Ruins of War (14 page)

C
orporal Manganella intercepted Mason as soon as he walked in the front entrance of the station.

“What is it, Sal? Can it wait until I’ve had my morning coffee?”

“Sorry, sir, but there’s a woman waiting for you in the auxiliary room near the cages.” He motioned for Mason to follow him through the downstairs lobby. He looked at his notes and strained to pronounce the name, “A Beata Walczak. She’s Polish.”

“Thank you, Private. I figured that out by the name.”

“A German cop brought her in. She doesn’t speak English, and I guess her German ain’t so good, either. The German cop said she has information about Scholz but refused to say anything to them. She insisted on talking to the American detective in charge.” They stopped at the closed door of the room used to search arrestees before putting them in the overnight cells. “She was pretty upset, so we put her in here.”

Mason saw Wolski breach the front entrance and signaled for his partner to join him. Wolski met him by the door, eyes sunken and bloodshot.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Mason asked.

“A couple hours. I spent most of the night shuttling between the 508th headquarters, the OMGB public safety office, and the CIC
records division. So far nothing on a Dr. Heinrich Scholz. There was a Heinrich Scholz, but he was an aviator killed in North Africa. A Helmut Scholz, a low-level bureaucrat in the propaganda offices in Berlin. But so far, a Dr. Heinrich Scholz doesn’t exist.”

“It figures he’s using an alias. Did you also try the name Mendel in your search?”

Wolski moaned.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Wolski nodded toward the closed door. “Who’s in there?”

“We’re going to find out.”

They entered the room together. A thin, brown-haired woman sat at the small table. Her shoulders were drawn deep into her chest, her head bowed low, her eyes fixed on some unseen vision. Mason and Wolski sat at the table across from her.

“I understand you wanted to talk to me, Frau Walczak,” Mason said in German.

Frau Walczak looked up at Mason, and he had to suppress a shiver. He’d seen eyes like hers many times before, in the faces of the inmates at Buchenwald. Wolski cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, alerting Mason that he had been staring at her in silence.

Mason introduced them and asked, “I understand you have information on a Dr. Scholz?”

Frau Walczak removed a folded and crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and laid it on the table. She opened it with shaking hands and flattened it. It was the sketch of Scholz they had distributed. “This man sterilized me,” she said in German with a thick Polish accent.

“What do you mean, ma’am?”

She jabbed the photo with her forefinger. “He . . . sterilized me. In the camp.”

“This man? Dr. Scholz?”

“I do not know his name. But he was at Ravensbrück. I will never forget his face.”

“Ravensbrück concentration camp?”

She nodded. “I was resistance fighter in Poland. They arrested me and put me in Ravensbrück. This man was SS doctor at the camp, and he selected me. They forced me to hospital barrack. He . . .” She fought for a breath as she wiped a tear with a trembling hand.

“If you need a moment . . .”

She shook her head and choked back her tears. “He injected something into my uterus. . . . The pain, you cannot imagine. Then two days later . . . he took out my uterus. I will never have children. He ruined my life. He did this to many women. Some children, too. Little girls . . .”

Mason pulled out a photo reproduction of Scholz’s portrait from his personnel file. He placed the photo in front of Frau Walczak. “This man? Are you sure?”

Frau Walczak nodded. “I am sure.”

“And you’re sure you can’t remember his name?”

“No one ever spoke his name. Only the nurses talked to me.”

Mason glanced at Wolski, who understood the silent command. Wolski shot out of his chair and left the room.

“When did this happen?” Mason asked.

“Winter of 1942.”

“Were you liberated at Ravensbrück? And was this doctor still there?”

“In late 1944 I was sent to two other camps. I was at Dachau when the Americans liberated us.” She looked into Mason’s eyes. “You find this man. You hang him for what he did.”

Mason took her hand and held it while she wept.

•   •   •

M
ason mounted the stairs to the CID floor. He could see Wolski sitting at his desk and on the telephone spreading the new information to all departments. Colonel Walton and Havers were in the middle of a heated discussion in the colonel’s office, so Mason waited outside the door. He didn’t have long to wait; Colonel Walton ordered Havers to quit sniveling and get back to work.

Havers stomped out of the office and blocked Mason’s way. “Colonel Walton gave me your train robbery case. And while you guys have been floundering around trying to find that Ripper, the same gang knocked over a payroll train. If we don’t get paid, we’ll know who to come for.”

“They actually pay you for what you do?” Mason asked, then turned and walked into Colonel Walton’s office.

Colonel Walton angrily shoved papers around on his desk. “I suppose you’re here to ruin my perfectly crappy morning.”

“I just talked to a witness who says that Scholz was an SS doctor at Ravensbrück, but she never heard his name.”

“You’re sure she’s positively identified the guy?” Colonel Walton said.

