The Runner (3 page)

That much Judge knew. He’d compiled the information from the existing record: interviews with the massacre’s survivors, statements of captured German troops who’d fought as part of the task force, as well as descriptions of battlefield actions given by officers who had been nearby at the time. Yet seven months after the act, he was still unable to identify the officer who had given the order to fire.

Judge closed the door to Storey’s office, refusing the offer of a seat. “So, what have you got?”

Storey drew a manila file from his drawer and slid it across his desk. “Good news and bad news, I’m afraid.”

“How’s that?” Judge spun the file around so that it faced him right side up. A pink routing slip was attached to the cover. He read to whom the file belonged and shook his head. His efforts had narrowed the list of suspects to three men, and if he didn’t know them personally, he was intimately familiar with their records. “He was my long shot. Guy was an Olympian, for crying out loud. You’d think he’d know something about fair play. What clinched it?”

“Go ahead. Read. But Devlin, I’m warning you, it’s tough going.”

Judge paused before opening the cover, offering a prayer for his departed brother. Inside was a single document, two pages in length, immaculately typed on SS field stationery. It was an after-action report filed by one Lieutenant Werner Ploschke. Judge ventured a halting look at Storey, then took a deep breath and read.

“At 13:02 hours on 17 December 1944, a convoy of American jeeps and trucks was spotted passing through the junction of N-23 and N-32, proceeding south on the Ligneuville–St. Vith road near the town of Malmedy. Lieutenant Werner Sternebeck engaged the enemy immediately. Two Panther tanks fired six rounds each from their main guns. Four American vehicles were destroyed. Five others were damaged while taking evasive maneuvers. Sternebeck drove his tank to the head of the American column and fired his machine gun over the heads of the Americans to gain their immediate surrender.
Kampfgruppe
commander Major Jochen Peiper ordered all gasoline siphoned from the ruined cars and those vehicles in working condition confiscated. Hereafter, he continued his advance with the main element of the attack group and left the area.

“Major Erich Seyss, now in command, ordered all American soldiers into the adjoining field where they were disarmed and searched for items of intelligence value. Forty-six pairs of winter boots and eighty heavy jackets were remanded to field quartermaster Sergeant Steiner. Seyss then ordered Panthers 107, 111, 83, and 254 and Tigers 54 and 58 brought alongside the field. All guns were trained on the prisoners. At 14:05 hours, he commanded gunners and rearguard infantry to fire on the Americans. The shooting lasted seven minutes. Exactly two thousand two hundred forty-four rounds were expended. Afterward Seyss entered the field along with Sergeant Richard Biedermann and administered the coup de grace as necessary.”

Judge put down the paper. There it was, then. Everything he’d searched for. Everything he needed to secure a conviction. Seyss was already in an American lockup somewhere. As an SS officer, he’d been subject to automatic arrest when he was captured. It was just a matter of time, then, until he was brought to trial. But if Judge had been expecting a few pangs of gratification, he was disappointed. No surge of adrenaline warmed his neck. No flush of victory colored his cheeks. All he had was a name, some papers, and the knowledge that in a year or so, somewhere in Germany, the floor would fall from beneath a gallows and Seyss would die. The law had never felt so sterile.

“I suppose this will nail it,” he said, trying hard to add a cheerful lilt to his voice. “We won’t even need to bring in any of our eyewitnesses. Seyss’s comrades signed his death warrant. It’ll be the hangman for sure.”

Storey nodded curtly. “There are some pictures, too.”

Judge grimaced involuntarily and the corrosive drip in his belly started all over again. “Oh? Whose are they?”

“German. They’re rough, so don’t feel you have to look. I thought it my responsibility to inform you. Naturally, they’ll form part of the prosecutorial record.”

Good news and bad news,
he’d said.

