The Good Cop

by Peter Steiner

  The three men were on them in an instant, two grabbing Sophie and tearing her away from Maximilian. The third, Konrad Milch, went at Maximilian, swinging a long piece of metal pipe. He swung at his head but Maximilian slipped sideways and the pipe glanced off his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. ‘You’re dead, you goddamn Bolshevik!’ Konrad screamed and swung again. This time the blow stunned Maximilian. Konrad raised the pipe over his head.

  There was a gunshot and Konrad had a surprised look on his face. Maximilian knew that look; he had seen it again and again in the war. Konrad dropped the pipe into the snow, where it sank from sight. He stared at Maximilian, his eyes and his mouth wide open.

  Konrad fought to remain standing then took a step. Maybe he thought acting normal would mean things were normal. But even as he tried to stay upright, his legs gave way and he sank to his knees.

  Konrad toppled over face down in the snow. The two other men had vanished. Sophie had broken free. She held a Luger in front of her, the barrel smoking, the smell of gunpowder in the cold night air. Konrad lay at their feet.

  Maximilian turned Konrad over. The snow under him had turned pink. He was still alive. His eyes were blinking slowly and his mouth was opening and closing, trying to form words but managing only to form a large pink bubble. His hands jerked about, his feet too.

  He tried again to speak. ‘Irena,’ he whispered. Then again, ‘Oh, Irena. Irena. Please.’

  ‘We’ll get help,’ said Maximilian, not knowing what else to do. Then Konrad stopped moving. He was dead.

  BLOOD IN THE SNOW

  Willi had gone to the art gallery thinking that Maximilian’s exhibition might be too much for Konrad to resist after his portrait was in the paper. Sure enough, two men came into the show around eight-thirty and circled the room until they came to Konrad’s portrait. They looked at the drawing, looked at each other, and left. They went to a cafe across the street, where Konrad was waiting.

  The cafe was crowded, and the men took no notice as Willi came in and sat across the room with his back to them. He ordered goulash soup and a beer. He read the paper while he ate. The soup was good. The cafe was all but empty when one of the men finally said, ‘There he is.’ The three men got up and went out. Willi paid his bill and followed them. He took out his gun as he entered the park. The two men ran past him as a shot rang out.

  Maximilian was holding Sophie. Konrad lay on the ground. Blood was spreading in the snow under him. ‘Are you all right?’ said Willi. They were.

  ‘Give me the gun,’ said Willi. ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘Since the bombing,’ said Maximilian.

  ‘Do you have a permit?’ said Willi.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘It was self-defense,’ said Maximilian.

  Department protocol required, of course, that Willi detain Sophie and Maximilian, call in the shooting, and then wait until uniformed police arrived. If Willi did what he was required to do, Sophie would be held and questioned. Maximilian would be questioned. And he, Willi, would be questioned. Evidence would be gathered. Testimony would be taken.

  In the not very distant past, Konrad’s friends would have been found, their malevolent intentions would have been discovered, and Sophie would have been judged correctly to have acted in self-defense. But what would happen now?

  Now, Willi was fairly certain, Konrad’s friends would swear that they had been attacked, and, depending on which judge took the case, would be, if not exactly believed, then taken to be plausible and useful. Konrad had tried to defend himself, they’d say. And Sophie had shot him down in cold blood. Here was a chance to lock Sophie and Maximilian, who were demonstrably enemies of Germany, away for a long stretch.

  That story was of course preposterous. But it didn’t matter anymore. The fourteen Nazis who had died during the Putsch attempt had been lionized in the nationalist press. The Nazis built their movement on martyrs, and Willi was quite certain they would never allow such perfect villains as Sophie and Maximilian – they worked for the Munich Post after all – to go unpunished, and such a martyr as Konrad Milch to go uncelebrated. In fact, within days Konrad was being celebrated in the Völkischer Beobachter, the Nazi paper, and then in a speech by Hitler himself as ‘a German hero and a patriot’.

  ‘Take her home,’ said Willi. ‘Don’t talk to anyone about any of this. Especially the police. As far as they’re concerned you went from the gallery straight home. You did not walk through the park.’ Willi called in the shooting anonymously from a public phone box at the edge of the English Garden.

