Terminal 9

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Mac glanced over at Dana, trying not to look as apprehensive as he felt. “First thing we need to do is make note of the time we arrived on scene and of the weather and wind conditions.”

  “I’m already there, Mac. Got the time.” She looked up from her notebook. “Any guess on the temperature?”

  Mac opened the car door. “I’d say in the mid-forties.”

  Dana held her notebook up to the bright lights of the rail yard to write, then reached up and snapped on the red dome light. Police package cars had the dome light disconnected so they would not turn on when the door was opened for safety reasons; consequently, the light had to be turned on manually.

  Mac’s car was even equipped with a switch that would eliminate his brake lights from illuminating in the event he was sitting blacked out on a surveillance and wanted to go undetected. This switch was unfortunately a little too easy to forget and had contributed to a rear-end crash a while back when Mac forgot to turn on his brake light switch and was hit from behind. Although there were no injuries, the incident cost Mac more than a little embarassment and a letter of reprimand from Sergeant Evans.

  Mac pressed the dash-mounted trunk release button and walked to the rear of the car. Dana gathered her gear, snapping her jacket to the top as a gust of east wind blew off the river. Mac removed the clipboard binder from his leather briefcase, checking to make sure his legal pad had plenty of blank pages. He was about to snap the binder shut when he recognized Kevin’s handwriting on the top page of the legal pad. He pulled his mag light from the trunk-mounted charger and spotlighted the pad. What he assumed were notes from a prior crime scene turned out to be a personal note to Mac. He glanced around to make sure Dana wasn’t approaching then read it.

  Hey, partner.

  I thought I’d slip you a note while I was taking some ofmy gear from your trunk. I knew it would be only a matter oftime before you and Dana got the ticket and you’d read this.Even though I’m not with you on whatever case you’re aboutto tackle, I have every confidence in your ability to get the jobdone. Just take it slow, make your crime scene boundarybigger than you think you need to, and trust your instincts. Ifthings don’t feel right, they probably aren’t. You are in myprayers, buddy. I’m proud of you.

  Kevin

  Mac swallowed back the lump in his throat as he ripped the page from the notepad and folded it neatly into a size that would fit into his back pocket.

  “Hey, Mac, Dana. What are you guys doing over here, making out?”

  Mac had been so intent on the note, he hadn’t noticed Kristen and the D.A. approaching his car. Startled, he shut the trunk. He raised his shoulders and rubbed his left arm to feign a chill. “Just getting our gear together.” He avoided looking at Kristen. “Cold out here tonight.”

  “You want my coat, Mac?” Kristen joked, pulling the zipper of her hot-pink windbreaker halfway down.

  “Not my color. Thanks anyway.” Mac smiled and extended his hand. “Always a pleasure to see you, Doc.” He quickly diverted his attention to the district attorney. “How you doing, Darren?” Mac shook his hand as well.

  “Been better. We’ve got quite a mess on our hands.” Darren pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose with his right index finger.

  “Darren, have you met my new partner, Dana Bennett?”

  “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Darren Volk, County Chief Prosecutor.” Turning back to Mac, he said, “Thanks for coming out. I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version and you guys can take it from there.”

  Dana and Mac both opened their notebooks to take notes.

  “About forty yards behind us is a deadhead rail line for the terminal.” Darren pointed to the area. “You see that white house to the east, down by the river?”

  Mac nodded.

  “That’s our victim’s house. The guy’s name is Clayton Mullins, goes by Clay. He’s a bit of a local fixture around here. Worked at the terminal for decades before going into mandatory retirement about twenty-five years ago. The poor guy was almost ninety. He lived in that house and owned some fifteen riverfront acres between the terminal and the river. His house is on the county historic registry— it was built in the early 1900s. I’ve never been in it but understand it’s full of railroad memorabilia.”

  “Did he live alone?” Dana asked.

  “Yes.” Volk directed his answer toward Dana. “Clay was a widower. His wife died shortly after he retired. I’m told his daughter lives in Tualatin. She’s an attorney, and her husband is a doctor up at OHSU. Someone thought he may have had a son also, but that hasn’t been confirmed.”

