Pointed Inwards

By Bill Johnstone

The discovery of the body of a German war hero in a desolate wooden section of Rock Creek Park in Washington DC and the ghoulish portrait of a face on the internet are the catalysts which trigger this thrilling tale. Journalist Mike McCabe is drawn into the investigation which uncovers incidents of the Second World War, long kept secret by the US authorities, and their modern security agencies, determined to suppress any embarrassing disclosures. It highlights the fears and moods surrounding the global conflict of seventy years ago and some of the same insecurities that have resurfaced today. The fifth book in the Mike McCabe series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Johnstone
• Release date: Aug 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310775734

Bill Johnstone

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years and has taught the subject in the USA and the UK.He was born in Glasgow, Scotland and lived in London and Washington where his novels are set.He is an avid animal lover and a trusteee of a cat sanctuary in Somerset, England.He travels frequently between the UK and the USA.

Book preview

About the Author

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years; among the many outlets for which he has worked are The Times, the BBC and UPI. He has taught journalism in the UK and the USA.

He was born in Glasgow, Scotland but lived for many years in London and Washington where this novel is set.

Many thanks to family, colleagues and friends for their support which made this book possible; special thanks to Rosamund for her encouragement, patience and diligent proof-reading.

Thanks to Ian for his error-spotting talent.

All characters and incidents in this book are fictional.

Comments: [e-mail]

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POINTED INWARDS

CHAPTER 1

Mike McCabe, journalist, took a mouthful of coffee from the first batch of the day. The houseboat swayed a little in the wake of a tourist boat that had just passed on its way up the channel with a new cargo of tourists on board. The coffee tasted good; a much-needed boost to his system that hadn’t quite grasped the significance of the picture displayed on his laptop.

He took another mouthful, rubbed his eyes in an attempt to focus better. He looked across the estuary as if searching for a fix to calibrate his blurred vision. He could see the cars on the opposite bank, the headlights groping their way through the early morning mist accompanied by a handful of joggers dipping in and out of the fog. His vision seemed clearer.

He hadn’t noticed the resemblance in the picture before. It was a face that had appeared in his junk mail and he hadn’t given it a second glance. But it triggered something in his memory, immediately disturbing shadows lurking in the back of his mind. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But there was something he recognised, something very familiar.

He looked at the image on the screen again. He’d been staring at it for over half an hour now. It was gaunt, an elderly man, much older than he’d remembered him but nevertheless there was something more than familiar about it; a face weathered, with a story in every ravaged line. It was the dividend from the harsher side of life, evidence of an inner soul that had never found the peace it sought; the inevitable agony of the unfulfilled dreams that would eventually tear even the most robust of frames apart.

Now every internet connector, plugged into modern communications, could see this image; study the face which few would recognize. For most it would have little significance. For others it would represent a generation past, a time of hardship, austerity and fear; an image of the uncertainty of war.

McCabe now knew the face and its story; he’d written it. He knew its tragedy and those who had been affected by it; the victims innocent and the guilty, both thrown together in a minute segment of history. They would remember Hans Bruckner and the part he’d played in their lives.

McCabe typed in a few key words into his computer. The screen filled with text. The extracts were old, drawn from every newspaper and news website across the globe, including several written by McCabe for his newspaper the London Daily News; the last written at least ten years earlier. This archive creaked with old memories and values. Heroes and heroines were seen in their struggle to survive in a war-torn world, some seventy years before.

But McCabe had his own recollections of the face, the features as strong and as prominent as they had been when it was in its prime. The sharp nose and square face were those of a determined and ambitious man but one of immense inner strength and remarkable courage. The stories he read from the computer file reflected that but they were clichéd; the descriptions of the personality and his life equally so.

McCabe read his own article. It was weak too and didn’t quite grasp the character in its enormity. He’d always written more words than had ever appeared in print. Perhaps in that discarded prose he’d captured some of the man?

He walked to the far end of the lounge, pulled open a few drawers until he located what he was looking for; his own archive. Most of the content from this dusty box hailed from pre-internet days, when notes and cuttings lived pasted on real pieces of paper, physical memories and reminders, not digital images in space. He pulled out his notes and the photos of a 23 year old man, then the toast of the German navy and a hero of the Third Reich. .

