Ruins of War (24 page)

R
amek’s wagon driver, Herr Winkler, sat across the table from Mason. He turned his battered Tyrolean hat in his hands and stared at the table’s scarred surface. A number of the third-floor offices had been transformed into interrogation rooms to accommodate the large number of interviewees swept up after the raid on Ramek’s workshop. The entire floor buzzed with activity.

“I only met him that one day, Herr Inspektor,” Winkler said.

“Had you seen him around your neighborhood?”

“Never.” Winkler looked up at Mason with wet eyes. His lips trembled; he looked like he expected to be shackled and taken to prison at any moment. “My family, my friends will be very angry with me for helping this killer.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t, Herr Winkler. Did he say anything about where he stays other than the workshop? Family? Friends? Anything about his past?”

“We spoke very little, sir.” He put his hands on his cheeks. “To think I sat next to this man for six hours. Every time I think about it . . .”

“Have you heard any other wagon drivers or livery owners speak about him?”

“Only rumors of a man who paid very well to hire a driver and wagon. But no one I know has ever dealt with him. Please, sir, you are not going to arrest me, are you?”

“No,” Mason said and pushed a notepad and pencil across the table. “I want you to write down all the places you visited with Herr Ramek, and what you did there.”

Mason sat back and watched Winkler take up the pencil and begin to write. Becker’s teams had already questioned the known livery stables. A couple of them had rented a wagon and horse to Ramek, but they all said the same thing as Winkler: Ramek used a different name each time and paid amply in cigarettes and cash for their services. He stood and stretched to get the kinks out of his back, then turned to the MP standing next to Winkler. He said in English, “When he’s finished, let him go.”

He stepped out into the hallway just as one of his investigators, Curtis, came up to him.

“The deputy chief of the Munich Fire Department just called,” Curtis said. “They had to put out a fire at one of the rubble yards.” He looked at his notes. “They found a big heap of burned items: clocks, radios, phonographs, auto parts, a motorcycle, and an old jalopy. He thought you’d like the info.”

“Now we know what Ramek did with all the objects at the workshop. You and Pike go over there and see if you can pick up his trail.”

Mason slowly passed the other interrogation rooms as he thought about what this meant: Was Ramek planning to leave town? Spread his terror to other cities? Forget the army brass’s deadline; they would have to move faster than that if they hoped to catch Ramek now.

Mason paused by an interrogation room where Becker was interviewing a black market drug dealer. Despite the dealer’s ignoble status as Becker’s paid informant, the two of them were in the midst of a yelling match in rapid-fire Bavarian dialect. Mason could understand only a few of the words. He watched their hands and facial expressions for a few moments and felt satisfied that Becker was wearing down his opponent.

Mason stopped outside the operations room. He wanted to take a second of quiet before entering the fray once more. Phones rang; clerks scurried. Cole and Mancini moved down a line of black market “vendors” caught in the series of raids, asking them questions and showing them the sketch of Ramek. He rubbed the exhaustion from his face. It was close to seven
P.M.
, and they’d been going nonstop since the workshop raid. Sandwiches had been ordered, but they hadn’t shown up yet. At some point, he would try to break away and track down Laura. He hated to admit it, but he’d been putting it off because he was still steamed about the article in the
Post
.

Mason heard footsteps and turned to see Colonel Walton walking toward him. The last time Mason had seen Colonel Walton was before the trip to Dachau that morning, and he knew the colonel would be fired up after another army brass meeting. He met the colonel halfway down the hall so they would be out of earshot from the rest.

“I’ve just come from another joyful meeting with General West and his merry band of henchmen, in which I had the dubious honor of explaining why you let Ramek slip through your fingers. General West blew a gasket, and I had to take the brunt of it.” Two clerks rushed by them, and Colonel Walton stopped to watch them. “That brings me to my next point. I’ve noticed a distinct absence of office furniture, telephones, and clerks in the main squad room.”

Just then Wolski exited his interrogation room. He tried to head casually in the opposite direction, but Colonel Walton had spotted him. “Well, Warrant Officer Wolski. Let me gaze upon the man responsible.”

Wolski reluctantly joined them.

