by R. T. Ray
“Returned favor?” From the smile on Becker's face, it was obvious the folder represented more than a polite business transaction.
“Let's just say a certain young woman in Central Records appreciates the finer things in life,” Becker replied. Allowing the smile to fade, he continued, “But, getting back to your problem, the papers and photos are yours, keep 'em. They may be of some use later.”
Matuszak picked up the thin packet of papers, and after thumbing through several pages, placed the packet in his case folder unread. “I'll go over them in detail later. But for now can you give me a brief summation?”
“Be glad to,” Becker said, sipping on his coffee. “To start off they were certainly a callous bunch back then.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They didn't do squat. A brief primary investigation, and a spattering of follow-up reports a rookie fresh out of the academy could handle. Cursory at best. There's the initial statement of facts, consisting of a routine, two page report stating the train’s failure to arrive at its destination in Baltimore. Then, a couple of days later, a brief follow up report summarizing the investigation and its lack of progress. Finally, there are the missing person reports filed for the passengers who were city residents.”
“That's it?” said Matuszak. “Basic reports, no in-depth investigation?”
Becker leaned back in his chair. “You've got it. You might try other jurisdictions, especially the state and federal level, they would share concurrent jurisdiction. As far as I can determine, city hall's position was that there was nothing to indicate the train’s disappearance actually occurred while it was physically within Baltimore City limits. They were content to defer to the state.”
“You may be right,” Matuszak agreed. By all newspaper accounts I've read, they believed the train would eventually turn up at some abandoned factory siding. After all, a train doesn’t vanish everyday and there aren’t many places to conceal a steam engine, tender and three, sixty foot long rail cars, especially within a congested city.”
“Well, whatever the reason the city was content to let the investigation remain in state hands. As you point out, size and scope would take it out of the realm of ordinary theft, and the state was better equipped to handle the investigation.”
Matuszak was forced to agree. “That puts us back at square one,” he said. “Where could someone conceal a train that it would go undetected for over fifty years?”
“And just as important,” cautioned Becker, his suntanned brow furrowing into a series of thin, etched lines, “one would have to ask why.”
Reaching for his file folder, Matuszak shook his head in agreement. He sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to trade this mess for a simple B&E. At any rate, I appreciate your help.” He hesitated. Then looking deep into Becker's eyes, said, “Before I go, there’s two things I’d like to clear up.”
“What’s that?”
“Was it murder?”
Becker didn’t answer right away. “And your second question?”
The image of Farley’s crumpled body lying in the alley and his conversation with the waitress compelled Matuszak to pursue the toughest question of all. “My presence in Farley’s apartment, was it in any way responsible for his death?”
“The first question is easy,” Becker said. “Until the results of the autopsy are in, the department’s official response is noncommittal. Procedure requires me to play it safe and classify it as a suspicious death.”
“But what about you personally? What’s your gut instinct telling you?”
Becker ran a manicured nail along the rim of the coffee cup. “Off the record? It doesn’t pass the smell test. The whiskey bottle had only one set of prints on it. They haven’t been compared as of yet, but there’s little doubt they won’t turn out to be Farley’s prints.” He paused to sip on his coffee. “That's unusual. I would expect to find several sets of overlapping prints, even if they were from the same person. Also, there should have been some smudging around the neck of the bottle, from carrying it up to the roof. Instead, what we have is a clean bottle with only a single set of prints. Much too neat if you ask me. It's as if someone had wiped the bottle clean and placed Farley's prints on it.”
“How about his apartment? Anything there?”
Becker shook his head. “No. No sign of forced entry, if that's what you mean. Crime Lab went over it with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing out of place or missing as far as we can tell, so you can rule out burglary. The lab boys did find some minor scuff marks on the edge of the roof, almost undetectable unless you were looking for them.” He shrugged. “They may or may not indicate a struggle. Too early to tell.”
