She worked the edges, pushing another scrap toward the flames when she paused, her heart hammering.
What is that?
She scraped the piece toward her then gingerly reached in, snagging it with her fingers while wincing at the heat cast from the well-fed fire. She brushed the ash off the thick piece of detritus then gasped as the unmistakable silver stitching embroidered on the collar of a uniform was revealed.
An SS uniform.
Her mouth filled with bile as she tossed the scrap on the flame, backing away from the fire as her mind raced with the implications. There was no doubt what it was. It was a piece of the collar from an SS uniform, a piece that had survived the fire, someone obviously doing a poor job of burning it.
But whose uniform was it? Her husband had told her that the body they suspected was Griese had been found naked. That meant the uniform had to have ended up somewhere.
And if it ended up in this household, in this fireplace, then obviously it had been put here by someone in this house, where her family lived.
She rushed forward, confirming her own destruction of evidence was complete, then placed the screen back in front of the fire before standing and brushing off her knees. She unlocked the door and attempted, poorly, to control her retreat to her bedchambers. She closed the outer door, locking it behind her, then did the same with the inner door, curling up on the bed and hugging her pillow as she rocked back and forth, trying to make sense of her discovery.
Someone had stripped Griese naked, then brought the uniform back here to burn it. Part of her was forced to acknowledge that whoever it was had likely thought they were helping in some way, though how that might be she had no idea. Nothing made sense. Who would strip him naked? Why would anyone bring the uniform back here? Why would they have tried to hide who he was? Were they protecting her family? Did they have an ally they weren’t aware of?
Did they know their secret?
She shuddered at the thought. She was surrounded by SS soldiers constantly, and all were killers. Except for her husband. He wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be a killer. Yet he was a soldier, in the SS. She didn’t know a single SS senior officer who wouldn’t kill, or who hadn’t killed. She just assumed her husband wasn’t one of them, though perhaps she was naïve. Did the other wives feel the same as she did about their husbands? Were there women out there who would proudly declare that their husband had executed some Jews or trade unionists with their bare hands?
She avoided socializing with the other wives as much as possible, though it was hard, and growing harder with her husband’s new position. Being in the same room with many of these women made her skin crawl, the elitist crowd spending much of their time boasting of their husband’s accomplishments, whose dinner party they had been invited to, whose spouse had disappeared after some scandal.
Yet none, that she could recall, ever boasted of their husband’s latest set of personally carried out executions.
Senior officers delegated.
If her husband killed people, it wasn’t by his own hand, unless you counted the fact it wrote the signature on the orders that ultimately led to the deaths of others.
But to pull the trigger?
To intentionally kill another human being?
She couldn’t see her husband doing such a thing, yet he would if it came down to saving their family. And it was all her fault. Griese was dead, yet she was the one who deserved to die, not him. It was all because of the secrets this family had been hiding for so long. Secrets that could turn her beloved husband into one of the coldblooded killers that surrounded her every day.
He’ll sacrifice his humanity to save us all.
35 |
Berlin-Mitte Morgue Hannoversche Straße, Berlin, Nazi Germany
Naumann pointed at Griese’s left shoulder. “This might be what you’re looking for.”
Vogel leaned in, staring at the small scrape on their victim’s shoulder. He shrugged. “I can’t tell. It could just be a scratch from dragging the body for all we know.”
Naumann shook his head. “No, if the body was dragged while he was naked, then there’d be lots more. I think he was dragged then stripped.” He pointed at the small scratch, less than three centimeters long. “This abrasion was not made by vermin.”
“Why’d you miss it the first time?”
Both Vogel and Naumann gave Stadler a look. “Because I wasn’t looking for it. I had two bullet wounds, including the fatal one. He’s covered in scores of bite marks. There was no need to examine each and every one.”
Vogel patted him on the shoulder. “No need to explain yourself to my impudent colleague. You found it when we needed it found. You’re certain it’s from a gunshot?”
“Not at all. I said might be what you’re looking for. There’s just no way to know for sure, though where it is, the fact it’s tapered at the front and rear, deeper in the middle, suggests something passed through the first few layers of skin. Now, that could indeed be some sort of scrape, but there should have been dirt in the wound.” He shrugged. “All I can say for certain is that I’ve examined every square centimeter of him now, and this is the only wound that might fit what you’re looking for.”
Vogel sighed. “Fine. Anything that suggests the angle?”
“Not really. I’d say they were standing directly in front of each other.”
“Range?”
“No clue.”
Vogel frowned. “So, we may or may not have a third gunshot wound, that might have been fired at point-blank range, or from twenty meters away for all we know.”
“If we had his uniform, I could tell you more. If it were damaged on the shoulder, we could at least confirm it happened before he was stripped, and perhaps confirm it was a gunshot if there were powder burns or a bullet hole.”
“Well, they’ve been searching the area all night and day, and haven’t found it. My guess is it’s been burned, or was placed…” He smiled. “Our second body. Was the victim wearing a uniform?”
