Remembering Dresden (Jack Turner Suspense Series Book 2) (25 page)

“Did you ever read the journal? Do you know what it says?”

The Senator shook his head no. “But I didn’t have to. I knew what he was doing. He talked about it all the time. I know without a doubt, whatever it says will totally ruin my career, all my plans. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” Vandergraf said. “I won’t fail you, sir.”

Rob Strickland sat alone in a booth in Denny’s restaurant on the west end of Culpepper, sipping the last dregs of a cold cup of coffee. His cell phone chimed on the table.

He read the number and name. His occasional boss, Harold Vandergraf. He knew the real head honcho wasn’t Vandergraf. It was Senator Wagner. Strickland didn’t mind serving at their beck-and-call. Not that he believed in the Senator, or cared one bit about his politics. The money was just so good. Sometimes he made a month’s salary for just a few days’ work. He was making more sitting there at Denny’s than he did driving that truck.

He threw down a five-dollar tip and made his way to the cashier. Once outside, he stepped out of earshot and called Vandergraf back.

It rang a few times. “Hey there, Rob. Thanks for returning my call so quickly.”

“Yeah, well….”

“Like I expected. Things just got real. Got a job for you, a big one. And I need you to get on it right away.”

“I’m all ears,” Strickland said.

“Have you ever done anything for us out at the Senator’s cabin?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well, I’m about to give you two addresses. Write these down. The first one is the cabin.” He also gave Strickland some verbal directions since the cabin was off the beaten path. “The second is a condo called The Whispering Hills. I checked. It’s got the usual condo security, shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you to get in. Fact is, I’m hoping you won’t even need to go to the second place, that you’ll find everything you need at the cabin.”

“First question. What am I looking for? Second question, am I likely to encounter any people at either place?”

“I don’t want you to, if you can help it. This needs to be done nice and quiet. The Senator doesn’t want any publicity.”

“Okay, got it.” Strickland took that to mean he wasn’t being given permission to hurt anyone. But Vandergraf and the Senator both understood, sometimes that was impossible to avoid. “I still don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“You’re looking for two things. An old scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings and a small leather journal. Getting both of these items is of the utmost importance. Apparently, they have something to do with the Senator’s father. There’s a guy—a college professor—who’s been staying at the cabin. I guess he’s found these two things and has been talking to the police about whatever’s in them.”

“What is in them? Why do they matter?”

“Not important. What is important, is that you get them back ASAP. I’m hoping this professor has brought them back there. To the cabin, I mean.”

“Do you know where I’ll find them
in
the cabin?”

“No. But they’re in there. Somewhere. Unless the professor brought them home to his condo. If you don’t find them in the cabin, go there.”

“Can I tear the place up looking for them? Or am I supposed to do it without leaving a trace?”

“Do it cleanly. The best thing would be, you get these two items and no one even knows you were there.”

“But you know, the best thing hardly ever happens. I need to know you’re okay if the worst thing happens.”

There was a long pause. “Do whatever you have to do. The Senator wants these items back no matter what. And you can’t get caught, and no one can see your face.”

“By
no matter what
,” Strickland repeated. “Do you mean—”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Jack almost ran down the marble steps of the County courthouse in Columbia, South Carolina. He couldn’t wait to call Rachel. In his hand he held a photocopy that proved what he and Rachel had already believed. Senator Burke Wagner had started his life with a different name.

Ernst Josef Hausen
.

Wagner had been named after an uncle he had never met. An uncle who had died in the Dresden bombing. And the man they had been referring to as
old man Wagner
was actually Luther Wilhelm Hausen, born in Dresden, Germany in 1937. The court records said the name change had become official on February 14
^th
, 1992. Which was ironic. February 14
^th
was the day the American B-17s had attacked Dresden back in 1945.

The same day Luther Hausen’s family had been killed.

Jack hurried across the street toward a shady spot provided by a row of maple trees and pulled out his phone. He quickly found Rachel’s picture and phone icon under his favorites tab and pushed the button. She picked up in two rings.

