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Wolfsschlucht (Wolf’s Ravine) By: Steve Erdmann Copyright, C, Steve Erdmann, 2019
“In spite of all the danger, in spite of all that may be, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to be….” In Spite Of All the Danger, the Beatles, 1958.
“People are eliminated. Honey, you don’t know how many people are just eliminated, just on the operating table alone. They just need to be disposed of. And don’t ever believe what you read in the papers. It’s all made up.” (Joe Shimon, a professional assassin and deep cover operative, speaking belatedly in life to his daughter.)
The Boxenwolf (also known as the Buxenwolf) was from Germanic lore of the Schaumberg region where a pact had been made with the Devil himself. The victim can be transmuted into a wolf with the help of a magic girdle. The girdle was said to be a device from Hell. When he takes the form of a wolf, he enjoyed persecuting people. Even though he looked like a regular wolf, he is still able to think like a human but gained “wolf powers” as well. His senses were magnified, such as smell, sight, and he was able to run incredibly fast.
http://www.bloodylexicon.com/monsters/boxenwolf-buxenwolf/.
Stories and legends continued as old and resilient as evil, and the questioning of Power itself.
The Nazi Reich of the mid-century was an assimilation of Black Magic and these occult beliefs.
In 1923, a man known as Fritz Kappe created a terrorist group called Organization Werewolf. Their official banner looked a lot like a pirates’ old Jolly Roger – a black flag with white skull and crossbones (not to mention the semblance to Yale University’s Skull and Bones). At first, the group’s movement spread very quickly throughout Germany. Due to arrests by the Weimar government, the Werewolves never grew into an agency that caused any real threat: or so the popular conception went.
It is likely that Organization Werewolf was created in response to Adolf Hitler’s desire for Germany’s youth to be like werewolves – cruel and harsh, people that wanted to destroy humankind (history books say that Hitler was obsessed with wolves and werewolves and wanted his men to be more like them).
The name was chosen after the title of Hermann Löns’ novel, Der Wehrwolf (1910). Set in the Celle region, Lower Saxony, during the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48), the novel concerned a peasant, Harm Wulf, who, after his family is killed by marauding soldiers, organised his neighbors into a militia who hunted the soldiers mercilessly and executed any they captured, referring to themselves as Wehrwölfe. While not himself a Nazi (he died in 1914) Löns’ work was also popular with the German far right, and the Nazis reveled his work.
Werner Naumann, Goebbels’s top aide at the end of the war, sent out a noteworthy message by teletype to the Nazi Party’s regional propaganda offices in early April 1945. It called on the residual propagandists throughout Germany to devote their full efforts to building an underground resistance movement that would make Allied occupation insufferably costly. The Allies were in fact worried about the possibility of the Werewolf movement, but in the end, Germans were more than ready to have the war over and not much came of this final effort. (Werner Naumann, “Jetzt scheiden sich die Geister!” National Archives Microfilm Series T-311, roll 169, frames 1071-1074.)
Later, many historians came to believe that the German-American Bund supposedly went out of existence and that there really were no cogent groups such as Odessa after the war. There was mention of U-boats U-530 and U-977 and the 54 German U-boats that “disappeared” in a connection with a mythical Neuschwabenland. These tales were regulated to rumor and history’s junk pile. We are told that tales about the Nazi “time machine” technology – The Bell – wunderwaffe – was only a flagrant science-fiction-story.
Ironically, despite the myth’s historical actuality, mainline historians agreed to dismiss the legend and continue the disbelief down through the ages.
http://www.electricsheepmagazine.co.uk/features/2012/05/21/iron-sky-interview-with-udo-kier/
http://lurch2.blogspot.com/2016/02/nazi-flying-saucers-and-ufo-pictures.html
Somebody Here That I Cannot See
March 21, the celebration of the goddess Ostara, the evening of the kill shot.
