The Third Rail

by Michael Harvey

  “I gotta do this,” I said.

  She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but nodded instead. “Let me know if I can help.” Then she stood up and left.

  I spread Hubert’s file out on the desk and began to sort through it all over again. An hour later, I was elbow deep in autopsy photos when I saw something. Or something that might be something. I found Marge Connelly in the middle of cutting off the top of someone’s skull. I waited for her to finish.

  “What?”

  “When you get a chance,” I said.

  “Is it important?”

  “Could be.”

  Connelly stepped away from the table, snapped off her gloves, and followed me back to her office.

  “WHAT IS IT, MICHAEL? By the way, the agent and you?” Marge raised a discreet eyebrow.

  “No,” I said and picked up one of the autopsy photos. “This photo here. Hubert’s left wrist.”

  Connelly slipped her glasses back on and squinted. “That’s a shot of the back of the wrist.”

  I pulled out a second photo. “This is the right wrist. Basically, the same shot.”

  “What about it?”

  “Here.” I pointed to the left wrist. “About an inch below the indentation you said might be a cuff mark. There’s a second discoloration. Looks like it might be some sort of bruise.”

  Marge leaned in and took a closer look. Then she slipped over to her computer and booted it up.

  “We have these photos on file. Let me see if I can blow that area up.”

  Marge found the shot and began to work on it. I watched as she zoomed in and sharpened the image. After a couple of minutes she sat back. “That’s the best I can do.”

  “What do you think?”

  She touched the screen with a pencil. “This area right here is what you’re talking about, right?”

  “Yeah.” It was definitely a bruise, more circular than I’d first thought. “Doesn’t seem like it could have been made by the cuff.”

  “I agree,” Marge said. “It’s almost round in shape. Damn, I’m sorry I missed this.”

  “You didn’t miss it. We got it right here. What do you think?”

  “Judging by the discoloration, I’d say it was certainly made at or around the time of death. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

  “Guess?”

  Marge looked at the photo and tapped the pencil to her teeth. “Let me try a few more things before I give you an answer.”

  “Like what?”

  “We have a tool we use on bite marks. Brings out the detail in any indentations on the victim’s skin. Not always accepted in court, but pretty damn effective.” Connelly leaned forward and took another look at the photo. “Let me run this through the program. See what we get.”

  “How long?”

  Marge shrugged. “Hell, we can do it this afternoon. I’ll give you a call.”

  “Great. And, Marge, if we find something, what happens to your report?”

  The ME smiled. “My report’s done, Michael. Case closed. Just like the city wants it.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Faces and facts mixed and mingled in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Jim Doherty, features sunken and feral, nursing his hatred in a tomb of darkness under the city. A shooter named Robles, eyes gray and flat, rifle flashing death along the lakefront. An alley off Milwaukee Avenue and a young man with a rope around his neck. Rachel, staring into the corners of her mind, watching the past cut her present into little pieces. Katherine Lawson and the trace of her hand on my face. Mayor John J. Wilson. A company called Transco and an autopsy file. A red binder.

  The pieces of this case, maybe two or three cases, held together by the thinnest of wires: circumstance and an educated guess. The rest floated and turned in the darkness, offering themselves up as a piece of the puzzle, with no real clue as to how or why.

  I sighed and opened my eyes. This was fucked. I got out of my car, walked down Broadway and up a flight of stairs. There was a stack of mail shoved up against the door to my office. On top was a thick manila envelope. The return address was handwritten in black felt pen:

  SOL BERNSTEIN JR.

  110 SUTTER STREET

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  Son of a bitch. I found my way to my desk, opened up the blinds, and sliced the seal on the envelope. By the turning light of late afternoon, I read Mr. Bernstein’s letter.

  MR. KELLY,

  I HOPE THIS MISSIVE FINDS YOU WELL. AS YOU PROBABLY KNOW, YOUR ASSOCIATE HUBERT RUSSELL CONTACTED ME IN REFERENCE TO A COMPANY NAMED TRANSCO AND ITS PARENT COMPANY, CMT HOLDING. MY LATE FATHER WAS INVOLVED WITH CMT MANY YEARS AGO, ACTING AS ITS ATTORNEY IN SOME MATTERS, AS WELL AS ITS REGISTERED AGENT. FORGIVE ME FOR NOT CONTACTING MR. RUSSELL DIRECTLY, BUT, AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING PRESUMPTUOUS, HE SOUNDED A BIT YOUNG, ALBEIT QUITE CAPABLE, OVER THE PHONE. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND AND EXTEND MY APOLOGIES AND BEST WISHES TO YOUR COLLEAGUE.

