Ruins of War (13 page)

“Was Dr. Scholz a religious man?”

“I noticed he wore a crucifix,” Tritten said. “Plus, I heard that he prayed and made the sign of the cross if a patient died on his operating table.”

“Did you notice or hear of any odd behavior: anxiety, nervous tics, fits of temper, things like that?”

“No, nothing.”

“Did he express anger or a desire for revenge? Hatred or prejudice toward people or a group of people—persons in the medical profession, for instance?”

Sauber shook his head emphatically and looked to Tritten for help.

“No,” Tritten said, “though once in passing he mentioned a preference for nature and solitude over the company of people. But nothing that would lead either Dr. Sauber or myself to imagine that Dr. Scholz could do such a thing. To be frank, I’d like to think that he’s innocent of the charges.”

“The classic question is, if he were innocent then why did he run?”

“Everyone has something to hide, Herr Collins. Something to be ashamed of.”

Tritten had inadvertently opened a crack in his confident facade. He knew more than he was telling. They both were. Tritten covered it with a big grin, but Sauber suddenly found his desktop extremely fascinating.

“What is it that you’re not telling me, Doctors?”

“I meant nothing by that statement,” Tritten said. “I only proffered speculation as to why he decided to run from the authorities.”

“You know what it could mean for the hospital if we discover that one or both of you is withholding vital information about a murderer.”

Silence from both of them.

“Do either of you have any idea where he might have gone? Any idea where he might be hiding?”

“How could we possibly know that?” Tritten said at the same instant that Sauber again shook his head.

Sauber’s secretary poked her head in the room after knocking. “The files you requested, Dr. Sauber.”

Mason stood. “I’ll take those, please.”

The secretary looked to Dr. Sauber, who nodded for her to comply. She handed the files to Mason and left. Mason remained by the door as he scanned the documents. Dr. Scholz’s personal information listed his home address—naturally a completely different address from the one Scholz had given them at the end of the interview. It might not be his real address, either, and Mason doubted that Scholz would be there waiting to be arrested, but it would still be Mason’s next stop.

M
ight have known he was up to no good,” Frau Wruck, the landlady, said.

“Why do you say that, ma’am?” Mason asked. “Did he exhibit any strange behavior? Frighten you?”

“Frighten me? After all I’ve been through? No, he’s just a pompous ass. Acts like he’s the king of the world. People like that are always up to something.”

Frau Wruck led the way, mounting the stairs to Dr. Scholz’s apartment. For a seventy-plus-year-old, she handled the three flights of stairs with the vigor of a woman thirty years younger. She spoke in Bavarian slang, which Mason struggled to understand.

“When did Dr. Scholz rent the apartment?”

“I’d say, the first of June.” She stopped and thought. “Yeah, the first of June,” she said and continued up the stairs.

Wolski and Timmers followed behind Mason. Two MPs kept watch below in case Scholz was foolish enough to show up.

“Do you see him very much?” Mason asked.

“Hardly ever. He comes and goes at odd hours. Creepy, if you ask me.”

“What about his wife and son?”

Frau Wruck stopped again and turned as if she hadn’t heard the
question. “What’s that? He has a wife and son?” She shook her head and continued the climb. “Never seen a boy, though I have seen the doctor with a woman a few times. If he has family living up there then I need to charge him more rent. As a matter of fact, I should be charging him a
lot
more. When he first came here, I felt like I’d finally got a prestigious—and finally a
paying
—tenant. I gave him a break on the rent because of that, but now I’ve got some hotshot banker living here with his wife. This once-rich man had no other place to go. So I charge him a bundle. And you know what? He pays it, and he’s happy to do it. I’m learning. You know, I was just the guardian before the owner took off. He put me in charge until he gets back. Haven’t seen him since.”

“You said Dr. Scholz came and went at odd hours. Did he ever leave the premises after curfew?”

Frau Wruck stopped at a door, bringing the group to a halt. She chuckled as she fished for her keys. “It’s not
that
hard to get around the curfew. If you’ve got the gumption there’s a way.” She finally found the right key and inserted it in the lock.

Mason put his hand on hers to get her attention and put his finger to his mouth telling her to be quiet. When she saw Wolski and Timmers with their guns drawn, she retreated to the opposite wall. Mason unlocked the door, pushed it open, and let Wolski and Timmers enter with their guns held high. Mason slipped in behind them.

The three investigators split up, Mason silently instructing Timmers to take the kitchen, and Wolski to search the bedroom. A quick room-to-room search of the apartment confirmed what Mason had expected, that Dr. Scholz was not there. He then returned to the living room and found Frau Wruck standing just inside the front door.

