Murder in the Marais (Aimee Leduc Investigations, No. 1)

by Cara Black

  "Where did the bloody fingerprint go?" she said.

  "With the experts," he said.

  She heard the scrape of the wooden match on his desk. She knew the videoed fingerprint had been scanned and immediately catalogued on computer files.

  "No kidding, Morbier. What's it under?"

  "Pending and Interpol. What's it to you?"

  She punched in Pending, then Paris, then 4th arrondissement/ 64 rue des Rosiers. Up came a giant index finger on her screen.

  "Just like to be included in the twenty-eight percent of the informed population," she said. She'd like to see the expression on his face if he could see the display filling her screen.

  "The higher-ups have spoken again. Seems whatever case I touch they like to take over," he said.

  "Meaning that they didn't like your face on the evening news?"

  "Meaning Luminol use falls under strict rules from the ministry at La Defense," he answered. "Which I didn't follow. So I'm pushed off that case."

  "That doesn't make sense," she said.

  "Leduc, just a word to the wise. Leave this thing alone."

  "So only the big boys get to play and set up their own rules? Is that what you're saying, Morbier?" Aimee asked.

  "They already have," he said. "Watch out."

  The fingerprint hadn't even been classified or typed yet, but Aimee could tell by the whorls filling her computer screen that it was common to one third of the population. Such a clear readable print; the swirls over the hump of the center finger pad were unique, as everyone's were. But she could start to classify and discard two thirds of the millions of prints that were stored based on what she saw. She punched into FOMEX on Rene's terminal and scanned the known fingerprints of Nazis from Nuremberg trial files into the computer. That would give her a base to start from. On the other terminal hooked to his Minitel she downloaded the R.F. SS Sicherheits-Dienst Memorandum file emblazoned with thick black Gestapo lightning bolts she'd accessed through the Yad Vashem in Jerusalem.

  But that turned into a dead end. She checked other memorandums from the file. Nothing. The Nuremberg trials only yielded prints of those already executed for war crimes and the R.F. SS file was limited.

  At a loss as to where to go, she delved into Republic of Germany classified documents. After forty more minutes of searching, she accessed the Third Reich database, which flooded the screen with a whole plethora of Nazism. Many of the entries had come from charred remnants scanned and entered into the database from the remains left in the burned Reichstag basement smoldering as Berlin fell. Countrywide lists of Hitler Youth group members and the alliance of German Girls were catalogued alongside SA brown shirt organizations, fingerprint files of Gestapo members, and even the names of German women awarded gold crosses for having the most children.

  She entered Gestapo files and searched by surname. Nothing came up that matched the ones she wanted. Then she tried locale, searching the three main headquarters in Munich, Hanover, and Berlin. A "Volpe, Reiner" aged eight years old came up but that was the closest. Then she decided to go year by year. She began in 1933, the first known year on file of an established Gestapo. After an hour and a half she'd found the fingerprints in the Gestapo file of the SS chief and underlings in Paris: Rausch, Oblath, and Volpe. She printed them, amazed at the clear imprints that existed after all this time.

  After pulling up the Luminol fingerprints from the FRAPOL 1 file, she peered through her magnifying glass at the two screens full of whorls and swirls. She inputted them together, counted to ten, then pressed the command REQUEST COMPARISON. A soft whir, then a series of small clicks. REQUEST RECEIVED appeared on the screen, then a flashing signal indicating request backlog. All she could do now was wait until the match was or wasn't made.

  When the flashing light disappeared from Rene's terminal and the message came up "No Match of Verified Fingerprints," Aimee wasn't too surprised. She'd eliminated Rausch, Oblath, and Volpe as Arlette's murderer. But they'd been responsible for so many other murders, it didn't mean much. Primitive elimination. She still didn't know Hartmuth Griffe's true identity. Generally, new identities had been found that were close to the person's real name for easier remembrance and to avoid mistakes. He could be Rausch or either of the underlings: Oblath or Volpe.

  A configuration of jumbled letters appeared on her screen, followed by clicking noises. Alarmed, she looked up. "Rene, something weird is happening."

  "Mine too," he said. "Something is either scrambling transmission or we've been hit by a virus."

  "I'll check the backup server link. Did you confirm our new access codes with them?" she said.

