Ruins of War (9 page)

C
orporal Manganella drove the jeep through a district where the train tracks converged from the countryside and cut a wide swath through the west side of the city. During the Allied bombing raids, the bombardiers had used the web of tracks to line up their targets, and this area had been hit many times. For blocks on end, they passed nothing but the ruins of warehouses and working-class housing. In some sections closer to the tracks only dust and craters remained.

The corporal pulled the jeep up to a small church flanked by empty hulks of apartment buildings. The church’s steeple, the stained glass windows, half the roof, and the front portico were all gone. The exterior stone had been scorched black from the fires.

Outside the church, a group of German police stood on one side of the entrance, while four U.S. Army MPs stood on the other. Because of the curfew, there were no spectators, except for those who peeked out from glassless windows or behind half-open doors.

“This is it, sir,” Manganella said.

“Damn, not in a church.”

“Not much of a church left.”

Mason climbed out and told Corporal Manganella to stay with
the jeep. Inside, every available candle illuminated the interior. Two MPs and a German police officer talked to a priest in a corner near the confessional. Another MP stood with Inspector Becker in the center of the church facing the altar. The remaining intact pews had been stacked against the wall to make room for the primitive wooden scaffolding that supported the remaining church roof.

Becker turned as Mason approached and greeted him with a grim face. Then Mason noticed what the two had been craning their necks to look at—the last intact chandelier. It hung from the pinnacle of the roof some twenty-five feet above the floor. The chandelier spanned five feet across, with eight spokes that extended to its thick brass outer ring. Upon the chandelier lay a naked woman’s torso. As he’d done to the previous victim, the killer had shaved her head, and he’d arranged the severed arms and legs upon four branches of the chandelier to form the same X pattern, overlaying the remaining four branches that formed a cross. Bodily fluid, tinged red, dripped slowly from the wounds and puddled on the floor.

“My God,” Mason said, “a woman this time.”

“The priest discovered her,” Becker said. “He had come into the church several times this evening but never noticed her until he saw the puddle.”

The sound of several vehicles rushing up to the entrance reverberated through the church. The crime scene techs and the ME came in a moment later.

“The priest alerted the local police and they called me,” Becker said. “I have three officers searching for anyone who might have seen something.” He pointed to the scaffolding. “The killer must have used that to mount the body.”

“Footprints? Traces of blood?”

“Aside from the priest’s prints, nothing.”

“I’m sure we’re not going to find anything he didn’t want us to.”

“I arrived only twenty minutes ago, so I have not had time to do a thorough search.”

The three crime techs came up to Mason and stared at the horror on the chandelier. Mason instructed them to set some lights up and directed the photographer to commence taking pictures. It took his loud voice to break their stares and get them moving. He asked one of the tech sergeants, “Where’s the ME?”

“He was right behind us, sir.”

Another jeep pulled to a stop long enough to deposit a passenger, then drove away again. Wolski entered a moment later. He looked rather unhappy. “Pulled away from the loving arms of a beautiful woman just to freeze my tail off. Not to mention having to look at your ugly mugs . . .”

Mason pointed up at the chandelier.

Wolski turned his head upward. “Damn.”

“Is this church still in use?” Mason asked Becker.

“The priest and some parishioners are trying to save it, but it has been condemned.”

Mason looked from the chandelier to the scaffolding. “Looks like about a six- or seven-foot gap. This guy’s quite an acrobat.” He went over to the scaffolding and pulled on a support beam. “Give me your flashlight,” he said to the MP. The MP gave it to him, and Mason trained the light on the scaffolding and followed the beam up to the ceiling.

Mason climbed the scaffolding and stopped when he was just above the level of the chandelier. He tried to concentrate on the rigging, but his eyes were pulled to the tragic sight of the young woman. She looked to be no more than in her midtwenties. Like the others, her mouth hung open in a last scream. He found himself squeezing the scaffolding boards until his knuckles turned white. Summoning all his willpower, he turned his gaze away and examined the cable. “The killer must have rigged a pulley system using the exposed ceiling joists. I’m sure the cable holding the chandelier wasn’t meant to support the weight of a body.”

