Ruins of War (18 page)

M
ason roamed Dr. Sauber’s office, fingering books on the shelves, opening cabinet drawers, and leafing through things on Sauber’s desk; not usually Mason’s style, but it unnerved Sauber to no end. Wolski’s imposing stance next to Sauber’s desk certainly added to the administrator’s fluster.

“Herr Collins, please, I’ve already told you all I know.”

“That’s hard for us to believe,” Wolski said, “since you concealed and lied about Albrecht’s identity and his activities at Ravensbrück.”

Mason opened one of the file folders stacked on a chair. “You’ve already violated a number of regulations by aiding and abetting a war criminal. If you want to stay out of prison, I suggest you tell us everything.”

Sauber dabbed his brow. “As I said before, we were desperate for surgeons. I was the one with reservations. But Dr. Tritten pressured me into hiring him.”

“That’s odd. Dr. Tritten said the opposite.” Actually Tritten had offered nothing, but Sauber didn’t know that. “He said you’d threatened him with exposure of his Nazi past if he didn’t agree.”

“That’s a lie!”

“It’s his word against yours. If you two can’t agree on the truth,
then we’ll be forced to have you arrested for the cover-up. However, if you cooperate, nothing of this incident needs to leave this hospital. Tell me what you know about Albrecht. His friends, anyone else at this hospital who may have concealed his true identity. That person may be harboring him.”

Sauber suddenly became very still.

Mason stopped his travels around the office and stared Sauber down. “There is someone else, isn’t there?”

Sauber shook his head as he held his breath.

“Someone at this hospital also knows.”

“I don’t know. . . . I mean, no.”

“Who are you protecting, Doctor?” Wolski barked.

Nothing from Sauber. Mason could see the guilt in his face. “It’s because he’s concealed the true identities of other staff at this hospital.”

Wolski leaned on the desk, prompting Sauber to lean away. “Why, Doctor, shame on you. That could be very bad for you. Very bad.”

Mason stepped up to the desk as he spoke. “Who else are you conspiring to conceal? Which one of them is hiding Dr. Albrecht?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wolski dropped his handcuffs on the desk in front of Sauber. Sauber nearly jumped out of his chair, then jutted out his index finger in the general direction of Tritten’s office. “He’s the one. He talked me into hiring those people. I protested but he insisted. I’m trying to run a hospital. You’ve seen what we’re up against. You can’t arrest me for looking the other way. He’s the one you should arrest.”

Mason softened his tone; he didn’t want Sauber to have a heart attack. “Provide us with a list of names. We are not here to persecute you—we are here for information—but we will be forced to arrest both of you if you do not cooperate.”

Wolski took the lead from Mason and lowered his voice to a soothing tone. “Giving us the list will convince us that your only concern is caring for your patients. We respect that, and we want to help you.”
He placed his notepad and pen in front of Sauber, then lifted away his handcuffs.

Sauber stared at the blank page as he wiped more perspiration from his brow.

“Someone at this hospital is harboring a murderer,” Mason said. “Write down the names, Doctor.”

Sauber picked up the pen with a shaking hand, but his hand hovered over the page.

The idea of other staff at the hospital having hidden Nazi pasts had not occurred to Mason until that morning. Someone had covered Albrecht’s tracks, protected him from detection. Someone at the hospital had helped him escape. Warned him of their arrival the day of the interview . . .

He remembered Laura’s words: Albrecht had a lover. Find the lover and find Albrecht. It was a woman employed at this hospital. Then he recalled the eyewitness testimony of neighbors around Albrecht’s apartment and from the concert hall: They had all stated having seen Albrecht with a blond woman in her middle thirties. . . .

“The receptionist,” Mason said aloud.

Sauber slowly looked up from the notepad. He didn’t need to say anything. Mason knew by the look on his face. Wolski spotted it, too. Sauber had just confirmed it.

Seconds later, Mason and Wolski took long strides down the corridor and into the lobby. The receptionist stood behind the counter talking to a young woman with a baby. When Mason and Wolski were halfway across, the receptionist noticed them. Her eyes widened with fear, and she burst into a run.

Mason and Wolski dashed after her. Heads turned; people jumped out of the way. Just before the receptionist made it through the front door, Wolski grabbed her. She screamed and cried out for help.

Mason held up his badge. No one made a move to interfere with the two American military police officers. Mason joined Wolski and helped wrestle the receptionist to a vacant corner.

