Modern art is not really Jamie’s favorite, but it provides her something to do while she waits. But, instead of focusing on the art, her mind is working out how to talk with Mr. Bayer. If he or his brother had covered up a murder—no matter the reason—it would be hard to approach the topic. Jamie imagines that it will be difficult to get the information she wants without forcing Mr. Bayer to implicate himself. She will have to be careful.
About five minutes later, two males come around the corner. They are conversing jovially. Stanley Bayer tells his companion that they will wrap things up another time. Bayer escorts his guest out, then turns to Jamie and introduces himself.
“Please come to my office.” Stanley guides her to a room around the corner.
Stanley Bayer is tall and lean, well-dressed, with gray hair and blue eyes.
His office is rather large, with a tacky lighthouse theme. From pictures on the wall, to little lighthouse figurines on the bookshelves, Jamie can see Stanley has a very strong affinity for lighthouses.
“Please have a seat,” Stanley offers, motioning to a chair, then takes a seat in the large chair behind his desk.
As Jamie settles herself into a chair across from the desk, she begins, “Sorry to hear about your father’s passing. How long has it been?”
“About six months,” Stanley replies, eyeing her carefully. “Did you know him?”
“No, no. I just read about his death yesterday, on the Internet,” Jamie admits, pulling out her tablet. She prepares herself to take notes, if necessary. Watching Stanley, Jamie decides that tact will not work with him.
“What can I do for you?” Stanley asks guardedly, putting his five fingertips together.
“I need to know if you have any idea why someone would want to murder him?” Jamie insists bluntly, throwing away her earlier ideas.
“Excuse me?” Stanley stutters, sitting straighter in his chair. His blue eyes dart around the items sitting on his desk.
“I know he was murdered,” Jamie persists. “What I don’t know is why it wasn’t reported.”
Stanley shifts again, not taking his eyes off of Jamie’s, his stony face revealing no emotion, but a strong mind.
“That’s why I am here. To find out why it wasn’t reported as a homicide,” Jamie finishes strongly. She stares Stanley down. She needs this answer.
Leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, Stanley tries to take command of the situation with a casual, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Jamie rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, I think you do. Don’t worry—I know you didn’t do it. But why didn’t you notify the police? That is the part that has me baffled. Someone comes into your father’s home and strangles him, and you cover it up, tell people that he died in his sleep. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Now wait a minute! Where are you getting this from?” Stanley demands, rising partway from his chair and slapping his fist on the desk.
“I mean, I know he had cancer and that he was even on hospice care. Poor guy didn’t have long to live anyway, but murder? Someone murders him in cold blood, and you are okay with it? What should I think about that? Is that why you had him cremated? To hide the evidence of murder?” Jamie continues, smoothly turning up the heat on him.
“It was his wish to be cremated,” Stanley interjects quickly and sternly. Settling his body again, he picks up a pen and begins to roll it between his forefinger and thumb.
“Oh I doubt that. After seeing all of those defenseless women and children shoved into the crematory at Auschwitz, it doesn’t seem like he would want a similar fate.”
“Wait a minute now!” Stanley yells angrily, this time standing fully up out of his chair. The pen goes flying across the room. “You have no right to make such accusations!”
“But maybe it could be some twisted rectification for previous sins…” Jamie does not even try to include Stanley in the conversation. “Nah, it wasn’t his wish to be cremated. Pretty serious offense, though, covering up a murder.” Jamie ends her tirade. Of course, there is no evidence, since the body was cremated, but she goes for the jugular anyway. Stanley does not know what she has.
“What is this all about? What do you want?” Stanley demands, leaning over his desk and glaring at Jamie.
“I'll tell you what I want. In exchange for you not being arrested right here and now for covering up your father's murder, you come clean and tell me what happened and why you didn't report it,” Jamie states calmly, yet with a dark undertone.
“I'm not doing any such thing. I want my lawyer,” Stanley asserts, once again looking Jamie right in the eyes.
