Outrage (9 page)

“Why weren’t you gassed?” Zak asked, shooting a quick glance at his brother.

Moishe shook his head sadly. “Ironically, I was spared because of my father’s occupation. One day, a German officer named Johann Klier, who had owned his own bakery before the war and ran the camp’s, sought me out. Other prisoners who had known my father had told Herr Klier that I was an experienced baker. So I went from pulling the teeth of corpses to baking bread.”

As he passed a hand over his eyes, it took the others a moment to realize that he was weeping. But when Karp offered another cup of coffee “and a chance to catch your breath,” he waved him off. “Forgive an old man his tears. No matter how many times I have told this story, the pain and grief are just as raw.”

He turned back to the boys. “By the fall of 1943, more than two hundred and fifty thousand people had been murdered at Sobibor and the Germans were starting to worry that the war wasn’t going so well and that word of their crimes would get out. They planned to wipe out all traces of the camp and every inmate in it. When word filtered to the
Sonderkommandos
that they were to be gassed in October, we rose up.

“On the morning of October 14, led by a man named Leon Feldhendler and a Red Army lieutenant named Alexander ‘Sasha’ Perchorsky, the
Sonderkommandos
and some of the other prisoners who joined in lured the SS guards in the camp to their deaths. We cut the electricity and telephone lines and broke into the camp armory. Then we began to fight the Ukrainian guards before escaping, though many of us died in the minefields surrounding the camp.

“There were six hundred of us in the camp that day,” Moishe recalled. “About a hundred and fifty were killed by guards or the mines. Three hundred of us escaped. Within a week, one hundred of us had been recaptured or killed. Everyone who’d been left behind at the camp was murdered and buried. The Germans then bulldozed the camp and turned it into farmland, as if it had never existed.”

Moishe’s eyes glittered now with anger. “But those of us who escaped and survived did not forget. I eventually met and joined up with Jewish partisans who were fighting the Germans. The ember of revenge burned deep in my chest, and I killed my enemies with great pleasure.”

The old man continued. “One day I was leading a small company of men when they captured three German SS officers whose car had broken down. I recognized them from Sobibor, including the officer who had pulled me away from my father, Hans Schultz. When I forced them to their knees on the road, Schultz started crying and begging for his life. ‘I was only doing as I was told,’ he cried. ‘You cannot imagine the nightmares I endure. The sound of people screaming and begging for their lives. The little children crying. And that horrible wailing and the sound of them crawling over each other to try to escape when the gas began to enter the room.’ That bastard looked at me like I would understand. ‘You were there, Moishe,’ he said. ‘You remember how sometimes when you opened the doors to remove them, some of them would be missing fingernails and have just bloody stumps because they had been clawing at the walls and each other.’ Terrible. Terrible.”

“What did you do?” Zak asked.

The old man sighed. “I played the part of judge, jury, and, may God forgive me, lord high executioner. With my anger raging inside, I decided that the punishment must fit the crime. I remembered how these men had laughed as all those innocent people had cried out and struggled to stay alive. So I had my men strangle them with cords, starting with Schultz’s subordinates. And while they kicked and dug at the cords with their fingernails, their faces turning purple and the blood vessels bursting in their eyes, I demanded that Schultz laugh.”

“Did he?” Giancarlo asked quietly.

“Remember what I said about the will to survive?” Moishe said. “Yes, he laughed as though at a great joke. And then I threw the cord around his neck myself and cried—which I still do at the memory—as I choked the life out of him.”

F
ELIX SAT AT A BARE TABLE IN A STARK ROOM OF WHITE
washed walls and linoleum wondering when the police were going to let him go home. He was by himself and there were no sounds other than the nervous tapping of his foot.

Having lost his glasses when he fell, he could only squint at the large mirror set against one of the walls. He’d watched enough television cop shows to know that it was probably oneway glass and that he was being watched by police detectives on the other side.

Felix had already been at the precinct house for two hours. They’d taken photographs of his face, and his fingerprints. But mostly he’d been left to sit in the room. He wished they’d just tell him what they wanted him to say so that he could say it and leave.

The door clicked and then opened. A large man walked in and stood for a moment studying him. He walked over and sat
in the chair across from Felix, who could then see well enough to note that he was an older man with a big, wrinkled face and icy blue eyes.

