The Boy from Berlin

by Michael Parker

  ‘Lörenz came back,’ Haman continued, ‘and told me to follow him. We went up to the Chancellery garden. Hitler’s body was lying face down. I didn’t notice it at first. Then I heard a scuffling sound behind me and a young soldier came in with a woman. She had been blindfolded and her hands were tied behind her back. I thought it was Eva Braun.’ He shook his head. ‘It was probably because she was dressed in the same clothes Eva Braun had been wearing. At least, they looked the same to me. She was about the same age, same build. The soldier forced her to her knees alongside Hitler’s body. He removed the cords from her wrists. Then Lörenz stepped forward and put a pistol to her head.’ He shuddered and fought back the tears. ‘I’m sorry. When she fell forward the soldier removed the blindfold. Then Lorenz told me to burn the bodies.’

  The two men said nothing, but waited for Haman to continue. They could see he was struggling but did not want to disrupt the picture he was painting in their minds.

  Haman blinked away the tears. ‘There was some gasoline there. Lorenz handed me a cigarette lighter.’ He chuckled. ‘I can even remember at the time that I didn’t smoke, so why did I need a cigarette lighter?’ He shook his head. ‘I sprinkled the gasoline over the two bodies and put the can on the ground beside them. Then I found some paper and rolled it into a tube and set light to it. I knew I couldn’t chance lighting the gasoline directly, so I stood back and threw the burning paper on to the bodies.’ He closed his eyes for a few moments and could see and smell the burning flesh. ‘The curiosity of a young boy made me walk over to the flames and look. I wondered what it would be like to see human flesh burning. I remember how bad the smell was. I was almost sick. And that was when I saw the number on the woman’s arm; 180328, the date of my birth.’

  He stood up and turned towards the river, breathing in the fresh air as though he was trying to get the stench out of his nostrils. He looked back at Isaac Demski.

  ‘I didn’t have to try and remember that number. As shocked as I was I dismissed it as an amazing coincidence that this woman should have the date of my birth tattooed on her arm.’ He sat down again. ‘Can you believe that I didn’t know the significance of that tattoo? Well I didn’t. That was how powerful our propaganda was: the German nation didn’t know. We weren’t allowed to know what they were doing.’

  ‘It was my mother, right?’

  Haman nodded. ‘Do you remember her?’

  Demski breathed in deeply through his nose. It pinched the cheeks of his face together. He exhaled noisily. ‘I was about eight years old when they took me away from her. She told me everything would be fine.’ He shrugged. ‘As any mother would. I only have vague memories of her.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Why my mother?’

  Haman shook his head. ‘I’ve thought about that for some time. Your mother was “assigned” as they put it in the Buchenwald log. It meant they had a special purpose for removing her. They knew what they were planning to do all along. My memory of her when she was dragged into the Chancellery garden was that she was similar in height and build to Eva Braun. But she wouldn’t have been like that while she was in the camp.’

  ‘They fattened her up, is that what you’re saying?’

  Haman nodded. ‘I guess I am. They had to because they meant to convince the world that Eva Braun had perished with Hitler.’

  ‘So where did they take her?’

  Haman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. And I doubt if we ever will know.’

  Isaac Demski knew that the German had reached the end of his incredible story. He looked away from Haman and turned to his son. ‘What do you think, Jack?’

  The young Demski knew instinctively what was in his father’s mind. ‘I think we should find out, if it’s possible.’

  ‘Why?’ his father asked him.

  ‘Because knowledge is power, and those bastards didn’t save Eva Braun because she was a pretty woman. They had a reason, and if we can find out what it was …’ He left it unsaid, but his father understood the logic behind his son’s reasoning. He looked across the table at Haman.

  ‘It would be interesting to find out why they did this, and who was behind it. I know the Nazis had a powerful group of supporters who helped them escape to South America. It might be the place to start.’ He reflected on this for a while and then said to Haman, ‘Perhaps you should extend your stay with us, Gunter, for a little while at least. I presume you intended to spend some time in America?’