  “Is this the train that hit him?” Mac cut to the chase, nodding toward the closest engine.

  “Yes, that’s the one. The train on the deadhead rail between here and his house.”

  “Deadhead?” Kristen raised a black eyebrow. “Deadhead as I know it usually refers to some people I know. Somehow I doubt my definition agrees with yours.”

  Dana snickered and caught a scolding look from the D.A., whose sense of humor seemed about as rigid as his spine. Darren turned away and Kristen gave Dana a wink. Mac rolled his eyes, finding their behavior rather juvenile.

  “A deadhead is an empty train car,” Volk explained. “One that has no cargo. Once the cars are unloaded they are stored on one of the four deadhead rail lines like this one, a straight set of track that goes nowhere but can store fifty or so rail cars or engines.”

  “If the train wasn’t going anywhere, how did it manage to hit Mr. Mullins?” Dana asked.

  “They were putting these deadheads into service.” Volk pointed to the property on the other side of the boxcars. “This eastern rail marks the boundary from the terminal property to our victim’s property. He was apparently on his way to the terminal when he was hit.”

  “Do we have any idea why he was on the tracks?” Mac asked.

  “It wasn’t at all unusual for Clay to come over to Terminal 9,” Darren said. “In fact, the locals tell me he came over to the terminal hub nearly every day with that fancy motorized scooter of his. Old Clay would rub elbows with the boys and tell stories about the good old days. I understand he could be a nuisance.”

  “So you’re thinking maybe someone used a train to get rid of him?”

  Darren shrugged. “Not necessarily, but his death raises some questions. Clay was a diabetic, on top of other age-related afflictions. He didn’t usually come to the yard at night, and we don’t know why he was heading over here. Whatever the reason, he never got to the terminal. The thing is, he knew trains and knew to stay off the track when one was coming. That’s why I’d like to have you guys take a look and give an opinion. Your investigation, coupled with the medical examiner’s report, should paint a pretty good picture of what happened.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.” Mac’s gaze roamed over the tracks to the small house, now bathed in lights.

  “I don’t want to sound like the specter,” Volk added, “but Clay’s death has already started a few rumors around the terminal and with some folks in town. Heck, he’s only been dead a couple of hours and there is already talk of a murder and cover-up.”

  “How’s that?” Mac frowned, his earlier instincts of foul play growing stronger.

  “Old Clay was a bit of an eccentric. His land down by the river was worth a bundle, but he refused to sell it. I heard that some developers had offered top dollar for the riverfront acreage. Clay was a controversial guy—had his share of fans and, I’m sure, a few enemies. Like I said, there was also talk of him overstaying his welcome at the terminal. Apparently, Clay was critical about the management and the way things have been run since his retirement. Nothing you could really put a finger on, but you know how these small towns are. I’d rather have a clean investigation so we can put this thing to rest than be dealing with rumors and speculation. This type of thing can grow legs and take off if you don’t get a handle on it early.”

  “I agree.” Mac snapped his folder shut. “Do
es the local police department want involvement, or do they just want us to handle it?”

  “As the chief law enforcement office for the county, I want this to be a State Police investigation. It would go a long way toward rumor control if an outside entity investigated the death.”

  “I understand, but do the local authorities know that?” Mac nodded toward the two uniformed officers standing alongside the yellow crime-scene tape that surrounded the scene. Mac recognized the gold star on one of the men’s collars, which designated him as chief of police.

  “Taken care of.” Darren pushed his glasses back again. “I won’t lie to you—the chief isn’t too happy about it. I’ll handle the press releases and mention that he was involved in the initial investigation, but I want you guys handling the bulk of the load. Your sergeant said that was okay, so I assume you two are on board as well.”

  “Yeah. We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.” Mac frowned, a little perturbed by Darren’s high-and-mighty attitude. He had the authority to call the shots, but Mac didn’t appreciate anyone throwing his weight around regardless of his level of authority.

