Ruins of War (25 page)

M
ason looked at his watch again then scanned the square. He sat in an army sedan, with Wolski behind the steering wheel. Kessler hunched low in the back. Across from where they were parked on Paradiesstrasse, they could survey the square formed by five intersecting streets that lay on the southern tip of Munich’s immense park, the Englischer Garten. Three hours, and still no sign of Wertz.

From what Mason could see, not much of the park had been spared. Bombs had shattered the decorative pavilions, splintered the trees, and left behind craters in the place of flowerbeds. But it was a good place to conduct black market trading: populated, but not too much so, with wide lines of sight and a large five-street intersection providing multiple escape routes—not to mention the vast park itself.

Several “vendors” traded their wares on the square and by the park entrance: two separate women with racks of clothes emptied from closets, a butcher hawking questionable meat, lone individuals selling jewelry displayed by opening their overcoats. Behind them, in the park, people hacked away at fallen trees for firewood. The easy pickings had already been taken; now an intrepid few attacked the large branches and trunks.

To the left of the square, Timmers and Pike, dressed in civilian
clothes, milled on a corner of the park entrance. Four other investigators of his team were occupied in other parts of the city following up on reports from eyewitnesses, so Mason had no other choice but to take Colonel Walton up on his offer to use Havers.

Mason glanced to his right, where MacMillan and Havers sat at one of the sidewalk tables of a café. Havers was supposed to be using a newspaper as cover, but he kept eyeing the square, or he would get up and pace before MacMillan could urge him to sit again.

“I’m hungry and I have to pee,” Kessler said.

“Shut up,” Mason said.

“That’s the first two words I’ve heard you utter since we got here,” Wolski said.

Mason glowered at Wolski, then went back to watching the plaza.

“You can’t let Ramek leaving that clock get to you.”

“You going to tell me now that it’s no big deal? He’s thumbing his nose at both of us. We’re flailing around, totally blind, trying to find this guy, and he walks right into a building full of cops and plops it on my desk.”

“I suppose you’re pissed off about Laura, too.”

“That subject is off-limits.”

“I’ve got to pee,” Kessler insisted.

“What are you, five years old?” Mason said. “Get out on the blind side of the car and pee in the gutter.”

As Kessler got out of the car, Wolski said, “Don’t pee by my door. I don’t want to step in it.”

In the middle of relieving himself, Kessler stifled a cry. He ducked down and peered through the sedan windows. “There he is. Green coat and brown fisherman’s hat.”

To his right, Mason spotted Wertz crossing Lerchenfeldstrasse. Wertz looked to be in his midtwenties and walked with an athletic gait. He kept checking his flanks as he entered the square and headed for the park.

Mason got out of the car and removed his hat. That was the signal
for the others. Wolski told Kessler to hide in the backseat. “Don’t go anywhere,” Wolski said, then he followed Mason across the wide intersection.

Timmers and Pike were doing the same thing, entering the square from the west to cut off Wertz’s potential escape into the park. MacMillan was waiting until Wertz passed him, but Havers got up too soon. Wertz whirled around. Havers froze.

Mason and Wolski broke into a run. The other team did the same thing. MacMillan shot up from the table and charged, but Wertz pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol from his pocket and fired. MacMillan jerked from the pain and went down. Civilians screamed or ran for cover. Havers remained frozen as Wertz fled down a small street branching off from the intersection.

As Mason rushed past Havers, he yelled, “Help MacMillan.”

When Mason and Wolski reached the street, Wertz had a fifty-yard lead. Both sides of the road were lined with ruins and rubble that lay in piles at the base of collapsed buildings.

Mason and Wolski had their pistols out. “CID! Halt!”

Wertz put on a burst of speed and leapt over a heap of rubble, but his foot landed on loose gravel and he slipped and fell on his side. He scrambled behind a heap of bricks and fired his pistol. The bullet whizzed by Mason’s ear. Mason and Wolski dived to opposite sides of the street and took defensive positions. A silent standoff ensued, a sharp contrast to the explosion of the gun. In the distance came the wail of sirens. To keep Wertz pinned in place, Mason aimed for the bricks at the top of the heap protecting Wertz. He shot twice. The bricks shattered into dust.