“Jack?”

“It’s me. Guess what I’m holding in my hand?”

“You found it?”

“I found it. Proof positive.”

“For both, the father and son?”

“Yep. Luther Hausen, and his son…Senator Ernst Hausen. The name change became official in 1992.”

“Are you going to call Sergeant Boyd?”

“As soon as I get off with you.”

“Wow…it’s real then. This thing really happened. The Senator’s father really is, or was, a serial killer.”

“And the Senator knew all about it. At the very least.”

“This comes out, his career is finished,” she said.

“At the very least,” he repeated.

“What time are you heading back?”

“I’ll probably get on the road in about twenty minutes. Get some coffee first and top off the gas tank. Took me just over two hours to get here, but I think I’ll celebrate a little and take the scenic ride home.”

“How long will that take?”

“About another forty minutes.”

“Are you gonna drop off the court records at the police station?”

“I’ll probably bring them over in the morning. But I’m going to take pictures of them right now and send them to Joe just before I call him.”

“I wonder what they’ll do.”

“I’m not sure. Like they said in our meeting, most of what the father did is FBI territory, or else the police departments in the cities where the men were killed.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m wondering what they’re going to do about Senator Wagner. He was here in Culpepper when it all happened, going to school.”

“You’re right. I don’t know. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

After they hung up, still standing there in the shade, Jack took the photos then texted them to Sergeant Boyd, with this message:
Call me if you get these in the next few minutes. They are what you think they are. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you once I get on the highway
.

Rob Strickland’s favorite vehicle to drive was his red 1995 F250 Ford pickup. But that’s not what he drove when he did jobs for the Senator. He drove a silver 2005 Toyota Corolla. Mainly because it looked like ten other cars. If he drove his red pickup on jobs, people would remember it, right off. It’d stick out like a zebra in a horse race.

Being invisible was its only benefit, though. It was a four-cylinder piece of crap on these hills. No pickup. No power windows. No frills at all. Like GPS, for instance. Strickland didn’t think anyone had ever even heard of GPS back when this Corolla was made. They didn’t put them in cars anyway. He had GPS on his smart phone but didn’t bring it out on jobs, either. He always picked up a cheap burner phone. And to stay on the safe side, he always pulled the battery out of it unless he was calling someone.

So here he was, navigating the winding roads around the hills and lakes of Culpepper glancing down at a paper map with handwritten instructions to the Senator’s cabin.

If he was reading this right, around two more S-curves the turnoff should show up on the right. He was liking all the trees on both sides of the road. Not so much that he cared about trees; he cared about not seeing people when he was up to no good, which pretty much described all his work for the Senator.

Sure enough, there was the break in the trees, the turnoff on the right. He drove down the dirt road, so bumpy it made his jaw rattle. Stupid Corolla. His truck would glide over this stuff like he was water skiing. After a few minutes, he came to another break in the trees, another dirt road, veering off to the left. This must be it, the road to the cabin. Said it right there in the instructions:
You’ll see the cabin in a clearing off to the left
.

This dirt road was narrower but a lot smoother. Sure enough, he quickly came to a clearing. The lake filled his windshield. Out his right window, there was the cabin. Thankfully, he didn’t see any cars. Vandergraf didn’t want him to get into any confrontations unless they were unavoidable. Just get in there and out with those two items. Shouldn’t be too hard, considering the size of this cabin.

It was pretty small. Looked more like a shack to him. He couldn’t imagine anyone thinking this might be a good place to come and get some work done. But hey, it didn’t matter to him. He was there for just one thing. He pulled the car close to the little building and got out. He listened for a moment, just to be sure he was alone.

No sounds. Good.

Vandergraf had given him a key, so he pulled it out. When he got to the door, he jiggled the handle and it opened right up. So far, this was easy money. It was fairly dark inside, except for a ribbon of light coming in from a lone window on the left wall. He felt for a light switch, but there was none. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he noticed a single bulb hanging from the center ceiling rafter, a pull chain dangling from it.

