“Our last assignment before we both retired was to be the commanders at a huge POW complex called the Rheinwiesenlager camps. Our main posting was the final destination of the transcontinental journey for the repatriated Germans, especially those from America. It was the Moschendorf Transit and Release Camp, a miserable and inadequate holding pen for thousands of German POWs and translocated German civilians destined for Allied forced labor camps in the West. I hate to admit that, but I am sure you already know about it.”
Tucker nodded.
“When the Kriegsverurteiltes [repatriated war returnees] moved on, Gen. Gabler and I moved with them because of our accumulated expertise. Our next assignment was to an even worse place—called Bad Kreuznach—the Lager Galgenberg und Bretzenheim PWTE—Bad Kreuznach District, Rhineland-Palatinate, Germany.”
“What does PWTE stand for?” interrupted Tucker.
“Officially Prisoner of War Temporary Enclosures.”
“Go on.”
“We stayed there until the end. That’s where we mustered out.”
“What happened to the POWs?”
“Shipped on to be slaves in France; most of them to a particular cesspool called POW Camp 63 Brienne le Chateâu, France.”
“Were you or the general ever there?”
“No.”
“So, you don’t know what became of the men you guarded at Bad Kreuznach?”
“No. And to be clear about it, I don’t care. Those monsters got what they deserved. Not many of them made it all the way through. Good riddance, I say.”
“You have done a good job giving the short version of your careers, Major. Now it’s time to answer the rest of my questions—the who, the why, and the generation of personal enemies. We’ll take a short break. You’ve earned a little exercise. Get out to the yard for an hour, then we’ll meet back here for some lunch.”
It was no kindness and no privilege to be ordered to the exercise yard that day. San Antonio was having one of its infrequent weird storms—furious winds, torrential lashing rain, and frightening drum rolls of thunder and a sky rent with bursts of lightning coming in electrical sheets. Major Saunders took the moments of misery to think about his own responsibility for what happened in the Allied POW camps. There was a nagging repetition of Coleridge’s poem, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” which had the line, “He hath penance done, and penance more will do.”
Grill Sergeants Brig Food Recipes
Shit on a Shingle—Serves 12
Ingredients
-6 tbsps sweet cream salted butter sticks (total 4–16 oz), 6 tbsps all-purpose flour, 3¾ cps warm milk, 3 (8 oz) jars dried chipped beef, 3 pinches cayenne pepper.
Preparation
-In a medium saucepan over low heat, melt butter. Whisk in flour all at once to form a roux. Whisk in milk a little at a time, increase heat to medium-high, and cook, stirring until thickened. Bring to a boil, stir in beef and cayenne, heat through, and serve hot over toast (shingle).
Fried Corn Meal Mush—Serves 16
Ingredients
-2½ cps cornmeal, 5 cps water, 1 tsp salt
Preparation
-Mix together cornmeal, water, and salt in a medium saucepan. Cook over med. heat, stirring frequently until mixture thickens~5–7 mins.
-For frying, pour mixture into a loaf pan and chill completely. Remove from pan, cut into slices, and fry in a small amount of lard over medium-high heat until browned on both sides. Serve with sauce of your choice if available. Butter, salt, and pepper can substitute. Best if eaten quickly.
Graveyard Stew—Serves 12
Ingredients
-12 slices Wonder Bread, 3 cps whole milk, 12 patties of butter, lard, or margarine
Preparation
-Butter bread, heat milk to just below boiling. Soak bread in hot milk, then eat.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Fort Sam Houston, Camp Bullis Army Base Military Police Office, Bexar County, Texas, Northwest of San Antonio, August 24, 1962, afternoon
Rick came into the conference room soaking wet and shivering. He was angry and had had enough of being treated like a criminal. He had made up his mind not to answer any more questions, and the overzealous MP could just lump it. He knew he could not be kept there incognito forever. There were laws.
He grabbed a napkin from the lunch table and wiped his face.
Before he looked around the room at anyone, he made his emphatic declaration, “I want a lawyer. You have kidnapped me. I am not a material witness, and I am most certainly and absolutely not a criminal. I know my rights under the UCMJ. Get a JAG officer here before you ask even one more question.”
Rick had not noticed that there were now two men sitting at the conference table finishing their sandwiches, French fries, and beer. It was not until the man spoke that he realized that he was facing the same Alaska trooper—the main Alaska investigator—who had questioned him in Anchorage the day after Gen. Gabler was killed.
“Sit down and be quiet. You don’t have to say another word if you don’t want to. But you do have to hear what I have to say. It is in your best interests,” said Major Darrin Higgins, chief officer of the MCU, Alaska State Police, in Juneau.
Rick did not feel well. The presence of the state law enforcement officer caused a sudden loss of his prepared bravado. He slumped into a chair. He was no longer hungry.
“I have news for you,” Major Higgins said in his quiet and unhurried fashion, which had lulled many a criminal into a false sense that they were dealing with a simple and backward country bumpkin Sheriff Taylor from Mayberry, North Carolina–a television character. “This file is a very thorough record of your financial holdings and transactions for the past ten years. We started working on the discovery investigation in Gen. Gabler’s case the day we learned about it. You and his sons have been subjects of interest since that day. I won’t bore you with the complete set of documents, but let’s you and me take a gander at the underlined items together.”