Apparently judging the risk worth it, Wertz jumped to his feet and ran. Mason and Wolski chased after him. Fifty feet later, Wertz turned again and fired. Mason dropped to the street and aimed. Before Wertz could turn to run again, Mason pulled the trigger.

The bullet smashed into Wertz’s thigh. He screamed and fell face-first onto the pavement. Mason and Wolski raced up. Wertz tried to
reach for his pistol, but Wolski kicked it away. Timmers and Pike arrived seconds later.

“We’ve got this,” Mason said, out of breath. “Help MacMillan. If you can’t get an ambulance, take him yourselves.”

“What about him?” Timmers asked, pointing to Wertz. “He’s gonna need—”

“We’ll take care of him. Now go!”

Timmers recoiled as if he’d been slapped in the face. He looked at Wolski for a moment, then took off with Pike. Mason turned his attention back to Wertz. The bullet had passed through his thigh, taking a chunk of leg with it. Mason looked around. There were a few curious bystanders at both ends of the street.

“What are you thinking?” Wolski said. “He could bleed out if we don’t get him to a hospital.”

Mason leaned over Wertz. “You hear that, Wertz? If we don’t get you to a hospital you’re going to die.” Wertz could only moan. “So the sooner you talk, the quicker you’ll get your sorry ass to a hospital.”

“Chief, don’t do this,” Wolski said.

“Shut up. This asshole just shot a cop. And he tried to do the same to us. He is gonna talk. Right here, right now.”

Mason flipped Wertz on his back. He pulled out the sketch of Ramek and held it in Wertz’s face. “You sold surgical equipment to this guy. Dr. Ramek. I want to know where he lives.”

Between gasps for air and spasms of pain, Wertz said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You want to bleed to death, huh, Wertz? Start talking or we’re going to walk away and let you bleed out.”

“I swear I don’t know him!”

MP and ambulance sirens echoed in the narrow street as they pulled into the square. Mason was desperate. He ground the toe of his boot into Wertz’s wound. Wertz screamed.

“Chief, come on—”

Mason dug his boot deeper into Wertz’s gaping wound. Wertz cried out, almost squealing.

“You tell me where I can find Ramek, or I’m going to keep doing this. . . .” Mason put the full weight of his body behind his boot.

Wertz screamed and held up his hands for Mason to stop. “All right. Just stop.” He took a few gulps of air. “I made some deliveries. A couple of times. He had some kind of machine shop. . . .”

Mason raised his foot to strike. “That’s not good enough. Not a shop. Not his favorite hangout. We need a residence. His house.”

“All right! He has a house. On Landsberger Strasse. I don’t remember the number. Two seventeen, or something. White brick with red shutters.” His face had gone white from blood loss and pain. “Now, please. Get me to a hospital!”

A jeep and ambulance pulled up behind Mason and Wolski. Two medics went into action, applying sulfa powder and a tourniquet. A large pool of blood had formed around Wertz’s leg, and he had become still, his eyes glazed, his skin shading to gray. Mason watched in silence as the medics put on a pile of gauze and mounted Wertz onto a stretcher.

“What’s his status?” Wolski asked.

One of the medics said, “He’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s in shock. If we get him back in time, he should live.”

Wolski shot a hard look at Mason and walked back toward the square. Mason sprinted past Wolski and up to where MacMillan had been shot. Havers sat at the café table, his eyes fixed on MacMillan’s spilled blood. The ambulance had already taken MacMillan away.

“Is Mac going to be all right?” Mason asked Timmers.

“He got hit in the chest. A clean exit wound, but it collapsed his lung. He’s pretty bad.” He turned his head toward Havers. “If this asshole hadn’t screwed things up, no one’d be hurt.”

“That’s enough,” Mason said.

Wolski walked up. “Are we going after Ramek?”

Mason nodded. “We’ll pick up some fresh bodies then get Becker and a German team to go with us.”