“Resourcefulness can be an asset, but not when it means looting my squad room. And we’re going to have a long talk about the consequences of stealing a man’s scotch.” When Wolski offered no explanation, Colonel Walton said, “We’ll deal with that later.” He turned to look at both of them. “So, you two are having a busy day. But I wonder how raiding the black market is the best use of your time. By my
count, you have just a few days left before the full weight of army brass comes down on your heads.”

“We’re following simultaneous leads—” Wolski said.

“Simultaneous?” Colonel Walton said, pretending to be impressed. “Well, then, my mistake. You boys have it all under control.”

Wolski looked flustered, but he continued. “We have a team working with German police following up on census and university records, bank and tax records, voting registration, doctor’s licenses, camp records—”

Colonel Walton stopped him with a raised hand. “Besides the war messing up the German filing system, whatever old records you find on Ramek aren’t going to help track him down.”

“Our squad of MPs and the Landespolizei are distributing the sketch of Ramek,” Mason said. “Also, the
Stars and Stripes
and the German press will print his sketch in tomorrow’s newspaper. Reporters have been calling most of the evening, asking for a statement.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Colonel Walton said.

Mason was more than happy to let him. He only wondered if Laura had been one of the eager callers. “Becker dug up Ramek’s Gestapo arrest record. They went to the address, but it was destroyed in the bombing raids. Shouldn’t be too long before we have the location of his family’s home. Also the former prisoner doctor, Blazek, said Ramek’s mother’s maiden name was Lang. We’re checking up on those records. We know the father died in ’32. Meanwhile, we’re contacting all the German medical and surgical supply houses.”

Wolski cleared his throat and said, “Actually, sir, we were hoping you could allot us just a few more men and jeeps. . . .”

Colonel Walton’s expression stopped him from going any further. “You can’t be serious.” He took a deep breath. “Use more German police.”

“We’re already doing that, sir,” Wolski said. “They’ve augmented our manpower but—”

“‘Augmented’?” Colonel Walton said, interrupting. Pointing to
Wolski with his thumb, he said to Mason, “This guy’s going to go places, using big words like that.”

Wolski, undeterred, said, “But the Germans can only spare so many men—”

“Probably because they’re doing other police work.” Colonel Walton gave them a sly smile. “You can have Havers and a bicycle.” He walked away obviously delighted with his retort.

Timmers and MacMillan came down the hallway while removing their overcoats. “Checked all the legit medical and surgical suppliers. No records of a Dr. Ramek, Mendel, or Lang buying from any of them.”

“He could have used another alias,” Wolski said.

They all exchanged looks; no one wanted to hear that.

“Any food come yet?” Timmers asked.

Mason shook his head. “Go help Cole and Mancini in the operations room.”

Timmers and MacMillan looked annoyed at the prospect of a long night and nothing to eat.

Becker came out of his interrogation room. “You both need to hear this.”

Mason and Wolski followed Becker into the interrogation room. The informer, Schaefer, looked very satisfied with himself, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed and sporting a big smile.

“Tell them what you told me,” Becker said to Schaefer.

Schaefer rubbed his index finger and thumb together.

“You’ll be paid,” Mason said.

“I know of one person who deals in black market medicine. Heinrich Kessler. He’s a member of a very bad gang. . . .” He shook his head with disapproval. “Very bad. They deal in diluted penicillin and phony baby formula. They steal medical supplies from hospitals. Kessler is small potatoes, but he’s a blowhard, always exaggerating his own importance. And he talks too much. Even for me, he talks too much. He keeps going on about making it big one day—”

“Get to the point, Schaefer,” Becker said.

“He tells me about forming a partnership with an American gang member. I don’t know this man, but he supposedly sells hard-to-find medicines in large quantities, hospital equipment, and surgical supplies.”

“Where can we find Kessler?”

Schaefer shrugged. “He seems to move around: one place one week, another the next week. We haven’t talked for some time—two weeks, maybe, so I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

“Tell him the rest,” Becker said.

“The last time we spoke, he said he was talking to an American reporter. A very beautiful one, at that.” He gave them a big, lecherous smile.

•   •   •

M
ason took a step into the pressroom, which accommodated a large portion of the U.S. Army–certified war correspondents. It resembled any pressroom of a medium-sized newspaper, with the bustle of reporters, the cacophony of voices, the clack of typewriters, and the ringing phones. The only difference was the number of men and women in uniform. He scanned the room for Laura. Mason recognized one of the women who had been partying with Laura at the hotel. She looked up at him as she talked on the phone and pointed toward the hallway.

