The Heritage Paper

Chapter 27



The pitter-patter of raindrops served as eerie background music as Flavia spoke.

“My first time in Rhinebeck was during the reading of the will. At least that’s what I thought. But the moment I set foot onto the creaky floors of the farmhouse, memories returned from my childhood. I knew I’d been there before.

“I had been flown in from my home in Florida—the whole thing was a whirlwind, and confusing for a teenage girl. I was given a letter dictated by Gus, prior to his death, explaining that my mother had helped him out when he was down on his luck, and he was repaying the favor by leaving me the farmhouse. As the story went, he had worked with my mother prior to his relocating to Rhinebeck to take the position of Chief of Police. Unfortunately, he had a stroke in 1963 that paralyzed him, and I learned that my mother was one of his few friends and colleagues who continued to visit him, and had brought me along on a few of the visits.

“He mentioned that he’d been saddened greatly by her death, and worried how her loss would affect me as I grew up. He said he followed my life from afar and hoped the farm could bring me peace, as it had for him.

“As I read the letter, the childhood trips to Rhinebeck with my mother returned to my consciousness. Including one specific memory—Gus Becker had a son. I was sure of it. But when I brought this up at the reading of the will, wondering why he didn’t leave the farm to him, they looked at me like I was crazy. I was told that he had no son—or any other family, for that matter.”

“Did you question it further?” Zach asked.

“I was always the kid with the overactive imagination, so I thought it was possible that I’d imagined him. Or perhaps it was a caretaker who I had mistaken for his son. Regardless, I wasn’t concerned with why he left me the farm. Truthfully, I really didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“But you never sold it.”

“There was something about the place. I can’t explain it, but I could never pull the trigger. I remained in Miami, where I had lived my whole life, but visited a couple times a year. The place was a money-pit—I rented it out once, but being a long-distance landlord became too much of a hassle.”

“What made you make the move here permanently?”

“The worst year of my life. The divorce was hard enough, but then my father revealed to me that he had cancer—the late stages that had spread to his liver. He had very little time left, but those last days of his life changed everything for me.”

“How so?”

“He confessed that he and my mother weren’t who I thought they were. That they worked for the CIA … they were spies. He revealed that my mother, Olivia, had worked on a case that was so highly classified that she couldn’t even discuss it with him. And he believed that case was directly tied to her death, which had been made to look like a car accident. But what he told me next floored me.”

“More so than your parents being spies?”

“While working on this sensitive case, my mother became pregnant. My father claimed he wasn’t really my father, at least in the biological sense.”

Flavia appeared to be momentarily overcome with emotion, but continued, “He died days after his confession, not even enough time for it to sink in. I no longer had a mother or father, a husband, or even a past. The only thing I had left was the farm. I went straight from the funeral to the airport, and headed to Rhinebeck to ‘sort things out.’ It’s been over five years and I still haven’t used the return ticket.”

“Your father was probably on heavy medication when he told you those things,” Veronica offered, for the first time feeling some empathy with Flavia.

She nodded. “I had thought the same thing, and began to put the past behind me … but then I received an anonymous letter. It was from someone claiming to have worked with both my parents, and it backed up my father’s statements. But it went a step further—this person had worked with my mother on that secret case.”

Youkelstein had put it together. “The reason it was so secretive was that she was working with Heinrich Müller—he was employed by the CIA following the war, after being captured by the US. There were always rumors. The CIA file on Müller was released under the Freedom of Information Act in 2001. It declared no connection to him, but as a rule, I tend not to believe those who lie for a living.”

“So you think the CIA killed your mother to cover up her work with Müller?” Zach asked.

“I believe her death was related to Müller, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the CIA, nor did the anonymous source. The letter stated that when Truman left office in 1952, he released Müller from his ‘sentence.’ Müller hated Eisenhower, the in-coming president, and it was mutual—they never would’ve lasted together. It was the last time anyone officially saw or heard from him. And it’s doubtful anyone would go looking for him, since nobody wanted to be connected to the Müller hot potato. There was no evidence that any such person had ever worked there.”

“But Olivia Conte did,” Zach said. “And she continued to visit him after he left the CIA.”

“I had no idea who Heinrich Müller was when I received the letter. I knew very little about the Nazis, other than the basic war movie stuff, so I went to the library and took out every book imaginable. It didn’t take me long to link the photos of a young Müller with those of a pre-stroke Gus Becker.”

“I can’t believe the government let that murderer walk free in exchange for information,” Youkelstein bristled, looking physically pained.

Before they could ask more questions, Flavia was on the move again, as if she didn’t want to be spotted at the gravesite. They followed her over the soggy ground like they were hypnotized. This was her show.

She strutted through the cemetery, the wind blowing her heavy, damp hair. She remained undaunted, continuing her ghost tale while on the move, “I learned that Gus Becker arrived in Rhinebeck in 1952, the same year he was supposedly released from his CIA commitment. I have no idea why he chose here, but I’ve found that he never lacked for planning or organization, so there was likely a reason.

“As head of the Gestapo, he had been in charge of creating false identities for the Nazi hierarchy, which became extra important at the end of the war, when they weren’t so proud of those SS numbers anymore. So it’s no surprise his identity was perfectly crafted, and included an impressive résumé in law enforcement.

“Gus served as head of the Rhinebeck Police Department from 1952 to 1963, before he suffered the stroke that left him in a wheelchair, and without the ability to speak. While on the force, he even used the same card system he’d made infamous when he headed up the Gestapo, which permitted a quick identification of every German citizen and their threat level to Hitler’s government.”

They passed St. Marks Church. “Following his stroke, Gus dedicated most of his time to the church,” Flavia said, pointing at the old, wooden structure.

“That would add up—Heinrich Müller was an ardent Catholic,” Youkelstein stated.

“He would be present each Sunday, regardless of his handicap or failing health. He donated a large portion of his life savings to the church, and even purchased a van for the parish so that handicapped people like himself could attend each Sunday.”

“Are you trying to say that this made up for what he did?” Veronica asked, irritated.

“No, I’m telling you that the ones who appear the most innocent sometimes can be the most deadly. Like wolves in sheep’s clothing.”