Remembering Dresden (Jack Turner Suspense Series Book 2) (21 page)

Especially, the irony of the thing.

Dozens of German cities had been bombed. Hundreds of bombing missions had been flown. What were the odds that he would pick the one town, the same town, for his doctoral dissertation that old man Wagner had lived in, had been orphaned in, as a little boy? And of all the cabins along the banks of the various lakes surrounding Culpepper, what were the odds Jack would pick this one for his retreat?

And…that this would be the cabin that had served as the refuge and hideout of a serial killer taking revenge on elderly B-17 pilots because they had flown on the same mission over the same city that Jack had picked to study some seventy years later?

This revelation wasn’t exactly the proof he needed to convince Hank or Joe to investigate this case, but it certainly had to matter. It had to help the cause. It meant that old man Wagner had come from Dresden, that he was a Dresden survivor. What else could it mean? Why else would he stalk and pursue these pilots?

His phone rang. It was Rachel.

He picked it up. “Hi, Rachel. Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Well, something pretty cool happened. I just had to call. I thought about waiting until tomorrow when I come over, but this couldn’t wait.”

“That’s funny. Something pretty cool happened over here. But you go first.”

“Okay, I was going to keep working on this translation project during dinner. When I pulled the notebook out of my purse, that’s when I noticed it.”

“Noticed what?”

“The loose page.”

“What loose page?”

“In the back of the journal. I didn’t see it before. I guess it moved around inside my purse.”

“What did it say?”

“I’m getting there. So I opened it up and pulled the page out. That’s when I realized, it didn’t belong in the back of the book. It was just stuck there. It came out of the front. I think it’s the title page.”

“Okay, so what did it say?” Obviously, it was a big deal since she’d stopped everything to call him.

“You’re not going to believe this.”

After what he’d uncovered this afternoon, he wasn’t so sure of that. “Okay…I’m ready.”

“It said, in the same handwriting as the rest of journal:
Erinneringen an Dresden
.”

“Dresden? You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

“What’s the first part mean?”

“The complete phrase, or the way we’d probably say it is…
Remembering Dresden
or
Memories of Dresden
. Isn’t that crazy? That must be where old man Wagner came from. What else could it be?”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. “We were right. You were right. It’s almost too surreal to comprehend. But he had to come from there.”

“Isn’t that crazy? That it’s the same place you’re studying for your doctoral dissertation.”

“I know,” he said. “You’re not going to believe what I have to tell you.”

Harold Vandergraf had just locked his desk drawer and was ready to close the lid on his laptop and head home. As he pulled away from the desk, his cell phone rang. It was Campbell calling from the Culpepper PD, a call Vandergraf had been waiting for. “Officer Campbell. Nice of you to call back.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Campbell said. “Got sucked into something. But I did find out that info you were looking for. That professor, Turner, wasn’t able to find your guys in our book. Looks like he’s dropping it. I asked a gal who does our sketches for suspects to make sure. She said Hank told her the professor didn’t want to pursue this any further.”

“Well, that is good news. Who’s Hank?”

“The officer who was showing him the mugshots.”

“Does it look like he’s going to drop it, too?”

“Seems so. Unless something else stirs it back up.”

“That wouldn’t be good.”

“Well, I’ll let you know if it does.”

They said goodbye and hung up. Vandergraf was relieved, but not completely. It bothered him that this thing had come up in the first place. Why would it? What triggered it? He had done a little snooping in the past few hours. This fellow, Turner, was clearly a very popular teacher at the school. And he was something of an accomplished author. Had his own website. Wrote books on military history. Had two published so far, both on World War II. The first one had made the New York Times bestseller list.

Was that the connection? Was Turner doing research for another book? Vandergraf didn’t know many of the details about the Senator’s father, but he did know he had become an orphan during one of the bombings in World War II. But what could have unfolded to cause Turner’s interest in World War II to intersect with the Senator’s father? He couldn’t begin to imagine.

There was just one thread left to pull.

