Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

He looked around for a key. Checked under the doormat, under the copper planters that flanked the brick entryway, and realized Martz wouldn’t leave a key. He was too paranoid. Harry scanned the back of the house and noticed Martz’ bedroom window was open a couple inches. Under the window was a metal trellis crisscrossed with vines that extended seven feet up the back wall of the house. Harry grabbed the frame and pulled. It felt secure, bolted to the stucco wall of the house.

It was dark but there was enough light from a full moon to see what he was doing. Harry climbed to the top of the trellis, reached up and pulled the sides of the window open. He boosted himself up on the sill and climbed in. The bed was made, the room, like Martz himself, neat and tidy.

There were two more bedrooms down the hall, Lisa’s and a guest room. He checked them, went downstairs. There was a box filled with newspapers on the living-room floor, the label addressed to Wilhelm Martz. He knew one thing, Martz wouldn’t leave the place like this.

Harry went down the hall to his office. Martz’ desk had been ransacked, drawers pulled out, papers strewn across the antique rug and hardwood floor. He left everything where it was, walked out and checked the rest of the first-floor rooms. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

The only part of the house he hadn’t seen was the basement. He opened the door, turned on the light and went down the stairs. It was damp and musty, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling on a wire, but it was enough to see them, Martz and Lisa, on their stomachs on the floor. It startled him, took his breath away.

Harry stood next to them, felt sick to his stomach. They were naked. Both had been shot in the back of the head, blood pooling under their faces, running in dark lines like tributaries, disappearing under boxes stacked in the back corners of the room.

It looked a lot like the crime-scene photographs Harry had seen on Taggart’s desk at the Washington DC police station. The bodies shot and positioned in a similar way, the bloodstains suggesting that Martz had fallen a foot to his right and was dragged next to Lisa. Harry wondered if there was some connection between Martz and Lisa and the Washington couple. Were they related? Harry went upstairs, called the police, asking for Detective Huber, and when Huber got on the phone, told him who he was and what had happened.

Harry could hear the sirens. He sat in an overstuffed chair staring out the front windows of Martz’ house. Within a few minutes, three police cars and an ambulance pulled up in front. He met the police at the door, Huber and three detectives. Harry led the way to the cellar, and stood off to the side with Huber six feet from the bodies. The medical examiner was squatting next to Martz and Lisa, measuring and chalking lines around them. Another detective was shooting photographs from different angles.

Harry stared at the bodies, noticed the locket Lisa wore on a chain around her neck was missing. He asked Huber if anything had been taken off the bodies. He shook his head. The missing locket got him thinking about the random items they’d found earlier at Hess’ apartment.

Huber’s gaze was fixed on the floor. He moved toward Martz, bent over and picked up a shell casing with the tip of his pen, turned it upside down studying the imprint on the bottom.

“What caliber?” Harry said.

“Nine-millimeter Parabellum.”

Same kind he’d found at Hess’ apartment. “What kind of gun fires a cartridge like that?”

Huber glanced at him but didn’t answer. He brought out a small spiral notebook and a pen, made a few notes.

“What time did you discover the bodies?”

“About 8:20.”

He was shorter than Harry had remembered, five eight maybe, with narrow shoulders, heavier from the waist down.

“Who are they?”

“Martz, an old friend of my family, and his daughter, Lisa.”

Huber wrote in the notebook. “They live here?”

“Yes.” He reminded Harry of photographs he’d seen of Himmler, same beady eyes and thin lips. Pictured Huber in an SS uniform.

“Why were you here?”

“I was worried about Martz. He had a weak heart. I phoned him a number of times and he didn’t answer. I thought maybe he’d had a heart attack.”

Two medical orderlies picked up the bodies and put them in black bags, zipped them closed and took them upstairs, one at a time on a gurney. All that was left was the chalk outlines of their bodies and the blood.

“Do you know who did this?”

“It was an execution,” Harry said. “Reminds me of how the Nazis used to kill Jews. One shot to the back of the head.”

“So you think the killer was a Nazi?”

“Or a neo-Nazi. Lisa works for the ZOB.”

“I am familiar with the organization.” Huber wrote in the notebook. “Why did you not mention this earlier?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“This could shed a different light on the homicides.”

“You think?”

“What is your purpose here in Munich?”

“Do I need a purpose? I was born here. I wanted to come back and look around, see my old house, check out the neighborhood.”

“There is no reason to be defensive. It is a simple question.” He paused. “You are staying at the Bayerischer Hof?”

“I moved. I’m now at the Königshof.”

“If you think of anything else, call me.” He took a card out of his pocket.

“I’ve already got one,” Harry said, looking at the chalk lines on the floor. “What are you going to do about this?”

“Examine the evidence and see where it leads us.”

Harry went back to his hotel. It was 11:40. He was tired, sat on the bed and called the Washington DC Police Department, asked for Detective Taggart.

“Taggart,” he said, coming on the line.

“It’s Harry Levin.”

“Harry, what’s going on?”

“That couple murdered the night Sara died, were they Jewish?”

“Whoa. You trying to solve that one now? I can’t give you information about a homicide investigation.”

“These two cases might be related.”

“Yeah, they were Jewish.”

“How old?”

“He was mid-forties. She was ten years younger.”

“Were they born in Germany?”

“How the hell do I know where they were born?”

“You found shell casings at the scene, didn’t you?”

“How do you know that?”

“What caliber?”

“You’re pressing your luck.”

“What’re you worried about?”

“Nine-millimeter Parabellum,” Taggart said. “Two of them.”

Harry could hear him drawing on a cigarette, blowing out smoke.

“What kind of gun?”

“Luger. That’s all you get till you give me something.”

“Anything taken off the bodies? Personal possessions: a ring, watch, bracelet, earrings, glasses?”

“Who told you that?”

“I’m guessing,” Harry said.

“The dentist had a gold chain. It was broken. Whatever was hanging from it is missing.” Taggart’s voice sounding faint all of a sudden like the connection was fading. “Hey, where you at?”

“Munich,” Harry said.

“Don’t even tell me. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Hess shot the couple in Georgetown.”

“Yeah? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Krauts were right about you, Harry. You should see someone. Seriously. You’re fucked up.”

He heard static. Taggart had hung up.

He got to Colette’s just before midnight. Stood in front of her apartment building, felt a cool breeze blowing up the street, saw a light on in her apartment. He moved to the door and pressed the button. A few seconds later she appeared in the window, looking down at him. She buzzed him in. He took the stairs. She was standing in the doorway when he got there, wearing a robe and tortoiseshell glasses, hair up, looking sexier than ever. Harry kissed her hard and long, backing her into the apartment and closing the door while he was doing it.