The Runner Page 13

  His sentence was three years at Boys’ State. Two for the crime and one on top for not cooperating with the court—that is, not ratting out his friends.

  The arresting officer, Patrolman Stanley Mullins, presented himself to Judge’s family as they left the courtroom.

  “Yes, sir, you’ve got a bad egg, there, Mr. Judge,” he said, looking down from his lofty promontory. “A shame he should get into this kind of trouble at so early an age.”

  There was nodding all around. A sob and a sniff from the ashamed mother. A cuff to the head from Dev’s father. A smirk from Francis, the seminarian.

  “Still, I do believe there’s some good inside the boy,” Mullins went on. “It takes a man to stand up for his friends. A bigger man yet to know when he’s done something wrong and ’fess up. Aye, there’s a wee vein of gold in this one. And, if you don’t mind, sir and madam, I’d like to help you find it.”

  Mullins spoke to the judge and had the sentence reduced to two years’ probation. For his part, Dev had “come ’rounds” to the precinct house on Wilson Avenue every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday for two years. He didn’t learn a thing about police work. His duty consisted of shoveling out the stables at the rear of the station and taking boxing practice with the precinct team. The larger men beat the tar out of him. But only for so long. Young Dev had always been a quick learner.

  And he had another job, too—one Mullins hadn’t told his parents about. Every Monday and Wednesday afternoon at three-thirty sharp, Dev showed his face at the back door of the F&M Schaefer Brewing Company, engaged since the adoption of the Volstead Act in the production of root beer soda and “near beer.” And for three hours, he would haul fifty-gallon barrels of their finest from vat to garage, loading them aboard Mack Bulldog trucks with side panels curiously advertising Hoffman’s Moving Services. His pay was a dollar an hour—a princely sum, even if he never saw a dime. Every cent went to a newly promoted sergeant of the watch who stashed it in a cashbox inside his desk. Nine months later, Dev and Sergeant Mullins trundled off to the home of Signor Alfonso Partenza, president of the Società Benevolenza di Santa Maria Teresa, unemployed day worker and father of ten.

  “A donation to the cause,” Mullins told Signor Partenza, offering a new calfskin billfold that held the stolen sum of $216. “The least we could do to make your sore neck feel the wee-est bit better.”

  “Grazie,” Partenza answered, grateful but not so trusting that he didn’t count the money. This was America, after all. Not so different from Italy.

  All this came back to Judge as he lay in the silent room, grimacing at the ache of his ribs, his tailbone, and most of all, his own unsettled mind.

  What happened to the little thug I took off the street?

  Still here, Judge answered, finding the fighting voice inside of him. Maybe a little rusty, but still here. And next time, he’d follow Seyss’s advice. Shoot first and ask questions later.

  A knock on the door saved him from further brooding. Darren Honey walked into the room, helmet under one arm. “Jeep’s downstairs. Ready when you are.”

  Judge peeled back the sheets and with a grimace swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You reach my pal in Paris, get him working on those names?”

  Honey dropped a hand into his helmet and removed a green polyethylene bag holding the dog tags he’d retrieved from the basement of Lindenstrasse 21. “Colonel Storey said he’d contact Graves Registration pronto. It’s going to take him a couple of days to figure out if these two were killed or just POWs. He said to tell you, though, that they weren’t at Malmedy.”

  “So, what do you think Seyss was doing with those tags?”

  “I don’t think Seyss would risk going to his house for some souvenirs. Normally, if Fritz goes home, it’s to get some money or see a girlfriend, maybe get something decent to eat. You got a closer look at him than I did. Did you see him carrying anything else?”

  “No. Not a thing.”

  “Cheer up,” continued Honey, his smile back in place. “Seyss is in Munich. He knows we’re after him. Let him be the nervous one. The way I see it, it’s his turn to make a mistake.”

  Judge colored. He couldn’t tell if Honey was being rude or just tactless. Before he could say anything in his own defense, Mullins returned with a physician in tow. The doctor examined him and pronounced him fit for travel. Fifteen minutes later, he and Mullins were standing outside the hospital waiting for Honey to draw the jeep around.

