The German (12 page)

“Two young men dead,” Tom said reluctantly. “I didn’t know the circumstances when I sent Gil after you.”

Doc Randolph nodded and stepped away from the corpse. “I’ve seen all I can see for now. We best cut him down so I can take a closer look.”

Tom looked around the lodge and found what he needed on a tabletop across the room. He went to the table and yanked the cloth from it, then returned to the center of the room. “Gil, bring your knife.”

Standing on a chair, with the cloth wrapped around the boy’s torso and hips, Tom held tight while Gil, standing on a table, worked his blade through the rope. David Williams crashed down, sending Tom and the chair toppling. He struck his head on the polished planks and the dead boy’s weight pinned him until his momentary daze passed. Then he rolled the corpse off, sending it face down on the floor. Doc Randolph didn’t pay any mind to Tom, who climbed to his feet, holding the back of his head and gasping for breath. Instead, the doctor focused his attention on the cloth-wrapped body.

Doc Randolph made some humming sounds and grunted twice. He knelt down and, using a slender metal rod like an empty pen, poked and prodded the back of the Williams boy’s head. He hummed again, and then looked at Tom.

“So much for suicide,” the doctor said.

“I don’t follow.”

“The victim took multiple blows to the back of the cranium. I noticed the blood on the rope, but assumed it was from abrasion. It’s not. Someone knocked the boy out with a blunt instrument, likely before bringing him here. The damage might have been severe enough to explain why the victim didn’t struggle.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. What struggle are you talking about?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” the doctor said heavily as if disappointed. “What would your natural reaction be should someone decide to hang you? Would you just dangle there and think what a shame it was you wouldn’t get to finish that Hemingway novel you were reading, or would you do everything in your power to save yourself?” The doctor cocked his head to the side and twisted his face as if strangling. “If you chose the latter, as most rational folks would, you’d attack that thing responsible for your impending death, which is to say, the rope, and the only part of the rope you’d have access to is that bit around your throat.” He made scratching motions at his neck, to illustrate his point. “I’ll look closer, but I saw no marks to indicate he struggled, and since his hands weren’t bound and he had every opportunity to do so, I’m forced to believe he was otherwise incapable, which a severe trauma to the head might explain.”

“Okay,” Tom said. A blush of embarrassment rose on his cheeks, and he checked on Gil to see if the young deputy had noticed. Gil seemed too involved with what he was writing on his notepad. “So, we are dealing with a murder, but it doesn’t look like the same situation we had with the Ashton boy.”

“Not exactly true,” Doc Randolph said.

“Because the killer didn’t murder his victim outright,” Tom said quickly.

This seemed to impress the doctor who nodded his head. “In both cases, the killer made a definite effort to
place
the bodies. He didn’t hide his victims or let them fall where he found them.”

~ ~ ~

Tom helped load the body into Doc Randolph’s car, and Gil rode with the doctor the six blocks to his office. After helping get the body inside, Gil was to proceed out to Brett Fletcher’s place with the latest note to have it translated. Meanwhile, Tom went to the apartment in back of the lodge and had a long talk with Mort Grant. Rex stood in the corner of the room silently as Tom questioned the lodge manager, and Mrs. Grant hovered around the edges of the conversation, a perpetual sheen of tears covering her red eyes. At times she would interject, but it was only to repeat something her husband had said, and then she’d cry and flit from the living area to the kitchen and back again. The interview was productive only in establishing a window of opportunity for the killer. Mort assured Tom that he checked the locks on the doors and the shutters every night, because the lodge had expensive whiskeys and vintage wines. Further, he had closed the lodge at the stroke of eleven as demanded in the bylaws – except in the event of a special occasion – and he and his wife had set about the business of sweeping and mopping and polishing. Mort restocked the liquor and reset the room. This took the couple until just after midnight. Maggie exited through the back, but Mort followed his father’s ritual, which meant walking around the property. He did this to be sure none of the lodge’s members had over imbibed, putting themselves in a less than honorable condition near the lodge. Because of the Fourth of July Celebration, Mort and Maggie had not opened the lodge at four in the afternoon as was customary, but rather waited until just before six – at the request of the city’s mayor – to assure “men spent an appropriate amount of time with their families before seeking the intellectual stimulation of the lodge” (the mayor’s words as reported by Mort). Upon entering the lodge, Mort discovered the hanged body of David Williams. Unfortunately, his wife also witnessed the dreadful thing. He’d called the sheriff’s office, and Tom knew the rest.