“Call him,” Jamie challenges nonchalantly. “I'll wait. I have nowhere else to be but so far up your ass that you will wish you had just cooperated from the get-go.”
“Am I being charged with a crime? This is crazy!” Stanley protests, throwing his hands up in disbelief.
“Not yet. It depends on you. I need some facts, and I need them today!” Jamie rejoins firmly. She makes her own face just as stony as Stanley’s, hoping she can hold up the façade long enough to get him to fold.
“This is coercion. You've got a wire on you and are trying to trick me into confessing something that never happened,” Stanley rants, as he begins to pace behind his desk.
“Settle down. I'll come clean if you come clean. Firstly, on the record, I do not have a wire. I kinda figured you might suspect that. Here is an affidavit testifying to the fact that I do not have any recording devices. We can both sign it,” Jamie confesses, pulling out the paper from her bag and setting it on his desk.
That statement makes Stanley stop pacing and stand over his desk, looking her straight in the eye. He briefly glances at the paper on his desk but does not take it.
“Now, that being said, I'm going to be straight with you. We have a vigilante that is killing former Nazis, or at least people whom he thinks are former Nazis. He has operated in a predictable pattern, but there is a gap on the day your father died. I thought maybe the killer skipped one, but the data led me to believe that that was not the case. You confirming what I already know will help us prove the pattern, the profile—and help us nab this guy.”
“And if I don't?” Stanley asks slyly, turning away from Jamie.
“There is a hungry D.A. that would love a juicy case like this one. Oh, and the media would have a field day if anyone happened to tell them,” Jamie threatens with a smile.
Stanley quickly turns back to her.
“This is extortion! You can't do this!” Stanley protests, his face turning slightly pink.
“No, this is not extortion. It’s a great deal for you. You are a felon. I know what happened. I am all about the pursuit of justice. I can use the information you have to catch my killer and get justice for several murders, or I can use the information I have to get justice for conspiracy to conceal one murder. I would rather have the murderer, but I will take you too, if you get in my way.”
“Someone all about the pursuit of justice would go after both—not that there is a second crime,” Stanley counters, pacing behind his desk again. Every so often, he sends a glare in Jamie’s direction.
“Thanks for confirming the first one— that your father was murdered. You know, family members, especially heirs, are always the first suspects,” Jamie informs him casually, leaning back in her chair.
“I…I didn't…” Stanley stutters again, leaning forward on his desk, toward Jamie.
“Let's cut the shit, Stanley. I just need to know the answer to two questions, and I, and this whole matter, will disappear. What was written on the note? And how did you get him pronounced dead and cremated without anyone noticing?” Jamie demands, returning Stanley’s glare with a firm poker face. “That's all, that's it. Now, let's hear it, or face the alternative,” Jamie finishes, as Stanley remains silent.
“I want my lawyer.”
“No, you don't. I am not here to take a confession. I’m here so you can fill in some holes for my
profile of the serial killer who killed your father in cold blood. Now tell me, so I can get the hell out of here and go catch this guy. You do want me to catch him, don’t you? What about the note that read ‘Aridata’?” Jamie pauses at the look of astonishment on his face, and she knows she has him. “I need to know what initials were on the note and why you didn't call the police.”
Stanley turns and stares out the window for a moment. He sighs, running a hand through his full head of grey hair. He finally looks up and begins, “My father was very sick. Dying of lung cancer. He was on hospice care. He only had a few more months to live, tops. He had been asking everyone who came to see him since his diagnosis to help him die, so he wouldn’t have to linger and suffer. He wanted to die.”
Stanley pauses and leans on his forearms on the back of his office chair. He continues slowly, “The pain had been terrible—mets to the bone. I thought someone did it for him, like he wanted. That he had finally convinced someone.” He shakes his head and shrugs sheepishly.
