An Apple for Zoë ~ The Forsaken (5 page)

"This girl has had a cerebral hemorrhage," said Roberts.

James pulled himself away from the wall.
 

"Really?"

Roberts motioned for James to come join him.
 

"Look there, the eye on the right. See how the pupil is all the way open and the eye on the left appears to be normal?"

James nodded his understanding.

"Her brain has been blown out. I guarantee once we get inside the skull there will be blood, this may not be a homicide boys."

James was suddenly confounded.
 

"Wait a second, this girl was alive last night at a club with another girl. I know it's odd she ended up in a funeral home ahead of schedule, but how can you say it might not be a homicide?"

"Come on, Tom, this sort of thing can be congenital, weak arteries, high blood pressure, habitual cocaine abuse. How do you know she's not a junkie?"

"So she just brings a life sized portrait of herself to the local mortuary, finds a casket she fancies, shoots a little smack and hops in?" James asked. "Come on Larry, look at her, she's beautiful. I admit that she's dead, but does she look like a junkie?"

 
Roberts put his recorder down. "Remember your first case, the 10-year-old girl? Same thing, her grandfather said she slept all weekend long, he thought she had the flu, when he finally came in to wake her up she had been dead two days."

"I remember."

Kirkland cut into the conversation. "So what was it?"

Roberts turned to him. "We couldn't figure out what had happened based on the history. Then I saw the overly dilated pupil. Examined her arms for signs of shooting up, nothing. Then I remembered a colleague of mine had dealt with a similar case. You remember what I did Tom?" asked the doctor.

"Yeah, you looked between her fingers with a magnifying glass."

"Exactly, and that's where we found the needle marks."
 

Kirkland was stunned. "You're kidding me. A 10-year-old was shooting cocaine?"

"Wayne, get my magnifying glass," ordered Roberts.
   

In moments the doctor was checking Amanda's hands. From his expression James could tell he wasn't finding anything. Roberts then moved down to the girl's feet and spread her toes. His expression changed once again to one of triumph.
 

"Bingo," said Roberts.
 

Kirkland shook his head in denial.
 

"She actually shot up between her toes?"

"That means she's hiding her drug use from someone," said James.

"Is it possible, Dr. Roberts, she didn't inject herself?" asked Kirkland.

"You're suggesting perhaps that her injections were forced?" quizzed the pathologist.

"Yeah."

"Sure it's possible, but I don't see any signs that her feet or ankles had been bound or held down."

Their attention was suddenly taken to the swinging doors. Stillwell stood out of breath. His faced covered in sweat and his complexion pale.

"Tom, you're not going to believe this! You're old guy, 84-year-old Richard Skylar. He's not Richard Skylar at all. He's 95-year-old, Hermann Kritzler."

"Okay, so the old guy lied about his age and changed his name. Big deal," said Kirkland.

"Who the hell is Hermann Kritzler?" asked James as he saw Roberts face go white.
 

"Reinhard's rapist," said the doctor in a hollow tone.
 

"Reinhard's what? What are you guys talking about?" asked James.

"Reinhard Heydrich was Himmler's number one man. He ran the Belzek death camp. Kritzler, was chosen to organize transportation of Poles and Jews to Belzek," said Roberts.

"This guy is a Nazi?" asked Kirkland

"He's not just any Nazi, he's a Nazi who actually begged and bribed Heydrich for his position at Belzek. A position that gave him total control over deciding which women would go immediately to the gas chambers and which would be selected for his special project."

"Special project?" asked Kirkland.

"Women began learning that they could avoid the gas chamber if they begged him for sex which he eagerly indulged in. He still had them killed anyway. Along with the ones who didn't offer him sex, usually the younger girls. Those were the ones he took special pleasure in raping." Roberts paused for a moment. "Later, when he came to Auschwitz the raping didn't stop, he continued at the same time having an affair with one of the women guards, Irma Grese. She took revenge by strangling the girls with their own hair." Roberts sounded as if he was reciting a biography, James thought.
 