  "I haven't gotten around to it yet," Rene moaned. "We're cooked! Our whole system's down."

  Aimee quickly started the automated backup retrieval system, so files wouldn't be lost or deleted. Automated backup retrieval cost them a lot, but the system was guaranteed to be fail-safe.

  She breathed a sigh of relief after she'd checked the system. "The fingerprints are saved."

  Rene looked worried as he climbed down from his chair. "I think you kicked off some warning device in the FOMEX system."

  "I think you're right." She glanced at her screen. "That means I dug deep enough to flip off an alarm."

  For the first time she admitted to herself that she might be in over her head. Way over her head.

  "Go home," Rene said, as he put on his coat. "I'm going to visit a friend who deals with this kind of thing. Just stay off the system and wait until you hear from me."

  "I'm going to walk home," she said.

  "Stay off the phone." He looked grim. "And make sure you're not followed."

  AS SHE walked along the Seine kicking pebbles into the water, she checked to see that she wasn't being followed. Uneasily, she forced herself to mentally catalog her recent discoveries.

  She'd discovered that a fifty-year-old bloody fingerprint found at the murder scene of Lili's concierge hadn't matched any Si-Po officers in occupied Paris. However, she knew that these officers had been listed as dead in the Battle of Stalingrad while they were still signing deportation orders for Jews in Paris. Her office had been broken into, files about Lili and a collabo taken, and a swastika painted on her wall along with a threat. She had heard Soli's last utterance in the hospital of "Ka. . .za" and was almost run over. Not to mention discovering Thierry's real parentage and Javel's statement about the Jew with the bright blue eyes. More of the puzzle pieces had surfaced—fragments and images. They all fit together. Only she didn't know how.

  Now she needed to stir things up. Throw her idea in the frying pan and see what happened. Test her suspicions about Hartmuth Griffe. She pulled out her cell phone and called Thierry.

  "Meet me in the rear courtyard of the Picasso Museum," she said.

  "What for?" His voice sounded flat.

  "Has to do with your parentage," she said slowly. "We need to—"

  He interrupted excitedly. "Did you find out about my. . ." He paused. "The Jewess?"

  "Look for me by the Minotaur statue. Behind the plane trees."

  "Why?"

  She explained her plan to him, then hung up.

  As she crossed the Place des Vosges, she kicked the fallen leaves. She made another phone call to Hartmuth Griffe. This would definitely set wheels in motion. Whether they were the right ones remained to be seen.

  THIS FORMER hôtel particulier, now the Picasso Museum on rue Thorigny, still maintained quiet niches of green comfort in the rear courtyard. At this time of year, the small courtyard was deserted of museum-goers. Crisp autumn air skittled leaves over Picasso's bronze figures reclining on the lawn. Several of his voluptuous marble Boisegeloup females bordered the limestone walls.

  Thierry stood next to Aimee under a spreading tree, his legs apart, his face expressionless. "Him?"

  She nodded. "Keep to the plan."

  Hartmuth Griffe huddled on a bench beside the gilded Minotaur, pulling his cashmere coat around him. He stared as they approached.
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  "Thank you for coming, Monsieur Griffe," Aimee said.

  "Your offer intrigued me, Mademoiselle Leduc." He inclined his head in a half bow. "Now what is so interesting for me to come out in this cold?" he said.

  Aimee noticed how Hartmuth stared at Thierry's intense blue eyes. She motioned to Thierry. Thierry's arm shot out in a Sieg heil salute from his black leather storm-trooper coat. The worn leather crackled.

  Hartmuth's eyes never wavered as he stood up. "So who are you, before I leave?"

  Thierry smiled sardonically. "Right now, that's a good question."

  Aimee stepped forward. "I have a request to make of you. This may appear audacious, and of course it is, but indulge me, please; it will all make sense later. Please remove your shirt."

  "What if I say no?" Hartmuth said, standing and backing up into an ivy-covered trellis. He started towards a rear walkway.

  Aimee blocked his exit. "Cooperation is better."

  Thierry reached for Hartmuth's arms, holding him from behind. Hartmuth jerked and twisted.

  "Struggling isn't wise," Thierry said as he pulled Hartmuth behind leafy bushes directly under the museum windows.

