Killer On The Train

by Bruce Alan Jensen

  I like this woman! Why didn’t I dig up the courage and ask her out?

  SIX Thursday, November 21

  The morning sun coming through his motorhome bedroom window awakened Hank, giving him time to shower, make a cappuccino and drive to the kennel to get Molly when it opened. After returning to the motorhome, he fed her, then took her for a short walk.

  Before leaving, he disconnected the utilities, hooked up the tow bar to the car and left the Skyline Wilderness RV Park in Napa.

  An hour and a half later Hank pulled into the reserved space at the RV Park next to the Cal Expo State Fairgrounds, Molly’s tail waved. Excited, Molly raced back and forth catching the Frisbee tosses. Watching Molly’s happiness made Hank’s day. When they returned to the motorhome, he gave her a treat and water. He unhooked the car from the motorhome and drove to downtown Sacramento, leaving Molly to recover from their excursion.

  With Grandé Lattés and biscotti in hand, Hank arrived at the Bureau building on I Street. The Bureau office was in an old stone building with a brass plaque designating it as a historic preservation site. Entering the building, the cream and umber colored marble floors and the dark, original walnut wood paneling and leaded glass transom windows above each double door on both sides of the foyer impressed him. He approached the elevator, a unique cage design with two doors, one of stained dark oak wood, and the other of metal that expanded and locked. Moving to the third floor the elevator creaked and groaned before stopping with a lurch.

  Once he was positive the old cage had stopped, he unlocked and slid the metal door across, compressing it to give way to the wooden door that opened with a door knob. There was a sign that read, “Open the door slow.”

  Exiting, he was careful not to slam someone with the door. He faced a receptionist who directed him to Alicia’s office. Her door was open, so Hank entered. Her smile of greeting encouraged him.

  “Good morning, Hank. Chris will meet the press and join us in a few minutes. Would you care for some coffee?”

  “No thanks, I stopped at Star Java,” he said, winking as he handed her a latté and a biscotti. “Hope you like this.”

  “Well, aren't you thoughtful. Thanks!” She grinned, her eyes sparkled. “This is a real treat. The coffee here doesn’t compare unless you enjoy drinking drain cleaner.”

  “You get what you pay for. Why we cops continue to drink the same bad coffee, day after day, is a mystery. I thought we had unions to negotiate for us. Good coffee must be a line in the sand for management not to cross.”

  She chuckled, pointing through the open vertical blinds covering the windows to the squad room. “The press conference will be in a few minutes.” Hank looked to see a conference table along a side wall to accommodate the press setting up video cameras and lights. As he watched, a few people entered wearing press passes.

  “Mind if I listen in on the press meeting?” he asked.

  Sipping her latté, she nodded as she motioned him out with a wave of her hand, while looking at the flat computer screen on her desk.

  Hank strolled into the large room with an open area in the center. Six Agent modules equipped with a desk, two side chairs, file drawers, and computer screens sat along one wall. Along the wall opposite Alicia's office were five large wall-mounted monitors, a white easy-erase board, and a podium. The shiny tile floor blended well with the dark stained wood wainscot and cream painted walls. Interrogation and technical monitoring rooms were down a hallway from the reception area.

  Hank recalled his career as a cop, with the squad room not as sophisticated as this one.

  At half past ten, Chris Bridge strode to the podium and described the incident to the press. “The Bureau has no suspects for the murder aboard the Napa Wine Train. Money and valuables found on the victim rule out robbery as a motive. The identity of the victim would normally withheld, pending notification of the immediate family, which we've done. The people on the train know his identity, the victim was Mr. David Hatchett, a noted local food critic.”

  Agent Bridge informed the press that the Medical Examiner had determined that the 54-year-old victim suffered two separate injuries, showing one possible assailant and one weapon used in the attack.

