Ruins of War (6 page)

They all turned slowly to look at the silently screaming corpse.

Treborn continued, “He was sliced open, his ribs cut from his sternum with heavy shears, then extended out with retractors. The same procedure you’d perform for an autopsy, but on a living man. His intestines were surgically removed. The killer left the heart and lungs intact so as not to kill him, though I venture to guess the victim was half-dead, unconscious, or out of his mind by that time. The arms and legs were removed, each one with surgical precision. That’s how he finally died. Exsanguination—he was allowed to bleed out. The killer fixed the cloth mesh to prevent the rest of the organs from falling out, so he could hang the torso by the head to drain the rest of the blood. He did that carefully, but there is a slight abrasion on the victim’s neck.”

“Any clues to his identity?” Wolski asked.

“He was uncircumcised, so we can rule out Jewish or Muslim, and since a higher percentage of American males tend to be circumcised, the odds are he was European. He was at least middle class, from the dental work. Plus he had an appendectomy. He wasn’t a laborer, by the condition of his hands, though he has some pronounced arthritis in his lower back and hips. Also, he does show the onset of malnutrition.”

Mason cursed under his breath.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Wolski said. “That he’s not American? I for one am glad this crazy fucker’s not hunting Americans.”

Mason shook his head. “It also means that Colonel Walton is going to put this case on the low-priority pile.” He turned to Treborn. “So, with the malnutrition he’s probably a middle- or upper-class German who wasn’t a combat soldier or laborer.”

“Or a displaced person or ex–concentration camp inmate, though then he would have shown signs of long-term malnutrition or abuse. And you can’t rule out other Europeans. There were plenty of experts in various fields brought in from Nazi-occupied France, Holland, Belgium, Sweden . . .”

“We can dangle that idea in front of the colonel to keep him from burying this case,” Wolski said.

“Regarding your suspect,” Treborn said, “I can tell you that he knows human anatomy and surgical and autopsy techniques. He is not your man off the street. You might be looking at a doctor, nurse—anyone with specific medical expertise. I’ll write up a full report and send it to Colonel Walton tomorrow. I sent samples to the toxicology lab in Frankfurt, but I doubt there will be anything relevant to your investigation.”

“If there ever is an investigation,” Mason said.

“I hope there is. You need to find this killer before he does something like this again.”

M
ason turned heads when he and Wolski entered the squad room, the amused looks following him as he crossed the room. Mason figured he must have firmly planted his feet into some kind of horse manure, but damned if he could figure out what.

Wolski apparently noticed it, too. “Maybe you should check your fly.”

Mason nodded toward Colonel Walton, who madly waved for Mason to come to his office. “Looks like I’m about to find out.” He passed through the outer office, where Walton’s secretary shook his head like a disappointed parent. Mason ignored the man as he knocked on Colonel Walton’s open door and entered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Colonel Walton retreated behind his desk and thrust the newspaper in Mason’s direction. “That doe-eyed look of yours means you haven’t seen today’s
Stars and Stripes
.”

Mason took the paper and looked at the special guest column Colonel Walton had featured in the top fold. A knot formed in his stomach when he saw a photograph of himself during the riot, standing on the jeep and firing the machine gun. In bold typeface it declared, “CID Investigator Demonstrates New Method of U.S. Occupational Diplomacy.” The byline read, “Laura McKinnon, Special Reporter,” with a thumbnail sketch of her smiling face.

Anger and embarrassment both fueled the flush in Mason’s cheeks. “Colonel, the riot was getting out of control—”

Colonel Walton held up his hand for Mason to stop. “I’ve talked to the MPs handling the riot. General Jenkins, the CID’s top commander, wanted to bust you down to private. I had to eat crow and defend you because I need you. But you do something like this again, and I won’t lift a finger to help you. Do you understand?” When Mason nodded, he turned his attention to the folders in Mason’s hand. “That the ME’s report on the slasher case?”

Mason handed the files to the colonel. “Major Treborn’s formal report will be here tomorrow. Those are copies of the autopsy photos, dental prints, X-rays, and my notes.”