“Where is Dr. Albrecht?” Mason said.

“Let me go!”

“You’re hiding him. Where is he?”

“I am not hiding him.”

“You’re harboring a murderer. Do you want to go to prison?”

“He’s not a murderer.”

“Then why did he run away?”

“He ran because he didn’t want to be arrested. He knew you Amis would put him on trial for war crimes and hang him. Just like you did to the people at Dachau. He didn’t murder anyone.”

“You’re lying. Where is he?”

“I don’t know!”

Mason spun around to face the reception counter. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Wolski. He marched over to the counter. An image had been growing in his mind since the interview with Fischer. A picture behind the counter, one of several bucolic images of rural Germany. Dr. Fischer’s remark about Albrecht being an avid hunter had seemed innocuous at the time, but Mason hadn’t realized why it stuck with him until now. He plucked the receptionist’s photograph of a chalet-style cabin from where it had been taped to the inside wall of the counter next to her desk. He turned it over. Someone had written on the back:
Your father and I are having a wonderful month here. Do come down, darling. Mother.

Mason returned to the corner and held up the photograph. “Albrecht is hiding in your family’s cabin, isn’t he? Where is this?”

The receptionist turned her head into Wolski’s arms.

“Where is this cabin?” Mason yelled.

The receptionist collapsed and began to weep.

•   •   •

T
he large chalet-style cabin stood on the low rise of a hill and overlooked a lake. A hundred yards of field separated the cabin from the forest that circled the hill. Mason knelt in a thicket a few yards into
the forest and peered through the snow-laden trees with his binoculars. Becker knelt next to him and did the same thing. Wolski and the other CID investigators observed from strategic points around the perimeter of the hill. Becker also had a twenty-man contingent of officers waiting for orders to charge the cabin.

“No smoke in the chimney,” Mason said. “He’s either being very careful or he isn’t there.”

“It is possible he saw us coming,” Becker said. “Or he could be out in search of food.”

“Or his next victim.”

The cabin door opened, and they crouched lower in the thicket. A figure hesitated in the dark doorway, then glanced around before disappearing again into the cabin.

Mason spoke into his Handie-Talkie. “Go, go.”

Mason and Becker stood and walked out of the forest with a group of Becker’s men. The others surrounding the hill emerged from their posts. Then all started a cautious climb up the hill with their guns drawn.

Albrecht breached the doorway, emerging backward this time as he led a horse out of the cabin. Unaware of the approaching circle of police, he mounted the horse. He froze in the saddle and watched the men climb the slope.

Mason called out, “Stay where you are, Albrecht. You’re under arrest.”

They were still two hundred feet away when Albrecht dismounted the horse and tapped the horse’s flank. The horse trotted away. Albrecht stood still and stared at them. Mason quickened his pace, as did the others, and the circle tightened. Albrecht came to attention, head back, chest out. Mason suddenly had a bad feeling. . . .

In a swift, fluid motion, Albrecht pulled out his Luger, jammed the barrel in his mouth, and fired. He slumped to the ground just as Mason and the others reached him. Everyone stared at the crumpled body as Mason checked for a pulse. Albrecht was dead.

Mason felt nothing resembling relief or satisfaction, none of the
emotions he would have expected at finding the killer. While the others talked excitedly or congratulated Mason, the only feeling that persisted for Mason was that of perplexity.

•   •   •

A
pplause erupted when Mason, Wolski, and Becker entered the building, and it continued when they entered the detective squad room. Most of the other investigators and staff stood and applauded, though Havers refused to join in. Colonel Walton stepped out of his office and leaned against the door frame. He offered a weak smile but refrained from clapping.

Mason allowed a few men to shake his hand as he made a beeline for his office. Wolski and Becker entered a moment later and the applause died down.

“What’s wrong with you guys?” Wolski asked. “We got the killer.”

Becker looked at Mason with an expression that said he knew what Mason was thinking. “He didn’t seem to be the type to commit suicide,” Becker said.

Mason nodded his head in agreement.

“What difference does it make?” Wolski said.

“The notes at the crime scenes . . . the symbols, the references to rising up from hell,” Becker said.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“If he really was as religious as he indicated, if he was truly a Catholic, then he knew that suicide was a sin that would send him to hell.”

