In September, 1939, Germany's Third Reich was approaching its zenith. An economic recovery-turned-expansion was bolting the nation to a level of prosperity and international prestige it'd not enjoyed since before the First World War. German armies verged on total victory in Poland were announcing the nation's newly reminted power, and final response to the hated Treaty of Versailles, as little else could. To a population grown overly familiar with the bitter humiliations of defeat, the future looked bright. But all is not well. In the small town of Dachstaht, nestled deep in the Bavarian forest, bodies are turning up all over the place.
With exceptions for geography and human nature, the town of Dachstaht looked about the same as any other rural Bavarian town. Same clock tower. Same half-timber houses. Same taverns. Same butcher. Same baker. Same blacksmith. Same fat bürgermeister. It was an old town. Legend claimed the local castle, a relic from the 11th century, had once been the stronghold of some early Teutonic king. And it was a quiet town. For nearly 1000 years nothing ever happened, and nothing ever changed in Dachstaht. Then, in 1937, an SS labor camp opened nearby and all hell broke loose.
Arlen Skunk, the hapless chief of Dachstaht's backwater police department is not a detective. He's not even a real cop. But none of that matters because if he doesn't figure out what's going on, and do it quick, he could wind up dead.