  “An event employee discovered the victim in a train car on Wednesday. We are interviewing persons with any connection or proximity to the deceased. That is all I can offer. Thank you.” Agent Bridge concluded the meeting, taking no questions. Besides a few reporters, only the local network affiliates with cameras and lights and the Sacramento Bee newspaper attended. They yelled out questions as Bridge left, but he ignored them.

  Hank followed Agent Bridge to Tomlinson's office. “I’m glad that’s over! It went well but there isn’t much to tell them, so they weren’t too happy,” Bridge reported.

  “I’m sure you did well, Chris. Let's dig in and solve this case. Any word on Hatchett's family?” Alicia asked.

  “His wife, Renee Girard Hatchett, age fifty-two, married for 28 years and lived in the St. Francis Woods district of San Francisco. From what I’ve learned, she comes from old money. She's scheduled to arrive at noon today to make an official identification. Don Ferguson will interview her.”

  Alicia gave her nod of approval. “Thanks, Chris.”

  Alicia called to the other two agents involved with the upcoming interviews to join in her office.

  “Agents Lee Michaels and Cordero Smith, this is Hank Carson, whom you met at the train station. Hank is a retired LAPD homicide detective here to observe and assist if needed. Since Hank was on the train at the time of the incident, I thought he might give us some valuable input. I’ve asked him to watch the interviews from our monitoring room to identify any discrepancies related to what he observed on the train.”

  Agent Smith smiled and shook Hank's hand. He reminded Hank of Will Smith, the actor, similar size and features along with a friendly smile. Michaels was stand-offish, shaking Hank’s hand with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. A thought came into Hank's mind, Michaels appeared enamored with Alicia, but not him.

  Michaels’ distaste for Hank was obvious. Aware of the tension between the two men, Alicia said, “Mr. Carson has knowledge of the people on the train. He may be helpful in ferreting out vital information. He's here at my request, and I expect all of you to take advantage of his participation.” She paused, ensuring the men received the value of her words.

  Not looking appeased, Agent Michaels spoke up, his arms crossed over his chest. “Boss, isn’t there a conflict of interest here? I mean Carson was on the train so why isn't he a suspect?” He stared at Hank with more than a hint of derision.

  Taking a step closer to Michaels, Hank said, “Do you have a problem with me, Agent Michaels?” The agent felt comfortable enough to object to his presence on the team and to suggest Hank could be a suspect. To control his anger, Hank took a deep breath, positive that his first impression was correct. Michaels had a thing for his boss. Hank would bet his life on it.

  “Never mind, Mr. Carson,” Alicia cautioned. “It's my decision. I expect full cooperation from everyone on my team,” she said, looking at Michaels.

  “Yes, boss. Sorry.” Michaels unfolded his arms and looked away for an instant before composing himself.

  “Okay, let's work together,” she said, looking from one man to another.

  Before the agents questioned the individual suspects and possible witnesses, they received an earpiece from Austin Dugan, the technician monitoring the interrogations. These enabled them to receive remote instructions and receive more questions to ask from Tomlinson. She handed out a list of preliminary questions to ask each interviewee.

  “You know the routine. Use your best judgment. If you want to expand on the suspect’s answer, go for it. Any discrepancy should be cross-checked. Talk to one person at a time. Separate the couples. Follow the order listed.” Alicia said, focusing on her agents. She then looked to Hank. “Hank, I want you to join me in the observation room.”

  The interviews we
re visible on multiple video monitors controlled by a technician. Alicia handed Hank an earpiece before putting on her headpiece. Three interviewing agents escorted their assigned person to one of the three Interrogation rooms.

  The control room contained multiple computers. The technician, Austin, described the setup. “Boss, each computer is set to a different channel for audio. You can see all the rooms simultaneously, but, you can switch channels to hear each one separately. I have them each labeled for you. It can be confusing, but this is the best I could come up with. We're usually not prepared for so many suspects.”

  “This is enough, for now, Austin. Great job.”