“The look in her eyes when she pointed him out didn’t leave much doubt in my mind. I would like to request access to files pertaining to Ravensbrück concentration camp. Maybe that way we can discover his real name. Then see if we can find someone who was there to give us more information about him. Maybe where he lived, where he went on leave, his habits, if he was transferred to other camps.”

“I’ll have to mark this day on my calendar, the day you decided to request this from me instead of going over my head.” He gave Mason a stern glare before acquiescing with a nod. “I’ll put in a call to General West.”

Mason left Colonel Walton’s office and headed for the operations room located on the next floor. Wolski caught up with him on the stairs.

“I called 508th headquarters and OMGB and gave them the Ravensbrück lead,” Wolski said. “Becker was out, but I left him a message.”

“Yeah, good,” Mason said as they entered the new operations room—really a conference room with a dozen chairs, a blackboard and corkboard, and a table with two telephones. Timmers and MacMillan answered the constantly ringing phones. As Mason had predicted, tips and sightings had been coming in since the sketch of “Dr. Scholz” had been distributed. Aside from Timmers and MacMillan, Mason had already met Pike and Cole. The other two had come over from Company C: Mancini and Curtis.

“I hope you all enjoyed your five hours of sleep,” Mason said. He walked up to the corkboard, where he’d pinned up photographs from the three crime scenes and one of Scholz. “I’m sure everyone here is running into the same problem, that there are no records for a Dr. Heinrich Scholz. He was using an alias, which knocks us back a step. You’ll see from your copy of the letter found in his apartment that his sister or sister-in-law went by Heidi Mendel, so be sure to include that name in any of your searches. However, we have one new development. I just finished talking to a woman who identified Scholz as an SS doctor at a concentration camp called Ravensbrück.”

The phones fell quiet for the moment, so Timmers and MacMillan joined the group. Mason then reviewed the rest of Frau Walczak’s statement. He spelled out the names on the chalkboard, and the investigators notated the information. “Wolski and I will coordinate with the different departments to track down any documents pertaining to this man. I’ll also have Inspector Becker see what he can do on his end. The rest of you continue with your assigned tasks. Timmers and MacMillan still have the three remaining surgeons and about twelve surgery staff left to interview at the hospital this morning.” He turned to Cole and Pike. “What about the canvass around the doctor’s apartment?”

“Not much more than the landlady said,” Cole said. “He was rarely seen, once or twice with a blond woman in her thirties—that’s the best we could get for a description. No one knew or talked with him.”

“I checked in with our German police liaison, Inspector Becker, earlier this morning. Nothing new from the canvass around the hospital. Our man seems to have disappeared.”

Mancini raised his hand. “A few tips have come in that might be worth looking at.”

“You and Curtis check them out. Wolski and I are going to have another go at the chief of surgeons and the chief hospital administrator. Remember, this is our prime suspect, but I don’t want to drop our other lines of investigation. Also, Scholz—or whatever his real name
is—may strike again, and we know he transports the bodies by night, so when we’ve exhausted the canvasses and interviews, Lieutenant Wolski will assign a team to go through U.S.-issued night passes or related permits to civilians. I’ve asked our German liaison, Oberinspektor Becker to check out all liveries to see if one of them rented a wagon and horses to someone fitting his description. Maybe we can pin down the area he usually operates in.”

The phone rang and Wolski answered it.

Investigator Cole raised his hand. “I used to deal with civilian passes and permits over at 508th headquarters. We’re talking about doctors, ambulance services, city administrators, police, fire, utility and maintenance workers. . . .”

“It’s a lot of ground to cover, I know—”

“Chief,” Wolski said when he hung up the phone. He motioned for Mason to come over. “That was Colonel Walton. He talked to General West about getting the files on the Nazi doctors. It’s going to be close to two weeks before all formal requests and orders are moved through channels.”

“Then we forget about channels.”

“You’re not planning to go over General West’s head, too, are you?”

Mason moved for the door. “You can take it from here. Get these teams moving.”

Wolski called after him. “Where are you going?”

“To see a friend at the CIC.”

M
ike Forester, a major in the army’s Counter Intelligence Command, or CIC, had a small corner office on the third floor of the McGraw Kaserne’s main building. When Mason knocked, a raspy voice told him to enter. Forester, a heavy smoker, was lighting one cigarette from the hot crown of another as Mason walked in.

“Mason. Good to see you. I heard you were in Munich working for the rival team.”

The office had large windows, upon which Major Forester had hung venetian blinds that were tightly closed. Mason took a seat. “As much as I hate Nazis, I didn’t want to spend my days hunting them down.”

