Trap (9781476793177) (15 page)

And yet, despite all of that, Lars Forsling loved his mother. When she wasn't warning him about the “Jewish poison” coursing through his veins, or berating him for forgetting her cigarettes or vodka, or reminding him that she'd “given up everything” so that he could live and that he was “cruel” to leave her alone, she was the only person who'd ever said she loved him. He was “the smartest boy in your school . . . the best-looking . . . the nicest.” Whatever the danger of his father's diseased blood, he had pure Nordic DNA that would “burn it out of your body so long as you listen to your mother.”

He knew that their relationship was dysfunctional and that his dependence on her was unhealthy. From time to time he'd dreamed of moving to Idaho, where he'd be welcomed into one of the white supremacist camps. But whenever he brought it up, his mother would scream at him for being ungrateful for all she'd sacrificed and then weep hysterically and threaten to kill herself. So he'd resign himself to the life he had, at least while his mother was still alive.

Although indoctrinated in racism since childhood, Lars had not acted on his beliefs until his midtwenties, when on a whim he decided to attend an American Nazi Party meeting he'd seen advertised on a flyer taped to a street light pole. Held in the basement of The Storm Trooper, a dive bar in Hell's Kitchen, the meeting had been attended by only a dozen or so brown-shirted young- to midforties-aged men sporting red-black-and-white Nazi armbands. A small, dumpy man in a black SS shirt with a Hitler-style mustache named Bob Mencke had led the meeting, starting with a loud, off-key and poorly pronounced singing of “Horst-Wessel-Lied,” followed by a lengthy diatribe essentially blaming all the woes of the poor, white males in America on blacks, “fags,” and Jews.

Mencke had finished his speech with an admonition to prepare for the coming race war, and a plea to members to pay their association dues “so that our good works can continue,” as well as to purchase his monthly newsletter,
The New York Der Stürmer
. He concluded the meeting by asking “all new recruits”—Lars was the only one—to introduce themselves.

Uncomfortable and embarrassed, Forsling had stood and stammered out his name and that he was of pure Nordic blood. “And all of my life, I've been told about the bad things that are being done to the white race.” Not knowing what else to say, he'd started to sit down but stopped when, led by Mencke, the other members began to applaud. It was the first time in his life he'd heard that sound applied to him, and so was the warm welcome he received when the meeting adjourned and the members went upstairs to drink beer.

Forsling was hooked. He realized that most of the members were what larger society would label “losers.” Some of them were simply socially inept in more mainstream groups, others lacked intelligence and so were easily led, and some just plain violent, angry young white males looking for justification to vent. Smart if undereducated, Forsling soon stood out among the losers as a leader. He immersed himself in Nazi culture and education, reading
Mein Kampf
and tracts by European and American Nazis so thoroughly that Mencke began asking him to speak at meetings.

It was from his studies that he'd learned about the “Aryan mecca,” in parts of Idaho, where he dreamed that the sort of acceptance he'd received from the New York members would be greatly magnified. He might even find a good Aryan wife and live his life among pure white people in the pristine mountains.
But not while Mom's alive
.

In preparation for the race war and to make himself appear more formidable, he bought himself an old set of weights and worked out incessantly in his bedroom. He'd followed that up by getting “Sieg Heil” tattooed across his forehead, and when that was met with words of respect and admiration from his peers, as well as seeing the intimidation it generated among the general population, he'd added the swastikas on his temples. No one minded when he began affecting a slight German accent, and when one of the other members noticed, he'd said he got it from his mother “who comes from Swedish nobility.”

Forsling liked to be thought of as tough and ready to fight. But beneath the tattoos and leather coats he was still a frightened boy growing up in tough neighborhoods without a father and with a slovenly, abusive drunk of a mother. He got in a few scrapes when he had other, rougher members of the gang with him to do most of the fighting, but he left the truly violent work to those who enjoyed it, like Jimmy Gerlach, who worked as a bouncer at The Storm Trooper. According to his admirers in the club, Gerlach had served time in Attica for manslaughter after he punched a black man who died after he fell and hit his head.

