The Perfect Corpse

  ‘We’ll go down for this,’ said Tammy quietly. ‘Each of us, individually, will go down for this. You’ve brought back to life a killing machine. And we’ll be charged with murder.’

  She glared at Jack accusingly. ‘And I’ve got two young kids.’

  Tom also looked at Jack, a cynical smile written across his face. ‘Starting to regret staying on?’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Kingston, aagh - we can get away with Kingston. You’re all missing the bigger picture. Zero imagination. We’ve raised a corpse from the fucking dead, that’s what we’ve done.’

  Perez opened a street map of Hanford. He ran his finger across the screen, dividing the town into three equal sections.

  ‘Nine out of ten fugitives are caught in the first three hours. Did you know that? Nail them early, that’s what you need to do.’

  Tom emitted a sarcastic laugh as he looked at his watch.

  ‘He’s been gone six hours, Jon. FBI up to their usual speed, then.’

  Perez shot him a warning. ‘Want us to mop up your mess or not?’

  He placed his hands on his thighs then slid them down towards his knees. ‘We need to get out there. And soon. He must be lost as hell. Wouldn’t be surprised if he shakes out within half a mile of here.’

  He pointed back at the screen. ‘Okay, Tom and I’ll take the Buick. We’ll cover here, north of Oats Park. We’ll do Lovelock Highway, East Williams Avenue, this area here, right up to the perimeter of the military airport. He can’t have got further than that.’

  ‘And me?’ Hunter’s eyes flicked from the screen to Perez.

  ‘You take Kingston’s car. Cover this part here. South Maine Street. Wildes Road. Beeghly Park. Drive every street. Keep your eyes focused.’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘You two -’ he glanced at Jack and Tammy. ‘You do Sheckler. West Williams and up to the Skate Park.’

  He pointed to a blank area at the top of the screen. ‘Isn’t this waste ground?’

  Tammy nodded.

  ‘Check that out too. Fugitives always end up in waste ground.’

  He shut the laptop firmly, as if the case was almost solved.

  ‘Any sighting. Anything dodgy. Call my cell phone. We’ll be right with you. Any questions?’

  Jack looked up. ‘What about the police? Local radio? TV? Twitter? We’re hunting a killer, for Christ’s sake. He might strike again.’

  Perez glanced at Tom then shook his head firmly. ‘Not involving anyone for the time being. This could rebound big time. Tammy’s right, we could find ourselves in the deepest possible shit. Accomplices to the crime. And up to our necks. But we can still salvage everything, if we play it right.’

  ‘Can’t salvage Kingston,’ said Tammy sourly.

  Perez stood up and the others followed suit. Then he swept them out of the lab and into the entrance area, pausing for a moment as he caught sight of the bloodstain on the glass of the main door. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in.

  ‘Can we get this cleaned?’

  Tammy nodded.

  ‘And lock Kingston’s office. And keep it locked. From now on, no one goes in there without my say-so.’

  Jack made his way outside and waited while Tammy wiped the blood from the door. The sun was pumping hard and the puddles had shrunk to dark stains on the tarmac. He glanced up at the sky. A lone goshawk was tracing a spiral high above the ZAKRON rooftop, wheeling in a vent of warm air. The dark storm clouds of the previous night had been bleached clean. Now, they hung weightless like candy floss in the watercolour sky.

  Jack clicked his keys to unlock the car then opened the door for Tammy.

  ‘I could have saved Kingston,’ she said despondently. ‘If only I’d listened to myself for once.’

  Jack pretended not to hear. He put the key in the ignition, started the engine. The air con blew hot for a moment before changing register and pumping coolness onto their faces. He felt the sweat dry tight on his skin.

  ‘What planet’s Perez on?’ he said. ‘Does he really think we’re going to catch him strolling along the side of the road? Christ.’

  Tammy folded her hands across her lap. ‘At least we’re getting out. Had enough CCTV for one morning.’

  They took the eastbound Interstate 50 towards downtown Hanford, the sharp glare of the morning sun piercing the windscreen. The traffic was light and moving fast and they were soon on West Williams Avenue. The truck in front braked hard, forcing Jack to slam down his foot. Tammy kept her eyes fixed on the side streets, looking at everyone out and about.

