Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (19 page)

“Good point.” The fact is, it’s a readily available medication.

TWENTY-FOUR

D
r. Edward Pack, Walter Jones, and Robert Brauer, unless I miss my guess, are the three clients who hired the attorney, Elliott Fish, in Oklahoma City. Fish couldn’t reveal their identities, not because it was a national security secret, but because it was confidential attorney-client information. What services he provided to the three men we don’t know. Except for the fact that he sent out the small box and its contents, we wouldn’t even know about him.

If he sent them to Brauer and Ed Pack, we can assume that Walter Jones may have received one as well. Is it possible that the keys fit a three-lock box and that all three are required to retrieve whatever is inside? If so, it’s a problem because we don’t know what happened to Dr. Pack’s key or the one that may have been sent to Jones. It’s also possible the keys fit three separate boxes, in which case whatever is being stored could be in pieces or parts. Maybe you have to assemble the whole to have anything?

If it’s a cache of valuables—say, precious metals or gems—then it’s possible it may have been divided into thirds. But if that’s the case, why did the receipt of the tiny box and its contents strike such fear in Ed Pack and Bob Brauer, men who fought through the war and survived combat? It seems each new discovery brings with it only more questions. And why would something sent by their own lawyer, whom they retained, cause concern?

We settle back into the conference room after lunch. Now there are five of us, Joselyn included. Tony Pack seems comfortable with the group. If he’s holding back anything, there’s certainly no sign of it. In fact, I’m beginning to feel guilty. I have said nothing about Emma and the fact that she is charged with her father’s death. Nor have any of us said anything in front of him about Sofia’s murder. It’s time to share some information.

“Let’s assume there were three boxes sent out, one to each of the survivors from the platoon. The question is, did each little box contain the same items, a key, perhaps the same key, and the antiquated ID with the passport photo?”

“What ID?” says Pack.

“That’s right, you didn’t see the paper, the one your father burned?”

“No.”

I fish in my jacket pocket and take out the box. I lift the lid and remove the copy of the ID. I slide it across the table to Tony.

He unfolds it and takes a look.

“Would you recognize the key?” I ask.

“I might.”

I take it out of the box and hand it to him.

“It certainly looks like the one my dad had. Same style, shiny brass. I remember it was smooth on both sides, no grooves. It looks about the same size as the one I saw. I remember when I saw it I thought, That’s a safe-deposit key.”

“That’s what we’re thinking,” says Harry.

“So you’re wondering how you’re gonna find the bank and gain access,” says Tony. He’s already ahead of us. “It won’t be easy unless you have the signatory on the box, the person who rented it, or a court order.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Because it’s my business. I own a small bank.” Pack is still studying the key. When he glances up he notices Harry and me looking at him. “Oh, if you’re thinking it’s there, you can forget it,” he says, and smiles. “This key wouldn’t fit any of the boxes in our vault. We use an entirely different blank. Grooved keys and much heavier stock. This is old, I’m guessing before my time.”

“Yes, but maybe you can help us find out where it came from,” says Harry.

“Won’t be easy,” he says. “There’s no stamp on it, not even a box number. You sure there was no key ring with it? Maybe a brass number label?”

“What you see is what we have,” I tell him.

He shakes his head and hands it back to me. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Have you looked for your father’s key?” I ask.

“I have. High and low. No sign of it,” he says.

I’m thinking that if the doctor burned the paper, maybe he destroyed the key as well, or tossed it.

“Look again when you get home,” I tell him.

“I will.”

“If we can compare them, the cuts on the teeth, we’ll know if they’re the same key. If they’re not, then we’re dealing with something more complicated, and the chance that we’re missing a third key.”

“The one to Jones,” he says.

“Yes.”

“There’s one person who might know,” says Tony. “The lawyer.”

“Fish? Forget it,” I tell him.

“There must be some way we can get him to talk.”

“How?”

“Sue him,” says Pack.

“For what?” says Harry.

“Withholding information.”

“Quaint theory.” Harry smiles. “Stick with your banking day job. We couldn’t get him near a courtroom unless we could show damages, some legitimate cause of action.”

