“I’ll get Eberhard and the crime scene team and be right there. I presume you have collected everyone in the building for me?”
“Too late. Most of them have already gone. It’s ten minutes after the whistle.”
“Too bad. That’s just more work, but that’s why I get the huge salary.”
It was a standing joke between the two first cousins, because the plant security position paid far better than the police position.
Fifteen minutes later with lights and sirens on, the police contingent pulled up to the main headquarters building of the BASF complex.
Schäfer ordered an officer to take each of the three doors to the building, and he and Senior Constable Zimmermann led the forensics team into the office building through the main entrance where they met Joachim.
“Tell me what you know, Joachim.”
“There’s not much to know. One of our accountants and minor administrators by the name of Gunther Emil Sondregger was strangled to death … garroted by an unknown assailant earlier in the day.”
Schäfer raised a questioning eyebrow.
Joachim was a small wiry man who had been in awe of his much larger cousin during their youths; and even now at thirty-one, he was still a bit intimidated. He shook his dark curly hair—a lifelong habit which came out when he was nervous.
“Nobody’s fault, Horst. The man was a recluse—never talked to anybody, never made a suggestion, or reported an error. He sat in his ridiculous stiff old chair and worked leaning over his desk. It wasn’t until quitting time that anyone noticed that he was not moving. The supervisor determined that he was dead and called me.”
“So, Joachim, how long do you think he has been dead?”
“I can only make an educated guess. He is stiff as a new broom; so, he has been dead no less than three hours and no more than twelve hours.”
“This is not too helpful, Cousin. When did he come in to work?”
“He was like a machine. He clocked in every day at exactly eight in the morning, and he clocked out at exactly five o’clock in the evening, having spent nine hours in his chair.”
“So, he was killed between eleven and five.”
“Approximately.”
Det. Schäfer raised his questioning eyebrow again.
“There’s more to it than just the passage of time; but I’m just a humble security officer, not a medical examiner or a lofty detective. We probably should ask Herr Arzt [Doctor] Miller.”
“Where is the lazy old Nazi anyway?”
“Traffic. Police band said that there was a communist bombing on Universität Strasse. He probably got caught in the police blockade.”
Schäfer gave a small shrug, indicating he was mollified for the present.
“Tell me about the witnesses, please.”
“Sorry, Horst. We don’t have a single person who indicates that he or she saw or heard anything. Not a one.”
Horst sighed and did a little stretch exercise. He was an impressive man—well over six feet tall and weighed more than 220 pounds. He was lean and had sharply defined muscles and large powerful hands. He was an old-school German right down to a dueling scar on his left cheek like so many former officers of the Wehrmacht and the SS. Unlike his wiry, dark, curly-haired, olive-skinned cousin, Horst was an Aryan through and through. He could easily have been taken for a Norwegian with his blond, almost white, short-cropped hair, narrow and lined face, and piercing blue eyes. He wore a gray business suit, fashionable dark gray shirt, deep purple tie, and black penny loafers—an affectation he had picked up from the Americans. He wore the academy ring on his left hand, and his broad band gold wedding ring on the right like most German men. His nails were manicured.
After relieving his tension and frustration with his minor exercise routine, he turned back to Joachim and to Eberhard—his partner—who had been standing quietly listening to the other two men talk.
“Joachim, please get your men out and bring every worker who was on the victim’s work floor back in for questioning. Eberhard, dig into the company records and then in the police and military records to see if you can get a handle on who our victim is and then we three can begin to figure out who had a reason to kill the man.”
“We do have the instrument of death. I thought you would like to examine it.”
“Good, I’ll do that first. After that I am going to follow up on a line of inquiry I have been thinking about as you have told us what you know, Joachim. Let’s take a look at that garrote.”
The heavy cloth cummerbund was thick and sturdy, well worn and rather nondescript gray in color.
“Looks something like a Turk or Arab might wear. We’ll have to do a little looking into the foreign labor pool,” Horst told Joachim.
