoba. He never went out without a freshly starched white shirt and a high quality silk tie. He had a preference for gaucho boots.
The two men bounded down the stairs of the headquarters building and ran to their blue Argentine Ford Falcon. De Jesus drove, lights and sirens scattering the crowded streets as they went. Upon arrival at the scene on Avenida San Pedro y Paulo, the two provincial policemen saw a ramrod stiff police officer standing guard over the grim scene. They approached him and noticed first the massive amount of blood that had spattered the sidewalk and the street, then a man’s head detached and lying a full three yards away from his blood-drenched body, then a patch of vomit a few feet away, and finally, the gray-green color of the officer’s skin. His knees were locked, and he stared vacantly straight ahead.
De Corsos barked an order, “Oficial Möller, bend your knees; or you will faint!”
A swift softening look of relief seemed to come over the man’s ashen face—which, instead of showing the hoped-for flushing indicative of return of consciousness, turned deathly white. He fainted and fell face forward like a felled tree into the thickening pool of blood, making no effort to shield his face.
Fury showed on de Corsos’s face, and he fought his desire to scream at the hapless police officer or at the gathering crowd or even at his partner on the scene, Corporal de Jesus. He counted to five, regained composure, and gave de Jesus a series of orders.
“Manuel, disperse the crowd. Make them stand no closer than fifty meters away. Use the car radio and get us a squad of officers here to get control of the scene. When that is done, get Henckel on the line for me.”
“Henckel” was Adolf Henckel, the Inspector de Policia—third ranking field officer in the Córdoba Provincial Police Service. He was respected and feared but considered to be both the smartest and the toughest police man in the province. It was rumored that he had a military background, and not exactly the Argentine military.
He was forty-two years old but looked more like thirty. His hair was deep brown without a trace of graying or balding. Unlike the other police officers, he had relatively long hair which covered the tops of his ears. He had thick eyebrows, deepset brown eyes, and a face cratered with old small-pox scars. His chin was cleft with a deep dimple. He was tall and muscular and had large sinewy hands. He wore a jet-black suit and matching tie with a starched white shirt. His black wingtip shoes were nearly new and were polished that morning.
De Corsos unceremoniously took hold of the still unconscious policeman by his ankles and dragged him away from the corpse, leaving an almost comical blood smear attesting to the folly attending the scene. He took care not to add his own footprints to the already grossly contaminated murder site.
Henckel came right to the point: “Why are you calling me, Detective? Is there something you cannot handle by yourself?”
De Corsos gave a very quick Dick-and-Jane description of the scene, then added, “From the appearance of the victim, I would say that we have an hidalgo [son of someone of importance] here.”
“Have a name?” Henckel asked.
“Not yet. I don’t recognize the face. Looks European.”
“European” was police code for German, and often implied German, “one of those Germans.”
“I’ll get there as soon as I can, and I’ll bring a photographer. We need to know who this is muy pronto. It’s beginning to sound like one of those cases that never happened. Treat it that way for now. Get rid of the onlookers.”
“Yes, sir,” de Corsos said; but the line was already dead.
De Jesus was very efficient. The reflexively obedient citizens of Lomas de los Carolinos were standing quietly looking on from more than fifty meters away.
“What now, Jefe?” he asked.
“Henckel is on his way. None of these people are to be here when he arrives. And neither is that boob, Möller. Let’s get to work. Get us two big men to carry him off. Loosen his tie and shirt collar. Throw some water on his face. Put him over there, behind the bushes on the side of the apartment building. I’ll get the crowd out of here, then go in and order everyone in the apartments to stay where they are. We have very little to go on, but we can make a first supposition that the man was here to conduct business or that he lives in the building.”
“He was very dressed up, José. There is an expensive bouquet of flowers by him. Maybe he had an assignation in the building.”
“Likely. Let’s make it an early priority to find her.”
“Or him,” de Jesus suggested dryly.
“He’s ‘European,’ that’s not particularly unlikely. You know how they are,” de Corsos said softly enough; so, no one but he and de Jesus could hear.
De Jesus selected two burly laboring types and headed back to the corpse with them. De Corsos stretched his arms out to the crowd of onlookers and signaled them to gather in front of him.
“Go home. Now. The excitement is over. Do not speak of this. So far as you are concerned, it never happened. It is be
tter for you that way, comprende?”
They understood, all right. This was a people who would not soon forget the most recent—1952–1955—administration of Presidente Juan Peron, the Batallón de Inteligencia 601, and “los desaparecidos” [the “disappeared ones”]. Three minutes later the streets near the murder scene were empty. That included two mediocrely dressed European men who had been standing in the middle of the crowd.
Inspector Henckel came with two carloads of police officers, secretaries, and crime scene technologists. Henckel acknowledged de Corsos with a cursory nod then began setting his team to work. Two men set up a command tent in the street. Another man put up police tape around a large area outside where the body, head, and blood of Carlos Aguillara-Dominguez lay festering in the cold August sun. A distinguished portly Germanic appearing gentleman stepped out of a gray van marked Equipo Argentino de Médico Forense and was followed by three other members of the medical forensic team. They photographed the scene very thoroughly, then one of the technicians—dressed in white coveralls and rubber boots—stepped carefully up to the corpse and riffled through his pockets. He extracted a wallet and found a national identification card and driver license. There were black and white photographs of a dowdy woman and a handsome well-dressed European man with their four grown children and a full color photograph of a strikingly beautiful statuesque blond woman wearing a décolleté evening gown which displayed a more than ample cleavage to turn the head of a priest. Glued to the bottom of that photo was a name and address: Anna Maria Lobos, 76 Alberto Soriano Str., Apt. 12.
He retraced his steps and handed the wallet—opened to the photograph of the beautiful woman—to Dr. Schmidt, who smiled.
“The man must have suffered from dementia if he had to keep the name and address of this one in his wallet in order to remember her.”
The Charlemagne Murders Page 7