Luftwaffe, recently assigned to Allied prisoner-of-war airman's camp thirteen.'
'Your duties here would include administration?'
'Yes.'
'And security?'
Visser hesitated, then he nodded.
'Of course. We are all charged with that duty, lieutenant.'
Yes, Tommy thought, but you more than the others. He did not follow this thought out loud.
Visser kept his voice even, steady, and loud enough to carry through the now-hushed crowd.
'And where did you acquire your command of English?'
Visser paused again, shrugged slightly, and replied, 'From the age of six until the age of fifteen I lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in the home of my uncle. He was a shopkeeper.
When his business failed during the Depression, the entire family returned to Germany, where I completed my studies, continuing to polish my English.'
'So you left America when?'
'In 1932. There was nothing there for my family and myself.
And great events were taking place in our own nation, of which we were eager to become part.'
Tommy nodded. He could easily imagine what those events were brownshirts, book burnings, and thuggery. For a moment, he eyed Visser carefully. He knew from Fritz Number One that Visser's father was already a Nazi party member when the teenager returned to Germany.
School and the Hitler Youth had probably been his immediate legacy.
Tommy warned himself to tread lightly until he'd managed to extract from Visser what he needed. But his next question was neither light nor careful.
'How did you lose your arm, Hauptmann Visser's face seemed immobile, frozen, as if the ice he wore in his eyes was the best way to conceal the fury that smoked beneath the surface.
'Near the coast of France in 1939,' he said stiffly 'A Spitfire?'
Visser cracked a small, cruel smile.
'The British Spitfire is a single-engine fighter powered by a
Rolls-Royce Merlin engine capable of speeds in excess of three hundred miles per hour. It is armed with eight sequentially firing fifty-caliber machine guns, four mounted in each wing. One of these formidable planes managed to surprise me while I was flying routine escort duty. A most unfortunate encounter, although I did manage to parachute to safety. My arm, however, was shredded by a bullet and removed at a nearby hospital.'
'And so, flying was no longer an option.'
Visser laughed although there was no joke.
'It would seem that way, lieutenant.'
'But then, in 1939, you were unwilling to give up your career in the military. Certainly not at that point, when Germany's successes were substantial.'
'Our successes, as you call them, were the envy of the world.'
'And you did not want to retire, despite your wound, true?
You were young, you were ambitious, and you wanted to continue to be a part of this greatness.'
The German took a moment to reply, considering his words first.
'This is true,' he said after a second or two passed.
'I did not want to be passed over. I was young, and despite my wound, still strong. Strong both physically and in my heart, lieutenant.
There was much I believed I could contribute.'
'And so, you were retrained, were you not?'
Again, Visser hesitated.
'I suppose there is no harm in saying yes. I was given new training and new duties.'
'This new training, it didn't have anything to do with flying a fighter, did it?'
Visser smiled. He shook his head.
'No. It did not, lieutenant.'
'You were trained in counterintelligence operations, true?'
'No, this I will not answer.'
'Well,' Tommy said care frilly 'did you have the opportunity to study modern police techniques and tactics?'
Again Visser paused, thinking before replying.
'I had this opportunity.'
'And you gained this expertise?'
'I have been well-educated, lieutenant. I have always finished any schooling whether it was flight school, studying languages, or forensic techniques at the top of my class. I now take on whatever new responsibilities are defined by my superior officers, to the best of my abilities.'
'And one of those responsibilities was the investigation of this matter that brings us here. The murder of Captain Bedford.'
'That is obvious, lieutenant.'
'Why was the murder of an Allied officer in a prisoner-of-war camp of any importance to the German authorities whatsoever? Why did your superiors care in the slightest?'
Visser hesitated a moment.
'I will not answer this question,' he replied.
A murmur of voices raced through the courtroom.
'Why won't you answer?' Tommy demanded.
'This would be a matter of security, lieutenant. I will say no more.'
Tommy crossed his arms, trying to think of another route to the answer, but was unable to think of one rapidly. Inwardly he took note of a single, pulsating concept: If the murder of Trader Vic weren't somehow important to the Germans, they would never have sent a man such as Visser to the camp.
'Lieutenant,' Colonel MacNamara said harshly, 'please get on with your questioning of this witness!'
Tommy nodded, wondering also what the big hurry was, and asked: 'So, of all the men you've heard from the witness stand, and all the men involved in this case to this point, isn't it fair to say that you are the only one who has actually been trained in criminal investigations and procedures? The only one so trained who actually examined Trader Vic's body and the crime scene surrounding it? You are the only true expert to investigate this crime?'
'Objection!' Walker Townsend cried out.
'Overruled!' MacNamara answered, just as swiftly.
'You may answer, Hauptmann 'Well, lieutenant,' Visser replied slowly,
'your compatriot, Flying Officer Renaday, has some limited understanding and skills based on his primitive experiences in a rural police force. Wing Commander Pryce, who is no longer with us, had considerable knowledge on these subjects. It would appear that Captain Townsend, as well, is well educated on these procedures.' The German could not hide his grin, as he sent a singular thrust toward the prosecution: 'Which only makes me very suspicious as to why he would try to devise such a ludicrous and ridiculous scenario for this murder, as he has…'
Townsend slammed both hands down on the prosecution table as he threw himself to his feet, shouting, 'Objection!
Objection! Objection!' as he rose. Visser stopped speaking, wearing a mocking smile of false politeness on his face, as Townsend furiously responded. Behind Tommy, the kriegies once again burst into babbling discussions, dozens of voices competing at once.