“What about Havers?”

“Tell him to go back to headquarters. I don’t want to talk to him right now.”

“Why? You might torture him, too?”

“If you’re getting squeamish, just let me know. We’ll get you off the street and behind a desk.” When Wolski didn’t respond, Mason said, “Let’s get moving. Now we know where this bastard lives.”

T
he neighborhood could have passed for any American middle-class suburb: one- and two-story houses on tree-lined streets, a peaceful setting spared by the ravages of war. Mason and Becker sat in an army sedan with a clear view of Ramek’s house. They were parked a hundred feet down on a street that formed a T intersection with Ramek’s street. Mason checked his watch for the umpteenth time, then scanned the house with his binoculars.

The Handie-Talkie crackled, and Wolski’s voice came over the handset. “One pedestrian coming your way. Long blue coat and black hat. His back is to us, so I couldn’t get a good look at him.”

Mason acknowledged and they waited. Wolski had opted to team up with Timmers, and they were parked at the far end of Ramek’s street. Pike and two MPs had stationed themselves at one of the main approaches to Ramek’s street, with Mannheim and four German police covering a second approach and the back of the house.

Moments later, the pedestrian came into view. Mason sighed and dropped his binoculars. “Not our guy.”

“Ramek knows we’ve discovered at least his workshop alias,” Becker said. “He may have even heard of Wertz’s arrest. In all probability, he will stay clear of this house.”

“Yeah, I figured that. You can’t blame a man for hoping. We’ve been here for five hours. It’ll be dark soon. I say we take a look around, then post a couple of surveillance teams just in case he tries to sneak back.”

Becker nodded. “He may have to come back for something that is vital to him.”

“Yeah, maybe he forgot his toothbrush.” Mason said into the Handie-Talkie, “It’s time to go in. You all know how I want this to go down: Approach on foot, safe and quiet, on the off chance that he’s hiding out in there.”

Silently, Timmers and Pike with a team of MPs sprinted toward the back of the house to join a team of German police. Mason and Wolski, along with two other MPs, sneaked up to the front door, while Becker, Mannheim, and four German police officers fanned out along the front lawn.

When everyone was in position, two German police officers came forward. One had a sledgehammer. Mason nodded, and, with one strategic swing, the sledgehammer hit the latch and the door flew open. Mannheim and the German officers charged in first. Mason, Wolski, and Becker came in behind them.

The German police yelled a warning—
“Polizei!”
—as they advanced into each room. Mason, Wolski, and Becker stayed in the living room, which only contained a few rows of chairs and a desk in the corner.

Mason scanned the area while waiting tensely. Protocol was for the German police to make any arrest. With each successive search of a room, the German officers called out,
“Klar! . . . Klar!”

Mason couldn’t stand it any longer. “The hell with this.” With Wolski and Becker right behind him, Mason dashed into the next room. They found themselves in a typical doctor’s examination room.

“Ramek was still practicing medicine?” Mason asked aloud.

They went from room to room and, while all had clean, modest furniture, they lacked any personal touches: no pictures or
knickknacks of any kind; aside from the living room, the place was more like a furniture store showroom than living quarters. Mason and Wolski stopped in the kitchen, and again, showroom clean but void of pots and pans.

“Does this guy even eat?” Wolski asked. He opened the pantry. “Look at this.” He grabbed a can out of the pantry and tossed it to Mason. “Almost exclusively old Wehrmacht rations. I could barely eat army rations when I had to, and he does it by choice.”

Mason examined the label. “Conserved pork meat. He must have salvaged this stuff from somewhere around the city.” A thought came to him. “That butcher’s table in Ramek’s workshop. The manufacturer said those kinds of tables were sold to meat-processing plants, right?”

“Yeah, the manufacturer said those kinds of tables were sold to five meat-processing plants in and around Munich, but they couldn’t say which one it came from.”

Mason nodded. “I bet it’s from the one that made these rations.”

