Ruins of War (4 page)

“We don’t know if the victim is German. And even if he is, what if the killer is an American? And, sir . . . killers like this? They don’t necessarily stop on their own. This guy even referred to ‘those’ he makes suffer. What about his next victim?”

The colonel slammed his hand on the desk. “May I remind you, Mr. Collins, that the CID’s primary job—your job—is to investigate crimes committed by and on U.S. military personnel.”

A few seconds passed while neither spoke. Mason knew the colonel was sizing him up, remembering the complaints about Mason’s pushing the boundaries of authority. Remarks from fellow officers and the command ranks would no doubt claim that Mason was not a team
player, which left the colonel mulling whether it was worth putting up with such battles to benefit from Mason’s investigative experience.

Finally the colonel said, “I’m going to bargain with you. As long as you work other cases to my satisfaction, including this train robbery fiasco, I’ll let you and Wolski follow up any leads that arise in this case. I guarantee you that if we find out that the victim or the killer is American, or any other member of Allied forces, you will have my full support in pursuing the murderer.” He rose from his desk. “Stay here.”

Colonel Walton went to the door, poked his head out, and said something Mason couldn’t hear. He then stepped to one side to let someone enter. The craggy-faced man who’d been waiting outside stepped in. He eyed Mason with a solemn expression. The colonel gestured with his hand for the man to follow him.

“Chief Warrant Officer Collins,” the colonel said, “this is Herr Oberinspektor Becker of the Munich Kriminalpolizei.” The Kriminalpolizei was the German police detective bureau.

With a slight chill, Mason realized why the man had caught his eye earlier: He reminded Mason of his own German-born grandfather. They wore the same goatee and had the same steely eyes. His grandfather had been a devout Lutheran and the family tyrant. As a child, Mason had shied away from the man, avoiding him whenever he could. Fear transformed to acrimony as he grew older. Now he faced what appeared to be a living, breathing incarnation of the old buzzard. And a German cop, to boot.

Becker made a slight bow with no more of a smile than what was required. “I’m very happy to make your acquaintance,” he said in a thick German accent and deep baritone voice.

Mason stepped forward and they shook hands. Becker’s hand was warm and dry, and he had a surprisingly firm grip for someone who looked to be in his midsixties. Like Mason’s grandfather, Becker comported himself with a grim visage and a stiff spine.

Colonel Walton maneuvered between them to break their mutual stare. “Gentlemen, over here, please,” he said and led them back to the
desk. “Have a seat.” He took his place behind the desk, while Mason and Becker sat in the chairs facing him. “Inspector Becker is our chief liaison officer for the Munich police.”

From his time working as an assistant on the general staff in Frankfurt, Mason had witnessed firsthand the backroom politics that established how the occupying Allies, from a standpoint of sheer manpower, could police the entire country’s population with only military police. To have any hope of maintaining order, they had to turn to the existing indigenous police forces. The problem was, the German police forces had been absorbed into the SS by Heinrich Himmler, and most policemen were required to be card-carrying members of the Nazi Party. Each day the Allies dismantled more and more of the Nazi-era system, but it had been impractical, even hazardous, to dismiss every German policeman. To make sure they weren’t putting fanatics or brutal members of the Gestapo back into positions of authority, the intelligence services continually combed through the Nazi-era police force files. Nonetheless, Mason suspected that a lot of the bad apples were slipping back into the police stations and halls of justice.

Becker cleared his throat and said to Mason, “Colonel Walton and Criminal Investigator Havers gave me information regarding what you discovered at the Mannstein Fabrikswerk factory. I can assure you that my colleagues and I will do our utmost to continue the investigation.”

Mason turned to the colonel. “You’re handing the case over to the Kriminalpolizei?”

“The
Kriminalpolizei will augment the investigation. You know that we always coordinate with them when cases involve German civilians. We do the main investigation, but hand over German perpetrators to the German authorities.”

“No one said the perpetrator is German.”

“I concur with Investigator Collins,” Becker said. “Is it not America which seems particularly fertile in producing psychotics who commit multiple homicides?”

“No one said anything about multiple homicides,” the colonel said.

“And it seems, Inspector,” Mason said, imitating Becker’s phrasing, “that Germany is fertile in producing mass murderers.”

The colonel stiffened in his chair like he was going to have a heart attack. “Now, wait a minute, Collins!”

Mason continued to glare at Becker, but Becker bowed his head slightly and smiled. “Touché.”

Mason turned to Colonel Walton. “Sir, we can do this without the inspector’s help. If the killer turns out to be German, we’ll hand him over to German authorities.”

