by Warren Court
“We know you’ll try your hardest,” Moonshine said, and pushed off his desk. Temple knew the body signals well enough to know he should leave.
Temple spotted Mendoza standing up in his cubicle, talking on the phone, as he walked back over to Team Two’s area. He hung up just as Temple got there.
“It’s all set. Sara’s just come on duty, so she hasn’t pulled anything yet. Got her boss to release her to us, and Mimico is on board. They have the engine already to go. No one’s touched it.”
“We can pick Sara up on our way out there.”
6
Mendoza offered Sara Chang the front seat, but she said the back was fine.
“So how you doing, Sara?” Mendoza asked as they pulled away from the Forensic Services building on Jane St. and got on the highway. Temple tried his hardest not to take personally the snub Sara had given him over the front seat, but he failed; he pushed the accelerator to the floor at every opportunity. He saw Sergio grab for the handle above the passenger door as he swooped onto the 401.
“I’m great, Sergio. How are you?”
Temple noticed the overemphasis on the word great; that was for his benefit.
“You know, still out making the moves. Temple here, he’s too old to go out with me anymore.”
“Is that so?” Sara said.
“You still living with your mom?” Temple asked.
“Yes,” Sara said coldly, and looked out the window. He looked over at Sergio, who was beaming. Temple’s partner knew the history between them. Their relationship had just been starting to get serious when Temple had blown it: Sara had caught him in bed with a well-known reporter. He should have never given Sara a key to his place.
Temple had tried to make it up with Sara, but failed. He had also tried to restore their professional relationship, but she held it over him. Now, belting along the highway, he asked himself why he wanted her to go with them out to Mimico. Was it because she was the best, or did he just want to see her? Or did he just want to punish her, make her uncomfortable? Just do your job. The both of you.
It was a quick drive down the 427 to the lake and the Mimico GO station, where there was a large train yard. There were several complete trains with a dozen cars each on the sidings, ready to go. They’d be going into action for the afternoon rush hour, when service on all lines was increased.
Temple had never been here before, so they stopped at the Mimico station to ask for directions. The woman behind the desk directed them to the main yard entrance, and when they drove up, a security guard at the gate let them through after Temple flashed his tin.
Sergio had called ahead and the operations manager, a guy called Fieldstone, was waiting for them in the main office. Fieldstone was middle-aged and balding, his gut stretching out a cheap white shirt and clip-on tie. After introductions, he handed out hard hats to the three visitors and they walked back out to Temple’s Buick, where he climbed in beside Sara. He directed them across the train yard to the main train shed, a large green structure with several tracks running through the length of it.
In it were half a dozen engines with men working on them. Fieldstone led them over to the engine in question. Number 4156 was straddling an inspection pit, and there were two train mechanics in greasy coveralls standing next to it talking.
“Guys, these are the cops.” Fieldstone didn’t bother with names. The way he said the cops rankled Temple. The mechanics took quite a shine to Sara, however, and Temple saw her blush. They probably didn’t get many females out here. Temple suspected train engine maintenance was still a male-dominated field.
One of the mechanics said, “She came in late last night and we put her here for inspection. Routine anytime there’s a collision.”
“Does it do any damage?” Temple asked.
“It might loosen a hydraulic hose. We have to go over everything before we can clear her for service. Not sure what you’re hoping to find.”
“Is the engineer who was driving this unit last night on duty?”
“He’s coming on in half an hour,” Fieldstone interjected.
“We’ll want to talk to him.”
“Sure, but I don’t know how much he’ll have to say about it. It happens so fast. At night it’s worse. One minute you have clear track ahead of you, and the next…”
Temple turned to Sara.
“You need help getting your things from the car?” When they’d picked her up, Sara had put a large forensics toolbox in the Buick’s trunk.
“No, I can manage.”
“Sergio, go with her,” Temple said, and turned away.
When they came back with the gear, the mechanic led them down into the inspection pit. It was lit up with spotlights built into the walls on either side. This was the first time Temple had ever seen the underside of an engine. It was intimidating, overpowering in its sheer industrial perfection. Hug wheels and gears. Hoses everywhere. It was ominous going under such a huge, heavy thing, and Temple felt slightly claustrophobic.
“If anything is going to be caught, it’s going to be up there under the wheels,” the mechanic said.
All three cops took their flashlights out and started poking the beams into areas not already lit up.
“Thank you, sir,” Temple said. “We can take it from here.”
“Right,” the mechanic said, a little put out. “Holler if you need anything.”
“What exactly are we looking for?” Sara said after the mechanic was gone.
“Anything to help identify this guy.”
“Like the guy’s head,” Sergio said.
“Right, like the guy’s head,” Temple said.
“What’s that?” Sara said. “Up there.” There was a long, greasy black thing that looked like one of those fire-starter logs you could buy in a convenience store up north. It was lodged up under on the rear wheels, entangled in a spaghetti of hydraulic hoses.
