Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (29 page)

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.

But if you are reading this, it means that I have found you, and that the transcripts should be arriving shortly. I have confessed my sins to you, and it pains me to have you know that I, who shares your blood, was a cruel monster. If you choose to burn it without reading, I understand. If you choose to take this information with you to your grave, I also understand. But know that I have always loved you.

Your brother,

Heinrich

Gordon spread a map of the county on the tables in the war room. If Buzz was on the run, he couldn’t have gotten far. Colfax had deputies setting up a checkpoint on the main route to the Interstate, although Buzz was probably too smart to try to head for the highway. No, he’d have someplace more isolated in mind. But there were countless possibilities, each more remote than the next.

Gordon thought of Karl Franklin, killed in one place, transported to another, and the car abandoned. Had Buzz already taken care of Rose? Was she in the trunk of a rented blue Ford Fusion, on her way to being dumped or buried somewhere?

Damn, all the forensics bells and whistles on the planet weren’t going to find them. He was a small-town cop, and he needed to remember that. More often than not, simple legwork got the job done.

“Got anything?”

Gordon looked up at the sound of Colfax’s voice. “Nothing new. I want to swap one of your deputies for my man at the Kretzers’. He’s waiting for a call from Turner, but I’ve got a better use for his skills.”

For once, Colfax didn’t come back with a snappy retort. He got on the radio and ordered one of his men to report to the Kretzers’.

Ten endless minutes later, the room filled with somber-faced officers, their frustration and guilt that their previous mission to unearth Betty’s killer had failed almost palpable.
Gordon skipped pleasantries or platitudes.

“Listen up, people. We’ve got a repeat of what we’ve done before, but things are more urgent. About thirty minutes ago, Bradley—Buzz—Turner took Rose Kretzer from her home. He’s our most viable suspect for two murders. We
are
going to find them. The old-fashioned way. I want every door knocked on, every citizen, every visitor questioned. You’ve got flyers with the car information and pictures. Someone out there has seen something. Find them. Use the secure radio channel or your cell phones. You’ve got your assigned sectors. Go.”

Other than chairs scraping across the floor and the sound of footfalls, the room was silent as the officers filed out.

“You look like crap,” Colfax said. “Get out there. I’ll coordinate from here.”

“I’ll be close,” Gordon said. “I’ll check Finnegan’s and any other places still open. Hit more people than door-to-door. I’ve got Solomon on Turner’s house and neighborhood.”

“Alone?” Colfax’s brow lifted.

“He knows what he’s doing. He’ll call for backup if he sees anything. We don’t have the personnel to spare.” Gordon hoped that was one decision he wouldn’t regret. But they needed optimal coverage, and they needed it fast.

“I’ll see if I can shake a few more deputies loose.”

Gordon nodded his thanks and headed for Finnegan’s. Heads turned and a hush blanketed the room when he entered the bar. Mick set down a glass he was drying and came out from behind the counter. Word got around fast.

“How can we help, Chief?” Mick wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his apron. “Coffee’s on the house for any of your guys as long as we’re open.”

“I know they’ll appreciate it. The county deputies are out too.” Gordon surveyed the room, seeing primarily familiar faces. “Mind if I take a booth to interview everyone?”

“You can have my office.”

“No, easier out here where I can keep an eye on things.” He addressed the crowd. “Most everyone here knows Rose Kretzer, and that she’s missing. Our best lead says she’s with Buzz Turner. I’m going to ask each one of you to think about where we might find him. Any places he frequents, people he hangs out with. Maybe he’s mentioned where he might go to get away from it all. I know it’s an inconvenience, but I’m going to ask you all to stay until you’ve talked to me. Let’s get started.”

Gordon slid into a booth and set a notepad in front of him. Three men stood. Gordon gestured toward them. After exchanging glances, one stepped forward. Nick Upton. Retired, divorced, lived in the hills. Gordon picked up his pen. “Good evening, Nick. What can you tell me?”

The man hung his head, fumbled with his cap. “Probably nothing.”