  AS TO TRANSCO AND CMT, I HAVE THOUGHT A GREAT DEAL ABOUT THE MATTER AND DECIDED YOUR INQUIRY MIGHT BE AN OPPORTUNITY TO PUT SOME THINGS TO REST. I AM INCLUDING A RAFT OF DOCUMENTS I FOUND AMONG MY FATHER’S PAPERS. I THINK THE MATERIAL IS FAIRLY SELF-EXPLANATORY. I WILL INCLUDE A NUMBER BELOW, SHOULD YOU NEED TO REACH ME, BUT I SINCERELY ASK THAT YOU DO NOT. DISCRETION IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE TO ME AS I, LIKE MY FATHER, AM AN ATTORNEY WITH A SENSITIVE AND VERY PRIVATE PRACTICE. I CONSIDERED GOING DIRECTLY TO THE AUTHORITIES WITH THIS INFORMATION, BUT COLLEAGUES IN CHICAGO ASSURE ME YOU ARE EXPERIENCED IN AFFAIRS SUCH AS THESE AND CAN BE COUNTED ON TO ACT IN A CONFIDENTIAL AND EXPEDITIOUS MANNER. I HOPE I HAVE MADE A WISE DECISION.

  SINCERELY,

  SOL BERNSTEIN JR.

  I weighed the bundle in my hand and then cracked it open. On top were several Transco engineering reports from 1974 to 1979, detailing internal concerns about the company’s products, including a suggested recall of its engine overrides. I scanned the old reports and laid them aside. Underneath were a number of old contracts stapled together, share certificates, and personal correspondence. I took my time with the materials, pulling out a pad and pen to take notes as I read. When I was finished, I sat back and stared at the ceiling. On a single piece of paper I had sketched out the web of companies owned by CMT Holding, including Transco, Wabash Railway, and a number of related businesses and properties stretching back ninety years. At the bottom of the page, I wrote down the name of the entity that controlled all of them—the entity responsible for the L crash on February 4, 1980.

  I pulled out the black-and-yellow logo Hubert had ID’d as belonging to CMT, as well as the Old English script from Wabash Railway. I hadn’t noticed before, but the CMT train carried an odd t shape on the very front of its engine. I took a closer look at the Wabash script. The l in “Railway” had a small bar across it, making it into a lowercase t as well. Or, in both cases, maybe a couple of crosses. Fucking hell.

  Forty minutes later, I was still piecing through the old papers when my phone rang. Marge Connelly had worked her magic with the autopsy photo. I downloaded the shots and talked to the medical examiner for another hour. Then I thanked her and hung up.

  I closed my eyes and visualized all those pieces of the puzzle, still floating in the darkness. Slowly, one, then another, then a third stopped turning. They hung before my mind’s eye, slipped neatly together and locked into place. The picture sharpened, and a face came into focus. I printed out the photos the ME had sent me, packed up Sol Bernstein’s paperwork, and locked up the office on my way out.

  CHAPTER 54

  I should have known when I didn’t hear the pup at the front door. But my mind was somewhere else, sunk into the tangled depths of CMT Holding and a single autopsy photo. I was halfway across my living room when I looked up and saw her, wagging her tail and sitting comfortably in the lap of the mayor of our good city, the honorable John J. Wilson.

  “Nice dog, Kelly. I should have kept this one.” The mayor gave Maggie a scratch behind the ears and set her on the floor. Then he gestured to the two m
en sitting on either side of him.

  “These are federal agents. They want to ask you some questions.”

  I took the only chair left in the room and considered the pair of suits, one black, one blue. If they weighed two hundred pounds between them, they were lucky. Behind them was the muscle, a linebacker type, wearing a gray cashmere overcoat, finished with black leather gloves and Maui Jim wraparounds.

  “What about the Terminator back there?” I said.

