Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Even though the place smelled bad, the floor was uneven and the furniture was cheap, the rented room suited. The name on the agreement was Marlon Hyde. The owner never came upstairs if the rent was paid on time. Hyde had fixed a heavy padlock to the outside of the door and two bolts and a chain to the inside. No one could get in or out without doing a lot of damage.

The crumbling walls were decorated with cuttings from the newspapers. They concerned the so-called occult killings. The death-metal singer Loki’s demise covered one wall. The space around the single cracked window was covered with stories about Monsieur Hexie. Behind the bed were clippings about Professor Abraham Singer, while opposite were pages about the last victim, the tarot reader Crystal Vileda. Hyde had put those up earlier in the evening. It was interesting that the FBI had found prints incriminating the Englishman Matt Wells at Monsieur Hexie’s apartment.

There were books piled high on the floor, old books full of strange pictures. They showed demons and witches, priests and zombies, Norse gods and Jewish mystics. There were also a Washington, D.C., Yellow Pages and several local maps. In a box under the bed, the killer had collected numerous pairs of weapons-skewers, knives, pieces of piping. There were even chopsticks. They had proved unexpectedly effective.

But Marlon Hyde was tired and dispirited. This wasn’t the way it was meant to be, this wasn’t what all the training had been for. There was a greater purpose, one for which every sacrifice was justified. But could that really be right? Most human beings were worthless, that was indisputable. But what about family? Was it ever acceptable to take the lives of parents, of siblings, of children? As time passed, that had become harder to take. It had been emphasized that no one was innocent, that even the children of the enemy had to be wiped out, so there would be no future for their kind. But what of the children of the just? What of siblings who failed the test? Did they deserve to be discarded-no, that word was a lie. Why did they have to be executed by those closest to them?

Hyde remembered the scenes in the Antichurch-the hyena-headed celebrant and the cloaked figure with features of stone, the chanting of the naked faithful, the mist of blood from the victims’ opened throats. Those had been ecstatic occasions.

It had been a long time before the horror came, and the realization that the death of a brother had to be mourned; that blood would have blood, no matter what else had been taught; that nothing could ever justify the murder of a loved one.

Killing came easy. It always had done for Marlon Hyde. The hard thing had been to feign respect for human life; respect for the poor and needy; respect for the vulnerable. The tarot woman could have been a problem. The gross Loki, the pathetic Monsieur Hexie and the Jew professor hadn’t raised a qualm. In any event, neither did Crystal Vileda. Using chopsticks had added an incongruous element that helped, and the need to hurry had removed any lingering doubt. But now, what was left? The pull was still there, the urge to submit to the coffining. Hyde had been fighting it, but confusion sometimes prevailed. To make things worse, Matt Wells had stolen the glory for two of the murders.

It was getting harder and harder to keep up the facade. Marlon Hyde knew that time was running out. Soon the ultimate victims would have to be taken out.

Clem Simmons came into the diner with a scowl on his face. Given that it was four-thirty in the morning, I forgave him. He looked around before spotting me in the booth at the rear.

“This had better be good,” he said as he sat down opposite me. “Just coffee,” he told the dull-eyed waitress.

“Oh, it’s good,” I said, rebooting my laptop. I had downloaded the contents of Joe’s memory stick.

I spent the next ten minutes taking the detective through the findings. He scribbled notes, his brow furrowed. Finally, he raised a hand.

“Hold up, Matt. Where exactly is this going?”

“I haven’t reached the best bit yet,” I said, gulping coffee. “Look at this. Nikolaus Rothmann was an Obersturmfuhrer in the SS.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“Obersturmfuhrer or SS?”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “I know what the SS was, you fool-the Nazis’ private army of madmen.”

“Right. Obersturmfuhrer is the equivalent of captain.”

“Shit, is that all? I thought you were going to say the guy was a general at least.”

“It doesn’t matter because the rank was largely honorary in this case. You see, Rothmann was a doctor. A specialist in neurosurgery.” I gave him a meaningful stare. “As in brain surgery.”

“Yeah, yeah, I watch ER like everybody else. Keep going before I keel over.”

“The point is, Rothmann spent two years at Auschwitz-working under none other than Josef Mengele.”

The detective scratched his head. “Mengele? Didn’t he escape after the war?”

“He eventually drowned in Brazil in the late seventies. In Auschwitz, they called him the Angel of Death. He carried out horrific experiments on people-on kids, as well, in particular twins. And our friend Rothmann helped him.”

Clem Simmons put down his pen. “What is it you’re saying here, Matt? That this Rothmann is in the States?”

“He might be, but he would be nearly a hundred. He had kids, though. It looks like the three of them were brought over here secretly after the war. There’s no mention of his wife.”

“All this because the old guy’s initials happen to be the same as a minor organization that might have Nazi connections? It’s a bit thin, man.”

“Is it, Clem? The man who runs that organization also seems to be involved with Woodbridge Holdings-”

“Who you think set up the camp in Maine where you were imprisoned.” The detective shook his head. “Like I say, it’s pretty fucking thin.”

“I told you, Clem, they messed with my head. My memory was screwed for days. It still isn’t functioning normally. And get this-Woodbridge is into pharmaceuticals and chemical research. I reckon they’re carrying on Rothmann’s work.”

“All right, Matt, all right. It’s not like you need pharmaceuticals to mess with people’s heads. But even if you’re right about all that, what has Woodbridge Holdings got to do with the killings in D.C.? Some of which you’re in the frame for, don’t forget.”

I’d seen a news flash saying that my prints had been at the scene of the Crystal Vileda murder.

“Only two of them,” I said, realizing how dumb that sounded. “You can’t seriously suspect me of the latest murder. You saw me outside Joe Greenbaum’s not long after it.”

He shrugged. “It’s not me you have to worry about, Matt. The Feds have taken that case, too.”

I caught his eye. “Who do you think is the killer?”

Clem frowned. “That’s what we’d all like to know.”

“No, I mean, what kind of person would commit the occult murders?”

The detective gave a hollow laugh. “A crazy person?”

“Really?” I countered. “A pretty organized crazy person. One capable of planning and executing four murders without leaving any traces-except mine, which are obviously a diversion. One who’s got a carefully planned agenda, as the diagrams show.”

“And one who’s violent as hell.”

“True. But has it crossed your mind that this could be the behavior of someone whose mind has been tampered with, like mine?”

The detective held my gaze. “Still doesn’t explain why he’s choosing occult targets.”

I slumped in my seat. “You’ve got me there. The only thing I can think of is that Heinrich Himmler, the leader of the SS, was fascinated by the occult.”

Clem grunted. “You will definitely have to do better than that, Matt.”