Joachim nodded. “Let’s open it and see what the lump is.”
Horst opened his pocket knife and sliced the tough cloth open to reveal two worn 100 franc coins.
“Cousin, while you’re at it, check and see if there are any Indians on the payroll. This looks something like an old Thuggee assassin’s weapon.”
“I’ll get on it.”
“Call Eberhard about what you learn. I need to see some people about this. I was going to work with you to question the employees, but I am feeling pushed to follow up my idea. I will be surprised if anything comes from the interrogations, but we need to make sure that we follow every reasonable avenue. Thanks for the help. See you at the family reunion next Friday night.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bundeskriminalamt [BKA-Federal Criminal Police Office], Office of Der Polizeipräsident in Wiesbaden [The Police Chief of Wiesbaden], Thaerstrsse 11, Wiesbaden, Germany, August 23, 1962
Getting an appointment with Chief Friedrich Schneider Graf von der Lippe was a considerable strain and an even more considerable risk for Detective Schäfer. Chief Schneider outranked Schäfer by a stratospheric dimension. He was old aristocracy with all of the perquisites that title granted him even though–of course–the new German constitution forbade any such entitlement or any right to pass the title on to his heirs—just the name referring to a count of one of the oldest and most distinguished old German noble families. That alone would have prevented such a lowly personage as a mere detective from having any meeting with the chief of the entire German federal criminal police force. Chief Schneider’s extended family came from entrenched Junkers who still had a staggering amount of personal wealth.
The man’s very appearance shouted wealth, influence, power, patrician background, and entitlement. He was tall, slim, and handsome with a topographical Nordic face and snow-white hair. He was dressed in a light grey afternoon suit made exclusively for him by his tailors—Bespoke Tailoring—which Chief von der Lippe kept current by a personal suit consultation at the Berlin Capital Club am Gendarmenmarkt. His tie was an intricate silk paisley from Hong Kong, and his shoes handmade in the Northampton Shop in Spitsbergen. He eschewed belts, preferring leather braces from South America. All of that spoke of him being untouchable, unapproachable, and impervious to criticism.
Detective Schäfer had none of those entitlements, and his long years of service had not allowed him to rise in rank beyond a steady workman’s status for all of his successes.
What Schäfer did have—and now took a risk in revealing—was an incredibly precise, accurate, and complete memory. What he knew was who served and where in the old prewar and World War II eras of the Kriminalpolizei [Criminal Police], and–for the first time in his career–he allowed a hint to be conveyed that he did know such remarkable things.
From its inception, the Kriminalpolitzei was popularly known as the Kripo. The best comparison was that it was the German equivalent of the British CID. Over the nineteenth century, the Kripo expanded until all major cities in Germany had a branch or—in larger cities—sometimes more than one. While the Kripo had units tasked to investigate political crimes from the beginning, Kripo detectives in general prided themselves on being essentially apolitical, regardless of the
ir outside political backgrounds and interests. When Horst Schäfer joined the force, he made a vow that he would continue that policy even as the Nazis insidiously began to take over the police forces throughout the country.
The Kripo—thus constituted—was considered to be a problem within the ranks for the Nazis who were hell-bent on full control of all authoritarian entities. There were Nazis in positions of power who wanted a purge of all German police forces, and to replace them with the SA [Sturmabteilung] which was widely considered to be nothing more than a gaggle of thugs by the rank and file regular police, and they resisted. Nazis with real police backgrounds blocked the Nazis with a series of subtle maneuvers. This resulted in a de facto separation of the Kriminalpolitzei and a mutual enmity between the two factions until war’s end.