Becker called over to the priest, asking him if the chandelier could
be lowered. The priest told him yes, that one could lower it by the crank mechanism against the north wall. Wolski walked over to investigate.

Mason scanned the support cable with his flashlight beam. The cable looked new. He followed the cable up toward the ceiling and found the pulley attached to the ceiling beam. The cable should have angled off the pulley to the north wall, but instead it angled off to the scaffolding.

The killer had rigged a whole new cable. The crank didn’t control the chandelier.

Mason jerked the flashlight beam up to the pulley again. In the shadows of the inverted V-shaped ceiling, Mason could just make out the original cable. Something was wrong. It didn’t angle down as it should, and it appeared taut, as if bearing a great weight.

He heard Wolski releasing the cable lock to lower the chandelier. “Vincent, stop!”

Too late. Wolski turned the crank a quarter of a revolution. A loud metallic clank reverberated from high above. With the groan of straining wood, out from the shadows rushed a thick wooden beam. It swung downward from the center of the ceiling with the speed of a swinging hammer, straight toward Wolski.

Wolski froze.

Mason yelled like a drill sergeant to a soldier, “Wolski, hit the dirt!”

At the last moment, Wolski dived. The tree-trunk-sized ceiling beam slammed into the wall. The entire church shuddered, mortar and stone tumbling to the floor. Mason felt the scaffolding shake then sway. Becker and two MPs raced over to Wolski.

“Is he all right?” Mason shouted.

The answer became obvious when Wolski jumped up from the floor, cursing as he turned in circles. “God damn it! Son of a bitch!” He shook his fist at the ceiling. “You asshole. Isn’t it enough butchering people? You’ve got to booby-trap the place, too?” He bent over with his hands on his knees and took in deep breaths. An MP medic tried to check him for injuries, but Wolski waved him off.

Mason climbed down from the scaffolding and went up to Wolski. “Why don’t you get with a couple of people and find the right way to lower the chandelier. It’s attached to the scaffolding. Get the victim down and we’ll finish up. Then I want to share that bottle of scotch with you.”

Wolski gave Mason a fleeting smile, took one last deep breath, and went into action.

“Let’s go talk to the priest,” Mason said to Becker.

The two detectives walked to where the priest stood with the German officer. The officer introduced the priest as Father Vogel and stepped away.

Father Vogel’s eyes were watery and his hands shook. “Who would do such a thing? What kind of creature . . . ?” He stopped to regain his composure.

“When is the last time you entered the church before discovering the body?” Mason asked.

“I come in almost every night at the same hour to pray for the revival of this church. But now I fear God has sent a sign that this place is no longer sacred.”

“Yes, I understand,” Mason said. “So, for example, last night you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?”

The priest shook his head as he focused on something invisible.

“Can you think if one of your parishioners might have exhibited strange behaviors, anything suspicious in the last few weeks?”

“I haven’t had parishioners since bombs destroyed this church and the neighborhood. I am at a loss as to how many parishioners of mine have actually survived.”

“You didn’t see anyone loitering around the church in a suspicious manner?”

Father Vogel shook his head, but it was apparent that he had entered some internal world. Mason looked at Becker to see if the inspector had anything to add. Becker shook his head, and they both thanked the priest, then Mason asked an MP to see that Father Vogel got home okay.

The MP started to lead Father Vogel away, but Father Vogel turned back to Mason. “Inspector Collins, you have no idea who could have murdered a woman so brutally and desecrated God’s sanctuary?”

“We’re trying, Father.”

“I am a practical man. I believe in the holy scriptures, and never imagined that demons really exist. But to cut up that poor woman in such a way, then use her corpse to make a Christian symbol, is the work of true evil.”

Mason glanced back at the chandelier. “Do you mean the Chi-Rho cross?”

Father Vogel shook his head and pointed to the chandelier. “The Chi-Rho should have the
P
shape at the head. Here, there is none. The four limbs and the four remaining spokes of the wheel create an eight-pointed baptismal cross.”