Storey handed him a sheaf of photographs an inch thick. Eight-by-tens. Judge mumbled “Thanks,” then began shuffling through them. He could feel his heart beating faster, his throat tightening involuntarily. It was the way he felt in court when his lead witness impeached his testimony under cross-examination. The first few showed sixty or seventy GIs scattered across a plowed field. Some of the soldiers were stripped down to their skivvies, others fully clothed. All of them were dead. The photographer abandoned landscapes for portraits. Judge stared at the faces of a dozen murdered GIs. One still arrested his eye.

An American soldier lay naked from the waist up in the snow, a string of perfect holes diagonally traversing his torso from right to left. One arm was outstretched, as if waving good-bye. A crater crusted the open palm. Quite a shot. The face was frozen in surprise and terror, mouth ajar, eyes opened their widest. Still, he was easy to recognize. The thick black hair, the cleft chin, the inquiring nose—a snooper’s nose, Judge had called it—the scar above the eyebrow, and of course, the eyes—wide and accusing. Even in death Francis Xavier Judge was taking his younger brother’s measure.

Seyss ordered all machine gunners to open fire on the prisoners . . . 2,244 rounds were expended.

Judge stood perfectly still, the text of the after-action report echoing in his head. Silently he yelled for Francis to run, to fall to the ground. He saw his brother raising his hands in the air, could hear the prayer issuing from his lips,
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
He witnessed the look of worry turn to fear, then horror, as the first shots cracked the winter cold.
Damn you, Francis. Hit the deck!

He flipped to the next photograph and his frustration flamed to anger.

The picture showed an SS officer wearing a camouflage uniform standing in the field, jackboot planted firmly on a GI’s back. One hand was fastened round a lock of hair, lifting the head, the other bringing a pistol to the nape of the doomed soldier’s neck. The officer had blond hair and his face was streaked with dirt. An Iron Cross hung from his neck. Another was pinned to his breast. A hero. Four silver diamonds on his collar patch indicated his rank as major. Another man stood behind him, laughing.

Seyss entered the field along with SS Sergeant Richard Biedermann and administered the coup de grace as necessary.

Judge dropped the pictures onto the desk, turning away from Storey and closing his eyes. He’d thought his tireless digging had inured him to the loss of his brother, that his intimate knowledge of the manner and circumstance of Frankie’s death had somehow deadened the wound. He was wrong. The German’s recounting of the massacre—so factual, so cold, so
trivial
—coupled with the frank photographs ripped open his hurt and christened his pain anew.

“You all right?” asked Storey.

Judge tried to answer, but didn’t dare speak. His throat was suddenly unnavigable, his legs growing weaker by the second. Somehow he managed a grim nod.

Storey patted him on the arm. “Like I said, there’s some bad news, too.”

Judge shot Storey a withering glance, ignorant of the tear rolling down his cheek. What could be worse than seeing a photo of your only brother, the last member of your family, slaughtered in a desolate field in a foreign land?

“Bad news?”

“It’s Seyss,” said Storey. “He’s escaped.”

CHAPTER

3

T
HE JEEP SPED DOWN THE
Champs Élysées, past outdoor cafés crowded with servicemen and cinemas advertising American films. Flags of every color and nationality sprouted from parapets and doorways the length of the boulevard: the Stars and Stripes, the Union Jack, the Hammer and Sickle, and everywhere,
le bleu, blanc, et rouge
—the French Tricolor. Swatches of bunting, memories of V-E Day, adorned an occasional balcony. The marcelled crepe was faded, perhaps, wilted by summer rain, but no less proud because of it.

Judge sat in the rear of the jeep, one hand clamped to the chassis, the other atop a compendious olive file square in his lap. The open air was a tonic for his woozy head. Everyone knew you didn’t mix booze and the same should be said for emotions, he thought. Anger, remorse, frustration, loss—Christ, he’d downed a shot of every one. A glance at the file sobered him. Stenciled across its cover were the letters UNWCC—United Nations War Crimes Commission—and inside was every fact, rumor, and half-truth the commission had gathered about the wartime doings of Major Erich Siegfried Seyss, late of the Waffen-SS. The latest addition had been made only an hour ago.