  “Okay to take a look at the body now?” Mac looked to Kristen for an answer.

  “Go ahead,” Darren said. Then, as if remembering protocol, he deferred to Kristen. “As long as you’re okay with it, Doc.”

  Mac gave him a cursory smile. The law required medical examiner approval for examination or removal of a body.

  “I’m good. You do have my permission, Mac.” Kristen winked at him, acknowledging that she hadn’t missed the nuance.

  Mac strode ahead, feeling all eyes upon him. “Okay, let’s see what we’re up against.”

  FOUR

  THE POLICE CHIEF MOVED FOR WARD as Mac approached the yellow crime-scene tape. Mac’s suspicions were confirmed: the heavy-set man was Harry Spalding. They’d met briefly several years ago when Mac had been on patrol.

  “You with OSP?” Spalding offered his hand as a greeting, but the tone of his voice and stance negated the polite gesture. The man clearly didn’t want OSP involved.

  “We are. I’m Detective Mac McAllister out of OSP, Portland.” Mac shook the proffered hand, though he didn’t especially want to.

  “I’m Chief Spalding. We’ve got things under control here, but as you undoubtedly know by now, Volk wants you folks in on the investigation. I can’t imagine why. Old man Mullins’s death looks to be nothing more than an accident—but he’s the boss, so have at it.”

  “Look, Chief Spalding,” Mac said, wanting to establish a modicum of diplomacy, “I’m not here to make this investigation anything other than what it is. Truth is, I don’t want to be here any more than you do. I would have been more than happy to kick back and watch the Trailblazers play the Cavaliers.” He shrugged and sighed. “But I got the call, and here I am.”

  “A Blazer fan, huh?” The chief offered a crooked smile.

  Good. Some common ground. “Not really,” Mac answered honestly and added a companionable grin. “My favorite team is the one playing against the Lakers.”

  The chief laughed. “You’re my kind of basketball fan, McAllister. Come on inside the crime-scene tape and I’ll tell you what we know so far.”

  Before slipping under the plastic tape, Mac introduced Dana and Kristen, who’d been standing behind him during the exchange. With a scribble motion he signaled Dana to sign the crime scene log before coming inside herself. The log documented anyone who came and went from the area of the body—or body parts, in this case. Once Dana signed the log, she left it in the charge of the second uniformed officer.

  “Mullins visited the terminal every day,” Spalding said. “I suppose Volk told you that Mullins lived on the other side of the grounds.”

  “Yes. The D.A. mentioned the land alone was worth a bundle and the house had some historic value.”

  “Humph. You don’t know the half of it. Realtors were lined up at the door for that land. I heard he turned down offers of over a million dollars. Old Mullins refused to sell. He liked living by the river and did a fair amount of fishing. Even more, he liked the direct access to the terminal. He’d come over and yak with the other gandy dancers.”

  “Gandy dancers?” Mac tried to remember where he’d heard the term.

  “Sorry; you didn’t grow up around a rail yard, I take it.”

  “No, unless you count Chicago, but I never hung out around trains.”

  “Gandy dancer is slang for a railroad worker or laborer. It’s as familiar to them as the term cop is to us.”

  “Interesting.”

  “At any rate, Mullins would head out bright and early nearly every morning, come up that trail over there across the tracks, and wheel into Terminal 9. The guys at the terminal would worry about him and call the police if he didn’t show, thinking maybe something was wrong with him. Some of our uniforms actually responded to the house on ‘welfare checks’ if he didn’t show up by 8:00. Once his motorized chair had a dead battery and another time he was visiting his daughter in Washington County.”

  “Did he stay all day? What did he do here?”

  “He usually stayed until lunchtime, counting deadheads and timing the loading and unloading of train cars.” The chief rubbed the back of his head. “I guess he would report inefficiencies to the management at the terminal before going back home.”

  “I bet that would get a little old.” Mac hunched his shoulders against the wind.

  “That’s putting it mildly. I heard more than one guy complain about Old Mullins getting on their nerves.”