“He could have used all that religious mumbo-jumbo to throw us off the track. Look, not only did he torture and butcher here, in Munich, but he did the same thing in the concentration camps. I don’t get you guys. Acting glum when you should be happy and proud.” He looked at both of them. “You two are like a couple of old hunters. Once you’ve bagged the game, the fun is over.”

Becker and Mason exchanged knowing looks.

“Now you two are just giving me the creeps,” Wolski said. He
pointed toward the squad room. “Colonel Walton is still standing by his door, waiting for us to give him a rundown. Unless you’re looking for a battle, we better go over there and talk to him.”

Mason gestured for Becker to go first.

“After you,” Becker said.

As soon as they exited Mason’s office, Becker’s second in command intercepted Becker and pulled him aside.

Mason and Wolski turned to watch them but continued on their way to Colonel Walton, who had remained at the doorway to his office and looked unwilling to wait.

“Glad you two finally remembered how to find my office,” Colonel Walton said.

Before Mason could respond, Inspector Becker called his name loudly.

All heads turned to Becker.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

Becker, white faced, rushed up to them.

“There has been another murder.”

L
ike an immense stone rib cage, the remnants of Munich’s great Frauenkirche cathedral walls arched upward to nothing, a result of the vaulted ceiling collapsing under the pounding of Allied bombs. The damaged cathedral reminded Mason of some ancient Roman temple that had slowly crumbled, leaving only a vague impression of its proud past.

Mason had paused a moment next to the small convoy of jeeps and army sedans that had brought him, Wolski, and two other CID investigators to the scene. He continued to stare at the hallowed ruins, dreading what he would find. His team gathered around him, waiting silently as if unsure of what to do without Mason’s leadership to get them rolling. Mason hissed a curse and headed for the cathedral, feeling like he’d been kicked in the teeth.

Wolski trailed him and tried to talk him down from his anger. “Maybe Albrecht slipped into town and murdered this victim, then slipped back out again.”

“He got on his horse and galloped thirty-plus miles into town, found a victim, cut him up, placed him in this church, then galloped back just in time for us to find him? Or, I know—he killed a victim
near the lake, then strapped the bloodied corpse on the back of his horse and rode into town to hang it here. Yeah, that’s what he did.”

“It’s possible.”

“Face the truth. We hunted the wrong man.”

Becker and Mannheim met them, and together they climbed the broad shallow steps. A group of women stood to one side, some crying and one hysterical. It was apparent by their overalls and hair wrapped in scarves that they had been toiling to clear the tons of rubble. Other women stood around two small mining cars that sat on short rails leading from the church to a dumping site on the cathedral plaza.

An MP intercepted Mason. “Sir, we found some fresh wagon-wheel tracks just on the other side of these mine-car rails.” He led them to the spot, and there, in the mud, were deep ruts left by a set of wagon wheels.

“Aren’t these from the wagons that haul off the rubble?” Wolski asked.

“I checked on that. The wagons that haul off the rubble are twice as big. The tracks they leave are much wider and they stop on the opposite side.”

Mason nodded and said to the MP, “All right. Get the word out. We’re looking for a civilian with a wagon.”

Becker instructed Mannheim to lead the interviews of the women who’d discovered the body, while Mason, Wolski, and he proceeded through the collapsed south wall. Large chunks of stone still littered the floor, interring the wooden pews. On the remaining columns of the nave, stone carvings of saints looked down upon them . . . except the fifth and final one. Instead of a saint, a mutilated corpse hung in its place.

The crime scene photographer was already at work. MPs and their German counterparts set up a line to hold back the growing crowd of spectators, while others searched for possible witnesses. Becker muttered a prayer. A German policeman rushed into the shadows and vomited. Some of Mason’s investigators had thus far witnessed the crime scenes only through photographs. Now face-to-face with the real thing, some turned away with blanched faces.

The victim was another woman. Her arms and legs were gone. She had been strapped to the column, her head cinched back so her lifeless eyes and frozen scream faced the gray clouds and heaven. From neck to pubis, every organ had been removed. The rib cage, split apart as before, was wired back to reveal an empty torso.

“Son of a bitch,” Wolski murmured. “Wasn’t it sick enough the last time?”

“First the sewers, then a factory, then a church,” Mason said. “Now a cathedral. He keeps looking for bigger and bigger stages.”

“Well, what’s goddamned next? After a cathedral, how much higher can he go? The gates of heaven?”

Becker said, “One of my men reports that they have yet to find the victim’s limbs.”

