Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

Sam Cleave was busy exchanging blows with the old man, stepping in his way every time he went for the door. Werner was sitting on the floor, dazed and surrounded by shards of glass and a few kidney dishes that had gone sprawling after the impostor had knocked him out cold with a bedpan and toppled the small cabinet where Dr. Fritz kept his Petri dishes and other breakables.

“Mother of God, look at that thing!” the one officer yelled at his partner as they elected to bring the seemingly invincible culprit down by piling their bodies onto him. Sam struggled out of the way as the two officers subdued the offender in the white coat. Sam’s brow was decorated in crimson ribbons that elegantly lined the features of his cheekbone. Next to him, Werner was holding the back of his skull where the bedpan had connected painfully.

“I think I’m going to need stitches,” Werner told Nurse Marx as she carefully crept around the doorway into the office. His dark hair sported bloody clumps where the gash smiled. Sam watched how the officers restrained the odd-looking man with threats of deadly force until he had finally yielded. The other two loiterers Sam had seen with Werner outside the news van showed up too.

“Hey, what’s the tourist doing here?” Kohl asked when he saw Sam.

“He’s not a tourist,” Nurse Marx defended as she held Werner’s head. “This is a world renowned journalist!”

“Really?” Kohl asked sincerely. “Nice.” And he held out his hand to pull Sam to his feet. Himmelfarb just shook his head, standing back to give everyone room to move. The officers cuffed the man, but they’d been informed that the Air Force representatives had jurisdiction in this case.

“We must hand him over to you, I believe,” the officer conceded to Werner and his men. “Let us just finalize our paperwork so that he can be officially transferred into military custody.”

“Thank you, officer. Just sort it all out right here in the office. We do not need the public and the patients to get alarmed all over again,” Werner advised.

The police and security guards took the man aside while Nurse Marx performed her duty even against her own will, dressing the old man’s cuts and abrasions. She was certain eerie face could easily haunt the dreams of the most hardened of men. It was not that he was ugly, per se, but his lack of features made him ugly. In her gut she felt a strange sense of pity mingle with her repugnance as she dabbed his scarcely bleeding scratches with an alcohol swab.

His eyes were perfectly shaped, if not rather attractive in their exotic nature. However it appeared as though the rest of his face had been sacrificed for their quality. His skull was uneven and his nose seemed almost non-existent. But it was his mouth that struck a nerve with Marlene.

“You suffer from Microstomia,” she remarked to him.

“Systemic sclerosis in a minor form, yes, causing small mouth phenomenon,” he replied casually, as if he were there to get a blood test. His words were well pronounced, nonetheless, and his German accent was virtually flawless by now.

“Any prior treatment?” she asked. It was a stupid question, but if she did not engage in medical small talk with him he would repulse her so much more. Being in conversation with him was much the same as speaking to Sam the patient when he had been there — an intelligent conversation with a cogent monster.

“No,” was all he answered, deleting his capacity for sarcasm only because she had cared to ask. His tone was innocent, as if he were fully accepting her medical scrutiny while the men babbled in the background.

“What is your name, pal?” the one officer asked him loudly.

“Marduk. Peter Marduk,” he answered.

“You’re not German?” Werner asked. “Geez, you had me fooled.”

Marduk wished he could smile in response to the ill-formed compliment on his German, but the tightening of the tissue around his mouth refused him the privilege.

“Identity documents,” the officer snapped, still nursing his swollen lip from a stray punch during the arrest. Marduk slowly slipped his hand into his jacket pocket under Dr. Fritz’s white coat. “I need to take his statement for our records, Lieutenant.”

Werner nodded approvingly. They were authorized to track down and kill Löwenhagen, not to apprehend an old man who impersonated a doctor. Yet now that Werner had been told why Schmidt was really after Löwenhagen, they could benefit well from more information from Marduk.

“So Dr. Fritz is dead too, then?” Nurse Marx asked softly when she leaned in to cover a particularly deep cut from the steel links of Sam Cleave’s watch.

“No.”

Her heart jumped. “What do you mean? If you were pretending to be him in his office you had to have killed him first.”

“This is not the tale of the annoying little girl with the red shawl and her grandmother, my dear,” the old man sighed. “Unless it is the version where the grandmother is still alive in the wolf’s belly.”

“We found him! He’s fine. Just knocked out and gagged!” one of the police officers announced when they found Dr. Fritz. He was exactly where Marduk had told them to look. They could not hold Marduk without concrete proof that he’d committed the murders of the precious nights, so Marduk had yielded up his location.

The imposter insisted that he’d only overpowered the doctor and assumed his guise to allow him to exit the hospital without suspicion. But Werner’s appointment had blindsided him, forcing him to play the role a little longer, “…until Nurse Marx spoiled my plans,” he lamented, shrugging in defeat.

A few minutes after the police captain in charge of the Karlsruhe Police headquarters showed up, Marduk’s brief statement was completed. They could only charge him for petty offenses like minor assault.

“Lieutenant, after the police are finished I must clear the detainee medically before you take him,” Nurse Marx told Werner in front of the officers. “It is hospital protocol. Otherwise the Luftwaffe might incur legal consequences.”

No sooner had she touched on the subject when it became relevant in the flesh. A woman walked into the office, a posh leather briefcase in her hand and dressed in corporate attire. “Good day,” she addressed the police officers with a firm, but cordial tone. “Miriam Inkley, British legal liaison of the W.U.O. branch in Germany. I understand that this sensitive matter has been brought to your attention, Captain?”

The police commander concurred with the lawyer. “Yes, it has, madam. However, we are still sitting with an open homicide case and the military is claiming our only suspect. That presents a problem.”

“Not to worry, Captain. Come, let us discuss the joint operations of the Air Force Criminal Investigation Unit and the Karlsruhe Police HQ in another room,” the mature British woman offered. “You can authorize the details if they satisfy your investigation in association with the W.U.O. If not, we can arrange a future meeting to better accommodate your grievances.”

“No, please, let me see what the W.U.O. has in mind. As long as we bring the guilty individual to justice. I don’t care about the media coverage, just justice for the families of these three victims,” the police captain was heard saying as the two of them walked off into the corridor. The officers said goodbye and followed, paperwork in hand.

“So the W.U.O. even knows that the pilot was involved in some underhanded PR stunt?” Nurse Marx worried. “That is pretty serious. I hope this does not foil the big treaty they’re going to sign soon.”

“No, the W.U.O. does not know anything about this,” Sam said. He was wrapping his bleeding knuckles in a sterile bandage. “In fact, we’re the only ones who are privy to the escaped pilot and, hopefully soon, the reasons for his pursuit.” Sam looked at Marduk who nodded in compliance.