“We argue that whatever is in the box is valuable, that it belongs to us. You have the key,” says Pack.

“The problem is we don’t know what’s in the box. Even to file a lawsuit we’d have to put a value on it. What do we say?” says Harry.

“We make up a figure,” says Pack.

“And what if the box is empty?” says Harry.

“Then we say we’re sorry.”

“That assumes that Fish knows where the box is and that he has access to the vault,” I say.

“Of course,” says Tony.

“In which case you’re dealing with the Holy of Holies,” I tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“The attorney-client privilege, what he hid behind on the phone when I talked to him. I got the definite impression that he was operating based on specific instructions from his clients.”

“Yes, but from what you’re saying they’re all dead,” says Tony.

“That doesn’t matter if he’s signed on to the vault, the signatory on the box. That is what you’re assuming?”

Tony nods.

“Then he has constructive possession of whatever this key represents. One or more boxes we don’t know because we only have one key. If we drag Fish into court he’ll assert that he can’t disclose anything without violating client confidentiality. Unless I’m wrong, he’ll present the judge with a set of written instructions, what he is operating under, and demand that the court review them in camera.”

“What does that mean?” says Pack.

“The judge will read the instructions in chambers by himself. We’ll never get a chance to see them because the instructions themselves would be covered by the privilege—they’re confidential.”

“Case dismissed,” says Harry.

“All I can say is you damn lawyers, you’re all the same.” Tony smiles and looks at Joselyn. “What do you think about all this?”

“I think we ought to have Herman get his gun, stick it in Fish’s mouth, ask him where the bank is that that key belongs to, and tell him that if he doesn’t sign us in we’re going to bounce a bullet off his tonsils.”

Harry looks at Tony. “Did I forget to tell you? Joselyn’s a lawyer, too.”

“She’s hired.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t do trial work,” I tell him.

“That’s OK, I like her attitude,” says Tony.

We all laugh. Except for Joselyn. She smiles mildly and glances at the key in my hand, smoldering dark eyes and tawny skin. I wonder if push came to shove and we ran into a stone wall on Sofia’s murder, if she thought the answer was in that box, whether she might just do it.

“OK, so what’s this all about?” Tony picks up the piece of paper from the table in front of him. It’s the copy of the ID. “Who is this guy?”

“Don’t know. It came in the box.”

“Jakob Grimminger.” He reads from the paper. “SS Standartenführer. It’s German.”

“We thought so, too,” says Harry.

“SS . . . an officer of some kind. I’d have to look it up.”

“How is it spelled?” asks Joselyn. She pulls her iPad from her bag.

Tony spells it as she taps it into Google.

“It’s a Nazi Party rank. Used by the SA and SS. They commanded units known as
Standarten,
between three and five hundred men.”

“Yes, but what’s the significance?” says Tony. “Why is his ID in the box with the key?”

“You got me,” I tell him. “Unless . . .”

“What?” he says.

“You think he might have been at Dachau?”

Tony looks at me and thinks about it. “You mean . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“What are you talking about?” says Joselyn.

“Give us a minute,” I tell her. None of them know what Tony told me this morning, about the allegations of war crimes brought against American soldiers following the liberation of the concentration camp at Dachau, that GIs were accused of shooting German guards who were attempting to surrender.

“It’s a possibility, I suppose,” says Tony. “Still, I don’t get it.”

“Nor do I.”

“What’s it all about?” says Harry.

“Some charges brought against soldiers in Brauer’s division back during the war. The charges were eventually dropped. But there’s still a record of them, I suppose?” I look at Tony.

“Yeah, online,” he says. “That’s where I saw it. It’s mentioned in some of the articles on the Internet.”

“Where do you think they got it?” I ask.

“I imagine from action reports in military archives and histories that have been written, you know. Charges like that don’t just go away.”

“You have to cut them some slack,” I tell him.

“Who?”

“The older generation. Your father and his band of warriors. Especially at a place like Dachau, given what they found. Emotions had to be running high. Piles of bodies, women and little children.”

“Yeah. And we tried some of them at Nuremberg after the war. Convicted and executed them. But if it happened—the shootings, I mean—you can understand why people might say that not everything America does is good.”