Crossing the Place de la Concorde, the jeep rattled over a sea of cobblestones as it circled the Obelisk, the ancient masonic symbol that celebrated Napoleon’s victory over the British in Egypt, and later served as the model for the Washington Monument. An easterly gust carried a taste of the Seine: brine, moss, and the hint of caprice. The Invalides stood away to his right, a majestic stone armory seated at the head of a grass avenue five football fields in length. The Little General himself was interred somewhere inside its cool walls.

Everywhere Judge looked in this town he was surrounded by history and all of it had to do with war. He wondered if it was foolish to allow personal animosity to prevent his taking part in what promised to be a seminal historical event of his time. He shook his head. War. Empire. Revenge. Scale them down and what did you have? Anger. Avarice. Pride. History was only personal grievance writ large.

T
WO DOORMEN CLAD IN MAROON
topcoats waited at the base of the steps leading to the Hotel Ritz. Judge jumped from the back of the jeep, the dossier tucked high under one arm, and set off up the broad stairs. Bob Storey pulled him close as they entered the lobby.

“I’ve already spoken with Justice Jackson and made a plea on your behalf. He’s as fair a man as I’ve met, but he can be brusque. Remember, we’re damned lucky he’s even here. Luckier he’s seeing us. Let’s take that as a good sign. Just be polite and let him do the talking.”

Justice Jackson was Associate Justice of the Supreme Court—Robert Jackson, chief American prosecutor for the coming war crimes trial and the de facto organizer of the International Military Tribunal. He was in Paris for the day, on his way to Germany to scout locations for the war crimes trials. Judge had met him once, a brief powwow in D.C. to give thanks for his appointment to the IMT. He remembered the firm handshake, the steely gray eyes, the softly spoken words, and the sense of mission they had successfully imparted. It had been one of the proudest days of his life.

“Fair, I have no doubt,” said Judge. “Reasonable, that’s another question.”

“These days you’re a soldier first and a lawyer second,” cautioned Storey. “Fair is more than you have a right to expect.” His face softened and he winked. “As for reasonable, well, that’s plain out of the question.”

The lobby was marble and mirrors and velvet furniture encrusted with gold leaf. Judge spent a moment adjusting his tie and combing his hair. He pulled at each cuff, ensuring that one inch of cotton protruded beyond the sleeve and no more. He was damned if he’d make a lousy impression. Only the Lord could see your heart, he’d been taught. Everyone else judged you by your appearance. His uniform was impeccable. Tailor-made from Brooks Brothers. Gabardine, and not the cheap stuff either: Super 100 all the way. It had cost nearly a month’s salary after alimony. Giving himself a final looking over, he headed to the elevator.

A soldier, first, eh? If Jackson saw it that way, he didn’t have anything to worry about.

“T
HE WAR CRIMES TRIALS ARE
a watershed, Major,” said Robert Jackson from his position at the head of a mahogany conference table. “A defining moment in history. For the first time, we are treating war as a crime and the aggressors as criminals. We are showing the world that waging aggressive war will no longer be tolerated. The trials aren’t just a symbol of superior might but of superior morality.”

Judge nodded, saying “Absolutely, sir.” He was seated to Jackson’s right in the drawing room of a palatial suite on the hotel’s second floor. Storey sat next to him and Judge could sense his hand poised above his arm, ready to calm him should the verdict go against them. He was trying hard to heed Storey’s advice and let Jackson do all the talking. Normally it would have been an easy task. He wouldn’t have dared interrupt a man of Jackson’s stature. Head of Antitrust at Justice, attorney general under F.D.R., then a slot on the highest court in the land. It was the career Judge had dreamed about. Today, though, it took his every power of restraint to stop from reaching across the table, grabbing the old man’s tie, and telling him to hurry up, goddammit, and get on with it.