  Wilson waited for someone else to speak. When no one did, he shrugged. “I told them you could be reasoned with, but they were wary. Of the gun and all that.”

  “And you just came along for the ride?”

  Wilson stretched his thick lips into a thin line. “I came along to protect the city’s interests, Kelly. And maybe yours, as well.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  Blue suit thumped a briefcase onto my coffee table and snapped it open. I caught a glimpse of red inside and got an idea where this might be headed. Then the suit opened his mouth and I got an even better idea.

  “Mr. Kelly, my name is Leo Nolan. This is Dr. Matthew Danielson. We work with Homeland Security.”

  Nolan didn’t flash an ID and I didn’t ask for one.

  “We know you were involved in the capture and death of James Doherty,” Nolan continued. “We also know he talked to you about a red binder he had in his possession at the time he was shot.”

  “I never got a look inside the binder,” I said. “Agent Lawson took it with her from the scene.”

  Nolan nodded. “And yet, we have reason to believe you continue to make inquiries about the binder and the nature of its contents.”

  “And how would you know that, Mr. Nolan?”

  Nolan shuffled through his briefcase for some paperwork. “We operate under a federal directive called the Cyber Initiative. Allows us, among other things, to monitor computers and Internet activity that might pose a threat to national security.”

  I looked at the mayor, who shrugged. “That’s as much as they told me, Kelly. Maybe you can explain the rest.”

  I turned to Nolan. “The red binder you’re talking about is a Pentagon report issued in 1998, called ‘Terror 2000.’ Yes, I saw the title when we were in Doherty’s house. And yes, I did some searching about it on the Internet.”

  “Why?” Nolan said.

  “Why not? A guy like Doherty carries something like that around with him, it gets my attention. How about you?”

  Nolan flicked a piece of lint off his pants. “Did Mr. Doherty make any specific threats?”

  “That’s what Mr. Doherty did best.”

  “Specific threats against the city?”

  I glanced toward the black suit named Danielson. “Does he ever talk?”

  Nolan blinked behind his tortoiseshell frames. “Answer the question, Mr. Kelly.”

  “No, he didn’t give me any indication as to what he had planned. I think he was about to when things got out of control.”

  Nolan leaned in. “And you shot him?”

  I nodded. “Whatever Doherty was planning, the details died with him. For what it’s worth, however, I might have some ideas.”

  Danielson shifted in his seat and finally spoke. “We’re not interested in your fucking ideas, Mr. Kelly. We’re here for the black case you took from Doherty’s house. Hand it over and this discussion is at an end. Persist with all the bullshit and we move to another phase.”

  I looked up at the Terminator and smiled. Behind him was a closet. Inside it, on the top shelf, the black case they were looking for. I returned my gaze to Danielson. “I don’t know anything about any case.”

  Danielson rolled his eyes toward Nolan, who glanced at Wilson. The mayor touched a finger to his lips.

  “Gentlemen, let me have a minute.”

  Danielson didn’t like the idea. Nolan took him aside and talked in his ear. Danielson relented and held up five fingers. “Five minutes, Mr. Mayor.”

  He and Nolan picked up their coats and took a walk. The Terminator followed. I noticed he dragged his left foot and hoped it hurt like hell. Wilson waited until the door had closed before speaking. “What do you want, Kelly?”

  “How do you know I want anything?”

  “How many times have we talked where you didn’t want something?”

  “I get the feeling you know as little about these guys as I do.”

  “Homeland Security?”

  I nodded. The mayor picked up Maggie again and stroked the top of her head. The pup’s eyes immediately began to close.

  “You know how many times I get called into meetings with these stiffs?” Wilson said. “First time it happened, three months after 9/11, we went into full fucking pucker. They sat around, bullshitting for a couple of hours, never gave us a sniff as to what was going on. Poison in the water? Crop dust downtown with some evil-sounding shit? Suitcase nuke in the Hancock? Who the fuck knows? And then you know what I figured out? Who the fuck cares.”

  “I don’t believe that, Mr. Mayor.”

  Wilson held up a hand. “Hear me out. Of course I care. My point is, what can we do? Someone decides to blow themselves up in the Water Tower this afternoon, what’s Chicago PD going to do? Nothing except clear the street so we can get the ambulances in. We don’t have the expertise, we don’t have the manpower, and we sure as hell don’t get the heads-up from the feds in enough time to do anything even if we did have any of the other shit. So what’s my point, right?”