The colonel leafed through the files. He winced at the autopsy photos. “Sweet Jesus.” He looked up at Mason. “Tell me what you found.”

Mason told him about the ME’s estimate of the time of death before being hung on the column, the victim being strung up to be bled out, probably after hours of excruciating torture. The colonel fell back in his chair with a look of repulsion when Mason told him the ME’s opinion that the killer had made autopsy-style incisions and dissected the victim while he was still alive. “The surgical methods and the dismemberment show the killer has medical expertise. I’m still convinced this was a ritual performed by a psychopath. This is not going to be his only killing.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that already. Any luck on the victim’s identity?”

Mason had known that question was coming, and he hesitated while trying to formulate an answer. “Statistically, the man is likely to be European, but we can’t definitively rule out that he was American.”

“Statistically?”

“A combination of factors. The fact that he was uncircumcised. Signs of malnutrition . . .”

“I don’t know of one U.S. soldier in this entire occupational zone who could claim starvation. The victim has to be German.”

“Or a DP or former concentration camp inmate. Major Treborn
also pointed out that there were a lot of foreign national experts the Nazis brought in from their occupied territories, so the victim could have been one of our Allies. Sir, I request we pursue this case with urgency. We have to do anything we can to stop this killer from doing this to anyone else.”

“My order stands. The army works like a big-city police department: quantity not quality. Keep this case in the fire but continue with your other ones.”

Mason hesitated. He knew what was coming but he had to ask. “Sir, I also request permission to access U.S. Medical Corps personnel files—”

“You what?”

“Major Treborn confirms that in all likelihood the killer has medical expertise. And the fact that the killer can move around after dark, transporting a dismembered corpse without being noticed, points to someone with permits or in uniform.”

“For me to grant access to confidential personnel records, you’re going to have to come up with something better than that. What about a German physician or a DP with medical training?”

“We’ll pursue those avenues with Inspector Becker’s help. But we can’t rule out U.S. personnel.”

“If you come up with evidence, anything that would convince me and the Provost Marshal, then there’ll be no question. But for now, you’re shooting in the dark here. No. Permission denied. Get to work on those other cases. I want to see progress on that train robbery. Now, get out of here.”

•   •   •

M
ason left headquarters feeling exasperated and drained. He’d spent the afternoon and evening rehashing the train robbery case, which included conducting more pointless interviews. It was all an exercise in futility, but the colonel kept looking over his shoulder or making surprise visits to the interview room. And all the while, Mason
couldn’t get the slasher case out of his mind: the victim’s unbearable suffering, the horrors of the autopsy, and the vexing lack of leads. Before heading home, he needed to do something worthwhile, some little gesture of comfort. He went by the PX and caught the staff just as they were closing. With a little persuasion they allowed him to buy a bundle of chocolate bars and some cans of ham, peas, and fruit cocktail.

Fifteen minutes later he stood across the street from the hole in the destroyed building where he’d seen the orphans flee after being chased away by the hotel MP. The two boys he’d seen gathering cigarette butts sat just outside the hole. When Mason crossed the street they scurried inside. He heard whispered voices and scuffling of feet in the darkness beyond the hole. He placed the box containing the chocolate and food on the ground just far enough away from the opening that at least one of the children would have to come out.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Mason said in German. “I have food for you.”

No response, no sound of movement from within.

“Is no one hungry?” He waited a moment. “Okay, then I’ll have to throw it away.” The older of the two boys who had been sitting outside the hole peeked out. Mason backed away a few steps. “There’s chocolate, ham, peas, and fruit.”

The boy looked to be around twelve, with a dirty face and dressed in an adult-sized overcoat. He made one tentative step onto the sidewalk. A few murmured voices behind urged him on. He approached the box, keeping his eyes fixed on Mason.

Mason squatted. The sudden movement startled the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Kurt.”

“My name is Mason. Are you the oldest?”

“The oldest boy.”

