“Gehlen has plans to do what?”
“When the admiral asked me what I thought, I told him Gábor Péter deserves to die, but now is not the time.”
“How did the admiral know about this?”
“General Gehlen told him.”
“Gehlen went over my head to the admiral? That sonofabitch!”
“The admiral, and El Jefe . . . speak with General Gehlen frequently. Gehlen is doing things for DCI that have nothing to do with DCI-Europe.”
“And the admiral and Schultz didn’t think I should be told?”
“I’d offer the guess—both of them admire you—they thought you would know this was standard practice.”
Wallace was silent for thirty seconds—which seemed longer—and then he said, “Well, I’ve kept you long enough.”
Then he turned and walked back to his jeep.
“That didn’t go well, but it could have gone worse,” Niedermeyer said. “And I know if somebody told me what I just told him, I’d be just as unhappy.”
“He’s also pissed at me,” Cronley said. “And I didn’t go over his head to talk to El Jefe or the admiral, and nobody asked me if I wanted to go after Odessa and von Dietelburg.”
“Well, let’s go chat with General Gehlen,” Niedermeyer said, “and see how he reacts when I order him to call off the elimination of Gábor Péter. I was his Number Three—or Four—in Abwehr Ost. And as Ludwig Mannberg will tell you, he didn’t at all like unsolicited suggestions from his Number Two, much less orders.”
[THREE]
Headquarters, 26th Infantry Regiment
The International Tribunal Compound
Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1635 1 March 1946
Tiny Dunwiddie was waiting for Cronley at Soldier’s Field.
“I’ve got my bodyguard, where’s yours?” he greeted Cronley.
“In Vienna, looking for von Dietelburg.”
“So we better stop by the Mansion and get you one before we go to the Tribunal Compound.”
“One isn’t enough?”
“Justice Jackson thinks you should have one. We’re liable to run into him when we go to the Compound, and I don’t think you want pissing him off added to your problems.”
“Why are we going to the Compound?”
“Because Colonel Cohen and Colonel Rasberry are waiting there to discuss the demise of your cousin Luther.”
—
Cronley was surprised when Rasberry’s sergeant major led them past Rasberry’s office and to the day room. When he got inside, he saw why the meeting was not being held in Rasberry’s office; it just wouldn’t fit.
Sitting on chrome-and-plastic chairs around a pool table that was covered with a black plastic sheet and on which sat a coffeemaker and plates of doughnuts were maybe twenty people, the soldiers among them ranging in rank from sergeant (Casey Wagner) to four colonels, including Cohen and Rasberry. There were half a dozen bodyguards. And one man Cronley didn’t expect to see, Justice Robert Jackson.
“Super Spook,” Cohen greeted him. “How good of you to find time in your busy schedule for us.”
Cronley ignored him, instead saying, “Mr. Justice.”
“Before this starts,” Jackson said, “I’d like a private word with Mr. Cronley and Colonels Cohen, Rasberry, and Thomas. May we use your office, Colonel Rasberry?”
“Of course.”
“And will you please join us, Mr. Ziegler?” Jackson asked. “And you, too, Ken?”
Cronley hadn’t noticed Kenneth Brewster, Jackson’s law clerk.
—
“As this is a quasi-legal proceeding, may I usurp your desk, Colonel Rasberry, to serve as my bench?”
“Of course, sir,” Rasberry said.
Jackson sat at Rasberry’s desk, and the others found chairs.
“Everyone knows everyone, correct?” Jackson asked.
“I haven’t met this gentleman before, Mr. Justice,” Colonel Thomas said, indicating Cronley.
“Mr. James Cronley of the Directorate of Central Intelligence,” Jackson said. “Colonel Tom Thomas, the Nuremberg Military Post provost marshal.”
The two wordlessly shook hands.
“Let me set the stage politically before we ask Mr. Ziegler to tell us what he has learned so far,” Jackson began. “About an hour after I learned—at about eight this morning—of the death of former Sturmführer Luther Stauffer, I had a telephone call from Admiral Souers.
“Admiral Souers, Colonel Thomas, is the director of the Directorate of Central Intelligence—the DCI—and is a close personal friend of President Truman and myself. The admiral said it had come to the attention of the President that a prisoner in the Tribunal prison had committed suicide by cyanide capsule.
“I think it germane to put delicacy and discretion aside and tell you, verbatim, what Admiral Souers then said: ‘Bob, Harry’s really pissed off. He told me to get you on the horn and tell you he wants to know, quote, What incompetent sonofabitch let this happen? I want to hang those Nazi sonsofbitches, and I can’t do that if they’re committing suicide, unquote.’”
Cronley saw on Colonel Thomas’s face that he was shocked and made very uncomfortable by what Jackson had just said.
“Colonels Cohen and Rasberry tell me they did not inform anyone of Stauffer’s suicide, pending an investigation, so I am wondering, Colonel Thomas, if you told anyone.”
“Sir, the protocol is that whenever something like this, anything significant, happens at the Tribunal prison, I am to immediately notify the USFET provost marshal. I did so. I can only presume that he relayed this information, probably by telephone, to the provost marshal general of the Army.”