The thud of a closed side entrance way to the Boxenwolf mansion denotes the young heiress’ exit. As she makes her way into the accompanying landscape of the property, a sudden hush comes over the territory, all wildlife becomes still and the wind stops as if upon command. Window light from the enormous manse intrudes upon the night while sharing the jet black darkness of many darkened rooms. The golden sheen of her long hair punctuates her passage towards the gradually rising mound several thousand feet into the property. Her swagger causes the strands to bounce sensuously from one side of her neck to the other. The nineteen-year-old’s erotic and unctuous rhythmic unveiling of her calf and leg through the slit of her gown is constant, disturbed every few seconds by her dodge over a hidden intruder-detection device. Her image recedes. As she gets closer to the mound, the sounds of night-time wildlife revive and quickly rise into a crescendo of sound. She opens a door at her destination that briefly reveals a yellow interior.
Suddenly, several feet away, a rectangular hangar door begins to slide upward. Just beyond it, posed bravely and daringly in the soft yellow-white light of the immense hangar, is a shining and suave Mercedes-Benz black limousine. It looks stark in the hygienically immaculate expanse of multiple pneumatic-operated floor platform/elevators. Their only accompaniment is the laboratory bays running around the inside periphery of the armory. The critters of the forest now sing in full force. For a brief moment, the girl stands in the breeze that is rippling her gown, exposing her youthful flesh and the sensuous curve of a pink calf of one leg. The unnaturally warm night air holds the unusual smell of mulch covering the budding flora growing beneath the earth that even these unseasonable events are also responding to her supernatural presence. Her sparkling blue eyes stare into and challenge the night. Gripped in her right hand is a mass of metal and wood. She swings the driver side door open, thrusts a rifle across the seat, and follows into the sleek interior.
http://callstevens.com/shuttle-bay-concept-art.html
“What music would fit the occasion, my beauty?” she asks the automobile. She says nothing for a minute as she starts the atomic miracle built into the interior of the black beast. “Ah yes, how about my favorite, good ole’ Ronnie Milsap, so appropriate.” She swings her hand over her head and the melody begins. The glowing dials and lights of the control panel accentuate her picturesque posture, pug nose, slanted eyebrows, small ears, and a small square chin. There is a stranger in my house; Ronnie Milsap (who is blind) is ironically singing that there is somebody here that he could not see! The automobile’s power source, a blend of Bugatti and graviton-quantum physics begins a graduated whine. Quickly, the structure of the vehicle commences evaporating into invisibility. A shimmering transformation moves along the automobile from rear to front, and in something akin to a large ‘pop’ the limousine vaporizes into the night, leaving only a few moments of the melody in the air…the singer can’t seem to find love in her ‘eyes’ anymore…the hangar door to the auxiliary research facility gradually slides shut.
They Brought Forth the Heiress’s “Armored, Technologically Seasoned Vehicle, Saturated with Sophisticated, Superior Weaponry…”
https://www.motor1.com/photo/1172632/artist-creates-amazing-sci-fi-supercar-concepts-photo-gallery/
Her omniscience having performed expertly, the teenager is soon perched high above St. Louis in a selected sniper’s nest. No Rules of Engagement for her: she ‘is’ the Judge Advocate General (she must control herself from going out on these vicious safaris). What a combination, she thinks to herself, a specially designed sniper scope and her marvelous brain to dial-up the shooter solution. The target had left his office and is making his way south on Broadway Boulevard. The target stops to swiftly dispose of a paper bag containing the pulverized remains of a stealth “transient material” spy device into a curb-sewer as trash. The shooter assembles the barrel suppressor and braces her weapon with the help of an armature. Both eyes open on the scope in a mystical deer’s gaze. The jeweled and sparkling city about and below her seems to freeze in a mosaic of multi-colored design and scintillation. She zeroes in on the target’s center of mass and then adjusts the dial for the head. As she settles into her final Engagement Position, the girl begins to hum more of the Milsap tune, but this time in German: There are suspicions that lead to questions, then alibis, and then to lies. Her silky hair slides along her cheek enmeshing with the tantalizing smell, not only of the wolf pheromones of her perfumed shampoo but the unusually embedded aura of rifle lubricant and the sweet smell of her leather sniper gloves. The humming ceases. A deadly moment of dreadful silence dominates. She stops breathing for a second. She jerks the trigger to the right, adjusting for the wind, maybe even a shift in gravity.