“He ain’t here, is he?” Frau Wruck said.

“No, ma’am.”

“At least he’s paid up ’til the end of the month.”

“Do you talk to him much? Maybe talk to him about him having a second residence? Or a place he likes to go when he’s not staying here?”

“Hell, most folks don’t have a primary residence, let alone a second. Is he rich or something?”

“I wouldn’t know. But thank you for your time. We’ll take it from here.”

“Don’t you boys do any damage to the apartment. I want to rent it out again, and I don’t have the money to fix it up.”

Mason reassured her and asked her to wait downstairs. When she left, Mason took a moment to survey the room. The absence of photographs or artwork on the walls struck him first. Either the doctor was a neatness fanatic or he didn’t spend much time actually living here. Mason checked the coal-burning fireplace, but it looked like it hadn’t been used in a while. A search through the books and cushions turned up nothing. He moved on to the small bathroom, which contained a handful of toiletry items all neatly arranged.

It turned out that all the surprises waited for him in the smaller, second bedroom. Though the room had a simple iron-frame bed, area rug, and dresser, it appeared that the room served more as a showplace for Scholz’s family. All along the top of the triple dresser sat close to thirty framed photographs of two people who Mason assumed were his wife and son, mostly formal portraits, some tinted, all depicting two smiling faces. Several were wedding pictures; in a couple his wife, Gertie, wore a nurse’s uniform. The boy, Max, looked to be twelve or so, wearing either a suit and tie or his school uniform. A rocking chair had been placed so that the chair’s occupant could behold the photographic collection. A spindly end table accompanied the chair, where Scholz had placed a half-full bottle of schnapps and a drinking glass.

Mason tried to imagine the doctor sitting there, what had driven him to kill and butcher, what had prompted him to set up these pictures and rock in front of them, drinking schnapps, raise his glass to toast his family before getting on with his butchering. How could he be so evil while still functioning perfectly in society? Mason could see and understand the dark side of the man. He’d experienced enough of
the evil that men could do in the camps to know it very well, but he couldn’t understand how someone could live in both worlds. That didn’t make any sense to him.

He bent low and noticed a steamer trunk under the bed. He knelt and pulled it out, disturbing the layer of dust coating the floor. The trunk slid easily, and he brought it to rest by the rocking chair. The lid opened with a creak of protest.

Wolski poked his head in the room. “The guy can’t have more than a day’s worth of clothes in the bedroom. . . . What’s all that?”

“Kid’s toys,” Mason said as he proceeded to pull out cast-iron soldiers, stuffed animals, a spinning top with a carousel design, a jack-in-the-box, and finally a music box shaped like a grand piano.

Wolski stepped into the room to get a better look. “This must be the boy’s room.”

“I don’t know what this room is. Like the rest of the apartment, there’s nothing that says anyone lives here.”

After emptying out all the toys, Mason noticed a tray insert at the bottom. He lifted it out, then removed a folded woman’s dress wrapped in tissue paper. “This stuff must be his wife’s: dresses, shoes, hairbrushes. . . .” He stopped. Beneath the woman’s things he found a creased and water-stained envelope devoid of writing. It contained a folded letter. Mason took out the letter and read it. “It’s from a woman in Stuttgart, 1942. A Heidi Mendel.”

Dear Heinrich,

I have the sad task of informing you that Gertie and Max have been missing since the last bombing raid. It took me a week to compose myself before I could face writing you with this unhappy news. Mother says we should continue to hope. . . .

Mason stopped reading and put the letter back in the envelope.

“Who are Gertie and Max?” Wolski asked.

“Scholz’s wife and son. That explains the photographs and the schnapps.”

“Scholz’s sister or sister-in-law, sounds like,” Wolski said. “This is getting stranger by the hour. Next thing you know, we’re going to find Scholz’s wife’s and son’s preserved bodies are in the icebox.”

Mason started to put the items back in the trunk. “Let’s finish up and get out of this mausoleum.”

•   •   •

M
ason entered the Wirtschaft Alter Hof and spotted Laura waving at him from a corner booth. He crossed the room and slipped onto the bench across from her. She wore her correspondent’s outfit, a conservative brown wool suit coat and skirt, but still looked as amazing as she had in her evening gown.

“May I say that your perfume is almost as seductive as the smell of beer and bratwurst?” Mason said.

“Are you trying to upset my bourgeois sensibilities with that blue-collar remark?”

“It means I’m starving.”

“But a simple declaration isn’t good enough for you. And speaking of good enough, I thought for a first date you’d have asked me to somewhere a little more romantic.”