“I’m Detective Brock,” the man said. “I understand that you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present?”

Felix hesitated for a moment. The police officer who arrested him had also asked him if he wanted an attorney. He remembered that the police on the television shows asked that a lot, too, so he figured it must be important. But he didn’t know why. He did know, however, that attorneys cost money, and if his dad found out he was spending money on one, he’d get hit. He shook his head. “I don’t want an attorney.”

“And you’re willing to talk to me?” Brock asked. “No one is forcing you to answer my questions.”

Felix’s natural inclination to please kicked in. “Sure. I’ll answer your questions.”

“Good. Thank you, that helps,” the detective said. “Felix, can you tell me where you were earlier this morning, before the police officers arrested you?”

“Yes,” Felix answered, glad to start with an easy one, “I was home.”

“Was anybody else there?”

Felix cringed slightly at the memory of his father asleep on the couch. He didn’t want the police to bother Eduardo. “No.”

“What were you doing out so early on a Sunday morning?”

“I was going to Mullayly Park.”

“Why?”

“To meet my friends.”

“Felix, what would you say if I told you that you look like a
man who attacked a young woman this morning near Mullayly Park?”

Felix furrowed his brow. “I didn’t do it,” he answered.

“Then why did you try to run away when the police officer stopped you?”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what? That you’d be arrested for attacking that young woman?”

“No,” Felix answered.

“Then what were you afraid of, Felix?”

Felix thought back to the moment he decided to run and pictured his angry father coming at him with a raised fist. “That the policeman would find the stolen ring and tell my dad.”

“The stolen ring,” Brock replied, “the ring we found in your wallet? The ring you told Officer Givens was in your wallet?”

“Yes.” Felix nodded eagerly.

“Where’d you get the ring? Did you steal it?”

Felix shook his head. “No. I bought it from Al at the park.”

“You bought it from Al at the park,” Brock repeated.

“Yes, from Al. He gave me a good price because we’re friends.”

“Then how do you know it was stolen?” the detective asked.

“My friend Alejandro told me it was.”

“Alejandro told you the ring you bought from Al at the park was stolen?”

“Yes.”

“I see, and that’s why you ran from the police officer?”

“Yes.”

Brock quickly changed the subject. “Where’d you get that shiner?”

“Shiner?”

“The black eye,” Brock said, pointing to Felix’s face. “Looks like someone belted you pretty good. Did the young woman this morning hit you with her elbow?”

Felix didn’t know what to say. If he told the detective that his dad hit him and it got Eduardo in trouble, there’d be a beating later. “I ran into a door,” he said.

“A door?” the detective scoffed. He stared at Felix until the young man began to squirm in his seat. “You know what? I think someone hit you. I think maybe it was that young woman. In fact, maybe that’s what made you mad. Maybe that’s why you tried to pull her into the park. Maybe you were going to cut her with your knife. Is that it, Felix, she pissed you off so you were going to rape her and cut her with a knife?”

Felix started to panic. Brock’s tone had changed. Now the detective was saying that he had tried to cut a woman and rape her. But the detective was asking so many questions along with the accusations; Felix thought he better answer the questions that seemed the most important. “No. The young woman didn’t hit me. I wasn’t mad at her.”

“She didn’t hit you, so you weren’t mad at her,” Brock said. “Maybe you just wanted to rob her?”

This wasn’t going well. The detective couldn’t seem to understand him. “I didn’t want to rob her.”

“Rape her then? Did you want to rape her?”

“No, I didn’t want to rape her.”

“Then who hit you, Felix? That doesn’t look like you ran into a door.”

Felix’s shoulders sagged. “My dad.”

“Your dad hit you in the face?”

Felix nodded. “Yes. He thought I drank his beer.”

“I see,” the detective said in such a way that Felix knew he didn’t believe him.

Brock appeared to be getting ready to ask him another question when there was a knock at the door. The detective walked over to the door, which opened to reveal a uniformed police officer. The two had a quick conversation and then the detective turned back to Felix.

“I’m going to ask you to go with Officer Krysnowski here,” he said.

“Where am I going?” Felix replied, frightened. He’d hoped that the interruption meant he could now go home, but apparently they weren’t through with him.

