Killer On The Train

by Bruce Alan Jensen

  Thursday, December 5

  As the sun rose above the surrounding mountain peaks, they lay cuddled together until Molly demanded her turn for attention. They dressed in warm coats, pulled on boots, and played in another light snowfall with Molly. At one moment in time, Hank caught Alicia smiling at the sky and surrounding nature, a look of contentment on her beautiful face.

  Hank headed toward the cabin to prepare Molly's meal, shouting, “Breakfast will be ready soon.” Feeling giddy, Alicia tossed more snowballs for Molly until she barked in front of the cabin door demanding entry.

  They ate a light breakfast, drank coffee, then headed back to the slopes for skiing. During the second run, a young, inconsiderate skier raced past Alicia knocking her off course into a rut. She cartwheeled and landed hard on her back. Hank raced to her side where she was groaning and grabbing her left ankle.

  Before Hank could ask about her injuries, she cried, “I think I broke my ankle.”

  The Ski Patrol took her down the hill to the emergency room. They were both relieved when the EMT on duty determined that her left ankle had only sustained a severe sprain. They wrapped her ankle, applied a support boot, and suggested she see a physician to have the ankle x-rayed. When they returned to the cabin before noon, Hank helped her to the couch, made coffee and heated the leftover chicken, noodles, and vegetables creating chicken noodle soup.

  “Thanks, Hank. Now, what am I going to do?” Alicia asked while sipping the soup. “Oh, this is a great soup. Thanks.”

  “Relax and take a nap. I have Ibuprofen if you want it.”

  “Not now. They gave me one at the lodge. I should get back to HQ at least by tomorrow morning.”

  “We can figure this out. Just rest.” Hank placed a baggy he filled with ice cubes on her ankle. She relaxed and closed her eyes. Hank took Molly out to play. By the time they returned, Alicia was fast asleep. Molly went over to the couch to sit beside Alicia. Hank loved the dog’s protectiveness to his guest.

  At a quarter past two o’clock, Alicia's phone chirped. Hank felt compelled to answer. “Hi, Chris. Alicia is napping do I need to wake her?” Hank asked.

  “Yes. It's important,” Agent Bridge said, not asking why Hank was answering his boss’s phone.

  The sound of Hank’s voice woke Alicia. Noticing her phone in his hand, she said, “Hank, I'll take the call.... Hi, Chris what's up?” She listened for about a minute. “I'll be there in about two hours. Bye.” Getting into a sitting position, she brushed her hair away from her face. “Hank, I'm sorry, but I've got to leave.”

  “What happened?” he asked with a surprised look.

  “Alaska Airlines at Portland airport responded to the APB on Scott. They got a confirmation call he's on Flight #2633 arriving in Sacramento at 4:58. Bridge, Ferguson, and Smith will meet the plane from Portland this afternoon to collect Scott and return with him to the office. Sorry, I've got to go.”

  Hank helped her up from the couch and guided her to the bedroom. “Do you think it’s a good idea for you to drive? Why don’t you let me drive you?”

  “How can you drive both cars?” She asked.

  “I'll figure it out.”

  As if giving his suggestion some thought, she paused before responding. “No. My car is automatic, so I don't have to use my left foot. I'll be okay.”

  Hank helped pack her overnight bag and loaded her belongings into her car. Before she got into the car, they embraced, sharing a deep kiss. “Love, ya,” he whispered to himself, watching her drive away, and wondering if he should have insisted on driving.

  While he packed and made sure he'd left the cabin in good shape, his cell phone rang. It was Alexis Vierra, his agent in Phoenix. “Hi, Alexi. What's happening?”

  “Hank, sorry to bother you, but I have an assignment that might interest you. How are you doing?”

  “Well, I'm busy and soon off to another assignment. You know this.”

  “I’m aware of that but wanted you to know your friend Charles is the event organizer.”

  “Beaumont?”

  “Yes.”

  “What's the event?”

  “A hot rod show in Portland, Oregon late next fall. A magazine contacted me about you covering how the hot rod shops create custom built cars for these shows.”