  ‘What happens if we see him?’

  ‘We call Perez.’

  ‘And then what? What’s Perez going to do?’

  ‘You didn’t see?’

  Jack tapped his hip, where Perez kept his gun. ‘They’ll shoot him if they catch him.’

  ‘Jesus. The nightmare gets worse.’

  It was cool in the car but the heat outside was visible as a shimmer on the tarmac. The brilliant yellow ginkgoes that fringed North Bailey Street hung limp in the sunshine. A hot breeze was sweeping dried husks and leaves through the gutters.

  Jack turned on the local radio as they drove down West Bailey Street. Mrs Robinson was playing. They both scanned the sideways and alleys that led between the low bungalows. Few people were outside. They passed a sports car draped in thick tarpaulin. The top end of West Bailey Street was deserted and littered with trash. It might have been the end of the world.

  ‘Turn, here -’

  Tammy pointed right.

  ‘Head up North Russell.’

  Jack swung the wheel and they passed another row of identikit bungalows. A mechanic in blue overalls was messing with a car on the sidewalk, sweat shining on his face. Further on, a mother with a pushchair was struggling to open a parasol. Jack turned onto South Drive, passing CVS, the drive-thru Macdonalds, the Morris and Luvine drugstore. A giant red publicity cube stuck into the sky on the end of a tall pole. ‘TAMGO’S BOX: seniors’ morning Wednesdays.’

  Jack slowed the car as they passed a garage. A pump attendant was filling a rust-coloured Subaru Forester, its owner watching on idly, hands on hips in full cowboy pose. They passed Econo Lodge. Three businessman stood in the porch, shiny suits and shiny shoes.

  Tammy’s cell phone rang. It was Tom.

  ‘Anything - ?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then keep driving. Drive, drive, drive. All day if you have to. Find him.’

  There was a pause. She could hear him muttering something to Perez.

  ‘Yeah, yeah – if you need us we’ll be at ZAKRON. Call if there’s anything. Call if there’s nothing. I want to know what’s going on.’

  Tammy cut the conversation and Jack stopped the car for a moment, tapping his finger on the steering wheel.

  ‘They’ve gone back to ZAKRON?’

  She nodded.

  ‘First sensible thing they’ve done. Finding him in Hanford’s going to be harder than finding him in Greenland.’

  He started the car again, put it into drive.

  ‘I’m going back to the hotel, Tammy. Get to work. Need to sharpen our act if we’re going to have any chance of catching him.’

  *

  Jack dropped Tammy back at ZAKRON before returning to the Comfort Inn. He got a black coffee from the vending machine and took it up to his room. There were things he urgently wanted to check on the internet.

  He logged onto the site of NARA, the National Archives and Records Administration in Maryland and clicked onto the section relating to Nazi war records.

  When United States troops entered Germany at the end of World War II, they seized tons of Nazi party and SS records. These are now housed at NARA and most are available on microfilm. The collection contains approximately 240,000 dossiers for individual SS personnel and their spouses. In addition there are incomplete records of the organizational structure of the SS, with some 135 files on the various units and commands.

  The site had a keyword search engine des
igned for those who knew the name of the person they were searching for. It was less useful for general queries. Jack toyed with the keyboard, typing ‘ss tattoo’. No results. He tried ‘eichmann tattoo’ but it produced just two entries, both about the Far East. He typed ‘hitler inner circle’ and ‘eichmann inner circle’. These added little to what he already knew about the Mossad operation.

  He had more success when he searched for ‘ss inner circle’. He was directed to a page that listed the elite command units of the SS, along with an historical outline of the various Death’s Head Battalions.

  These were the units responsible for administering the Nazi concentration camps. But one of them, the 2nd SS Division Totenkopf, had been tasked with spearheading undercover missions, in advance of the regular army.

  Jack paused for a moment, his thoughts turning momentarily to Greenland. Then he clicked on the link.

  The most elite specialist unit of the Waffen-SS was the Totenkopf, formed shortly after the outbreak of war. It soon developed a reputation for ferocity and fanaticism, instigating and participating in a number of massacres on the Eastern Front, notably the 1943 Dyatkova killings, in which 163 Russian civilians were murdered by exposure to the extreme winter conditions. The Totenkopf undertook similar massacres at Vyazma and Narva. At least five of the unit’s commanders are known to have been awarded the Ritterkreuz (Knight’s Cross) for their participation in what would later be classified as war crimes.