“We’re just taking you to another room where there’ll be some other men,” Brock said. “You’re going to stand in line and then do what Officer Krysnowski asks you to do. It’s really very easy. You okay with that?”

Felix didn’t think that sounded too bad, especially if it got him away from Brock. “Sure, okay,” he said, standing. “Can I go home after that?”

The detective exchanged glances with the officer. “We’ll see. I may have some more questions.”

Felix sighed. “Okay, but if I don’t get home soon, I’m going to be in trouble.”

Officer Krysnowski led Felix from the room and put him in a line with four other men. They were then led into another room by the officer and told to stand along a wall and face another large mirror.

* * *

On the other side of the one-way glass, Marianne Tate stood with Detective Brock, as well as another detective, Scott McCullough, and Jon Marks, the sergeant of the detective squad.

“Do you recognize any of these men as the one who attacked you this morning?” Brock asked.

Tate studied the men one by one. “I didn’t get a real good look,” she said. “He was across the street when I first saw him and after that it was mostly out of the corner of my eye.”

“So none of these men look like your guy?” the sergeant asked.

Catching an irritated tone, Tate looked again. “Well, the guy on the end, number five, and number three look kind of like I remember. But I’m just not sure. Could you ask them to speak?”

The detective nodded. “Sure. Anything in particular?”

Tate’s eyes grew angry. “Yes. I want them to say, ‘Don’t scream,
sooka
, or I’ll cut your fucking head off.’ And then, ‘Now you and I are going to get busy.’”

Brock pushed the intercom button again. “Number five, I’d like you to repeat after me. ‘Don’t scream,
sooka
, or I’ll cut your fucking head off. Now you and I are going to get busy.’”

Number five, another detective in the Four-Eight detective squad who was working undercover, said, “Don’t scream or I’m going to cut your fucking head off…. Uh, now let’s get busy.”

“That wasn’t quite right,” Tate said.

“You want him to repeat it again?” Brock asked.

Tate bit her lip and shook her head. “Ask the other guy first.”

The detective pressed the button. “Number three, repeat
after me, ‘Don’t scream,
sooka
, or I’ll cut your fucking head off. Now you and I are going to get busy.’”

“Don’t scream,
sooka
, or I’ll cut your fucking head off,” Felix said awkwardly, “now you and I are going to get busy.”

“That’s him,” Tate declared. “He said it perfectly. And now that I’ve seen him a little longer, I think he looks more like the guy.”

“You’re sure?” Brock asked.

Tate nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Ms. Tate,” Marks said. “You’ve really done well. Can I ask you to step outside for a moment while I talk to my detectives?”

Tate glanced one last time at the lineup. A look of concern passed over her face, but she answered, “Of course,” and left the room.

“What do you think?” Brock asked.

The sergeant pursed his lips and then shook his head. “I think it’s pretty good,” he said. “It’s a positive ID, but a defense attorney is going to make hay with her hesitation. I sure would like a confession just to nail it down. And if he’s good for the Atkins murder, we’re going to need him to talk.”

Brock looked back at the lineup. The men were being led out of the room; Felix was filing out with a smile on his face. “I don’t know if he’s good for Atkins,” he said.

“Why not?” Marks said with a shrug. “This assault on Tate would match up pretty well—sudden blitz attack on a young woman, using a knife, during daylight hours.”

“You’re right there, Jon,” Brock agreed. “But the guy who did Atkins … he was a pretty smooth operator. He gets into the
apartment with no sign of a break-in, murders Atkins, cleans himself up, and then leaves—all without anybody noticing him or hearing anything. But our boy Felix here, he’s sort of bumbling and not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Hell, he’s half-blind.”

“Maybe he was wearing glasses,” the sergeant replied. “And despite what they try to portray on TV and movies, not all killers are masterminds. Sometimes they’re just fucking animals; clever animals, maybe, and they only get away with it for so long before they mess up. Like your boy Felix did this morning. I’m not saying he’s good for the Atkins murder, but let’s not assume he isn’t. I tell you right now, I’d love to get the captain off my back on this one. Anyway, let’s get a confession out of him for Tate and use that for leverage; maybe it will get him to spill his guts.”