  Austin’s cheeks turned red, and his face registered a decrease in stress. He beamed at Alicia as if his team had won the World Series, Hank thought.

  “You did fine, Austin, considering the amount of time you had to pull this off. It shouldn’t take long to rule out most of these folks. Once we’re back to one interview room, your system will be back on track.”

  “I sure hope so, boss.” His smile could not have been brighter.

  Hank looked at the interrogation room through the monitor. From his experience, all interrogation rooms had the same intimidating look. That was the point. The windowless, stuffy cubicle could rattle even the toughest person. To some, it would feel claustrophobic because the government issued steel table and uncomfortable chairs dominated the space. Not much room left for movement around the room. Add to that the eerie lighting. A steel mesh covered up a four-tube fluorescent fixture attached above the table with such an intense blue-white light made the human skin look extraterrestrial. Yep, the room unnerved even a hardened criminal.

  Alicia and Hank watched Bridge enter with a man wearing Armani, looking confident and pleasant.

  “Mr. Blackstone, please take a seat. State your full name, address, profession, and the reason for attending the Wine Train event yesterday.”

  Blackstone complied, explaining his role. “I want to help however I can.”

  “Your participation here is voluntary, and you may have an attorney present. You are not under arrest or required to answer any question. Do you understand?” Bridge asked.

  “Yes. I don't need an attorney. It’s such a terrible thing to happen, especially during that spectacular occasion. As I said, anything to help,” Blackstone replied.

  Bridge established that Blackstone had no personal connection to Hatchett, but knew of him. As a wine merchant, he kept abreast of the dining scene and the various descriptions and ratings of wines he represented.

  “Mr. Blackstone, have you read any of Mr. Hatchett’s reviews?”

  “Yes, too many of his reviews and comments were unwarranted and unjust. I have often spoken with chefs who received one or more of Hatchett's less than complimentary reviews. The man was a snake who seemed to revel in tearing anyone and everyone down. I steered clear of the fracas though he degraded, more than once, some of the wines I carry. Fortunately, it never affected my sales. The wines I carry are stand-outs in every restaurant I sell to.”

  “You said you often spoke to these chefs. What were their feelings about Hatchett? Was anyone so angry they would want to kill him?”

  “Oh God, no! They called him an arrogant, pontificating, blowhard without the talent to know a well-prepared meal or wine.”

  “Please give me the names of those chefs on the train?”

  “Do I have to?” Blackstone pleaded.

  “I’m afraid so. It's important that we establish who may have a motive and who we can eliminate as a suspect. Your responses are confidential and won't become public unless your testimony's needed during a trial,” reassured Agent Bridge. “I wouldn't worry about that at the moment.”

  Blackstone paused for a few seconds. Taking a deep breath, he gave Agent Bridge the names of one restaurant owner and two chefs. He also mentioned two of the wines and the names of their representatives that Hatchett panned.

  “Did you see Mr. Hatchett during the train ride?”

  “My wife and I sat at a table with a couple we know from the Andretti Winery. Hatchett was near the wine bar bending the ear of some poor man I didn't know. Mr. Hatchett was lamenting about the poor quality of these home-grown wines. I overheard him say there was no comparison to the Nouveau wines of France.”

  “In which car did this take place?” Bridge asked.

  “We were in the Silverado car.”

  “What else did Hatchett say?”

  “I only heard snippets of what he was saying. My wife and I ignored him and gave our full attention to the conversation we were having. That's all I remember.”

  “What time did you last see Mr. Hatchett?”

  “Just after eleven-twenty.”

  “How can you be so sure of the precise time?”

  “The Andretti Winery people had left to go to the other bar car. I got two more glasses of wine for my wife and me. While talking to the bartender, I glanced at the clock over the bar. I also noticed Hatchett heading away from the bar.”

  “Which direction did he go?” Bridge asked.

  “I think he headed toward the rear of the train. I was concentrating on getting back to our table without spilling wine on anyone. The bar was crowded.”