  That night Willi tossed and turned and finally fell into a restless sleep just before dawn. For the first time in a long time, he dreamed of the trenches. He saw Sophie and Maximilian going over the top, but when he tried to call to them not a sound came out of his mouth. He woke up bathed in sweat. ‘I’ve crossed over,’ he said to himself. ‘I’m on the wrong side of the law.’

  Detective Sergeant Gruber brought up the Milch shooting at the Monday morning briefing. ‘Captain says we’re to give this the highest priority. This attack was in the English Garden, Friday about midnight. The victim was shot once in the back. The victim has been identified as Konrad Milch.’

  ‘What do we know about him, Sergeant?’

  ‘He was a brave young patriot,’ said Gruber.

  The detectives and uniformed cops wrote down the name. ‘Was it robbery?’ someone said.

  ‘It doesn’t seem like it,’ said Gruber. ‘There was money in his billfold, which was still in his pocket. We do know from the tracks in the snow that at least three other people were there. There’s evidence of a struggle.’ Gruber made no mention of the metal pipe or the pistol that had been found in Milch’s pocket.

  ‘But, Sergeant, the English Garden’s in the Sixth Precinct,’ somebody said. ‘Why’s this even our case?’ The Tenth was short-handed and overloaded with cases.

  ‘I told you,’ said Gruber, ‘this comes from the captain.’

  ‘Why the high priority?’

  ‘Because the captain says it’s high priority,’ said Gruber. ‘So let’s focus: we’ve had two similar shootings in the Tenth, neither one fatal. But same caliber handgun as Friday night: a 7.65. Maybe a Luger.’

  ‘Who identified the victim?’ said Willi.

  Gruber looked at his briefing sheet. ‘Fedor Blaskowitz.’

  ‘And is this Fedor Blaskowitz a relative?’ Willi asked.

  ‘No,’ said Gruber after studying the sheet. ‘An associate. Anyway, Geismeier, I’ve put Bergemann and Wendt on the case. We need to catch these killers in a hurry so I’ll be briefing them on the details.’ Bergemann and Wendt had sympathetic feelings toward Hitler and the NSDAP. And they were lazy.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Willi, ‘you want this case closed quickly, am I right?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say so, Geismeier?’ said Gruber. ‘Damn it, man, leave it to Bergemann and Wendt. You have a pile of cases on your desk. Let’s see you close some of those.’

  Still Willi didn’t let up. ‘Sir, are you thinking the Milch fellow was assassinated?’

  Reineke had already instructed Gruber: when they caught the killer, assassination was to be the charge. How did Geismeier even know that? Or was he just guessing? ‘Damn it, Geismeier, what is it with you? Will you quit meddling and mind your own business? For the last time: Bergemann and Wendt are on the case. And they’ll follow the evidence where it leads.’

  Gruber was worried. His task was to solve the case in a satisfactory fashion making Milch the victim and suppressing the fact that police officials had sanctioned his past crimes. If any of that got out, Gruber’s ass was in a sling. The shit always flowed downhill. The Post would get hold of it. Other papers too. A genuine catastrophe would ensue.

  ‘Listen, Gruber,’ Reineke said that afternoon, ‘I’m getting more and more pressure. Geismeier keeps sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.’

  ‘Believe me, Captain, I know,�
� said Gruber.

  ‘You know, Sergeant? Well, goddamn it, why don’t you put a stop to it? Rein him in or better yet, get rid of the son of a bitch.’

  ‘We could fire him, sir. I thought of that. But what would we gain by that?’

  ‘He’d be out of our hair, Gruber. That’s what.’

  ‘Yes, he would, Captain. But …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, knowing Geismeier, that won’t stop him. Besides, if we get rid of him, we’d be throwing away a valuable resource.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Sergeant? What possible value can you see in that pissant?’

  ‘I agree, sir. Geismeier’s a serious problem. But that’s because he’s a good investigator. So, I’m thinking, why not let him run on a long leash? As long he does, we know where he is and what he’s up to. He’s like an encyclopedia, Captain. And some of what he knows could be useful. For instance, he knows more about Konrad Milch’s murder than either Wendt or Bergemann or anyone else does at this point. So why not see what he’s turned up?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Reineke. ‘But a lot of what he knows is stuff we don’t want to get out.’