Becker spoke before the colonel could respond. “I and many of my fellow officers are natives of Munich. We know the city and its people better than you. And while your experienced investigators keep leaving for the United States, we gain qualified officers every day. Perhaps we should lead the investigation. We can be much more persuasive in convincing witnesses to come forward—”

“Yeah, we’ve all heard about how persuasive the Gestapo could be,” Mason said.

The colonel shot up from his chair. “That’s enough! I’ve warned you about your attitude. That war’s been fought. We won’t be fighting it again, here. Is that clear?”

Mason nodded.

“That goes for you, too, Inspector.”

Becker bowed his head. “My apologies, Colonel. My officers and I are happy to cooperate.”

“Fine. Now both of you get out of here.”

M
ason blew past the pool of desks and entered his office. He flicked on the ceiling light then slapped the file folders onto his desk. Before he could sit, Becker knocked on his open door.

Mason sighed. “Yeah, come in.”

Few Germans made Mason uneasy these days. When they had been shooting at him and taken him prisoner, yes, but not after their devastating defeat. But Becker not only personified his late tyrannical grandfather, he also stirred Mason’s memories of the brutal German military police and the terror of the camp guards, and Mason resented the man for it.

Becker took two steps into the room. “I would like to apologize for my part in our dispute.”

“Forget it,” Mason said, but Becker had the look of a parent waiting for the right response. “Okay, me, too. We’re both cops. But I hope I don’t find out you were a Gestapo goon arresting political dissidents or hunting down escaped American POWs.”

“I remained in Kripo during the war. I only investigated serious crimes and had nothing to do with security enforcement. Your colonel thinks very highly of you. I hope we can work together in harmony.”

Mason sat at his desk and started leafing through the files. “Whatever works to solve the case, right?”

Becker tilted his head in agreement. “I respect your fervor. A man never fully forgets the victims. Especially the brutal ones.”

Mason stopped fussing with the files and looked up. Becker had been a cop for decades before him, and he probably had a lot more skeletons stuffed in his closet. “This one does have me pretty rattled. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Mason looked at his watch. “It’s after eleven now, and it’s going to take me an hour to type up my report. I’ll have someone make up a file in the morning and send it over to you.”

Becker removed a business card from his pocket and placed it on Mason’s desk. “I will have my colleagues begin a search for witnesses tomorrow morning. It will be difficult to identify the victim. There are hundreds of thousands of German refugees, deserters from every army. . . .”

Mason fed a sheet into his typewriter. “Not to mention all the freed concentration camp prisoners and slave laborers your comrades didn’t manage to eliminate.” Mason turned to Becker. “Look—”

“No need to apologize.” A smile formed in the corner of Becker’s mouth, but his nostrils flared; he was obviously struggling to maintain his composure. “I understand you have reasons for your animosity. And old enemies do not become friends overnight. We will have a pleasant working relationship.”

By way of conciliation, Mason said, “Once I have the medical examiner’s report, I’ll send that to you. And as soon as I have a sketch artist draw up the victim’s portrait, I’ll send over copies of that as well.”

“Good. We’ll post them on the usual missing-persons boards and see that all the surrounding community police departments receive a copy.”

“Then we’ll have all our little crumbs in a box, congratulate ourselves for our fine efforts, while we wait for the bastard to butcher another victim.” Mason turned his attention back to his typewriter.

Becker lingered for a moment. “It never becomes any easier. I can attest to that. But beware of the bitterness.” He shifted his winter coat to his left arm and donned his hat. “Good night.”

Mason returned the farewell as he typed. He didn’t think about
what he was writing. He’d done enough reports that his brain went into autopilot. But Becker’s parting words continued to repeat in his head. He’d thought himself beyond bitterness, having exchanged it for the anesthesia of spartan indifference.

Guess it’s not working.

An hour later, another knock came at the door. It was Wolski. “What’s with Boris Karloff?”

Mason chuckled. “He does look like Karloff at that.” He pulled a cigarette out of the pack lying on the desk. He offered Wolski one. Wolski declined. “He’s our German police liaison,” Mason said. “Did you get anywhere with the calls about missing personnel?”

Wolski referred to a piece of paper in his hand. “During the last thirty-six hours there remain four hundred sixty-five personnel unaccounted for. That’s just in Munich and the surrounding area.” He pointed at Mason’s report. “You finished with that thing?”

Mason nodded. He pulled the final page of the report out of the typewriter.

“How about a nightcap? I know a nice, quiet bar. . . .”

“No, thanks. They’ve finally got me out of that hotel and found something more permanent. I want to get settled in.”

