Finally, after all these years, the family patriarch and builder of the Vogel fortune had passed on. In addition to a lengthy obituary in several regional newspapers including the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, numerous European news outlets reported Karl’s death. There were tributes from many German dignitaries, including a somber eulogy from Chancellor Angela Merkel.
Only one news outlet, a renegade Berlin website, Die Wahrheit, known for its controversial views, reported Karl’s association with a number of unprosecuted Nazi officers during the early years of his business career.
This wasn’t much of a blemish for Karl. Many businesspeople worked with former Nazi officers, especially during Reconstruction. But that wasn’t the central thrust of Die Wahrheit’s scathing exposé.
No, the primary subject of the article dealt with Vogel’s long-time rumored affiliation to organized crime. “Rumored” was the key word. Karl Vogel had never been convicted of such, nor had he ever been officially investigated. The family, consistent with their stoic reputation, made no comment on the article. Karl’s closest friends and business allies brushed off the allegations as ludicrous—the smearing of a long life well lived by a fledgling website, all in the name of cheap publicity.
Although his funeral was private, thousands turned out in Frankfurt to pay their respects. They filled the Hauptwache, the large plaza near the center of the city. Many of the mourners had worked for Karl Vogel at some point, or lived on land he owned. Nearly all spoke of his generosity and fairness.
Germany had lost a true statesman.
Before his body was torched to ashes and spread on his beloved land, Karl’s wife paid for a comprehensive private autopsy to be performed on the day after his death.
She kept the results to herself.
* * *
Fayetteville, North Carolina
The two punks had started up before the movie screen even came to life. They talked right through the coming attractions. Their laughter could be heard during the advertisement for candy and popcorn. One of them waved his brightly lit iPhone during the appeals for quiet and no mobile phones. Now that the movie had started, the two assholes shifted into obnoxious overdrive.
Gage Hartline had hoped to enjoy a matinee. For the next few hours, he wanted to relax in a comfy chair as the massive illuminated rectangle did all his thinking for him. He relished the stickiness of the floor. He loved the cool comfort and darkness of a movie theater. These sensations carried him back to his childhood, when a trip to the movies was a special time to be savored.
In fact, he’d specifically chosen a matinee to escape a large crowd—and to explicitly avoid malignant dickheads like the two sitting in the center of the sixth row. The movie itself was an adaptation of the award-winning novel Seven Years Dead, about the lone surviving American soldier of a late World War II massacre. Years later, the soldier traveled back to Germany, intent on hunting down the SS commander who ordered his unit slaughtered. The story was set in 1952, interspersed with flashbacks of the war, giving the viewer two stories in one. Though the film had been released a number of months before, it had been re-released after receiving Academy Award nominations for, among other things, Best Picture.
Providing even more Oscar buzz was the rather bizarre death of the book’s dashing author. Though it hadn’t been officially confirmed—and wouldn’t be—numerous sources in the literary and Hollywood communities claimed the book’s author had keeled over immediately following a torrid bedroom session with his dazzling and incredibly athletic wife. Several of the television hosts on E had taken to calling the movie “Seven Minutes Dead.”
Unmoved by the fanfare, Gage had simply wanted to take in a good war film. He’d finished his chores in the morning and was excited to have some peace—that is, until the two pricks sat down three rows in front of him.
The opening credits had finished five minutes earlier. The first act was eerily quiet, as the protagonist first returned to war-torn, post-war Berlin in the early days of his hunt for the Waffen SS commander. Just as the hero of the story exited the train in Berlin’s Zoo Station, his war memories haunting him…
“That girl up at the popcorn counter sure had some big ol’ titties!” one of the punks yelled to his friend.
“Tap her like a keg’a Bud Light,” the other one agreed. They both cackled afterward. For good measure, one of them tossed a few pieces of popcorn in the air and let out a loud hoot.
Feet propped up on the row in front of them, they kept on yapping, loudly, obnoxiously, knowingly—it was obvious they were doing everything they could to irritate the few moviegoers who dotted the theater.
“Say, fellas,” an older man to Gage’s right said. “Would you please keep it down? My wife and I are trying to watch the movie.”
Without even turning, one of the punks said, “Sure, man…send your wife over here and we’ll keep reeeeaaaal quiet.”
“Yeah, while we pass her back and forth!” The two laughed uproariously, quite satisfied with themselves and their crude humor.
Gage began to feel pressure in his temples. He’d purchased a large bottle of water, hoping to rehydrate after a longer than normal run this morning. He gripped the water, squeezing with both hands as the clear label began to come apart from the pressure.
The older man and his wife stood and exited the theater.
“Aw, she don’t wanna come play?” one of the punks asked, followed by another round of hilarity.
Gage eyed the punks in the low light from the screen. Both had buzz cuts. One wore a cut-off, sleeveless t-shirt and the other a leather jacket. They might have been local military from Fort Bragg or Pope
