Spoils of Victory (8 page)

Mason continued quickly to the bathroom, relieved himself, then crept back to the bedroom and gently prodded Adelle awake.

“We should go,” Mason said.

Adelle yawned and stretched. “We can't. Hilda will be upset if we leave before morning.”

“I've got to be at headquarters in about four hours.”

Adelle took his hand. “Please. Let's stay.”

“Stay if you like, but I've got to go.”

Adelle held her breath when she heard Winstone and Hilda's distant argument. She rose quickly. “Not if you're leaving.”

Mason apologized, but Adelle seemed more hurried than upset. They dressed and left quietly. They barely spoke as Mason drove them back into town. She directed him to her apartment, and he promised to see her as soon as he had a chance. Then he managed to find his way to his billet, a place on Frühlingstrasse by the Loisach River, a cottage compared to Winstone's villa.

The time for forgetting came to a close. Mason remembered as he slept. He remembered the torture, the misery at the prison camps, the death march, and a little girl, Hana, dead in a snowy field.

M
ason entered police headquarters an hour late, and a little worse for wear. Two hours of sleep and a gallon of champagne. Not so long ago, he could have done that and been ready to tackle the day. Last night seemed like a dream now, Adelle a divine apparition sent to help him forget Laura for a brief time, and the darker things in his mind. He would definitely see Adelle again.

Copious amounts of water and coffee, that was what he needed at that particular moment. But when he saw an MP, Private Stratford, heading for him as if competing for the land speed record, he knew he should have stopped by the officers' mess before showing his face at headquarters.

“What is it, Private?”

“Sir, there's been a double homicide. I'm to take you there. Mr. Densmore will meet you.”

“Densmore?”

Mason found that odd, as Densmore was the supervising officer and usually coordinated investigations from headquarters.

“Yes, sir. He wanted to be in on this one, for some reason.”

What, at first, had simply been a bone-chilling trip in an open
jeep across town turned to unease when Private Stratford took a now-familiar path. Unease turned to dread when the jeep rose above town on the same winding road.

“This can't be,” Mason said.

“What's that, sir?”

“Nothing,” Mason said as they passed the same row of mansions.

The private stopped at the gate to Winstone's villa. Two other MP jeeps were parked at the curb, and an MP stood guard at the open gate.

“When you get back to headquarters, tell Mr. Abrams to get his ass up here.”

“He's already inside.”

Mason nodded then got out of the jeep. The MP guard waved him through the iron gate. Mason stopped halfway up the front walkway and lit a cigarette. He needed time to steel his nerves. A double homicide. Winstone and Hilda.

He cursed at the tragedy of it and hurled the cigarette down onto the snowy walkway. Abrams intercepted him as he took quick strides toward the villa he'd left only a few hours ago.

Mason asked, “What have we got?”

“The victims are a man and woman. A CIC agent, John Winstone . . .”

Mason cursed again under his breath.

“What's wrong?” Abrams asked.

“He's a friend of mine. I'm guessing the other victim is Hilda Schmidt.”

“Damn. How do you . . . ? I'm not going to ask.”

“I was here last night.”

“Damn,” was all Abrams could get out.

They entered the front door of the villa and stepped into the vast foyer. Three MPs stood outside the living room door.

Abrams continued, “Winstone left a suicide note—”

“Suicide note?”

“You'll have to see for yourself, sir, but it's pretty simple: ‘I can't come back from this dark place. I've committed too many sins to go on.' Seems like a murder-suicide to me. No signs of a forced entry, no tracks leading up to the house, no sign of a struggle.”

They entered the villa's living room. Densmore was already there, crouched near Winstone's and Hilda's bodies, with the tips of his shoes touching a pool of blood spread across a Persian rug.

As Mason took in the scene, he struggled to maintain his composure.

Winstone sat cross-legged, cradling Hilda's head with a lifeless arm. He had a bullet hole just above his right eyebrow with a chunk the size of a baseball missing behind and below his left ear. Hilda had been tortured: cuts, burns, and bruises everywhere her shredded nightgown exposed skin. She had at least ten stab wounds to the chest and stomach that Mason could see. But worst of all, her nose, lips, and ears had been cut off, and her eyes gouged out, giving her the appearance of a grinning skull wearing a fleshy mask.