Grimacing from the latest sip of the machine coffee, Becker pushed the cup away. “Terrible stuff,” he said. “It'll rot your pipes. Don't know why I drink the damn stuff.” Then, noting the concern of Matuszak's face, he said, “But to answer your second question, your presence in the apartment. I’ll give it to you straight.” He shrugged. “I just don't know, but it's a distinct possibility.” Leaning forward, Becker’s voice took an air of urgency. “And my friend if it was, then it can only mean someone followed you to Pigtown, saw you enter Farley's apartment building and panicked. They came back later that night to silence him.”
Murder? The warning present in Becker's voice left little doubt he considered it murder.
Becker continued. “Whoever is responsible for Farley’s murder is still out there, and he won’t hesitate to strike again.”
The warning wasn't necessary. Matuszak had sensed uncertainty the moment he left Farley’s apartment and stepped onto the sidewalk. He attributed that to the seedy environment and possibly to the two women arguing, not to someone following him. Be careful. Watch your back. Yes. He had heard and understood Becker’s warning. But from who, and what direction would the danger come? That was the problem.
His thoughts went back to yesterday's conversation with Farley. Could he have overlooked something? Had Farley mentioned a name and it went unnoticed? Or was Farley going to reveal something this morning? He replayed the conversation over in his mind. Farley hadn't mentioned any names, only the slight reference to the clerk, Riggins, and according to Farley, Riggins was dead. Maybe he and Becker were reading too much into this. Maybe his presence in Pigtown wasn't related to Farley's death at all.
Becker's voice brought Matuszak back to the present. “Look, I've got to get back to that mess downstairs.” Finishing the last of his coffee, Becker said, “The results of the autopsy might reveal something useful. We'll have to wait for a comparison of the prints to verify it, but like I said I'm sure the prints on the bottle will be confirmed as Farley's.” He stood. “Check back with me in a couple of days. Maybe I'll have something more for you by then.”
“I'll call,” Matuszak replied, patting the case folder containing Becker’s reports. “Again, thanks for the assist.”
Becker brushed it aside. “Think nothing of it. Glad to help out. And for Christ's sake, be careful out there,” he called over his shoulder as he left the canteen.
Matuszak sat at the table, idly stirring the half-empty cup of cold coffee. Lunchtime was over. The canteen, filled with office workers when they first arrived, now stood deserted. He glanced out the window, over the sea of flat, tarred roofs, then onto the harbor and Fells Point. Little Italy, with its narrow streets and crowded restaurants, laid just a few blocks eastward.
He had seen enough misery for one day. A steaming dish of pasta, and perhaps a cold Sam Adams to wash it down would do wonders for his sagging spirits. He would grab a bite to eat and then check in with LaMatta. If there were nothing important pending, he would call it a day.
The thirty-nine Chevy was still sitting in the garage, patiently waiting for some long-promised care. Sometimes, when his thoughts of Patricia became more than he could bear, he would retreat into the gasoline scented world of metal and machinery. There, shut away from the outside world, life's problems faded.
; Gathering up the reports he rose and left the canteen.
10
MARC Field Office
Curtis Bay, Baltimore
August 19, 1992
Matuszak lounged at his desk, staring idly out the window at the sun-baked landscape.
It had been several days since Matty's death and there weren't any new developments. Despite his best efforts the investigation was slowly grinding to a standstill. Along with LaMatta he had gone over each report with a fine tooth comb, looking for something, anything the other agencies might have overlooked. They came away empty-handed. There was no hint of a reason for the train’s disappearance, much less a motive for Matty’s death.
The crack of the office intercom startled him from his thoughts. “Agent Matuszak, pick up on line six-one,” the dry monotone voice instructed. Matuszak reached for the telephone.
“Agent Matuszak.”
“This here's Sheriff Cardwell, Washington County Sheriff's Department,” the slow, easy voice at the other end of the line said. “Sorry I didn't call you back like I promised. I've been a mite busy of late.”
