“I'm sure. This man killed my baby. He sawed the top of my child's ... “ It was as if the connection had been broken. Nothing. Then there was a racking noise like a cough and her voice returned to its former monotone. “Do you think I would not know the Boy Butcher to see him in front of me?"
“Yes. All right. Please, take it easy now. I will help you and we shall proceed. I'm going to give you the number of an organization that deals with these matters. I will phone them first, myself, and have them contact you. Do nothing further until you've been called. Understand?"
“It is his turn to squirm now."
“Did you understand what I said? You must not make any further contacts as it could jeopardize the situation, perhaps even put yourself in danger or allow the man you've sighted to be warned."
“I understand. I will do nothing more.” There was another line but it was garbled, and he stopped the tape, rewound it for a second, and played it back. It sounded as if she'd said, “I'm sending you something—” but he couldn't make the words out. He heard himself testing her.
“I have a small photo of Shtolz from the war years. There is something that makes his appearance unique. Do you recall what it is?"
“If you mean the Tear of Satan, which is what we called it, the ugly, red mark on his face? No. I didn't notice it. He looks different. Much older of course, but the eyes in that face are the same. I don't remember the birthmark. Maybe it faded. Or—he's a doctor—he might have had it changed."
“Yes."
“But I swear it's Shtolz. The eyes. That mouth like a curveh.” A whore's mouth.
He rewound the tape again to the place he'd warned her to do nothing further, listening with the volume up as high as it would go.
“I understand. I will do nothing more,” the voice said. “I'm sending you something."
What? What could she be sending, this woman who recognized old Nazis, how could she send him anything? She'd neglected to ask his mailing address, and he hadn't thought to provide it.
25
1-70, east of Columbia
The drive was longer than Aaron Kamen had anticipated. How could two hundred fifty-some miles on an interstate be such a drive? It felt as if he'd done four hundred fifty miles on a back road. His eyes ached from the glare. The excursion had left him physically tired. Like an old man already, he thought, giving himself a smile.
It was bright, and the Missouri sky was a hard, perfect blue. The sun was so painful he pulled a visor down and thought how quickly it all went by with the passing years. A week now was like a heartbeat. He tried to think how long it had been since the Purdy woman had broken contact with him. He'd become very concerned.
A forty-five minute construction jam helped him decide he'd had enough and he decided to stop at the first motel he saw and spend the night on the outskirts of St. Louis, then drive on to Bayou City in the morning.
Ice was still in the fields, oddly, giving the bright, flat landscape the look of an endless skating rink broken only by occasional tree lines. The countryside and measured pace gave off a sense of reassurance, triggering old childhood recollections that came back to him as he drove.
Heading south in search of Alma Purdy—and one of the rats, one of the big boys, still living free down in the Misssouri Bootheel.
26
Bayou City
The small-town cop genially escorted him from the building, shaking his head. “We've got a bunch of Pritchetts around town. I never thought about her calling the sheriff. Come on, might as well ride with me, Mr. Kamen,” he said, as they stopped beside the first police car.
“Okay.” Aaron Kamen got in the front seat. The car was like the building inside, spotlessly clean and shiny. Kamen was tuned to the man's vibes and the aura was professional and smart. The cop spoke good ol’ boy dialect, which is to say he talked with a Missouri twang, but Jimmie Randall was no backwoods cracker. Kamen sensed intelligence and competency, and that acted to reassure him. Without needing to ask he knew this small-town police chief had checked him out thoroughly; it was unspoken in the way he was being treated. There was no hint of condescension in tone or language.
The chief had said Alma Purdy was probably off visiting kinfolk, but there'd been a file folder in a basket on his desk and Kamen had noticed he'd picked it up and brought it with him. It lay on the seat between them and he knew police never gave a civilian everything they knew, regardless of his or her credentials.
“Do you think it's possible Mrs. Purdy might have told the sheriff about the individual she thought she'd seen?"
“The Nazi from the war, you mean?"
“Right.” So there'd at least been some investigation of the matter.
“We'll sure regard it as a possibility. Let's check the residence and see what we can shake loose there first, and then maybe we'll go talk to the sheriff. You know these older folks.” He shook his head. “You have to see what kinda’ mood a person might have been in the last time somebody saw them. You get to be that age and you also have to take into consideration senility. Alzheimer's.” The words came easily to him.
“What's the normal procedure for how long a person is missing before you suspect something?"
“It varies with circumstances. Like I say, determining the mood and whatnot. Was Mrs. Purdy mad at somebody? Does she have a friend she might be staying with? Medication? Somebody that age is probably under a doctor's care, and they might be on strong medication. Was she on any kind of mind-altering substance? We can check to see who her doctor is, what the pharmacy might have sold her recently, who she might have confided in, such as a friend or neighbor.
“Had one old fellow got lost. Found him in a hotel in Memphis. You never know. She might have distant kin who came in, found her all agitated, and decided to slap her in one of the area nursing homes and just didn't tell anybody. That's happened, too."
They arrived at the Purdy house. The chief gained entry and the two men looked around. Kamen could imagine trying to go with the cops under similar circumstances with an urban force such as the KCPD. They found clothes in the closets, food in the refrigerator, stale air.
“Something must have happened to her,” Kamen said.
Jimmie Randall replied, “See if there's any correspondence around. She might have had a letter from somebody or...” He trailed off and shuffled through a few papers. “Let's go see the sheriff."
They closed up the house, which Randall locked with a key from a ring of what looked like a hundred or more keys.
The two men chatted amiably about the weather most of the way to Charleston, driving with the windshield wipers on full. It had begun to rain, a hard blowing rain that was coming down with sudden fury. Aaron Kamen was beginning to feel the depression that comes with rainy days.
He was surprised the local cops had not asked him more about his own investigative background, and he listened for hidden nuances in the policeman's conversation but found none. They pulled up next to the county jailhouse, hurried inside, and the two local law-enforcement heads greeted one another like old pals.
“We've got this lady, Alma Purdy,” Randall said, “been missing for a couple weeks."
“I spoke with her about three weeks back. I took a report on it. That was the War Crimes deal, right? She'd sighted a guy from the old concentration camp, something like that?"