All Aboard for Murder

by R. T. Ray

  Arthur Donnley was not be seen. The acrid odor of gunpowder was the only indications that trouble awaited inside. Matuszak eased the automatic from its holster and clicked the safety off.

  “Stay here! Both of you,” he ordered. “Away from the doorway. Let me check the room first.”

  He peered around the edge of the door frame into the small office. Nothing moved. The high-back chair was turned facing the window, its back to the door. There were no exits, no obvious hiding places in the sparsely furnished room. Donnley had to be in that chair. Matuszak brought the gun to chest level, and kept the muzzle pointed at the center of the chair's back. Cautiously, he entered the room. Approaching the chair he noticed the small round tear in the leather. Located near the chair's top center panel, its ragged edges were peeled back, exposing the chair's cushioning. It suddenly became brutally clear what had occurred.

  Matuszak walked to the front of the chair and looked down at the lifeless form of Arthur Donnley. The once cold gray eyes stared vacantly back at him. The Walther, no longer in the bony hand, laid on the floor.

  “Don’t come in Senator,” Matuszak said, returning his gun to its holster. “There's nothing you can do. Maybe it would be better if you took Miss Carberry away from here.”

  The commotion in the hallway drew Matuszak's attention away from the chair. He looked up. Two men in business suits, displaying badges with weapons drawn, burst into the room.

  “Federal agents!”

  Senator Ewald was the first to speak. “I'm Senator Ewald,” he said. “We heard a shot and found this.” He gestured toward the chair.

  Judith, holding her hands to her face, tried to blot out the horror. She began to shake uncontrollably. “Come,” Senator Ewald said, and putting his arm around her waist, led her away.

  The two agents looked toward Matuszak. “Is he-”

  “Yes” Matuszak answered flatly. “In the roof of the mouth and out the upper rear section of the skull.”

  “The gun?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Okay. We'll take care of the mess here. The senator's caught up in that Japanese Treaty and you, Agent Matuszak, have that train problem to wrap up. No sense in either of you becoming involved in this.”

  Matuszak barely acknowledged. His attention wasn't on Donnley or the conversation. Instead he was concentrating on the hastily scrawled note lying on Donnley’s desk. Picking it up, he began to read:

  ‘Victor, I'm sorry it has come to this. Please don't judge your father too harshly. He was only a-’

  There the note abruptly ended. It was clear the untimely arrival of Senator Ewald had interrupted Donnley in the process of writing the suicide note.

  One of the agents took the note from Matuszak and returned it to the desk. “Evidence, sir, best leave it on the desk. Perhaps you could call the building security for us. Use the outer office phone and keep the office staff away. No need in them seeing this.”

  Matuszak was only too happy to comply. He had too much on his mind already. Besides the building was federal property. Let them sort out their own dirty laundry, he thought. I'm merely a material witness.

  Building security arrived within moments of the call being placed and the crime scene was quickly secured. Brief statements were taken and the Medical Examiner's Office was notified. All seemed to be progressing smoothly, and he should have been satisfied. But he wasn't.

  Something was wrong.

  Perhaps it was only the quickness of the agent's response. That disturbed him. Perhaps their timely arrival had been a little too fast, a little too convenient. No, he reasoned, this is a federal court building and there must be dozens of agents in the hallways at any given time.

  Still, something wasn't right.

  * * *

  “Judith,” the senator said, “it's been a trying day for you. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I'm sure Agent Matuszak would see you home.” He looked to Matuszak for conformation.

  “I think I really should stay,” she protested. “There will be a thousand questions to answer. The press and-”

  “No. You have been through enough, for one day. Public Affairs can handled it from here.”

  “But, I- “

  “Now run along. I'll take care of things here,” he said ushering them out of the office.

  * * *

  Sitting in the passenger's seat, with her head resting on the window's frame, Judith closed her eyes and tried to relax. Her stern businesslike demeanor gradually drained away, as she enjoyed the breeze coming through the open window.