Bruckner’s naval career as a U-boat commander had been as spectacular as it had been short. His exploits of raids on the US east coast, off the North Carolina beaches, had become legendary in Germany where his fame and prominence grew in his absence. Every one of his adventures had been magnified, exaggerated and exploited by the Nazi propaganda machine, much to his embarrassment. Uncomfortable too were the Americans who, at the time, were unable to cope with his submarine menace which was sinking fleets of cargo ships almost unchallenged as they sailed the east coast. In those early months of 1942, with the US ill-prepared for such an aggressive and accomplished sea-raider, this submarine commander attacked shipping at will and almost with impunity. Thousands of tons of shipping carrying precious cargos were destined for the bottom of the ocean..

But the picture on McCabe’s computer was not that from an obituary listing Bruckner’s lifetime achievements. This was no extract from a narrative full of praise, peppered with tales of the commander’s wartime adventures. It was an anonymous death-mask, an attempt by the DC police to identify a corpse, the body of a very elderly man, found in the middle of Rock Creek Park, a wild and rugged stretch of wooded greenery located in the heart of Washington.

He picked up the telephone and dialled.

McCabe’s car carefully decelerated as it came to a clearing in the park, used frequently in the summer months for barbecues. Behind it, three police cars with their flashing lights injected an air of drama into this otherwise tranquil setting. He pulled his car into a space, behind the last patrol-car. He stopped for a moment and sat trying to imagine the body of Hans Bruckner in this setting; a playground for golfers, runners and nature-lovers. Given the dangers the German had experienced before, it was a curious place for him to die.

There was a story here; and that was McCabe’s business. He needed to know how this man could end up dead in this lonely spot in such an ignominious fashion. The report on the police website had Bruckner’s picture but had given no details, other than he’d been found dead. Releasing the photo so early was very unusual.

There had been no statement from the police regarding the circumstances but it hadn’t taken McCabe long to find out. One phone call, a little charm, a modicum of persuasion, an added layer of coaxing and he’d found out the details, at least the basics. A dog walker had found the body early that morning. It hadn’t been visible from the road. The sighting was reported to the police immediately. His source could tell him no more.

McCabe took another look at the police scene then shouldered the car door open.

An area, to the left of the clearing, had already been sectioned off by the police, surrounded by Yellow ‘Crime Scene’ tape. Inside, a forensic group was taking soil samples, measuring distances and making calculations. McCabe moved towards the tape but was immediately challenged by a uniform. The cop politely raised his hand. ‘Can I help you sir?’ he asked as he smiled benignly.

McCabe gestured towards the figure, in the centre of the taped area, firing instructions in every direction. It was Pat Kovarik, homicide DC police Lieutenant sounding annoyed and impatient. The detective was a tenacious, if not obsessive professional, who despite their shared experiences had a stubborn distrust of the press. Washington was his patch and solving murder in the nation’s capital his business. He loved his job and his pet hates were obvious: bureaucrats, politicians and journalists. He turned and caught sight of McCabe.

They had run across each other on several occasions. McCabe liked him and despite his animosity towards the press, he thought the cop one of the good guys.

But Washington was McCabe’s patch too, Editor at Large in the USA for the London Daily Herald. Invariably they’d crossed paths, if not swords, fairly frequently.

The detective smiled. Unfortunately he could produce them at will. It didn’t always mean he was pleased to see you. ‘Mike McCabe! Well what a surprise. I suspected that once that photo was out, it would trigger a whole host of enquirers. And here YOU are’ he said with some emphasis. ‘Let me remind you, this is a crime scene’ he added quickly pointing to the tape.

‘Crime scene?’ asked McCabe.

Kovarik stepped over the tape and threw a piece of chewing gum into his mouth. He ran it round several times and then threw in another.

‘Still off the cigarettes, Lieutenant?’ McCabe made sure there was no sarcasm in the question. He knew the detective had been struggling for sometime against the craving which he still loved and missed. However, the question still sounded like a tease.