  Haman shrugged. ‘I have no fixed plans, Isaac, but I don’t think I would want to spend too much time away from my wife.’

  Demski agreed. ‘No of course not. How about a couple of days then, Gunter? It’s the least we can do for you. Then you can go back to your wife and we can begin our search.’

  FOUR

  LIEUTENANT AMOS HAD a great deal on his mind as he drove to his office at the 7th Precinct on Hillside, just off the interstate highway. He was wondering how he was going to handle the interview with Captain Holder, the Precinct commander. John Holder was a career officer whose aim was to become police director at the head of one of America’s police departments before stepping up to State. It meant a certain amount of glad-handing was required along the way with the right kind of senior figures. Amos knew that Holder was in the pocket of the Newark Mayor, Nik Pedersen, and the mayor was a close friend of Gus Mason, husband of Babs Mason. To cast suspicion on the Masons at such an early stage in the investigation would not be good for Amos’s prospects. But Amos wasn’t interested in bringing home results that would satisfy department targets or serving the career desires of supplicant police captains; all Amos was interested in was justice with a capital ‘J’.

  He pulled into a vacant lot outside the precinct building, parked, got out of the car and headed towards the front door. He threw a cheery wave at the front desk officers as he headed for the stairs which would take him to his office in the homicide division squad room on the second floor. His door was very rarely closed because he couldn’t get used to the idea of shutting himself off from the officers working at the squad room desks. He liked to hear the hustle and bustle of the office around him, the sounds of the phones ringing, the gallows humour that bounced spontaneously between officers working on dreadful cases that became an everyday part of their working lives.

  He worked his way through the desks which seemed to have been positioned to inflict maximum difficulty on everybody, catching a few smiles along the way. Amos was a popular officer, and most of the squad enjoyed working with him when they got the chance.

  His office door was open as usual, and he could see a yellow, Post-it note stuck to his phone as he crossed the squad room. He knew what it was before he’d even peeled it off. It had the words, ‘ring me’ scrawled in Judith’s almost indecipherable handwriting. Amos smiled and picked up the phone, dialling his wife’s number.

  ‘Hallo Judith.’

  ‘Hallo Amos. Close the door, will you?’

  He laughed softly and put the phone on his desk, then went to the door and closed it. He picked up the phone as he sat down in the swivel chair.

  ‘OK, door’s closed and I’m sitting down.’

  ‘Amos, I’ve heard that the Chief Medical Examiner believes Ann Robbins died of a heart attack, right?’ Amos’s wife was an assistant district attorney, which gave her access to information that she did not necessarily need to know. But the DA’s office was like many offices where good and bad news spread like wildfire.

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ he told her. ‘She was as fit as a butcher’s dog.’

  ‘Just because people jog and look fit doesn’t mean they are, Amos.’

  ‘You gonna lecture me again?’ He could almost hear her smile down the phone.

  ‘No, Amos. Just look in a mirror from time to time.’

  Same old lecture, he thought. But hell, she had his best interests at heart, which was natural; she was his wife.

  ‘So, sweetheart, Ann Robbins did not die of a heart attack. She was murdered. Is that what you’r
e going to tell me?’

  ‘No, Amos, you already knew that.’

  ‘Gut feeling,’ he interrupted. ‘Years of practice. So how did she die?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He could almost hear her shrug. ‘Perhaps you should ask the CME.’

  He chuckled. ‘Like the Chief Medical Examiner is going to tell me he got his first diagnosis wrong?’

  ‘Why not phone him? The DA’s going hot on this one, Amos. Any prevarication by Doctor Robertson will not go down well with him. I thought it right to warn you. If you can’t get a line on the killer—’

  ‘If she was killed,’ Amos interrupted.

  ‘Like I was saying; if you get a line on the killer, your department will need a cast iron guarantee the senator was murdered. Did you get a toxicology report?’

  Amos asked his wife to wait while he pulled the report from his desk drawer. He flipped open the folder.