Mason stepped back out and spotted Laura emerging from another office. She saw him and smiled. The smile faded when she noticed his expression. She clenched her jaw, marched up to him, and took him by the arm.

“Come with me,” Laura said.

She led him to an empty office and shut the door a little too hard. She whirled around and crossed her arms. “Now, before you go off on me about the article in the
Post
, I have a few things to say.”

“I’m not mad about the article; I’m mad because you broke your promise.”

“Did you read it?”

“My commanding officer summed it up pretty well while chewing me out.”

“I thought so. Do you read anything other than comic books? I didn’t break my promise. There’s nothing in the article that anyone doesn’t already know.”

“Except you’re the one to give it to a national newspaper.”

“I got fed up with the army censoring the press. I was mad at the brass for giving you only a week to solve a case that any police department would have a tough time solving. Their arrogance and stupidity drive me crazy. And your argument that it might give the killer information is irrelevant, since the
German
killer isn’t going to pick up the latest edition of the
Washington Post
at his local newsstand.” She made a move for the door.

“Heinrich Kessler. Do you know him?”

Laura froze for a moment, then slowly turned to face Mason.

“Is he your black market contact?” Mason asked.

“I won’t answer that.”

“You didn’t say no, so I’ll take it as a yes.”

“Take it any way you like. I’m not going to give up a confidential source.”

Mason took a step forward, looking in her eyes as he did so. “Kessler is part of a gang that deals in diluted penicillin and phony baby formula. They steal medical supplies from hospitals, then turn around and sell them for sky-high prices. They screw over the sick and the dying, infants and kids, for a profit.”

“How do you know all this?”

“One of Inspector Becker’s informers is at headquarters right now. He told us all about it. He identified Kessler, but doesn’t know where he is. We need to find him. He may have information that could lead us to Ramek, the killer.” He took another step closer. “You said that if you knew anyone committing those kinds of crimes you’d come forward. I need to know where to find him.”

“My contact is just a low-level operator in a much bigger machine. If I can get inside, I might be able to learn enough to crack open the entire gang. Really shut it down. You think the army would be able to do the same thing? If I give him up, it will blow my only source of inside information.”

“We’ll make it look like a routine black market sweep and pick him up that way. He’ll never know how we found him, and he’ll be back out on the streets. Your investigation will hardly skip a beat.”

Laura thought a moment while glaring at Mason. “A reporter and a cop. What a silly idea.”

“Laura . . .”

“I don’t know where he lives, but we’ve met a number of times at Gärtnerplatz. He’s usually there in the evenings until curfew. You’d better hurry if you want to catch him.”

Mason walked around Laura and opened the door. “Talk about arrogance and stupidity,” he said. “You’re in way over your head this time, and you could get yourself killed.” He left without waiting for a response.

A
ll eyes in the precinct turned toward the uproar coming through the front entrance. A runt of a man, soaked to the bone, yelled as he struggled against Wolski’s grip. Only a handful of the MPs and officers could understand his Bavarian dialect, but the spectacle of this wiry, bug-eyed man being half carried by an equally rain-soaked giant amused everyone. Mason and Becker brought up the rear. They all stopped just inside the door and the investigators shook off as much rainwater as they could.

“If you don’t shut up for one minute, we
are
going to torture you,” Mason said.

“Help! I will be tortured! American soldiers beat innocent Germans!”

The crazed man had switched to High German to make himself understood, but he’d neglected to notice that the building was full of American soldiers. Wolski and Mason grabbed his arms and started dragging him toward the stairs, with Becker solemnly taking up the rear. All the way up the stairs Kessler cried for help and declared his innocence. Once at the door to an interview room, Wolski tossed Kessler inside. Kessler let out a scream and bolted for the hall, but Mason dragged him back in and shoved him into a chair.

Kessler was a gaunt man with circles under his eyes so dark it
looked like someone had given him double black eyes. Sweat and raindrops poured off his face in equal amounts. He clasped his handcuffed hands together to keep them from shaking, staring at them as if willing them to stop. But, as if he were trying to hold down a jackhammer, the trembling traveled up his arms, making his torso shake.