Kovarik didn’t say anything. He nodded slightly, as if in resignation.

‘Don’t look so surprised at seeing me, McCabe. I’m not on traffic duty. I might ask you; why are you here; after a story, no doubt’.

‘I’m always after a story’.

‘Why this one? An old man murdered in the park; hardly your bag McCabe. Not quite an expose of the rich and famous. I thought that was your brief?’

Now McCabe was the victim of the barb. He ignored the comment. ‘Murdered in the park?’ he repeated.

Kovarik didn’t respond. He seemed annoyed with himself. A long sigh was followed by another. ‘We haven’t got that confirmed. But it looks likely’.

McCabe looked back into the taped area towards the markings on the ground. ‘Why did you release the picture so soon?’ If he was right he suspected they didn’t know the victim. It was obvious too that they couldn’t identify him. He probably had no identification on him, nor had the police any leads. The photo, a grotesque snapshot of the face, had been the best they could muster. They had attempted to make the face as lifelike as possible.

In fact it had now become common practice for relatives of victims to ask for such shots, a service which McCabe considered bordering on the macabre. On the positive side, it gave the pathologist team some experience in taking these photos, even if they were gruesome mementoes.

‘We don’t have any ID’ said Kovarik ‘We have a car at the scene but the ownership seems to be in question. Our people have developed a technique which produces a credible visual from a corpse. I got talked into it. They released it much too soon; way too early’. He sounded annoyed.

‘A screw-up, Lieutenant?’

‘McCabe, what do you want?’ snapped Kovarik.

‘I didn’t know you were such a champion of new technology, Lieutenant?’ replied McCabe with a grin.

The detective was getting impatient. ‘There are two questions here’.

‘Which are?’

‘You know McCabe, you can be an irritating son-of-a-bitch’. The detective threw yet another piece of chewing gum into his mouth. ‘It’s times like this when I feel I really need a cigarette’.

McCabe smiled, trying to appear supportive.

‘What the hell are you doing here and why?’ insisted the detective.

‘I know him’ said McCabe bluntly.

Kovarik stopped chewing. ‘What?’

McCabe rarely would consider the prospect of trading information with the police. They represented authority and he was supposed to be in the opposite camp; among the muckrakers who stirred the establishment into action, who questioned the status quo, who looked under the stones, who challenged the party-line. That was the theory. But Kovarik was an exception. McCabe felt the detective considered him to be one too.

‘I’ll trade’ said McCabe quickly. ‘I assume you published the photo because you know nothing about this man?’

Kovarik didn’t take long in deciding. ‘He was shot dead. One shot through the head. No ballistics yet. He was brought here and killed, of that we’re sure. We don’t know who he is and have no idea why. Not one piece of ID on him; no driving licence, no credit cards, nothing’. He finished talking, spat out his chewing gum and put a fresh piece in his mouth. ‘OK, McCabe; trade!’.

‘His name is Hans Bruckner, in his mid-nineties. He came here during World War 2 when he was a POW. If you have a file on him, you should also see a couple of articles written about him by me. I did a profile and a few stories about him ten years ago; a fascinating man. He was once a decorated hero and a celebrated Third Reich U-boat commander. I can’t tell you too much more’.

CHAPTER 2

Alfonso Baldoni, businessman, got out of a black car which had even darker windows. He straightened his gold-rimmed spectacles, looked at the pathway dividing one section of the cemetery from the other and chose the left turning. The gravel made the going hard. He inspected the graves as he went, checking the names and the dates on the headstones. He stopped at one, nodded and then moved on. Five minutes later he stopped at a white granite stone and took off his hat. He moved forward and ran his hand over the gravestone letting his fingers feel the inscription. With the touch, dozens of memories flooded into his mind. He smiled a little. He could hear the sounds and the music. He could see the colours that went with the images. He could feel the tears. They filled his eyes. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief and wiped his eyes and cheeks. He smiled again. The images were as vivid as they had been at the time, decades before. But they felt like yesterday. Without warning a long sigh eased out of him.