“Yeah, well, let ’em go live in Russia,” says Harry. “Besides, shoot ’em there or hang ’em later, what’s the difference? Whether it was a speeding bullet or a slow rope, the people who ran that place got what they deserved. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.” And Harry wouldn’t. Do it on a Saturday when he’s free, and he’d be happy to pull the trigger for you.

“We could turn the information on this guy, what’s his name?” says Harry.

Tony looks down. “Jakob Grimminger.”

“We could hand it off to Ives in D.C. Have some of his researchers check army records. See what he finds. We’re paying them anyway.” Harry is talking about the staff at the “Washington Gravesite,” the Internet news blog that we now own.

“Or we can look right here.” Joselyn is looking at the screen on her iPad. She taps it to enlarge something, then flips the screen around so we can all see it. “This guy right here”—she points with her fingernail—“in the black uniform wearing the helmet, standing right next to the open car. According to the information under the picture, that’s Jakob Grimminger. This other man standing up in the car with his arm in the air looking like a deodorant commercial, that,” she says, “is Adolf Hitler.”

“No shit,” says Herman. “Let me see that.”

She hands him the iPad.

Up to this point Herman has been sitting quietly listening to everything, sucking it all up. Now he looks at the screen. “That’s the man,” he says.

“What does it say?” I ask.

“Jakob Grimminger, born twenty-five April, 1892, Augsburg, Bavaria. Died twenty-eight January, 1969, Munich, Germany. The car looks nice. One of those big open-top six-wheel Mercedes, large engine, get you two hundred feet to the gallon.”

“Tell us about the man,” I say.

“Sorry. Where was I? Oh. Yeah, born in Augsburg, let’s see, entered the Imperial German Army at sixteen. Served in World War One as a mechanic in an air regiment. Fought in Gallipoli, served in Palestine, discharged in 1919. Joined the Nazi Party in 1922, became a member of the, I can’t pronounce it, SA. Took part in fights in Colburg in 1922 and the Munich Beer Hall Putsch, 1923. Served at general headquarters, became a member of the SS, 1926. Eventually reaching the rank of, I can’t pronounce it, equivalent of a colonel. Had the honor of carrying the Blutfahne, whatever that is, won a lot of medals. Put on trial after the war, 1946, for being a member of the SS. He didn’t go to prison, but had his property confiscated. He attempted to enter politics after the war, served as councilor in Munich but it says here his past prevented him from continuing his career. He died in obscurity in Munich in 1969. That’s it.”

“So what’s he doing standing next to Hitler?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Maybe he just happened to be there.”

“Let me see that.” Herman hands me the iPad.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” says Harry.

It’s Harry’s secretary. She whispers in his ear. Harry says, “Sign the receipt and I’ll be out in a second.” He takes a deep breath and stretches. “Why don’t we take a short break?”

“Sure,” says Tony. “Where’s your restroom?”

Joselyn points the way.

Harry slips around the table, leans over, and whispers, “We need to talk.”

“What is it?”

“ME reports have been messengered over. Two of them, Brauer and Sofia.” Harry had put in a request for the autopsy report on Sofia. We didn’t expect to receive it this quickly. “They must be burning the midnight oil,” he says.

I leave the iPad on the table and Harry and I head to the outer office. The messenger is just leaving. The reports are in two separate envelopes. Harry grabs them and we head to my office. Inside we close the door.

I hand him the letter opener from my desk and he slits open the envelopes. He hands me one of them and opens the other himself.

I read from the top of the form, “Sadie Marie Leon, aka Sofia Leon.” I scan it quickly. “Cause of Death: Asphyxia.” The box labeled “Homicide” is checked and next to it the words “Strangulation by Ligature.” No surprises. Typed below is the more detailed report. “Evidence of sudden and violent compression and restriction of the airway . . . U-shaped ligature marks . . . abrasions . . . contusions . . . fingernail marks believed to be from the victim evidences a brief struggle to remove the ligature . . . Ligature appears to have been pulled tightly from behind . . . upward sloping ligature wound indicates that the perpetrator was considerably taller than the victim.”