After four years as a homicide detective in Chicago, two years of war as a soldier, and time in several POW camps, Mason should have been used to seeing the barbarity of man, but that had never been the case. And now he looked upon the bodies of his friend and a woman he'd grown fond of over the course of a few hours.

Obviously Densmore didn't feel the same way: “Ain't this romantic?”

Mason ignored the morbid crack and moved to the left side of Hilda's body. He crouched to get a better look at Winstone's wound. Being so close made his body cold. He summoned all his experience as a detective and imagined he was examining any other corpse, and not that of a friend.

Winstone's head hung forward with his chin buried in his plaid bathrobe. His right eye was half open and full of blood. His left eye and mouth were clenched tightly closed in a frozen last moment of waiting for the impact of the bullet.

“A murder-suicide if I ever saw one,” Densmore said.

Mason needed a smoke at that moment, but the pack stayed in his pocket. It seemed disrespectful to light up even if the two were long past caring. He sighed instead.

Densmore began to report impassively, “A CIC agent, John Winstone—”

“Yeah, I know this guy. A friend of mine.”

“Pretty fancy digs for a CIC agent. What do you know about him?”

“He was investigating some ex-Nazis who he suspected were running a ratline.”

“What do you know about the dame?”

“Hilda Schmidt. Winstone's girlfriend. They seemed really tight. She worked at the Casa Carioca as a skater.”

“A real looker. Or she was.”

Mason closed the woman's open robe to cover her nakedness. Densmore's childish humor was getting on Mason's nerves. He clamped his jaw to suppress it. He bent low to examine a carving knife that lay on the floor a few feet from Hilda's hand. The blade and handle were caked in dried blood.

“Pretty clear fingerprints on the handle,” Densmore said. “I'm gonna bet that they're Winstone's.”

On the surface, it appeared Densmore was right. Mason pointed out the lack of blood in Winstone's lap. “Looks like she was dead by the time he sat down and propped up her head. Why would he go through the effort to cut her up then cradle her in his arms and shoot himself? Doesn't make sense.”

“Now, don't go complicating things.”

Mason indicated the champagne bottle lying on its side by the fireplace and the two broken champagne glasses. “They decide to celebrate her butchering?”

“Look, it's simple enough for me. He finds out she's fucking some other guy, loses his head, and cuts her up. As soon as his head clears, he starts bawling: ‘What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done?'”

Mason looked up to Abrams, who had turned pale while staring at the two corpses. “Were you the first to arrive on the scene?”

“Yes, sir,” Abrams said, then pointed toward the living room door. “Me and Specialist Tandy.”

“Did either of you find the woman's body parts?”

Abrams shook his head. “Everything was as you see it. And it looks like nothing was taken. His wallet with a wad of cash and his gold engraved pocket watch are still on the bedroom dresser.”

“And you've searched the grounds?”

Abrams nodded. “Wilson and Tandy are still out there.”

Mason looked closer at Winstone's head wound. “Odd way to shoot himself. Above the right eyebrow.”

“He could've been nervous and slipped. Or bawling so hard his aim was bad. Could be any number of reasons why he shot himself there.”

“So, you're certain this is a suicide?”

“There's nothing to indicate it was anything else. Nothing. And if we throw around the speculation that a CIC agent was murdered, it's going to create a real shit storm.”

Mason looked up at Densmore, surprised by his remark. “I don't like tossing out other possibilities because it might complicate the job.”

“You're the one who said you wanted to keep a low profile.”

“This one's different. I was here last night, and neither of them showed—”

“Wait, wait, wait . . .” Densmore said, holding up his hands. “You were here last night?”

“I met Winstone and Hilda for dinner, and he invited me back here.” Mason decided to leave Adelle out of it for the moment. “We drank and talked. They seemed happy together. They were having a lovers' quarrel when I left, but most of the time it was nothing but smiles and kisses.”

“What time did you leave?”

“About three in the morning.”

“By the looks of it, I'd say they died very early this morning. Maybe even as early as three.”

“Oh, come on, Pat. You should know better than that.”

“No, I shouldn't. Can anyone corroborate you leaving before they died?”

Mason hesitated. “I was with a girl. We left together, and there was no one in the living room. Like I said, Winstone and Hilda were having a little argument, but I think it was about me and the girl still being here. Look, don't start in with the questions if you really think this is a murder-suicide.”