Naumann’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…”
“You never know. The uniform went somewhere. Maybe he found a body with the necessary facial wounds, put it in Griese’s uniform and planted the papers.”
“It’s definitely possible. I’ll check right away. If we’re lucky, they haven’t processed the body yet.”
The door opened and a uniformed officer entered. “Good, I found you. Sergeant Hellwig wanted you to know that we picked up that boy you were looking for.” The young man checked his notepad. “Joachim Konrad.”
Vogel and Stadler exchanged excited glances. “Where is he?”
“At headquarters. Apparently, he’s demanding to talk to Himmler himself. Claims he killed someone last night.”
Vogel’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me.”
The officer shrugged. “I’m not, but maybe the kid is.”
“Has his father been notified yet?”
“Not when I left. Apparently, he doesn’t want to see his parents. He’ll only talk to Himmler.”
Vogel grabbed the phone, dialing headquarters, and was soon on the line with the desk sergeant. “You still have him?”
“I put him in an interrogation room with some food. The poor kid was starving.”
“Has anyone spoken to him yet?”
“Yeah, but no one has gotten anything out of him.”
“Has Himmler showed up?”
The sergeant roared with laughter. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”
“What about the parents?”
“I’ve sent word.”
Vogel frowned. “If they get there before I do, stall them. Paperwork or something. I need to speak to him first.”
“Are you joking? His father’s an SS colonel, isn’t he? They’ll line me up and shoot me, then line me up and do it again if I don’t let him see his son. If you want to talk to him, get your ass down here before he does. Sir.”
Vogel hung up, there no time to waste. He headed for the door th
en turned toward Naumann. “Let me know what you find with that uniform.”
“Good luck with your interrogation. Just tread lightly, my friend. Parents, especially SS colonels, can be very protective of their children.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
36 |
Konrad Residence Berlin, Nazi Germany
Konrad sat at his desk, his thumb absentmindedly drumming on the blotter. Things weren’t going according to plan, though they rarely did when plans were rushed. In his desperation to have Griese “found” before General Graf’s deadline, he had planted the identity papers on a victim from last night’s air raids, and it had backfired horribly.
The real Griese had been found, and now there was a murder investigation, and no doubt a Central Records investigation. He wasn’t worried about Griese’s body leading back to him—where else could it lead? Griese was one of his staff. It was always leading back to him.
What had him concerned was that now people were pulling records, and they might pull those related to him and his family. He had done his best to hide the secrets his family held, but he was certain a keen investigator, a motivated individual hoping to advance in the Reich, could find something, some forgotten morsel that would demand more answers.
Answers he wasn’t prepared to give.
We should have left when we had the chance.
It was a common refrain that echoed through his head more often these days, yet it was too late. Where could they go? And how? Mainland Europe was mostly conquered. The only places to go now would be Spain or Switzerland, and getting to those borders, especially with his wife and two boys, one of whom would be unwilling to go, would be impossible.
It was too late.
If they could just get through this crisis, they might buy themselves months or even years of breathing room. Perhaps in time the paranoia that dominated the Reich might ease and he might track down the remaining records scattered across the country.
Or they might lose the war.
All of these things were possible, however unlikely.
Yet to move on, to prevent Graf from investigating, he had to have proof Griese was dead, and now through his own actions, that word that German efficiency should have already delivered him was delayed.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
Captain Hoffman opened the door and stepped up to his desk, stopping with a slam of the heel. Konrad didn’t bother chastising him for such formalities within the confines of his own home. It would fall on deaf ears. Hoffman was loyal to the Reich, to the SS, and to his commander. A perfect, disciplined soldier, who took pride in every aspect of the life he had chosen. “Sir, as requested, I’ve had the car brought around.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Konrad checked his watch and frowned. The hours were wasting away as Graf’s deadline approached. “No word on Griese?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m growing impatient. According to those policemen, he was reported dead last night. General Graf wants him found otherwise he’s going to launch his own investigation, and we’ve still got scores of men scouring the city for him. All of this is a waste of the Reich’s resources. Call Central Records, find out what the hell is going on. Tell them I want a copy of his record showing he’s deceased. Tell them it’s for General Graf, and if they refuse…well, you know what to do.”
A smirk crept up one side of Hoffman’s mouth. “Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir.”
Konrad rose from his desk and grabbed his hat. “My wife is resting. She is not to be disturbed. Make that call then let me know what you find out. If you have to go to Central Records personally, then do it. I want that damned file in my hands before dinner. This has gone on long enough.”
“Yes, sir.”
He paused, turning slightly toward Hoffman. “And Captain?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Run a check on my son. See if he’s been reported…”
“I understand, sir.”
Konrad left Hoffman to make the call, his heart heavy with the thought his son might be dead, then strode outside, his car waiting, the driver standing with the door open. He was about to climb in when Hoffman rushed down the steps.
“Colonel!”
Konrad turned toward his aide. “What is it?”
“I just received a call. They’ve found your son! The police have him at their headquarters.”