The victim’s head becomes a gruesome mass of the bullet’s shock waves causing brain, skull bone, cerebral cortex, subcutaneous tissue and various dermis to expand forward and upward in a red-white halo amid streamers in a mangled mess of hurt. The body lurches inches upward and forward in the direction of the blast, then drops like a wet rag.
All the technical data in sniper school, about distance, moving targets, running targets, she says to herself, becomes embedded, not just in your brain, but also in one’s arms, hands, and fingers.
However, it is nothing like the dexterity of the Magic she is about to do now in hiding her tracks; life can be stranger than old wives’ folklore tales.
Somebody here, says Milsap, which we cannot see.
March 21, late afternoon, one year later, in the current year.
Axtilgeenix: An ancient Gitxsan name meaning “he who walks leaving no tracks.”
Detective Lieutenant Wayne Harrington is afraid to answer the phone, even though he is a brave soldier of the Special Operations Unit. Every time it rings, it brings more dead-end information about a murder case in mid-St. Louis one year ago to-date. It had been hundreds of interviews, and multiple tests that had caused the case to languish in a pile of police paperwork that now confronted the detective. He is once again to review the facts and updates. Updates? The term Cold Case File didn’t do this case justice. He thought of another expression: Dead End Waste Land.
Such exasperation is not unlike the inhospitably callous city of St. Louis: To the north and east of the metropolis are the beige and chalk-white spires that race to the heavens on steel and concrete diagrid-skeletons and escalating terraces filled with heartless, arrogant, and cowering souls. The streets appear to be bare and unfriendly. Tiny black UAV micro-spy drones circle indomitably, gnat-like to and from the launch pad atop the nearby Police Department headquarters.
An expanded sky-walk from police headquarters, over Spruce Avenue to the Robert A. Young Federal Building, allows transport of homicide case files, easily moved to the recently purchased property by the Police Department: a heavily guarded conference room called the War Room. Special FBI Agent Jerold Schultz stands frozen aside the scenery, an office equipped with two desktop and several laptop computers, several telephones, a large meeting table in the center and one huge picture window from which the railroad yard below and the building line to the south could be readily viewed. Around the perimeter of the room, and on the table, are file boxes. Some of the manila folder contents are stacked haphazardly and spread across the table and several adjoining desks. The black silk suit and tie attiring the FBI detective appear to come alive when he suddenly breaks his stare to the rail-yard below.
“Okay Wayne, let’s see if I can put this all in perspective before I sign off on this review.” His silver-blonde hair and a silver-lined mustache denote his age, now a 20-year-veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He speaks with authority as a Chief Agent of the Critical Incident Response Tactical-Ops Investigator Specialist Group. He turns to look out the window again. He jiggles the coins in his front pocket. His fingers nervously tap the leather of his gun holster hidden on his belt. He abruptly slaps his gun and holster and gets back to the dreary business at hand in a final recitation of the chain of events.
“Our victim was shot on the evening of March 21 a year ago by a high-velocity-what-appeared- to-be ‘smart frangible projectile’ – possibly a hand-made bullet – that left absolutely no trace residue or hybrid materials – nothing – by a sniper several blocks away from an upper-level office in the 593-foot Metropolitan Square building, of that we are absolutely sure?”
Detective Herrington quietly flips another manila folder onto a stack on the table. He sits in a chair towards the end. He has dressed casually: no tie, dress slacks, but an extra-large plaid shirt that barely covers his stomach. Bags under his eyes denote lack of sleep and a possible kidney problem. His round and pudgy face, as his co-workers conjectured, seem to portray his kindness and his integrity.
Detective Wyne Herrington Contemplates.
https://www.dw.com/en/the-worlds-best-detectives-125-years-of-agatha-christie/a-18713582
“That’s correct: no copper, no zinc, no nickel, aluminum, antimony, no Teflon…you name it. We cooperated with several laboratories, not just the Medical Examiner’s Office here. Legal medical investigation of all tissue, blood and blood splatter, at Quantico, other laboratories for backup. Neutron-activation analysis, energy-dispersive x-ray spectrometer….it’s all there…..” Herrington waves his palm over the table.
