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the same goatee and had the same steely eyes. His grandfather had been a devout Lutheran and the family tyrant. As a child, Mason had shied away from the man, avoiding him whenever he could. Fear transformed to acrimony as he grew older. Now he faced what appeared to be a living, breathing incarnation of the old buzzard. And a German cop, to boot.
    Becker made a slight bow with no more of a smile than what was required. “I’m very happy to make your acquaintance,” he said in a thick German accent and deep baritone voice.
    Mason stepped forward and they shook hands. Becker’s hand was warm and dry, and he had a surprisingly firm grip for someone who looked to be in his midsixties. Like Mason’s grandfather, Becker comported himself with a grim visage and a stiff spine.
    Colonel Walton maneuvered between them to break their mutual stare. “Gentlemen, over here, please,” he said and led them back to thedesk. “Have a seat.” He took his place behind the desk, while Mason and Becker sat in the chairs facing him. “Inspector Becker is our chief liaison officer for the Munich police.”
    From his time working as an assistant on the general staff in Frankfurt, Mason had witnessed firsthand the backroom politics that established how the occupying Allies, from a standpoint of sheer manpower, could police the entire country’s population with only military police. To have any hope of maintaining order, they had to turn to the existing indigenous police forces. The problem was, the German police forces had been absorbed into the SS by Heinrich Himmler, and most policemen were required to be card-carrying members of the Nazi Party. Each day the Allies dismantled more and more of the Nazi-era system, but it had been impractical, even hazardous, to dismiss every German policeman. To make sure they weren’t putting fanatics or brutal members of the Gestapo back into positions of authority, the intelligence services continually combed through the Nazi-era police force files. Nonetheless, Mason suspected that a lot of the bad apples were slipping back into the police stations and halls of justice.
    Becker cleared his throat and said to Mason, “Colonel Walton and Criminal Investigator Havers gave me information regarding what you discovered at the Mannstein Fabrikswerk factory. I can assure you that my colleagues and I will do our utmost to continue the investigation.”
    Mason turned to the colonel. “You’re handing the case over to the Kriminalpolizei?”
    “The
Kriminalpolizei will augment the investigation. You know that we always coordinate with them when cases involve German civilians. We do the main investigation, but hand over German perpetrators to the German authorities.”
    “No one said the perpetrator is German.”
    “I concur with Investigator Collins,” Becker said. “Is it not America which seems particularly fertile in producing psychotics who commit multiple homicides?”
    “No one said anything about multiple homicides,” the colonel said.
    “And it seems, Inspector,” Mason said, imitating Becker’s phrasing, “that Germany is fertile in producing mass murderers.”
    The colonel stiffened in his chair like he was going to have a heart attack. “Now, wait a minute, Collins!”
    Mason continued to glare at Becker, but Becker bowed his head slightly and smiled. “Touché.”
    Mason turned to Colonel Walton. “Sir, we can do this without the inspector’s help. If the killer turns out to be German, we’ll hand him over to German authorities.”
    Becker spoke before the colonel could respond. “I and many of my fellow officers are natives of Munich. We know the city and its people better than you. And while your experienced investigators keep leaving for the United States, we gain qualified officers every day. Perhaps we should lead the investigation. We can be much more persuasive in convincing witnesses to come forward—”
    “Yeah, we’ve all heard about how persuasive the Gestapo could