Let It Burn

by Steve Hamilton

  “But when you did hear from him,” I said, already dreading the answer, “you say he’d be in a new place every time?”

  “Cincinnati, if I recall once. Somewhere in Pennsylvania. Chicago.”

  “What about during the winter?”

  “That’s when he’d head south. Hitch a train to someplace warm. That’s what he told me, anyway.”

  I closed my eyes. It all fit together now. Including why Darryl said he had to try to make things right, while he had the chance.

  He was going to go try to find his brother, one last time.

  *

  I went outside to make the call, pacing back and forth on the grown-over sidewalk in front of Mrs. King’s house. If I felt any sense of betrayal, I got over it in about two seconds, imagining all of the women who’d been killed across the country. Not to mention Detective Bateman.

  When Janet Long answered, she didn’t waste any time.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re not calling me from Paradise.”

  “I need to tell you something. It’s very important.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “You need to find Darryl King’s brother. Tremont.”

  A long silence.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “I’m still in Detroit.”

  “Where in Detroit?”

  “At Mrs. King’s house.”

  “Can you come down to our office?”

  “And have your partner get hold of me? I’ll be there all day.”

  “Come and talk to me in person,” she said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  I ended the call, took one more look at the house, and got in the truck. I drove down to Michigan Avenue, then headed east, past my luxurious little motel, toward downtown. I pulled into the lot next to the federal building. It hadn’t been that long since I was last here. That night when I took Janet to dinner and I actually thought that’s why I had come down to Detroit. How different things can look in just one week.

  I saw Janet standing outside the main entrance. When I got out of the truck, she came over and gave me a quick hug.

  “Let’s go take a walk,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

  “We don’t have to do that. I just wanted to tell you what I know.”

  “I need to get away from this place for a minute. Come on.”

  She took me by the arm and pointed me down Cass Avenue. With everything else on my mind, it was still good to see her. We walked down past the Free Press Building, toward the river.

  “Where are we going?” I said.

  “I’ve got a craving for a Coney, and only Zef’s will do.”

  “Is that place still there? My partner used to drag me there all the time.”

  “Well, now it’s my turn.”

  We looped around by Hart Plaza, where the great sculpture of Joe Louis’s fist hung in its triangle. Then back up Woodward, into the heart of my old precinct. We passed the Municipal Center with the famous Spirit of Detroit statue out front. The big green bronze man holding the sun in his left hand and a family in his right. That got me thinking of the building itself, renamed to honor Coleman Young, who was mayor when I was a cop. His hand-picked police chief would be convicted of stealing over two million dollars of undercover funds, a few years after I left the force. That’s always a fun conversation, getting ex-cops to talk about our beloved mayor and our beloved police chief.

  A conversation I never got to have with Arnie Bateman.

  “This is nice,” I said. “It’s like a little time-out before life gets crazy again. But now you really need to get back and do something about this new information.”

  “Are you that sure about what you’re telling me?”

  “I think I am.”

  “So Darryl King’s brother, you say. What was his name? Tremont?”

  “Yes. Tremont King.”

  “Tell me what you know about him.”

  “Well, he’s a couple of years younger. Very different kind of kid. He ran away from home, right after Darryl got put away. He’s hasn’t been back since. He rides on freight trains.”

  “Say that again?”

  “He rides on freight trains, all over the country. He goes south when it’s cold.”

  I could see her working this over in her head. The list of cities, north at certain times of the year, south at others.

  “What about Detective Bateman?” she said. “Do you think he killed him, too?”

  “I don’t know for sure. Maybe. Tremont’s a total mystery to me, but somehow I think he found out that Bateman was looking into the case again. Hell, for all I know, Bateman knew exactly where to find him. Which reminds me…”

  “What?”

  “Bateman said he had a copy of the case files. You should take a look at those. I didn’t see the case at the very end, so maybe he turned up something else. I don’t know. But you should also find out if he made any phone calls in those couple days before he was murdered. Besides to me, I mean.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m on it. Suddenly I’m not so hungry anymore.”

  We started walking back to the office.

  “I’m officially no longer surprised by anything you do,” she said. “Although I will remind you, not that it will do any good, that you promised me you were going to let this go.”

  “I thought I was.”

  “You promised me you were going home. Do you remember?”

  “I didn’t go out looking for a serial killer. I just stumbled into this. You should be happy I’m bringing it to you. You’ve got a solid lead now. You can watch the rails and pick this guy up.”

  “If this pans out,” she said, “then yes. You’re right. It’ll break this case wide open. After all of those man-hours, we’ll finally have this guy.”

  “He won’t kill anyone else. That’s all that really matters.”

  She looked at me and shook her head. “I don’t even know what to do with you. I’d tell you to go home now, but clearly you’re not going to listen to me.”

