"And you did not want to retire, despite your wound, true?

You were young, you were ambitious, and you wanted to continue to be a part of this greatness."

The German took a moment to reply, considering his words first.

"This is true," he said after a second or two passed.

"I did not want to be passed over. I was young, and despite my wound, still strong. Strong both physically and in my heart, lieutenant.

There was much I believed I could contribute."

"And so, you were retrained, were you not?"

Again, Visser hesitated.

"I suppose there is no harm in saying yes. I was given new training and new duties."

"This new training, it didn't have anything to do with flying a fighter, did it?"

Visser smiled. He shook his head.

"No. It did not, lieutenant."

"You were trained in counterintelligence operations, true?"

"No, this I will not answer."

"Well," Tommy said care frilly "did you have the opportunity to study modern police techniques and tactics?"

Again Visser paused, thinking before replying.

"I had this opportunity."

"And you gained this expertise?"

"I have been well-educated, lieutenant. I have always finished any schooling whether it was flight school, studying languages, or forensic techniques at the top of my class. I now take on whatever new responsibilities are defined by my superior officers, to the best of my abilities."

"And one of those responsibilities was the investigation of this matter that brings us here. The murder of Captain Bedford."

"That is obvious, lieutenant."

"Why was the murder of an Allied officer in a prisoner-of-war camp of any importance to the German authorities whatsoever? Why did your superiors care in the slightest?"

Visser hesitated a moment.

"I will not answer this question," he replied.

A murmur of voices raced through the courtroom.

"Why won't you answer?" Tommy demanded.

"This would be a matter of security, lieutenant. I will say no more."

Tommy crossed his arms, trying to think of another route to the answer, but was unable to think of one rapidly. Inwardly he took note of a single, pulsating concept: If the murder of Trader Vic weren't somehow important to the Germans, they would never have sent a man such as Visser to the camp.

"Lieutenant," Colonel MacNamara said harshly, "please get on with your questioning of this witness!"

Tommy nodded, wondering also what the big hurry was, and asked: "So, of all the men you've heard from the witness stand, and all the men involved in this case to this point, isn't it fair to say that you are the only one who has actually been trained in criminal investigations and procedures? The only one so trained who actually examined Trader Vic's body and the crime scene surrounding it? You are the only true expert to investigate this crime?"

"Objection!" Walker Townsend cried out.

"Overruled!" MacNamara answered, just as swiftly.

"You may answer, Hauptmann "Well, lieutenant," Visser replied slowly,

"your compatriot, Flying Officer Renaday, has some limited understanding and skills based on his primitive experiences in a rural police force. Wing Commander Pryce, who is no longer with us, had considerable knowledge on these subjects. It would appear that Captain Townsend, as well, is well educated on these procedures." The German could not hide his grin, as he sent a singular thrust toward the prosecution: "Which only makes me very suspicious as to why he would try to devise such a ludicrous and ridiculous scenario for this murder, as he has…"

Townsend slammed both hands down on the prosecution table as he threw himself to his feet, shouting, "Objection!

Objection! Objection!" as he rose. Visser stopped speaking, wearing a mocking smile of false politeness on his face, as Townsend furiously responded. Behind Tommy, the kriegies once again burst into babbling discussions, dozens of voices competing at once.

Banging away, Colonel MacNamara managed to regain order in the courtroom. He turned to Hauptmann Visser and coldly said, "Hauptmann, it would help matters considerably were you to merely answer the questions you are asked without any further characterizations."

"Of course, Herr Colonel," the German responded.

"Let me rephrase my statement: My examination of the crime scene and the evidence collected to this point suggest a different series of events from those claimed here. Is that preferable, Your Honor? I should, perhaps, eliminate the words ludicrous and ridiculous?" Visser managed to infect his words with distaste.

"Yes," MacNamara answered.

"Precisely." It seemed to Tommy that the hatred in the courtroom was almost palpable.

Best deal with that right away, he thought to himself.

He cleared his throat harshly.

"Let me get something straight, let's everybody get something straight, before we go on about this case, Hauptmann. You hate us, correct?"

Visser smiled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Us," Tommy said, sweeping his arm to indicate the assembled kriegies.

"You hate us, without knowing us. Merely because we're American. Or English. Or any Allied airman.

You hate me. You hate Captain Townsend and Flying Officer Renaday and Colonel MacNamara and every last one of us sitting in the audience. Is this not true, Hauptmann?"

Visser hesitated, shrugged, then nodded.

"You are the enemy. One should always hate the enemies of the fatherland."

Tommy took a deep breath.

"That's too easy an answer, Hauptmann. That sounds like a schoolboy's memorized response. Your hatred seems somewhat greater."

Again Visser paused, measuring his words carefully, doling them out in an even, hard-edged, and cold voice.

"No one who has been wounded, as I have, who has seen his family-mother, father, sisters-killed by terror-bombing, as I have, who has seen his friends die, as I have, and who can remember all the hypocrisy and lies spoken by your nation, can avoid feelings of anger and hatred, lieutenant. Does that answer your question perhaps better?"

Visser's response was as frozen as winter rain. Each word pelted the men in the audience, because there were aspects of everything he said that they, too, felt. In that second, Visser managed to remind everyone that outside the wire the world was gathered in homicidal rage, and they all felt stricken that they were no longer taking part in it.

"It must be hard for you," Tommy asked slowly, "to be stuck here in charge of keeping men alive whom you would rather see killed."

Visser's lip curled in a small, nasty smile.

"This is an oversimplification. Lieutenant Hart. But true."

"So if I were to die tomorrow, or Captain Townsend or Colonel MacNamara or any of the men here at Stalag Luft Thirteen, this would please you?"

Visser's smile did not so much as budge a millimeter, as he replied, "That is almost entirely true, Mr. Hart."

Tommy stopped, paused, then asked, "Almost entirely?"

Visser nodded.

"The sole exception, Mr. Hart, of course, would be your client. The Schwarze airman, Scott. Of him, I do not care one way or the other."

This comment took Tommy slightly off-guard. He asked his next question rather foolishly, before first considering it.

"Why is that?"

Visser lifted his shoulders slightly, almost as if with that gesture he was taking the time to install the mocking tone into his voice: "We do not consider the Negro to be human," he said calmly, staring directly at Lincoln Scott as he spoke.

"The rest of you, yes, you are the enemy. He, on the other hand, is merely a mercenary beast employed by your air corps, lieutenant. No different from a Hundfuhrer’s dog patrolling the camp wire. One may fear that dog, lieutenant, perhaps even respect it for its teeth and claws and devotion to its master. But it remains little more than a trained beast."