  “Can you give me any names?” Mac glanced at Dana and scribbled the information on his pad.

  The chief shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I don’t see much point to this. Being annoyed with the old coot doesn’t translate into killing him with a train. These guys aren’t killers—just regular guys whose biggest crime is smoking too much or getting a little loaded down at the local bars.”

  “Humor me, Chief. I need to do this by the book.”

  “Humph. This is a small town and you hear a lot of rumors. Some may be true, some not. Talk around here was that the day shift foreman—guy by the name of Dan Mason—didn’t much like Mullins telling management how he was mismanaging his shift and that his crew was a bunch of lazy sluggards.”

  “Is Mason working tonight?”

  “No, he works the morning watch.” The chief scowled at Mac and patted his shirt pocket before extracting a package of cigarettes. “I was just using Mason as an example. Mullins got to a lot of the guys. Old Clay wasn’t the subtlest or the kindest person in town, if you know what I mean. But like I said, they wouldn’t kill him. This was an accident, pure and simple.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, turning slightly to inhale and blow the smoke off to the side.

  “You’re probably right,” Mac said, wanting to placate the man. From what he’d been hearing, however, he’d noted more than one motive for murder. “Can you tell us what went down? I imagine you’ve talked to the engineer.”

  “Right. He’s pretty shaken up. We figure Mullins was headed over here on that trail. Must have somehow gotten stuck on the track. Looks like the diesel engine pushed him about thirty yards to the east. Gabby didn’t realize he’d hit anything right away. He was connecting to some cars and backed over him again. It’s pretty gruesome.”

  “Okay. We’ll have to take a look.” He pulled out his latex gloves and shoved his hands into them. Turning to Kristen, he asked, “Any suggestions as to how we should go about it?”

  “It won’t be easy.” She scanned the area. “I recommend walking the path from the house to the first harmful event. It would be even better if we can get inside the house and take a look around.” Kristen motioned over her shoulder. “Then we need to walk the tracks and collect whatever evidence we can.” She eyed the carnage along the railroad tracks and blew out a long breath. “This is going to take a while.”

  Pieces of flesh, clumps of hair, and torn clothing had been scattere
d along the tracks and caught under the engine’s axles. The shiny rail tracks, wiped clean by the heavy steel wheels of the engine and cars, were a stark contrast.

  “We’ll need a warrant to get into the house.” Mac snapped the cuff of his jacket around his rubber glove.

  “A warrant?” The police chief frowned. “Is that really necessary? One of my guys did a cursory search of the house to make sure there was no one else home. He didn’t see anything suspicious.”

  “Yes, it’s necessary.” Mac was losing patience with the guy. As police chief, Spalding should know the procedure better than anyone. “I don’t want to get into the house and start rooting around without one. If we happened to find evidence of a crime and didn’t have a warrant, it would be suppressed in a heartbeat because we didn’t take the time to pump out an affidavit for a warrant. It’ll be a no-brainer for a death investigation,” Mac added. “I can have it done by tomorrow. Only thing is, I’ll need your officers to keep a perimeter on the house through the night. We’ll go through it with the crime lab guys in the morning.”

  “I’m shorthanded as it is, but I suppose I can get a guy out here if you think we need to.” The chief obviously didn’t see the need.

  “I’d appreciate it. Thanks.” Turning to his partner, Mac said, “I agree with Kristen, Dana. Let’s take the path from the house that leads down to that rail bridge before we start picking up pieces.”

  “Sure.” Dana scanned the tracks with her flashlight.

  Mac followed the beam of her flashlight and added his own. Although it was dark in the shadows of the massive boxcars and engines, the floodlights and exhaust from the engines gave the ghostly appearance of a foggy October night rather than springtime. Mac, Dana, and Kristen exited the crime-scene tape and made their way down to Mullins’s house.

  “Let’s walk well away from the main path,” Mac suggested. “Once we get on the north side, by the house, we should be able to contrast the tracks of his motorized chair a little easier. This way we won’t grind any potential evidence into the hard-packed gravel.”