Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Siegfried Janzen, a CO in Whitehorse, is approached by a stranger, seeking his help. Itzhak Stern (assayer) comes into possession of a rare and valuable coin. Peters and Schubert decide to name the elusive suspect, Wraith.

Kitty Murdoch considered herself the Jewel of Whitehorse. And what else could she be, owner of the finest hotel, the largest selection of whisky, and madam to numerous women, all highly priced for those who could pay. She was very pleased with herself, for in just a few years, she made a considerable fortune, probably more than any of the miners who still hoped to hit a vein of gold. And even though little gold was found, they still came to her place and spent whatever they had on whisky and women. In this regard, a man’s appetite was more predictable than the weather in winter and in Whitehorse, that was something. Whisky barrels rolled in full on Sundays and were empty by the following Saturday. There was a never-ending supply of regulars, American engineers, men building the highway, miners, prospectors and the holier-than-thou’s from the CO camp. The COs were easy to spot: they wore their guilt like a crown. While whisky and women were the stock-in-trade with most of her clientele, the COs never seemed to have tasted either. And the one approaching her now, seemed very unsure of himself.

“Two whiskies,” said Siegfried Janzen.

“You from the CO camp?” Kitty asked, reaching for the glasses.

He didn’t reply which she knew was answer enough. 

“Haven’t seen you here before. You just get in?”

He nodded. “Jah. I was in Campbell River for two years. Logging.”

“Welcome here. Today your drinks are on the house. If I can help you any other way, let me know.” She sensed he had more to say. “What else do you need, honey?” 

He glanced upstairs. Her stable of women stood on the second floor balcony. 

“One of my girls catch your fancy?” she said, leaning forward.

“I need a place to stay for a few days. Do you have a room?”

She laughed big and loud, slapping the bar. 

“If you’ve got money, I’ve got a room. Let me know if you need someone to keep you warm. It gets damn cold up there.” She stroked his cheek, then blew him a kiss. 

Janzen passed her a dollar and his identification.

“Sign your name there, honey,” she said, copying his ID. 

Another CO wracked with guilt and sexually starved, she thought, watching him thread his way to a table.

“I have a room for you, in my name.” Janzen said. “Here is the key.”

Penner nodded and sipped the whiskey. 

“You were able to purchase what I require?”

Janzen nodded. “I took the coins to the assayer. There were no questions from him or any of the other merchants.”

“Well done, little kuhlak.”

Janzen passed him a small packet. Penner counted the money, then slid it into his coat pocket.

“I had expected more.”

“I couldn’t take your gold to a bank. They ask too many questions. I did as you asked. I went to an assayer.”

“Blödes Arschloch!” You stupid asshole. “These were minted before 1914. There is no connection to my present government. You are not skilled enough for one small lie?”

“You’re lucky you got you what did,” Janzen said, feeling braver because of the alcohol.

“You wouldn’t consider cheating me. That would be a very poor choice.” 

Penner unsheathed his knife and pressed it into Janzen’s side. 

“Are you going to piss yourself again?” 

“You were not cheated,” Janzen hissed.

“And this assayer. His name?” 

“Itzhak Stern. Stern and Goldman Assaying.” 

“You used fucking Jews?” 

He pushed the knife further, piercing the fabric of Janzen’s shirt.

“Please…the other assayer was closed. I did as you asked. No one cares where gold comes from! It is a disease that blinds everyone.”

“Yes, like you were on your estate, kuhlak,” Penner said. “Drink up, friend.”

Janzen willed his hand to pick up the glass. He nodded towards Kitty. “She has women.”

Penner caught the scent of urine and laughed. He slapped Janzen on the back. 

“Before this war is done, you just might be able to hold your drink…and your piss.”

* * *

Itzhak Stern flipped the coin between his fingers—a Prussian Twenty Mark piece, solid gold. He’d read about them but never expected to have one land in his possession, especially in Whitehorse. This was a rare piece: most had been melted into bars. How these managed to find their way to Whitehorse was as great a riddle as the man who possessed them. He doubted that the man exchanging them was the owner. He was a CO and those people had immigrated to Canada with little more than a suitcase of clothing. With a shrewd mien inherited over a millennia, he offered a fraction of their worth, expecting eventually to arrive at a price but the seller seemed all too happy just to be rid of them. He wasn’t sure of their precise value but it was far more than what he paid. 

As was his habit when something of unusual value came along, Itzhak placed one of the coins in a secret pocket in his coat, a kind of good-luck talisman. The others, he slipped into a leather pouch and locked in his safe. They would be secure enough until he left this barren wasteland. The coins would go a long way to funding his future business outside the Territory. Then, he would join Jacob, his cousin, in New York. Tomorrow, he would telex Jacob to determine their actual value.

The door bell sounded in the front room. 

“Give me a minute,” Itzhak called. He spun the combination lock to ensure the safe was secure.

A single customer waited for him. 

“You must be Stern.”

Itzhak’s earlier enthusiasm vanished. The man before him might’ve been a stranger but he sensed what kind of man he was. Itzhak had witnessed Hitler’s “Beer Hall Putsch” in Munich. Men like the man in from t of him had paraded down the streets, their brown shirts and swastikas blazing, their faces revealing hatred. 