“When you joined our little outfit, Major, you made a commitment,” Jackson continued. “Not just to your fellow members of the IMT but to your country and, dare I say, the entire civilized world, to see our view of morality driven home. Walk out and you’ll be doing us all a disservice.”

Judge didn’t miss the threat tucked inside Jackson’s words. There was no question but that his own career would be at the highest risk. His request had been simple enough: an immediate transfer to the unit charged with tracking down Erich Seyss; command of the investigation, if possible. The prognosis didn’t look promising.

“I appreciate your concern, sir,” he said. “Naturally, I’ll take up my position again as soon as I’ve located Seyss and returned him to custody.”

“Will you?” Jackson smirked from the corner of his mouth. “Kind of you to let me know. Tell me, do you have the vaguest idea when that might be?”

“No, sir.” Judge had forgotten that a Supreme Court justice could be sarcastic, too.

“And any notion where Seyss has gone?”

Again Judge said no. Storey had given him the details of the escape earlier. Seyss had killed two men, including the camp commander, then traipsed out the front gates in full view of the camp guards—two sentries on the ground, two in the towers, each manning a .30-caliber machine gun. Twelve hours later, no information had been received about his whereabouts.

“I phoned the military police unit up in Garmisch earlier this morning,” Judge volunteered. “The preliminary investigation is just being finished up. Counterintelligence is being brought in and so is CID, but Third Army HQ hasn’t assigned the case yet. The officer of the day stated they’re looking for someone properly qualified.”

Jackson took the news skeptically, shifting his gaze to Storey. “That so, Bob? From what I understand, Janks is the first officer to be killed by a German since the surrender. You’d think George Patton would have had a dozen men assigned to the case by now. Third Army, that’s his command, isn’t it?”

“Manpower’s tight,” said Storey, shoulders bunched in apology. “We’re losing a ton of GIs every day. Half are shipping out for home, half to R and R depots on their way to Japan. On top of that, CIC is getting set to run an important operation in ten days’ time. A real big deal called Tallyho. Funny, the names they come up with.”

But Jackson wasn’t smiling. He darted his eyes between Storey and Judge, as if trying to guess what kind of scheme the two of them were working. “Tallyho?”

“It’s a zonal effort,” continued Storey, “a big shindig cooked up to pull in the Nazis who’ve eluded our nets to date. Most are SS men slated for automatic arrest who never got around to turning themselves in. All in all seventy thousand troops in four army groups are scheduled to take part. Like I said, it’s a big deal.”

Judge was impressed by the depth of Storey’s knowledge. The chief of the Document Control Division was privy to more information than he’d imagined.

“And Goering?” asked Jackson, returning his crocodile eyes to Judge. “Who’s to handle him in the interim?”

For once Judge had an answer prepared. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the trials won’t start for a few months. If I’m gone for a week, I’ll still have plenty of time to conduct a thorough interrogation of the prisoner.”

“And what exactly makes you think you’d be of assistance, Major?”

Judge cleared his throat, encouraged by the opportunity to plead his case. “I spent ten years as a police officer before coming to the bar, first as a blue jacket, then as a detective. My last four years were with Homicide.”

“In Germany?” Jackson cut in, raising his head. He was smiling.

“No, sir,” Judge answered, matching the friendly expression. “In New York. Brooklyn, actually.”

“Ah, no doubt that explains why you’re familiar with the geography of southern Germany. Know your way around Bavaria, do you? Have you ever been to Garmisch, Major? Or to Germany, at all, for that matter?”

Jackson wasn’t just sarcastic, he was mean. “No, sir. This would be my first trip. However, my German is fluent. I’m familiar with German customs.”

