Christopher Reich - The Runner

“DPs,” said Vandermel. “More and more are pouring in every day. The Jews want the hell out of Germany and who can blame them? Most want to go to Eretz Israel, their homeland in Palestine, but the Brits won’t have them. The Ukrainians can go home, but they don’t want to because they’re afraid Uncle Joe will shoot them. Anyone who surrendered is a coward in his book. As for the Poles, they can’t go back to Poland even if they wanted to. Don’t ask about the Hungarians, Romanians, Bulgarians, Latvians or Estonians. Give you one guess where they’d all like to go, the lot of them.”

“America.”

“Bingo.”

And we don’t want them, either, Judge added silently.

Vandermel unlatched a wooden gate cut into the fence and motioned him into the hospital compound. Judge was surprised to see two MPs standing at the entrance to the ward. Before he could ask what they were doing there, a pair of officers shunted out of the screen door and onto the landing. One was tall, with a martinet’s ramrod posture and a steamshovel’s iron jaw. Judge recognized him from his previous visit as Colonel Sawyer, the camp commander. He was old army, a former stable mate of George Patton when the two were stationed at Fort Myer, Virginia. The other was chubby and balding, a sad sack of a guy with the caduceus pinned to his lapel. A doctor.

“Your timing is impeccable, Major,” shouted Sawyer, waving him over with a hand.

Judge mounted the stairs and saluted. “How so?”

Sawyer coughed, averted his eyes, and Judge knew bad news was coming. “Your man von Luck is dead.”

“What?” Judge grew immediately suspicious. “The guy was doing fine last night. What happened between then and now?”

“One of our orderlies found him this morning,” said the doctor, who gave his name as Wilfred Martindale.

“I’d ordered von Luck to get cleaned up for his excursion,” added Sawyer. “The old general was lying there stiff as a board. Went in his sleep.” He said it grudgingly, as if von Luck had welched on a debt.

“Was he ill?” asked Judge.

“No, no,” said Martindale, approaching Judge as if he were the bereaved. “That’s what surprised us. His health was improving daily. He’d gained five pounds in the last week alone. Still, considering how the body had been so weakened by malnutrition, illness, and, of course, the psychological burdens of simply trying to keep one’s self alive, it’s amazing Mr von Luck survived as long as he did.”

They were inside the ward, walking slowly between the beds, a funeral procession clad in olive and khaki. Harrowed faces peered at them from the refuge of their iron beds. The same squadron of flies that had attacked during his last visit dove from the ceiling again, marauding Judge and his escorts. He recognized Volkmann, the poor bastard who wouldn’t leave his bed to go to the bathroom, and tried to muster a smile. Volkmann nodded gravely, his hunted eyes saying he’d tolerate Judge’s presence for a short while, but he’d better not push it.

Von Luck’s body had not yet been removed. Covered by his bedsheet, it lay meek and rigid, leaving only the shallowest outline. Judge grasped the sheet with both hands and slowly peeled it back. Death had not robbed von Luck of his patrician bearing. Chin raised, mouth ajar, he seemed to be barking out one final order.

“What’s the verdict?” Judge asked, frustration getting the better of him. “Heart attack, stroke, lumbago…”

“The death certificate will list ‘natural causes’,” said Dr Martindale, in a tone that made clear he did not find the remark humorous.

“ Natural causes .” Judge mulled over the diagnosis, while a suspicious voice whispered in his ear,there is no such thing as a coincidence. “Mind if I take a closer look?”

Sawyer ruffled his brow. “A closer look? At what?” he chortled. “Haven’t you seen a dead Nazi before?”

Judge took that as a green light. Stepping closer to the bed, he bent at the waist and placed his nose near von Luck’s mouth. He sniffed for the scent of almonds but smelled nothing. He could rule out cyanide. Probing von Luck’s neck with his fingers, he checked for signs of strangulation — a crushed larynx or a damaged windpipe. Both were intact. He unbuttoned von Luck’s pyjamas, examining his thorax for injuries. A professionally wielded stiletto could be inserted between the ribs to pierce a man’s heart, leaving a small entry wound and almost no bleeding. But von Luck’s chest was clean and so was his back.

“Was von Luck taking any medication? Penicillin, maybe?”

Martindale shook his head. “He was given a tetanus vaccine three weeks ago. He took a few aspirin each day for his headaches. Other than that he was healthy. We kept him here to eat, sleep, and regain his strength.”

Judge rolled up von Luck’s sleeves and checked for a pinprick or light bruising, indications that an injection had recently been administered. Ten ccs of potassium chloride could kill a man in less than a minute, leaving him looking as peaceful as if he’d died in his sleep. Both arms were pale and without blemish. He scanned the neck for similar marks. Nothing.

Sawyer cleared his throat theatrically. “If you’re finished, Major, we’d like to get the corpse out of the ward as soon as possible.”

But Judge wouldn’t be hurried. Lowering himself to one knee, he leaned over the bed and brought his face to within inches of von Luck’s. Placing a thumb on the corpse’s right eye, he slid back the eyelid. The eye stared at the ceiling, its fully dilated pupil obscuring the pale blue iris. Next he studied the vitreous. Barely visible were clusters of what appeared to be minuscule starfish, but were, in fact, ruptured capillaries laying just beneath the eye’s surface. Conjunctival hemorrhage was the medical term. It was a phenomenon that occurred when the body was unable to take in air and the brain was robbed of the oxygen it needed to function. Four years at homicide had provided Judge with a specialized medical education.

Slowly, he cautioned himself.

He checked the other eye and found a similar discoloration.There is no such thing as coincidence.

Standing, Judge returned his gaze to the row of beds running along both walls. As if cued, all heads were turned toward him. He noticed then that every patient had the same growth of hair, about an inch, and realized that they must have all had their heads shaved for lice at the same time. Whatever had happened in here last night, they’d seen it.

“Well, goddammit,” bellowed Sawyer, sending a wad of saliva arcing through the air. “Don’t stand there looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. Spit it out.”

Judge remained silent for a few moments longer, asking himself if it was prudent to tell Sawyer what he’d discovered. If it might assist in the investigation. He answered “no” to both questions. “You can take von Luck away. He’s no use to me now.”

Sawyer patted Judge on the back and told him to cheer up. The world was a better place with one less Nazi in it. Judge smiled as required, but as the implications of his discovery sank in, he found himself gripped by a new and insidious anxiety.

Who knew that he had harbored doubts about Seyss’s death and that he believed von Luck could confirm or deny them? Who knew he was coming to Dachau? It came to him that if someone believed Oliver von Luck could prove the corpse on gurney three did not belong to Erich Seyss, he might also believe that Ingrid Bach could do the same.

Judge decided he must reach Ingrid Bach as quickly as possible. Only by conscious effort could he slow the pace of his footsteps.

Upon reaching the threshold of the ward, Judge felt a weak hand tug at the hem of his jacket. Somewhat annoyed, he reined in his step. It was Volkmann and he was extending his arm toward Judge in a gesture that indicated he wished to shake his hand. Judge hesitated, then gave him his grip.