  ‘Preliminary report suggests her death could have been caused by succinylcholine poisoning; the CME found higher traces of potassium than normal. Her pulse rate and blood pressure would have been high just before she died, but that wouldn’t necessarily have accounted for the levels found. The traces of the muscle relaxant were difficult to detect, but sufficient to need further tests. If the senator was murdered, then whoever killed her would have administered the sux and pushed her into the water. With enough of the stuff in her, she would have been unable to swim. She’d have sunk like a stone.’

  Succinylcholine was a well known muscle relaxant used by surgeons on patients during operations. Dentists used it too. The drug was obtainable on prescription and, like any other drug, was safe to use according to medical advice. High concentrations of the chemical would induce paralysis and consequent cardiac arrest. There were antidotes to the drug, but none of these would have been available to Ann Robbins when she was murdered by the lake.

  ‘How was it administered?’ she asked.

  ‘The report suggests that if the sux was administered involuntarily, it would have to have been injected. Trouble is the doc can’t find the wound.’

  ‘Hairline?’ his wife suggested.

  He shook his head into the phone. No, it’s usually done intravenously. It can be administered through the cheeks of the backside, but there were no marks there, according to the report. So the next step is to open the rectum. Chances are the needle was rammed in there. If the attacker was lucky, he would have hit the anus and left no visible puncture marks.’

  ‘You said “he”, but it could have been a woman.’

  ‘You’re so clever, Judith. Have anyone in mind?’ As Amos said that, he recalled his conversation with Babs Mason.

  ‘No. Have you?’

  ‘Not really,’ he admitted. ‘Clutching at straws as usual.’

  ‘Well if I know you, honey, those straws will be your harvest.’

  ‘You’re so poetic.’

  He saw Captain Holder through the windows of his office. He was standing at the far end of the squad room. He had his arm raised and was beckoning Amos. Amos looked at the framed photograph on his desk of himself, his wife and their daughter, Holly. She was eight years old.

  ‘I’ve gotta go now, honey. You picking Holly up?’

  ‘I’m on my way there now, Amos. See you tonight?’

  ‘You bet. Big kiss sweetheart. God bless.’

  He put the phone down and slid the toxicology report into a drawer, locked it and left his office, not bothering to close the door behind him.

  Captain Holder was already sitting behind his desk when Amos walked in and shut the door. He nodded towards an empty chair. Amos dragged it over and sat down. Holder was leaning back with his elbows resting on the chair arms. He had his hands closed in an attitude of prayer, although prayer was the last thing on his mind. The tips of his fingers were pressed into his lips. He was in his forties, still with a good head of hair. It was cut en brosse, which always reminded Amos of an upturned scrubbing brush, probably because the captain’s hair was white.

  No one in the department really liked Holder. Being a career man to his boots and fast tracked into an elevated position did little to endear him to his squad of detectives and police officers who patrolled the streets of the 7th Precinct. He was never afraid to express his opinion, popular or otherwise, and was known to hold some extreme views.

  ‘You went to Babs Mason’s house couple of days ago.’ Holder had his own way of getting straight to the point.

  ‘Yes, that’s right; I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  Amos shrugged, lifting his massive shoulders. ‘Just eliminating Ann Robbins’ acquaintances; they’re all potential suspects until then.’

  ‘Will you be talking to Gus Mason?’ Amos nodded but said nothing. ‘You know he’s running for office?’ Again Amos nodded. ‘It would not help his chances if he was seen to be part of your investigation, Amos.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be accusing him of anything, John. But I have to talk to all the senator’s friends.’

  ‘It might have repercussions; could put the department in a bad light.’

  Amos could begin to see which way the conversation was heading.

  ‘We do our job the best way we can, Captain. No one’s beyond the law.’

  Holder nodded quickly. ‘Of course, of course, but there are times when we have to show discretion. Softly, softly.’

  ‘Is there any other way?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said suddenly, ‘I want you to put the Robbins investigation to bed.’