  I nodded.

  “My point is one I learned a long time ago. When Homeland Security shows up, we smile and go along. Listen to their happy horseshit, express appropriate concern, and send them on their way. If they catch the bad guy, great.”

  “And if not?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. So far there hasn’t been any ‘if not.’ At least not in this town, knock on fucking wood. But, really, that’s all we can do. That and manage the threat.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what the estimated death totals would be for one of these doomsday attacks?”

  I shook my head.

  “Fifty, hundred thousand. If the fuckers got lucky, maybe a million or more.” Wilson chuckled at the impossible piles of imaginary dead. “If it’s biological, we couldn’t even bury the dead. Have to burn ’em in funeral pyres. Funeral pyres, Kelly. People can’t handle that shit. So we manage the message. Keep it positive. Serious and focused, but never too scary. That’s the whole job.”

  “So the idea of Armageddon is actually much worse than the real thing?”

  “Exactly. Now, take your asshole Doherty. He doesn’t have any mass fucking weapons. He was bullshitting you the whole time.”

  “How about Holy Name?”

  “How about it? He threatened to contaminate all of our churches, people would die, blah, blah, bullshit, blah. Then what does he do? Throws a little ammonia in the cathedral’s holy water.”

  “It was a little more than ammonia.”

  “All right, all right. Glorified ammonia. Thing is, how many people died? How many are still in the hospital? Zero. He was full of shit, just like the rest of these motherfuckers. I don’t tell anyone this, but they got lucky on 9/11. Incredibly lucky. And we’re going to spend the rest of this century and untold billions waiting for that other shoe.”

  “One that’s never gonna drop?”

  “Not on my watch. So don’t worry about Doherty. If he could have torched this city, he would have. He just wanted to fuck with people, especially you. Then he wanted to kill your girl while you watched. And thank God he didn’t.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “Give them the case and let’s move on.”

  “You think I have it?”

  “We know you do. Lawson mentioned it in a report she filed. Said she didn’t think the thing was important, but saw it in Doherty’s kitchen. Saw you pick it up. These guys heard that and got all hot and bothered.”

  “You want to k
now what’s inside?”

  “Not really.”

  “There’s nothing inside. Just two Styrofoam cutouts where something used to be.”

  “See, more nothing. Give them the case, Kelly. You may think you’re John Wayne, and maybe you are. But the feds don’t give a shit. They’ll roll right over you and never miss a beat.”

  Wilson lowered his eyelids as he leaned down and kissed Maggie on the top of the head. “She’s a good pup, Kelly. She likes it here.”

  I thought about the black case. About my conversation with Marge Connelly. About making things right. “I need something in return.”

  “Fucking ballbreaker.” Maggie lifted her eyes as the mayor shifted in his seat.

  “Something that stays between me and you,” I said. “Actually, it’s something you might enjoy.”

  Wilson dropped my pup gently to the floor and leaned forward, long nostrils quivering, hoping to catch a scent. “Fucking ballbreaker. What do you got?”

  So I told him. Some of it. He licked his lips and grinned.

  “The evil fucking empire. Gotta tell you, Kelly, I’m a little impressed.”

  The black case was forgotten, at least for the moment, as I laid out the rest of my proposal to the mayor. All in all, I was pretty sure it made his day.

  CHAPTER 55

  The wind kicked a heavy boot against my windows. It was coming up on 7:00 a.m., and I hadn’t been to bed. I sipped some coffee and looked outside. A sparrow stared back, black eyes flicking over mine, feathers ruffling against the elements. I moved my eyes down to the folder on my desk. Inside it was everything I’d need for the day’s business. On top of the file was my gun. I slipped the gun into its holster and looked through the file one more time.

  I’d given Homeland Security its black case and whatever tale it told. Then I went to work, scraping together what I needed from the files I had, the Internet, and a few phone calls. The mayor had called around eleven, and again at midnight. He’d given me the bits and pieces I’d asked for. Hadn’t asked too many questions. Hadn’t had anyone else sit in on our conversations. The mayor was too smart for that.