His source at the University had mentioned Turner wasn’t teaching any classes at the moment. He was on some kind of study retreat. Vandergraf knew the Senator had a property on Lake Sampson, a cabin. Cabins were often used for little getaways and retreats. Vandergraf had some conversations in the past with an old man who lived next door, Mr. Bass. He was actually on the payroll, if Vandergraf remembered correctly. Looked after the place from time to time, got it ready if ever the Senator wanted to use it.

Vandergraf scanned through his contacts until he found Mr. Bass’ number. Hit the button and waited through several rings.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Bass?”

“That’s me. Who’s this?”

“It’s Harold, Harold Vandergraf. I’m Senator Wagner’s aide. I believe we’ve met a few times. I know I’ve called you on the phone a few more, but it’s been a while.”

“I remember you, Mr. Vandergraf. That what I should call you or would you prefer I call you Harold?”

“Mr. Vandergraf is fine. The reason I’m calling…just double checking something. Is anyone renting the Senator’s cabin right now?”

“Why, yes. There is. The realtor brought a fellow by, a young professor teaches over at the college there. Met him when he first came in. What was his name? Thurman? Herman?”

“Was it Professor Turner?”

“That’s it, Turner. Yeah, that’s his name. Seems like a nice fellow.”

Mystery solved, thought Vandergraf. “That’s all I needed. Just to confirm that little detail. Appreciate your time, sir.”

“Sure there’s nothing else? Any message you want me to give him?”

“No, no message.” Then he thought of something. “But just out of curiosity, have you and the professor ever talked about the Senator’s father?”

“His father? I don’t think so. Well, wait a minute. We did ever so briefly that first afternoon he arrived. He was just a little curious about the cabin’s history. Guess that’s normal, seeing he’s a history professor. Of course, there’s not that much to tell.”

“Can you remember what you did tell him? Not word for word, just the gist.”

“Hmmm. I mentioned how he lived here off and on in the 90s. Then he got that stroke. Lived here a few more years after that till he died. Pretty sure that’s about all.”

Vandergraf couldn’t see how that could possibly have led to anything that would get Turner showing up at the police station. Was there something left at the cabin that Turner had gotten into? People who write books, especially history books, tend to be the curious type. The kind who like to dig up stories. Whatever it was, Vandergraf needed to sort this out. “Say, Mr. Bass. Any idea how long this professor plans on renting the cabin?”

“I don’t recall if he told me.”

“That’s okay. I can call the property management people on that. Sorry to bother you.”

“No trouble at all.”

They hung up. He probably wouldn’t be out there at the cabin too long. The Fall semester started back up in a few weeks. Maybe nothing more would come of this.

The problem was, his instincts said otherwise.

He had this unsettled feeling he often got when something wasn’t right or didn’t add up. He had that feeling now. Vandergraf had learned in his short span of years to trust that instinct. It had protected him more times than he could count. He’d been thinking of making that call to Rob Strickland.

Might be good to get him on retainer just in case.

A few minutes later, he had Strickland on the phone. “So Rob, where are you presently?” Strickland was a trucker by trade, had his own rig. Gave him the freedom to come and go as he pleased. As a rule, he stayed within the southeast, so he was never too far away.

“I am riding down an interstate in the fine state of Alabama. Good to hear your voice Mr. Vandergraf. Usually means something good might be coming my way.”

“Are you on your way out somewhere or heading back in?”

“Back in. Should be arriving sometime tomorrow morning. Why, you need me?”

“I might. Fifty-fifty chance right now. But when you get back, I’d like you to hang loose near Culpepper at least for a few days, until I get this situation sorted out. If I need you, it’ll probably be on short notice.”

“By hang loose, I assume you mean at my usual daily fee. Even if nothing comes of this here situation.”

“That is exactly what I mean. Keep your cell phone handy and all charged up. I will get back in touch with you with the details if that becomes necessary.”

“I can do that. Is there anything else?”

“No, that should about do it.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, as always.” Strickland hung up.