He stared at the stone for a while then knelt down and pushed the weeds to one side. Now he could read it clearly. It took him back to a time when things were so much different. With current prosperity it was easy to forget how hard it had been. They’d all struggled, pulled together to make ends meet. It wasn’t easy but they’d done it.

The man buried underneath his feet had challenged it all, had shouldered the burden for the family, had witnessed the struggle of others but had been at the fore of it himself. He had emerged victorious through the war years. He was a man of that generation, the likes of which would never be again. He had been dead nearly twenty years now; his grandfather.

America had been the land of his dreams and he like thousands of others had flocked to her shores, clinging onto their family values and bringing their traditions with them. The First World War had barely finished and there was nothing but struggle facing Europe. So, in his late teens, he’d left Italy behind and taken a ship to the USA equipped with nothing but his faith and a determination to make it work.

Like many before him he’d experience a nightmare before his life was ever to improve. A ship journey he was lucky to survive, a terrifying wait as he was inspected, interviewed and finally processed, were the frightening milestones en route not to prosperity but to a different type of poverty; this time in urban New York City. There were thousands who shared a similar fate and struggled each day to survive. For some it created a bond between them, as they sought to fight the same adversaries of depravation and despair. His grandfather had no romantic notion or illusion about how hard it would be. He was prepared for it and tackled it head-one.

Baldoni read the headstone again. The name, the dates of birth and death and the one inscription: LOVED. The tears welled up in his eyes again. No question; he was loved by everyone. Twenty years of sacrifice and work had laid the foundations of the family, their values and everything his grandfather sought to achieve. Then it was taken away, virtually overnight by the outbreak of another war in Europe. Those who had US citizenship had some safeguard. Thousands of those who had not, found themselves adrift in a sea of fear and hostility; internment or relocation invariably was their lot.

Baldoni ran his fingers across his grandfather’s tombstone again, trying to get a measure of the pain. A whole generation of hard-working Americans with similar backgrounds, who’d devoted themselves to family and their dreams, were locked up like common criminals, interned by the demands of a political establishment, which considered all Italians a threat to national security. The vagaries of Mussolini, more than three thousand miles away, were to determine the fate of hundreds of these Italian-Americans who’d left their homeland many years before. Fishermen, carpenters, farmers and almost every trade and profession found themselves subject to the indignity of internship as an America at war stampeded in panic, fearful it would be betrayed from within.

Overnight, Baldoni senior like thousands of others, was classified as an alien and arrested, prevented from returning to his home. Ironically, the Department of Justice oversaw this chaos, making decisions in local hearings with questionable impartiality. America was running scared and didn’t really know what to do. His grandfather was caught in the cross-fire. Some were given parole and directed to relocate to areas, designated safe; principally away from coastlines and industrial centres. With that decision went their homes, livelihoods, communities; all in the wake of an unsure America. Others were housed in specially built internment camps. His grandfather was one of the unlucky ones.

Baldoni laid a new bunch of flowers by the grave and nodded to the young man at his side who stepped forward to place his bouquet on the ground. They both stepped back and stared at the gravestone. ‘None of us would be here if it hadn’t been for him, remember that’ said Baldoni. He took another step back. ‘But we have a score to settle. Let’s not forget that either’.

They both walked slowly towards the waiting black Lincoln Continental.

The young man jumped into the front passenger seat and nodded to the driver.

Baldoni slid slowly into the back seat beside a man in a grey-striped suit and dark glasses. They shook hands. Baldoni looked back out of the window towards the grave he’d just left. He began to talk without looking at the passenger. ‘They named it after the place where Christ died’ he said, still staring out of the window.

The passenger looked puzzled. He stared at his host.

Baldoni continued. ‘The cemetery; it’s called Calvary. There are three million people buried here, mostly the poor and deprived who came to New York in search of their dreams. Their Catholic Church bought this land in about 1850. At least they had somewhere decent to rest in peace’. He sounded bitter.

The passenger said nothing. This was a lecture. He didn’t think it warranted a response or that it was expected. So he gave none. He’d been invited to this meeting through a mutual contact. He still wasn’t clear why he was there. The Italian wasn’t a man one should push. He’d have to wait. He did.

‘They had to expand the cemetery four times. For too many their dreams were buried here