  “That sounds like fun. I'd enjoy hanging with Charles again, but under better circumstances than this recent one. It would be great, but, I want to hold off until I get the whale watching article completed? I have several things I need to take care of in Tucson. Maybe we could meet in your office in Phoenix. I'd like time to relax. Getting back to Tucson and warmer weather would be an opportunity to get out of this cold.”

  “Oh, you poor baby. I enjoyed the Beaujolais wine article. I bet you had fun.”

  “More than you know. Thanks, Alexi. Gotta go, bye.”

  “Stay in touch, sweetie. Bye.”

  Hank's first contact with Alexis Vierra came through a high school classmate and fellow water polo player, Dennis Richards. He regularly read Hank's emails and travel blogs where Hank described his travels in Europe. Dennis liked them and suggested to his friend, Alexi, that she take a look.

  Alexis Vierra was fifty-six, widowed, with two grown daughters and three grandkids. She operated a literary agency in Phoenix. Her late husband had a literary agency business in L.A. with connections to several publishing houses, magazine publishers, and a few movie studios. Alexi was his assistant before they married in 1987. When he died in a small plane crash nine years ago, she downsized the business and moved to Arizona to be closer to her grandkids.

  Hank and Molly headed back to Sacramento three hours after Alicia left. There wasn't more snow, but it was bitter cold. Back at the motorhome, he continued the whale population research, made and ate dinner, then went to bed alone after the evening news.

  In the few days he’d been with Alicia, Hank became accustomed to having her warm body next to his. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun with a woman. Being alone was no longer appealing. He missed her and couldn't wait to be together again.

  This sucks.

  TWENTY-EIGHT Friday, December 6

  At six-forty, Hank woke, instantly alert. He took Molly for their walk. Hidden in the thick mist the sun was trying to poke through giving diffused light, but no warmth. A hundred yards away ran the American River, hidden in the fog. Shivering, they hurried to the motorhome. Trying to warm themselves, Molly shook off the dampness while Hank poured her dog food into her dish. After she had licked her dish clean, she made a few circles on her dog bed before settling in the perfect spot. She dropped like a rock and was soon dreaming her doggie dreams. He fixed a bacon and egg sandwich, a cappuccino and relaxed with the newspaper. He had all morning to himself. Soon he acclimated to the warmer climes inside since being chilled to the bone earlier. After reading, he did internet surfing for the next assignment.

  Just before noon, the phone rang. As usual, he saw her name on the screen, “Hello, Alicia.”

  “Hank, can you come to the office after lunch?”

  “Sure, anything exciting?”

  “I’ll tell you when you arrive. Bye.”

  Excited about seeing Alicia again and assuming there’d been a break in the case, Hank was in a good mood as he drove to the office. The suspect, Kurt Scott, was in Sacramento County Jail and brought to the Bureau office in the early afternoon. Scott declined to have an attorney present.

  Andrew Boswell, an attorney from the Attorney General's Office, was present during the questioning. He and Hank watched from the viewing room with Austin.

  Agent Bridge read Scott his Miranda rights and then introduced Agents Alicia Tomlinson and Chris Bridge. The interview could take up to three hours.

  “Do you know why you're here?” asked Agent Bridge.

  “No. You guys just pulled me from the plane and locked me up,” Scott whined.

  “We said you were under arrest for suspicion of murdering David Hatchett.”

&nb
sp; “I didn't kill anybody. I'm innocent.” Scott looked around the room, eyes wandering, then focused on his hands in his lap.

  “We have evidence that proves you were in the wine storage room when Mr. Hatchett was stabbed to death,” Alicia said.

  “Impossible. I wasn't even there. I was sampling the food and wine.”

  “How do you know where the room was if you weren't there?” asked Agent Bridge.

  “I guess... I don't. But, I didn't kill anybody.”

  “Can you explain how your hair got on his coat?” Asked Alicia.

  “Whose coat?”

  “The victim's.”

  “I brushed by a lot of people on the train. It was crowded.”

