Christopher Reich - The Runner

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 round” 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 3:30 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 Alphonso Partenza, President of the Societa 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 two hundred and sixteen dollars. “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 none the worse for it. 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 dogs 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 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 8 don’t feel like talking, remember what I taught you. You were a fairly good practitioner in your day.”

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

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 push carts 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 six million of these displaced persons were on the move across German The flotsam of Hitler’s folly.

Judge kept his eyes on the road. Unwilling to admit 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 wracked 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 moustache and a pasty complexion that testified to a longtime love affair with his desk. A parson’s son, thought Judge; a strong[?] conformer enjoying his first chance to whip those of the faith into line.

Miller whisked them toward a pair of chairs set before his desk. “Please sit down. Make yourself 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 had 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.