The technologist laughed. “No man I know could forget such a one,” he said.
Konrad Schmidt von Dresden walked briskly over and picked up the severed head with a gloved hand. He held the man’s wallet in his left hand and compared the photograph of the man in the family photo with the face of the disembodied head.
“Our victim is Carlos Aguillara-Dominguez, Inspector Henckel,” he announced then tossed the wallet to the police inspector.
While Dr. Schmidt did a cursory and preliminary examination of the body, Henckel sent a team to canvass the neighborhood and finally spoke to de Corsos, “Detective, have your corporal get the preliminaries done; and then the three of us will go into the apartment and talk to the woman in this photograph and the other people in the building.”
De Corsos nodded his understanding to his superior officer, then turned to Corporal de Jesus, “Manuel, get Möller—if he is able to stand up by now—and go to every apartment and order the people to remain in their rooms. Start questioning them about anything they saw today that was out of the ordinary, anything they know about this Aguillara-Dominguez, and the woman … Anna Maria Lobos, in apartment 12.”
Henckel spoke to his chief lieutenant, “Send some men to the address of the man’s wife and see what we can learn. I want to know if she knew about the mistress, if Aguillara-Dominguez had an insurance policy on his life, and if he had any enemies. We’ll try a gentle approach to begin with.”
The detective signaled to a couple of uniformed police officers, and they left promptly to carry out the inspector’s orders.
“All right, then, de Corsos, it’s time to go see Anna Maria. It’s hard work, but someone has to do it. That’s why they pay us the large salaries,” Henckel said.
De Corsos laughed with the inspector, and they walked into the apartment and up to the twelfth floor.
De Corsos knocked. Two minutes later they heard a high and melodious woman’s voice say, “Ist, dass Sie, lieber ein?” [Is that you, dear one?]
“Police. Open the door, please,” de Corsos ordered.
There was a slight shuffling behind the door, then the door opened. Anna Maria had hastily put on a sheer nightgown which left little to the imagination. The platinum (suicide) blond folded her arms across her chest to lessen the impact she knew she had on men. She was smoking an original French Gitanes Brunes, the French cigarette with the strong bite popular in Argentina and Chile.
“Come in,” she said, switching to accented Spanish.
“Are you Anna Maria Lobos?” de Corsos asked unnecessarily.
“Yes, sir. What is this about? Where are my manners—please have a seat.”
“A police investigation, Miss Lobos. Do you know a man named Carlos Aguillara-Dominguez?”
She hesitated a moment, apparently considering whether or not to lie.
“Yes, sir. Why do you ask? Has something happened to Carlos?”
“We will ask the questions for now, Miss Lobos,” Henckel answered, taking over.
“Did you see him today?”
“No, sir, but I was expecting him,” she said and had the humility to blush.
Henckel and de Corsos suppressed a smile.
“What is your relationship with Herr Aguillara-Dominguez, please?”
She blushed in earnest now, which would have been enough of an answer even if she made no reply.
“We are very good friends, Officer.”
“Were you his mistress, Anna Maria? Is it all right if I call you by your first name?”
“That’s fine … and yes, I guess that is what you would call it.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Three years.”
She was looking downcast now. She was not stupid; she had caught the reference to her lover in the past tense.
“Does he pay for this nice apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have work?”
“Yes, sir. I am a model for Casa Vogue.”
“The Italian woman’s fashion magazine?”
“Yes. It is popular here in Argentina as well.”
“Did Herr Aguillara-Dominguez have an insurance policy naming you as beneficiary?”
“I don’t think so. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Her lip quivered, and she began to cry.
De Corsos found a box of tissues and gave it to her. It took her a few minutes to regain her composure.
“I’m afraid so, young lady. That’s why we’re here. We are sorry to have to tell you this,” Henckel said. “But as difficult as it is, we have to get information that can help in our investigation. You understand.”
“Yes. Anything. Please tell me what happened.”
“He was attacked. He was killed. I’m sorry,” Henckel said quietly.
“Oh, mein Gott!” Anna-Maria said, lapsing back into her native German.