  “Did you return to your table and wife?”

  “No. A fellow named... Hmm, Brisbane, approached me. He said he was an investor in wineries and wanted to know which wines were the biggest sellers we carried.”

  “How long were you two talking?”

  “I'm not sure, maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Then you went back to the table where your wife was?”

  “Yes. I asked her if she wanted to sample the food. She said she did, so I went to the buffet and returned with two plates filled with appetizers for my wife and I”

  Bridge asked a few more questions before leading Blackstone to the waiting area and told him he might get called again but was free to leave. Bridge then called and escorted the next person to the interview room.

  Elizabeth Brantley worked as a wine steward in the rear bar car. She was a slim brunette, married, forty-four years old, and attractive. Using the same format, Bridge questioned her. She did not know Hatchett, except by reputation, and by his picture on his column. Mrs. Brantley remembered noticing him once before noon. She explained that she’d heard he was rude and overbearing, so she avoided any contact. She had nothing else to contribute to the investigation.

  The two other agents conducted similar interviews with similar results. By one-thirty, the team had interviewed twelve individuals. Five people said Hatchett was not in any of the cars after twelve o'clock. Every person interviewed had an alibi, someone who would vouch for their whereabouts from eleven-thirty to the time they left the train. The seven kitchen staff and two bar staff got scheduled for interviews between three and six. Two winery reps and three executives who paid to attend the event got scheduled later in the day.

  It was a long, arduous process, asking the same questions over and over again, but the agents didn't fall into a rut of complacency throughout the interviews. Alicia and Hank rotated their observation of the three rooms, switching from channel to channel. Not one person complained of being inconvenienced, and all expressed an interest in helping. It became as monotonous as a mantra.

  SEVEN

  Hank got invited to join the Bureau agents for a late lunch at a local Italian deli down the block from the offices. Crammed around two tables pulled together, each person gave their order to the server.

  They shared information about the interviews just conducted, comparing notes and making a few suppositions about the crime. “Three of the train's kitchen personnel vouched for each other confirming they had all been in the kitchen between noon and two pm. No one was confident that any of the other staff didn't leave the kitchen,” Bridge said.

  Hank listened without commenting unless asked.

  “Executive Chef, Damion Lewis, 35, another full-time employee of the Wine Train was in the k
itchen at the time of loading the train at eight that morning until the deputies forced him to leave. The other two employees I talked with confirmed this,” Bridge added. “Stan Klein, the waiter who found the body, claimed, yesterday, that once he finished stocking the bar at around ten-twenty, he spent the rest of the morning working the bar in the Silverado car. His immediate manager, uh - let me refresh my memory,” Bridge said, checking his notes. “Uh, also yesterday when we talked with Jackson Crow, the bartender, said Stan’s claim was correct.”

  Agent Ferguson gave his account. “I have confirmation of this from Chloe Martin, a PR person with Franciscan Winery. She was working the same bar from eleven until everyone left. I’ve got another pissed-off chef who had a bad review from the victim. His name is Giles Ardon, and he said he was in the front car from about eleven on. But he doesn’t remember the names of the wine reps he talked with.”

  “Anyone with subjects unaccounted for?” Tomlinson asked.

  “Yes, a busboy, Matt Henn, was working the rear cars from the kitchen to the last car. I have one of our guys picking him up,” Bridge said. “I hope to get this resolved this afternoon.”

  Ferguson said, “Mrs. Jackson says she had read some of the victim’s reviews but didn’t know him. She was in the restroom before noon, but she's not sure of the exact time. Her husband was away from their table when she returned. Anyone confirm this?”

  “Is Neal Jackson her spouse?” Smith asked.

  “Yes, that’s the guy,” Ferguson replied.

  “I interviewed him. Said he was still in the car with a group of passengers tasting wine when he noticed his wife at the table. Her back was to him. Two guys in that group confirmed this,” added Smith.