  “Good luck, then,” said Mullins, offering a shake of his meaty paw. “If our German friends in Camp Eight don’t feel like talking, remember what I taught you. You were a fair practitioner in your day.”

  “Yeah,” said Judge, looking away. Your own Jimmy Sullivan. “I’ll keep in it mind.”

  Mullins grabbed his chin and brought their faces close together. “Serious, lad. You let him go once. Now it’s my name you’re ruining, too.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  THE DRIVE TO CAMP 8 TOOK two hours, a steady climb through fields of summer corn and rolling hills laced with tumbling brooks. The afternoon sky was a pale blue, scratched with hazy cumulus. Few cars traveled the narrow country roads but traffic was heavy nonetheless. Dozens of pushcarts freighted with all manner of household items—chairs, dressers, mirrors, and, of course, clothing—trudged along both sides of the highway. Each was accompanied by a shabby flock of women and children, sometimes even a man. Some were Germans returning to their homes, others foreigners shoved about by war’s merciless tide. The estimates out of Washington said that over 6 million of these displaced persons were on the move across Germany. The flotsam of Hitler’s folly.

  Judge kept his eyes on the road. Unwilling to admit to Honey, or himself, how Seyss had gotten the drop on him, he remained silent. Large divots had been clawed from the pavement by the treads of angry tanks and the jeep’s incessant jarring down and out of these furrows racked his already sore frame. After an hour, he grew numb from it, seeing his persistent discomfort as a hair shirt of his own tailoring. How Francis would welcome his kid brother’s newly discovered piety! The irony brought a grudging smile to Judge’s lips.

  Occasionally, the jeep sped by an abandoned Sherman tank, half-track, or six-ton truck parked at an odd angle, half on, half off the road. In the pell-mell drive to capture enemy territory, the vehicles had been abandoned where they’d broken down.

  At ten o’clock sharp, they reached the gates to Prisoner of War Enclosure 8. A spit-shined corporal, M-1 carbine slung over a shoulder, pointed the way to the command post. Honey brought the vehicle to a halt outside a stone-and-pine cabin that reminded Judge of the low-rent place in the Catskills where he’d stayed on his honeymoon. His wife had called it Grossinger’s without the class. It was the first salvo in their battle over the direction of his career, but he’d been too young, too much in love to notice.

  A few hundred German soldiers milled around the playing field across the compound from the CP. Their tunics were filthy, their faces gaunt. Most huddled in small groups sharing a common cigarette. From their ranks drifted the smothering stink of dirt and sweat.

  Entering the CP, Judge and Honey were met by the camp commander.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” said Colonel William Miller. “I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you. Come with me.” He was shorter than Judge, bald and bespectacled, with the hint of a drinker’s belly. He had analytical brown eyes, a wispy mustache, and a pasty complexion that testified to a longtime love affair with his desk. A parson’s son, thought Judge; a lifelong conformist enjoying his first chance to whip those of little faith into line.

  Miller whisked them toward a pair of chairs set before his desk. “Please sit down. Make yourselves at home.”

  Judge took a last look at his notes and smiled graciously before beginning his questioning. The primary investigator’s report had been succinct if unenlightening, consisting of a description of the crime scene and an unimaginative recounting of the escape. No effort h
ad been made, however, to ascertain how Seyss had obtained the murder weapon, appropriately an SS officer’s dagger, or how he had managed to traipse across three hundred yards of open space unseen.

  “Colonel Miller,” he began, “we’re not interested in Colonel Janks’s illicit activities. Whatever worries you may have about that matter, please put them to rest. We’re here to talk about how Erich Seyss managed to get out of this camp. Do you have any idea how he got his hands on the dagger?”

  “No idea,” Miller declared gravely, his eyes shifting like a pendulum between Judge and Honey.

  “Was Seyss allowed out of the camp at any time?”

  “No.”

  Judge offered Honey a resigned glance. Monosyllabic responses were ideal under cross-examination, but Miller was a friendly witness—at least in theory. “Are any prisoners allowed out of the camp at any time?”