  ‘Well, as I say,’ said Gruber, ‘as long as he’s ours, it won’t get out or he’s screwed. He knows about the connections between Baron von Plottwietz and the department, for instance.’ This made Reineke give Gruber a hard look. ‘But he’s got to sit on it, as long as he’s a cop. And remember, as long as he keeps breaking rules and going off the reservation, he makes it easy for us to get rid of him when the moment is right. And his investigations … die with him.’

  ‘Die with him? Goddamn it, Sergeant,’ said Reineke. Was Gruber talking about killing Geismeier?

  ‘Just a figure of speech, Captain,’ said Gruber.

  Reineke was no strategic thinker; he was blinded by his grandiose notions. Gruber, on the other hand, had none of Reineke’s baggage. He didn’t believe in anything, other than the pursuit of his own advantage.

  Willi had been mulling over the close relationship between Gruber and Reineke for some time. And then it dawned on him. They both knew he had been snooping around cases he had been ordered off. And yet, except for Gruber’s occasional little outbursts, Willi had never been disciplined for it. It was almost as though they … The hair on the back of Willi’s neck stood up.

  He was still there when Sergeant Hermann Gruber returned to his office late that same afternoon and found Willi removing the mountain of papers and files from his desk into boxes. ‘Well, finally! Geismeier,’ he said. ‘It’s about time you cleaned up that mess.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Willi.

  ‘Carry on then,’ said Gruber, and went into his office and closed the door.

  THE PEOPLE’S COURT

  Judge Georg Neidhardt was so preoccupied with the upcoming trial, his soup had gone cold. No surprise that he could think of little else: this was going to be the trial of his career. ‘Take the soup away, Karl,’ he said. Karl did as he was told.

  Every Friday at seven, Georg had his dinner at Concordia, which had been his club since university days. Forty years later he still put on the blue cap and the blue and white sash for all the ceremonial moments and special celebrations. He sang the songs with gusto. Some Concordiens needed sheet music but Georg knew all the songs by heart. Concordia was his life. He considered his Concordia dueling scars – the nick in his ear, the line across his chin – badges of honor. Just as the song said, Concordia was a snug harbor in storm-tossed seas. The high stone walls and iron gate out front, the massive oak doors, the uniformed porter monitoring those who came in, and even Karl, who had been serving at Concordia nearly as long as Georg had been a member, represented safety and security and constant comfort.

  Though the dining room was crowded Friday evenings, Georg always ate alone, always at the same table, always the same meal, always with Karl serving. ‘Voilà, mein Herr.’ Karl lifted the silver cover from the platter with a flourish. The herring shimmered in cream sauce, nestled between the boiled and buttered potatoes and the red cabbage. Karl poured a splash of Gewürztraminer and waited while Georg took a sip.

  ‘Excellent, Karl,’ said Georg. ‘Excellent.’

  Karl filled the glass.

  ‘Guten Abend, Herr Neidhardt,’ said the elder of the two men passing the table.

  ‘Und einen guten Appetit,’ said the other. He clicked his heels and made a crisp little bow. They paused. Georg was about to stand but the older man, Professor Doctor Eberhardt Voss, an eminent judge and university professor, held his hand up to indicate he shouldn’t.

  Georg was pleased. Voss had never taken much notice of him before. ‘We don’t want to interrupt, Herr Neidhardt,’ he said. ‘Join us in the billiards room for brandy and a cigar afterwards, won’t you? We want to hear all about it.’ They meant the trial, of course.

  Georg Neidhardt had a reputation as a strict defender of order and a stern enforcer of the law against anyone who tried to undermine German civilization and German values. He had recently sent the editor of the Neue Zeitung, the Communist newspaper, to prison for ‘incitement to class warfare’, a vague but convenient charge. After all, almost anything could be called incitement. He had similarly imposed sentences on leftist provocateurs when they had called for a general strike. The strike had not taken place, but to his way of thinking, that didn’t diminish the seditious nature of their act. They all went to prison for two years.

