Ruins of War (22 page)

Wolski whistled. “You did this?”

“Why do you keep asking me this? Yes, it was just a twisted hunk of metal when I found it, but parts are difficult to find. It will take me a long time to finish that project. The clocks and radios help me to eat, but cars and motorcycles are my passion.”

Mason and Wolski continued to scan the darker areas with their flashlights. Nothing seemed suspicious, and Lang didn’t look nervous at all about them searching his workshop.

Another dead lead.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mason said. He walked up to Lang and stood directly in front of him. He leaned in as if to catch a scent of guilt while watching Lang’s eyes. “I’m not totally convinced you’re who you claim to be. We’ll be checking in on you from time to time. Have a good evening, Herr Lang.”

•   •   •

D
r. Ramek, a. k. a. Alfred Lang, watched the two detectives drive away. He pulled off the thick-lensed eyeglasses and tried to rub away the strain that element of his disguise inflicted upon his eyes. He could still smell the stench of their presence. He felt physically violated, sodomized by their prying gazes, their superior tones, and their demeaning questions.

The criminal gangs and the German police, even the loathsome populace, could cripple his path to ultimate salvation, but no one wielded more power, and thereby posed a greater danger, than a police detective of the occupying army. He would have to devise a way of dealing with this interloper.

“No, Investigator Collins, I will be checking in on you.”

M
ason had to walk a gauntlet of cold stares directed his way from the MP guards and the protesting citizens. For a second day, the crowd of protesters had gathered for a daylong silent vigil in front of Mason’s headquarters, and a handful of MPs had been given the miserable duty of standing out in the freezing rain to keep the protesters to the opposite side of the street.

He made his way up to the operations room. Most of the investigators were out of the building checking up on tips or reported sightings, and the brief calm gave Mason the opportunity to go through the documents set aside for his review: a too-short list of potential witnesses; witness affidavits from Mauthausen but nothing conclusive; Counter Intelligence Command bulletins of newly captured Nazis. There was also a CID report about a private who had raped and murdered two elderly German ladies, a husky twenty-two-year-old who had a penchant for slicing them up afterward. Mason was sure the private had nothing to do with his case, but he had sent Wolski over to check it out.

He felt someone hovering behind him and turned. A corporal stood by the door with his eyes fixed on the horrific crime scene photos.

“What is it, Corporal?”

“The colonel wants to see you, sir. He’s hopping mad about something.”

Mason thanked the corporal and descended the stairs to find Colonel Walton waiting at his office door.

“On the double, Collins.”

Mason trudged into the office. Colonel Walton closed the door and marched over to his desk. He held up a newspaper. “Someone leaked details of the murders and the investigation to the
Washington Post
. And you want to know who? The woman who wrote that article about your exploits during the riot.”

The shock hit Mason like a heavy blow, and he stopped listening to the colonel. He could feel his face turn red with anger. Laura had betrayed her promise. A second later, Colonel Walton’s continuing rant reached his ears. . . .

“The article goes on to blame the army for returning too many experienced troops home, leaving green recruits and reprobates led by bottom-of-the-barrel officers as an occupying force. It draws the conclusion that if the army can’t solve a simple murder case in a country under martial law, then what’s going to happen when bigger problems arise.” He slammed the paper down. “You see where this is going? Third Army brass is taking the heat from USFET and the Pentagon, and they’re passing it on to me. I’m getting handed my balls because of this one case. Your case.”

Mason remained silent.

Colonel Walton sat and jerked his chair forward, as if mauling the chair was a substitute for what he wanted to do to Mason . . . or Laura. “Five days left and you still have squat. What are you and half my squad of investigators doing out there?”

Mason started to answer, but the colonel waved for him to be quiet.

“Don’t answer that.” The colonel let out a tired sigh. “Look, I’ve done police work in my time, and I know how tough an investigation
can be. Giving you a week was unrealistic, but your failure is my failure, and I don’t need a black mark on my record. . . .” He clamped his jaw tight enough for the muscles to bulge. “I’m trying to stay calm, but my ass is on the line.” He grabbed Mason’s daily report from the previous day and waved it. “I’m tired of telling you to get things done. I’m tired of sending in your paltry reports. I want some meat. Something I can show to keep the hounds from nipping at my heels. Lie, if you have to. Just—”

Colonel Walton took a few deep breaths to bring his rage down a few notches, giving Mason time to do the same. Colonel Walton opened a side drawer, laid out two shot glasses, and went to the file cabinet. He opened the top drawer then slammed it closed. “Who keeps stealing my goddamned scotch?” He marched back to his desk and held up Mason’s report again. “You know what ‘embellish’ means? That’s what I want you to do to these reports. I want them to read like a fucking dime detective novel. If you want to stay on this case, then give them something that’ll make their dicks twitch.”