“Who then rushed over to the White House,” Jackson said. “Let me say that I don’t think that either Colonel Cohen or Colonel Rasberry are incompetent, and I have no intention of hanging either of them out to dry unless there is clear evidence that I’m wrong. But I do intend to get to the bottom of this. So, Mr. Ziegler, you have the floor. What have you learned so far?”
Cronley’s mouth went on automatic.
“Sir, can I suggest we start with Sergeant Wagner?”
“Jesus Christ, Super Spook!” Colonel Cohen protested.
“Who the hell is he?” Colonel Thomas asked.
“Why?” Justice Jackson asked.
“Sir, because he was there when whatever happened happened.”
“Ziegler, have you talked to Sergeant Wagner?” Jackson asked.
“Yes, sir. He was the first guy I talked to.”
“And?”
“I think Jim is right, sir. It would probably be valuable for everyone to hear his take on what went down.”
“Ken,” Jackson ordered, “please go to the day room and ask the sergeant to join us.”
—
Sergeant Casey Wagner walked into the office, took a quick look around, and then marched to precisely eighteen inches from Justice Jackson’s desk, where he came to attention, saluted, and then barked, “Sergeant Wagner reporting as ordered, sir!”
“You don’t have to salute me, son,” Jackson said, smiling. “Take that chair and tell us what happened in the prisoners’ mess this morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have to ask,” Colonel Thomas asked, “just who is this sergeant?”
“He works for me, Colonel,” Cronley said.
“Son, where were you when the cyanide incident happened?” Jackson asked.
“In the prisoners’ mess, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“Mostly listening, sir. And looking for anything that looked funny—out of the ordinary.”
“And who told you to go to the prisoners’ mess to listen and look for things out of the ordinary?”
“Captain Cronley di
dn’t order me to do that specifically—”
“What does he do for you, Captain Cronley?” Colonel Thomas asked.
“Let him talk, Tom,” Colonel Rasberry said.
“Whatever I tell him,” Cronley said. “Go on, Casey.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Justice Jackson, sir, when Captain Cronley suspected that messages and other stuff were being smuggled in and out of the prison, he sent me in there to see what I could find out. That’s what I was doing in the prisoners’ mess.”
“And what happened there? What did you see happen there?” Jackson asked.
“All of a sudden, Stauffer grabbed his throat and fell backwards off the bench at his table.”
“How did you know it was Sturmführer Luther Stauffer?”
“Mr. Cronley told me who he was, and asked me to watch who he talked to. He said he was connected with Odessa.”
“Am I hearing,” Colonel Thomas interrupted, asking incredulously, “that Captain Cronley believes that Odessa nonsense and has passed that nonsense on to this boy?”
“Colonel, I don’t mean to be rude,” Justice Jackson said icily, “but that was the last time you will say a word that is not in reply to a question that either I or Mr. Cronley have posed to you. Do you understand?”
Thomas’s face flushed.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Go on, son,” Jackson said.
“Yes, sir. So I took a look at him, and he was . . . bubbles were coming out of his mouth, and I remembered what I had heard about what cyanide pills do to you. So I went to the kitchen door and called for the sergeant of the guard and told the PFC on the door to call for the medics—”
“The sergeant of the guard wasn’t in the prisoners’ mess?” Cronley asked.
“No, sir.”
“Why not? Are you saying you were the only American in there?”
“There was a PFC at the door, and when I opened it to yell for help, there was another one outside.”
“Where was the sergeant?”
Wagner shrugged.
“And then what happened?” Cronley pursued.
“Well, when the sergeant—Sergeant Brownlee—came, he—”
“How long did it take him to come into the mess?” Colonel Cohen asked.
“I guess two, three minutes, sir. Maybe a little longer.”
“He should have been in the mess,” Colonel Rasberry said.
“You were telling us, son,” Jackson said, “what the sergeant did when he came into the mess.”
“Yes, sir. He took a look at Stauffer and told me to call the medics. I told him I already had. And just about then, the medics showed up. They took one look at Stauffer and loaded him on a stretcher and hauled him off.”
“And what, if anything, did you and the sergeant do then?” Jackson asked.
“The sergeant told me not to let anybody leave and to wait for Lieutenant Anderson . . .”
“Who is?” Jackson asked.
“One of my officers, sir,” Rasberry said. “He has a platoon of prison guards. He was officer of the day at the time of this incident.”
“And how long did it take for Lieutenant Anderson to arrive at the prisoners’ mess?” Jackson asked.
“About fifteen minutes, sir.”
“And what did you do while you were waiting for him?”
“I called for the corporal of the guard, and when he showed up, I told him to lock up the kitchen crew someplace, and then return the prisoners to their cells.”
“They were all there having breakfast when this happened?” Jackson asked. “Göring, Kaltenbrunner, Speer . . . all of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what was their reaction when Stauffer fell to the floor, frothing at the mouth?”
“I don’t know how to answer that, sir. It was like they were watching a dog that had been run over by a car.”
“No one tried to help him?”
“No, sir.”
“Anyone say anything, Casey?” Cronley asked.