Excited voices erupted from a room off the kitchen. Mason and Wolski rushed into the room and saw two German police trying to open a reinforced door. One of them called for the sledgehammer. Someone passed the hammer down the line. It took three blows to break open the door. Beyond was a small dark bedroom with the windows boarded over and blackout cloth attached to the boards. With guns drawn, the German officers charged inside the room. Mason and Wolski entered right behind them and looked around with their flashlights. No Ramek, only a writing desk, two chairs, and a full-length mirror.

Mason had been almost certain they wouldn’t find him, but it still was a crushing disappointment. Becker and the German officers filed out, leaving Mason and Wolski alone in the dark. In the adjoining room, Mason heard Becker giving orders to his men to interview the neighbors. Wolski started to search through the small writing desk, while Mason walked up to the wood-framed full-length mirror that stood on a throw rug in the middle of the room.

“Strange,” Mason said. “The top third of the mirror has been painted over.”

“The desk doesn’t have much. Pens, blank paper, some office supplies in the drawers.”

Timmers and Pike came into the room out of breath. “We rummaged around out back,” Timmers said. “No garage or other structures. Looks like he never went out there much. No signs of fresh graves.”

“We checked the basement, too,” Pike said. “Nothing down there but a bunch of junk.”

“Look at this,” Mason said. He had the flashlight trained on a small carpet that lay in front of the mirror. “Seems to be bloodstains.” He squatted and touched the spots. “They’re not fresh.”

Mason lifted a corner of the rug, revealing a partial print of a shoe. He pushed the mirror to one side and pulled the rug away. Underneath was a trapdoor. They gathered silently around and drew their pistols. Mason lifted the small ring handle recessed in the door and looked up at the others. “Ready?”

The others nodded. Mason yanked the trapdoor back. Silence and darkness in the space below. Flashlight beams searched the hole. Wooden stairs led downward. The smell of dank earth flowed into the room.

Mason yelled down. “Ramek? Your house is swarming with police. There’s no escape. Come out with your hands up. . . . Ramek?”

Nothing.

“In the good old days, we’d’ve tossed a couple of grenades down there and been done with it,” Timmers said.

With his flashlight in one hand and pistol in the other Mason took a tentative step. He crouched low and slowly descended. His body tensed without his volition, as if preparing for the explosion of gunfire and a bullet slamming into his leg. Halfway down, he could see most of the center of the room. He braced himself, jumped, and landed on the dirt floor with his gun and flashlight up and ready to shoot.

Nothing obscured his view, and there was nowhere to hide. “Clear,” he said with a dispirited voice.

While the others clambered down, Mason concentrated on the room’s contents. The twenty-foot-square space of dirt walls had probably been a root cellar at one time. Used candles sat everywhere: on the floor, in small holes dug into the walls, and clustered on a long, narrow table. In the middle of the table, surrounded by the candles, Ramek had placed a tall crucifix. Framed pictures of saints dotted the walls behind the crucifix.

“Looks like some kind of shrine,” Wolski said.

“To your left,” Mason said.

All turned. Ramek had created a baptismal cross of wooden planks painted black. The planks were a foot in depth and the arms spanned six feet end to end. It was mounted slightly off the floor, making it higher than Mason’s head height. At the ends of the eight points of the cross, alcoves had been fashioned, and in each alcove was a large glass specimen jar. Each jar contained a different human organ. In the very center, a ninth alcove held a specimen jar containing a human heart.

“There’s a light switch, here above the table,” Pike said behind Mason. He turned the rotary switch, and the cross lit up.

Ramek had installed lights behind the entire cross and it created an eerie glow in the dark space.

“The sick fucking bastard,” Timmers said.

Mason approached the wall and examined the jars. “The brain is in the top jar. Lungs, kidneys, intestines . . .”

“Probably the poor nurse’s remains,” Pike said.

“None of the victims had their brain removed,” Mason said. “Where did he get that?”

“There’s obviously a victim we don’t know about,” Wolski said.

Becker and Mannheim came down the stairs. “One of the neighbors—” Becker began, but stopped when he saw the alcoves.
“Gott im Himmel . . .”