Rick wanted to scream. How in the world had this happened? It was only a few days ago that everything was rosy. He was getting ready for a fishing trip of a lifetime. Then, as if the general’s murder was not enough, he was about to see his very private and very personal economic history be made public—or at least police—property.
“What happened to my rights as an American citizen? You have no right to have my private information. I insist on having a lawyer … I insist on being released from this jail immediately.”
He was desperate to avoid having the police be able to use his financial history against him.
Major Higgins looked at Rick calmly and for a full two minutes before speaking.
“Just shut up. There aren’t going to be any lawyers for a while. You’re under the rules of the UCMJ, and we have a very valid subpoena to search everything you have or ever had. Once we go through all this boring number stuff, I am going to make you a one-time offer. I have every expectation that you will be anxious to cooperate at that time.”
Tucker Nicholsen sat and observed as Major Higgins undid Major Saunders. It was masterful. An experienced team of forensic accountants had scrutinized every line item in Saunders’s portfolio and transaction sheets. There was a small briar patch of little glued-on markers sticking out from the pages of the records.
Occasionally, Major Higgins would ask, “What is this about?”
Rick answered like a man on powerful drugs, knowing that life as he had known it was over; and there was nothing to gain by stalling or lying.
Beginning a year ago, there were twelve equal credits to the Saunders account for a total of one and a half million dollars. Rick paled and had a couple of moments of humming and hawing each time one of those numbers was identified.
For the first five months worth of credits into the accounts, Major Higgins asked the same question, “Where did this money come from? Where did it go? And, what was the intended purpose of the money?”
Rick was balky when challenged the first
two times, but after that gave up and spilled the truth like it was coming from a fire hose.
“All right, all right … it’s a payment for consulting work … for services rendered.”
“What consulting? What services? Do you think I just fell of the turnip truck, Rick? I have something to give, and you’re not going to get it unless you give me the truth.”
“I want immunity if I give you the full information. No immunity means no info.”
“Get real. There’s not going to be any immunity. The question is going to be whether or not you get the chair or life in prison. You understand?”
It was over.
Rick dropped the bombshell he had been keeping secret for so long.
“I was promised a million and a half dollars over one year and another two million the next year to keep a certain organization apprised of Gen. Gabler’s whereabouts, especially when he planned a relatively long stay in one place. That’s all I had to do. We needed that money. Our debts had piled up, and we did not have any way out from under that load. I didn’t see the harm. Besides, the old tightwad treated me like a second-class citizen servant … after everything I did for him.”
“We can argue the morals and the legalities later. No more coy evasions. Give us names and where we can find those people.”
Rick sighed. “European International Conglomerate. At least I think that’s the main company. I went through something like six different holding companies, LLCs, trusts, and corporations until I came to the end of the line at this EIC Corporation. Never could get a good handle on the principals of the company, though. I checked carefully because it seemed too good to be true. I worried about what I was getting myself into. The guy on the phone had a mixed European accent; so, I wasn’t inclined to trust him right off the bat. I had my doubts about getting the money and about the guy’s promise that he meant the general no harm. I insisted on that, and he seemed honest enough. The money came in like clockwork every month as promised.”
“Is that all you agreed to do, Rick? Your life depends on your answer, and I’m not being melodramatic.”
“That’s all I agreed to….”
“I sense a ‘but’ somewhere in there.”
“Yeah, well, it was like any military mission or group activity I was ever part of; there are always Murphy’s Law kinds of things—the standard SNAFU.”
“So, tell me, Rick, what got SNAFUed?”
“Nobody but the boss and me were supposed to be in the lodge that night. But, apparently, the lodge owner—Bastrup—had some difficulty with some incoming guests: they were coming in earlier than planned. We needed to postpone our dinner out in town until the next evening. That kept everybody together in the lodge. I met the two guys in the forest behind the lodge; they wanted to meet with the general as planned and told them the meeting was off. There were too many people in the place. It would be impossible for the meeting to be secret. ‘Maybe some other time,’ I told them. They were not nice men … I mean, definitely not nice men.”
“How so? And Rick, you seem to be of reasonably average intelligence. It seems disingenuous that you hadn’t had an inkling that they meant Gen. Gabler harm before that meeting.”
“I swear I didn’t think about it. Probably naïve of me, in retrospect.”
“To say the least, but keep going.”
“Well … where was I? Oh, yeah—then they made a demand of me, something I had never and would never have agreed to. I had to help them get the general alone and then had to do some heavy lifting with them. I balked and tried to beg off, but no soap. The older guy said, ‘You got our money. You finish the mission.’ He made a throat-slitting motion with his right finger across his throat. I got the message, all right. I thought I was going to be a goner just like the general that night. And, yes, I wasn’t naïve anymore.”
“So, you helped in the murder that night?”