  “Did you talk with him?”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  "You don't know? Mr. Hatchett, the food critic.”

  “Oh. I know who he is, but I never met the guy.”

  “You killed a man that you never met but hated,” Alicia said.

  “I didn't kill him. I disliked his writing, but we never met.”

  “So why does your blog call him names? There was obviously bad blood between you,” Bridge said.

  “He wasn't a good critic. He didn't know anything. I hate...” He stopped talking, looked down at the table, sweat shone on his brow.

  “You stuck a knife into him twice,” Bridge's voice was two decibels louder.

  Wincing, Scott cried, “I didn't. It was someone else.”

  “We found your bloody fingerprint on the knife.”

  “Not possible. I... I didn't do it.”

  “Not possible because you tried to wipe the knife clean with a napkin?”

  “No, no I didn't do that.” Scott's voice rose; his eyes darted from side to side as if looking for an escape.

  “Yes, you did!” Bridge yelled. “We have enough evidence to charge you with second-degree murder. If you confess, we will recommend to the DA to reduce the charge to manslaughter.”

  Scott didn't respond.

  “Think carefully about your options, Kurt. Twenty-five years in maximum security or ten in minimum,” Alicia said in a soothing tone.

  “But, I ....”

  “Where were you between eleven-thirty and one o'clock?”

  “On the train.”

  “Don't act smart, Mr. Scott. Where on the train were you during those times?” Bridge asked.

  “I was in the Silverado car tasting wine then went to another car. I don't know the times.”

  “What did you do with the knife?” Bridge asked.

  “Nothing. I told you that.”

  “Why did you stuff the bloody napkin into Hatchett's mouth?”

  “I didn't.”

  “How did your blood get on the napkin?”

  “I don't know. I didn't do anything wrong,” Scott screamed.

  “What car did you go to?” Asked Bridge, staring at Scott.

  “I walked through the Silverado car to the lounge car at the rear of the train.”

  “Then what?”

  “I sampled some wine and snacked on the food.”

  “Who did you talk to there?” Alicia asked.

  “I don't remember names, but I was alone.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn't feeling well. I sat down.”

  “Where?” Bridge yelled.

  “I told you in the last lounge car.”

  “Are you sure it was the last car?”

  “Oh yes. I sat next to the observation deck... Yeah, that was it.”

  “Did you stay there until the train stopped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn't you go with everyone else to be interviewed?” Alicia asked.

  “I didn't know about that. Uh, I wasn't feeling well, so when the train stopped, I just got off.”

  “How?”

  “There was a doorway with steps; I climbed down.”

  “Did you see or talk to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Where is the brown tweed sports coat you were wearing on the train?” Bridge stared him in the eyes.

  Scott, startled, looked at Bridge. “Ah... I don't know. It may be in my suitcase.”

  “Why a suitcase? Did you travel?”

  “Well, yeah. You picked me up at the airport. I just came back from seeing family and friends near Portland.”

  “Was this a planned trip?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why did you buy the tickets at the last minute?” Bridge asked.

  “Ah... I forgot to get it sooner.”

  “I have another question about your coat. We found it in your car trunk, not a suitcase.”

  “Oh. I forgot I left it there.”

  “You said you saw no one when you got off the train. A Sheriff’s Deputy says he told you to leave,” Bridge said.

  “I forgot about that. I guess I did. A cop approached me as I was climbing down the steps. He said that no one was allowed to enter the train, so I walked away from the train and joined a group of people heading away from the station.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “I drove my car.”

  “How did you get to Napa?” Alicia asked.

  “Oh. I hitchhiked.”

  “Why not take a cab?”

  “I didn't have that much money with me. Eventually, I got a person to take me back to Napa.”

  “What did you do when you got home?”

  “I packed some clothes, drove to the airport, and flew to Portland to spend time with friends over Thanksgiving. I told you that.”

  “Mr. Scott, you're lying,” Bridge said with his face close to Scott's.

  “No, I... I can't. I'm confused. I told you I didn't do anything wrong. Do I need an attorney?”

