Summary of Investigation Notes – Warren PD Detective William Heinlein
Detective William Heinlein did some digging to find out who was the current Grand Master of the Masonic Lodge in Basking Ridge, NJ. Turns out, there wasn’t any. In the 1700’s Masons met at the Town Hall in Basking Ridge – adopting for themselves a grandiose moniker: Solomon’s Lodge #1. In 1787 they established a more permanent structure – with its de rigueur “Boaz and Jachim” Greek columns and Checkerboard floor – in Sommerville, NJ.
Somerville is the County seat of Somerset County, New Jersey. Warren is located in Somerset County. Heinlein is a Detective with the Police Department of Warren, NJ – you’d think that would have opened some doors at the Somerville, NJ Masonic Lodge…but it didn’t. They didn’t return his phone calls. He went there and found the doors locked.
Finally, he reached out to his Captain, Gus Trevor.
“You know anybody that’ll get me into the Masonic Lodge in Somerville?” He asked.
Trevor just snickered and shook his head.
“Don’t expect much help – but talk to that Dickhead Ben van Tassel who owns the Ames Hardware Store on Washington Valley Road here in Warren. ‘Heard he’s a Mason. I don’t know much about that High-Society shit…”
Van Tassel hooked Detective Heinlein up with some rich guy in Watchung named Vincent Gewirtz. After some phone tag, Heinlein was all set.
The next day Heinlein was standing at the same locked door of the Masonic Lodge on Main Street in Somerville he’d left in disgust a few days before – but this time it opened. Standing there was a red-bearded, cherubic-faced old man who looked like a professor of English Literature. Complete with little spectacles perched on his nose.
“Detective Heinlein, I presume? I’m Jock Albermarle….Grand Master of the Lodge. Do come in….”
His greeting was good-natured enough – and his beatific visage and tweed jacket lent him a bookish aura. Heinlein was pleased. This guy looked like somebody who knew his Fraternal Society’s history.
After some obligatory pleasantries, Albermarle and Heinlein got down to business. The detective told him about his investigation into the disappearances of the little girls in Warren – and his curiosity about whether there could be some connection to the Ramapo Fault Seismology Project activities in Warren that commenced June 10, 1991.
He specifically asked if the Lodge still had a painting entitled “Laying of the Cornerstone at the First Episcopal Church in Warren, 1746”.
At Heinlein’s mention of the painting, Grand Master Albermarle’s cherubic face showed visible shock – and wariness. “Why yes……..we have the painting. It’s at the back of the Hall. Why do you want to see it?” His voice became guarded.
“I’m following a hunch…. please indulge me.” Heinlein said as evasively as he could. Albermarle didn’t look convinced. Some irritation now crept in to his voice. His face looked a bit less…cherubic.
“I can tell by the way we shook hands that you’re not a Mason, Detective Heinlein. I’m not supposed to be showing laypersons our Lodge treasures – but, since you are a Detective, I can hardly refuse”.
They weaved through some hallways, all decorated with rows upon rows of Masonic dignitaries. Endless faded likenesses of old men wearing beards, frock coats and aprons, long forgotten and irrelevant. Finally, he saw it. The painting was a three-foot by four-foot canvas, cracked and somewhat pitted but in an amazingly good state of preservation, nestled inside an ornate carved oak frame. It was suspended by thick wires from hooks in the South-facing stone wall of the lodge at the rear of the structure.
“Beautiful….is it not, Detective?” Albermarle asked with just a whiff of pompous sarcasm.
It was a snapshot in time. It showed a group of twelve bearded Masons, fully decked out in their Aprons and regalia, maneuvering a small stone on a hoist into a recess in the ground of what appeared to be a construction site. A Minister dressed in full Old-English Ecclesiastical garments festooned with formal lace trimmings stood nearby. An engraved brass plate at the lower part of the frame bore its title.
Although Heinlein certainly was no art critic – this painting looked pretty authentic. Then he saw it…. faded but still legible, the name of the artist who painted it. On the lower right-hand corner of the canvas, signed in the formalized script of the time period was: Elzbieta Ebersoll. Heinlein took a picture of the entire painting and a separate blow-up of the artist’s signature with his phone.
“What do you know about the artist who painted this picture, Grand Master? Detective Heinlein asked.
