November, 2009
Something in the man's face says right away that he is uncomfortable with tight spaces. And frankly, after reading his case file, and considering the positively unfriendly air the interrogating room offers, the detectives understand.
For a war survivor, the man certainly doesn't look the part. He isn't short or gangly or shrunken into himself in any way. He arrived to the stationhouse in a black suit jacket, which he has since removed and draped over the back of his chair to reveal the crisp white button-down underneath. He is tall, a good six feet perhaps, and appears sturdy. That, paired with a neat head of combed jet black hair, an expensive gold wristwatch flashing at his wrist, and a sharp, ironed appearance all the way down to the polished toes of his Ferragamo loafers, indicate not a victim, but the textbook American businessman.
"Hello again, Mr. Marsh," says Detective St. Claire, nodding. Mr. Marsh says nothing back, only watches in a tired way as the detective takes his seat. His partner, a real hard-ass by the name of Thompson, remains in the corner of the room nearest to the door, more comfortable with pacing around Marsh's chair than making himself at home at the table. The way Marsh is sitting, he seems to want to convey an air of ease, but the desperate edge of his eyes betrays him.
"How are you this morning?" St. Claire feels ridiculous for having to ask, but it is standard procedure.
Marsh runs a hand through his orderly hair, splitting it into soft wavelets between his long, lean fingers. "Wonderful," he says, in a way that suggests he's anything but. He glances over at Detective Thompson, and his brows harden into a glare. "I love being dragged out of my office in the middle of the day by the Feds."
Thompson chuckles, and says, "Behave, Marsh," like they're old friends. Mr. Marsh folds his hands on the cold, scratched surface of the table, staring deeply into his knitted fingers.
"Ah, yes. And I'm sorry for that, Mr. Marsh, I really am." St. Claire sighs. He opens up the manila folder he was supplied with, speaking as he rearranges the countless pages inside across the space between himself and their witness' hands. "But we're a bit urgent to get full witness statements, you see. The detective manning the investigation passed away recently, and his death brought his work into light yet again."
"Investigation of what?" Marsh deadpans, terribly uninterested. His eyes are half-lidded, and he appears ready to fall asleep.
St. Claire, having finished rearranging the documents before him, says to Marsh, "Does the name Erik Ernst-Schröder mean anything to you, Mr. Marsh?"
The man's sudden exhaustion drains instantly, and his eyebrows rise over wide eyes. For a moment, he seems almost frightened. The detectives both smile – Got him – until Marsh's expression relaxes again, falling completely, in fact, as he answers in a mumble, "Never heard of him."
Thompson laughs from his corner of the room. Leaning in the direction of his partner and witness, he hassles in an almost friendly matter, "Come on, Marsh! The Nazi scumbag who's currently doing three life sentences for heading that major drug movement in Eastern Europe back in the 90's? Don't tell me you forgot your boss."
"Nope," says Mr. Marsh, cold again. "You must have me mistaken for someone else."
"How about your high school girlfriend, Wendy Testaburger?" St. Claire tries once more, this time pushing the death certificate toward Marsh. He hardly reacts, doesn't look down. "The girl who Schröder trafficked as his primary call girl for the same span of five years you spent under his control, before she died of an infection in 2001."
"Ernst," Marsh spits in a sudden burst of energy. He sits up. "He went by 'Ernst.' Said he didn't respect his father enough to take his namesake."
"Ah!" Thompson declares, and moves in closer. "So you do remember," he muses. St. Claire's face, though shadowed, grows a definite smirk.
"So?" Marsh shrugs, tipping his chair back. "It was twelve years ago. I've been clean ever since I got out of that. And unless you're arresting me for something, I don't need to be here."
"Oh no," says St. Claire. "We're not arresting you. We just need to clarify a few things." He slides another piece of paper across the table. Once again, Marsh makes no move to examine it or even acknowledge its presence in front of him. "Do you remember Nikolai Jovan?"
Mr. Marsh's eyes grow distant, but otherwise, he has no reaction to the name. St. Claire taps the paper. "Remember? One of Sch – excuse me, Ernst's distributors that you and three of your buddies were accused of killing back in '92?"
"And those charges were dropped," Marsh says. The venom in his words has returned. He gives them a threatening look from beneath his brow. "Is that what this is about? Because, if it is, I can assure you both, that was a long time ago."
Thompson nods absently. "Seventeen years, yes. And don't worry, Stan, we're not here about that. Live and let live, right? We all do stupid things when we're teenagers."
Stan says nothing. He looks at Thompson distrustfully, then at St. Claire with a question in his eyes. The detective says, "But we were actually hoping you could tell us a little bit more about that stupid thing you did, Mr. Marsh…if you don't mind."
"I do, actually," he says. "I mind a hell of a lot, Detective. And frankly, I'd rather not relive those five years again, thank you."
St. Claire cocks his chin out, ready to go in for the kill. "Not even for Kyle?" he asks, in the most unthreatening manner that he can. It's against protocol, but he knows it's what must be done to get this witness to cooperate.
And it works. This time, Marsh doesn't even bother hiding his surprise. The question hits him across the face, and his mouth goes slightly slack as he's dumbstruck by it. "Kyle…" he chokes out. Abruptly, he swivels his head toward the mirrored, two-way window leading from the interrogation room out into the stationhouse. His voice floods with garroted hope when he says, "I-is he here?"
"Yes," Thompson answers, gesturing to the third window of the room, one shielded by blinds. "He's in there being questioned by two other detectives of the squad." He folds his arms, pushing up against the wall he's settled against. He seems to be daring Marsh to make a dash for the window.
Instead, Stan sits still for a few moments. His eyes are locked in another realm, in another time, and his mouth hangs slightly ajar. St. Claire can see his hands shaking.
"So," he says quietly, feeling as though, if he speaks any louder, the man before him might shatter. "The summer of 1992. Let's start there."
Stan blinks, allowing his mouth to fall closed and his features to settle. But his jaw is still set and his forehead is furrowed down the center. After a while, he repeats "That was a long time ago" in a low, grave voice.
"Was it, Mr. Marsh?" St. Claire asks.
Stan bites his lip. Shakes his head. Becomes eighteen again when he whispers, "Yes. But it might as well have been yesterday."
What great fortunes for the government that people do not think.
- Adolf Hitler