by Terry Odell
“Shh,” Justin said. “Did you hear something? A car out front?”
She strained to listen. Yes, an engine’s rumbling. Did she see lights through the narrow gap in the curtain?
Seconds later, Buzz swept into the room. He snatched the letter and shoved it into his pocket. He plucked Rose from the bed, clamping a hand over her mouth. He paused at the doorway and shot them a threatening scowl. “Not a word if you want to see her alive.” He slammed the door behind him.
###
Gordon listened to Vicky McDermott’s report as he wheeled out of the parking lot toward the Kretzers’.
“I ran the plates on the car in the driveway. It’s Megan’s rental. I checked the garage, and the Kretzers’ car is there too. The curtains are drawn, but there are lights on.”
Which fit with Solomon’s report that nothing looked amiss. “So why are you concerned?”
“I knocked on the door. No answer. And the tape is down. It feels…wrong. That’s when I called you.”
From the determination in her tone, she was making up for her perceived guilt at missing the Bedford killer until it was too late. He wouldn’t discount Vicky’s unease. Cops became sensitized to things feeling “off.” And, unlike Angie, they were right more often than not.
“Get Dispatch to roll another unit. And wait for me. Don’t move without backup.”
He had a flash of panic when his car wasn’t in its slot, before he remembered it was at Lou’s garage. Shit. He regrouped. Went inside, checked out a cruiser, let Irv know where he’d be.
On the drive over, he concentrated on a plan. A Well Being check wasn’t out of the ordinary. Elderly residents not answering the door. But if their killer was inside, would that spook him? Would that exacerbate the problem? Was there a problem? Maybe they were all in bed. He pulled alongside Vicky’s cruiser. Worry etched her face. Rolling down his window, he twirled his finger, letting her know he was going to do a quick circle. There were a lot of hiding places in the wooded acreage behind the house. Visions of Rose and Sam Kretzer duct-taped to chairs, their throats sliced open, ran through his head. He knew Vicky’d been thinking the same thing since she called him.
He wound his way along the meandering street surrounding the tree-filled space. His heart rate accelerated when lights appeared in the darkness, making him cut his eyes away from the sudden brilliance. Car headlights? They moved, confirming his guess.
No way he could intercept the car from his position. He keyed his radio and alerted Vicky. “It should be coming your way. Follow it, run the plates. Let me know. I’m going to check the house.”
“What about backup?” Vicky said.
“Get the plates, update Dispatch, and have them route backup to you. If that’s our bad guy in the car, then he’s not in the house.”
“You shouldn’t go in alone. What if it was only some kids making out in the woods? He could be in there.”
A perfectly legitimate question, and until a few days ago, the most logical assumption. Now, Gordon went with his gut. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take. Find out who’s in that car. That’s an order.”
“You want me to pull it over?”
“Not without backup. If it’s kids, let ‘em get away with it this time, and get back here.”
“Roger. But I haven’t seen any vehicles yet.”
Damn. Why had he assumed the driver would be stupid enough to drive out in front of the Kretzers’? Even kids would avoid driving past a marked cruiser.
“Vicky, get over to Maple and Third. Any car in this area’s going to have to drive past there.”
“What am I looking for?”
“No idea. All I could see was headlights. Run ‘em all.”
“On it.”
By now, he’d circled the perimeter and hadn’t seen anything suspicious. He killed the lights as he pulled his cruiser along the curb, stopping about twenty yards from the Kretzers’ driveway.
He updated Dispatch and got out of the car. The front door was locked. He unsnapped his holster and worked his way to the rear. No open windows. No movement. No sounds.
The porch light illuminated the back door. The wide-open door.
He drew his weapon. “Police! Come out! Hands where I can see them!” His voice seemed to echo through the empty space. His own heartbeat pounded in his ears. He stood alongside the open doorway, controlling his breathing, visualizing the layout of the house. “Rose? Sam? Megan? Justin?”
“Gordon? Upstairs. He’s got Rose!” Megan’s voice.