“Yes, I am…and you are?”

The man slid a gold coin over the counter. 

“My name is of no importance. This…” he said, pointing to the coin, “…is. An associate brought some to exchange for cash. Tell me, Jew, what is this worth?”

Jew. Itzhak felt his body begin a long, slow collapse. 

“As I said to your associate, thirty dollars.” 

The man tapped the coin on the counter. “That would be less than half the value. Even in such a remote corner of civilization as this, I’m sure you know the value of gold.” He paused. “Are you not curious how these coins found their way to Whitehorse?”

“No,” he said.

“No? So simple an answer, Jew?” He leaned in. “I will return with more tomorrow. I expect the full price.”

The man turned around and reached for the door. The little bell sounded as he left. He quickly disappeared from view but his lingering presence overpowered Itzhak. He felt hot and cold all at once and then he doubled over, vomiting into the trash bin.

At the police station, the same day, a much different scenario. Schubert spent most of the morning in conversation with Peters, debating which course of action they should pursue. They were no closer to determining the killer’s identity or if he was in Whitehorse, on the way to Anchorage or Skagway. Other possible destinations were covered. Schubert stationed one officer at the airport, doubting whether or not that would provide any solid leads. But it was the lack of news from Blue River that concerned him the most. 

“For clarification, we need to give our suspect a name. Any suggestions, Peters?”

“I say we call him ‘Wraith,’ as he seems to have vanished.”

“Good choice, but I don’t believe he’s vanished. He’s holed up somewhere, staying warm, planning his next move. Will there be more killing and if so, why? The murders don’t fit any pattern I’m familiar with. Why kill an old prospector, who’d probably never done violence to anyone, and a shady trapper known to have stolen furs. None of it adds up.”

“True, but the murder of Constable Dickinson changes everything. That was premeditated, cold and calculated. Bastard,” Peters cursed. 

“You’ve no argument from me, Bart. But you’re right—Wraith tipped his hand when he killed Dickinson. Killing an old trapper looks like an argument gone wrong, a flare of lethal emotion. While we’ve no proof, the way Lundin was killed fits his modus operandi. So far it’s circumstantial.”

“Yeah, it is, but it’s also the way he kills…”

“Go on, Peters. What are you thinking?”

“They’re like executions, in a way. Stabbing a man to death is one thing but the surgical precision, as you’ve described in your report, that points to premeditation. And if not premeditation, then practice: he knows exactly where to place the knife; that’s no accident. That comes from experience you get in only one place.”

“The army?” Schubert added.

Peters nodded. “He’s no ordinary street thug. You can bet he’s had a lot of practice using that knife.”

“Yes, and that experience points to something else, something we aren’t seeing. Wraith couldn’t afford to be taken prisoner. Why? His actions are pointing to something else altogether.”

Peters nodded. “Maybe Wraith is in possession of something he can’t reveal.”

“A secret of some sort. But at what cost? Three bodies?”

“That’s a helluva secret, sir. Perhaps Wraith kills for the enjoyment of it—a real sadist.”

“Perhaps a veteran gone crazy? I hope to God you’re wrong. I’ve no experience with that kind of killer.”

Peters hesitated. Schubert could sense his friend was dredging something up from his time in combat. 

“I fought in the trenches with men who were frankly, crazy. If they weren’t crazy before the war, the fighting tipped them over. Some of them would’ve cut your throat for a nickel. Some of them…well, put it this way: I’m glad I’ll never meet them again.”

“I met a barman in Blue River, also a vet like yourself, and his experience was different. Go on.”

“There’s no question Wraith could be mad, a lunatic, what have you. But the killing reveals a pattern. It’s not entirely random. To me that indicates intelligence beyond the sadistic enjoyment of seeing another person die by your hand. It’s measured; controlled.”

“Yes. And for a killer to be ‘in control,’ like you say, that means murder is the means to an end.”

“To maintain anonymity. We’re back to the same question: why does Wraith need anonymity?”

“He’ll make a mistake, sooner or later. And when he does, you’ll have the answer to your question.”

“I’m not sure, sir. If he’s trained and ex-army, he also knows how to vanish.”

Schubert fetched his pipe from his coat. 

“That’s something we can’t control. If he’s heading our way, he can’t be walking to Whitehorse. Has he stolen a vehicle? Have we had any word from aid stations up and down the highway?”

“Nothing, sir. No missing vehicles. Maybe we missed this one and he’s gone further north.”

“To what? Tundra? At this time of year, winter becomes even more brutal the further north you go. If Wraith is in possession of information, at some point he’s going to meet someone. And who will that someone be and why? In this wilderness this time of year, he’ll show up. He’ll need provisions, warmth. Let’s begin canvassing trappers and miners in town. Ask them to keep an eye out for someone who doesn’t fit in. Start with the old-timers in town. They’ll know a fake…”

“We call them ‘greenhorns,’” Peters interrupted. “OK, I’m on it.” 