“Ramek’s shrine,” Mason said, then he turned to Timmers and Pike. “You two get the crime scene techs and forensics out here. The rest of you search for trapdoors or false walls throughout the rest of the house.”

They spent another two hours searching the house, but found nothing that might indicate where Ramek was now or what he planned to do next. Mason and Becker exited the house and stepped out onto the front lawn. The fresh air and cold sunlight broke the nightmarish spell of the root cellar.

Mason turned back to look at the house. “I can’t figure the mirrors. Every one of them has a portion masked out. I stood in front of them, and you can’t see your face. For the smaller ones, I figured at his height, he wouldn’t be able to see his eyes.”

“Very curious, indeed,” Becker said.

Wolski exited the house and joined Mason and Becker. “So far we haven’t found any ledgers, letters, or a diary. If he kept one.”

Becker said, “What I was about to say in the cellar, one of the neighbors says she saw Ramek. . . . She knows him as Dr. Schiller.”

“Another alias?”

Becker nodded. “She saw him last night exit the house with two large canvas bags.”

“By the looks of his exam room, he left in a hurry. He made a big mess in there, grabbing everything he could jam in those bags.”

“He didn’t take many clothes, either,” Wolski said.

Mason and Wolski shared an unspoken acknowledgment about what that meant. . . . Ramek had no intention of running and every intention of killing again.

“Let’s go check out those meat-processing plants.”

“Now?” Wolski asked.

“He got the butcher table and army rations from one of them. He could be using it as a hideout.”

“It’s going to be pitch-black in an hour.”

“It’s the only lead we have right now, so unless you can think of something better to follow up on, we’re searching the plants.”

•   •   •

M
ason, Wolski, and Becker, along with four German policemen, approached the lone security guard for the Lindenberger meat-processing facility, though what the man actually guarded was a mystery to Mason. Like most of the surrounding buildings in the complex north of Munich, the two that made up the processing facility were nothing but shells. The sun lay on the horizon behind heavy rain clouds, obliging everyone to use flashlights.

After brief introductions, the guard led them through the main doors to the plant.

“I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find,” the guard said. “Most everything that wasn’t nailed down has already been salvaged.”

Indeed, only the machines beyond repair and the debris from the collapsed roof remained on the factory floor. Mason thanked the guard and said they would have a look around anyway. The guard shrugged, then left them to their task.

“Exactly the same as the other two processing plants,” Wolski said. “Ramek wasn’t the only German to salvage the Wehrmacht rations for food. I told you this was a waste of time.”

“Your lack of enthusiasm is disturbing,” Mason said sarcastically, but Wolski ignored him.

Adding to Wolski’s foul mood, a cold rain began to fall.

Mason pulled his collar tight around his neck. “We’re here. Might as well look around.”

They spread out in a line and proceeded to search the expansive factory floor. Gusts of wind howled through the building’s glassless windows. Everyone bent forward against the driving rain.

“These remote factories
do
make an ideal place for Ramek to bring his victims,” Becker said.

“Yeah,” Wolski said, “this one and about a thousand others.”

A ten-minute search brought them to the far side, and they descended the stairs to the sublevel. As on the floor above, much of the metal and small machinery had already been removed, leaving only the large furnaces, the heavier can-manufacturing machinery, and traces of the overhead conveyor system. The group spread out again and searched the area with the beams of their flashlights. The darkness and cascades of rainwater made the going slow, but in twenty minutes they reached the opposite wall. They gathered by another set of stairs, and each man shook his head to say he’d found nothing. Then they repeated the process in the shipping and receiving building, remaining silent as they did so; it had been a long, frustrating day, and the foul weather threatened to sap their resolve.

“Let’s call it a night,” Mason said. “We can do the last two plants tomorrow.”

“You mean when we can actually see something?” Wolski said with bitterness behind it.

Mason decided to let it go. Wolski had been sullen since the incident with Wertz. And the series of setbacks had worn on all three of them. They needed an evening’s break.

As Mason led them through the rain and toward the vehicles, he fought grim thoughts of Ramek still out there somewhere, always one step ahead and stalking his next victim.