He bolted for the stairs, then edged his way up, flattening himself against the wall. Gut feeling or not, there was no point in painting a bull’s-eye on his chest if Buzz was lying in wait, threatening Megan to say what he told her.
“Where are you?” he called.
“Rose and Sam’s bedroom.” Justin’s voice conveyed anger more than fear. “We’re alone. But Buzz Turner took Rose.”
“Hang on.” Gordon cleared each room before entering the master suite. “One second.” He did a check of the closet and bathroom before moving to Sam’s side. Using his Leatherman, he slit the tape at Sam’s wrists and ankles. “Sorry. Couldn’t take any chances someone was still in here.”
“Understood,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about us. You must find Rose. The man is crazy.”
Gordon released Megan, then Justin. “We’re working on it. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“No,” all three uttered in unison.
Sam swung his feet over the edge of the bed and wiped his jaw. “He said he would hurt her if we talked.”
“That was to keep us quiet while he was downstairs searching,” Megan said.
“For what?” Gordon asked. “Did he tell you?”
“Rose or Sam’s reading glasses so they could read and translate the letter,” Justin said.
“Not that he would have,” Sam said. “You did an excellent job of sending him off to find the wild goose.” He stood, and Megan rushed to his side to support him. “He obviously wasn’t paying attention when he was ransacking the place, or he’d have found them himself.”
“Where?” Megan asked.
Sam pointed to the dust cover surrounding the box spring. “One of Rose’s sewing projects.” He smiled. “That’s my spare pair. They never leave this room.”
Gordon stepped to where Sam pointed, finding a small quilted contraption with two pockets—one the size of a paperback, and a narrower one that held a pair of readers. Made from the same fabric and stitched to the cover itself, Gordon hadn’t noticed it when he’d helped Justin replace the mattress.
“All I wanted was to get him out of the room,” Megan said. “Good thing I didn’t know about this, or I’d probably have told him. I was so afraid he’d hurt you.”
“You don’t give in to bullies,” Sam said. His tone said he was talking about more than Buzz Turner’s threats. “Please, go find Rose.”
“Wait,” Justin said to Gordon. “The letter. You have the original. Can we get a copy?”
There might be some leads in the letter. “Good idea. I’ll take care of it.”
“I can go to the station and get it,” Justin said. His expression told Gordon he was trying to make sure nobody else saw it before he turned it over to Sam.
“No need. I’m going to want someone here with you in case Buzz calls. They’ll bring it.” Gordon was already concerned that he hadn’t heard from Vicky. “I’ll make the copy personally. I need to get to the station and coordinate the search.”
He went to the bed, where Sam sat, head down, fists clenched. Gordon set a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll get her back. You have my word. Buzz Turner will pay.”
Sam met his eyes, his expression grim. “I trust you.” A tiny smirk flashed across his mouth. “Maybe you should be worried that Mr. Turner will need rescuing from Rose.”
Gordon gave Sam’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You may be right.” He turned to Megan who approached him and gave him a quick hug.
Justin hadn’t moved from the floor. “You okay?”
Justin gazed past him to Sam. “Yeah. Fine.”
Gordon went over and extended a hand, hoisting Justin to his feet.
Justin chafed his wrists. “Megan, stay here with Opa. I’ll see Gordon out.”
Gordon followed Justin downstairs. He paused at the front door. “We’re going to catch Turner and bring your grandmother home.”
“I know. It’s the other part I’m having trouble dealing with. Telling Opa about everything.”
“Don’t underestimate him. I’ll get that letter over right away.” Gordon shook Justin’s hand. “Lock up. Back door too.” Gordon strode toward the cruiser, keying the radio as he walked. “Vicky. Report.”
“We’re working on it. We had four cars come by. Three residents and one rental.”
“Who’s the rental?”
“We’re waiting to hear from the company.”
Had to be Turner. “Give Dispatch the details. Have them put out a lookout order on the rental. And on the secure channel.”