  Behind the dense foliage, Aimee stuck her Glock in his temple. "I've asked you nicely. Now do it."

  His face a mask, Hartmuth removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his chest. Tan, muscular, and lean. Aimee draped the coat over Hartmuth's shoulders as she lifted his arm.

  "Do you think I'm a drug addict, too? Needing a fix?" Hartmuth's eyes bored into Thierry's. "You two junkies work as a team, right? My wallet is in my pocket. Take the money and get out."

  Aimee examined his arm carefully, as Thierry held him from behind. She pushed aside her disgust at discovering the telltale sign.

  "What are you d-doing?" Hartmuth said. He jerked his arm back.

  "That scar under your left arm comes from removing your SS tattoo, doesn't it?" she said. "Firing a pistol into your armpit so the muzzle flash would burn it—painful but better than the slow death from the Russians if they'd discovered it," she said.

  Hartmuth simply stared at them.

  "Please put your shirt back on; it's very cold out here," Aimee said. She had him now. Time to gamble that these men matched. But after reading Sarah's letter, she knew they would.

  Thierry stared at Hartmuth.

  "Who are you and what do you want?" Hartmuth asked. His eyes were cold.

  "I don't know what I want," Thierry said.

  She stepped forward. "He's your son."

  Dumbfounded, Hartmuth's eyes became wide.

  "I don't understand," Hartmuth began. "Is this a j-joke?"

  "More a bizarre backfire. Tainted in the Aryan sense." Thierry emitted a brittle laugh.

  "You expect me t-to. . .," Hartmuth said.

  "Monsieur Griffe, if that is your name, I want answers," Aimee said. "Sit down."

  Thierry pulled him down on the bench. His eyes never left Hartmuth's face.

  Hartmuth shook his head back and forth, staring at Thierry. "What crazy idea are you trying to prove?"

  "I had to be sure you were SS," she said.

  "My record is clear," Hartmuth said. "This is absurd!"

  Aimee thrust the faded blue sheet of paper, covered with spidery writing, at him. "Didn't I promise you interesting reading?" she said. "Read this."

  Hartmuth read it slowly. His lower lip twitched once. Motionless, he reread the letter.

  "Who gave this to you?" he asked Thierry.

  "His stepmother left this to be read with her will."

  "But why come to me?" His hands shook as he rebuttoned his cashmere coat.

  "You tell us," she said.

  Thierry, his arms folded, stared intently at Hartmuth. The only sound came from scraping gravel as Thierry crossed and recrossed his legs. Somewhere in the Marais, low and sonorous in the frosty air, a bell pealed. Hartmuth remained mute, almost paralyzed.

  "You had to murder Lili Stein because she recognized you," Aimee said. "From the time you rounded up her family and all the Jews in the Marais!"

  Hartmuth stood up. "I'm calling a guard."

  Aimee held his arm. "Fifty years later, Lili sees your photo in the paper and knows you."

  "You're making this up!" he said.

  "Lili couldn't forget your face. You beat down the door and pulled her parents out of bed."

  "I-I t-told you it wasn't like that," Hartmuth stumbled.

  She noticed how he clenched and unclenched his hands.

  "Coincidentally, in the alley behind your hotel, she recognized you." Aimee leaned into his face, pushing him back. "Or maybe she tracked you down. Followed you. 'Nazi butcher,' she screams, or 'Assassin.' Maybe she tries to attack you, gets scared, runs away. But you follow her and you have to keep her quiet like the concierge. Keep your past hidden."

  "I-I only saw her once," he said.

  Aimee froze. So it was true. The idea she'd thrown into the frying pan was the right one.

  "In 1943. I followed her to her apartment," he said. His eyes glazed over.

  "Tell me what happened," Aimee said.

  "I was afraid if Lili informed," he said, "they would t-trace the food to me. But I found the concierge, beaten to a bloody pulp."

  Aimee shivered. "Those were your bloody fingerprints under the sink," she said. She pointed to his hands. "Those gloves hide your prints, preventing anyone from discovering who you are. You're the Gestapo lackey who couldn't get them to the ovens fast enough for Eichmann!"