“Corporal Manganella was to show you to your new quarters, but he went off duty a half hour ago. He asked if I’d take you over there.”

Mason put out his cigarette then stood and stretched. “Yeah, why not?”

•   •   •

M
ason and Wolski had to stop the jeep behind a line of waiting army vehicles. At the intersection, an MP conducted traffic and held up their street so a column of tanks and armored cars could cross.

“Did they start the war again and not tell us?” Wolski said.

They had stopped in front of an upscale hotel and nightclub miraculously unscathed by the war. It now served as the officers’ mess and officers’ club. Near the curb and positioned on either side of the
entrance, Mason noticed two boys no older than ten. They were filthy, rail thin, and dressed in rags. Then he saw why they were there. The place was always busy with army and military government personnel coming and going, and each time one of them dropped a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, the boys dashed to the spot and picked it up. A small girl of five collected the butts from the boys and held them in a bundled rag. They didn’t smoke them. They collected them. Cigarettes had become the de facto form of currency on the black market for Germans, and the only reliable way to procure food and clothing. Any area frequented by U.S. soldiers and government personnel offered an ideal location to collect the butts, which were then exchanged for food at collection centers where the unburned tobacco was used to make new cigarettes.

The jeep started to move just as an MP rushed out of the officers’ mess and chased the kids away. The kids ran across the street and dived into a hole in the wall of a destroyed building.

Mason felt a twinge of sadness for the kids. As the jeep passed, he kept an eye on the hole. Somewhere in the rubble those kids tried to survive.

Wolski finally pulled up the jeep in front of a brick town house. “Not bad. They’ve put me in the McGraw Kaserne. Like living on a prison block.”

Mason climbed out of the jeep and retrieved his gear from the back.

“Oh,” Wolski said and reached into his pocket. “Almost forgot to give you a key to the house.” He handed it to Mason. “I’ll pick you up at oh-seven-hundred.” Wolski made a cursory salute and drove away.

The Army Corps of Engineers had yet to restore power to this block, so Mason was left in the dark, but the moon reflecting off the snow gave enough light to show that the town house stood in a row of similar town houses untouched by bombs. Like a series of capricious tornados, bombs had devastated entire neighborhoods and bypassed others, reducing one house to a pile of dust while leaving its neighbor completely unscathed. Standing here, he could almost imagine being in some corner of the world where the war had existed in only headlines or radio broadcasts. The warm light of candles emanated from a
room on the ground floor. Behind the lace curtain, silhouettes of people communed around a dining table. Like coming home to family . . . not his, someone else’s.

Mason heaved his duffel bag onto his shoulder and walked up the stone steps to the front door. Before he could insert the key into the lock, someone opened the door. A round-faced captain with red cheeks and equally red hair stepped aside to let him in.

“You must be the new guy,” the red-cheeked captain said. “Come in out of the damp cold and into the dry cold.”

Mason stepped in and they shook hands.

“Mike Shaw.”

Mason introduced himself then followed Shaw down a short hallway. The place reeked of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Shaw stopped at the entrance to the dining room, where three other officers sat around the table playing poker. Shaw introduced them, but Mason paid only enough attention to learn that they were all quartermaster officers.

“Care to join us?” Shaw said. “We got beer and whiskey to keep us warm. There’s a heating-oil furnace, but the oil’s in short supply. Hopefully we’ll have some by the end of the week.”

“Thanks, but I’m going to hit the sack.”

Shaw shouted toward the back of the house, “Hey, Johann.” He turned back to Mason. “We got servants. An old couple and their fourteen-year-old granddaughter.” Shaw said the last part with a lascivious glint in his eyes. “A piece of jailbait. The only thing keeping me out of her panties is a couple of years.” He laughed, his red cheeks jiggling. The others chuckled, but Mason gave him a cold stare.

Shaw noticed Mason’s expression and stopped laughing. He cleared his throat. “They’re okay people. Used to be the owners of this house until we moved in. I’m sure they were loyal little krauts, but no official Nazi Party affiliation.”

From behind, Mason heard a raspy voice say,
“Guten Abend.”
He turned to see Johann standing in the hallway. He looked to be in his seventies with a thin, haggard face. Fine wisps of his silver hair were
tousled from having to rise from sleep in answer to Shaw’s summons. He wore what had been an expensive tailored suit coat that was now fraying at the edges.

Shaw made the introductions. Only Johann’s glassy eyes moved in response; he’d probably overheard Shaw’s comments. Mason joined Johann without another word to Shaw. Johann raised the candlestick he was holding and moved toward the stairs. At the base of the stairs, Johann offered to take Mason’s duffel bag.