  “Most leave every day. We organize work details to help out in Garmisch. Some of the prisoners work on farms, getting the harvest in. Others help out in the kitchens of hotels and restaurants in town, washing dishes, sweeping the floor. I can provide you a list of the establishments. Menial jobs, mind you, and the prisoners are under constant guard. A detachment of soldiers accompanies every group.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “How many?”

  “Two or three GIs for each crew of ten prisoners.”

  Honey chuckled. “Excuse me for saying so, Colonel, but isn’t that like a couple of hens guarding a pack of foxes?”

  Miller colored, but to his credit did not respond.

  Judge took up the questioning. “But Seyss never left?”

  “Major Seyss was a class-one war criminal awaiting transfer to an appropriate holding facility. He was confined to the camp at all times. Besides, he was under medical supervision. He was in no condition to work.”

  “Just to escape, eh?” added Honey.

  Judge went on before Miller could protest. Honey was, after all, a noncom, and had no business speaking to an officer so disrespectfully. “And how are the prisoners searched when they return to camp?”

  “They’re patted down.”

  “Patted down?” brayed Honey, and this time Judge silenced him with a reproachful look. It was clear that anyone could have smuggled in a dagger. Work crews outside the camp for eight to ten hours a day supervised by a couple of postadolescent GIs. Judge was surprised the prisoners weren’t equipped with an entire arsenal by now—steak knives to begin with. “When you mention Seyss’s medical condition, you are referring to the bullet that took out his spleen?”

  “He saw the camp doctor daily. A local physician from Garmisch named Peter Hansen. It’s army policy to use natives whenever possible. Naturally, we were quite interested ourselves in speaking with Dr. Hansen. Unfortunately, he’s no longer at home.”

  Judge made no comment, choosing to conceal his disappointment in a quest for further details. “And was Hansen a member of the German military?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe he served in the army.”

  Honey tapped Judge’s arm. “A full-blooded Nazi no doubt.”

  Judge shifted his attention to Miller. “Was he, in fact, a member of the Nazi party?”

  Miller stared into his lap and coughed. “Yes, sir, I believe he was.”

  Seeking clarification, Judge raised a hand. “I thought General Eisenhower had outlawed the employment of former Nazis in any capacity. Isn’t that the basis of our denazification program?”

  “General Patton thinks differently,” Miller retorted. “He’s encouraged us to use whoever’s available. He said being a Nazi is no different than being a Republican or a Democrat.”

  Judge wanted to shout “What?” but out of respect for his ribs, kept his outrage in check. “One more question: Was Dr. Hansen searched upon arriving at camp each day?”

  Miller retained his strict posture. “No, sir.”

  “You outrank me, Colonel. A ‘sir’ isn’t necessary.”

  Miller flushed, but Judge saved him from his embarrassment, suggesting that they retrace the prisoners’ steps the night of the escape. Mercifully, Honey kept quiet.

  Outside, Miller led Judge and Honey around the back of the command post to a trail running alongside the north fence. They passed one barracks after another, stopping at the fourth down the line.

  “We count them at morning and at dusk,” explained Miller. “Seyss was assigned a spot in this Barracks F.” He pointed to the cream stone building with a riding crop. “PFC McDonough reported seeing Seyss at five minutes before bed check. Seyss said he was on his way to the latrine. McDonough confirms seeing him enter. He’d been given a pass from Dr. Hansen allowing him use of the facilities at any time. His kidneys were also badly damaged.”

  “Dr. Hansen said so?” ventured Honey, a smirk lurking close behind his lips.

  The three men were standing at the entry to Barracks F.

  “So he left from here,” said Judge. “He went to the latrine, then made his way to the kitchen.” His outstretched arm pointed to a stable fifty yards to their right, then rotated counterclockwise ninety degrees, stopping at a stained pine building two hundred yards farther on. “Where he killed Colonel Janks and Vlassov, mounted Vlassov’s wagon, and drove through the gate.”