  “Agent Matuszak seems too formal,” she said, not bothering to open her eyes. “Mind if I call you Ken?”

  “Please do. I'm not comfortable with Agent myself. Too formal.”

  She smiled. “Thanks for coming to my rescue today. Your timing was flawless. What were you doing there anyway?”

  “Came to see Donnley.”

  “Arthur? About what?”

  “The coaches in the tunnel.”

  Opening her green eyes, she gave Matuszak a slight quizzical look. “The tunnel?” she repeated. “What would Arthur Donnley have to do with the tunnel or that missing train?” Then deciding against it she said, “Never mind, not today. You can explain it to me another time. Right now all I want to do is to forget.”

  “I would love to,” he said. “But, I gotta warn you, it's full of eccentric characters, and I'm afraid it would take the better part of the evening to explain.”

  “That will be fine.” She smiled, closed her eyes and returned her head to the window.

  They continued on in silence, passing the Inner Harbor, the swank, Charles Street boutiques before finally arriving at the fashionable Homewood section bordering Johns Hopkins campus.

  “What type of characters?” she said.

  “Characters?”

  “You said your story was full of characters. What type of characters?”

  “Oh,” he said, “wonderful old characters. The kind that live in railroad cars, love old cars, steam engines and books. There's even a country sheriff the size of a mountain, and an element of sadness too,” Matuszak said, thinking of Matty.

  “And don't forget your swim in the harbor. You never did completely explain that.”

  “That? That's a complete story in itself,” he half laughed.

  “I'm dying to hear it. That's my building at the next corner,” she said, indicating an elegant condominium with the uniformed doorman stationed under the canvas archway.

  Matuszak eased to the curb and shut off the engine. The short ride was over much too soon for him. He enjoyed the closeness of Judith, the feel of her presence near him. Judith thanked him, and, leaning over kissed him softly on the cheek.

  “Call me next week,” she said, gathering up her things. “I would love to hear all about you and your wonderful old characters.”

  “Perhaps over dinner?” he ventured, mentally crossing his fingers.

  She smiled. “Dinner would be fine. I'll wait for your call.”

  Matuszak watched as Judith exited the car and walked the short distance to the building's entrance. Her body moved seductively under the smartly tailored clothing. He could still smell her intoxicating fragrance clinging to the auto's interior, even after she disappeared into the lobby.

  His thoughts were no longer on the case, but on next week and a secluded table in a quiet restaurant.

  * * *

  Only later that day, as he was relating the incident to LaMatta, did it suddenly register. He now knew why he felt so uncomfortable with Donnley's suicide. The one agent had called him by name saying, ‘And you, Agent Matuszak, have that train problem to wrap up.’.

  He had been so absorbed in reading Donnley's suicide note, that he hadn't paid close attention to what was being said.

  Now was a different matter. How did he know my name and about the train, unless they were the ones following me? There were times in the past several days when he thought he was being followed. There was
the car. Always a plain, four door, full size Pontiac but different colors, occupied by two men wearing business suits. They would appear momentarily in the rear view mirror, only to turn off when he took notice. He had shrugged it off as only a coincidence, until now.

  “Now, I'm not so sure,” he told LaMatta. “They figure into this whole mess somehow. Exactly how, I don’t know.”

  LaMatta shrugged. “I don’t see why. You've been through a lot since this case started. If anyone has the right to be a little paranoid, it's you. But, to be followed by government agents - no way. Besides, why would the Feds want to follow you?”

  “How in the hell should I know? It doesn't make any sense to me, either.”

  With Donnley dead, it wouldn't make any difference anyway. As far as he was concerned the case was finished. Fifty-one years of mystery were finally over and he could return to a normal life. Let the Feds worry about it from here on.

  “I'll submit my report,” he told LaMatta. “Maybe take a couple of days off and when I return, it will all be over. “Case closed. An interesting tale to tell my grandchildren someday. Maybe I'll even write a book about it.”

  But it was not to be.

