Ruins of War (3 page)

S
weet dreams, ladies,” Corporal Manganella said as Mason and Wolski climbed out of the jeep.

Mason grunted. Wolski gave him the middle finger. Manganella gunned the engine and raced away, leaving them in the dark. Much of the city’s electrical grid still waited to be restored, and even the buildings requisitioned by the military suffered intermittent electrical service. Mason peered down the street. Vague skeletal shapes of the buildings were visible by the light of the moon. He thought of the killer out there somewhere, stalking prey in this ruined city, a city in chaos with legions of easy prey.

The 13th CID detachment satellite station on Sophienstrasse was once the financial headquarters for the Nazi regime. The building’s unremarkable blockhouse architecture was rendered even bleaker by the blackened granite from the raging fires. The first wave of U.S. occupying forces had blasted off the ubiquitous Nazi swastika but left the Third Reich eagle for some reason, then proceeded to scratch graffiti into the smoke-stained stone.

Mason and Wolski passed through the multiarched portico and approached the entrance. Two sentries, stationed on either side, saluted them.

“Poor bastards freezing their asses off,” Wolski said.

“At least no one is shooting at them.”

“Coming from someone else, I’d say they were looking on the bright side. But with you I see a problem with compassion for your fellow human beings.”

“My compassion’s not going to make them feel any warmer.”

When they entered, Mason felt relieved to be immersed in light and heat after so many hours in the dark and cold of the damaged factory. A row of desks, then a line of offices, filled the open-floor lobby. A couple of typewriters clacked; a telephone rang. Except for everyone wearing army green instead of blue, the place reminded Mason of any large police station, and it always gave him a pang of nostalgia.

As they headed for a staircase at the far side of the lobby, the lead watch sergeant looked up from his paperwork. “Mr. Collins. Colonel Walton wants to see you right away.”

As deputy provost marshal of Munich, Colonel Walton could have assigned a CID chief warrant officer to supervise the detachment, but Walton liked to keep a tight grip on the whole show, including the contingent of CID investigators. Some would say he was a hands-on kind of guy while others considered him an overbearing, power-hungry pain in the ass. “It’s almost nine,” Mason said to Wolski as they mounted the stairs. “What’s Walton doing here this late?”

“Can only mean trouble.”

The next floor sported the same arrangement of desks and offices, the same faded beige walls and black-and-white tile floor. Most of the investigators were on this floor, with a few privates and corporals doing administrative work at a front pool of desks. Wolski split off to an area in the center of the room dedicated to the lower-ranked investigators. Mason continued on to the colonel’s outer office, where a staff sergeant typed away, looking up only long enough to wave Mason on through.

On a bench opposite the sergeant’s desk sat an elderly man dressed in black with a salt-and-pepper goatee and reading glasses perched on
the end of his nose. He had a gaunt face with deeply etched lines and piercing hazel eyes. Mason didn’t have time to wonder who the peculiar man might be. He had bigger concerns, one of which waited behind the next door. He knocked.

A powerful voice boomed through the door, “Enter.”

What had been some high-ranking Nazi financial official’s office now served at Colonel Walton’s pleasure. The large room dwarfed the desk, which sat front and center. On the wall behind the colonel hung several maps: the city of Munich; postwar Germany divided into its four zones of occupation—American, British, French, and Russian; and the American zone, which included Bavaria. To the left of the desk stood an overstuffed sofa and high-back leather chairs. Not for the first time, images flashed through Mason’s mind of some Nazi official sitting behind the same desk planning the financing required for the annihilation of one ethnic group or another. Havers stood to one side of the colonel’s desk, hat in hand, and somehow managed to shoot Mason a hateful gaze while maintaining a smarmy smile for the colonel. Given another time and place, Havers would have made an excellent candidate for Nazidom.

Mason stopped in front of the desk and saluted. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I wanted your damned report. Havers has been here for more than an hour.”

“Yes, sir. I waited until the medical examiner, Major Treborn, could give me his initial findings and take the body . . . parts off to the lab.”

“That just happened?” the colonel said, glancing in Havers’s direction. “The victim—Allied or German?”