"If I'm not mistaken, wasn't it against the law for Germans to have sex with Jews?" asked Kirkland.

Roberts nodded.

"Then why would a Nazi want to have sex with a race of women he hated?"

"Rape is a act of violence, not affection detective," said Roberts.

"This frail old man?" quizzed James.

"This frail old man is a sadistic fiend!" said Roberts pointedly.

"He's been on the Mossad's most wanted list for the last 60 years. His fingerprints came up instantly when I ran them through the system," explained Stillwell.

James mind was a whirlwind of confusion.
 

"You sure about this, Bobby? You're sure this old man is a Nazi, who's been on the run for the better part of the twentieth century?"
 

Roberts slowly walked over and looked into the face of the old man. An old man whose hands were now bound together with barbed wire and a knotted electrical cord tied around his neck.
 

"It's him," said the doctor.

"How do you know?" asked Kirkland.
 

"I think this says it all," said Roberts.

Kirkland's stomach turned as he saw the doctor unbutton his shirt cuff and roll up his sleeve, revealing a faded blue numerical tattoo.
 

"You were there?"

"From 1942 until I was moved to Auschwitz in 1944."

"Jesus, I'm sorry none of us had a clue," apologized James. Roberts nodded his acceptance.
 

"You realize Tom, I can't proceed with the autopsy."

"Why not?"

"Because of who he is, we have to notify the FBI, State Department, and the German Embassy, just for starters."

 
Kirkland's head was still swimming from the twist the events had just taken.
 

"You just became an international celebrity Tom."

"Great this is all I need. A case with no answers, weird serial killer kind of murders and on top of that the guy has to be a Nazi war criminal," lamented James.

Stevens face contorted into an expression of curious puzzlement as he began placing Amanda Carlyle's clothing into an evidence bag when something metal fell from her handbag, clanging against the cold tile floor. Wayne reached down and picked it up.

"Uh, guys, I think things just got a little more complicated," said Stevens as he held up a blood soaked straight razor.

"Where did that come from?" asked James.

"Inside her purse. That's not all, I think I also found what it was used on." Stevens held aloft something that was also blood soaked. The men slowly closed the gap between Wayne and themselves.
 

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Kirkland.

"I do believe it is, Mr. Kirkland," said the doctor.

The five men looked at one another and then at the dead corpse of Hermann Kritzler. "Wayne, slide down Mr. Kritzler's trousers," said Roberts.
 

The men gathered around the steel table holding the old Nazi's body. Within seconds, Stevens had done as ordered, and they could see a deep maroon stain on the old mans boxers. Stevens looked at Roberts. The doctor nodded the signal to continue. Stevens pulled at the stained boxers, a universal gasp emanated from the witnesses. Roberts smirked as he looked at the Nazi's pelvic area, which was now void of his manhood.
 

"No more heil Hitler's for this guy."

"Looks like there is justice after all doc," said Kirkland.

"Justice Mike? This monster manages to get away with raping girls, murdering thousands, and live well into the next century. Why now? Why wasn't he executed 60 years ago, with all the other Nazi slime?" fumed James.

"Maybe the Devil wasn't done with him," said Roberts as he scribbled notes into his autopsy book.
 

James took in a deep breath.
 

"Wayne, what else you got in that purse?"

Stevens dumped the remaining contents on the table.

"We've got some lipstick, gum, make-up, checkbook, bunch of loose change, piece of paper- wait it's a credit card receipt."

"Receipt for what?" asked James.

"The straight razor."

"Who's the card holder?"

"Virginia Rappe."

CHAPTER FIVE

 
Virginia Rappe

Why do I know that name?

James sat at his desk staring at his computer screen. His face was blank.
Was the name another mock clue from Edmund Frayker? Was it supposed to mean
virgin rape
?
he wondered.

James picked up the credit card and examined it closely. It appeared to be new. He turned it over to find it was unsigned. James noted the telephone number to report it lost or stolen. As he dialed, James wondered if the name on the card was the identity of the killer. The voice of a young female operator pulled James away from his musings.
 