  Hartmuth slowly peeled off his kidskin gloves and thrust his scarred hands in the cold air. Rippled flesh whorled in strange patterns over his shriveled palms. The last two fingers of his left hands were stumps. "These are courtesy of the Siberian oil fields, Mademoiselle."

  Unable to disguise her feelings Aimee turned away. Her own seared palm was small compared to his deformity.

  "But those were your boot prints!" she persisted. "You washed your boots at the sink, didn't you?"

  A brief silence. He looked down. "After the fact, yes. I went back."

  "You went back?" she said.

  "I knew the concierge would be easy to bribe. But it was too late."

  "Who murdered her?" Aimee asked.

  "I saw Lili climb out the window, over the rooftop, and escape. That's it, I just protected Sarah."

  "Protected Sarah. . .like the way you crossed her name out in the convoy sheets, then added the A to make it appear she had been sent to Auschwitz?" she said.

  "Who are you?" Hartmuth demanded.

  Thierry sat forward, studying this man, his eyes never leaving Hartmuth's face.

  She ignored his question.

  "Sarah is in danger." His voice shook. "I don't know how to help her."

  "She knew Lili Stein."

  A sigh. "Yes."

  "Did she kill Lili in revenge because she'd been disfigured at Liberation?"

  "N-no," he shouted.

  "Isn't she still sympathetic to Germany after being a collaborator, sleeping with you?"

  "N-no, it's n-not like that. You have to find her again. Before they do." Hartmuth raised his voice.

  Aimee was surprised. "Who?"

  "People in the German government. . .." He put his head down.

  "Why should I believe you? You were in the Gestapo. I'll never have enough proof to prosecute you for war crimes. The Werewolves erased your past, resurrected a new identity from a dead man. They were masters at that. But deep down I know rats like you live in holes all over Germany."

  He rubbed his arm and spoke tonelessly. "I supervised the local French police. They rounded up the Jews from businesses and apartments in every building around here. I worked with the Direktor of the Antijudische Polizei at the Kommandantur. We ticked off sheets when the convoys were loaded. As for shipping them out. . ." He paused, and lowered his voice. "I didn't know what an Auschwitz or Treblinka meant. I found out later. Sarah hid from me but I found her and saved her. All the rest. . .I was one man i
n a wave that crushed generations. I didn't kill Lili. The only time I ever killed was in hand-to-hand combat at Stalingrad. A little Russian boy aimed a p-pitchfork at me and I sh-shot him. I see that every night when I try to sleep. Other things, too."

  "Thierry is your son, isn't he?" Aimee said.

  "I don't know. This letter is in Sarah's writing b-but she said," he stopped. "Those eyes, y-yes. . .those are her eyes." He choked. "Sh-she told me we had a b-baby who died as an infant! I j-just find it hard to believe. . ."

  "That I'm alive?" Thierry stood in front of him.

  Aimee saw something inside of Hartmuth shift.

  "Gott im Himmel, I never knew, n-never knew," he said. His head started shaking. "Are you my s-son?"

  "Lies! Everyone lied to me," said Thierry. His face contorted in hate. "I had a right to know."

  Aimee saw the confusion in Hartmuth's eyes. He wondered if this really was his son. His and Sarah's, conceived in the catacombs fifty years ago.

  "Sarah told me the b-baby died!" Hartmuth said.

  Thierry, a stream of tears running down his own face, tentatively reached over.

  "May I touch you, Father?" he asked in a whisper.

  "Look at his blue eyes," Aimee said to Hartmuth. "Claude Rambuteau said Thierry had the same eyes as Sarah."

  Hartmuth slowly reached out his trembling fingers, and grasped Thierry's. They held hands tightly. Aimee watched as Hartmuth's hand started to explore Thierry's face. His fingers traced Thierry's cheekbones, how his forehead curved, where his ears brushed his black hair.

  Fog curled into the courtyard, dimming the spotlights highlighting Picasso's sculptures. The temperature had dropped but the two men were oblivious. As they spoke, clouds of frost in the afternoon air punctuated their words.

  Softly Hartmuth spoke. "Your chin is like my grandmother's, jutting out just a little here." He sighed wistfully as he ran his fingers over Thierry's jawline. "Of course your eyes, coloring, and hair are hers," he said.