“That’s to be determined. We found no clothing or documents saying one way or the other. His head and body were shaved. No physical traits to speak of, except he was uncircumcised. I’m having Mr. Wolski make calls to the various division and battalion headquarters to see if any servicemen are reported missing.”

“Havers believes the victim is German.”

“So far, there’s no evidence to confirm one way or the other. Mr. Havers jumped to that conclusion on his own.”

Havers butted in. “I’ve already had my deputy investigators check all bulletins about missing army or American civilian personnel, and none of them match the victim.”

“Mr. Havers should be aware that it takes a couple of days for someone to be filed as missing. Then a couple of days for the bulletins to make the rounds. Plus, it doesn’t take into account personnel on leave or those sent out on travel or extended duties.” He addressed Havers directly. “And if you’d waited for Major Treborn’s report, you’d know that he puts the time of death at no more than a day and a half, tops
.
”

“You arrogant son of a bitch,” Havers said.

The colonel banged his desk. “That’s enough.” He pointed his index finger at Mason. “I won’t have any disrespect of your fellow investigators. We work together or not at all. Now, get on with your report.”

“I assume Mr. Havers filled you in on the state of the body.”

“Yes, but I want your version.”

Mason told the colonel about the torso being lashed to the column, the mesh around the organs, and the display of limbs on the floor above. Colonel Walton showed no reaction, though Mason’s stomach contracted in retelling the details. “We couldn’t find any recent fingerprints. Any imprints they found of fingers or hands indicate the killer was probably wearing nonfibrous gloves. Footprints indicate that the killer also wore some kind of cloth over his shoes or boots. We estimate his shoe size at between ten and eleven. I’d like to go back to the scene tomorrow, but my guess is we won’t find anything more. This guy was meticulous and only left traces he wanted us to find.”

Colonel Walton nodded.

“The canvassing turned up nothing. No one claims to have seen or heard anything. We’ll continue canvassing in a wider circle tomorrow.”

“I heard about your close call with his booby trap,” Colonel Walton said.

Mason nodded and fingered the slice in the left arm of his coat, then pulled out his notepad and read the message the killer had left on the fire escape door.

“So not the work of rival gangs?” Colonel Walton asked.

Mason shook his head. “This is a psychopathic killer. I believe this isn’t his first and it won’t be his last.”

Colonel Walton’s desk sergeant came in with a large manila envelope. “This was just delivered from the photo lab, sir, for Mr. Collins.” He handed Mason the envelope and left.

“The crime scene photos,” Mason said.

“Not right now. I have a late dinner engagement, and I don’t want to ruin my appetite.”

No doubt Colonel Walton had a beautiful young fräulein waiting for him as well. Mason had heard about the colonel’s revolving door of lovely girls. From the time U.S. forces had entered Germany, an edict had been issued that all Allied personnel were forbidden to fraternize—“fratting,” as the men called it—with the enemy civilian population. It didn’t take long for the nonfraternization rules to be ignored, especially where young ladies were concerned. By the end of July, the army had pretty much given up on the unpopular edict. A couple of packs of cigarettes could buy you an evening. And if there was one thing the army had plenty of, it was cigarettes.

A flush of red popped onto the colonel’s cheeks under Mason’s knowing gaze. “That will be all, gentlemen.”

Collins and Havers started to leave when the colonel said, “Mr. Collins, just a few more questions.” Mason turned, as did Havers, but the colonel waved a dismissive hand at Havers. “You can go.”

Colonel Walton leaned back in his chair and studied Mason. “Havers is a good investigator, but he’s had little homicide experience. Few of my investigators do. That’s why I sent you out there to investigate that murder. It’s why I accepted your transfer request—with
some reluctance, I might add.” He plucked a file off his desk and opened it. “You’ve been here, what? Twelve days?”

Mason offered only a slight nod; he knew what was coming.