Under his breath, Mason said to Becker, “Looks like he’s a junkie in need of a fix.”

“Offer him his freedom for the information. I won’t object.”

“Are you sure?”

“A man like this will not stay out of trouble for long. I am sure we will get him in the very near future.”

The half-crazed man muttered at the table in Bavarian dialect. Mason could only catch a couple of words, something about rights and animals. Mason slapped the table. “For the purposes of this interview, Herr Kessler, you will speak in High German.”

“I have been denied my rights,” Kessler said. “You Amis are treating me like an animal. I have done nothing wrong!” He finished his sentence with a shriek.

“Selling morphine and amphetamine pills is a very serious offense,” Becker said.

He jerked his thumb at Becker. “Why must he be here?”

“Because, Heinrich, we’re not supposed to arrest German nationals without Landespolizei supervision.”

“How do I know he’s not ex-Gestapo? Or his comrades. I might get my throat cut—”

Becker grabbed Kessler by the lapels and lifted him from his chair. It was the first time Mason had seen Becker lose his cool, and he was surprised at the older man’s strength.

“You piece of filth, I was never Gestapo. It was snitches like you who turned innocent people in to the Gestapo pigs so you could make a profit.” He threw Kessler back into the chair.

Kessler jerked his head as he looked at the three detectives as if searching for a friend among them. He received only grim looks in
return. “Please, sirs, I wasn’t selling anything. You can’t prove I was. You found nothing on my body.”

Mason lifted Kessler’s knapsack that he’d placed on the floor. “What do you call this?” He opened the knapsack and rummaged around. “Packets of morphine, amphetamine pills, syringes, packs of needles—”

“That’s not mine! Someone dropped it in front of me!”

Mason wondered if Kessler always ended his sentences with a shrill wail. “I bet if we examine the contents, we’ll find your fingerprints all over this stuff.”

“Somebody must have taken my prints and put them in there. They came in while I was sleeping and took them.”

“I hate to inform you, Heinrich, but that’s not possible.”

Kessler grabbed his head and banged the table with his elbows. “Not true. Not true.”

Wolski moved over to stand just behind Kessler’s chair. Kessler hunched into the table and covered his head with his hands. “We know you were selling those things,” Wolski said. “You can go to prison for twenty years.”

“No! Those drugs are not mine! If I go to prison, I’ll die.”

Kessler’s shrieking was giving Mason a headache. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he gave these medicines to sick people. People in pain or needing energy to get through their day.”

“Is that what you were doing, Herr Kessler?” Becker said. “Giving medicine to people who needed it?”

Kessler sat up. “Yes, I was doing that. Giving medicines to sick people.”

“You see? This man isn’t the low-life scum we think he is. He’s a good Samaritan, giving relief to the sick and injured.”

Kessler raised his head, his whole body shaking now. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?”

“Illegally distributing narcotics and stolen medicine is still a crime,” Mason said. “I bet if we turn you over to Oberinspektor Becker, he’ll put you away for a full twenty years.”

Kessler’s mouth popped open in a silent scream. Mason let his paranoia stew into a frenzy. “Please, sirs, I cannot go to prison. I’m a sick man. My health, you see?”

“You have an alternative,” Becker said. “Give us information, and maybe we can arrange something.”

“Yes, an arrangement. Yes, I’ll do that.” He stopped. His eyes widened with sudden realization. “You want me to be an informer?” He shook his head violently. “No. If they find out, they will kill me.”

Wolski leaned on the table next to Kessler, dwarfing the smaller man. “The alternative is prison. In there, you’ll die a thousand times.”

Kessler played with his shaking hands. Then his face brightened. “Before you tell me what you want of me, we should negotiate price.” He counted on his fingers. “Day of lost sales at the markets, one copper who brutalizes me, psychological damages—”

Mason counted on his fingers. “Asking Oberinspektor Becker not to arrest you, avoiding twenty years in prison . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Kessler said, and he plastered on his best salesman smile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We want to talk about your new partner,” Becker said. “The American selling hospital equipment and surgical supplies.”

Kessler shrank in his chair. Obviously he didn’t like where this was going. “Surgical equipment? I don’t know anyone who sells such things.”

Becker pulled out his handcuffs. “I am finished listening to this animal. Herr Kessler, you are under arrest—”

“No, wait! I only know one person. But, please, don’t ask me to tell you who. He is connected to a very dangerous gang. They will kill me if I tell you.”