“Ahhh…” Albermarle said as he squinted at the signature. “Ebersoll was a famous name back in those days…. Revolutionary War heroes and such. But, I believe, this artist was the wife of a 33rd Degree Master Mason – Rolf Ebersoll – a Game Warden who immigrated to America from Germany in the 1700s. One of our Lodge’s luminaries. He’s enshrined in our records.
Rolf Ebersoll was a hunter of renown and, later, one of General George Washington’s crack snipers in an elite American Ranger unit. I believe there are still Ebersolls living in Basking Ridge…the clan was quite prolific and financially successful. Original investors in the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company chain of food stores, I believe…and big movers in New Jersey and New York real estate, too. They’re immensely wealthy…”
Detective Heinlein found no “Ebersolls” in Basking Ridge records. He expanded his search – and hit paydirt. Harding Township in Morris County. The wealthiest enclave in all of New Jersey. People so well-fixed that they actually got the proposed Harding Township entrance and exit ramps on to and off of US Route 287 erased when the highway was built in the 1960’s. The United States Congress changed the road plans in an unprecedented bipartisan vote, almost overnight.
Richard “Dick” Ebersoll lived in a Mansion on Lees Hill Road. The toniest neighborhood of the toniest town in New Jersey. He was CEO and Managing Director of Ebersoll & Furness, a hedge fund in New York City. Heinlein had seen him on CNBC “Squawk Box” being interviewed by financial correspondent Andrew Ross Sorkin a few months ago.
No way was some Detective from Warren Township in Somerset County going to push his way into Ebersoll’s digs in Harding. Heinlein knew that people in Ebersoll’s paygrade were surrounded 24/7 by the best security money could buy. A sit-down with Ebersoll was going to take planning – and tact.
Heinlein reached out to a cop-buddy in the Morris County Sheriff’s Department – who hooked him up with a Harding Township cop named Tod Bransen. One thing led to another and within a few days Heinlein was waiting at an impressive wrought-iron double gate at the end of Ebersoll’s driveway on Lee’s Hill Road. It buzzed open right on time – 1:00PM. He drove up a winding white-gravel path past immaculate landscaping and stopped at the front door of what he could only describe as an elegant fortress. Stone walls, slate roof, tall windows, brass door-knocker – the whole nine-yards. The place was a castle. Heinlein knew some lucky people in Warren that had money – but this level of wealth was what he called “F_ck-you money”. This guy Ebersoll had some real buckeroos.
Heinlein figured that if your family came to America in the early 1700’s – and were serious and sober about watching their pennies grow over the years – the “miracle of compound interest” took care of later generations. But the Ebersoll’s had obviously multiplied their wealth over the last couple of centuries; it had logarithmically increased, not just passively grew by random and chance investments. Theirs was wealth amassed through hard work and persistence, market insight and accurate judgment. His home was the pinnacle of that effort; a Temple to the Ebersoll Gods that had blessed them so generously.
Detective Heinlein pressed the small, nondescript doorbell once and waited, certain “Jeeves” or some such old, fussy butler in absurd livery would open the impressively carved, aged door. He once again took in the manicured lawn and bushes that covered the front yard of the place, feeling just about the right twinge of envy to confirm to himself he was normal. He lived in Warren – in a 50’s rancher with a slab foundation and cinder block walls. All his appliances were old, and the place needed a new roof. Hardy top-shelf.
Heinlein leaned in to hit the doorbell button again – and the big door opened. Standing before him was a trim, sandy-haired guy with a Robert Redford-waspy face and steel-blue eyes. He wore a red flannel shirt, well-washed-out jeans and a pair of Topsiders he must have had since college.
“You must be Detective Heinlein” he said, right-hand extended. “I’m Dick Ebersoll. Please do come in….”
After their handshake Heinlein got just a whiff of a grand tour. Rooms, rooms and more rooms. German flags. Teutonic Crucifixes. Paintings, tapestries, endless examples of antique furniture, fireplace mantles laden with old weapons and beer steins, shields with crossed swords – all on their walk to the “study”. Upon entering, Heinlein was teleported into a modern financial mission-control command center that momentarily hurt his eyes. Walls of flashing monitors – computer screens all following market trends and currency trades. This was how Dick Ebersoll, Master of the Universe, reaped the obscene profits that propelled Ebersoll & Furness into the highest ranks of private equity funds in America.
He gestured towards a large conference table with a tray of interesting looking sandwiches on it and four large glass pots of coffee on warmers.