  Epilogue

  U. S. Capitol Building

  Washington DC

  The city was beginning to resemble a ghost town. The rush hour traffic was exceptionally light, even for this hour of the evening. Most of the beltway crowd had fled earlier in the week in anticipation of the long Thanksgiving holiday.

  Matuszak drove the Taurus with state government plates, past one deserted intersection after another. Nothing looked familiar. Finally, after twenty minutes of aimlessly driving in circles, he pulled to the curb and opened the street guide. Like any good tourist he had become lost in the maze of detours created by construction projects.

  Peering through the mist-smeared windshield, the street sign Rhode Island and New Jersey appeared against the foggy backdrop. If his Washington tourist guide was correct, and there were no more detours, the Capitol Building lay approximately eleven blocks straight ahead. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Seven o’clock, still plenty of time before his scheduled testimony before the Federal Trade Commission.

  Why the Federal Trade Commission would summon him, an ordinary cop, to appear before it was a mystery. He was only a railroad cop; what did he have to do with world trade? The only connection to the federal government had been his visits to Senator Ewald's office. Surely they couldn't believe that, as chairman of the trade delegation, the senator had confided some national strategy or conveyed secret data to him. Still, the summons had named him as a potential witness, and a summons to appear before a federal subcommittee wasn't something to be taken lightly.

  The smartly dressed young woman, identifying herself as a special investigative assistant to the trade committee, had hand-delivered the summons to his home. She offered no explanation, other than his name had appeared on the “To Be Summoned” list.

  The instructions she gave were quite clear. He was to present himself to the guard at the east parking lot of the Capitol Building, at 7:30PM. He was to come alone and would be escorted to the hearing room. The letter and envelope must - and she underscored the word “must” - be returned to the Sergeant at Arms for proper validation. It, and it alone, would serve as his identification. Most importantly, his upcoming appearance was to be considered confidential and not be discussed with anyone, even with his superiors. He had complied.

  He switched off the interior light and glanced into the rear-view mirror. It was still there, sitting several car lengths behind. This time it was a dark green Pontiac Bonneville; with enough antennas protruding from its deck lid to make a Russian trawler captain envious. It sat patiently idling at the curb, vapors from its twin exhaust visible in the cold damp air. The driver hadn't even bothered to turned his headlights off. Obviously, the Bonneville had been following him. But this time, whoever they were, they were quite open about it. In fact it appeared as if they wanted him to know they were there.

  Ignoring the Pontiac, Matuszak drove several more blocks before the street again ended abruptly at a construction site barricade. Now where? Cursing his bad luck, he began to turn the Tarsus around when the green Russian trawler pulled alongside. The two young men inside were dressed in dark business suits and had “government” written all over them. There was no doubt about that, but what agency?... FBI, CIA, Secret Service or...?

  The one sitting in the passenger seat rolled down his window but said nothing. He merely smiled and shook his head, apparently amused at Matuszak's predicament. Holding up a black badge case, displaying a gold badge and ID card, far too distant for Matuszak to make out the issuing organization, he motioned for Matuszak to follow. The Pontiac pulled off slowly down a side street.

  “Ah, what the hell,” he grumbled, dropping the Taurus in gear.

  The Taurus fell in behind the Pontiac and the remaining drive went smoothly with no further detours. At 7:20 P.M. he brought the Taurus to stop at the jersey wall barricade surrounding the Capitol Building. The Pontiac never stopped but continued on Delaware Avenue. The driver gave a brief wave as the vehicle disappeared into the night.

  A uniformed guard checked his identification and after a cursory search of the auto's interior, directed him to a small covered entrance shielded from public view. He maneuvered the serpentine course through the barricade and drove toward the Capitol's main steps, stopping just to the right of the building’s entrance.

  The doorway, situated in the L shaped corner formed by the main steps and the base of the building, was largely hidden from public eyes by a set of well-manicured English boxwoods. A slate pathway and the soft-yellowed glow of an entryway lamp emanating to the rear of the shrubbery were the only betrayal of its location.