Vandergraf slipped his cell phone into his suit coat pocket and headed to the elevator. They paid Strickland well on those occasions when his skills were called for. Vandergraf hoped this time would prove to be a false alarm. But it was nice to know Strickland would be close by and ready to go should the need arise.

It was hard, but the following day Jack had done his best to focus on his doctoral research. There really wasn’t much more he could do about the growing mystery surrounding old man Wagner until Rachel came over. Late in the afternoon, Rachel had texted him to say she would be coming over after dinner around six-thirty, that she had finished translating the journal and that she definitely had some new information to share with him.

He couldn’t wait to see it. He glanced at his watch. She could be arriving any minute. After clearing the dinette table, he put his research material into two clear plastic containers then stacked the containers against the wall

Even though this mystery had temporarily overshadowed his interest in the Dresden research, he did find the research more stimulating and intriguing, knowing the connection to the murder case. He was particularly more interested in the stories of survivors and how they processed their anger and grief over the ordeal. Such a wide range of reactions.

Some fixed the blame entirely on Hitler and the Nazi regime for leading their country, once again, into a major world war. Clearly, the Nazis had started it all and had aggressively pursued the wholesale destruction of their neighbors, not to mention the annihilation of the Jewish people. They viewed the Allied bombing campaign as mere payback, the Germans reaping what they had sown.

Another group, though agreeing with the first view in part, believed the Allies had gone way too far in the way they had prosecuted the war. In short, the punishment did not fit the crime. There was a point, particularly at the beginning of 1945, when it was clear the Germans had been defeated and the capture of Berlin was a foregone conclusion. But to this group, the Allies continued their incessant bombing campaign, picking out defenseless targets like Wurzburg and Dresden, pummeling them mercilessly into total ruin. In the process, they killed tens of thousands of civilians. Mostly defenseless women, children and the elderly.

This group felt the Allied generals who were responsible for these pile-on attacks should have been tried as war criminals, just like the Nazi leaders were at Nuremberg.

Now Jack realized there was a third group of Dresden survivors. A group that included at least, and possibly only, one member. An orphan boy who grew up and decided to pay back, not the generals who ordered the raids but the actual men who had flown the planes responsible for killing his family. And to pay these men back in the most personal of ways, one by one.

Jack heard the sound of a car outside pulling into the clearing, then the engine turn off. He got up to greet Rachel. They hugged and kissed at the halfway point, then walked back together hand-in-hand. In Rachel’s other hand, she held the journal and a manila folder.

Jack pointed to it. “I’m guessing that’s the translation?”

“It is. Can’t wait to show it to you.”

“So…do we have a smoking gun?”

“I’d say so. It’s not as strong a link as it could be, but I think it’s strong enough. There’s also something of a glitch mixed in, too. At first, I thought it might be a deal breaker. But as I thought about it more, I think it has the potential to break this whole thing wide open.”

They stepped onto the porch. “Okay. Two quick questions. What is the glitch and how does it go from deal breaker to saving the day?”

“You’ll see inside.”

Jack steered them to the dinette table. “You can put your stuff on the table. I made half a pot of decaf. Would you like a cup?”

“Definitely. You know how I like it.”

“I do.” After getting it just right, he brought the mugs back and set them on the table, then took a seat beside her. She had already opened the manila folder. Several pages were flipped over.

“I thought we’d start off where the new and juicy stuff begins. All these turned-over pages are the ones I talked to you about last night.”

“The notes he made while he was casing the men at the different locations?”

She nodded. “That’s most of what’s in here. But then toward the end, after the notes on the eighth victim, things began to change. He gets more philosophical, like he’s trying to justify what he’s done. Why it’s not really revenge he’s pursuing, but justice.”

“Wait a minute, he tries to justify what he’s done? Does that mean he gets specific about what he did? Does he admit to anything?”

“Not plainly. He’s still talking in code or using very generalized terms. But to me, anyone with a brain in their head could, if they’ve been reading from the beginning, understand what he’s really talking about. Especially if you have the scrapbook with the obituaries on hand to use as a comparison. But I’m not through yet. There’s more.”