Some of the other children vied for space at the hole to peek out. Kurt pointed to his younger cigarette-collecting companion. “That’s
Dieter.” He then pointed to a freckle-faced girl of around six. “And that’s Ilsa.” The introduction seemed to give Ilsa the courage to jump out of the hole and peer into the box. She grabbed a chocolate bar and dashed back inside.

“Everyone has to share, okay?” Mason said. He tossed Kurt a can opener. “Be sure the little ones get enough to eat.”

Kurt nodded, and Mason backed away. Once he’d walked far enough down the street, he heard shuffling and excited voices. He looked back and saw fifteen or more children attacking the contents of the box. Kurt was trying to dole out the food equitably, but the children were too hungry to listen. He looked at Mason, clearly afraid that Mason would be angry if he failed to maintain order. Mason waved and Kurt waved back.

As he walked away, pulling his coat tight against the cold, he silently wished them well and vowed to try to do more. He had relieved their hunger for a few days, but the worst of winter was yet to come. How many would survive?

It was a humbling feeling for Mason to consider that no matter how many lives he could save from the hands of a psychotic killer, it paled in comparison to those facing death at the hands of a cruel winter.

Q
ueen takes rook,” Mason said.

Another eruption of cheers and groans. Mason could tell by the chants of the GIs surrounding their table that his opponent, a major in the Third Army’s Signal Corps, was downing another shot of whiskey.

Lose a chess piece, down a shot.

Mason heard his opponent slam the empty shot glass down on the table then slap the timer.

“Knight to queen’s knight five” someone said for Mason’s benefit. The actual chessboard was invisible to Mason. He wore a blindfold, though the major did not. But he had a perfectly clear image of the board and the positions of the pieces in his mind, as if he could have reached out and touched them.

Despite all the grief his grandfather visited upon Mason as a child, he had taught Mason the skill and art of chess—even if it involved cracking Mason’s fingers with a ruler if he made a bad move. And as Mason improved, his grandfather had forced him to play blindfolded. It had served Mason well. He became so good over the years that by the time he reached his senior year in high school he had turned his skills into a small moneymaking enterprise; become a sort of pool
shark for chess. He could triple-down the bets by donning a blindfold and challenging his unwitting opponent to one more game.

Mason figured his exceptional memory, particularly conjuring up images in sharp detail, had come about from being forced, time and again, to track the state of the chessboard in his mind or suffer pain inflicted by his grandfather. Like exercising some normally neglected muscle, the process had developed a part of his brain so that he could bring up certain images in crystal clarity. But normally, unlike with chess, he had limited control over which images stuck; usually they were confined to ones with strong emotional ties. He could instantly recall his grandmother’s face: As if looking at a photograph he could describe the angle of her lips when she smiled or frowned and give an exact count of her wrinkles and blemishes. Or recall his ex-wife in that first week of bliss before their love had turned sour: the contour of her breasts and the intricate folds in her opal irises. But the ability had its downside. He could conjure a precise image of the mangled body of his murdered partner or, like a movie projected on his eyelids, the horrifying weeks he’d spent behind the gates of Buchenwald. Any detective would wish for this skill, but Mason’s never manifested without the accompanying emotional bonds of love or horror.

The timer ticked down the seconds. . . .

“Knight to king’s bishop six,” Mason said and slapped the timer.

The crowd murmured and exchanged bets.

“Bishop captures knight,” the major said.

Another roar. Mason felt for a shot glass lined up next to him and downed the whiskey. Mason had already lost eight pieces and consumed an equal number of shots. The major played well, but perhaps not well enough. . . . “Queen captures bishop,” Mason said. “Checkmate.”

With a final roar from the crowd, Mason removed his blindfold. Money exchanged hands. The pile of dollar bills grew next to Mason, but he hardly noticed. Among the GIs, and just behind the hapless major, stood the brunette reporter, Laura, her blue eyes fixed on him.
A flush of warmth coursed through his chest even while he gave her a disapproving glare.

The crowd broke into small groups, heading for the poker tables or the bar. Mason began to collect his dollars, while the winning GIs shook his hand or slapped him on the back. A shadow fell onto the stack of money then the scent of honey and lavender arrived a moment later.