The sheriff asked Mort to repeat his story twice, and then he asked the manager to accompany him and Rex back to the office to repeat it a third time for an official report. Mort insisted his wife come along, afraid to leave her alone.

Gil called the station from the Fletcher house and read the translation of the note:

One less gun against the Reich.

Four executed for crimes against the Fatherland.

I will have them all in time.

Happy Independence Day, you stupid fucks.

The young deputy had found himself unable to say the last word until Tom had threatened him with disciplinary action. Then he’d stuttered it out as quickly as his naïve tongue would allow him.

Tom ordered Gil back to the station. He slammed down the phone and fell back in his chair. Across the desk from him, Rex – looking simultaneously sad and furious – pounded a fist into his palm as if eager to hurt someone.

The ledger on the desk between them only served to remind Tom that time was wasting as they waited for their only witness. Lily Reeves had reported a prowler outside of the Williams house late the previous night, and Tom had been trying to track her down since returning to the station.

“Where is she?” Tom asked.

“I sent Dick and Walter out to the lake to see if she’s there. I’m calling her house every ten minutes, and I’ve tried reaching her daughters but so far no luck. My guess is she went to the celebration with her family and then out to the lake for the nighttime festivities. It is tradition.”

“What about Deke Williams?”

“His boss at the paper mill said he was in Monroe, Louisiana on a buying trip. He’s been gone since day before yesterday. He’s not scheduled to be back for a few days yet, but I’ll put Gil on tracking down hotels in the area when he gets back from Brett’s place.”

“So what does that leave us?” Tom asked.

“A pile of horseshit,” Rex replied. “We’ll get the patrol out in the morning to question all the businesses in the area. Maybe one of the shop owners was out late and saw something we can use.”

“The city was all but closed down today,” Tom reminded. “The murderer could have just as easily gone into the Ranger Lodge at noon to finish up his work.”

“Well then, maybe someone saw that,” Rex said. “I don’t know.”

“That makes two of us,” Tom said.

His sour stomach rolled, sending acid to the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard against it. He thought about the description Lilly Reeves had given – a man in a Stetson and a duster – and he tried to picture the man, wondering why a German would adopt such a uniquely American costume. He certainly couldn’t think it would help him blend in, not in a city like Barnard.

So what was he after, this cowboy? What was he trying to say?

After word got out about the second boy’s killing, the city coiled in shock. I say coiled because even in those first few days you could feel something building – a tension woven into the hot, dry air – and it was only a matter of time before the dumbfounded citizens lashed out. A second note had been found, also written in German, and the paper had run a drawing of the killer, but it only showed a faceless man dressed in a Stetson and duster. The
Register
had taken to referring to the murderer as the “Gray Cowboy” or “Cowboy” for short. I felt particularly bad. David Williams wasn’t a close friend of mine, but he was closer to my age than Harold Ashton had been, and I’d seen him in school for a number of years. All I knew of Harold Ashton’s persona had been second hand information. David I’d known, and I’d liked him, so his death cut deeper. We hadn’t gone to Harold Ashton’s funeral, but Ma insisted I put on my suit and together we walked to the Baptist Church on Bennington for David’s services. I heard a lot of angry talk in the vestibule. Even the women spoke of finding the killer and stringing him up. Some even used profanity, which surprised me, particularly there in the church’s lobby. Carl Baker and his family appeared in the doorway of the church, all properly dressed for the services and coming to pay their respects for Mr. Williams’ loss, but a crowd of men gathered, blocking the family’s entrance and ushering them onto the front lawn. Ma held onto my shoulder, keeping me from racing outside to see what was being said. In the end, the Bakers walked away and the men, all old and weathered and fearsome looking, stomped back to the church. The services seemed to go on for a very long time, and I became drowsy in the over-hot room. Ma cried and held my hand tightly, and I tried to sit up straight as I’d been taught, but it became harder and harder to keep my eyes open. After the service, we returned home so Ma could pick up the pie she’d baked for Mr. Williams. I stood at the window and looked across the street at Ernst Lang’s house and squinted against the shadows on his porch to see if there was any movement, but it was midday and the German was probably working on a chair. When we arrived at the Williams house, Polly Davenport, Mr. Williams’ sister, took the pie from my mother and gave her a light hug, before leading us both back to the kitchen. The counters were covered in Dutch ovens and skillets and ceramic bowls. Silver spoon handles jutted from many of the containers and the smells went straight to my belly. I felt suddenly ravenous as if I could eat every bit of food Mr. Williams’ friends had brought for him, but before Ma fixed us plates we walked through the house, which brimmed with solemn people, all dressed so nicely but appearing hunched as if broken by David Williams’ death, until we found Mr. Williams in the backyard, sitting on a wooden bench, surrounded by a dozen people I didn’t recognize. Ma told Mr. Williams how sorry she was for his loss, and I said, “David was a good guy,” which brought a hard smile from Mr. Williams. Back inside, Ma put little portions of food on a plate for me, and I wolfed them down. That night, Ma stayed home from work for the third night in a row. I sat at the window, staring at the house across the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of my neighbor.