  “This time,” I said, “I think I will.”

  *

  When we got back to her building, she thanked me and gave me another little kiss on the cheek. She told me to drive safely. I told her I’d see her again soon.

  I got in my truck and drove back to Mrs. King’s house. I debated with myself all the way there. How much was I going to tell her? In the end, I decided to just tell her I didn’t think I could find Darryl. It hit her hard, I could see that, but she let me off the hook. She thanked me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. The same cheek that Janet had kissed.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said to her. “The second you hear from him, give me a call, okay? When he comes back, you let me know and I’ll come right back down here. Whoever I need to talk to, I’ll do everything I can to make sure he doesn’t get in big trouble over his parole violation.”

  I didn’t say anything about Tremont. I didn’t say, oh, by the way, your other son might be a psychopathic serial killer, and the FBI is out looking for him right now. I figured she’d find out all about that soon enough. At that point, just having Darryl back home would be all either of us could ever hope for.

  I drove away in my truck, knowing that she’d be in tears as soon as I left the street. She’d be back down on her knees praying. I knew I’d feel that in my gut, all the way home.

  As I drove back to the motel to check out, I decided to take one last detour. I turned the other way on Michigan Avenue and went west, to the train station. I wanted to see that towering wreck one more time.

  I stopped by Roosevelt Park. I got out and walked around the Cyclone fence. Maybe they’ll really fix this place someday, I thought. Maybe then I’ll be able to come back and marvel at just how beautiful this building is. Maybe I won’t think about what happened inside on that abandoned balcony.

  Yeah, maybe, but I kinda doubt it.

  As I stood there, a freight
train came by on the tracks. It was going west, so that meant it had come out of that long tunnel from Canada. From here it would keep going west to Chicago, or else turn south into Ohio. You could get anywhere in the country by hopping aboard, as long as you knew where the train was going. As long as you didn’t kill yourself in the attempt.

  Fate couldn’t be more obvious, I thought. What a heavy-handed touch, to see this freight train going by, just as I’m about to leave the city behind.

  He could be on this train right now, I thought. This very train going by.

  He’s not on this train. There are thousands of freight trains moving all over the country at any moment. He could be on any one of them. That’s why you need the FBI to throw a blanket over the whole thing.

  You’re not looking for a serial killer. You’re looking for Darryl.

  Who, in turn, might be looking for a serial killer. So no, thanks.

  You promised her you’d find him, Alex.

  That was before.

  Since when do you walk away like this? No matter how futile this may seem, you never, ever walk away.

  “Okay, just stop,” I said out loud. An actual argument with myself, maybe the product of living alone for too long. “There is nothing else you can do here. So you have to go home now. You have to go back to Paradise.”

  The train kept rumbling by.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” I said to myself, “that they can’t do better.”

  Car after car after car.

  “You’ve got no angle that they don’t.”

  The last car passed by.

  “Except…”

  The train disappeared down the tracks.

  “Maybe one.”

  I took out my phone and called Leon.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” I said as soon as he picked up. “I know it’ll take you all of five minutes to look up the answer.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “How many rail yards are there around Metro Detroit?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  If you look at a map of Michigan, and you look at those railroad lines that people usually ignore, you’ll see that they all converge on the southwest corner of Detroit. It took Leon all of twenty seconds to see this, and another twenty seconds to figure out that this was the CSX Livernois Yard, the biggest rail yard in the state of Michigan. It felt like something beyond a shot in the dark, but I figured I had to try it.

  I headed down to Livernois Avenue. A few more blocks south and the road dipped below the tracks. As soon as I emerged on the other side I could see the northeast corner of the yard on my right. The tracks split apart like an unraveling rope, going from four tracks to a dozen to a dozen more. There were long lines of freight cars waiting to be pulled somewhere. Just more and more cars, as far as the eye could see.

  I saw a line of semis turning into the yard, each one of them carrying one of those containers you see rolling along on the open flatbed cars. As I looked toward the service entrance, I saw a pair of gates, and I knew there’d be a man or two standing in each one. I pictured them holding clipboards. I also pictured them less than amused if a pickup truck driven by a curious ex-cop got in line with the semis, so I kept driving, figuring I’d eventually find the main office.

  There was a high fence running all along the edge of the yard, topped with razor wire. On the other side of the fence were the same kind of closed freight boxes I’d see on some of the freighters going through the locks. Or on the long freight trains I’d see coming over the railroad bridge from Canada. Here there were more of them in one place than I’d ever seen before, stacked two and three high for a good half a mile. I made the turn on Vernor and came around the southern edge of the yard. At last, there was a sign there, CSX INTERNATIONAL, with another service road. This one ran into more gates, but there was a building near the gates and maybe a better chance of someone there in a mood to humor me.