He pulled and it instantly glowed a dingy yellow. Couldn’t be more than forty watts. But he could see everything, which wasn’t saying much. It was just one big room. Bed in one corner, table and chairs in the other. In between them, a potbellied stove. Something like a kitchen counter made of butcher block was tucked into the third corner. Beside it, a freestanding slop sink.

He didn’t see any signs of life, any evidence that it was even being lived in. Made him wonder if the professor had already moved back home to his condo. Vandergraf had said he was renting it for the month. Just to be thorough, Strickland walked all around looking for the journal and scrapbook. He lifted, opened and looked under everything he could. Didn’t find a thing.

Clearly, what he’d come here for wasn’t here.

He put everything back the way he’d found it, pulled the chain to turn out the light, and backed out through the front door.

Now it was on to the condo. He’d better find the goods there. Otherwise, he didn’t see any other way to get them without confronting the professor in person.

That would escalate things quite a bit.

Jack drove south on I-26 about twenty minutes west of Columbia when his phone rang. It was Sergeant Boyd returning his call. Just before answering, he reminded himself not to call him that. “Hey Joe, thanks for getting back with me.”

“Sorry I missed you. I was doing some interviews. I checked my cell phone when I got back to my desk. Looks like your drive to the courthouse proved fruitful. I can’t say I was totally surprised by what you found. But still, seeing it there in black and white makes it pretty official.”

“I know. I had the same reaction. The question now is, what comes next?”

“I’ve got a friend I used to work with when I was a detective in Pittsburgh. He’s been with the FBI the last few years. Think I’ll start by calling him. Tell him the story, see where he thinks it should go next.”

Jack liked the sound of that. “I know you both thought most of the father’s part of the story involved FBI territory, since the murders happened in different states. But what about the local part? Senator Wagner, or rather Ernst Hausen, was attending Culpepper at the time. His father’s home base was that cabin I’m staying in. The son knew everything the father was up to and never did a thing to stop it, or even report it. Seems like those things would be crimes, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re probably right. But there’s an old saying, when unloading the Ark, start with the elephants not the mice. What the father did is huge in comparison to the son’s involvement. I’m sure the FBI will see it that way, too, and so will the DA. So let’s start with that. Once I hear back from my friend, I’ll set up an appointment with the DA, tell him the whole story. I’m sure he’ll see any criminal allegations involving the Senator right away. The important thing now is, what to do with the evidence you’ve uncovered. You still have them, right?”

“In a way. I put them back where I found them in the cabin.”

“You mean in the safe, under the floorboards?”

“I wanted everything to look just the way it was supposed to. Didn’t want to take a chance in case anyone stopped in when I wasn’t there. Both the Senator and my next-door neighbor have keys.” There was a long pause. Jack added, “Do you disagree?”

“Not completely. Legally, I can’t tell you what to do with it. Not until we have a search warrant. But with these documents you uncovered today, we’re a whole lot closer to establishing probable cause. I’m just concerned about the meantime. The only evidence we have that proves everything is that scrapbook and journal. Know what I mean?”

Jack thought he did. If he understood it right, Joe was asking him, unofficially, to get those two items out of the cabin and hide them someplace safe until they reached a point where they could secure them legally. “I got you, Joe. I’ll take care of it when I get back to the cabin tonight. In the morning, I’ll bring the courthouse documents to the station.”

Rob Strickland sat in his car a block down from The Whispering Hills condominium complex, the main residence of this professor, Jack Turner. The sun had started to set but there was still plenty of light. The street was relatively quiet. He didn’t see anyone out walking around. It was a gated community, providing a just-for-looks level of security, which included one very old man reading a book in the guard house.

After driving around the place twice, Strickland had noticed a thick section of woods bordered the west side. A stone wall also outlined the perimeter. That was his way in. No fuss, no hassle. He was only there to pick up the two items, which he could easily carry in his hands.