“We should have had this talk when you first arrived,” Colonel Walton said into the open file. “I know about you being fired from the Chicago PD for kickbacks and shakedowns—”

“Colonel, those were trumped-up charges—”

The colonel jerked up his head and glared at Mason. “You will let me finish. I have your statements on the affair. I’m aware of the controversy surrounding you.” He paused and turned his attention back to the open file. “I only bring this up because of tension concerning you and the other intelligence agents while you worked human intelligence at G2. I don’t need it, and I’m expecting you to defuse it. You got exemplary marks for your investigative work, but there are criticisms of being too independent, less than stellar regard for authority, et cetera, et cetera. You keep that kind of thinking out of this outfit, or I’ll see to it you go back to pushing papers in Frankfurt. You think joining the CID is a new start for you. Well, I say it’s the end of the line. You’ve been blackballed back home. No city police department will hire you. You screw up here, and that’s it. Am I understood?”

Mason acknowledged. Colonel Walton rose from his chair and went to a file cabinet. The colonel, a good-looking man with chiseled features, stood a head taller than Mason, and Mason measured six feet. He opened a drawer and took out a bottle of cognac along with two glasses. Mason welcomed a drink—maybe two or three after what he’d witnessed in the warehouse. But this gesture wasn’t a peace offering or sharing a drink among comrades in arms; more a pacifier for what was about to come.

The colonel offered Mason one of the glasses. “A VSOP distilled in 1870. About six months’ worth of your salary would buy this in the States. Here, I traded it for a smoked ham and five pounds of coffee from some wealthy hausfrau.” He held up his glass. “Cheers.”

They both took a sip of their drinks, then Colonel Walton asked, as if in casual conversation, “How’s the train robbery case going?”

“Sir, you have my latest report, so I’m not sure what your point is in asking.” Though he had a pretty good idea.

“I’m not required to have a point. Answer the question.”

“After the gang robbed a trainload of army supplies and PX goods, I was able to trace them to Augsburg. I alerted the 385th MP train security battalion. They laid a trap for the gang at the Augsburg train station, but the gang started shooting their way out—submachine guns, grenades, the whole bit—and escaped.”

“That’s right. And that gang of about twenty U.S. deserters, with another forty or so DPs, are out there plundering the countryside.”

DP stood for “displaced person.” When Germany surrendered there were more than ten million displaced persons in Germany: ex–prisoners of war, ex–concentration camp internees, and people from every Nazi-occupied country brought in as slave labor. For years the slave laborers had been forced to work in the factories, on the farms, or as domestic servants. Now released from bondage, a majority of the ten million had already made their way home, but hundreds of thousands remained in Germany, and some of them had decided to take advantage of the chaos of a war-torn country and formed gangs that roamed the countryside, raping, stealing, and murdering.

Colonel Walton continued, “Two MPs and two civilians were seriously wounded. That case deserves some serious attention, don’t you think?”

“Because of their widespread activity, it has turned into a zonewide investigation. I’m coordinating with three MP battalions and their CID detachments in Frankfurt, Stuttgart, and Mannheim. I’m working the Munich end, but for the moment it appears the gang has moved west into other areas of command.”

Colonel Walton downed his cognac and offered Mason another pour, but Mason declined. He needed a clear head for what was coming.

The colonel shrugged and poured another for himself. “You know the situation we’re facing. There are over six hundred thousand soldiers and support personnel in the American zone, most of them homesick and resentful for not being sent home. Mix in low morale, boredom, and an unlimited supply of food, booze, and cigarettes, which millions of starving and desperate locals will give them anything for in trade—and I mean anything—and it’s a potent mix for graft, drunkenness, narcotics, rape, and murder. It’s a goddamned madhouse. The MP battalions and the CID detachments are overloaded with cases. More than half our men have never done police work. And as fast as we can train them, the army’s sending them home.”

Colonel Walton let out a tired sigh. Mason listened to the distant clacking of a typewriter and hum of the electric space heater while waiting for the colonel to get revved up again. He didn’t have to wait long.

“The point I’m trying to make in all this is: I can’t have you stuck on this homicide case with no leads, no evidence, and—I have to be honest with you here—in all likelihood one German murdered by another. Now, you can continue to pursue the case in a supervisory capacity. See what the ME says after his autopsy, but then I want you to give other cases your full attention. It may sound callous, but there are too many other cases that concern the army more than what goes on between Germans.”