“I know all about your Teutonic heritage, Judge. However, the quaint tales your mother told you as a child have little application to the tracking down and capture of an accused war criminal. Seyss is an experienced combat officer, and I see from his file, a native of this particular region.” Jackson sighed deeply and Judge could feel the meeting coming to a rapid and unsatisfactory conclusion. “Naturally, Major, I know of your personal interest in Seyss. It was one of the reasons we took you onto the IMT in the first place. What happened to your brother was terrible. And
I am
sorry. But tragedies like these occur all too often in war. If they didn’t, none of us would be sitting here today, would we?”

Judge had heard the last few words coming and had whispered them under his breath along with Justice Jackson. “No, sir.”

“Good. Then you’ll understand when I turn down your request for a transfer. Hermann Goering must be convicted on all counts. He’s far more important than some two-bit SS hoodlum. We’re not set to prosecute Seyss and his colleagues until next year. He’s a small fry in the scheme of things. Surely your brother would understand that. He was a Jesuit, after all. It’s a question of logic, pure and simple. Love Aquinas, the Jezzies do.” Jackson leaned forward and tapped Judge’s forearm. “Do a good job with Goering and I’ll make you a lead prosecutor on the secondary trials. I’m certain Seyss will be in custody again by that time. How’s that?”

Judge bridled at the touch. What did Jackson think? He’d trade his brother for a promotion on the IMT? “Sir, I beg you to reconsider.”

“The decision is final. A transfer is out of the question.” Jackson slammed his hand on the table like a gavel, then rose, tugging the pickets of his vest. “Give my regards to Hermann. Did you know they call him Fat Stuff? I hear it drives him crazy.”

Judge rose with him and when he spoke his voice had lost its harness of respectful reserve. “This morning we received irrefutable evidence that Erich Seyss ordered the massacre of our boys at Malmedy. It’s the kind of proof a prosecutor kills for: a report written by his own men implicating him at the scene of the crime. Of course, I’m aware of my responsibilities to the court and to my country, but Francis was my brother. My responsibilities to him come first.”

“Please, Major, let’s not make this more difficult than it has to—”

Finally, it was Judge’s turn to interrupt. “I’ve spent my entire adult life as an officer of the law,” he argued. “I’ve been trained to pursue those who break the law and taught to use my brains and my reasoning to ensure they don’t do it again. For the first time, I can use what I’ve learned to provide some measure of justice to someone close to me. If I don’t do everything within my power to bring in the man who killed my brother—the animal who murdered seventy
American
boys in cold blood—all my years as a cop, all my time before the bar, will have been for nothing.”

“Hogwash,” countered Jackson, calling his tone and raising it a note. “With all due respect to you, Major, and your brother, you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding Erich Seyss. You’ll be wasting everyone’s time, especially your own. Now if that’s all, you’re excused.”

“No, sir,” Judge retorted. “That isn’t all. If I do not receive this transfer, I plan to resign my commission effectively.”

“And do what precisely? Find him yourself? Alone you won’t get out of Paris for a week. And if you did, what then? Do you have a car? Gasoline?” Jackson laughed gruffly. “Read your enlistment papers, son. You joined the United States Army in time of war. You serve at your nation’s leisure. You don’t have the power to resign.”

Judge looked to Storey for backup, but his older colleague had moved to the window, and stood looking down upon the Place Vendôme, shaking his head. Suddenly Judge knew he’d gone too far, that he’d let his desire to serve his brother’s memory overrule his common sense. This was after all, an associate justice of the Supreme Court he was talking to. Still, he couldn’t give up now.

“Dammit, sir, all I’m asking is to give Erich Seyss the chance to learn the full and proper measure of the law. You said yourself you wanted me to help drive home our new morality. Fine. Let me start with him. If it were your brother who Seyss killed, wouldn’t you want to do the same?”

Jackson’s eyes widened—with anger, surprise, and maybe, Judge hoped, even understanding—then he turned and stalked out of the drawing room. “I’ll be back in a minute, Major. Sit down and try not to make a nuisance of yourself. Bob, come with me.”