“Please have a seat and a sandwich or two…. this is how I spend most of my days when I’m in ‘Jersey. My wife, Anna, died a few years ago – and I miss my kids terribly. It’s really a pleasure to have a guest to talk to…”
The big house did seem empty. Heinlein felt that Ebersoll’s personality was genuine. He was remarkably unimpressed with himself. A guy’s guy. A straight shooter. Heinlein instinctively liked him. He had good “cop radar” about things like that.
“In the coffee pots is caffeinated Folgers, which I get on sale at Whole Foods. Nothing fancy. Cream and sugars are there. The sandwiches are freshly made ham, chicken salad and tuna salad in whole-wheat pita. No garlic on anything. I’m allergic.”
Ebersoll seemed to revel in his pedestrian tastes. For a rich Dude, he didn’t exactly put on airs.
“I spent years on trading floors at the New York Stock Exchange and in the “pit” at JP Morgan Chase. My practical German nature makes me about as exciting as a monk. I could be the subject of one of those gag Dos Equis commercials…“He is the most boring man alive…”
Heinlein poured himself some coffee dug into a chicken salad pita square. He was famished. It was delicious.
“Oddly enough, it’s your German heritage that brings me here today, Mr. Ebersoll…” said the detective between chews.
“I was intrigued when Harding PD told me that a Warren Township Detective wanted to speak with me. By the way – call me Dick. ” Ebersoll wolfed down another pita half. “My family has a strange connection to Warren….I’ve haven’t been there in decades. I’m told you’re investigating the disappearance of those three girls. It’s a tragedy. I have children…two girls studying engineering at the University of Heidelberg and a boy in Dortmund learning to be a Braumeister. I can’t imagine the despair of losing a child. God help their parents.”
Detective Heinlein dived right in.
“It appears that your Great-Great-Great Grandfather Rolf’s wife Elzbieta was quite a painter…I saw one of her works at a Masonic Lodge in Sommerville: Laying of the Cornerstone at the First Episcopal Church in Warren, 1746. I believe the painting included the likeness of your distant relative, Rolf, among the Masonic dignitaries placing the stone. He was a Grand Master, was he not?”
Dick Ebersoll looked warily at Heinlein and then shifted his gaze to an enormous window overlooking his domain beyond. Mount Olympus to most of us mortals. An awkward few minutes passed.
“Heinlein….is that German, Detective?” Ebersol said quietly as he examined his interlocutor with steely-blue eyes. Heinlein nodded in the affirmative.
“Ahh, yes. As a kindred soul of German blood, you know how we Aryans revere our forebearers. I keep a library of volumes, documents, newspaper articles and testamentary accounts tracing the migration of my family from Prussia to the American continent. Years of details memorializing the family Ebersoll’s New World Adventure. But the most compelling strands of the Ebersoll clan’s tapestry are its stories – its oral tradition passed from father to sons and daughters. Tales of the Indian Wars, Revolutionary War skirmishes, Civil War battles, World War II Pacific Campaign histories – the oral record we were told as children by our elders….”
“You see, Detective, we Ebersolls are not just a family – we are a Tribe. German is our first language and is spoken in our homes exclusively. My daughters will marry pure blood Germans of good background – like their mothers before them. Men of Aryan stock. My son will marry a “Junge Duetsches Madchen” – a young German Maiden. A healthy, chaste and morally proper girl from the Old Country. A virgin, perhaps? We can only hope. Yes, my son Dieter will sow his wild oats – but he’ll take for his Fraulein a Maiden with a German heart and German values. Ready to carry forward the Ebersoll bloodline.
I know how to make money. That’s my talent. My role in all of this is to increase and cement the financial foundation for our Tribe. Then they can endure. And if – when – the United States becomes irretrievably unraveled by its wars, its foreign lobbies and corrupt legal system, we’ll leave. The Ebersoll Tribe will adopt another safe haven. I have already laid the groundwork for this. I own vast tracts of land in South America. I have more friends in Uruguay now than I have in Washington, DC. Our beloved country is spinning out of control…its dénouement – final chapter – will play out soon. It’s already being written in Tel Aviv….”
While Heinlein found this harangue interesting – the Detective had business to take care of. “Dick…please tell me about Rolf.……”
Dick Ebersoll reached for another pita sandwich and gulped more Folgers.
“In our family, we were told bedtime stories about “The Patriarch” Rolf Heinrich Ebersoll… he was spoken of with great respect. In quiet whispers and almost Christ-like reverence. George Washington’s Sharpshooter. An Indian fighter and Continental Army Ranger.