  On the other hand, when a young fascist assassinated a socialist member of the Reichstag, Georg was convinced that the assassin’s love of the German Fatherland and understandable disgust at the member’s treachery had driven the young patriot to take extreme measures. The assassin was sentenced to a short imprisonment which was then immediately commuted.

  The Bavarian Minister of Justice had determined that Georg Neidhardt would be the perfect judge to preside at the trial of Adolf Hitler and his ten co-conspirators – General Ludendorff and the others – for their abortive uprising the previous November. The charge was treason, violation of Article 81 of the German Penal Code, which stated that anyone attempting to alter by force the constitution of the German Reich should be sentenced to death.

  The Putsch had caught the world’s attention, and by now, a few months later, interest in the trial was so great that it had to be held in a large hall at the old Infantry School in Blutenburgstraße just to accommodate the huge press contingent. Even so, some had to listen from outside the doors. Sophie, covering it for the Post, found herself sitting inside beside a reporter from The New York Times.

  ‘How did Ludendorff turn into such a clown?’ the Times reporter said.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Sophie. ‘Keep your eye on Adolf Hitler.’

  Georg Neidhardt, distinguished in a red robe and black hat, sat with three lay judges beside him on the raised dais. Bailiffs stood behind and beside them to keep order. Georg opened the trial in his usual meticulous and ceremonious way. But once the procedural business was over – the opening, the reading of the charges, the pleas by the accused – he seemed to abandon normal procedure altogether and all but invited Hitler to take over the trial.

  Hitler made a long and grandiose opening statement that went on without interruption from either the judge or the prosecution. He was permitted to act as his own attorney, to cross-examine witnesses called by the prosecution and to call his own witnesses. He did not dispute the facts of the Putsch or even the charge that he had committed treason. But it was treason against an illegitimate and evil government, he argued, which not only excused it but made it necessary. There were moments when Judge Neidhardt did find it necessary to interrupt for procedural reasons, but he did so in the most respectful and solicitous manner. ‘Herr Hitler, you should perhaps consider …’ That sort of thing.

  Hitler proclaimed himself destined by fate to be Germany’s dictator and redeemer. He was the only man who could solve Germany’s great and difficult problems, he said, and who could lead the country to its
destined greatness. ‘Our army of followers grows day by day,’ he said. He stood erect, his shoulders back, his chin thrust forward defiantly. He rolled his eyes. He clenched his fists. His voice broke from great emotion. His eyes glistened with tears of conviction. He pressed his fists against his chest in a show of utter sincerity.

  ‘Even now I have the firm conviction that one day the hour will come when these unruly bands of our followers will grow into battalions, the battalions into regiments, and the regiments into divisions, when the old banners will be raised out of the mud and will once again wave before us: and the reconciliation will come in that eternal final Court of Judgment, the Court of God, before which we are ready to stand. Then, from our bones, from our graves, will sound the voice of that tribunal which alone has the right to sit in judgment over us.’

  Hitler pointed toward the judges. ‘Meine Herren,’ he said, ‘it is not you who will pronounce final judgment upon us. It is the eternal Court of History that will make its pronouncement upon you, upon the charge which is brought against us.

  ‘I already know what your verdict will be. But it does not concern me. That high court will not ask us, “Did you commit high treason or did you not?” That court will judge us as Germans who wanted the best for their people and their Fatherland, who wanted to fight and to die. You may pronounce us guilty a thousand times, but the goddess who presides over the Eternal Court of History will, with a smile, tear to pieces the charge of the public prosecutor and the verdict of this court. She will acquit us.’

  There were cheers and clapping and stamping feet. ‘Jesus,’ said the man from the New York Times.

  Hitler was found guilty of treason, which by law called for the death penalty. Instead he was sentenced to five years in prison with the possibility of early parole. He was escorted from the courtroom to cheers and a chorus of ‘Heil, Hitler,’ and driven to the prison in Landsberg am Lech, some sixty-five kilometers west of Munich. There he was welcomed like a hero. His cell was comfortably furnished and had windows on two sides. He had books and papers brought to him and almost immediately began receiving visitors bearing gifts. Landsberg was, Hitler said later, his ‘state paid university’.