Ruins of War (21 page)

M
ason sat at the phone struggling to hear the War Crimes Commission lawyer over the din of the operations room. He turned in his chair and waved for the others to tone it down, but no one noticed. The operations room had blossomed: They now had five phones and four rows of tables with his team of investigators and ten army clerks answering the constantly ringing phones or bustling around the tables sorting through piles of documents. The extra phones, tables, and clerks were there thanks to Wolski’s skills at “procurement.” Mason had no intention of asking Wolski how he had pulled it off, but he suspected that at least half of the procurement had been misappropriated from Colonel Walton’s provisions and staff.

“What was that, sir?” Mason said into the phone. He listened. “I know the Russians have agreed to participate in the Nuremberg trials. I simply want you to
mention
to Herta Oberheuser’s lawyer that a combined Polish-Russian tribunal is
petitioning
for the Ravensbrück prisoners to appear in a separate trial in Poland because of atrocities perpetrated on Polish women.”

Mason noticed Wolski hovering next to him and he held up his hand, telling him to wait. “That’s correct. It’s a ruse to get her to talk.
I’m sure she’s holding back information we need for our murder case. . . . Yes, you’ve heard about our case, then. So you understand the urgency. The Dachau camp commander told me she’s getting panicky about the trial, and I’m counting on this disinformation to push her over the edge and cooperate with us.” He listened. “Good. I appreciate this, sir.” Mason hung up the phone and turned to Wolski. “They’ve agreed to do it.”

“Hopefully we can piggyback her with Dr. Blazek tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? When did you hear this?”

“Colonel Walton just called to say that JAG is getting Blazek up here to visually identify Mauthausen guards and provide an oral statement. He arrives tomorrow at Dachau. They were going to bring him up here anyway, but they moved up the date for us.”

“That’s good news. We can go at both of them about that German prisoner doctor, the Healing Angel. That name has popped up a couple of times with a description of being tall and broad shouldered.”

Cole came up to the table and laid out a short stack of files. “This is what we’ve got so far on the night passes for German civilians. It’s all the potentials we’ve been able to match up from identity papers. Of these forty, fifteen have been reported by checkpoint MPs as using wagons. Freight mostly. Some for salvage operations.”

“Check them out right away.”

“It’s just me, sir. Mancini had to team up with Timmers and MacMillan to help check out the hundreds of sightings we’ve been getting from citizens.”

“Not one of those sightings has amounted to anything so far,” Wolski said.

“We can’t ignore them,” Mason said. He split the stack and handed a portion to Cole. “Team up with one of our MPs. You take half and we’ll take half.”

Mason stood and said to Wolski, “Let’s go.”

“You know this is a long shot.”

“O ye of little faith.”

•   •   •

W
olski parked the jeep on a short street lined with damaged warehouses and factories. In front of them stood an arched brick entrance with large wooden doors. Rising above the enclosure, they could see the ragged remnants of a factory.

“You sure you got the address right?” Mason asked.

Wolski checked his notepad. “That’s what it says right here. Schwanthaler shoe factory.”

They both climbed out of the jeep and approached the closed doors. Mason banged on the doors with his fist.

“Maybe it’s a bogus address,” Wolski said.

Mason pounded harder. The doors rattled from the force of his blows. When they received no answer, Mason gave the doors a swift kick.

“Don’t take it out on the door. You’ve wanted to hit something all day. What’s eating at you, Mr. Grouchy?”

“You going to put a ‘sir’ in there somewhere?”

“Mr. Grouchy, sir.”

Without taking his eyes off the doors, Mason said, “Laura’s leaving Munich. Possibly for good.”

“What? You’re just going to let her leave?”

“She’s doing her job. What am I supposed to do, put her in handcuffs?”

“You better think of something. Snag that girl and live happily ever after.”

“Well, thanks,
Miss Lonelyhearts
, I’ll keep it under advisement.”

Wolski was about to say something, but Mason whirled around to face him. “For your own safety, stop right now.”

Wolski raised his hands in surrender. He stepped back and looked at the ruins beyond the gate. “You really think this is going to lead us anywhere? How many guys with night passes supposedly fitting the description have we checked out already?”

“Four.”