“That’s quite a trick,” Laura said.

“It’s not magic,” Mason said without looking up. “Just skill and a lot of practice.”

Laura took the chair next to him and sat.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Mason said.

“That’s right; you’re afraid of me.”

“Like Will Rogers used to say: ‘Never miss a good chance to shut up.’”

“You’re just full of folksy wisdom,” Laura said and drank one of the untouched shots of whiskey. “Didn’t you like my article?”

“It nearly got me busted down to private.”

“Did you read the whole thing?”

“The headline was enough.”

“Well, if you’d read it, you’d know I ultimately defended your actions. If you hadn’t done what you did, a lot more people would have gotten hurt. And just so you know, the picture and the headline were my editor’s idea.”

“If you say so.”

Laura leaned on her elbows. “I came over to apologize. The article shouldn’t have come out that way. I never figured
Stars and Stripes
would do that to a soldier who was just trying to do his duty, but my editor saw an opportunity to make a splash. He’s looking to get onto a private newspaper as soon as he can.”

Mason stuffed his earnings into his pocket. “All right. Apology accepted.”

Those eyes captured him again, and he and she looked at each other without a word for a moment.

Finally Laura said, “A girl sits down at your table, and you don’t offer to buy her a drink?”

Mason waved for the waiter, a German man, to come over. Laura’s eyes never left him as she ordered a gin fizz. When the waiter left, Mason asked, “What are you really here for?”

“Can’t a girl come over to a handsome man and say hi?”

“Normally I’d be all right with that, but somehow I get the feeling you’re the spider and I’m the fly.”

Laura smiled, acknowledging his point. “I’ll level with you: I’m writing an extended piece about the American occupation, mostly the personal side. I’ll leave politics and policy to others. I’m more interested in the single soldier and citizen. The military cop and the black marketer. I’ve already made a contact in the black market, but you’re my first cop. When I saw you at the riot I got curious about you, so I did a little digging around. I know some of the staff at CID headquarters in Frankfurt pretty well. . . .” She shrugged. “General Jenkins, for instance . . .”

“How well?” Mason was surprised at his sudden spark of jealousy.

“That’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that your story interests me—”

“No way. You’re not going to write about me.”

“I’m not writing your biography. There will be a lot of different people all folded into a long narrative. Come on, just a few questions. I’ll keep it anonymous.”

Mason didn’t know if the attraction was mutual or if she was playing him for a sucker. Maybe it was the whiskey, but he decided to hang around and find out. “I tell you what: You ask a few questions, then it’s my turn. Tit for tat.”

Laura smiled. “No questions below the belt.”

“Deal.”

The waiter returned with the drink, and Laura started playing with her cocktail swizzle stick. Her eyes flitted between her drink and Mason as if she were deciding which questions to start off with first.
“I heard you had a pretty tough time as a prisoner of war. You could have shipped home, but you decided to stay in the army and Germany. Why?”

“I hear the real estate’s cheap.”

“Seriously. After what you’ve been through, you have to admit: It’s an intriguing choice.”

Mason studied her for a moment. “I’d bet the bank that you did more during the war than write human interest stories about WACs and nurses.”

“Wait a minute. We had a deal. You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’ll get to it. Bear with me for a minute.”

“Yes, I covered more than WACs and nurses. But usually when I talk about it to a guy I’d like to get to know a little better, it intimidates him. His eyes start searching for the closest exit.”

“I’m not most men.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She took a sip of her drink, and Mason wondered if it was to fortify herself before bringing back the memories. “I covered the 93rd Bomb Group flying missions out of England. I rode in a bombing raid over Germany. Flak exploding all around; German fighter planes shooting holes in the fuselage. It was terrifying. I was with the 12th Army Group fighting around the Falaise Pocket. The Eighth Infantry Division in the Hürtgen Forest. I went into Dachau a week after it was liberated. I saw . . . terrible things. . . .”

“And you’re still here, aren’t you?” Mason said. “Just like me.”