“Nein, danke. Ich kann es tragen,”
Mason said, indicating that he could carry it himself.

Johann’s eyes widened in happy surprise. In German, he said, “You speak German. Good. I am too old to learn English.” He mounted the stairs with surprising agility. Mason followed.

“Are you, your wife, and granddaughter staying in the house, too, Johann?”

The old man stopped and turned to Mason. “Herr Steiger, please. I will call you Herr Collins, and you call me Herr Steiger. I can tell you are a man of respect, and I request only that one courtesy from one civilized man to another.”

Mason nodded for Steiger to continue. They climbed the remaining stairs and moved down a wide hallway. From what Mason could see by the flickering candlelight, the hallway was decorated with fine antiques and wallpaper depicting a bucolic eighteenth-century hunting scene.

“You have some very nice things, Herr Steiger.”

“We receive a small stipend for housing soldiers from your army, so fortunately we have not been obliged to sell much for food. At least, not yet.” He gave Mason a melancholy smile. “To answer your question, sir, we live in the kitchen and cellar. A pitiful arrangement, but we know many families forced out of their homes to accommodate you soldiers, and they now live in squalor. We are grateful. Especially for my granddaughter. Only God almighty knows what would have happened to her if we’d been forced to live on the streets.”

They stopped at the last door on the right, where Steiger unlocked
the door and handed the key to Mason. He then stepped aside so Mason could enter the cold room.

“They continue to promise us electricity and heating oil, but it has yet to happen.” Steiger lit an oil lamp on the nightstand. The light revealed a masculine room: framed representations of heraldic crests above a heavy oak bed, a knight’s shield and crossed swords above a dresser laden with family photos.

“This was my son’s room before he married and joined the Wehrmacht.” He eyed Mason as if watching for a reaction. “He was not SS, Herr Collins.”

“I know the distinction.” Mason saw the sadness in Steiger’s eyes, his hunched shoulders, as the man surveyed his son’s room. He felt sorry for the old man’s loss. If only they had thought of that before allowing the Nazis to bring war to the world.

“I hope you will forgive us leaving the room as it was when he was a boy. He was killed in Russia in ’42.”

“It’s fine. I’ll leave everything the way it is. I’ll just need to clear the desk for my work.”

“Of course.” Steiger turned to go then added, “There’s wood in the fireplace, if you wish. My wife and I will have coffee and breakfast ready at six thirty. Dinner is at seven.”

“I’ll take breakfast, but I doubt I’ll be back in time for dinner in the evenings.”

As Steiger started to leave Mason said, “Herr Steiger, I’m sorry about your son. Too many fathers lost too many sons.”

Steiger tipped his head and left, closing the door behind him.

In a few moments Mason had the fire going. As he stood next to the fireplace for warmth, he surveyed the framed pictures competing for space on the mantel. Most were photographs of Steiger’s son as a youth: a freckle-faced boy, bespectacled, and thin like his father. There was a portrait of the son as a man, dressed in an academic gown of a university, capturing the same boyish grin that pushed up on his glasses. Then the obligatory picture of the son in his Wehrmacht
uniform—this time with a forced smile. The last group was mostly snapshots of the son arm in arm with an attractive woman holding a baby. None of these had the son in uniform. The parents had probably added those long after the son had left home, married, and died.

What a waste.

Mason had very few photos from his childhood. His family never took pictures. No one had created a shrine to his youth. Whatever photos they’d had, his mother had burned during one of her alcohol-induced fits of rage. That was shortly after his sister’s untimely death . . . as his grandmother preferred to call it.

Mason was born in Germany, but at the age of 5, and three years after his father was killed in World War One, his mother, along with her parents, had immigrated to Ohio. A year later his mother had married a manipulative and cruel man named Robert Collins. But just two years into the marriage, his mother had become a devotee to the god of alcohol, and his stepfather, whether because of his mother’s alcoholism or his long-time mistress, skipped town, never to be seen again. It took six years, but finally his mother’s liver gave out. It was his grandparents who’d raised him from the age of twelve. Stern and cold, his grandfather had little to do with him, but what his grandmother had lacked in affection, she’d made up for with gentleness and patience, tolerating and eventually mollifying his rebellious teen years. His grandfather died when Mason was in high school, so she’d become the only family member left in his life. He tried to keep in touch with her, writing letters from time to time. As much as he feared being heartless like his grandfather, he feared most becoming self-destructive like his mother. He felt the pull of both dark familial traits running like venom in his veins.