But the appellations for him we heard most as children were “Monstertoter” and “Monsterjaeger”. “Monster-killer” or “Monster-Hunter”. Short version of the legend?
Rolf killed something in the “Warren Section” of the Watchung Range. A Monster that was taking and skinning people – and eating them. He came to America as a for-hire “Schutzen Meister” or expert rifleman. Warren Elders paid him to track and kill this thing that was terrorizing them. One day, he did.
Detective Heinlein pushed him further. “So…in your estimation, was this a mere legend or was there some truth to it all…was there some animal Rolf killed that was hunting and killing settlers in Warren back then?”
Ebersoll didn’t miss a beat. He was dead serious.
“It is no legend, Detective! Rolf Ebersoll killed a Demon. He shot it in its face. The Leni Lenape Indians knew of the Warren monster and avoided the place like the plague. The thing lived underground. It abducted humans and ate them. It was seven feet long, crawled on its belly like a lizard – and sometimes reared up on its back legs. It was covered in black scales. It had red eyes. It screeched. It was intelligent. It had five long claws on each appendage and steel-hard talons on each claw that it used to peel the flesh off its victims. Its mouth had fangs and flat teeth for chewing. It smelled like the bowels of Hell. It lived inside the tunnels and fissures of gray rock in the Warren section of Watchung. And – perhaps – it once again stalks that place.”
Heinlein didn’t expect his statement. Ebersoll spoke of these childhood bedtime stories like they were historical facts.
“Are you saying, Dick, that you actually believe these legends?”
Ebersoll’s response was surprising – and definitive.
“Yes, Detective Heinlein. I believe it all!”
“Why? Because when I was a young man, I saw the carcass of the creature Rolf killed. With its face blown apart and fangs hanging out. It had red eyes – even in Death! Before the Demon was crated up and transported to some locked room in – I believe – The Smithsonian Institution, never to see the light of day again. I remember the men in their black suits and hats – and the multi-wheeled, green army Ambulance from Fort Dix – pulling up to my childhood home in Basking Ridge. It took six burley soldiers to carry the glass and bronze container the creature’s remains was sealed in from my family home and load it into their heavy-duty medical transport. They had guns and a Warrant from a US District Court. My father objected strenuously – but to no avail. Go to Washington, DC Detective Heinlein. Your Monster is there if you can access the right secret room in the Smithsonian. It’s where they warehouse all the unspeakable cryptoid entities in our world that science can’t explain. They also took our splendid photographs of it. The Warrant covered that, too.”
“You saw it…you saw the Monster?” Heinlein’s head was spinning.
“Yes, Detective. As clear as I’m looking at you right now” Ebersoll said. “Do you think Rolf would have left on the field of battle such a trophy? He told the Warren men who hired him that the carcass had mysteriously disappeared – but Rolf kept it safe for posterity….He was no fool. Come with me.”
Heinlein followed Dick Ebersoll down a flight of stone stairs into a wine cellar – obviously climate and humidity controlled. There were thousands of bottles of wine lining the walls – except towards the back. A large glass case was positioned against the rear wall – perhaps seven feet long and three feet deep, lighted from within. Its lid was locked.
Inside was a five foot long, single shot flint-lock rifle with an ornate carved stock and magnificently fluted brass trigger guard. The wood was pitted and scarred from years of hunting and military sharpshooting. The barrel was dark but not pitted or rusted. The fire-lock mechanism was a work of art – a bit larger and more complex than an American Kentucky Long Rifle – but hand-crafted with the precision of a swiss timepiece. It had double triggers – one for “set” and one for fire. It looked undeniably…. German.
“This, Detective Heinlein, is Rolf’s Schutze Gewehr – his Schuzte Meister’s Rifle. A technological masterpiece of its day. This is what Herr Jaeger Monstertoter Rolf Ebersoll used to kill his Warren monster back in the 1700’s….”
Directly above the display case an old, grainy black and white 8X10 photo hung on the wall in a battered wooden frame. A picture of an enormous bronze-reinforced glass sarcophagus, inside of which floated…. a thing. The sum total of every nightmare Heinlein ever had. He stared at the photo in awe.
“My Aunt Marguerite – bless her soul – hid this photo in her apron when the goons came. Don’t stare at it too long. You’ll never sleep the same again.
It’s all true Detective Heinlein…
Why do you think they call the place Warren? It’s a labyrinth connecting our world to Hell…”
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft and his Assignees
www.bogironpatriot.com
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