The German (5 page)

“What’s back that way?” Tom asked, nodding to the west.

“Just more woods.”

He looked deep into the forest, then back to the corpse. Harold had been missing for two weeks, but he didn’t look to have been dead nearly that long – only a few days, Tom would guess. Considering the summer’s heat, it might have been less. There was no blood in the immediate area and no signs of the meaty things the killer had removed, plus he hadn’t been gone over by any of the toothier inhabitants of the area, which seemed to indicate that Harold had been murdered elsewhere and then carried out here to Blevins woods to be dumped, but why had the killer gone to so much trouble?

Tom walked away from Jerome and began investigating the path on the far side of the tree where Harold had been left. Blevins hurried to his side and tossed his shotgun into his left hand, grabbing Tom with his right.

Tom spun on Jerome, knocking the man’s hand off his shoulder with a violent slap. Anger burned through him, acid in his veins. It came out of nowhere, scorching away his reason.

“I am investigating a crime, Jerome, and you’d better stay out of my way while I do it. I don’t give a good goddamn if you’ve got yourself a still or two hidden in these woods. They aren’t my concern. That boy is my concern, and I’ll do whatever I have to and go wherever I damn well please to figure out who treated him that way. Now if you keep running your mouth, I just might make those stills my problem and yours on top of it. And I swear to God if you start spreading that Mexicans-killed-him shit in town, I will personally notify the rangers in Austin to come up here and sift through every foot of every acre until they find a reason to be unhappy with you. So move your hairy ass back about ten steps and put a clamp on that pie hole.”

Blevins’s face burned a beet red, and his mouth hung open. Tom saw the man’s grip tighten on the barrel of his shotgun, but the sheriff wasn’t worried. He took care of this city, and he didn’t think it likely one of its citizens would draw down on him.

Tom walked back to where his men knelt and crouched down himself. Rex already had his fingers in place at the boy’s jaw. Gently, the deputy separated the teeth to reveal a small, crimson lacquered box resting on the tongue.

It took a few tries, but Tom managed to pinch an edge of the lid and remove it from the boy’s mouth. The crimson box, hardly larger than a matchbox, had been painted with the portrait of a fat man with bushy sideburns and a waxed mustache. Box in hand, Tom sent Blevins and his son back to the Packard to fetch the canvas bag he kept in the trunk; they would need it to haul the boy’s body back to the car.

While they waited, Rex snapped photographs of Harold Ashton and the area surrounding him, and Don dusted the lacquered surfaces but the powder stuck in a uniform film over the whole thing, revealing no telling marks. Tom took the container from his deputy and turned it over a few times. The lid popped off with a gentle flick of his thumb. A folded scrap of paper lay inside, and Tom used the tweezers to lift it free. Grasping the corner tightly with the tweezers, he shook the page until it opened and managed to see someone had left a note. Only a few lines written on a scrap no larger than a piece of cigarette paper. Tom couldn’t read the scrawl – not because of the size or clarity of the penmanship, which appeared precise and legible, but because the note had been written in German.

June 25th, 1944 – Translated from the German

They found a dead boy today. His name was Harold.

In the mercantile, after a day at home, I hear Weigle the butcher talking with Errol Ormand, the owner of the store. Weigle is an odd-looking man with a bush of white hair around a pink crown of scalp and eyes so tiny they appear no larger than a baby’s, stunted and unchanged since birth. Weigle’s accent is still thick, though he’s lived in Barnard for more than twenty years. Ormand stands much taller than Weigle, but he is less imposing. The owner of the mercantile has a soft countenance, with a slender nose and a feminine mouth.

The two men ramble on as old men do, spouting suppositions about culprits both familiar and exotic. Weigle blames gypsies, which makes me smile and makes Ormand laugh out loud. The agitated butcher turns angry and insists on being heard, though Ormand is already speaking and neither of them listens to the other. They aren’t concerned with solving the mystery of Harold Ashton’s death; they just like to hear themselves talk, and their argumentative tone draws others from the back of the store, questioning the cause of their disagreement. A woman squawks at the news. Men mutter.

Listening I come to understand that the boy was quite popular in town and everyone believed he’d run off to join the army. It is a shame that did not happen. The army is a good place for boys. Sometimes I think it is the only place I ever truly belonged. The regimentation and masculine camaraderie are unequaled, and I still find myself longing to return to the conflict, the chaos, and the company of brothers with whom I created the turmoil or quelled it, depending on the needs of the cause. The military was a bastion against political storms, the ignorant rabble, and the cancerous boredom of a tradesman’s life, and it is forever denied me now.

I remember being startled from a peaceful sleep. They called me traitor.

New accusations and suppositions as to who could murder such a young, fine boy rise in the crowd, as if they are playing a morbid guessing game. They speak no name but rather invoke labels in conspiratorial voices – Drifters, Niggers, Bean-eaters, Northerners, and Weigle again asserts the guilt of gypsies. Then a plump woman with flat features says that Sheriff Rabbit thinks a German has done this terrible thing. This sends Weigle back a step, and I take it as a petty cruelty on the woman’s part, intended to quiet Old Weigle down. Little in the way of valuable information emerges. A boy is dead. His parents and sister are grief-stricken. The sheriff is investigating the crime. I do not know this boy or his family, so I will wait to see what information is printed in the
Register
come morning. But such a crowd has gathered at the counter, I see no way to purchase my few items without being drawn into the discussion, and this sort of conversation has no interest for me. I replace the jar of blackberry preserves on the shelf. At the back of the store I return the bag of flour and the yeast, and then turn for the door.