  Judge walked to the center of the road that bisected the camp and turned in a full circle. Against a backdrop of green meadows rolling to snowcapped peaks, he counted eleven watchtowers rimming the perimeter of the camp. He continued to the latrine where again he stopped and turned round, as if taking his bearings. His gaze skimmed the grass, tracing the path Erich Seyss had taken to the kitchen. He began walking. Every few steps he paused to look to his right and left, checking if one of the watchtowers had a clear view of him. When he reached the supply shed at the rear of the kitchen, he raised his hands in the air and exclaimed, “I give up, Colonel! Seyss was in the direct line of sight of at least three watchtowers the entire way. Would you care to explain to me how a prisoner could cross such a wide distance without being seen, or as I would have hoped, detained, questioned, and returned to his bed?”

  “It was a moonless night,” Miller countered defensively. “We’ve spoken with the soldiers manning those towers. They didn’t see a thing. We certainly don’t keep the compound lit after dark.”

  “No, no,” said Judge, irascible because of his discomfort. “I don’t buy it. Either he didn’t come this way or he wasn’t dressed like his buddies. Or . . .’’ And here he stopped and fixed Miller with his most hawkish gaze. “Or he had help on the inside.”

  The accusation hung between the men for several seconds, ripe with unpleasant implications. Then Miller stepped forward. “We did find something odd a few days ago,” he offered sheepishly. “Maybe you’d care to take a—”

  “Please, Colonel, yes, we’d like to see it.”

  Miller shuffled off to his office and returned carrying what appeared to be an olive drab mixing bowl. “This turned up behind the shed.”

  Honey plucked the rounded object from Miller’s hands, swept off his cap, and fitted it to his own head. “It’s a helmet, for chrissakes. What did he use? A soccer ball?”

  “Yes,” Miller stuttered, “but we don’t know if it belonged to Seyss or if he used it during the—”

  “Give it here, Sergeant,” ordered Judge. Handling the “helmet” he scraped away some of the paint, revealing strips of chipped brown leather. “For argument’s sake, I’ll just assume he was wearing fatigues as well.”

  Judge stalked past Miller to the porch where Janks and Vlassov had been murdered. The gates to the camp stood sixty feet away, no farther than the distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate. Approaching them, he craned his neck to take in the guard towers crowding either side. Two soldiers manned each parapet. Judge’s eyes, however, were drawn to the perforated snout of the .30-caliber machine gun, and next to it, the bald countenance of a klieg light. He lowered his gaze to the gates themselves and the sentries walking back and for
th before them. Ten to one, these kids were itching to give their guns a workout. Had Seyss been stopped that night, he would have been cut to ribbons.

  The man we’re after is a gambler, he thought. Brave, daring, and more than a little reckless. But then Judge had learned that firsthand this morning.

  Turning, he tossed the ball to Miller. “I’m ready to interview the prisoners now.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  JUDGE’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF Sergeant Willy Fischer was that he looked the way a tank driver should: short and wiry, with a shock of black hair and a pack mule’s stubborn glare. Fischer had spent the war attached to the First SS Panzer Division. From December 1944 through May of this year, he had served under Erich Seyss. He was being detained at the camp for his participation in the Malmedy massacre, though on a lesser charge than his commanding officer. On Judge’s orders, he’d been removed from the camp population the previous afternoon and confined to an empty larder in the supply shack—what passed for the cooler at POW Camp 8. Since then he’d been fed a warm dinner and an American breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. No explanation had been given for his confinement. Judge wanted him confused.

  “Guten Morgen,” Judge said loudly, doing his best impression of a German officer. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find a bed for you, but at least you had something to eat.”

  “Good morning to you.” Brushing the dust from his uniform, Fischer took a step toward Judge. His dark eyes raced over the uniform, trying to ascertain who exactly this man was. Judge saved him the trouble, introducing himself as an inspector with the military police and saying he needed his assistance with an important case. “It concerns your former commanding officer.”

  “I’m sorry but he’s not here any longer,” Fischer said wryly. “I believe he checked out a few days ago.”