“I know how many. And it’s five, including the ex-soldier with one arm and a guy that looked like he was about a hundred. Whoever filled out their physical descriptions had to be drunk.”

“If you want to go back to headquarters and go through more camp documents . . .”

“No, thanks.”

They turned at the sound of horse hooves on the cobblestone street. At the end of the block, a wagon carrying two men had just turned the corner. As the wagon completed the turn, the passenger put his hand on the driver’s arm. The driver stopped the wagon. The men were too far away to see their faces, but the passenger sat very tall on the buckboard. A tense moment passed. Mason was about to pull out his gun and approach the wagon when it started up again.

“That was a little suspicious,” Wolski said.

Mason watched the men carefully, alert to any sudden movement. When the wagon got closer, Mason saw that the passenger was indeed a tall man in his thirties. The driver looked to be in his late sixties. The driver finally reined in his horse and applied the hand brake. While Wolski took hold of the horse’s reins, Mason came up to the passenger’s side and showed his CID badge.

“We’d like to talk to you, sir. Could you please step down from the wagon?”

“You, too, sir,” Wolski said to the old man. “Please step down and stand against the building.”

The tall passenger climbed down. “You are police? Have I done anything wrong?”

While Wolski questioned the driver, Mason introduced himself and Wolski. “Can I see your identification?”

Lang handed over his papers. Mason studied Lang’s face against the photograph on his identification. According to his papers, he was forty, though he looked younger. He had that German poster boy chiseled jaw and thrusting chin, his good looks marred only by thick
glasses that magnified his cow eyes. He stood almost a head taller than Mason and definitely filled out his tattered and oil-stained brown overcoat. His large hands had scratches and his fingernails were full of dirt and grease. Not the hands of a surgeon. Though, Mason thought, the killer didn’t need clean hands for what he was doing to his victims.

“Why did you have the driver stop at the end of the street when you saw us, Herr Lang?” Mason asked.

“I didn’t know you were American policemen. When I saw two armed men in uniforms standing by the gate I panicked. I can only explain my fear . . . well, it sounds foolish . . .”

“Try me,” Mason said.

“For ten years we Germans lived in fear of the SiPo, the Nazi security police—”

“I know what the SiPo was.”

Lang waved his hands and sputtered, “Not that I think you nice gentlemen are SiPo. But from a distance and seeing you two in uniforms and armed, I was suddenly back during Hitler’s Reich. It is a foolish thing, I know, but after so many years of living in fear . . .”

“Was there something you did that made you afraid of the SiPo?”

“Nothing criminal, if that’s what you mean. I was a Social Democrat, and I, among others, protested against Hitler taking full power, and I . . .”

Mason lost patience listening to the same old history lesson—the tried-and-true “I was against Hitler” defense he’d heard a hundred times. He wondered if Lang’s story, like many others’, was scripted and rehearsed. Despite the man’s shabby clothes and filthy appearance, he struck Mason as more professorial than laborer. The man’s papers seemed in order, though for a hefty price legitimate papers could be obtained from unscrupulous U.S. authorities. Some guys were getting rich off selling under-the-counter papers, especially the category 5 denazification card certifying the bearer as a ‘Person Exonerated’ (though most Germans referred to it derisively as a
Persilschein
after a well-known laundry detergent—a veritable whitewashing of
past Nazi sins). Despite the derision, it was the most sought-after document, as it kept them out of prison and gave them the right to work and better ration cards.

“How long have you been in Munich?”

“Most of my life. Until I was conscripted into the Wehrmacht.”

“What did you do in the Wehrmacht?”

“I was a chief mechanic in the Third Panzergrenadier Division. Tanks and armored cars were my specialty. I became quite proficient—”

“Do you have your army papers?”

“My
Soldat Buch
and other papers were confiscated when I became a prisoner of war.”

“Do you live here?”

“Could you explain to me why you are asking all these questions?”

“We are investigating a series of murders, and you have physical characteristics that match descriptions of the suspect.”

Lang froze, his mouth forming a small O. He finally muttered, “Oh, dear. But I have nothing to do with these murders.”

“You see why answering all our questions is important?”