“Is that what you think?”

Mason thought a moment. “He did hire a security team about a month ago because he was spooked about investigating a ratline. He asked me to stay with him for the same reason.”

“Was the team here last night?”

“He didn't trust them, and let them go over a month ago.”

“He was so spooked he fired them and asked you to do a sleepover.”

Mason had to admit, Densmore had a point.

Densmore said, “I'll ask you again. Based on what we have, what do you think?”

Mason had his suspicions, but he sighed and said, “Everything seems to point in that direction.” He felt ashamed for saying it, but Winstone and Hilda
were
having a heated argument. Still, that didn't explain such a brutal slaying.

Densmore stared at him for a moment. Mason dodged the look by going back to considering the scene. A framed eight-by-ten photograph sitting on the mantel caught his eye. He strode over and plucked it off to have a closer look. It was a publicity photo from the Casa Carioca, of seven dancing girls in sparkling outfits in front of a twenty-piece orchestra. A circle was drawn around Hilda's face with the word
mich!
—me!—then an autograph at the bottom where Mason made out
Hilda
.

Looking upon the smiling young woman with eyes full of hope
and youthful energy made her disfigurement more tragic, and he started to feel that familiar slow burn of rage. He put the photograph back in its place. “If Winstone cut her up, what did he do with the body parts? Why get rid of those and leave the body where it was?”

“There you go again.”

“And why the nose, lips, ears, and eyes? If he wanted to deface her out of jealousy, the usual thing is to slash up the face, not this.”

“I don't know what went on in his head, and neither do you.”

Mason decided not to push his suspicions too far. “I know he has a chef who also serves as the butler for the place. A villa like this, he must have had other servants.”

“Besides the cook, two servants,” Densmore said.

“Anyone talk to them yet?”

“I got here five minutes before you did.”

“The chef's the one who found them,” Abrams said. “Says he came in this morning around seven and found them like that. Apparently the two servants, an elderly husband and wife, have been out of town since yesterday morning. They're expected to come back by train tomorrow.”

“Where's the cook?” Densmore said.

“We've got him in the library.”

“Why didn't you tell me when I first got here?” Densmore asked.

“You didn't ask.”

Mason suppressed a smile. Most of the other investigators and MPs didn't care for Densmore. He acted imperious to the lower ranks and spoke ad nauseam about his experiences as a cop in St. Louis.

Densmore fixed his glare on Abrams. “Anything else you decided not to tell me because I didn't ask?”

Abrams looked to Mason for help.

“Anyone call the crime scene techs and ME?” Mason asked Abrams.

“The techs were busy at another scene, but they should be here anytime now. The ME is up in Frankfurt for a medical summit, so the hospital is sending a doc over, but that could take hours.”

“Then get the German ME over here,” Mason said.

With a “yes, sir,” Abrams moved out, looking relieved at being rescued from Densmore's wrathful glare.

“Damned rookies,” Densmore said. “We've got major crimes going on in this city, and the detachment's run like a small-town sheriff's office. Back when I was in St. Louis, we'd've had a whole team swarming over this place—”

“Let's go talk to the chef,” Mason said.

Densmore looked annoyed at the interruption, but he got the message. “By all means. Let's go talk to the kraut.”

They crossed the broad dining room with its mahogany-paneled walls and ceiling adorned with intricate molding. At the far end, they came to a door guarded by an MP. The MP stood aside to let them enter.

“The guy's fit to be tied, sir,” the MP said. “A real Nazi asshole.”

“Thanks for the professional assessment, Private,” Mason said.

The two investigators entered a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Along the back wall stood tall windows overlooking spacious gardens buried in snow. From a seat in one corner, Winstone's butler and chef, Otto Kremmel, eyed Mason with a look of recognition. He shot up from the plush leather chair. “Why am I being kept prisoner?” he barked in German.

Mason introduced Densmore.

“I simply reported this incident to the authorities,” Otto went on, “and now I am confined as if guilty.”

“Do you speak English?” Densmore asked.

Otto shot a disdainful glance at Densmore. “I speak English, Italian, Polish, and Russian.”

“English will do, Herr Kremmel,” Mason said.

“You're pretty well educated for a cook, Herr Kremmel,” Densmore said.

“I am not a cook. I am a chef and have headed kitchens for some of the finest families in Germany.”