The next day, the sheriff announced an eight o’clock curfew for women and children under the age of eighteen to be in effect until he rescinded it.

The windows at the front of Weigle’s Butcher Shop were smashed out. Two German men were beaten outside of the Mueller Beer Hall by a group of men who’d been waiting on the street. Sheriff Rabbit hadn’t found a villain to blame, so folks were finding villains of their own.

Ma took the threat seriously. She had to return to her job, but she refused to leave me alone at night, and though I complained, she asked my grandmother to stay with me while she worked her shifts at the factory. Grandma didn’t approve of the radio dramas I liked best – the mysteries and crime shows and creepy thrillers – so in the evenings my house was filled with the sounds of the Lennon Sisters, Kay Kyser and his orchestra, and other bouncy musical programs that I found dreadful. On the nights Bum couldn’t sleep over, I stayed in my room, reading old comic books – because Ma wouldn’t spend the little money she made on new ones – and tried to tune out the happy-as-you-please crooners pounding on my walls like party guests. Every night around ten, Grandma fell asleep on the sofa, the radio still blaring, and I would climb out of my window and creep to the front porch (believing my proximity to the house was enough to ensure my safety, wholly disregarding the fact that David Williams had been snatched from his own bed in the middle of the night). Hidden in the shadows, I’d sit on the bench my daddy had built and observe the German’s house.

One night Mr. Lang startled me, though he likely didn’t know he’d done it. I’d made my way to the bench and had just gotten my butt settled on the wooden slats when the lamp in the German’s living room came on. A moment later the front door opened, and Mr. Lang, wearing nothing but swimming trunks stood in the doorway. I froze where I sat, uncertain if he could see me. It was a moonless night, and the lake to my right showed as nothing but a black void, but a line of light cut through the living room curtains on the far side of my porch, and perhaps some of its glow touched me. As for the German, he appeared simultaneously very small, because I viewed him from a distance, but also enormous as his broad chest seemed to span the door from frame to frame. I held my breath, waiting for some sign that he had seen me. He stepped forward, putting the light at his back. In silhouette he appeared smaller. The German stood before the door for several minutes, and then he went back inside.

The next night a man visited Mr. Lang. I saw him walking quickly on the far sidewalk, tall yet otherwise indistinct. The German let this man into his house, and a dim light coming from a back room – his kitchen or bedroom – extinguished soon after. Not ten minutes later, I saw the man returning the way he’d come down Dodd Street. Only after he’d vanished in the shadows on the corner did the lights come back on in the German’s house, and fearing Mr. Lang would again come outside, I slipped off the porch and returned to my room. That night in bed, terrible scenarios of spies and saboteurs and killers kept me awake until my mother returned from her shift.