The FBI agent continues, “And we know the shot came from a certain office in the Metro Square building because of the algorithm Quantico used on the beveling and tissue dispersal direction – not to mention what was caught on neighboring security cameras?”
“Plus acoustic evidence – Boomerang equipment and hidden street-audio-recordings – blood splatter analysis – the angle of impact – all seemed to pinpoint the Metro Square building in a cone of trajectory.” (A high-end computer-aided design and model that was established.) Herrington continues, “But there was no direct evidence that anyone was in the office at the time: no pertinent fingerprints, no aerosol evidence, the forensic crews went over that office with a fine microscopic-comb. No gunfire traces, no witnesses, no security violations…we hit hard on that.” Herrington hands a manila envelope to the FBI agent. He sits again. “My back is killing me,” the detective says in a grimace of pain.
Agent Schultz turns back to face Herrington, casually reading the contents: “A clear violation of Locard’s rule: ‘Any action of an individual, and obviously the violent action constituting a crime, cannot occur without leaving a trace’.” He stares blankly at Herrington for a good minute: “But also the laws of physics.”
Special FBI Agent Jerold Schultz Analyzes the Crime Situation
http://www.tvweeklynow.com/news-blogs/news-blogs-RicksPicks/homicide-detectives-relive-the-cases-that-haunt-them-in-real-detective.htm
He is correct, Herrington muses to himself; a killer always takes something away from a crime scene and always adds something to it, but here the use of the word ‘always’ seemed incongruous. Oh yes, we live in an increasingly new, modern, technological age, he ponders to himself.
“Yeah, we brought in sophisticated, mobile equipment, mass spectral odor analysis, gas chromatograph-mass spectrometers, and so forth,” as part of the latest police equipment used on site. “We checked not just the one office, but all the adjoining offices, the outside ledges, and the window panes; we were practically camped out there for a week,” Herrington stands and arches his back and stretches. “We logged and interrogated every sentient being. Nothing on cameras…” Herrington stops and gives the FBI man a serious stare, as if he had just stepped out in front of a moving vehicle, his eyebrows rose for emphasis, “And how do you fire a rifle from within a closed office without damaging the window glass?”
“The shooter obviously owned the night!”
“To say the least,” Herrington agrees.
Beads of sweat creep over his forehead ridges.
Because of the increasingly bizarre nature of the crime, the Chief of the Homicide Division requested and received special funds. A massive dragnet and manhunt were instituted that very week and the downtown area was practically quarantined with a flood of special officers formed into a Task Force. Other agencies assisted on an emergency basis: The Bureau of Justice Assistance, The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, and other alphabet insignia. All persons with special rifle skills were located and questioned. It was continuous. A massive job that entailed multiple grids, ground, and dog-sniffing searches, along with countless interrogations. Because Metro Square is home to many attorney suites (commonly referred to as the Lawyer Building; St. Louis had a ratio of five lawyers per 1000 citizens), the Police Department consistently received threats by attorneys for harassment and invasion of privacy. The sniper couldn’t have picked a better spot for gumming the wheels of justice.
Other agencies assisted on an emergency basis
https://www.istockphoto.com/photos/female-fbi-agents?
sort=mostpopular&mediatype=photography&phrase=female%20fbi%20agents
They utilized several criminal databases: The Criminal Justice Commission Statistical Analysis Center, the United Nations on Drugs and Crime Statistics, and others. None of the data had a direct solution to the crime; only vague suggestibility. After a briefing by the Task Force, The National Security Agency reported that surveillance satellites would not add to a solution. Spy satellites were called into use. Carnivore, Echelon, Prism, and Mainway satellites detected nothing useful. The NROL-75 spy satellite was in use over St. Louis that day: it recorded not a soul or machine that would give them a clue. The Police Department utilized micro aerial drones in St. Louis and surrounding areas, but no pertinent information as to mystery vehicles or persons. The paper bag that the security videos recorded the victim