  A plainclothes security officer appeared from the darkness, opened the driver's side door and greeted Matuszak.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said. “Please leave the engine running as you exit the vehicle. Federal security regulations prohibit unattended vehicles in this area. I'll have your vehicle ready at the conclusion of your visit.”

  Taking his overcoat and briefcase, Matuszak exited the auto and followed the damp pathway. A canvas canopy, stretched tautly over arch-shaped framework, formed a protective portico over the doorway. The door itself was Victorian in design, with an oval shaped, beveled glass insert. Copper coach lights, encased in a green patina, glowed warmly on either side of the door frame.

  A receptionist sat at the desk just inside the entrance. At Matuszak's approach, she reached under the desk and pressed a concealed button. A buzzer sounded releasing the electronic lock.

  “Good evening, Agent Matuszak,” she said pleasantly, as Matuszak entered. “I'm Loretta Steelton.”

  Matuszak returned the greeting and picking up the pen leaned over to sign the visitor's register log. The receptionist quickly placed her hand across the page blocking the signature column.

  “Not necessary, Agent Matuszak,” she said. “Your letter will suffice. May I have your coat and the letter please?”

  She hung his coat on the small rack behind her desk. Matuszak, in the meantime, removed the envelope and letter from his briefcase. Loretta Steelton checked each item carefully, before placing them on the desk.

  “Someone will be with you momentarily. Please have a seat.”

  A few moments later a middle-age man with a crew cut and an unmistakable military air appeared from a side hallway. He wore a dark blue blazer with a badge embroidered on the breast pocket. He spoke quietly to the receptionist, after which he picked up the letter and envelope and carefully examined each item. Satisfied, he placed them in his jacket pocket and turned his attention to Matuszak.

  “Agent Matuszak,” he said. “I'm Patrick Harrington, Sergeant at Arms. Welcome to the Capitol Building. I am to be your escort to the proceedings.”

  Matuszak reached for his briefcase. “You’ll not be needing that,” observed his escort. “Leave it.
It will be returned.” He glanced at his watch. “Any weapons?”

  Matuszak opened his jacket front to indicate he was unarmed. “No,” he said.

  Harrington nodded. Still, he performed a quick but thorough pat down, checking for any concealed weapon. Satisfied, he stepped back. “Good. Now if you will please follow me, Agent Matuszak, the committee is waiting.”

  The narrow corridors and passageways of the Capitol's lower level, with its countless twist and turns, proved a confusing maze. No conversation was permitted. This suited Matuszak as he struggled to keep up the quick-stepping sergeant. Finally, they reached their destination, a nondescript, arch-shaped doorway tucked away in an alcove recess beneath a staircase.

  “This is the entrance to the committee's chambers, Agent Matuszak,” the escort said. “At the completion of your testimony, I'll escort you to your vehicle. Good luck, sir”

  Turning, he quick-stepped down the corridor and disappeared, the cadence of his military-like foot strikes slowly fading away.

  Good luck? Let's hope I'll not need it, Matuszak thought turning the door's brass handle.

  Opening the door revealed a long narrow arch-shaped tunnel. A citrus scent hung heavy in the still air. Wood paneling glowed under the subdued lighting from several antique glass wall sconces, and the soft, warm sheen from countless applications of lemon oil.

  Following the passageway's length, he soon found himself entering a large, dimly lit gallery with a high vaulted ceiling. Richly paneled in the finest of hardwoods, the room appeared to date from the Capitol's original construction. Tiers of dark wooden benches, set at a steep angle, lined the walls forming a lecture gallery. The first row of benches was positioned several feet above floor level, behind an ornate hand railing. A dimly lit gallery circled the upper reaches of the room, allowing spectators access to the benches.

  The speaker's podium stood at the far end of the room, on a raised platform, and bathed in a soft column of diffused light. Behind the podium stood a distinguished looking gentleman, in his early sixties, with thinning gray hair combed straight back. Lean, with a sharp angular nose and narrow eyes, he wore a flawlessly tailored gray suit and a conservative blue striped tie, giving him the appearance of a senior diplomat.