He dismissed Mason with a backhanded wave. “That is all.”

Mason turned to exit, but the same corporal blocked his way. “What is it this time?”

“A message came in from Major Rivers at the Dachau detainment camp, sir.” He referred to his note. “A Herta Oberheuser wants to talk to you. She says she has more information about your case. Major Rivers said that if you don’t make it over there this morning, all bets are off—whatever that means.”

Mason turned back to Colonel Walton. “Sir, I need new travel orders to go to Dachau this morning. Wolski and I had planned to go over there this afternoon to interview a Dr. Blazek, but it looks like Herta Oberheuser might be ready to talk.”

“You think she’s really going to give it up this time?”

“I had JAG let it out that the Poles and Russians want to put her on trial.”

“You what?”

“You told me to lie, sir.”

Colonel Walton yelled for his assistant. “Pantina, get your ass in here.”

“I need a new one for Wolski, too,” Mason said.

“Where’s
he
been? I wanted to see him this morning.”

“I sent him to 508th headquarters to check out a report. I’ll go by and pick him up on the way.”

“He’s lucky I don’t issue him travel orders to the stockade for stealing my scotch.” At Mason’s look of surprise, Colonel Walton said, “I know more about what goes on here than you think.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Go get some results.” As Mason turned to leave, Colonel Walton said, “Remember . . . those reports. Embellish.”

Ten minutes later, Mason exited headquarters by the main entrance. The silent protesters were still there. In fact, the number had increased considerably. He gave them a parting glance as he climbed in a jeep the motor pool had brought around for him.

•   •   •

I
t revolted him to be close to so many wretched creatures, packed in as they were on the sidewalk. They held signs of protest or simply stood in silent vigil. But even in their silence he could hear the cacophony of their beating hearts, their rasping breaths, the blood running in their veins. Though all wore heavy coats, he could sense their warm flesh, and he fought the urge to remove the scalpel from his pocket. . . .
Flesh is your canvas, organ and bone your marble
. The urges overwhelmed him and made him shudder.

The man closest to him turned to him and smiled. “It is very cold, yes?”

The sudden attention sent a pulse of panic through him. He dived into the crowd, using his shoulder as a wedge and forcing his hands deep into his pockets lest he succumb to the temptation to cut his way through them.

Near the front of the crowd he stopped. The man he had been
waiting for just emerged from the triple-arched entry. Ramek watched his nemesis briefly scan the crowd and nod to an American MP. Ramek pushed his way to the front as the man climbed into the waiting jeep.

He stopped. This was neither the time nor the place. . . .

But a new plan formed in his mind as he watched Investigator Collins drive away.

•   •   •

Y
ou guys really stirred things up around here,” Major Rivers said as Mason and Wolski entered the administration building. Major Rivers, Dachau’s camp commander, had deep-set eyes framed by thick black eyebrows that arched high on his forehead like exclamation points on his scowl. Rivers led them down the hallway to the interrogation room as he talked. “I don’t know how you started the rumors, but half the prisoners think that the Russians are coming to get them. I’ve been inundated with calls from the prisoners’ lawyers trying to find out what’s going on.”

“The message was only intended for Herta Oberheuser, sir.”

“Yeah, I found that out only after putting in a few high-level calls. I’ve held off quashing this rumor until you’ve had a chance to talk to the evil witch of Ravensbrück, but I’d appreciate it if in the future you inform me of your plans before starting a panic.”

“I apologize about the inconvenience, but I’m running out of time and need results. I really want to thank you for all your help in this case. General West will appreciate it, too.”

At hearing that last remark, Rivers took a more conciliatory tone. “My help isn’t going to amount to much now. They’ll clam up tight once they catch on to your ruse.”

They stopped at the closed door of the interrogation room, and Mason said, “It’ll be worth the gamble if Oberheuser talks.”

Major Rivers risked one more scowl before walking away. Mason looked at Wolski. “I
hope
it’s worth the gamble.”

They entered the small interrogation room. The two escorting MPs
stood guard on each side of the door. Mason asked them to wait outside, and the guards complied. This time Herta Oberheuser and her lawyer were already there. The lawyer peeked over the top of his newspaper and nodded from his chair in the corner. Oberheuser waited in the chair facing the blank wall.