She looked stricken, but maintained her composure.
“Who could do such a thing? He was such a sweet man? Was it a robbery?”
“That’s a lot of questions, Anna Maria. First, we are investigating, and for the time being we do not know who could have killed him. To answer your question—no, it was not a robbery. He appeared to have been targeted.”
“I think he might have had some enemies … from the war. It is a big secret, but I guess it is time for the authorities to know. He came here from Germany and was being hunted for questioning about war crimes. He told me this.”
“That is most interesting, Anna Maria. Did he have enemies connected with his business? Do you know if he had links to criminals like the Sicilian Cosa Nostra or the ‘ndràngheta from Italy? The ‘Honored Society’ is known to ship cocaine from Córdoba through Spain to Milan and Turin.”
“Please do not let anyone know that I tell you something. They will kill me, if you do. They are very bad men.”
“If you tell us the truth, we will protect you,” Henckel told her, echoing the same lie that police have told potential witnesses all over the world and for time immemorial.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Central de Policia de Cordóba, Av. Colón 1254, Cordóba Capital [Police Headquarters, Provincial Capital, Cordóba], the same day
Anna Maria proved to have a minor treasure trove of information, which had been gained through pillow talk. Inspector Henckel listened to her for nearly an hour, then decided to move her incognito to the central police headquarters in the city for her own protection and to ensure that her information could be preserved for eventual prosecution of the case. During and even after the revolving door regimes of Juan Peron, evidence of wrongdoing and even people possessing such knowledge that touched the regime—even tangentially—seemed to have a vexing habit of disappearing. Henckel was determined that he was not going to let that happen in this case. That is why Anna Maria entered the law enforcement edifice under an assumed name.
Once settled in and fed properly, Henckel and de Corsos continued to grill Anna Maria. De Jesus and Henckel’s men remained at the crime scene area in Lomas de los Carolinos to try and find witnesses.
“Can you give us some names of people in the Cosa Nostra or the ‘ndràngheta, Anna Maria?” Henckel asked her.
In the relative safety and comfort of the fortresslike police headquarters—and after a few glasses of Barbera from the grape fields of Mendoza province, the inferior domestic red wine which was a crude mixture of an assortment of wines and wine grapes made with little pride or product control—Anna Maria began to relax. Henckel would not drink the stuff; it was no wonder that Argentina was a net importer of wines in these early 1960s so far as he was concerned.
Anna Maria asked for a pen and paper and began writing as fast as she could. Occasionally she would stop for a moment and think, then resume until she had filled ten pages with names, addresses, telephone numbers, and company names. When she looked up—indicating that she was finished—Henckel asked her a question.
“Who did Carlos have trouble with?”
Anna Maria re
sponded by putting a check mark by about fifteen names.
“And which of those do you think employs killers to get their way?”
Anna Maria said, “I’m not sure. But maybe these.”
She underlined five of the names.
De Corsos waited until there was a pause in the interrogatory before inserting a question of his own.
“Tell us what you can about his life before he came here. Any known Nazi connection?” How about the ODESSA?”
“He didn’t talk much about that, you understand; but I caught a few things over the past couple of years. He once told me that he was a chemist for a while, and he worked for IG Farben in a secret plant that made weapons.”
“Chemical weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Remember any names of the chemicals? Think hard, Anna Maria. It’s important.”
“Once, he talked about a man he was afraid of, maybe someone he came to Argentina from Germany with. I think the man might have been in charge of making a very bad gas, in fact, two kinds of gas.”
“Can you remember the names of the gasses? Even if you could give us a name that sounds like the chemical?”
“Oh, just a second—I remember the man’s name. It was August Neubert—something like that. I don’t know for sure, but he might have come here. He and Carlos were helped by the ODESSA in 1946. They were in the French section of West Germany, I think. It’s also possible that they parted ways before they came here, but one thing I do remember is that this August Neubert was perfectly willing to kill anyone who might be able to identify him or who knew where he ended up. Carlos was truly afraid of him. He had plastic surgery to hide what he looked like and changed his name of course. Once when he was very drunk and was speaking German, I called him Carlos—and he got angry and told me never to call him that again. He was Hörst Dietsel, and it was a name he was proud of. When he sobered up, he told me to forget that name because it would be the death of him if anyone ever found out.”