  I saw an opportunity to pull off the service road even before I got to the gates. I parked in the lot and went in through the front door. There was a woman sitting behind thick glass. She looked up at me and hit a button on her desk. Her voice sounded like something half metal as it came through the speaker mounted in the glass.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m wondering if I can speak to the head of security,” I said, figuring that was as good a line as any. “I just have a couple of questions.”

  “Can I ask what this is in regards to?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “I just want a minute of his time to ask about unauthorized people who ride on the freight trains.”

  I saw her frown at that, and it occurred to me that I probably could have phrased that better. You could hear that and think I was there to accuse someone of letting riders on the trains, like maybe one of them got run over and now here I am representing a lawyer looking to make a big payday, but before I could clarify, she was already on her old-school stand-up microphone.

  “Mr. Maglie will be out in a minute,” she said. “He’ll meet you just outside the door.”

  I stepped outside to prepare myself for Mr. Maglie. About a minute later, a gleaming white pickup came roaring out of the yard, passing through the gate without slowing down. It came to an abrupt halt a few yards away from me. Naturally it raised a cloud of dust that I had to shield my eyes from.

  “I’m Maglie,” he said as he got out of the truck. He was wearing a dark blue uniform with short sleeves, the better to show off his forearms. Pushing sixty, once a tough guy, I could tell. Now even tougher with age.

  “My name is Alex McKnight.” I didn’t bother reaching out my right hand to shake his.

  “What’s your business here, sir?”

  I took out one of my cards and handed it to him. He read it with obvious skepticism, then handed it back to me.

  “I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions,” I said. “Let me just say, I don’t represent anyone who’s out to make a buck or anything.”

  “Who do you represent?”

  “I’m not allowed to disclose that, but it really doesn’t matter. I’m just looking for somebody who rides on the freight trains.”

  “Does this person work for the railroad?”

  “No, I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  “Then he doesn’t ride these trains. Not in this yard.”

  “This is the biggest rail yard I’ve ever seen,” I said. “How many hundreds of trains do you have coming through here every day?”

  “You want an exact number?”

  “No, I’m just saying. I know that people hitch rides on trains. They’ve been doing it for years.”

  “Look,” he said. “I know you probably have this image in your head. Hobos riding the rails, all over the country, sitting in empty boxcars, playing the guitar, all their belongings tied up in a handkerchief and hanging from a stick…”

  “I’m sure it’s not that way anymore, but—”

  “Do you see all those boxes?” he said, gesturing at the stacks behind him. “That’s what we pull nowadays. It’s all closed up. It comes off the truck, we load it, we move it down the line, unload it at the destination. Do you see a place for some hobo to hitch a ride?”

  “No, I honestly don’t.”

  “That’s right. If they did try to hitch a ride, you know where they’d have to go? They’d have to break into one of the helping engines and ride in the empty cab. Do you think that would be a good idea?”

  “I’m guessing no.”

  “If we were at a construction site, would you want some vagrant to wander off the street and go climb into the cab of a big crane? Some drug addict sitting behind the controls of a twenty-ton machine?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s what we’re talking about here. A high-risk industrial environment where people can get themselves killed in about two seconds if they don’t know what they’re doing, and get other people killed, too. So unless you have some specific reason to believe
that somebody is breaking into my trains…”

  My trains. He actually said that.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t. I just know that one person rides them somewhere. Obviously he doesn’t ride them here.”

  “Obviously not. Are we done?”

  “I believe we are. Thank you for your time.”

  “Exit’s that away,” he said, pointing back toward Vernor. He got back into his white pickup and took off. Probably to go wash the dust off the bumpers.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m so glad I decided to stay in Detroit today.”

  I got back in my own truck and sat there for a moment, trying to figure out where to go next. If there had been any justice in the world, here’s where a long line of hobos would have come skulking through the parking lot and then hopped onto the nearest train.

  I was about to put the truck in gear when I noticed another man coming out of the front entrance. He held the door open for a moment, long enough to finish some joke to the receptionist. He was still laughing as he walked to his car.

  He’s about my age, I thought. Better yet, he appears to be a genuine human being. I wonder if …

  He went right to a perfectly restored mint green midsixties Mustang. This was my chance. I got out of the truck.

  “Hey, excuse me!” I said. “Is that a 1965?”

  He looked at me and smiled. “Actually, it’s 1964.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said, bending down to give it a closer look. “This is maybe the most beautiful car I’ve ever seen. Did you do the work yourself?”

  “My son and I did. You want to see inside?”

  “I’d love to.”

  He opened the passenger’s-side door so I could make a big fuss over the interior, right down to the original gearshift knob.

  “You’re not selling this,” I said, “are you?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a million dollars on you.”

  “If only I did,” I said, shaking my head, “but hey, you work here at the yard, right?”

  “I do.”