There was one thing Forsling feared more than anything else: rats. Ever since he could remember he'd been terrified of them. His mother attributed it to a time when he was still an infant and she'd heard him crying. “
I went to check on you in your crib and there was this enormous rat biting your face,
” she said.
“That was another time I saved you.”
But whatever the cause, even the sight of one could be enough to cause him to panic.

Forsling's role as a leader in the group had changed dramatically when he suggested the group participate in Kristallnacht USA. He'd read that the Nazi party and other white supremacist groups were going to commemorate the German event by attacking Jewish businesses and homes on the anniversary.

Mencke, who as it turned out was always more talk than action, had argued against it. “The time isn't right,” he said. “We need to continue to grow and marshal our forces.”

However, most of the rest of the group had been persuaded by Forsling's enthusiasm and voted to participate. It marked the change in leadership of the group, though Mencke remained
Oberkommando
. Still, Forsling was in charge and led the planning for Kristallnacht.

Although the group caused quite a bit of damage to Jewish businesses and defaced the doors and walls at the Holocaust Museum in Battery Park, Forsling was disappointed when only half the members reported for duty. He was even more disappointed when the national commemoration fizzled out. He'd been arrested outside the museum and charged with vandalism, which got him his first night in The Tombs, though he'd been able to get one of the girls who hung around the group to look in on his mom so the next day's lecture would be mild. That arrest, and his subsequent dressing-down of the absent members, vaulted him to the top of the group's hierarchy, with even Mencke addressing him as an equal.

High on the praise of his social group, Forsling had looked for another venue in which to make a name for himself and found it when he was looking through the Sunday
New York Times
book section and saw the announcement about Rose Lubinsky's book signing at Il Buon Pane. He hadn't intended on getting arrested that night and had actually snuck away from the protest to find a tree to pee behind when he got caught walking back on the street next to the bakery.

He was actually proud of how he'd stood up to Karp and the black detective. But he knew that his mother was going to be an angry, weeping mess when he got back home.

FORSLING WAS WORKING
on his explanation to his mother when he rounded the corner and saw the fire truck and crowd of onlookers halfway down the block in front of the walk-up where he lived. He walked faster.
Has to be that family of spics next door using the stove to heat their apartment again,
he told himself and began to run.

Only it wasn't the family next door. He arrived in front of his home and stared up at the second floor, with its shattered windows and the smoke damage evident on the outside. The top of the building was virtually gone, the roof having caved in before the firefighters could put the blaze out. He ducked under the yellow tape that had been wrapped around the outside of the walk-up.

“Hey, buddy, get outta there,” a man in a firefighter officer's uniform yelled at him.

“This is my house,” Forsling explained. “I live here with my mom.”

The officer, who was standing near the truck, gave the other man a look and walked over. He held out his hand but Forsling ignored it as he looked back at the building. “Son, I'm Captain Bo Loselle of the New York Fire Department. I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

Forsling looked at him wildly “What bad news? What do you mean? Where's my mom?”

“There was a fire. It appears to have started in your mother's bedroom.”

“So what hospital is she in?”

Loselle shook his head. “I'm sorry. She didn't make it. She's at the city medical examiner's office. I can have one of my men give you a ride . . .”

Forsling stared at Loselle as if he didn't comprehend what the other man was saying. His eyes began to water, then grew wide as his face contorted into a mask of rage. “The fucking Jew did this.”

Loselle frowned. “It looks like she fell asleep smoking in bed. We've only done a preliminary search, but there doesn't appear to have been any accelerants used that would indicate arson.”

Forsling backed away from the fire captain. “Of course not. You'd lie for the fucking Jew. You're probably one yourself.”

“Son, I know this is a shock,” Loselle said. “Let one of my guys take you to the hospital, get you something for your nerves so you can calm down.”