Relief swept over him.
Then fear.
His son had been found, and he had to get to him before anyone had time to question him.
37 |
Kriminalpolizei Headquarters Prinz-Albrecht Straße, Berlin, Nazi Germany
“Are his parents here?”
The desk sergeant gave Vogel a look. “Whose parents?”
Vogel glared at him “Joachim Konrad. The one we just spoke about.”
“Oh, no, but Himmler’s in with him now.”
Stadler’s face brightened. “Really?”
Vogel backhanded his partner in the chest. “No, you fool.” He returned his attention to the cheeky sergeant. “What room?”
“Four.”
Vogel passed through the door and strode rapidly toward the interrogation room, stopping to calm himself before opening the door. He looked at Stadler. “You keep your mouth shut the entire time, understood?”
Stadler frowned. “Yes.”
“No facial expressions, no gasping, no jaw dropping, no nothing.”
“I’ll just stand in the corner and count the floor tiles.”
“Good. And do it with a smile.”
“Huh?”
“This is a kid. We want him to feel comfortable, not like he’s in the room with the Gestapo.”
“Right.”
Vogel opened the door and stepped inside, sporting a smile. He was greeted by a grim-faced boy in a dirty Hitler Youth uniform, his cheeks tear-stained, his arms folded. “Hi there! You must be Joachim.” He took a seat opposite the boy. “I’m Kriminalinspektor Vogel, but you can call me Wolfgang.” He gestured toward Stadler, already in the corner, a creepy forced smile on his face. “And my friend here is Kriminalassistent Stadler. You don’t need to know what to call him because we don’t let him speak.” He winked at Joachim. “Let’s just you and I have a conversation.”
The boy stole a glance at Stadler, then aimed his stare at his knees.
“Now, I’m here to take your preliminary report for Reichsführer Himmler. Once I have all the pertinent information, I can brief him, and if he feels it merits his time, he has assured me he’ll speak to you personally.”
Joachim’s eyes widened. “Really? You spoke to Reichsführer Himmler?”
“Not ten minutes ago. He’s very interested in what you have to say after the events of last night.”
Joachim paled slightly. “He knows about that?”
“He knows very little. Most of us know very little. Once you tell us what happened, though, we’ll know a lot more.” Vogel pulled out his notepad and pencil. “Now, you told the officer that found you that you had killed someone. Who was that?”
Joachim frowned, his eyes darting between the two men and various objects in the room. “You’re going to tell Reichsführer Himmler?”
“I’ll be phoning him the moment I leave the room, and if he agrees, taking you to see him personally. Tell me everything now, as completely and truthfully as possible, and you could be in his office within the hour.”
Joachim shifted in his chair, then leaned forward, shoving his elbows onto the table, his entire demeanor changing. “I killed that corporal. I think his name is Griese. He embarrassed my father at an important dinner party. Though that wasn’t really why I did it. It’s because he knows—knew—about…” He stopped speaking, his eyes widening slightly. He abruptly sat back in his chair, his arms once again folded, his eyes aimed at the door.
“He knew what?” prompted Vogel gently.
“Nothing.”
Vogel decided it was b
est not to pry at details the boy wasn’t willing to volunteer.
Yet.
“Fine, we can come back to that. Now, you said you killed him. How?”
Joachim stared at the light overhead. “I shot him.”
“With what?”
“My mother’s gun.”
“How did you get it?”
“I found it in—” Again he hesitated. “I just found it.”
“That’s fine. What type of gun was it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Small. Not like my dad’s Luger.”
“Fine. So, you took your mother’s gun and shot Corporal Griese. Where did you shoot him?”
“Out back. By the window where the dinner was.”
“How many times?”
“Just the once.”
“Where did you shoot him?”
“By the window. I already told you that.”
“No, I mean in the chest, in the head?”
“Don’t you know?”
Vogel smiled. “I need to hear it from you.”
Joachim shrugged. “I-I guess the chest.”
“You guess?”
The boy flushed. “Well, that’s where I was aiming.”
“But you don’t know?”
He sighed then threw his arms in the air. “Fine! I had my eyes shut! Is that what you want to hear? I closed my eyes and shot like a coward then ran away.”
Vogel smiled gently, trying to calm the boy. “It’s fine, no one here is calling you a coward. In fact, you’re very brave. Not a lot of boys your age would have the courage to even take the shot.”
A slight smile appeared out of one corner of his mouth. “Really? You think so?”
“I know so. Where’s the gun now?”
“I threw it away.”
“Where?”
Joachim shrugged. “In the backyard. I mean, I think I dropped it almost right away.”
Vogel exchanged a glance with Stadler. If the gun had been dropped in the backyard, then it should have been found by someone. The fact it hadn’t been reported meant someone at the household was hiding that fact, forgot to mention it, or it was picked up and was indeed the small-caliber weapon they were seeking that had been fired later. He was leaning toward the latter. “Where did you go after you dropped the gun?”
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