“We had sitters staying with him around the clock. That morning, when the night sitter, Julliette, called me, she was hysterical. She kept saying she didn't do it. I told her to tell the day shift assistant that he passed and send her away when she arrived. I came straight away, and she showed me his neck and the note. Yes, it read, ‘Aridata’. I didn't call the police because I thought maybe Julliette did do it,” Stanley admits.
“I don’t know, maybe he had convinced her, and she couldn't watch his suffering anymore. Or maybe he had convinced someone else to do it or had paid someone to do it. He wanted to die. I surely did not want someone going to jail for the rest of their life because they did what my father asked,” Stanley finishes, plopping into his chair.
“Well, you would have been the prime suspect. I'm sure you had to cover your own ass as well. He had a large estate, too. Might I presume tens of millions at stake?” Jamie estimates.
“It’s more than the money. My brother and I do not see eye-to-eye. He is a big partier and travels a lot, which is fine, because he would squander all of the money and run the business into the ground. He lets me run things,” Stanley explains, flipping one hand over, then the other. “See, I'm the type ‘A’ guy. He would for sure suspect me and then think that he could put me away and have it all. Of course, I knew it would be a huge mess, with life insurance frozen and a disastrous probate. For what? Because he died a couple of months early, probably at his own request. I never thought for a second that he was murdered by some psychopathic serial killer. Who would kill a ninety-three year old man who was already half gone?”
“We'll get to that. Tell me about the note.”
“Yes, it read, ‘Arid ata’, written as two words. The initials were W.F.”
“How did you get him past the medical director and the funeral home? Someone had to pronounce him dead.”
“Juliette was pleading with me that she didn't do it and that they would suspect her and arrest her or deport her. She wasn't exactly legal—she was from Haiti. So we dressed him in his nicest suit, complete with necktie to cover the wound. Then we called hospice. They sent out the nurse who comes every week, and she pronounced him. Hospice takes care of the Death Certificate and has the Medical Examiner sign it. I asked her if the coroner had to come, and she told me that, in these cases, they sign it without seeing the deceased, since the cause of death is well-documented.”
“The rest was easy. I told the funeral home that we had already dressed him in the clothes that he wanted to wear when he was cremated. Pennsylvania has a 24-hour waiting period before someone can be cremated. I can assure you, I did not sleep a wink that entire 24 hours. Not only had my father died, which I was expecting—you are never really ready—but I was also afraid…well, you can imagine,” Stanley mutters. Again he runs a hand through his hair.
“So you figured this all out right on the spot?”
“You have to realize that Dad asked everyone who saw him, every day, to help him end his life. It wasn't hard to think that he finally got his wish. I never dreamed anyone would do it, but, like I said, why should someone go to jail for it?”
“Or his fortune get tied up in the courts. So your brother Mitchell does not know about this?”
“He has no idea.”
“How fortunate, then, that I caught you here alone at the office today,” Jamie opines aloud. “Well, as I promised, I am not going to tell him. Or anyone else for that matter.”
“I would really appreciate that.” Stanley stares deep into Jamie’s eyes, as if trying to see if she is telling the truth. She can almost see the fear he has carried since his father’s death, the fear that made him so hostile before.
“You have my word. Besides, you have really helped me out a lot,” Jamie confirms with a strong nod.
Stanley’s clenched shoulders relax slightly as Jamie stands up to leave.
“I am sorry for your loss. Don't worry, I'm going to get the guy who did this.”
“Thanks, please let me know when you do,” Stanley replies, also standing up.
“I can see myself out,” Jamie tells him and disappears out of the office.
Chapter 39
Our relocation took my family to the Kosice brick factory, which was fenced off to be a ghetto. My older brother, mother, grandparents, and I had to make our home among thousands of other Jews who had also been forced from their homes. The term “home” is a loose term for a space of our own. Later, I would learn that there were around 10,500 Jews packed into the brick factory, which could only house 1,000 people at most.