Most ordinary Germans did not know that the Kriminalpolizei divided into two quite separate divisions when the Nazis took over. The political branch—for lack of a better term—became the Gestapo and gained life and death power over the German populace and later the citizens of occupied countries. The distinction was not clear to ordinary citizens; but there was a criminal investigation branch that continued throughout the prewar era, during the war, and well into the devastating aftermath, to be exactly what the name conveyed—police who investigated and brought to justice criminals for such crimes as burglary, forgery, assault, rape, and murder. Kriminalkommissar Horst Schäfer had always been an honest cop in the criminal investigation division. He never rose in rank because he never joined the National Socialist political party. Nor did he ever consider himself to be part of the combined political and apolitical branches—the SiPo [Sicherheitspolizei-Security Police]. For his own long-term protection, he began keeping careful records of cases in which Nazi police committed crimes and atrocities under the cloak of authority. By the time he came to Wiesbaden to meet with his police chief, his notes and documents filled several volumes.
One of Chief Schneider’s assistants ushered Detective Lieutenant Schäfer into the most ornate and opulent office he had ever seen. It was expected to awe and intimidate people who did not belong in the upper echelons of Germany. Chief Schneider had learned a thing or two about being intimidating during the war, and his appearance that day—like all days—was meant to intimidate. His was a hard face, one used to frightening his subordinates and other inferiors. His eyes were an almost luminescent silver gray, rather peculiar and therefore riveting. He used them and his jutting square jaw to full advantage. He started a staring down contest with the lowly detective, and Schäfer finally blinked first. Schäfer was awed but not intimidated, and he considered the stare-down to be a cheap trick beneath his continued participation.
He had not come all this way from Ludwigshafen am Rhein to surrender to that. Rather—either out of bravery or foolhardiness—he had come to Wiesbaden to do a little intimidating on his own.
Schneider dismissed his subordinate and then turned a steely gaze on the lowly detective.
“So, what is so urgent and what is so important that you thought to ingratiate yourself with me by making reference to our past service together, Schäfer?”
Schäfer was pleased that the man did not waste time on pleasantries.
“I have a murder to solve at the BASF administration building in Ludwigshafen. The victim is a man who has no past, at least none that my forensic team or the human resources department of BASF can find. He either sprung out of the ground at the end of the war, a prime example that there were never any Nazis in the country, or … someone created an elaborate legend for his existence. The man was a cipher, an invisible, colorless, inoffensive functionary with no social or business life, and not a single friend or enemy that we can discover.”
“What has that to do with me, young man?” Schneider asked brusquely.
“I need your help. To get right to the kernel of the matter, we both know that kind of history is a creation of the ODESSA. My theory of the case is that my victim was likely considered to have some knowledge about someone in the party who very strongly wishes to have that knowledge disappear forever. I have no contacts or influence in the upper reaches of the federal police, in the senior levels of the Bundestag German Parliament, in the Bundesrat [Representative body of the Länder-Germany’s regional states], at the Chancellery, in the Bundesgerichtshof [Federal Court of Justice of Germany], or in the Federal Constitutional Court (Bundesverfassungsgericht [Federal Constitutional Court]. I could go on, but you get my drift. I want to talk to the people who know things—the ODESSA, or some of those police and government people I suggested. I do not want my investigation to be impeded or compromised. I do not want to be ignored or evaded.”
“Or what, you silly upstart? Just why should I–of all people–be of help to you, a nothing detective?”
“Detective Lieutenant.”
“Not impressive. So, answer my question.”
“Are you sure you would like me to do that?”
“I order you to do so.”
“May 7, 1942, arrest of fifty-three Latvian civilians. I have photographs of their executions. Your face features prominently. December 18, 1944, there is a photograph of a man in a Kripo uniform shooting German soldiers in the back of their heads … an execution of German soldiers.”
“Deserters.”
“Likely so, but the photo has been suppressed until now. Don’t bother to intimidate or threaten me. The evidence is in the hands of an American journalist—an expatriate German … a Jew with the New York Times newspaper, along with a ream of written testimony which more than incidentally lists your name and exploits. If I so much as fall down some stairs, get the stomach flu, or—God forbid—I should meet with a fatal accident or be charged with a major crime, the information will appear in that newspaper with banner headlines. Americans do not like Nazis—especially the Gestapo—and I am almost certain that you would not like to be their story of the month. Chief Schneider, I will have the information I seek.