“Calm down?” Forsling shouted. “My mom was just murdered by a fucking Jew and his nigger cop, and you want me to calm down? I'll show that bastard Karp that two can play this game.”

“Karp?” Loselle asked. “You mean the DA?”

However, Forsling didn't answer. He just turned and ran back the way he'd come, planning how to get even. And then get away to Idaho.

T
HE INTERCOM ON
K
ARP
'
S DESK
buzzed, which was followed by the voice of his longtime receptionist Darla Milquetost. Judging by her tone, he knew that she didn't particularly like the person she was passing along to him, so he wasn't surprised when she said it was his wife, Marlene, on the phone. The widow Milquetost ran a tight ship and had her “rules” about access to her boss, which Marlene tended to ignore most times just to antagonize—he was sure—his employee.

“Thank you, Darla,” he said, and then punched a button. “Hi, baby, what's up?” he said, looking over at where Clay Fulton was leaning against the bookshelf. He held up a finger to indicate that he'd only be a minute. “Sorry to bother you, Butch,” Marlene said. “I was just trying to get a handle on when you thought you might be home. Giancarlo's singing at his school concert tonight, and I have a few errands to run.”

Karp winced. “Thanks for the reminder,” he said. “I'll know better pretty soon.”

“Okay, I'll call you back in a bit,” Marlene replied.

In all the excitement, he'd forgotten that Giancarlo was singing the Hebrew Slaves Chorus from
Nabucco
for the first time in public. There hadn't been much of a chance to talk to Marlene after the bombing. He'd gone straight to his office and she'd driven Goldie and Moishe to the hospital to be with Simon and Rose Lubinsky. Then Marlene had called to say that Rose had died from her injuries and she'd be home after she made sure the Sobelmans and Simon Lubinsky were cared for.

When he heard her come in that night, he looked at the clock: 3 a.m. “You okay?” he'd asked but she didn't answer, except to slide into bed, put her head on his chest, and then cry herself to sleep.

After she fell quiet, he lay in the dark, thinking about Rose's story and about Simon meeting “the most beautiful woman in the world” after all he'd been through, only to have it end this way. He listened to Marlene's quiet breathing and felt the beating of her heart against his chest and thought about what it would be like to lose her. He'd come close before—Marlene was every bit the magnet for trouble that he'd been, maybe more so as she sometimes sought it out—but “close” wasn't the same as the finality of Rose Lubinsky's death. He just knew that he would be devastated beyond words.

Away from the office, removed from the world of indictments and trial preparation, Karp allowed himself to feel the anger about what had happened to Rose and the two young women who'd also died. Just because he had to compartmentalize his emotions in order to do his job correctly, it didn't mean he was some automaton who could ignore his friends' pain or not feel grief himself over the loss of a friend when time and circumstance allowed. He was still thinking about Rose when he quietly got up in the morning so as not to wake Marlene, dressed, and then walked outside of their loft building on Crosby Street.

“Ready to go, Mr. Karp?” asked Officer Eddie Ewin, who was standing by the sedan.

“You go ahead, Eddie,” he replied. “I think I'm going to walk this morning. I can use the fresh air.”

By the time he arrived at 100 Centre Street, Karp had stowed his emotions and had shifted gears to thinking about his interrogation of Lars Forsling. He was greeted by the little man with the pointed nose who ran the newsstand in front of the building. “Morning, Butch . . . asshole whoop,” said “Dirty Warren” Bennett, who had Tourette's syndrome and was known for his physical tics and profanity. He handed Karp a morning copy of
The New York Times
, which of course led with a photo and story about the bombing; there was a sidebar story with a headline about possible neo-Nazi suspects. “Sorry to hear . . . oh boy oh boy nuts shit . . . your friend.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Karp replied. “Thanks, Warren.”

“I hear it was the Nazi . . . bastards bitches balls whoop oh boy . . . that did it.”

Karp shrugged. “I don't know, Warren; we're still trying to figure it out.”