Christopher Reich - The Runner

Altman responded eagerly, pointing out the butchered physiognomy as he went. “We can still see the lips, some of the nose and the jaw. I suppose we could request the dental records but I’m afraid they would be a long time in coming. Besides, this is clearly the body of a man who served in the SS.” Lifting the corpse’s right arm, he pointed to a starshaped scar the size of a beverage coaster on its underside. “Sturmbannführer Seyss’s last command was on the southeastern front against Malinovsky’s Ninth Army. It was common for SS men fearing imprisonment at the hands of the Russians to eliminate their blood group tattoo.” He turned the arm over and pointed to a smaller scar the size of a cigarette burn, just below the shoulder. “ A bullet here removes all trace of the marking.”

“You’re saying Seyss shot himself through the arm to remove the tattoo.”

“More likely he had his sergeant shoot him. It was a common practice. One of his comrades, Herr Steiner, who served under him in the last months of the war, bears a similar scar. Would you care to see it?” Altman sounded like a head waiter asking if he’d like to try the daily special.

“No, thank you.” Judge turned from the gurney. The body appeared to match Seyss’s height and weight and it was wearing the same gray flannel trousers. Still he was troubled by the profound injury to the face. And he didn’t remember reading anything in Seyss’s medical record about a distinguishing scar under his right arm. Maybe he was being overly suspicious. With armed soldiers posted at every exit, escape from the armory would have been impossible.

And the flashlight? Judge asked himself. Had it been one of his own men showing Seyss the way out?

Thanking Altman, he spun on his heel and crossed to the exit. But reaching the door, he pulled up suddenly. “Tell me, Altman, how many bodies did we recover from the armory?”

“Nine.”

Judge turned and strode past the row of gurneys, figuring the casualties in his head. He’d seen five men killed with his own eyes: Rizzo, Biederman, Steiner, and two MPs shot by Seyss. Mullins said four more soldiers had been killed when the ammunition dump exploded. Arriving at the ninth gurney, he said, “We’re one short.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re missing a body.”

“No, no. You’re thinking of Biederman. As you recall, he was killed taking refuge behind a foot locker filled with ammunition. When the locker exploded, he simply disintegrated.”

“And his boots?” challenged Judge. “Did they disintegrate, too?”

Altman parried the thrust with ease, ever guarding his solicitous tone. “Certainly not. But the armory held over five thousand uniforms, including boots, it would be difficult to identify which pair was his.” He bowed ever so slightly. “Anything else, Major?”

Judge found Mullins pacing the hallway outside the morgue.

“There are only nine bodies, Spanner.”

“What of it?”

“You bought Altman’s line about Biederman disintegrating? I can see how a shell from a Howitzer would obliterate every trace of a man, but a hand grenade, even a few dozen bullets…” Judge shrugged. “They’d just make a big mess.”

“You, yourself, saw Biederman hit,” said Mullins. “He fell right next to the ammo box. Whatever was inside it exploded like a Chinese firecracker. And that was before the rest of the place went up.”

Judge nodded, weighing his own suspicions against the facts of record. “Has anyone checked the body’s blood type against Seyss? Can we get a copy of his dental charts?”

Mullins ran a hand across the back of his neck, his brow assuming its earlier scarlet temperament. “Seven Americans died nabbing this Nazi bastard. I’m damned well not going to tell Georgie Patton that Seyss is still on the loose because you, alone, refuse to believe it. This is no time for a doubting Thomas.”

“Especially since by now he’s told Ike and Ike’s told the President. After all Operation Tally Ho wouldn’t be a success without Seyss being rounded up.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Tally Ho!” shouted Mullins, moving closer and clamping both hands on Judge’s shoulders. “Make no mistake, Mr Seyss died inside that armory. That is his body on that gurney. Bauer said so and Altman confirmed it. Understand?”

Judge broke from his grip and began walking to the elevator.

“Ike cut you seven days to bring in Seyss and you did it in six,” called Mullins, rushing to catch up. “You should be proud, boy-o. Who knows? There might even be a promotion in here somewhere for you. It’s time to think of the future again. There’s a flight out tomorrow at noon for Munich. We’ll gather your gear at Bad Toelz and have you back in Paris by nightfall. Play your cards right and come the trials, you’ll be in every newspaper round the world.”

Judge slowed, regarding Mullins earnestly. A week ago, a position on the International Military Tribunal meant everything to him. Another rung up the ladder. The chance to serve his country. The opportunity to gild his professional name. Today it left him uninspired. It was another man’s dream.

What had he been after? Justice or merely glory?

“Tell me, Colonel Mullins, has anyone asked Bauer what Seyss was planning to do with the Russian guns and the Red Army uniforms? Didn’t Altman say they belonged to the NKVD? Why do you think Seyss wanted to pass himself off as a member of the Russian secret police?”

Corporal Dietsch’s words echoed in his mind:It’s some kind of mission. A final race for Germany.

Mullins winced at the questions. “I make it my business not to make it my business. Seyss is dead. Case closed. Bauer will be tried in a German court for black marketeering and as an accomplice to murder.”

Judge sighed and pressed the call button. He was tempted to lower his head and call it a day. Good men had died. They had a body and an identification. He should count himself lucky to be alive. Better yet, he could return to the IMT with an even heart and put his energies back into his career.

But what is it you want? Justice or glory?

He wanted Seyss. He refused to go on building his career atop a compromised conscience.

“Okay, Seyss is dead,” Judge heard himself agreeing. “But would you mind if I had a few words with Bauer? Technically, he is my prisoner.”

Mullins eyed him warily. “You believe that, do you? Or are you just trying to get back on your Uncle Spanner’s good side?”

“So we’re on first name terms again?”

“All you had to do was nab Seyss.” Mullins held open the elevator door. “You can talk to Bauer first in the morning before we pack up for Bad Toelz. What we all need now is a good night’s rest.”

“Amen,” said Judge, yawning. But, he had no intention of going to sleep.

The clock on the wall read ten past nine as Judge entered the prisoner’s ward later that night. A lone MP sat outside the door, dozing. Judge tapped him on the shoulder and flashed his identification. “I need some time alone with my prisoner. Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee?”

The guard checked the face on the ID against the banged up man in uniform standing in front of him. Raising a hand to his mouth, he masked a deep yawn. “Sure thing, Major. His ankle’s cuffed to the bed. Need the keys?”

“Why not?” Judge winked. “Maybe we’ll take a walk.”

The MP knew what that meant. With hooded eyes, he handed over a small pair of keys, then bustled down the hallway.

Judge pushed open the swinging doors and entered the ward. Beds ran up and down either wall. All were empty but one, mattresses rolled up to expose rusting iron lattices. The room wore the melancholy smile of a summer camp boarded up for the winter. In the farthest corner, a heavyset man with cropped dark hair and no discernible neck slouched on his bed, reading a newspaper. Printed in large boldface print, the headline read: BIG THREE TO MEET AT POTSDAM TOMORROW.