“We need a ladder. Sergio, get a ladder,” Temple said.
Sergio ran back up out of the pit. Now that they were alone, Temple said, “So how have you been?”
“I’m doing okay. Doing great,” she added quickly. “You?”
“Lonely,” Temple said.
“What about that girl you were seeing?”
“She was a one-night stand.”
“Is that supposed to make it better? You threw out what we had over a one-nighter?”
“We were only together for two months.”
“Two months, three weeks, three days,” Sara added.
“Right. Okay, let’s call it three months. Was that an engagement?”
“You gave me a key. Bet you wish you hadn’t. But I’m sure glad you did.”
Sergio came banging back down into the inspection pit with an A-frame ladder and set it up by the engine’s rear wheels. Sara climbed up and came back down in ten seconds.
“Looks like an arm. Can’t say for sure, but it’s not an animal.”
“Well get to it,” Temple said.
The two detectives exited the inspection pit and joshed with the mechanics while Sara went to work. There was nothing either of them could do anyway, and it would be better for any court case if she worked alone.
“All right, got it,” she called eventually, and Temple and Sergio went back down into the inspection pit. The mechanic wanted to follow, but Temple stopped him with a look.
“It’s an arm. From about the bicep down to the wrist,” Sara said.
“Look at that,” Temple said. “The hand is gone, cut clean off. But look at the top of the arm. Torn to shit.”
The bare arm was covered in black grease, but visible above the elbow were the charcoal-grey outlines of a tattoo. Sara wiped the grease off, exposing the rest of the tattoo. It was an image of a spider climbing up a web.
“Oh no,” Mendoza said.
Temple said nothing.
7
“Russian mob,” Mendoza said.
“Looks like it,” Temple said. “Classic Russian prisoner tattoo. The
spider is climbing up the web, which means our boy was committed to a life of crime. Maybe Peel will find more tattoos on him and Guns and Gangs can put a name to him. They catalogue all that stuff when these guys get busted.”
“Or he could be fresh off the boat,” Mendoza said.
“It’s a possibility,” Temple said.
Sara put the arm in a black bag and closed up her forensics case. They spent another ten minutes giving the underside of the engine a good once-over but didn’t see anything else. Back up on the platform, Sergio helped Sara carry the heavy case and the bag containing the arm out to the car.
“When does that engineer come on?” Temple asked Fieldstone, who was standing with the mechanics.
“He just did. I got a text from the office.”
Fieldstone drove with them the kilometre back to the office. The engineer was waiting for them in the operations lounge sipping a cup of coffee. They left Sara outside with the Buick.
“Bernie, these men are from Toronto Police. They want a word with you about last night.”
Bernie nodded slowly.
“We want to know what you saw last night when you hit that body.”
“It was late, dark as hell out. I saw something on the track about a half kilometre away, hit the brakes and the horn. Nothing we could do. At that stretch we’re up to full speed, hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. Took us ten minutes to stop.”
“You go back and look at it?”
“Nope. Against procedure. I don’t get down out of that cab for anything. Radioed it in. The customer service ambassador, what we used to call the conductor, he went back. Told him not to, but he did anyway.”
“What’s his name?”
Bernie pulled out a book and flipped through.
“Last night it was CSR Turnbull on duty.”
“You have his contact info?”
“You’d have to call the GO Train people. It’s a separate union. We just drive the trains. They open the doors.”
“The spot where you saw the body—you think you could take us there?”
“They’re all done up there by now. Trains were back to running this morning.”
“I know, but If we took you up there, could you point the spot out?”
“I guess. But I’m on duty.”
“We’ll take care of that.”
It took twenty minutes for Temple to clear it with Fieldstone. A replacement engineer was called in and Bernie got in the back of the Buick with Sara. It was good having her along just in case they found anything.
Temple hit the 427 northbound with lights and sirens going. He wanted to get up there as quick as possible. The lack of sleep was catching up with him, and after they got that arm off to the Centre for Forensic Services he was going to crash hard.
Bernie directed them to a service road and explained that after the incident, he was pulled off the cab—union rules—and driven back to Mimico. “Another team comes in and takes the engine and consist down to the yard. It’s a post-traumatic stress thing; you know, hitting a body and all.”
“Do you feel post-traumatic stress?” Temple said.
“I couldn’t tell what it was. Could have been a deer.”
“How many bodies have you hit?”
“This is my fourth in thirty-two years driving trains.”
“Wow,” Mendoza said.
“Yeah. You never get used to it. I’ll probably have to do some sort of mandatory counselling.”
“No. I mean, I saw four dead bodies just last week,” Mendoza said.
Temple shot him a look to admonish him, but secretly he was agreeing with his partner. This Bernie guy should ride on calls with them for a month; he’d know what stress really felt like.
The service road led down to a dirt road that ran alongside the tracks. They were surrounded by farmers’ fields, and they had to swat away swarms of yellowjackets.
“It’s just up a ways here,” Bernie said.