“There are a thousand postwar stories to tell. I wouldn’t be much of a reporter if I didn’t want to tell at least some of them, and what better place to do them in than war-torn Germany?”

“I rest my case. They try to beat you down, you get back up again. I’m a detective. I’ve always wanted to be a detective. That’s why I joined the Chicago PD. That’s why I took this job. What difference does it make whether I’m a cop here or there? What difference does it make if I’m CPD or CID? And why not in a place that needs it more?”

Laura sipped her drink then shrugged again. Mason was learning
her “tells”—her shrugs and sudden interest in the table were signs she was about to say something he wouldn’t necessarily want to hear.

“I heard about Chicago,” Laura said.

“That was below the belt.”

“Don’t clam up now. We’re finally getting somewhere. I don’t know you, but I can read people pretty well. You look relaxed but you’re all tight inside, like you’re going to burst the seams of that perfectly ironed uniform. Soft eyes but a proud jaw. I’d bet the bank that you were given a raw deal.”

“If you’ve heard about it, then there’s no reason to repeat it.”

“I haven’t heard it all. . . .” She shrugged again. “I know you were sacked.”

That hit a raw nerve, and Mason blurted out, “I was framed because I went to the chief with evidence of drug dealing by fellow police officers.”

“And now no big-city police department would hire you, but why not be a small-town detective or county sheriff? You’d still be doing what you like.”

“I wouldn’t be happy handing out parking citations or busting up domestic disputes. Plus, I don’t see myself in a little house with a picket fence on a suburban street, waving good-bye to the wife, and little Bobby and Suzy, as I get in my Packard with my badge and gun and pretend I’m doing some good. . . .” He stopped himself from going any further.

She studied him for a moment. “Behind your noble cause lies something else.” She squinted her eyes as if peering into Mason’s mind. “I would guess you probably come from a broken home, hence your disdain for picket fences and normal families. And the very institution you swore loyalty to turned out to be corrupt and betrayed you. Now you compensate for it by trying to fix everything broken in the world. A supercop who will single-handedly bring criminals to their knees and save the world from pain and suffering. A hero with a chip on his shoulder.”

“Ouch,” Mason said and rubbed his jaw as if someone had just given him a right hook.

Laura was about to speak, but Mason held up his hand. “Uh-uh-uh. Now it’s my turn.”

“Shoot. If you dare.”

“What I’m wondering is why you chose to put your life on the line just to write articles for newspapers.”

“Oh, here we go. You think that kind of work should be exclusive to men?”

“I believe a woman can do whatever she puts her mind to. It’s just I suspect that behind your noble cause lies something as well.” Mason imitated Laura’s mind-reading squint. “My guess, you come from a privileged family, wealthy and then some, with overachieving parents who constantly pushed you to become who they thought you should be. Maybe a doctor or a lawyer, or just married to a New England aristocrat. By your accent, I’d say Boston?”

“Providence.”

“And going on dangerous assignments has been your way of thumbing your nose at your parents, while at the same time you push yourself to the extreme to prove to them that you can achieve great things, even if it means getting killed or injured in the process.”

“I’m proud of what I do. And I think telling the world about the sacrifices of our soldiers is a good thing.”

“I think it’s great, too.”

Laura’s scowl unfurled into a look of surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Not many people would have the courage to put themselves in the line of fire when they didn’t have to, man or woman. And I bet you’ve had to put up with a million men who wanted to get into your panties rather than give you a story, or who refused to let you tag along because they saw you as weak and vulnerable. That takes guts and determination. But what you’re playing is a rich-girl’s game: satisfying that rebellious streak only the privileged get to indulge in. You mingle with the lowly doughboy and get him to talk using your
college-educated wit and debutante charm. But when it comes to really spending some quality time with a soldier, you can’t climb down the social ladder lower than a general—”

“Now wait a minute.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I find you very attractive, but you’re too rich for my blood, and I’m too lowborn for you.”

“You don’t know anything about what I like or don’t.” Laura gathered her things and stood.

“You’re not going to ask me any more questions?”

“Yes, when hell freezes over.” Laura turned and walked out the door.