“CIC’s not all Nazi chasing.” Forester lowered his voice, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “Now that we’ve beaten the Nazis, there’s a new threat, and it could be bigger and bloodier. I see another war, God help us, brewing with the Commies. We need good intelligence men to find out what the Russians plan to do with the sixty divisions they’ve got planted on the borders. If war comes, we’ll be slugging it out in Germany. They’ve already got a battalion of spies snooping around on our side. You could be a great asset for our team.”

“I’m a detective, not a spy. Thanks, though, for the offer.”

Forester shrugged as he puffed on his cigarette.

“What’s with the closed blinds?”

“I’m handling some highly classified stuff, and in the army’s peerless wisdom they gave me an office with wall-to-wall windows.” He offered Mason a cigarette, but Mason declined. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m following a lead on a case of multiple homicides—”

“I heard about those butcher jobs,” Forester interrupted. He had a hyperactive personality and rarely let someone finish a sentence if he could hurry the conversation along. “You’ve got a Jack the Ripper on your hands.”

“How did you know about the murders? We’ve been trying to keep that under wraps.”

“Mason, this is the CIC.”

“We have reason to believe our prime suspect is a doctor—”

“And you’re here ’cause he’s probably an ex-Nazi who worked at one of the camps.”

Mason smiled. “The only name we have for the suspect is an alias, but a Polish woman identified him as an SS doctor. She says he sterilized her at Ravensbrück. I need access to the concentration camp records to see if we can positively ID the man and track down anyone who knew him. I tried through regular channels, but no dice.”

Forester turned serious. “What makes you think this guy is your suspect?”

Mason gave him the rundown about the killer’s methods and surgical skills, as well as his messages about being in a personal hell, the events leading to the interview with Scholz, his escape, and the subsequent manhunt. “So far, an ID photo is all we have to track him down—” Mason stopped. “What do you find so amusing?”

“Let’s just say that investigating the wrong Nazi doctors right now might be a political hot potato.”

“What are you talking about? They’re war criminals. If they’re not dead, they’re in prison camps or on the run. All I’m asking for is access to information on the people at Ravensbrück performing experiments, their whereabouts—”

“I know what you’re after. But right now that all falls under the purview of American and British intelligence. Some intelligence higher-ups might not like you perusing classified files.”

“Classified? I . . .” Mason stopped and speculated on Forester’s meaning. He’d known the man for two years. They’d worked together in intelligence, and Forester had missed suffering the same fate as Mason in the Battle of the Bulge only because Forester had been on a forty-eight-hour leave to Paris. Mason could tell by Forester’s eyes and his cockeyed grin that he was trying to encourage Mason to continue speculating.

“It comes back to this future war with Russia, doesn’t it?” Mason said. “Intelligence wants to know anything the Nazi doctors learned by experimenting on innocent people before the Russians get to them first. But this guy sterilized women. What can they learn from that?”

“Are you sure he wasn’t involved in other experiments?”

“Like what? Are you talking about chemical weapons?”

Forester gestured for him to keep going—an irksome game of charades.

“Other weapons?”

Forester waited expectantly.

“Biological?”

Forester’s eyes signaled that he was close to the truth. “Now, if you worked for us at CIC, I’d see to it you had the clearance to see any file you want.”

“You’re talking to a cop, Mike. For me, anyone who committed a crime like that should suffer the worst kind of punishment, and not be given immunity for what he knows.”

“Sometimes you have to look the other way for the greater good.”

“I’ll make you a deal: I look at only the people involved in sterilization at Ravensbrück. You have your people review the files first and pass on any that don’t threaten American intelligence interests.”

“It’s my duty to inform you that until Intelligence deems any file irrelevant, for as long as that takes, then you will not be permitted
access.” Forester made another sly smile. “It is also my duty to urge you
not
to go to Frankfurt and see a Colonel Donaldson at the Judge Advocate General’s office and request those files from him.”

Mason returned the smile. “JAG and the war crimes tribunal have subpoenaed all files for the Nazi war crimes trials.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it. I can say that, politically, the trials take precedence over intelligence concerns, though there are certain dossiers that are still considered classified and deemed superfluous to the evidentiary process.”

Mason stood and they shook hands. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Nonsense. You’ll have to come by when you’ve got a free evening, and we’ll have dinner, get drunk, and reminisce about old times.”

“And see who can make up the biggest lies.”

Forester held on to Mason’s hand just a moment longer. “You sure I can’t persuade you to come over to the other side?”

“I tell you what: If it looks like the Russians aren’t going to stay on their side of the fence, I’ll be the first to sign up.”

Mason turned to leave, but Forester stopped him again.

“Be sure to say hello to that beautiful reporter friend of yours.”