“Kaltenbrunner was sitting at a table with Göring. There’s two tables—like picnic tables—in each row. Stauffer was sitting at the table furthest from the wall. Göring and Kaltenbrunner were at the table nearest the wall.
“They looked over their shoulders when Stauffer fell off his bench. Kaltenbrunner said to Göring, ‘Well, at least someone has access to those capsules.’ Göring sort of laughed. Chuckled.”
“I think we should determine the cause of death,” Jackson said. “Ken, would you please get the doctor in here?”
“Yes, sir,” Brewster said. And then added, “Come with me, Sergeant. I’ll take you back to the day room.”
“Unless Justice Jackson objects, I think Casey should stay,” Cronley said.
“Please change chairs, Sergeant,” Jackson said, “so the doctor can sit there.”
“Yes, sir.”
—
Brewster ushered the pudgy medical officer whom Cronley remembered had strip-searched Luther when he arrived at the Tribunal prison, into the chair Casey had given up.
“You won’t be sworn, Doctor,” Jackson said. “This is an informal inquiry. But we do want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. All right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you first learn what had happened in the prisoners’ mess?”
“I was having my breakfast in the 26th mess when a soldier came to me and said I was needed right away in the Dispensary.”
“That would be Sergeant Brownlee, the sergeant of the guard?”
“No, sir. It was some PFC. I didn’t get his name.”
“And then?”
“So I went to the Dispensary. Stauffer was on the table—”
“You knew who he was?”
“Yes, sir. I strip-searched him when he came to the prison.”
“So you’re fairly certain he didn’t have a cyanide capsule concealed in a body cavity when he entered the prison?”
“I examined him thoroughly, sir.”
“Go on, please.”
“He was dead when I got there, and from the froth at his mouth, I suspected cyanide poisoning.”
“What did you do then?”
“I had the body moved to the 385th Station Hospital, which has the necessary facilities to conduct an autopsy.”
“You did this on your own?”
“He was there,” the doctor said, indicating Ziegler. “He thought that was the thing to do.”
“Did he say why?”
“The phrase he used, sir, was that ‘the shit’s really going to hit the fan about this—they’ll want an autopsy first thing.’”
“From the time you found Stauffer on the Dispensary table, was the body ever out of your sight, your control, until you performed the autopsy? I’m presuming you performed the autopsy.”
“Mr. Ziegler and I rode in the ambulance with the body from the Tribunal Compound to the hospital, and when we got there, two men were waiting for us. Mr. Ziegler told them they were not to let the body out of their sight, and to let no one but me and people with me near it.”
“Who were these men?”
“DCI agents, Mr. Justice,” Ziegler said.
“And then you performed the autopsy? And what did you determine?”
“Death by cyanide poisoning.”
“Anything else?”
“The contents of the stomach showed that he had had scrambled eggs, sausage, and cherry cobbler for breakfast. I also found the remains of a gelatin-like capsule, which showed teeth marks and held traces of a concentrated solution of potassium cyanide.”
“You’re suggesting he waited until he had finished his breakfast before he took his own life?”
“I think when he took a bite of one of the cherries in his cobbler, he got
the cyanide capsule,” Ziegler said.
“Now that’s interesting,” Cronley said. “Lay that out for us, Augie.”
“My scenario is that the capsule—probably capsules—were smuggled into the kitchen mess, loaded into the cherry cobbler, and then when Stauffer went down the chow line, he got that piece of cherry cobbler.”
“You don’t think it was suicide, Mr. Ziegler?” Jackson asked.
“No, sir. Stauffer didn’t know what was in his cherry cobbler.”
“Sergeant?”
“I go with Augie, Mr. Justice, sir.”
“Colonel Cohen?”
“Mr. Justice, in my experience, people contemplating suicide rarely serve themselves a hearty last meal.”
“Let’s go down that path,” Jackson said. “Stauffer died as a result of biting into a capsule of potassium cyanide that had been put into his cherry cobbler. How do we know that capsule was intended for him? And not for Göring or someone else?”
“We don’t,” Cohen said. “But I suggest that if Göring wanted a pill, he would have gotten it by now.”
“Casey,” Cronley asked, “who do you think smuggled the cyanide in?”
Casey did not immediately reply.
“How well are the kitchen personnel searched before they get into the mess?” Jackson asked.
“Sir, they make them take a shower,” Casey replied. “It’s not a body search, but it’s almost.”
“But a cyanide capsule could be hidden?” Jackson pursued. “In the mouth? Or the anal cavity?”
“In the mouth, perhaps . . .” the doctor said.
“They look in their mouths,” Casey said, and then quoted, “‘Stick out your tongue and then spread your cheeks.’”
“Who is ‘they’?” Jackson asked.
“Sir, sometimes the sergeant of the guard, but most times one of the guards.”
“The temperatures in the anus,” the doctor said, “would probably melt the gelatin capsule.”
“Unless it’s a special gelatin, designed to resist the temperatures in the anal cavity,” Cohen said.
“Answer my question, Casey,” Cronley ordered. “Who do you think smuggled the capsule into the kitchen?”
Again, Casey did not reply.
“Casey, why do I think you think Sergeant Brownlee is the villain?”
Death at Nuremberg Page 30