Mannheim approached them. “None of the women saw anything. They had been working in a corner section for about twenty minutes before the one who is hysterical discovered the victim.”

The engineers leaned two ladders against the column. The crime scene techs were about to climb up, when Mason said, “Wait. I need to have a closer look before you go up there. Plus, the killer could have rigged a booby trap.” He turned to Becker. “Care to join me?”

Mason hesitated at the bottom rung of one ladder and took a few deep breaths before climbing. Becker’s expression remained neutral, but he, too, took slow steps up the other ladder. They both watched for any signs of a booby trap, but as they reached the top it became clear that nothing but the woman’s corpse waited for them.

At the top, the angle of his ladder brought Mason’s nose close to the torso and the victim’s face. In spite of the cold air, he could detect a sickly sweet odor of old blood and the beginnings of decay. He glanced around the cathedral from this high angle. There were cops everywhere combing the area. “If he’d rigged a trap we would have come across it by now.”

“Perhaps he ran out of time,” Becker said and put on his reading glasses to get a closer look at the corpse. “The same fashion of amputation.”

Mason had to admire Becker’s composure. “Everything is the same, right down to the wire holding the body. Except he keeps trying to outdo the last one’s setting. Each place is more and more public. Each time he’s taking a greater risk. And each victim is more mutilated than the last.”

“Though his displays are not for us.”

“For God or the angels?”

Becker looked at him over his reading glasses. “It seems likely.”

Mason noticed a square piece of paper pinned to the back of the woman’s neck. “I found something.” He pulled out a pair of tweezers from his shirt pocket and gently unpinned the paper. The killer had left a note written in crude lettering. “Looks like your theory that he’d run out of time is correct.” He showed Becker the hastily written message then read it aloud. “‘This saint suffered, as did Christ, and she shall clear for me a path to heaven.’”

Becker turned his gaze back to the corpse. “This poor creature.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Mason growled, and they climbed down.

Major Treborn met them at the bottom of the ladder.

“My God, the butcher didn’t leave me much,” Treborn said. “Where are the organs?”

“Don’t know,” Mason said. “Haven’t found the limbs, either.”

“I remember the good old days when I had an entire cadaver to examine.”

“See what you can do to pin down the time of death. If the victim was killed more than a few days ago.”

“I heard about what happened at the cabin. I’ve been doing this a long time. These things happen in an investigation.”

Mason said nothing. He and Becker stepped away and let Treborn and the technicians do their jobs.

Mason looked up to the jagged remnants of the ceiling. “Feels more like a tomb than a church.”

Wolski intercepted them from the left. “We found the arms and legs.”

Mason and Becker followed Wolski across the nave toward the
altar. They had to negotiate scaffolding and piles of collected rubble until they came to a wooden cross mounted where the high altar used to stand. Timmers and two German police were there, standing in a semicircle and staring down at the base of the cross. Timmers pointed to the arms and legs lying on the floor and arranged in the same X and cross pattern.

“The baptismal cross again,” Mason said, then squatted to get a closer look. He pointed to the woman’s right leg. “There’s a large patch of bruising around the knee, and it looks swollen. Maybe the killer got careless this time.” He turned to Wolski. “Get the ME over here.”

Wolski returned with Major Treborn a moment later. Mason pointed out the bruised area around the knee, and Treborn examined it in the light of Wolski’s flashlight.

Treborn shook his head. “This bruising is at least a couple of weeks old.” He stood. “Probably a bad sprain.”

Mason thanked Treborn, who returned to the area near the column to resume examining the body.

Becker looked up at the ribs of the church. “Investigator Wolski is correct in asking where will he go next.”

“What other principal churches are in the city center?” Mason asked.

“Saint Peter’s, Saint Michael’s . . .” Becker stopped. “I should have thought about this before. Saint Michael’s Church.”

“What about it?”

“The church claims to have the skulls of two saints, Cosmas and Damian. They are patron saints of surgeons. One of their miracles was cutting off a man’s diseased leg and attaching a healthy one so the man could walk again. The saints are often depicted standing over a patient with a severed leg at the foot of the operating table.”

“Those saints’ skulls are here in Munich?”

“Yes. It may have nothing to do with our killer, but it’s possible. . . . And Saint Michael is the archangel who battles evil spirits and ascends the deceased to heaven.”

“That’s where we’re headed,” Mason said. He called to Timmers,
“Sam, I want you to take command here. Make sure the ME gets everything he needs, continue the canvassing, and make sure the techs get over here to process this area.”