“They won’t know it’s you,” Mason said.

“They will. They will find me and kill me.”

“You’re forgetting our arrangement. You give us information, and Oberinspektor Becker here doesn’t throw you in prison.”

Wolski leaned on the table, his mouth by Kessler’s ear. “And if you get thrown in prison, we’ll have Oberinspektor Becker spread the
word that you’re a child molester. Guys bigger than me will ravage you and beat you over and over again. You’ll spend the rest of your days in a bloody pulp with an asshole as big as my fist.”

“All right!” Kessler cried out with his characteristic shriek. “His name is Frank Wertz. He sells on the street, but he is a member of a very dangerous gang of American deserters and Russian and Polish refugees.”

Mason laid a sketch of Ramek on the table in front of Kessler. “Have you seen this man buying from Wertz?”

Kessler studied the face for a moment. “I think so. A big man, yes?”

Mason leaned on the table. “What do you know about him?”

“Very little, except that he has some influence with some crime boss, so he receives special privileges. Wertz sometimes delivers to him.”

Mason and Wolski exchanged glances. “Where?” Wolski asked.

“Do you think they would share such information with me?”

“We want to meet Wertz, and you’re going to point him out,” Mason said.

Kessler’s jaw dropped.

Wolski held his fist in Kessler’s face, then made an obscene gesture. “Remember, Heinrich . . .”

Kessler dropped his head onto the table. “Why is life so cruel to me?”

“Ask that to the people you sell diluted penicillin to,” Becker said.

•   •   •

M
inutes later, Mason, Wolski, and Becker exited the interrogation room and descended the stairs to the squad room.

“Since Wertz won’t show his face until tomorrow morning, we’ll keep Kessler locked up overnight,” Mason said to Becker. “You can do whatever you want with him once we’re finished.”

“I will honor the agreement. He will be free to go. For now. Good night, gentlemen.”

Mason and Wolski returned the farewell and watched Becker leave.

“How about a shot before calling it a night?” Wolski asked.

“You’re on.”

Wolski sneezed, his whole body convulsing from the effort. “God damn it. I can’t get a cold. I promised to take Anna to the OMGB Christmas dance tomorrow night.”

“Having a cold doesn’t make you concerned about giving this investigation your full effort?”

“My full effort’s what gave me this cold.”

As they walked to Mason’s office, Wolski said, “When I was sick as a kid, my dad would give us shots of hot bourbon and honey. Don’t know how much good it did the cold, but it sure did him good.”

Mason didn’t hear Wolski. He was fixed on the foot-high object wrapped in brown kraft paper sitting on his desk. Since Timmers had a clear view of Mason’s office door, Mason stopped at his desk.

“Tim, did you see who brought in that package on my desk?”

Timmers lifted his tired gaze from his paperwork. “An MP. He asked where your office was, then dropped it off and left.”

“He say what it was?”

“Nope.”

“What time?”

“About an hour ago. Before you guys got back.”

Mason and Wolski walked into the office and stared at the package.

“Could be something sent down from the war crimes records office,” Wolski said.

“There’s nothing written on the outside. Usually those have destination and official labels plastered all over them.”

“Maybe it’s a bomb from one of your admirers.”

Mason gave him a look of rebuke. He leaned over and put his ear to the package. No sound from inside. He lifted it and turned it on its side. Something metallic rattled.

“Bombs don’t rattle,” Wolski said. “Could be from Laura. Open it.”

Mason placed the object on his desk. He delicately unwrapped the paper and revealed a mahogany and brass pendulum clock. Mason was puzzled at first. He couldn’t think of who would send him such a beautiful gift.

Then he remembered the workshop, and Ramek, and having admired the exact same clock. He suddenly felt very cold.

“God damn. Look at this,” Wolski said.

Wolski held up the kraft paper. Written on the underside, in large block letters:

YOU MUST WIND IT. I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO THINK IT WAS A BOMB. A TOKEN OF OUR BRIEF YET INTERESTING ENCOUNTER, AND A REMINDER OF LIFE’S FLEETING TIME.

DEATH IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER.

With a swipe of his forearm, Mason batted the clock against the wall. It shattered and fell in pieces on the floor.