A man enters. He is handsome with smooth cheeks and finely combed blond hair, slicked back like a movie star’s. His name is Jeffrey Irvine. I do not know why he isn’t fighting this country’s war as he is intelligent and healthy. He is a schoolteacher. He is twenty-eight years old and has a pretty wife named Betty and two little girls. I know this man. We have fucked. When Jeffrey sees me he ducks his head low and hurries past the crowd at the counter to distance himself from me as I continue toward the front door. He remembers following me home from the city park, remembers ejaculating on my thigh the moment my hand wrapped around his cock. He remembers the nights he’s come to visit me, rapping quietly on my front door only minutes after full dark has set, and he is ashamed of it.

I reach for the door handle amused by his weakness.

“Nothing today. Ernst?” Errol calls from the counter. He looks at me suspiciously as if he thinks me trying to steal a crock of butter or a can of beans. The rest of the crowd similarly eyes me, and I cannot understand why I should draw such attention unless it is the scars on my face, though these are not new.

“Not today,” I reply and leave the mercantile.

I pause on the sidewalk, standing beneath the awning of the store and letting the late afternoon heat work through my muscles as my eyes adjust to the bright light covering the downtown buildings. The oddity of my experience inside the grocery takes hold and I feel a needle of guilt, though I am certain I have nothing to feel guilty for – at least nothing of which these people of Barnard would know. I think to return to Ormand’s counter and demand an account of his behavior. The old Ernst would not have allowed such an affront.

The old Ernst is dead, I think. He is buried in Munich in a deep, dark hole.

On the next block, Sheriff Rabbit walks quickly from his office. He crosses the street and greets Doctor Randolph. The two men speak and then disappear into the doctor’s office. The woman in the grocery had said the sheriff believed the boy’s killer to be German, and I can’t help but wonder if there is actual evidence of this – since wounds have no nationality – or if it is simply hysteria like Weigle’s belief in Texas gypsies.

I wander down Main Street toward Bennington Road, which will take me south to Dodd Street. As I cross the intersection on the next block, Carl Baker shouts my name. I look up to see him crossing to me, sweeping his eyes from side to side, cautious of traffic. He picks up his pace and says my name again. His face is red and his moustache glistens with sweat.

“Terrible,
ja
?”

Though he has been in this country longer than I, he still speaks sloppily. His blunt “
ja
” – so common among my expatriated nationals – strikes me as lazy and insolent. But we are friends, and I know that Carl is – in most things that do not require flour, sugar, lard, yeast, and eggs – something of an idiot. But no, that word is cruel. It is better to say he is naïve. Innocent. He is a good man with pronounced intellectual limitations. He reminds me of a young soldier from Darmstadt I came to know. They share strong, trim bodies and soft eyes and lips. Carl and this boy would be nearly the same age I think, if the boy had not been beaten to death by the Communists.

“Terrible,” I agree.

“They say one of us did it,” Carl continues. “Gilbert from the sheriff’s office came in and told me they have proof.”

I ask what kind of proof, and Carl shakes his head frantically. The deputy would not tell him, but Gilbert and Carl are friends, and the young man wanted to warn the baker that there could be trouble. All of this seems to upset Carl greatly and that is to be expected. Soon after America had joined the war a man had taken out his anger on Carl, so my friend understood something of irrational aggression – very little, but something. I do my best to ease his mind, but my words fall like drops of water on a heated skillet. He invites me to join him for supper, stating he thinks it best I not be alone. I decline. Though Carl is a very good person, his wife is not so good. She busies herself in indiscriminate ways while her husband works at the bakery, and though I would never break my friend’s heart by exposing her nature, neither would I endure another evening under her hungry gaze, trying my best to ignore her thinly veiled suggestions. I promise to spend time with him at the Independence Day celebration, and would try to visit the bakery soon, and then I say my good evening.

~ ~ ~

After an early supper I walk outside to sprinkle more grain for the chickens. I feel disgust for the birds. They remind me of the filthy Chicken Farmer with his sharp nose and sinister eyes, made all the more cold and flat by the spectacles he wears. These white hens have done me no wrong and provide welcome fresh eggs, but I hate them still. Ugly creatures.

Once the birds are fed, I cross the yard to retrieve a length of oak from which I will fashion the armrest of a chair, but when I enter the spare room with the plank in hand, I have no desire for cutting. Instead, I sand the spindles for the chair’s back, finding some calm in the repetition of movement.

The schoolteacher, Jeffrey, knocks on my door once full dark settles. His arrival is not a surprise. The shameful memories he experienced at the mercantile have warmed him, melting inhibitions into something he can rationalize during the brief span of our meeting. He does not think of the shame just now, only the heat.

I miss home and the honesty of my peers. There is a puritanical oppression in this country, reminding me of my assignment in Bolivia, late in my military career. There the Catholic Church held men’s thoughts and cocks in an iron grip of guilt-enforced morality. Even during my brief stays in New York and New Orleans, cities known and celebrated for scandalous behavior, the weight of felony rested on my neck. Companions warned of reprisal should our meetings be discovered, many of them – like this Jeffrey – were so infected with shame, they appeared sick and weathered in the moments it took them to dress and flee my bedroom, and I can’t help but wonder what such a weak and frightened existence must feel like, even though the thought of it disgusts me. I would rather die as the man I am than live eternally beneath another man’s mask, but for all of the talk of freedom in this country, this Texas, its cries are delivered in harmony with deceit.