Vicky might have wondered why he wasn’t waiting to see who’d rented the car, but she didn’t hesitate. And after she’d reported, Gordon got on the radio himself. “Irv, call in all available personnel. War room. Yesterday. And keep eyes open for Buzz Turner and Rose Kretzer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gordon grabbed his cell and called Colfax.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Justin paced the living room. Megan fussed in the kitchen making some sort of herbal tea. Like drinking flowers, Justin thought, but it gave her something to do, and heaven only knew they didn’t need any caffeine. Officer Solomon had arrived moments ago and was hooking a recording device to the phone in Opa’s study.
Opa’s footfalls on the stairs sent another cramp through Justin’s stomach. Justin turned his head and forced a semblance of a smile as his grandfather entered the room, twirling his reading glasses. Slipping them on, he crossed the room and stood behind Justin.
“Most of the time,” Opa said, “it’s unwise to keep things bottled up.” He massaged Justin’s shoulders. Memories of nights when Opa had comforted him the same way unclenched some of the knots in Justin’s stomach, but brought a lump to his throat.
Opa gave a final squeeze, then a firm pat. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.” He sat in one of the easy chairs. Megan came in with a tray of three steaming teacups and a plate of ginger cookies and set it on the coffee table. Justin sat on the couch, and she sat at the other end. Nobody touched the tray.
Justin cleared his throat and met Opa’s gaze. “Do you have a brother?”
Opa’s eyes widened. He took off his glasses and let them dangle from his fingertips. “I did. He was many years older than I. But he died in the war. Along with my sister Hilde and my parents. I was young, and was smuggled out of the country. To Holland, where I spent a good number of years living with a most generous family.”
“Why didn’t you ever speak of them?” Megan asked. Justin could tell she was comparing Opa’s situation to her own.
“In order to survive, nobody could know who my family really was,” Opa said. “Those who took me in put their own lives on the line. When word came my birth family was dead, I moved on.”
Justin handed Opa the letter Officer Solomon had given him. “This was found in Betty Bedford’s files. Apparently it had been misfiled years ago.”
Opa settled his glasses on his nose and perused the pages. His lips moved silently as his eyes scanned the words. “Mein Gott.” He paled. Stopped. Went back to the first page and read again, as if the words might have changed. Faster now, it seemed, as though he had been regaining proficiency in reading the language. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
He set down the last page, shaking his head. Flushed now, not pale.
Justin exchanged an uneasy glance with Megan. He could tell how hard it was for her not to rush to Opa’s side. Avoiding his grandfather’s eyes, Justin waited.
“Mein Gott.” Opa’s voice rasped. He shook his head in a slow rhythm. “Mein Gott.”
Megan finally voiced the question Justin couldn’t bear to ask. “What does it say? Is it from your brother?”
“Ja, Ich glaube schon. I believe so.”
Even though he’d prepared himself for the inevitable, Justin felt sick.
“Will you read it to us?” Megan asked.
Justin shot her a frown. “If you don’t want to, or aren’t ready, we understand. You don’t have to.”
“Nein. Ihr habt das Recht, die Wahrheit zu wissen.” He paused, as if he realized he’d spoken in German. “You have the right to know.” He took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes and then his glasses and shook the pages. With a shaky breath, he began reading. Slowly at first, as he dealt with translating, but then faster. His voice was flat, as if he’d dealt with his emotional response on his first, private read.
My dearest brother,
I have only recently learned you, too, survived, and it has taken me so long to find you. I am dying now, and cannot rest without explaining.
I regret all the horrors our life thrust upon us, and hope you can find it in your heart to forgive—or to understand. You were away when the police came for us. For that, I thanked God. What I did from that day forward sickens me, yet I am not sure I was strong enough to be the man I wish I could have been. The instinct to survive is strong, stronger than conscience, I fear.
The cattle-car trip to the camp was only the beginning. At first it was not so bad, and I spoke with another young man, also named Heinrich. He was from Danzig, with a special travel permit. He was optimistic that he would be released at our destination. But it was not to be. Three people died before we got there, and Heinrich Kaestner was among them. We were not so different in general appearance, and I swapped his papers for mine, hoping I could use them to my advantage.