“Can you think of any reason why the killer would form a baptismal cross?”

“It is a sign of regeneration and resurrection. Eight is an important number: the eight days from birth to baptism, and the eight days between Christ’s entry into Jerusalem and his resurrection.”

Mason turned to Becker. “That make any sense to you?”

“Perhaps he evokes this symbol to aid in the victim’s transformation into sainthood, or out of his own desire for redemption.”

“What a horrible thought,” Father Vogel said. “This demonic murderer mocks our holy church. An abominable desecration. You find him, sir. You find him.”

“Yes, Father. Thank you,” Mason said.

Father Vogel allowed the MP to lead him away.

“To add to your burden,” Becker said, “now God holds you personally responsible for finding this murderer.”

Mason looked at Becker and saw he was serious. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“I find it vaguely humorous that he chose you for the task.”

“You’re a religious man?”

“I am a devout Catholic, so, yes, I am religious. You find that difficult to imagine?”

“And how did you reconcile that with collaborating with the godless Nazis?”

Becker raised his eyebrows. “Every soldier believes that God is on his side. Do you not feel the same way?”

“The way I always understood it, he’s not a big fan of war. But if I had to bet which side he chose, all I’d have to do is look around and lay pretty good odds it wasn’t yours.”

“God does not abandon the vanquished any more than he rewards the victors.”

“If you say so.”

They both noticed that Wolski and four MPs had figured out how to lower the chandelier and went over to observe. As Wolski and the others strained to lower the chandelier, Wolski said, “I’d like to know how one man accomplished all this.”

The assistant medical examiner, Captain Sykes, arrived. He was the leading night shift ME, and a man who looked more like a bookkeeper than a soldier: portly figure, wispy gray hair, and thick black glasses. He came up and stood next to Mason and Becker. They all watched as Wolski and a couple of the MPs lowered the chandelier onto two pews that had been placed underneath to support it.

All eyes were drawn to the terrible sight. No one spoke. As with the victim in the factory, her eyes and mouth were frozen in a last moment of horror, her torso cut open and ribs pulled back exposing her organs. The difference was, this time, the lungs were gone.

“My God,” Sykes muttered.

The three of them stepped up to get a closer look. Somewhere near the front of the church a generator roared to life, and a few in the silent group jumped at the sound. The work lights flickered then came up to full power.

“The incisions are exactly the same. . . .” Becker paused. “She is so young. What a hideous tragedy.”

“Looks like the same surgical precision removing the limbs,” Mason said. “She has the same abrasion marks where she was strapped down. . . .” Mason, too, had to stop. He tried to remain objective, pretend the body was an inanimate object, but he couldn’t block from his mind the images of her screaming in agony, her absolute terror at being helpless while someone cut into her.

“Are you okay?” Becker whispered.

The question brought Mason out of his visions. “All right, everyone, let the ME and the techs get in here and do their jobs.”

Mason and the others stepped away, and they all breathed easier with a little distance from the victim. One of Becker’s officers came up to them, though his eyes were fixed on the victim. Becker shifted over to block his view. “What is it,
Wachtmeister
?”

“There’s a man outside who says he saw someone going in the church last night.”

“Take us to him.”

A few moments later Mason and Becker stood in front of a thin man with sunken eyes. He was dirty and unshaven, as there was little running water or means to heat it in this part of the city.

“I live in the building across the street,” the man said, pointing to a battered apartment building diagonally across from the church. “I couldn’t sleep last night and heard a noise about one o’clock in the morning. When I looked outside, I saw a man pushing a cart through the street. I thought it odd, a man in civilian clothes out past curfew.”

“Did you see his face?” Mason asked.

“No. The man wore a long dark coat, though I could not tell the color. And a hat very low on his head. Homburg, I believe.”

“Can you give us any physical description?” Becker asked.

“I think he was tall . . . but from across the street and from the third floor it was hard to tell. Plus, it was very dark.”

“Did you see what was in the cart?” Mason asked.

“He took a large bundle wrapped in dark cloth from it, then carried it into the church.”