Matuszak's mind raced as he tried to place the voice or the reason for the call. Washington County Sheriff's Department? Something clicked in his subconscious. What was it now? Something about a sheriff, Williamsport, and a message. He quickly fumbled though the pile of papers until he found the telephone message pad. Ah! Here it is, Williamsport. That must be it. A telephone call had come from a sheriff in Williamsport several days ago and Williamsport was in Washington County.
“Yes, Sheriff,” he said. “It's quite all right. I know how it can be sometimes. What can I do for you?”
“Not for me, Agent Matuszak,” the sheriff said, “for you. Although I haven’t completed a proper investigation on it just yet, I thought you should be notified anyway.”
“Notified? About what, sheriff?”
“Maybe, just maybe,” came the reply, “I just might have gone and found that missing mail car you’re after.”
Matuszak bolted upright in the chair. “Maybe? You found the mail car?” he stammered, unable to believe what he was hearing. “I can’t believe it, Sheriff. You found part of the missing train? Where? How?”
“Well, it's not for certain, you understand,” the sheriff cautioned. “You see I've got me a old feller up here. Been living in this old converted rail car, for near about fifty years. He's got some pictures and an old bill of sale. Looks like it might have been a mail car at one time or other.” There was the briefest of pauses. “Ah, you did say you were a hunting for a mail-car, weren’t you? I do have the right Agent Matuszak?”
“Yes. Yes I did and you do have the right agent.”
“Well, I'll be glad to show it to you, and fill you in on all the details. You can make up your own mind, that is if you're still interested.”
Interested? Hell, he was elated! Finally, something was going right. “Yes, Sheriff, I certainly would be interested in seeing the car.” He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. “Now where did you say it's located?”
“It's a far piece out. Back in the woods. You'll never be able to find it alone, you being from Baltimore and such. Better if we meet and I take you to it directly.”
“Fine. Where should I meet you?”
“Tell you what, Agent Matuszak, go to the McDonalds in Williamsport. It's on Main Street. I'll meet you in...mmmmm say about two hours. Would that be time enough?”
“That's fine, Sheriff,” replied Matuszak, mentally calculating the distance between Baltimore and Williamsport. “Two hours will do just fine.”
Grabbing his camera, Matuszak hurried to Hank's office to inform him of the good news.
“Could be just the break we’ve been looking for,” LaMatta agreed. Then, opening the desk drawer, he removed a set of car keys. Tossing them to Matuszak, he said, “You'll never make it in that old clunker of yours. Better take mine.”
He was right of course. The Escort's top speed was little more than fifty, and at that speed it burned more oil than gas. On the other hand, LaMatta's Crown Vic was practically brand new, fully loaded and had the smell of leather. As Matuszak exited the parking lot, he reached over and cranked the air conditioner up another notch.
Hank’s a prince, he thought as he settled back into the Ford’s plush interior. He smiled as he savored the intoxicating scent of new leather. He could get accustomed to a functioning air conditioner.
* * *
The seventy-five mile drive to Williamsport was uneventful. Less than two hours had elapsed when the large overhead signs appeared announcing the approach of the Williamsport exit ramp.
The sleepy, little river town sat just off the interstate on the Potomac River separating Maryland from West Virginia. McDonalds proved simple enough to find. The familiar golden arches perched high atop a steel column were visible long before he exited the Interstate. He decided to fill the void by ordering lunch. As he settled in a rear booth a dust covered Ford Bronco, sporting a Sheriff's emblem and roof mounted light bar, pulled onto the parking lot.
A burly lawman, deeply tanned and dressed in a khaki uniform, exited the vehicle and headed for the restaurant's door. In a seamless, fluid motion, he removed the wide brimmed Stetson and ducked, allowing his tall frame to clear the doorway frame. He spotted Matuszak immediately.
“Agent Matuszak?” he said as he approached.
Matuszak nodded, rose and offered his hand. It was instantly swallowed by one of the lawman's huge, calloused hands. Matuszak gave a mental sigh of relief, for while the handshake was firm, it wasn't the bone-crushing variety he had anticipated.