  He returned to the ‘Search the Collections’ page and typed in Totenkopf. There was only one entry and it reiterated what he already knew, that American forces had failed to seize the SS-unit files. ‘Surviving records of the Death’s Head Battalions (Totenkopfverbände) are housed in the Bundesarchiv in Germany.’

  He stood up from his desk and went into the bathroom, tipping the residue of his coffee into the sink. Then he went back to his iPad and clicked onto the Bundesarchiv site. None of the documents were available on-line, but there was a lot more information about the 2nd SS-Division Totenkopf.

  It had been formed in the autumn of 1939 with half a dozen recruits, hand-picked from the famed Thüringen regiments. These men led sabotage missions in the Low Countries. They also orchestrated the Blagny-sur-Ternoise Massacre, in which ninety-seven British soldiers of the 7th Battalion West Yorkshire Regiment, were machine-gunned to death.

  In the spring of 1941, the Totenkopf played a key role in Operation Barbarossa. It was tasked with breaching the Stalin Line and establishing advance communications systems deep inside Russia. In this it was entirely successful. It then turned south, to the Demjansk Pocket, where it was encircled for several months before breaking through Russian lines in an operation that involved ferocious fighting.

  In November 1943, the Totenkopf, reduced to just six men, was recalled to command headquarters in Hohenstein Castle in Bavaria. Henceforth and until the end of the war, it was engaged in highly secretive overseas operations.

  Totenkopf. He looked up the word on Google. The death’s head had been used as a military insignia ever since the reign of Frederick the Great, whose fifth hussars wore a black uniform adorned with the symbol. It was adopted by the Third Reich and used by a number of the SS-Death’s Head Battalions. But Hitler personally intervened to ensure that it became the exclusive preserve of the 2nd Division Totenkopf.

  ‘Those who served in this elite division were granted the unique honour of sporting a death’s head tattoo on the left side of their chest. This came to public attention during the 1961 trial of Adolf Eichmann, although it was already known to the Mossad agents involved in the operation to snatch him from Argentina.’

  Eichmann himself revealed that fewer than two dozen men were ever granted the privilege of wearing this badge of honour.

  Fewer than two dozen men. If Jack was correct about the tattoo, then the ice man was one of those twenty-four. If he excluded Adolf Eichmann, that left twenty-three. But he felt sure he could narrow it still further. The Totenkopf unit couldn’t have landed in Greenland until the end of 1943 because they were busy fighting in Russia. That meant the ice man must have been one of the six men who was sent to Hohenstein Castle in November 1943. And if that was the case, the net was closing faster than Jack had dared imagine.

  He checked the time. Still only midday. Midday in Nevada meant it was evening in Berlin. He sat back in his chair for a moment, deep in thought.

  Karin. He needed her help, there was no other way. Reluctantly, he connected to Skype and called her, catching her just as she was about to go out.

  ‘Holy fucking shit, Jack,’ she said when he’d finished telling her what had happened. ‘Holy shit. I told you not to get involved. And now – ’

  ‘Never mind that. It’s happened and now I’m coming begging for help. Any chance of you going to the archives? Tomorrow? It’s on – ’ he checked his notes – ‘Finckensteinalle.’

  There was a moment’s silence. He could hear Karin leafing though her notebook.

  ‘It’s hardly ideal, Jack. We’re shooting in the afternoon. Three-ish. But I guess there’s the morning.’

  ‘I didn’t want to ask you but – ’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m free in the morning. And well – ’ she emitted a sour laugh – ‘I’m used to digging you out of your own holes.’

  ‘Anything about the Totenkopf,’ he said. ‘Anything about Greenland. And more than anything else, any names.’

  *

  Jack returned to ZAKRON shortly after lunchtime. He found everyone in sober mood. Carla had been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks blotched and flushed.