“May I have a cigarette, please?” Oberheuser said without turning around.

Wolski handed her one and lit it for her. He then took his place by the window. Mason sat opposite her. She looked smaller and frailer than the last time. Her face expressed defiance, but her hands fought with each other on the table surface.

“I’m glad you agreed to talk with us,” Mason said. “We’d like to know about the German prisoner doctor you mentioned. The one who the inmates referred to as the Healing Angel. What can you tell us about him?”

Oberheuser remained silent and gave no indication that Mason was in the room.

“Herta?”

She looked up at him. “Frau Doktor Oberheuser. We are not friends.”

“Frau Doktor . . . now that you’ve had some time to think over our last conversation—”

“You said that if I gave you information, you would file a favorable report to the prosecutor’s office.”

“Yes. Showing compassion for the innocent victims and a willingness to cooperate can help your defense.”

“I do not wish to be handed over to the Russians. I don’t want to be hanged.”

“We’ll do our best to help you avoid them, but—I’m being honest with you here—your sentencing is not up to me.”

Oberheuser’s frown deepened. She noticed her battling hands and dropped her free hand to her lap. “I want to be clear that anything I say will not implicate me in any way. I will only tell you things that cannot be used against me.”

“Whatever you tell us about your activities stays in this room,” Wolski said.

“What I told you before, that I hardly knew the German prisoner doctor, wasn’t quite correct.”

“Why don’t you start with his name?”

“Dr. Ernst Ramek.”

Wolski wrote it down, and Mason asked, “Could you describe him for us?”

Oberheuser took a long drag on her cigarette. “I . . .” She paused. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

“I believe part of you wants to come forward because you know these killings are wrong,” Wolski said. “You became a doctor to save lives. German lives. And this killer is murdering fellow Germans.”

Oberheuser chortled. “Do not patronize me, Detective. I give you information, and you save me from the Russians. Though I think you are lying about that, what choice do I have?”

“Then don’t tell us anything and go back to your cage. It’s up to you.”

With a smirk of superiority, Oberheuser fixed her gaze at the wall.

Mason stood. “We’re done here. Guard!”

Oberheuser stiffened. “No, wait.”

The MP guard opened the door. Mason signaled him to go back outside. He sat again and waited for Oberheuser.

“He was as you described. Tall and broad shouldered. Though very thin.”

“Anything else about his appearance?”

Oberheuser shrugged. “After a year of slave labor anyone looks like a skeleton. He always looked sickly to me. He had this long stare and hollow eyes.”

“What about hair? Scars or deformities? Glasses?”

“Brown hair, brown eyes, no glasses, no deformities that I know of.”

“Did he tell you anything about where he came from? Family? Friends? Was he a deeply religious man?”

“We never talked except for my instructions during procedures. I had no interest in him other than his skills as a surgeon.”

“So this man, Ramek, assisted you in your experiments?”

Oberheuser nodded.

“Can you tell us why he was put in the concentration camps?”

“I have no idea. All I know about his history is that he had worked as a slave laborer at Sachsenhausen for a year before arriving at Ravensbrück.”

“And where was he transferred after his stay at Ravensbrück?”

“Mauthausen.”

Wolski flipped through his notepad. “Kiesewetter took him on to Mauthausen?”

Oberheuser nodded.

“Okay. What else do you remember about him?”

“I found it amusing that most of the other inmates considered him a gentle and kind man. A savior. That’s why they called him the Healing Angel.” She let out a soft chuckle. “Yet he operated with a certain . . . glee. You see, he could manipulate subjects into believing that he was there to help and protect them. That the procedures were for their own good. He could get them to lie down on the operating table despite the camp rumors to the contrary.”

“Did he ever . . . go beyond what was required?” Wolski asked. “We’re asking this because we want to feel confident that this is our killer. Anything you could tell us about his behavior could help us.”

Oberheuser took a puff as she thought. “After we had performed several procedures together, I noticed he became sexually aroused during the operations. He seemed to go into a trance, though his methods were still very good. Very meticulous. I grew to respect his work, but as an individual he disgusted me. And later, after I had moved on to other studies, I heard he had, at times, gone too far—performing multiple amputations or separating a subject’s entire pelvis and legs. He would operate with incredible intensity, and then once the procedure was finished, he would fall into a kind of despair.”

“Did he ever perform these operations on subjects without anesthesia?”

“Never. What would be the point? All our studies were conducted to discover better ways of treating wounded soldiers.”