“I'm Sheriff Cardwell,” the lawman said, with a soft country twang. “Born Nolan William Cardwell, but most folks here about just call me Billy. You're welcome to do the same.”
“Billy, it is,” Matuszak agreed, then added, “and I'm comfortable with Ken.”
Billy nodded. “Been out most of the morning. Thought I'd get back early and grab a bite to eat before you got here. Looks like you're fixing to do the same. Mind if I join you?”
“Glad for the company,” Matuszak replied, gesturing to the vacant side of the booth. “Nothing worse than eating alone.”
Settling his huge frame into the booth, the sheriff gestured to the manager. “The usual, Howard,” he called, before turning back to Matuszak. “When we’re finished, I'll take you out to see old Reds and that old rail car of his. But before we get there, I'm afraid I've got some bad news to relate.”
“Bad news?” Ken studied his companion.
“Yep. But no sense spoiling your lunch. There’ll be time enough before we get to old Red’s place.”
11
Country Road
En Route to Reds
The Bronco's four-wheel drive fought a continuous battle with the ruts in the dusty, shale-covered road. It had once been a proper, blacktopped country lane. With little usage and dwindling maintenance, its condition had deteriorated and it’s function reduced to a fire access road. The county spread the occasional layer of dirty shale on it, in an attempt to keep it passable, but the forest was rapidly encroaching and winning the lopsided struggle.
Billy had insisted on taking the Bronco and leaving Matuszak’s vehicle on the McDonalds lot...a decision Matuszak hardily agreed with each time one of the Bronco's wheels slammed into yet another unseen pothole. Each jarring encounter sent a bone-rattling jolt through his body. LaMatta's new car would have never survived this harsh punishment.
“Now Howard, you take good care of the agent's car, you hear,” the sheriff had called to the manager as they left the McDonalds. “We'll be back directly.” As an afterthought he stopped, turned. “If any of them Braxton boys come ‘round,” he gestured to the Crown Vic, “tell them I want that car left strictly alone. I'll be down, knocking on their pappy's trailer door, if they don't.”
About twenty minutes had elapsed since leaving McDonalds and there had been no mention of the bad news the sheriff had spoken of earlier.
Matuszak chose not to broach the subject. He was seldom wrong in his assessment of people, and it was plain the country lawman was the slow, deliberate type - one who preferred to proceed at his own pace and choosing. For his part Billy concentrated on idle conversation, mostly restricted to pointing out local landmarks or commenting on the recent heavy rains.
“Not much good for the corn,” was typical of one of the sheriff’s many remarks.
Finally, after a brief lull in the conversation, Billy glanced across the Bronco’s seat to Matuszak. “Mr. Matuszak, I'm just a hick sheriff and this here isn't my case.”
Matuszak nodded saying nothing.
After a few moments Billy continued. “Fact is I've no right poking 'round in your investigation. But, as one lawman to another I'm duty-bound to be honest with you.”
“I appreciate that, Billy. If there’s something troubling you, out with it. I would like to know.”
Accepting Matuszak at his word, Billy said, “Well sir, it's dirt plain to me that you're being hornswoggled.”
“Hornswoggled?”
The wording of the remark caught Matuszak by surprise. He had felt used, and at times even manipulated in this case. That much was true. But hornswoggled?
“Yes sir, hornswoggled,” Billy repeated as he had read Matuszak’s thoughts.
Matuszak smiled. The sheriff certainly had a colorful way of expressing things. But language aside, he was amazed at the sheriff's insight.
“How so, Sheriff?”
“I'd be a mite more comfortable with you calling me Billy.”
“Billy,” Matuszak said correcting himself.
Billy eased the Bronco to the side of the road, stopping under the shady canopy of a large oak. Turning the key, he killed the noisy engine. Then, turning his large frame in the seat he faced Matuszak. The weathered face sobered and the softness around his eyes was no longer there.