  Tammy had already said she’d take Kingston’s death the hardest. She used to arrive at work just as his night shift came to an end and the two of them would take themselves to Mabel’s for a coffee and a muffin. Kingston was Carla’s agony uncle, listening to her problems with a sympathetic smile. ‘Why Miss Carla,’ he’d say, ‘you just trust your pretty instinct and it’ll all end like it does in those fairy stories.’

  Jack looked up just as Tammy appeared in the entrance area. She looked pale and agitated.

  ‘Any news?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. Been looking on Twitter. I’m following the local news sites. Thought there might be some mention by now. Some sort of sighting. But nothing. He’s vanished.’

  Jack glanced across to Kingston’s door and noticed it was ajar. He was surprised. Perez had ordered it locked. He walked over and pushed it open, his eyes anticipating the scene of carnage. But all trace of the murder had been wiped clean. Kingston’s chair, desk, computer, even the walls, were spotless. The only hint of what had taken place was the smell of phenox.

  Ryan sauntered into the entrance area and saw Jack peering into Kingston’s office.

  ‘Took two hours,’ he said. ‘Needed to get it done before the directors arrive.’

  One by one the team began to drift into the entrance area. Ryan, Luke, Hunter and the others. It was as if they needed to be together for a moment. Tom appeared from upstairs, his permatan skin a dullish grey, his brow etched with stress. You could see tiredness in his eyes, but also a glint of defiance. Jennifer alone retained her expression of blank indifference. You had to hand it to her, she didn’t give a shit about anything.

  Tom turned to face Gonzales, eyes like spotlights. Jack could sense that the blame-game was about to start.

  ‘How, for fuck’s sake, how?’

  He spoke slowly and in a low voice.

  ‘What went so spectacularly fucking wrong, Luke? I need explanations. And fast. We’ll have the directors here in fifteen. Sam. Jim. Jordan. Todd. What d’you expect me to tell them? That he’s taken himself off for a picnic?’

  Doctor Gonzales’s mouth twitched slightly before lifting into a curious half-smile. He was washing his hands of the whole affair.

  ‘Don’t even go there,’ he said to Tom, brushing down his spotless white lab-coat. ‘I warned you. Right from the outset. I told you that corruption of the brain was not just a possibi
lity, but a probability. You chose not to listen.’

  Ryan nodded in agreement. Doctor G had indeed warned them of the danger. In fact he’d spelled out the risks on several occasions. But he’d always been overruled by Tom and Hunter.

  ‘I warned you we were entering uncharted waters. Those were my very words. I warned you we were testing a compound that was still in trial stage, But you – ’

  Tom cut him in mid-sentence.

  ‘You said his brain might not function. You said he might be brain dead. But you never said he might be deranged.’

  There was a long pause. Everyone was staring at Tom, expecting his rant to continue. But it was Jack who cut through the silence.

  ‘That’s precisely the problem,’ he said. ‘He’s not deranged. A deranged person does not coolly, carefully take a capsule of sodium thiopental and inject it into their victim before surgically slashing their throat open. If he was deranged, we’d have caught him by now. We’d have found him staggering along the highway. Or lost in town. If he was deranged he’d be a push-over.’

  ‘So?’ Ryan wanted more.

  ‘Your problem is this. He’s done what any professional killer would do. He’s gone into hiding.’

  *

  The ZAKRON directors arrived in two cars, Sam Taylor and Jordan Carreras in the first, Todd Roland and Jim Bartholomew in the second. Carla greeted them at the main entrance and then led them upstairs to the conference room. She kept the conversation to small talk.

  ‘Hey-hey-hey- !’ Tom overdid the welcome as they entered the room. He shook their hands in turn, slapped their backs. ‘Long time.’

  The four of them worked their way around the table, all handshakes and grins. Jack introduced himself. In the general enthusiasm, none of them thought to ask who he was and what he was doing there.

  ‘Sit down, sit down everyone,’ said Tom. Jack could see he was thinking on his feet.

  ‘So -’ Jordan leered at the room. ‘How’s the patient?’

  Jim Bartholomew slapped the palms of his hands noisily on the table. His outsized forehead was beaded with sweat and his draping jowls looked greasy. ‘We’d been hoping you’d text us. But then again, as I was saying to Todd in the car back there, no news is better than bad news. Isn’t that what Nixon used to say?’