mother, who was from the small Austrian village of Ehrwald, fell in love with a United States soldier who went AWOL while serving his post at Zugspitze in 1946. She met the man after his father died in the war. The only thing missing other than the man was her diary. If the man they found had the diary, then that would provide positive identification.
Zeilnhofer rubbed his chin. "And you think this Major Don Adams could be this man?"
"I don't know," Katzer said, "but my aging mother does. Enough to send me here to find out so she can have closure. She could never accept the thought that he abandoned her. She was convinced their love was eternal. To know he died in that glacier might lift the burden of the painful memories she's carried with her nearly 70 years."
Zeilnhofer didn't speak at first. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. Using his finger as a guide, he scanned down a handwritten list of names stopping halfway. "Major Don Adams is on the list of possible identities…but so are 30 other names. I can assure you this man's body had nothing on it but an old watch, which we could not trace back to anyone, and a Schweizer Offiziersmesser."
"A what?" Katzer asked.
"Swiss Army Knife, I believe you Americans call it."
"And that was it?"
"I assure you, Mr. Katzer, there was nothing else on him."
"Did you search the cave?"
"I had my men conduct an exhaustive search of the ice cave. There was nothing else in there but ice."
"Tell me about the watch."
"The watch?" Zelinhofer asked.
Katzer nodded.
"The watch was an old 1917 Waterbury, the kind the U. S. Government issued to soldiers in World War I, which is why we originally thought the remains were much older…the knife changed that. It was crafted in 1945."
Katzer stood and pointed to Zeilnhofer's file. "How many names are on that list?"
"Originally, thirty-three."
"Have you ruled any of them out at all?" Katzer asked.
"Actually we have," Zeilnhofer continued, "we have ruled out thirteen. Either confirmed dead or alive and living elsewhere."
"Which still leaves twenty unaccounted for," Katzer said.
"Precisely," Zeilnhofer said, "and Major Don Adams is one of them. As a matter of fact, all of the remaining names on the list are U. S. soldiers who disappeared during World War II."
Katzer walked around the room then turned to the police officer. "This might seem an odd request, but I'd like to have something definitive to tell my mother. Is there any chance I could see the body and maybe even take a look at that file?"
Zeilnhofer was silent. He seemed to be studying the taller, older Katzer. "I guess I don't see the harm." Zeilnhofer walked to his office door and pulled it open. "Meet me at the clinic in thirty minutes."
E xactly thirty minutes later , Katzer and Zeilnhofer walked into the basement morgue of the Klinikum Garmisch-Partenkirchen. The room was cold—both in temperature and appearance—a stainless steel personality. Stainless tables, chairs, stools, and freezer compartments for the cadavers.
Zeilnhofer walked to one compartment, opened the door, and slid out a smaller table with a corpse covered with a sheet. The police officer pulled back the sheet revealing the torso and arms of the naked man.
"What happened to his clothes?" Katzer asked.
"Removed for autopsy." Zeilnhofer pointed to a bag on the floor. "I can assure you we have searched them diligently looking for any indication as to his identity. Because of the length of time in the ice, there was nothing we could use."
The man's skin was dark brown and stretched tight around his skull, limbs, and torso, yet remarkably preserved for a man dead nearly 70 years. Katzer noticed the twist in the man's arm. "Looks like he must have fallen into the glacier."
The police officer stared at Katzer. "What makes you say that?"
"I'm a mortician by trade." Katzer pointed to the man's arm. "The way the arm snapped, typical when someone tries to break a fall. And here."
Zeilnhofer rubbed his chin. "And you think this Major Don Adams could be this man?"
"I don't know," Katzer said, "but my aging mother does. Enough to send me here to find out so she can have closure. She could never accept the thought that he abandoned her. She was convinced their love was eternal. To know he died in that glacier might lift the burden of the painful memories she's carried with her nearly 70 years."
Zeilnhofer didn't speak at first. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. Using his finger as a guide, he scanned down a handwritten list of names stopping halfway. "Major Don Adams is on the list of possible identities…but so are 30 other names. I can assure you this man's body had nothing on it but an old watch, which we could not trace back to anyone, and a Schweizer Offiziersmesser."
"A what?" Katzer asked.
"Swiss Army Knife, I believe you Americans call it."
"And that was it?"
"I assure you, Mr. Katzer, there was nothing else on him."
"Did you search the cave?"
"I had my men conduct an exhaustive search of the ice cave. There was nothing else in there but ice."
"Tell me about the watch."
"The watch?" Zelinhofer asked.
Katzer nodded.
"The watch was an old 1917 Waterbury, the kind the U. S. Government issued to soldiers in World War I, which is why we originally thought the remains were much older…the knife changed that. It was crafted in 1945."
Katzer stood and pointed to Zeilnhofer's file. "How many names are on that list?"
"Originally, thirty-three."
"Have you ruled any of them out at all?" Katzer asked.
"Actually we have," Zeilnhofer continued, "we have ruled out thirteen. Either confirmed dead or alive and living elsewhere."
"Which still leaves twenty unaccounted for," Katzer said.
"Precisely," Zeilnhofer said, "and Major Don Adams is one of them. As a matter of fact, all of the remaining names on the list are U. S. soldiers who disappeared during World War II."
Katzer walked around the room then turned to the police officer. "This might seem an odd request, but I'd like to have something definitive to tell my mother. Is there any chance I could see the body and maybe even take a look at that file?"
Zeilnhofer was silent. He seemed to be studying the taller, older Katzer. "I guess I don't see the harm." Zeilnhofer walked to his office door and pulled it open. "Meet me at the clinic in thirty minutes."
E xactly thirty minutes later , Katzer and Zeilnhofer walked into the basement morgue of the Klinikum Garmisch-Partenkirchen. The room was cold—both in temperature and appearance—a stainless steel personality. Stainless tables, chairs, stools, and freezer compartments for the cadavers.
Zeilnhofer walked to one compartment, opened the door, and slid out a smaller table with a corpse covered with a sheet. The police officer pulled back the sheet revealing the torso and arms of the naked man.
"What happened to his clothes?" Katzer asked.
"Removed for autopsy." Zeilnhofer pointed to a bag on the floor. "I can assure you we have searched them diligently looking for any indication as to his identity. Because of the length of time in the ice, there was nothing we could use."
The man's skin was dark brown and stretched tight around his skull, limbs, and torso, yet remarkably preserved for a man dead nearly 70 years. Katzer noticed the twist in the man's arm. "Looks like he must have fallen into the glacier."
The police officer stared at Katzer. "What makes you say that?"
"I'm a mortician by trade." Katzer pointed to the man's arm. "The way the arm snapped, typical when someone tries to break a fall. And here."
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