“How did you . . . ? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

•   •   •

T
he doctor buttoned his vest and pulled at the bottom hem so that it lay properly across his broad shoulders. He slipped on a green suit coat and brushed lint from his lapel. All must be perfect to create the illusion. His hand passed through a ray of sunlight that pierced the gap in the shutters. Only supreme control kept him from flinching, from imagining his skin burning at a mere brush of sunlight.

The sun mocked him, and he cursed it, as if it were a heavenly spotlight shining down upon him:
There he is, the sinner!
The hated rays, insistent, piercing, violated his room.

He took a long, calming breath, and shifted to the left to avoid the
light. Lately he found it had become more difficult to cope with the burdens placed upon him. The exultation after each beatification diminished more quickly; the rapacious hunger surfaced more frequently. It would start deep in his groin and surge upward, overwhelming him until nothing else mattered but finding his next Chosen One, like Sisyphus triumphantly reaching the summit with the stone only to have it roll downhill so that he must begin again.

How long? How many beatifications must he perform? How long could he continue to elude the authorities? They might even be close on his trail at this very moment.

He stepped up to a mirror by the door, but before looking at his reflection, he adjusted it to be sure it showed only the bottom half of his face. He shifted to his right and the mirror reflected back a plain yet kindly face, one that people wanted to trust. He checked his teeth and his nostrils, the knot of his bow tie. His round, dark brown eyes were the only feature he could never look at.

They terrified him. Once in the last year, he’d caught a glimpse of those eyes. And when he had looked into the mirror that day and his eyes caught him staring, they showed him all the hideous things he had done. The eyes had taken him on a journey, passing images of the screaming innocents, the terror in their faces.

So many. God forgive and deliver me.

He took a deep breath, relegating the memories to a sequestered place in his mind. After one last check of his tie, he pulled on his white lab coat. With his back straight and chin high, he crossed the short hallway and entered a small office. Then, through another door, he entered an examining room.

Twice a week for the past five months, each Sunday and Thursday, he’d ministered to sick children, and he offered this charitable service in hopes of some redemption in the eyes of God. Especially the children, the children being closer to the divine. And he was determined to make the most of today’s session, as it would be his last. It had become too dangerous to continue.

On the examining table sat a boy of eight years. He was recovering from dysentery, but between the illness and malnutrition the boy was more bone than flesh. The muscles had already atrophied. His eyes lacked the spark of life. The boy’s mother stood next to him and held his bony hand.

He had seen so many children come to his office in a similar or worse condition. Malnutrition weakened them, but the disease from poor sanitation and contaminated water ravaged them. Newborns and the youngest infants didn’t stand a chance.

He leaned in to check the boy’s ears and eyes. His face not inches away, he could hear the boy’s shallow breathing, feel the heat from his body. His hand quivered . . . just once, but he looked at the mother out of the corner of his eye. She hadn’t noticed.

He pressed the stethoscope to the boy’s chest and heard the steady thump of his heart. He could almost hear the rush of blood in the boy’s veins. The hunger flared, starting in his groin and flaring in his gut. Whispers seemed to come from inside the boy’s chest. A cacophony of voices like water rushing through a pipe. The sounds rose from the boy’s lungs and into the stethoscope until he could no longer hear the boy’s heartbeat.

Please, not now!

“Herr Doktor? Are you all right?”

The mother’s voice snapped him back. His own heart pounded, and he could feel beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Yes, thank you,” he muttered. He turned his back on the child and dabbed at the perspiration with his handkerchief, buying time to clear his head. They were like hunger pangs, like a suspended moment before orgasm, when nothing else mattered, when all his energy, his mind, focused on the next hunt and beatification.

He felt the mother’s and boy’s eyes on him. A shrill voice from within warned him that they knew. They could see through his facade, see the demons ravaging his soul.

Please, not a child. I will do anything, but don’t demand a child.

“Herr Doktor?”

He turned and forced a smile. His hand twitched. He had an erection.
They must leave.

“Franz is getting better,” he said in his most assuring voice, “but you must make sure he has enough to eat. And boil your water.”

“But how? We have the number five ration card. I have three other children. . . .”

He no longer heard the mother. She continued, almost in tears now, but the rush of urges flooded his mind. As if invisible hands pushed him forward, he approached the boy, his eyes focusing on the boy’s bare chest where he would make the incisions. . . .

With a shaking hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of Reichsmarks. He counted off a thousand and shoved them into her hand. She mouthed words, but he couldn’t hear.

“Please, you must leave. Dress your boy and leave.”

The mother released a flood of tears. She was thanking him, he was sure.

Panic, revulsion, and craving engulfed him.
Take them. Take them both. Imagine the ecstasy. No more hunger. A double beatification. Mother and child, together . . .

His entire body convulsed in one great shudder. “I demand that you go at once!”

As they rushed to leave, he fled for his connecting office and slammed the door behind him. He fell to his knees and said to the heavens, “Please, not a child.”