“Is that anyone you are familiar with, de Corsos?” Inspector Henckel asked.
Detective de Corsos shook his head. Henckel shrugged.
“Can you remember the names of the gasses, Anna Maria? You have done very well so far. Give it a hard try.”
He gave her time to think.
“I am almost sure that Carlos told me that the weapons were called tabun and sarin gas. One of those was called GB or GD, I think. A very tiny spray in the air could kill a man in minutes. A tiny tiny drop in a glass of wine would kill a man in half an hour—maybe less—depending on the man’s size.”
She had a small involuntary shudder.
“Never heard of them,” Henckel said, “You?” he asked, looking at de Corsos.
“Above my pay grade, apparently.”
“Look into it, Detective. Maybe knowing about that or about this man Neubert got him killed. Or maybe the Israelis found out about him. I’ll get you the clearance.”
Córdoba, Argentina Recipes
Córdoba Dove Empanadas—6–8 Servings
Ingredients
-Dove meat—2.5 lbs deboned and skinned dove breasts
-Vegetables—2 large peeled carrots, 1 large red pepper, 1 medium yellow onion, ¼ tsp ground ginger
-Spices—Black and red pepper, sea salt (or garlic salt), and paprika to taste
-Premade round pastry discs or use filo dough.
Preparation
-Cut vegetables and meat into small cubes.
-Sauté vegetables with extra virgin olive oil.
-Remove and set aside vegetables then sauté meat until tender.
-Mix all ingredients and season mix to taste
-Fill the premade pastry rounds and bake for 15 minutes at 350° or until golden brown.
Argentine Chimichurri olive oil and spice rub for steak
Ingredients
-Spices and herbs—¼ cp oregano (fresh is best, but dried (4 tsps) is a decent substitute), 4 garlic cloves, 2 cps firmly packed fresh Italian parsley leaves, ½ tsp red pepper flakes, ½ tsp kosher or sea salt, ½ tsp freshly and finely ground black pepper, ½ tsp red pepper, ¼ cp red wine vinegar, 1 cp extra virgin olive oil
Preparation
Note: It is best to make the chimichurri a day in advance and refrigerate to bring out flavors.
-Peel and smash garlic cloves
-Place parsley, garlic, oregano, vinegar, red pepper flakes, salt, and pepper (all to taste) in the bowl of a bladed food processor. Process until finely chopped, stopping and scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula as needed, about 1 minute total.
-Keep motor running, and add oil in a steady stream. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and pulse a few times to combine. Transfer sauce to an airtight container and refrigerate at least 2 hours—better up to a full day. Before serving, stir and season as needed. The chimichurri will keep in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.
Serve on the side for 1–2 inch thick, 1 lb Argentine steak (which should be cooked “jugoso”—medium rare) and apply the chimichurri to taste.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jardin du Luxembourg Park, Rue d’ Assas Entrance, Fauborg Saint Germain-des-Prés, 6th arrondissement [6ème], Paris, Assumption Day, August 15, 1962
The morning heat was indicative that it was going to be a typical August day in Paris—hot, muggy, and soporific. The city was not in its usual vibrant state, a change that took place every August. Most Parisians had abandoned the capital for the overpacked beaches of the Cote d’Azur or the Atlantic Coast, and the invasion by global tourists was its usual annoyance to the citizens who were obligated to remain for work or due to some sort of infirmity. The tourists exuded noisy enthusiasm, and the people of Paris unlucky enough to have to endure August in the City of Lights and Love exhibited an increase in their usual gloomy dispositions and famous sullenness.
A cloudburst the previous day had transiently dissipated the heavy air and oppressive heat to make the beginning of Assumption Day an almost pleasant one for a retired general. He knew the heat and humidity would retake control by noon; but for the moment, his regular early morning walk was delightful. The veteran of two wars—World Wars I and II—was still in good condition and would have been able to wear his tailored uniform complete with medals if required, a fact that appealed to his rather considerable vanity. His thick crop of hair was silver, but had not a hint of balding; and he had improved the growing topographical wrinkles of his hard face with a little adroit plastic surgery.