By Saturday, Schubert realized his fixation on the Blue River murders was getting him nowhere. He hoped the work would distract him from thinking about Louise. It didn’t work. And, sitting in his office on his day off wasn’t providing any results. He needed to give the investigation a rest. Besides, it was out of his jurisdiction. He was wasting time thinking about it, regardless of how the murders vied for his attention. His discussion with Peters about Wraith, his motives, and his location had provided no new answers—or questions. He decided a walk home would do him good. The temperature had risen to a mild 1º Fahrenheit, a rarity this time of year. He had one stop on the way, perhaps solving the riddle of Geneviève’s broken window. 

The sun had begun its descent by the time Schubert reached his destination, the German Baptist church. The church, a log building, looked more like a hunting lodge, not an inappropriate metaphor, Schubert mused, since the church seemed always to be hunting for souls. 

Schubert was met at the manse door by Pastor Harms. 

“Hello Karl. Come in,” he motioned. “Are you here about Sunday’s service?”

“Thanks,” he said, stepping into the hallway. “The music is ready and I hope the choir’s enthusiasm, however dubious their pitch, will not eclipse your sermon.”

Harms laughed good-naturedly. “Ah, there’s never a worry, friend. Most of the time I am bored by my own sermons, and I’m tone-deaf.”

“You’re a blessed man, I would say. I’m actually here on ‘official business’. A shop in town was vandalized. Nothing serious, mind you.”

“Theft?” Harms interjected. “I’m not sure how can I help”

“Yes, theft,” Schubert continued, trying to withhold a smile. “Pastry.”

Harms shook his head, suppressing laughter.

“Those damn boys of mine.”

“Look Pete, I don’t know if it was your boys but this seemed more like a practical joke. No money was taken. Hell, whoever it was missed the still in the back room. Geneviève’s moonshine packs a wallop, by the way. Nothing aside from food was stolen. Just a broken window, which I managed to fix.” Schubert added, “Go easy on them Pete. Let me talk to them as a family friend. I’m sure that’ll be enough to scare them onto the straight-and-narrow.”

“Alright. By the way, you’ve not forgotten about Sunday lunch? Greta is expecting you.”

“Perfect. I always enjoy lunch with your family.”

After a moment, Harms asked: “How are you doing?” 

“You’re referring to Louise’s departure?”

Harms nodded. “I have to ask. I’m your pastor. More importantly, I’m your friend.”

“I’m not sure it has hit me, yet. I tried calling her but her father forbids her to talk to me.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’s an adult. Sounds like her father is fixated on controlling her and thereby denying you.”

“You’ll have no argument from me, Pete. The man equates his wealth with his right to dominate. It seems so bloody juvenile—all I want is to hear Louise say that what we had is over.”

“You may not get that opportunity.”

“I know. Her mother called, secretly mind you, and intimated the same. But I can’t just hop on a flight to Toronto. Besides, I don’t doubt that Thomson’s army of lawyers will already have drafted the divorce papers, ensuring that I receive nothing as the prenuptial stated.”

“I’m sorry, Karl.” Harms saw no patrol car in the parking lot. “I see you’re walking. Need a lift home?”

“Thanks, but I’ll walk.” He tapped his head. “Clear the thoughts from the day.”

“Right. Until Sunday then.” Harms said, closing the door. 

The moon had begun to rise over the eastern hills. Schubert walked through the crisp evening air, his thoughts of Louise drifting toward Geneviève and try as he might to push them aside, they crowded in. He would have to answer for them, sooner or later.

He checked the post box before unlocking his front door. Empty. No word from Louise, he thought. She’s pushed me aside like an unwanted pet. He became angry and then he asked himself ‘why?’ How will being angry help me, he thought? I’m not going to let her ruin my evening.

After the fire was burning and the house, warming, he poured himself a whisky and set about preparing dinner. It was meager fare—tinned mackerel, brown bread, and pickles. It took five minutes to prepare and even less time to eat. The Globe and Mail was spread out on the table, and he began re-reading the front page headlines. Edward Murro’s piece on the RAF’s nighttime raid on Berlin, aptly titled “Orchestrated Hell” was both fascinating and terrifying. It was "Wraith" on a genocidal scale—death meted out without thought to an entire city population. Disgusted, he crumpled the paper and threw it into the kindling box.

As was often his habit, he chose a volume of poetry to read. He reached for the collected works of Joseph von Eichendorff and flipped to a cycle called ‘Intermezzo.’ One  of the pieces, Mondnacht, (Moonlight), was one of his favorites.

It was as if the heavens

Had gently kissed the earth,

So that in shimmering blossoms

She must only dream of him.

The breeze wafted through the fields,

The ears of corn waved gently,

The woods rustled softy,

So star-clear was the night.

And my soul stretched/wide its wings,

Flew through the hushed lands,

as if it were flying home

He longed for Louise’s return, to surrender to each other. Buried deep within this yearning he longed for a return to love—to home, to each other. But her soul had spread it wings, far away from him. 

He turned off the table lamp and sat in the dark and mourned her loss. He began to cry and grieved for their brokenness. After his tears were spent, he went to bed. His dreams were filled with moonlight and he searched for Louise in the azure glow of its light but all he found were faces of the dead, bathed in the moon’s luminescence.