  That caught Amos by surprise. After a slight pause he shook his head. ‘Can’t do that, John; investigation ain’t complete yet.’

  Holder lowered his hands until they were flat on his desk. ‘She died of a heart attack. We know that. Bit of a shock, a fit woman like the senator, but it happens.’

  Amos was surprised that Holder was talking of the cause of death as de facto, when nothing had been finally confirmed by the chief medical examiner.

  ‘The press ain’t going to let it go that easy, Captain. Besides, I believe she was murdered.’

  The captain’s expression didn’t alter. It was a classic example of control. ‘You got anything to substantiate that, Amos?’

  ‘Reckon I have.’

  ‘Be good to me. Tell me what you have.’

  Amos gave a kind of lopsided grin. He didn’t want the captain to know of the conversation he had just had with Judith. The man had a habit of feeding information to his favourite newspaper hounds in return for favours that would make him look good in the public conscience.

  ‘Let’s say that we regard the death of Senator Ann Robbins as suspicious and we are continuing with our inquiries.’

  Holder leaned forward aggressively. ‘Amos, don’t fuck with me. I’m your captain. Tell me what you have, then find a way of putting this to bed.’

  Amos pulled a face and lifted his hand to his forehead to scratch an itch. ‘We believe the senator was killed by an overdose of succinylcholine.’

  ‘Sux?’

  Amos nodded.

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can get sux on prescription.’ Holder was thinking out loud. ‘Maybe she overdosed on that. Self-inflicted.’

  Amos disagreed but it didn’t seem to make any difference to the way his captain was thinking.

  ‘If we have a murdered senator on our hands, Amos, the crap will hit the fan.’ He stopped for a moment and rattled his fingers on the desk. ‘We don’t want some political retard running round popping off our representatives.’

  Amos chuckled at this. ‘No one’s popping anyone off, John. I don’t even think there’s a political tag on this.’

  Holder gave him a strange look. ‘You never know, Amos. Tell you what,’ he said suddenly, making up his mind. ‘Give it a couple of days. If you’re no further forward I want you to declare it as death by misadventure, an accident, natural causes or anything to get the press off our backs. Close the case.’ He lowered his voice for effe
ct. ‘Then do a little digging on the quiet. Be discreet, Amos. Get my drift?’

  Amos wanted to tell him to piss off, but he had his own way of dealing with obstacles that had less to do with solving crimes and more to do with political advancement. Holder wanted his department efficient and squeaky clean, not delving into senators’ lives and lifting stones that would hurt his own advancement prospects. There was something in the captain’s attitude that puzzled Amos, though. It was almost as if the captain wanted the senator’s death to be declared either accidental or by natural causes. It wasn’t for a police detective to do that; it was up to the coroner. What Holder was suggesting was tantamount to hiding the truth and by definition, harbouring a criminal. Was Holder protecting someone, he wondered?

  He put the thought to the back of his mind, filing it away for consideration later. His next move was to delve deeper into Babs Mason and her husband, Gus, and find out why Holder appeared to be shielding them. Truth was there was little or nothing for Amos to investigate. No clues. No reliable witnesses. Nothing. It was true, though, in all police detective work, that an element of luck is often necessary to get a result. Or the perpetrator of the crime has to be unbelievably stupid and make a mistake. Even a trivial one can lead the police to the felon.

  He made his excuses to Holder, said he would get on to it and try to bring the case to a close, and left. But sitting in his office later, Amos knew that the only way he was going to clamber over the obstacle Captain Holder had firmly placed in his way, was to get lucky.

  Amos did get that little piece of luck, but it was a couple of months later. Had he arrived at the Precinct HQ a few minutes earlier or later than he did on that particular day, he would not have witnessed the commotion at the front desk.

  Sergeant Bibby was holding fort that morning as Amos walked through the front door. The desk sergeant was being berated by a woman, about fifty years of age. She was holding what looked like a small roll of cloth in her hand.