“Who said anything about a date? I asked you to meet me here to get you up-to-date on the investigation. I promised I would, so here we are.”

“That’s just an excuse. You’re really just too shy to come out and say it. That’s sweet.”

“And you giving me sass is a way to hide that you’re head over heels for me.”

“I hardly know you.”

“Not to know me is to love me.” Mason waved for the waiter. “Thanks for arranging access to the Medical Corps personnel files. That was pretty impressive.”

“Find anything?”

“Not much. There are a few possibles we might look into, but now that we have a prime suspect, we probably won’t need to.”

“I’ve noticed there hasn’t been one article about the murders in any of the newspapers. Not even a blip. No editor will touch it. Even if I wanted to publish something, no one will print it.”

“Then our exclusive arrangement is working out good for you.”

“I don’t like it when the press is censored. It sets a bad precedent, even for an occupational force.”

“In this case, I think it’s justified.”

“It’s never justified. People have a right to know.”

“To know what? That there’s a mad killer on the loose and the police appear powerless to stop him? Normally I’d agree with you, but legitimizing the rumors might incite people to resort to vigilante justice, turn to the underground networks that want to form a Fourth Reich and pine for the good old days of the iron-fisted Gestapo to bring back order.”

“Rumors can be more dangerous than the truth, you know.”

“This is where we differ, reporter and cop.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not for me.”

The waiter arrived, and they both ordered bratwurst and beer.

“I can’t stay long,” Mason said. “I’ve got to get back to headquarters.”

“I heard about your snafu at the hospital.” Mason was about to respond, but Laura laughed and held up her hands. “Truce. Okay? Tell me what happened today.”

Mason quickly summed up what had led them to Scholz; the interview and escape; then the manhunt, the hospital staff interviews, and the bizarre findings at Scholz’s apartment. “The CID detachment in Stuttgart is trying to track down the woman who wrote the letter about his wife and son, a Heidi Mendel. The MPs and German police are distributing the sketch of Scholz. I imagine calls will be coming in anytime now from people with mostly well-intentioned but erroneous sightings.”

“Let me get this straight: Scholz had two tickets to a concert, says it was his wife, but she’s been missing for three years?”

Mason nodded. “I had someone check with the concert hall manager. It was a single-night performance and every seat was taken. One of the ushers said she seated a tall man with a thirty-something blond woman that evening in those seats.”

“And he had some kind of shrine to his wife and his son in a place he rarely stays?”

The beers came. Mason sipped his while Laura thought a moment.

“It sounds to me like he feels guilty,” Laura said. “He still loves them, but he’s created a shrine to their memory in an out-of-the-way place. He goes there when the guilt becomes too much, drinks his schnapps in front of the photos, asks for forgiveness, then leaves. He’s got a lover, and he feels guilty about it.”

“Interesting theory. But based on what?”

Laura shrugged and started fidgeting with her beer mug. “I’ve known a few married men and widowers. None of them could stand to be alone, but they always felt guilty about stepping out on the little woman. Most of them, anyway.”

Mason felt a pang of jealousy, and though he thought he hid it well . . .

“I see that look in your eyes,” Laura said.

“What?”

“That look of condemnation.”

“I’m just wondering if I can keep up with you.”

“I’ve had a few wild years in my past. So what?”

“Laura, I’m not judging you. Let’s get back to the subject.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s start with that woman at the concert. If the doctor has a lover, she could be hiding him. Find the lover, and you just might find your killer.”

“That’s not bad. Ever thought about being a detective?”

“Being a reporter is a little like being a detective. Sometimes to get at the truth, you have to dig for it.”

Their dinners arrived, and they fell silent a few moments.

“So, how about a real date next time?” Mason asked. “That is, if you’re not committed to a certain CID general.”

“That smacks of jealousy. You’re not the jealous type, are you?”

“My grandma used to say that the only useful thing about jealousy is it makes you recognize what you want; then all you have to do is go after it.”

“Smart woman, your grandmother.”

“So? What about it?”

“About what?”

“A date. A reporter and cop. A modern-day Capulet and Montague.”

“Haven’t you got enough on your plate right now?”

“Meaning, you do.”

Laura shrugged. “Maybe there’s something I can do about that. Something I should do before we ever think about becoming star-crossed lovers.”

“Fair enough,” Mason said. He downed one last bite of food and rose from the table. “I have to get back.” He stopped next to her, leaned in, and kissed her.

“Too bad you have to rush off,” Laura said.

“We both have some business to take care of first. Then watch out.”

Mason gave her a peck on the forehead and left.