Mason began to notice that, for all Lang’s stammering and glib patter, his body expressed the opposite: no nervous tics, his eyes fixed, his breathing steady. Mason had learned the physical signs of a man who felt cornered or feared being caught, but Lang seemed to feel nothing. A void behind a theatrical face.

“I’m sorry,” Lang said. “What was your question?”

“Do you live here?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, my residence was destroyed, but I do enjoy the quiet this situation provides me. It is also my workshop.”

“You know, for all your appearance as a humble junk collector, you sound pretty educated, Herr Lang.”

Wolski instructed the old man to stay where he was and joined Mason. Lang took a step back when he noticed Wolski.

“This is not my chosen occupation,” Lang said. “The war changed that. Now I do what I must to survive.”

“What were you before being drafted into the army?” Wolski asked. “An engineer? A doctor, maybe?”

Lang turned his upper body to face Wolski. “Do you like the idea of a German professional fallen from grace because of the war? Does that make you feel superior?”

First he’s the humble junkman, now an indignant member of the upper class.
Mason couldn’t quite figure the man out. Something about him didn’t fit, but Mason had no more than a vague notion of this, like a faint disturbing odor.

“You didn’t answer his question,” Mason said.

“I worked as a factory supervisor for Mercedes-Benz while studying industrial engineering at the University of Kassel. Have I adequately answered the question?”

“There’s no way for us to know, Herr Lang. Just so our minds are at ease, why don’t you show us your workshop?”

“Of course,” Lang said and pulled out his keys. As he unlocked the doors, he said, “You will find all is in order. Perhaps then you will stop this harassment and leave me in peace.”

“That depends on what we find.”

Lang pushed open the doors. Mason gestured for Lang to go first. Wolski instructed the old man to follow them, then he caught up to Mason. “The driver’s papers check out. Got his name and address. He said that Lang rented him and his wagon for the day. I checked the back of the wagon. Just a bunch of beat-up auto parts and the rusted guts of some radios or something.”

When they entered the courtyard, Mason took in the shattered and burned shoe factory. “Your workshop is here?” Mason said. “Good place to do things you don’t want anyone to know about.”

Lang fished the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the single door. “You shall see why I chose this place.”

Lang opened the door, and Mason pushed in past him. Wolski followed Lang inside while keeping a hand on his pistol. Lang opened
the big double doors. The blue-gray light of dusk poured into the center of the room, but still left the corners in shadow.

“Stand just outside the doors, please,” Wolski said. “And no sudden moves.”

“Why do you treat me like a criminal? I have done nothing wrong, and I resent the intrusion—”

“Shut up,” Wolski said and pointed to a spot outside the doors. “When I said
don’t move
that meant your mouth, too.”

Lang complied. Mason and Wolski made a slow search of the workshop with their flashlights in hand. They first checked out the 1928 Mercedes-Benz that was now only half covered by the black cloth cover. Wolski whistled in admiration, while Mason checked the interior for anything suspicious. The Altmann car was next, then they wove through the shelves, examining the various tools, automobile parts, and clock mechanisms.

“The owners don’t mind that you took this place over?” Mason asked.

“Am I allowed to speak?”

“Only to answer questions,” Wolski said.

“The original owner was Jewish. He was forced to give it away, and a group of Nazi officials took it over. I imagine they are either dead or in detainment camps. I knew about this machine shop, as a friend of mine used to work here.”

“Did you fix all these clocks and things?” Mason asked.

“Of course. I found everything in unclaimed ruins. They were worthless before I repaired them.”

Mason examined a brass torsion pendulum clock under a glass dome. “My grandmother had one of these,” he said to Wolski. “When I was a kid, I’d stare at it for hours.” He looked at Lang. “You do very nice work.”

Lang bowed his head. “I am fortunate to have a skill that helps me survive.”

Wolski called Mason over, and Mason looked where Wolski had trained his flashlight beam. On the floor in the corner lay a small
mattress with rumpled sheets. It confirmed Lang’s story about sleeping there. They both surveyed the shelves of Lang’s repaired objects. On the last turn Mason saw a long narrow object under a canvas cover. He and Wolski stepped over to it, and Mason pulled off the cover. Underneath sat a half-built Horex motorcycle.