  “Do you want an attorney, Mr. Scott?” Alicia asked.

  “Ah, yes I do,” Scott said with hesitation.

  Alicia stood and frowned at him. “Mr. Scott you can leave, but after we analyze more evidence, we will bring you back here and charge you with the murder of Mr. David Hatchett. Do not leave the county without contacting us and get our approval, or you get arrested. Do you understand what I said?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Scott said.

  The interrogation ended. Alicia left the room and went to her office. Bridge assigned Donovan to take Scott back to his car.

  Attorney Andrew Boswell, Bridge, and Hank joined Alicia in her office.

  “He appears to be a possible suspect, but we need more evidence putting him at the scene, with the knife in his hand,” said Attorney Boswell. “The partial fingerprint isn't enough, and the PCR DNA isn't solid proof due to potential contamination. Since the napkin was mixed with Hatchett's blood and oil and food particles, a defense attorney would question the validity of this evidence.”

  “That's true. We are working on it. I hoped he'd confess. We'll keep you informed,” Alicia said with a firm expression followed by a smile.

  After Bridge and Boswell had left the office, Hank asked, “Alicia, would you like to go out for dinner?”

  “I'd love to, but, I need time to compile this information and double check the forensics. Besides, I need to rest. Thanks for the offer. You're sweet.”

  “Is your ankle better? You don't want to overwork it.” Hank advised.

  “Thanks, Doc.” She laughed.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “I'll be fine. They did a good job wrapping my ankle on the mountain. All's well, and it doesn't hurt much.”

  “That's good. Be sure to rest up. Maybe we can do something tomorrow.”

  “I'd like that. Good night.”

  Hank left the HQ hoping to see her soon.

  TWENTY-NINE Saturday, December 7

  The next morning, Hank, pleased to see Alicia calling. “Hi Alicia, how's it going?”

  “Hi, Hank. We identified the bloodstain on Stan Klein’s vest as belonging to Hatchett. We need to bring the kid in, but Donovan hasn't been able to locate him. Donovan's now at a doctor’s appointmen
t for the rest of the day. It’s his yearly exam.”

  “Would you like me to check? I have the time.”

  “Sure, give it a shot. We've got an APB out for Stan. Donovan tried his mother, but she had no information. She told Donovan that Stan was with friends, but she had no particular's to share, or she's protecting her son,” Alicia said, sounding frustrated.

  “Why don’t I try a different approach. May I have her number?”

  After Alicia had given Hank the mother's number, they discussed going to dinner and maybe spend the night together. Alicia sounded distracted when she responded. “I have things to do. Let's talk later.”

  “Okay, I'll call Mrs. Klein,” Hank said, disturbed by the conversation. His gut told him something was wrong.

  “Good day Mrs. Klein. Is Stan there?” Hank asked.

  “No. Who's calling?”

  “I’m Hank Carson. I met Stan two weeks ago and wondered if he wanted to talk about a job I have available. He wasn't working at the Wine Train. Do you know how I can reach him?”

  “I think he’s skiing with his friend, Rob Stewart. I don't have his number. If I hear from Stan, I could give your number and ask him to call you.”

  Hank gave her his cell phone number. Before they ended the conversation, Hank learned that Stan's friend lived in the South Tahoe area. Hank now had a name and location to reach Stan. He searched Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn without success. Then he remembered a website where this information is available. Within five minutes, he had the number for Rob Stewart.

  “Hello?” A young male voice answered.

  “Hi, I'm trying to reach Stan Klein. I got your number from a friend of his. It seems Stan's phone isn't working.”

  “He's not here, and I can't talk I need to get to my job. He works at the French Cafe. Maybe you can reach him there. Gotta go.”

  “That's a start,” Hank muttered as he disconnected his phone.

  His search for the restaurant yielded a location and phone number. Hank tempted to make the call but felt he should give this information to Alicia. He punched in her number.

  “Hi, Hank. What's up?”

  Hank described his conversations with Mrs. Klein and Rob Stewart. He gave her the information about the French Café, where Stan was to be working.