“Actually, not in the murder. I mean I helped; but the two guys hid in his room until we came back to his room after a big dinner. He had a lot to drink and was very drowsy; so, I told him he needed to get some rest because we had a big day of fishing the next day. They let him get sound asleep. They were very patient. It wasn’t until something like two or three in the morning when the younger one slipped into bed with the general, put his arm around his neck, and made a two-hand quick snap of his relaxed neck. Gen. Gabler never felt a thing.
“All I had to do was to help hoist him up far enough off the floor to make it look like a suicide. It’s not like I actually killed him. How could I know what those guys had in their minds?”
“Ever hear of felony murder, Rick?”
“I think so, but I never paid much attention to the term. I just always figured that all murder is a felony.”
“No, Rick, it’s a technical legal term; and you need to get serious about it. In most states the felony murder rule is that when a person is killed during the commission or attempted commission of a felony—such things as burglary, arson, rape, robbery, kidnapping, and—of course—murder itself, even if by accident, all participants in the crime may be charged with first degree murder. That would include the driver of the get-away car or the individual who lures the victim or if the getaway car runs over a pedestrian while fleeing. In short, Rick, that’s you.”
“Even if I had no intent to kill him or if I was more or less forced?”
“That would be very hard to prove. Your presence and help during the commission of the murder would be considered primae faciae evidence of your involvement. In short, even if you had been there for a kidnapping or to steal from Gen. Gabler and he fell down the stairs trying to avoid you, that would be felony murder.”
“Then I’ve had it is about what you’re saying.”
“Rick, felony murder—like a lot of things in the law—is complicated. I have considerable wiggle room in what goes down here. Maybe you help us, and we help you.”
“What can I possibly do? I’ll do anything … anything. My life just can’t end this way.”
“I have a plan that could involve you and might just help us get the real killers. First off, it involves learning anything and everything there is to know about the men who killed Gen. Gabler. We’ll want you to give us a very careful description and have one of our police artists work with you to get a useful sketch we can put out on an APB. We’ll be getting hold of INTERPOL and run this manhunt worldwide.”
“I just thought of something. I don’t know if these guys were just hired assassins or if they were the ones who masterminded the whole crime. Whichever, they seemed to be smart and to have planned the crime down to the last detail. I’ll be glad to help with a sketch. I’m pretty good with faces and memory—part of my training and military experience. And, and I just thought of something,” he stammered: “the two men had a hard look—no smiles, no jokes, all business. They had accents I couldn’t quite trace—seemed like a kind of combination of French and German, but something else … I think Russian or some other Slavic kind of accent in there. And, you know—somewhere way in the back of my mind—I have a kind of fleeting thought—maybe a memory—that I might have met or seen them before. I’ll rack my brain.
“Throw me a crumb. If I help, what will you do for me?”
“Before I get to that, I want to tell you about our plan. It might involve some risk for you. You have to have had some way to communicate with the killers. Find a way to do it. Then you can let them know that you really like the easy money, and maybe there’s somebody else you can finger for them. Find out what kind of person or what particular person they’re after. I want some names. You are the only lead we have to get to that point. Make it happen for us and we can finagle for you.”
“What can you do? This felony murder thing sounds like an open and shut case with no bargaining.”
“No. That’s not quite true. There are a couple of ways SAC Nicholsen and I can go. You are here in Texas, and we could run the murder through the Texas courts. They have the standard felon
y murder policy and you would get fried. Or we could stick with Alaska. Alaska is a funny place; its felony laws do not make felony crimes with a death into first degree murder like most places—like Texas—do. Alaska Statutes § 11.41.100(a) has a set of rules where Alaska delegates some felony murders to second degree murder. That is up to the law enforcement people, the prosecutors, and the judges. It’s complicated. Or, the best way you could get prosecuted is under the UCMJ. The Manual for Courts-Martial only allows for the death penalty if the accused was the actual killer.”
SAC Nicholsen interrupted briefly, “In case you’ve forgotten, that’s Part II, MCM 1984, RCM 1004(c) (8)—Voluntary Manslaughter [Article 119(1), UCMJ].” No death penalty, maybe a possibility of parole.”
“Like I said, I’ll do anything.”
SAC Nicholsen said, “That’s a good attitude, and we will likely test you to the limits. For your information, the army CID motto is: ‘Do what has to be done.’ That is exactly what we intend to do. You up to it?”
“Absolutely. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours in a fair deal, okay?”
“All right, here’s the plan…,” the senior Alaska state trooper said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Central de Policia de Cordóba, Av. Colón 1254, Cordóba Capital [Police Headquarters, Provincial Capital, Cordóba], August 10, 1962
Adolf Henckel Inspector de Policia [Inspector of Police—third-ranking field officer in the department] de la Provincia de Policía de Córdoba, PPC, and José Emanuel de Corsos, Teniente Policía de la Provincia de Policía de Córdoba, PPC [Detective, Police of the Province of Córdoba], were excited about the information pouring out from Anna Maria Lobos. She was the extremely attractive mistress of the murder victim, Carlos Aguillara-Dominguez; and it was beginning to appear as if what she had learned through pillow talk was likely to break the politically charged case in record time. She was on a roll, and they let her talk as freely as she wanted.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 36