There were definite signs of activity where local law enforcement and GO Train personnel had recently been. There were a half dozen clean-looking Styrofoam coffee cups in a ditch and multiple fresh tire tracks. But after they’d collected the body and moved the affected train out, they had departed the scene. Temple remembered that the Peel Police sergeant had told him they would be back out here at daylight. He shook his head; it was almost late afternoon and there was no sign of them. He doubted they would come unless he made a stink. But he wasn’t going to do that. If his hunch was right, they weren’t going to find a single thing out here to help them make sense of it.
Temple sighed. “I was hoping we could get some bad-guy tire tracks, but no chance.”
“Only way down here is by this path and that service road,” the engineer said.
“So someone can’t wander down here?”
“No. But it’s funny that this is the second time.”
“What?”
“Second time we’ve hit a body out here. Pretty much the same spot. I remember that barn there in the distance.” He pointed.
“Really?” Temple said.
“Yeah. Last time was a year ago. It wasn’t me on the train that time, but mine got held up. I was coming back from Milton. The last run.”
“You mean the last run of the night?”
“Correct. Westbound train hit it. We got held up for hours. We had to go back to the station in Milton and let the people off.”
“So another body, a year before, more or less the same spot.”
“And same track—westbound.”
They heard the roar of a train horn in the distance and saw the light of an approaching engine. It was coming at them fast from the east.
“You’ll wanna step back for this.” The green and white engine blasted its horn three times and then roared by. Bernie waved at the crew in the cab as it flew past, sending up a hurricane of dust and debris in its wake. Temple had to shield his eyes from the dirt flying around.
“He’s calling that in. I know it,” Bernie said. “Bunch of people trackside.”
“Tell me about this other body from last year.”
“I don’t know much about it. Someone lying on the tracks again, late at night.”
Temple looked at Mendoza and raised his eyebrows.
They trekked back to their car and then roared down to Mimico to drop Bernie off.
With a civilian in the car, both the homicide detectives and Sara knew to be silent about whatever might be going through their heads. After he was gone, Temple and Mendoza opened up.
“What are you thinking?” Mendoza said.
“We got possible Russian mob tied into a gangland slaying. One of the shooters gets injured, maybe even killed. His body is professionally done, hands and head cut off. But they can’t get at the tattoos, not in that short amount of time. The body of the dead Russian is left on the tracks. Specifically, the westbound tracks, because they know the engine is going to hit it and do the most damage. Looks like it’s their favourite dumping ground, I figure. So this time maybe the shooter bled out and it was mere disposal, or maybe they took care of him because they knew they couldn’t take him to a hospital. All that bullshit about these rogue doctors that organized crime have on the payroll is just that—bullshit.”
They dropped Sara off and told her to get in touch when she’d completed the report on the arm. She said she would. Mendoza got a full, genuine smile from her; Temple got only half as much. He watched as Sara walked into the forensics building, pulling the case with the arm inside.
“Icy cold,” Mendoza said. Temple said nothing, but watched Sara until she disappeared into the CFS building.
When they got back to headquarters it was 5 PM; it had been a long day. Temple realized he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and it was hitting him hard.
“What are we doing now?” Mendoza said, stifling a yawn.
“We’re hitting the clubs in Chinatown tonight. I want to track down some members of the Lucky Eights, if they’re dumb e
nough to poke their heads up above ground.”
Mendoza smothered another yawn, and this time Temple joined him.
“Grab a couple of hours sleep in the back,” he told Mendoza. “Things don’t start happening in those clubs until ten. You should know that—it’s your scene.”
“Karaoke bars? No, I don’t think so.”
There was a storeroom with a cot in it for detectives who were doing long stretches. Homicide work was relentless; it played havoc with a detective’s health, ripped holidays to shreds and burned marriages to the ground faster than any other role on the job. Saturate that with the nonstop stress of seeing bodies week in and week out, and you had the highest rate of suicide and mental health issues of pretty much any profession you could name.
Mendoza headed for the storeroom; Temple lay back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily.
When that train driver had mentioned going in for mandatory counselling, Mendoza and Temple had both laughed. But privately, Temple was thinking about his next session with the TPS-provided shrink. He had a doozie to tell the guy next time he was on the couch; the vision of that mangled body on the slab in the Brampton morgue was not going to go away anytime soon.
Temple phoned the Peel sergeant’s cell; they had exchanged cards. Piller sounded anxious when he picked up, like he was ready to go off shift and was annoyed at the intrusion.
“We were out on the GO Train line this afternoon,” Temple said. “The engineer from the train said that there was another incident with a body about a year ago, same location.”
“I’ll have to check. Can I get back to you on that?”
“Hot date?” Temple said. He chuckled, but he wasn’t joking. He hated it when he ran into fellow officers who didn’t embrace the demands of the job like he did.
“No. Dinner with the wife. It’s our wedding anniversary. I’ll get one of my guys to check on it and call you back.”