After two days, we arrived at the camp in the dark of night. Mother and Father were among those sent to the so-called “showers” almost immediately. I was young and healthy, so my life was spared, along with that of our sister. We were separated, and I could only hope Hilde wasn’t sent to the showers or the oven. Every day, I tried to see her. Occasional glimpses would give me the strength to go on. I heard once that she was working as a typist, and prayed her work pleased her Nazi masters enough to keep Hilde alive another day. And I prayed that you had remained out of reach of the evildoers.
The overseers looked at my papers, but laughed when I said there was a mistake and I didn’t belong. They said as long as my name was Kaestner, they had the perfect job for me. Thus, I toiled as a carpenter, learning enough of the craft and discovering a latent talent, so my labors were deemed worthwhile enough to keep me alive, although one never knew if each day would be one’s last. I crafted some furniture—a desk, some shelves—for one of the officials, which were well-received. This blessing was a curse in disguise.
Survival depended on being invisible, and I strove not to call attention to myself. I was only moderately successful, as I was given the dubious honor of serving as the intermediary between prisoner and guard when my skills as a carpenter were no longer needed. While the “promotion” bought me some minor privileges, I was now faced with the resentment of my fellow prisoners, and their deference. I, you see, was often required to decide who would live and who would die.
One night, while escaping the stench of the barracks for some less-stifling air, I saw a guard bring a woman to an area not far away. It was Hilde. I listened to her screams as he raped her, but did nothing. To react would have meant my own death. I tried to rationalize my actions, telling myself that being raped was better than being killed, and Hilde would survive her assault. Several months later, I saw her once more, her belly rounded with the beginnings of a new life. I’m sure you know of the appalling health conditions at these places. The strain on Hilde was too great, and she weakened and was doomed to the gas chamber.
The shame of my inaction, of my cowardice,
festers inside still today, along with everything else I did—or did not do—during those horrendous days.
Inside, something snapped. I denounced my heritage, my upbringing, and crossed the line. In my mind, I became one of “them,” as if it would be easier to do evil deeds if I were one of the evildoers. For how much more evil can one be than deciding between another’s life or death? And while I never forced myself upon a woman, I took many, in return for promises—often unkept—that their lives would be spared. For I had quotas to meet, and any slacking on my part would end my own life—and deny me some of the simplest “luxuries” of existence in that place, such as an occasional shower, or an extra ration of soup.
But in the depths of my soul, I knew I had to act. I was assigned to assist in scientific “experiments”—atrocities that at first caused me to become physically ill. I am ashamed to admit, I became hardened to the screams, the blood, the voiding from fear. I began to keep my own records of everything that happened at the camp. As it was my task to record collected data, I had access to pens and paper, and each night, I transcribed my notes, which I kept hidden. The risk was great, but it appeased my aching conscience.
The war finally ended, and when our camp was liberated, I made my way to Berlin, where I kept my secret hidden and married another survivor. The marriage couldn’t handle the strain of our pasts, however, and I take the blame. I was plagued by nightmares, drank too heavily, and had trouble holding down any kind of job. After barely a year, we parted, and my wife took custody of our infant daughter, Ingrid. It was undoubtedly better for both of them.
I decided to leave my past behind—as much as I could—and I left Germany for the United States. I settled in a suburb of Pittsburgh, in a community with a varied ethnic mix, so I had ties to the old country, but new horizons. I had Americanized my name to Henry Carpenter, and lived a modest life as a bookkeeper.
But I was an old man, and my health had deteriorated after the years in the camp. I found a nursing home that seemed adequate for my remaining years. One can never escape the past, however. Heinrich Kaestner was being hunted as a war criminal. And, at the same time, there were people saying the Holocaust had never happened. I knew that I needed to make my notes public. However, I didn’t feel that my transcriptions would be safe from prying eyes, so, before I entered the home, I sent them to a man I could trust, telling him to release them only to someone bearing a special note from me. If he was to hear of my death before then, he could release them to the media. It was in a sealed package. If he ever opened it, I do not know.