There were no compartments, rooms, or a modicum of privacy. The brick factory was one large room. There were no curtains, which meant being modest was impossible. No bathrooms, no privacy, and no sleeping with your families.
The Nazi guards did their best to destroy our hope, comfort, and security. We were assigned straw mattresses that separated us from our family. Although we might see our family during the day, at night we were forced to sleep apart and alone. The darkness did not bring comfort, but instead nightmares, to others as well as me.
While we stayed in the ghetto, I spent most of my time assigned to cleaning the rail station in back of the brick factory, which held train tracks that had once transported the bricks. Trains kept passing by, each one filled with people. Through the holes in the cattle cars, I could see eyes staring back at me. Fear, pain, and hunger spoke from the eyes. I’m sure my own eyes held the same emotions. My brother and grandfather were forced to work during the day. They would come back beaten and exhausted. I was so hungry in the ghetto, as we were given rations that would not keep a small dog alive for very long. I was starving, and I had not spent all day doing back-breaking labor, like my brother and grandfather.
On May 15th, we were awakened in the wee hours of the morning to a train stopping at the brick factory ghetto. Within minutes, we heard whistles blowing, dogs barking, and Nazi SS guards shouting out commands. A look in the wrong direction would get you an immediate smack from a billy club. Over 6,000 people were crammed onto two trains that day. We stayed behind to starve. We did not know what to feel. Were we sad that we were left behind? By then, we were almost too weak to feel. We were starving. Surely, the lucky ones who boarded the trains were going somewhere with more food and less suffering. Four days later, the scene repeated itself, with thousands more being crammed onto the trains and getting out of the hellhole we were in. We would be left behind once again.
Our day came two weeks later, on June 3rd.
We were beaten as we were crammed into the railcar. Our car had over 100 people in it. There was no room to lie down, or even sit for that matter. An SS guard put an empty bucket in the middle of the car, and one bucket of water and six hard loaves of bread. We stood there for hours and hours, nearly suffocating, before the train finally started to move. We made several stops along the way, but the door was never opened. Once, the train stopped, and some Germans offered to sell us some water in exchange for something
valuable. We had nothing, and therefore they cursed us and poured the water out on the platform. Someone asked where we were going and a soldier gave the “finger across the neck” sign. The trip took three days. Several people died on the train. They were piled into a corner of the car. Finally, the train stopped at the train station of the city Osweicim—Auschwitz. No one on the train had heard of the city before. We stayed at that train station for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the train started the 4-kilometer trip to hell on earth, Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Chapter 40
Driving back to Virginia, Jamie’s head is spinning. She is elated to find the missing murder. It took some work, but she did it. This is the kind of investigative work that makes her feel alive. Excitedly she turns on her Bluetooth and calls Seth.
“Hey,” comes Seth’s warm voice.
“Guess what?”
“Good news, eh?”
“Yes, I found a missing murder!”
“No way, that’s awesome!”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe the lengths this guy went through to cover up his father’s murder. Of course, he had no idea that it was a serial killer—he just thought someone gave his father his last dying wish…literally, he wanted to die.”
“That’s crazy! We should totally celebrate tonight when you get back.”
“That would be great!” It feels so good to know that Seth understands her triumph.
“You want to go out and eat, or just celebrate at home?”
“We could do both,” Jamie says, unsure of what she really feels like doing.
“Let’s do that, then,” Seth agrees.
“How’s work for you?”
“I ran a very unusual test today. A guy comes into the ER with abdominal pain and dies in the ICU a couple of days later—multiple organ failure. The deceased is buried, but his sister is suspicious that his wife poisoned him for the life insurance. He has been embalmed, so, by the time they exhume the body, there aren’t any body fluids to sample except the vitreous fluid of the eye. The pathologist reviewed his chart and concluded that his presentation could have been consistent with poisonous mushrooms. I was able to find amatoxin, which is found in poisonous mushrooms, using the Weiland test. Looks like we got her,” Seth concludes with satisfaction.
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