“And if I refuse your blackmail?”
“Watch for a front-page article in the near future.”
“I could crush you like a bug. You know that,” the chief said and began another staring contest.
This time Chief von der Lippe lost.
“And if I should be able to discover some of the people who might be of help in leading you where you want to go?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“No money, no rank increase?”
“Just information. And no one needs to know that you were the source.”
“You are a hard man, Schäfer. I am surprised that you did not rise higher in the Kriminalpolizei. I will see what I can do for you.”
Schäfer stood for a few moments while the chief looked down at his papers. The detective took his cue and left, satisfied that he had done a good day’s work.
§§§§§§
Landespolizei [Bundeslandt State Police] Kriminalpolitzei, Detective Branch, Wittelsbachstrasse. 3, Ludwigshafen am Rhein, August 25, 1962
Joachim Becker, IG Farben Administration security officer, delivered the first report to the investigation group regarding the murder of Gunther Emil Sondregger.
“In the past thirty-six hours, the entire security staff at the BASF factory complex has interviewed every man and woman who works in any capacity in the administration facility. We extended our canvass to include friends, relatives, and anyone those who interviewed considered to be a possible risk to the factory or to any employee. We drew a complete blank when it came to the name of Herr Sondregger. BASF employee records contain only his employment application and work records which began on May 19, 1952. There are no company records with any information about the man before that date.
“I went over his application for work very carefully. What was interesting about that form was what it did not contain—or rather, what could not be deciphered. His handwriting was terrible. I could not read a single item related to his previous place or places or employment, his place of birth, or where he li
ved before moving to Ludwigshafen.
“In short, the man is a ghost who appeared whole cloth on the day he applied for work at BASF. Furthermore, he had no association with anyone or any group inside or outside of work. He turned down promotions four times, apparently so he could keep his same desk and could have work that would not draw any attention to himself. He was highly successful at that for ten years.”
Senior Constable [Oberwachtmeister] Eberhard Zimmermann, Schäfer’s working partner was next. He was assisted by a very senior secretary in the Kriminalpolitzei forensic sciences division. Her name was Hilda Weiss-Krüger, and she was well known throughout the Landespolizei system as an assiduously careful and thorough analyst and investigator. Lieutenant Schäfer had requested that she be placed on temporary leave from her regular assignment and moved to the special investigation unit.
Eberhard was a cop’s cop. He did not give a fig for all the grandiosity of the senior officers. Instead, he admired efficiency, cleverness, and thoroughness in getting the job of identifying, finding, and arresting criminals through the collection of evidence that would defeat any defense attorney’s arguments. For that he would have followed Horst Schäfer into the mouth of hell. He was the oldest man in the entire Kripo division of Germany. He had more experience that the rest of the detectives put together. He had not risen in the ranks because he did not want to, and he seemed to go out of his way to avoid making friends with the inspectors and above who could give him a step up. He was professorial in appearance, a senior citizen with salt and pepper hair and full beard. He wore old-fashioned horn-rim spectacles which usually hung from his neck on a leather lanyard. He had a pocket full of pens, pencils, and notebooks. His suit was old, never pressed, but never looked actually dirty. He was small and prissy, easily offended, and never forgot anything.
Zimmermann carried the weight of the Kripo reporting initially, “We—and by that I mean mainly Hilda—dug into every avenue for moving strangers into the BASF system, especially in the late 1940s and early fifties during the period where the French and Americans ran the internment camps and displaced persons interviews. We ran into a number of intentional roadblocks and appeared to be stymied. We followed your directions at those points, Lieutenant, and put in a call to Police Chief Schneider’s office in Wiesbaden to clear the way. It was magic. Once the chief knew who was asking, one of his subordinates wired an approval. Rather than have the bother of us calling all the time, Chief Schneider sent us a formal letter directing anyone we asked for records to comply promptly or answer to him. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 12