His wife had made him a particularly pleasant petit déjeuner—a light meal of fresh baguettes, whole wheat cereal, Greek yogurt, a fresh peach, and café au lait. Enough that he felt invigorated for his meeting with his mistress, but not too much; so, his prowess would be affected. It was proving to be a fine day.
Gen. Étienne Malboeuf was an ardent Catholic, born into the faith and sustained by it during his long years in the colonies and in the European wars. He was on his way to the center of the extensive Jardin du Luxembourg Park for an Assumption Day religious program. The elderly soldier walked briskly across the wide boulevard and into the park, making sure that he was not late. Malboeuf lived a life of military grade rigidity, punctuality, adherence to schedule, and scrupulous compliance with the etiquette of his class. France was a very class-conscious society, and he made no concessions to the growing fashion of breaking down the civilized barriers of the class-stratified society or the ascension of women. He did not have to deign to acknowledge manual workers or other peasants. It was his due owed him for his long service to his country and by the God-given privilege and responsibility of the upper-crust stratum into which he was born.
Malboeuf particularly loved the romantic Fontaine de Médicis—built for Marie de Médicis—a shady and peaceful spot overlooking a pond filled with fish and the statue of the beautiful Marianne, the symbol of the republic as a motherland. She stands for the rallying cry of “liberty, equality, fraternity,” and seeing her never failed to ignite a small adrenaline rush. He
knew she was modeled after the movie actress, Brigitte Anne-Marie Bardot. He had never seen one of the young woman’s films, but she was for him—and millions of other French men and women—the personification of France as the motherland. Gen. Malboeuf thought the iconic figure in the statue looked more like his mistress, Antoinette, who was at the moment sleeping quietly in the pied-a-terre he maintained for her on Rue Vavin. His wife—who was his childhood sweetheart and lifelong heart’s friend—was at home on Rue d’Assas baking bread for the family dinner that evening. He allowed a faint smile to curl his thin lips. Life was good, as it should be in a civilized country.
In the opinion of Gen. Malboeuf, France was the most civilized of all nations, and the 6th arrondissement was the best neighborhood in the city. There are twenty different arrondissements which spiral out numerically from the center of Paris, starting with the Louvre as 1e. The city is further divided almost exactly in half—north and south—by the Seine into the rive gauche [left bank] and the rive droite [right bank]. As a general rule, those arrondissements closest to the geographic center of the city are the wealthiest, and the suburbs to the west and south of Paris tend to be more affluent than those to the north and east. The 6th [6ème] is on the left bank—the heart of the rive gauche, Malboeuf would insist—on the vibrant bank of the river. The 6th and the 7th A.s rank close to each other in average wealth, and that is considerably higher than the average in France. In fact–but nothing the general would admit–the 7th A. was the richest in the city.
The 6th was beginning to change from its earlier character as the meeting place for bohemian artists and intellectuals into a more upscale neighborhood of trendy new boutiques, high-priced modern art galleries, exciting, even daring, new restaurants, and quiet pied-a-terres; nearly twenty percent of apartments are secondary residences—enough to raise an amused eyebrow among French sophisticates. The Latin Quarter is part of the 6th. Being one of the old school Frenchmen, the general still preferred the older and more famous cafes such as Brasserie Lipp, Cafe Flore, and Les Deux Magots. Nouveau rich and sophisticated buyers and younger residents had begun to supplant the previously seen famous artists and writers such as George Sand, Pablo Picasso, Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound. Charm was replacing the solid old buildings and narrow and interesting streets, leaving a mix of the new and the historic architecture. The Musée de Cluny remained as the best museum dedicated to the arts of the Middle Ages—again, in Gen. Malboeuf’s educated opinion. Its Gothic architecture had resisted all the modern changes, a fact that pleased the old general greatly.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 8