"This is operator 2175, do you have a lost or stolen card to report?"

"Yes, my name is Thomas James, I'm a homicide detective with the city of San Francisco. My badge number is 1563. The card I wish to report has been found at the scene of a homicide."

A long pause filled the air. James knew the operator was trying to absorb the information.

"Did you say homicide, sir?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"One moment."

James knew the operator was putting him on hold to find a supervisor.
How long would this take
? he wondered. Should he take his dinner break now or just wait it out? His attention returned to the phone as the voice of a man was now on the other end.

"This is supervisor Webber, how may I assist you sir?"

"Mr. Webber, my name is Thomas James, I'm with San Francisco homicide. I need to verify some information on a credit card found at a crime scene we are working on."
 

There was another long pause. James knew neither, the operator or the supervisor believed him.
 

"What is your badge number Mr. James?"

"
Inspector
James, and it's 1563, I already told the girl I spoke with this information."

"Please be patient with us, Inspector James. You understand we have an obligation to our cardholder."

"I understand, so just tell me what you need, so you can verify I'm telling you the truth and we can proceed."

"Just one more moment Inspector, we're verifying your information right now."

James rolled his eyes as he listened to the monotone sound of the supervisor's fake voice. Deepening it, trying to make his voice sound authoritative and threatening, Webber continued, "Thank you for your understanding Inspector James. What information do you require?"

"I need an address and telephone number for this credit card."

James rattled off the credit card number and listened to the clicking of computer keys on the other end of the phone.

"The name on the card please."

"Virginia Rappe."

Another pause. James knew the supervisor sensed something.

"What is it Mr. Webber?"

"Are you sure the card says Virginia Rappe?"
 

"I'm looking right at it," said James.

"Is the last name spelled, R- A- P- P- E?" asked Webber.

"Yeah, looks like the word rape with an extra 'p' in it."

"I think someone is trying to play a joke on you Inspector."

"What do you mean?"

"Virginia Rappe was a silent film actress."

"Was she?"

"Yeah, she was raped by a guy named, Fatty something or other."

James froze in his chair. The hair stood up on his neck.
That's why the name seemed familiar to him,
James thought to himself.

"Mr. Webber, can you stay on the line with me a moment?"

"Certainly."

"I'm going to put you on speaker phone."

James turned to his computer and typed into the search engine the name, Virginia Rappe. In a moment he saw dozens of links and photos of a sultry young woman. He clicked on a link titled "FATTY ARBUCKLE and the DEATH of VIRGINIA RAPPE." James' heart raced as he scanned the article. According to the article silent film star Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle was blamed for the death of sometime silent film actress Virginia Rappe. The event had occurred at San Francisco's Aleris Hotel in 1921. At a wild party, with heavy drinking, Arbuckle was accused of raping Virginia with a Coke bottle. James shivered at the image in his mind.

"Mr. Webber? Is the address of this cardholder 335 Powell Street?"

"Yes that's right, 335 Powell St. Number 1219, San Francisco, CA."

James quickly scanned the article. There it was in bold black print. Fatty had taken the girl to room 1219.
 

"Mr. Webber, how many charges are on the card?"

"Just one."

"One? Just how new is this card?"
 

"Account was opened this month."

"Let me guess, the charge is for a room at The Aleris?" asked James knowingly.

"No, the charge is from The Razor's Edge in Alameda."

Although continuing to read the article online, James managed to turn his attention back to Webber, who was questioning their next step with the card.

"Inspector, what do we do about this card?"

"Keep the account open, Mr. Webber. Notify me at once if the card is used again. I will call you back."

A sick feeling began to come over James as he faced the idea that at this very moment there might be a dead woman waiting for him at The Aleris Hotel. His only hope was she wouldn't be nude with a Coke bottle substituting for a lover. Whatever the answer was, it seemed to be waiting for him in room 1219.