“Why don’t you let me decide? You might have something helpful and not know it.”

With the ice broken, more volunteers offered their thoughts, most of them related to opinions of Buzz’s stories. As Gordon worked his way through the interviews, he relayed any possible leads to Colfax, who alerted the nearest officer. It was slow going.

Gordon rubbed his eyes and motioned the last patron forward, searching his memory for a name. The man was a relative newcomer. Worked out of town. Probably stopped for a drink on his way home and was now regretting it.

The man lowered himself across from Gordon. “Keith Valade.”

“What can you tell me, Mr. Valade?”

“It’s nothing. But you did want to talk to everyone.”

“A whole lot of nothing can add up to something. Every detail can be important.” He felt like a recording, but it seemed to relax people, get them talking. Now, if there was some magic way to get them to cut to the chase…. He smiled.

“I’ve lived here about six months. Early on, Mr. Turner tried to get friendly. I figured he was just being a good neighbor. We’re kind of isolated. That’s why we moved here. My wife and I love it in the mountains, away from people.”

Gordon nudged the conversation back to Buzz Turner.

Keith pinched the bridge of his nose. “He invited me fishing. Took me to this out of the way spot. Said it was his secret place. I wondered if he was gay, trying to put the move on me, but he knew I was married. And he’s so much older. I figured he was lonely, so I went a few more times.”

“Did he have a cabin there?”

Keith shook his head. “No, it was strictly woods. But from the way he’d go on about how a person could come out there and totally disappear, that nobody knew about it but him, that it was the one place in the universe that sang to him—those were his words—I thought I should mention it. When we went, he told me I shouldn’t tell anyone else about it, but I thought that was because of the fishing.” Keith smiled. “We did get some awesome trout.”

Gordon’s cop radar blipped. Buzz’s condo was empty, and the neighbors hadn’t seen him this evening. “Could you give me directions?”

“Maybe. I wasn’t driving, and wasn’t familiar enough with the area to know all the turnoffs.”

“Could you give me an approximation if I showed you a map?”

Keith seemed calmer, more confident. “I could try.”

Gordon left a stack of business cards on the bar, telling everyone to call if they had any new information. “I want you to come with me to the station,” he said to Keith.

Minutes later, Gordon had the map spread on his desk. Keith leaned over it, palms splayed, arms locked, brows knit in concentration. Finally, he lifted his hand and traced a dotted line representing an unpaved road about ten miles out of town. “I think this is where we turned off.”

Trouble was, “think” wasn’t a guarantee. And there were no fewer than eight other choices, assuming all the preliminary turns Keith had pointed out were correct. They’d need serious manpower to cover that expanse of territory, especially if there was no cabin, no structure, no logical place to conceal Rose, nowhere to keep her tucked away while Turner made whatever demands he had in mind.

Colfax pulled up a mapping program on the computer and started zooming in. “Too many trees,” he grumbled. “Be nice if the damn rental company installed LoJack on their vehicles.”

“Wait!” Keith’s voice reminded him they weren’t alone. “Zoom out.” Colfax did. “There. That rock formation. By the fork. I remember it. That’s where we turned off.”

“Enough for me. Get the GPS coordinates.” Gordon turned to Keith. “Thank you. You can go home.”

Keith stared at the monitor one last time. “I hope…I hope it works out.”

Gordon scribbled down the numbers Colfax read from the computer and grabbed his jacket.

“You’re not going alone,” Colfax said.

“No. You’re driving. My SUV is in the shop.”

“Who’s minding the store?” Colfax asked.

“Getting to that.” Gordon walked to Dispatch, Colfax dogging his heels. “Irv, get Solomon on the radio. Tell him we need Buster, and give him these coordinates.” He read off the numbers Colfax had given him. “Get Connie in here to back you up. And tell the night duty officer to get to the station. He’s got the con.” He took a breath and met Colfax’s gaze. “Anything else you think I’ve forgotten?”

“Nope. Let’s boogie.”