Dachstaht

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 have.
To a population grown overly familiar with the bitter humiliations of defeat, the future looked bright. But all is not well. 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, baker, and candlestick maker. 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 everything changed. With arrival of the camp's garrison bars, brothels, massage parlors, and boarding houses sprang up everywhere.
Then came the contractors, salesmen, con men, scam artists, prostitutes, girlfriends, wives, families, and other assorted camp followers and hangers-on. They paid rent. They bought groceries. Restaurants expanded. Cinemas, theaters, and nightclubs opened. The town grew. Everybody was happy. Until a string of bizarre deaths threatened to expose a darker side of paradise. Arlen Skunk, hapless, irrevocably corrupt, chief of the Dachstaht police department, is not a detective.
He's not even a real cop. But with a Gestapo drug lord wannabe and workaholic labor camp commander muscling their way into his town, and a few old enemies still lurking for payback, none of that matters. If he doesn't figure out what's going on, and do it quickly, he will not survive.