From across the cathedral and echoing off the stone walls came a man’s cry. “Emily! No! My God, Emily!”

Mason and the others rushed over to where Major Treborn was examining the body. Three MPs were pulling another MP away from the area. Tears flowed as he continued to scream her name. Mason turned to another MP, who looked shaken by his friend’s grief.

“What happened?”

The MP didn’t respond and continued to stare at his friend.

“Soldier, I’m talking to you.”

The MP snapped out of it. “The dead girl, sir. She was his girlfriend. A nurse, sir.”

Mason looked at Becker, acknowledging the inspector’s accurate guess.

“Emily O’Brien. She worked at the 98th General Hospital,” the MP said.

Mason whirled around. “What? She was American?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mason stood silent for a moment. The tragedy was the same. The woman’s nationality didn’t change the horror of it. But it was going to change everything else. He already had a measure of army brass support for the investigation, but now higher brass, politicians, and the press would come down on him with a vengeance, let alone the idea that he’d let them get sidetracked on a bogus lead.

“Help your buddy calm down, but don’t let him leave,” Mason said. “We need to talk to him.”

The MP left to help the others. They led the grief-stricken MP to a pew set against the wall and sat him down as they talked to him.

“The guy’s in shock,” Wolski said. “You’re not going to get much out of him.”

Treborn stepped up to them. “I covered up the body, and the
ambulance team is coming in.” He looked at the MP. “A hell of a thing to see your girlfriend like that. I give it twenty-four hours and then all hell’s going to break loose.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought of that. The brass will be second-guessing when I should take a crap.” Mason signaled for Wolski to follow him. They walked over to the MP, who was now quiet, staring into the distance and heaving with every breath. Mason squatted next to him. He asked one of the MPs the man’s name.

“Bill Shankton.”

“Bill, I’m the principal investigator of these murders. I’m sorry for your loss. I know it’s hard, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

Shankton took a deep breath and gritted his teeth, then nodded.

“When did you see Emily last?”

Another MP said, “Sir, can’t this wait?”

“If he knows something that can help find this killer then I need to know it now. Not when Bill feels better.”

Shankton looked up at Mason. He wasn’t much more than twenty-five; still a boy, as far as Mason was concerned, and he would wear this scar for a very long time. “I saw her three nights ago. We had an argument. Then I had a couple of twenty-hour shifts, and I wanted to calm down.” He looked away. “It wasn’t a big thing. How was I supposed to know . . . ?” He took another deep breath.

“Do you know if she talked about anyone stalking her or bothering her in any way?”

Shankton shook his head. “Not that she told me.”

“We believe the suspect is a tall, broad-shouldered man, usually wearing a hat and long, dark blue coat. You notice anyone like that when you were with her?”

Shankton trembled at the thought. His eyes began to glaze over as his control waned. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Where was she living?”

“In the barracks at the hospital.”

“All right. You take it easy for a while, but I want you to think about anything you might remember that might help us. Remember, the more we know, the faster we can track this guy down.”

Shankton snapped his head around to face Mason. “Track him down, my ass. You chased the wrong guy. You guys don’t have squat. You all got your thumbs so far up your asses you don’t know whether to shit or swallow.”

A couple of the MPs put their hands on Shankton’s shoulders to quiet him.

Mason stood. “When you’re ready to talk like a policeman and a soldier, let me know if anything comes to mind.”

Most of the MPs looked anywhere but at Mason, but a few gave him hard stares. They didn’t have the killer to rip apart, so they steered their wrath his way, to the one powerless to stop the killings. And Mason knew the army brass and populace of Munich would soon be doing the same thing.

Mason stepped away with Wolski in tow. He could feel their stares on his back. His steps were slow and uneven; the guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“I know Shankton,” Wolski said. “A stand-up guy. You’re not going to report—”

Mason got in Wolski’s face. “When did you start thinking I was some chickenshit that I’d give a rat’s ass what he just said?” Mason marched over to Timmers, who was still standing next to Treborn. “Mr. Timmers, take Mancini and Cole and talk to Emily O’Brien’s coworkers and friends. Find out what places she frequented, and see if the girl said anything to them about being followed.”

Mason said it with so much force that it left Timmers glued to the spot. “Go!” Mason yelled, and Timmers hurried off.

“Don’t let what that MP said get to you,” Treborn said. “You’ve got to keep a clear head.”